The Deadliest Sins

by Rick Reed

  “Joe said she was praying for the asshole when he killed her,” Jack said.

  Jack saw the big man’s fists clenched. There would be a “come to Jesus” when they caught up with this guy.

  Jack and Liddell made a quick walk-through of the upstairs, found nothing, and went downstairs. They walked out the front door and logged out of the crime scene with the officer guarding the entrance.

  “Joe gave me this,” Jack said and showed the notebook to Liddell. “He said the killer must have dropped it in the closet. Freyda said the customer was writing in a notebook.”

  “Oh yeah. You going to open it?” Liddell asked.

  “To borrow one of your Bigfoot-isms, ‘Does the Pope shit in the Vatican?’”

  “I don’t say that,” Liddell corrected him. “It’s ‘shit in the woods,’ pod’na.”

  They crossed First Avenue to their car. There were coroner seals on the doors of Hurt’s police cruiser, and it was being loaded on the back of a flatbed wrecker to be taken to the garage for processing. Hurt wasn’t a great cop, not even a good one, but he was a cop nonetheless.

  They got in their car, and Jack took the notebook out of his pocket and turned on the dome light. He folded the cover back. The lined page was written in a very neat hand. Jack read the first page and closed the cover.

  Liddell said, “What’s it say?”

  Jack said, “I’ll read it to you on the way to the office.”

  Liddell drove down First Avenue toward the Civic Center, and Jack read the first few pages out loud. Jack skipped forward and read another page, and skipped to the last pages of writing.

  “Listen to this,” Jack said and read the last entry out loud. “She should have driven away when I told her the place was closed. She should have listened to me. She saw my face, but I might have let her go if she hadn’t told me the waitress inside was her daughter. I had no choice. My face would be posted all over the news and on bulletin boards in every police station and government office. Killing a state trooper made me an enemy of every cop in the world.”

  Jack closed the notebook and put it back in the evidence bag. “I’m going to call Sanchez.”

  * * * *

  “We need to call Anna or Toomey,” Liddell said when they got into their office.

  “Do you think they’ll do anything but talk and put out bulletins? How long does it take for the Feds to screw in a light bulb, Bigfoot?”

  “I get ya,” Liddell said. “But we should tell them anyway. We can still work on this. Maybe he’s still in the area?”

  “You call Anna,” Jack said. “I don’t accept that this guy got away. And I sure as hell don’t want Toomey or Anna or anyone else shutting us down. Now that we know who the killer is, they will take the case and screw it up. They might as well give it to Double Dick.” Jack was thinking about the last words Joe had said to him. “I’ll never see you again.” He’d promised Joe, and he’d promised Trooper Battle that he’d find the killer and bring him in. He still meant it. He had an idea where this guy was going. He needed a little time.

  “One day, Bigfoot. Then we’ll call everyone. I promise.”

  “You got it. Where do we go now?”

  “You don’t go anywhere,” Jack said. “I’m going to see Sanchez and Lieutenant Battle. She deserves to know who killed her sister and her niece. Sanchez needs to have the opportunity to be in on this because it started with him. I need you here. Will you do that?”

  “You want me here so the brass won’t know you’re gone. Is that the idea?” Liddell asked.

  “You don’t even know I’ve gone. Get it?” Jack said.

  “What do you want me to tell the captain or whoever asks what we’re doing? They’ll want some answers. Hell, the news media will be all over this. A cop and a nun are dead.”

  “That’s what I’m saying, Bigfoot. I know we can’t keep a lid on something like this, but let’s get our hands on him before he digs a hole and disappears for good. Okay?”

  “Hey, you don’t have to convince me, pod’na. Where do you think he’s going? At least tell me that because you didn’t let me read the notebook.”

  “Not exactly,” Jack lied. He hated to lie to his partner, but it was meant to protect the big man’s job. Liddell had a wife and a child to support. He wouldn’t get his friend caught up in what was going to happen. “If you call me, let it ring twice, hang up, wait five seconds and call again. If I can, I’ll answer. I’m not taking calls from anyone else. Don’t call unless it’s life or death, Bigfoot. I’m serious.”

  “Tell me where you’re really going,” Liddell said.

  “I’m going to see Sanchez. That’s the truth.”

  “Have you got your phone with you?”

  Jack patted his pocket.

  “Is it charged? Do you have a charger cord?” Liddell asked.

  “Yes, Mother,” Jack said.

  “If someone important wants to know, I’ll say you’re getting together with Sanchez. If they want to know more, I’ll tell them that you never tell me anything. How’s that?”

  “Perfect, the truth always works,” Jack said and pulled on his coat. “Listen. I haven’t told Katie what’s going on. If she calls...”

  “I’ll take care of it, pod’na. I’ll fill Marcie in, and she can help.”

  Jack took a twelve-gauge pump shotgun from a rack beside the desk and a box of deer slugs and one of double-aught buck. “Tell Double Dick to bite me,” he said to Liddell and left the office.

  He took Liddell’s Crown Vic because it had a full tank of gas. He called Sanchez’s personal cell phone. It rang several times before Sanchez answered.

  “Jack. I’m glad you called,” Sanchez said.

  “Have you already heard?” Jack asked. He wasn’t surprised.

  “Heard what? What are you talking about?”

  “That he was just here,” Jack said.

  “He was there?”

  “Yeah. About an hour ago he killed a police officer and went after the boy. He killed the nun that was keeping Joe for me,” Jack said.

  “An hour ago?” Sanchez asked.

  “Yeah. Do I need to repeat everything twice, Lou? He was here about an hour ago. He killed the old lady that owned the coffee shop to create a diversion and went after the boy.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Jack. Are you saying the killer—our killer—was just in Evansville an hour ago?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Lieutenant? Are you drunk? If you are, get sober quick. I’m on my way.”

  Sanchez said, “Kim’s in the hospital. She’s hurt real bad, Jack, and the witness is missing. There’s a lot of blood, but we don’t know if he took the witness or what. Kim was stabbed. If he was there an hour ago, how could he be here?”

  It was Jack’s turn to be confused. Kim was in the hospital and she’d been stabbed, but she was still alive. Cody had never left anyone alive before. “Who took the witness? Do you think it’s our guy? When did this happen?”

  Sanchez’s voice was thick with emotion. “About two hours ago. I called Kim, and when she didn’t pick up I went over there and found her in the bathtub. There’d been a hell of a fight. Kim’s head was bleeding, and she was stabbed in the neck. I didn’t wait for an ambulance. I took her to the hospital, and I’ve been here ever since. I didn’t see the witness, but blood was all over the place. I don’t think she’s going to make it, Jack.”

  It was at least a three-hour drive between St. Louis and Evansville. Jack thought he could cut the time in half if he didn’t get pulled over.

  “Lou, I’m sorry about Kim. I’m on my way there. Send me the hospital’s address so I can get it on my phone’s GPS. I hate these damn things.”

  “Will do. Jack, when was he in Evansville? You said about an hour ago.” Sanchez sounded a little more with it. His cop sense must h
ave kicked in and blocked out some of the anxiety over Kim.

  “Freyda Rademacher owns the Coffee Shop. I told you about her. She’s the one that told us about the strange customer. The one that left her a new twenty-dollar bill as payment for a cup of coffee. An hour ago she was found dead in her shop. A 9-1-1 call came from her phone, and a man reported an injured woman. She was killed just like all the others, deep stab wounds.

  “While I was at that scene, he went to St. Anthony’s convent, where I was keeping Joe stashed. He killed a cop that was posted across the street from the convent, then went in and killed the nun that was watching Joe.”

  “You’re sure it’s our guy?”

  “Yeah. And remember me telling you the woman at the Coffee Shop said that the customer was writing in a spiral-bound notebook the whole time he was there? I found the notebook at the convent. He dropped it while he was searching for Joe, and Joe picked it up. The boy was hiding, but he heard the nun being killed.”

  “Where is he now? Joe?”

  “With the ICE Queen’s minion,” Jack said not meaning to be funny, but it got a tiny chuckle from Sanchez. Jack’s phone buzzed. “I just got your text. I’m about two and a half hours out. I’ll get there as quick as I can. The last entry in the notebook talks about killing the state trooper and the people in the café. There’s personal stuff in there too. I think I know where he’s going.”

  Jack’s phone buzzed. He was getting another call. It was the ICE Queen. He ignored it.

  “I’ll give you everything I’ve got when I get there, Lou. We need to talk.”

  “Yeah,” Sanchez said, and they hung up.

  It was late on a Sunday night, traffic was light, and the roads were clear. He could see intermittent patches of black ice between the lanes. The weather had at least given him a chance to drive on autopilot and think.

  He retrieved the address and name of the hospital from Sanchez’s text and brought up the directions. He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and took a deep breath as Siri directed him to the hospital. He hoped.

  Chapter 41

  When Coyote discovered his notebook wasn’t in his pocket, he felt numb. He stripped his coat off and went through the pockets, squeezed it to be sure it hadn’t slipped into the lining, retraced his steps to the office, back to his room and back to the car. He searched under the seats, between the seats, the glove box, under the floor mats. He carried his bag into the room and went through the extra clothing and jackets. The notebook was gone.

  He was sure it was in his pocket when he went to the convent. He was pretty sure it was still there when he left town. He mentally traced his steps in Evansville. There were a couple of places he could have lost it. On the roof of the Coffee Shop. Or it had fallen out of his pocket on his way to or from his car. A steel donation box was near the entrance to the St. Anthony Homeless Shelter. He’d thrown the army jacket in the bin, but he would have searched the pockets. He was sure he had. He’d never be that careless.

  But he must have. It didn’t matter how. It mattered that his real name, Cody Samuel Coté, was in it. It mattered that it was a goldmine of information if it was discovered. It might even lead some smart detective straight to him.

  No chance of getting the notebook back, and nothing he could do about it. Nothing but be aware the notebook was out there and his anonymity was no longer intact. If they knew who he was, it was just a matter of time before they asked themselves how he had gotten all of his information. How did he know exactly where the trucks were going, where they could be stopped, how to get in touch with the drivers, how he was able to kill so many and still remain invisible. They would figure out who his source was, and his source would give him up. The Feds were good at making deals that no one could refuse.

  He could eliminate his source before the Feds got him, but even if he eliminated the possibility of his source talking to the Feds, he still had the issue of the notebook. But—one problem at a time. Maybe all was not lost. Maybe no one had the notebook yet. Maybe, if he was lucky, it wouldn’t be found at all. And maybe pigs could fly.

  He wondered if he should have taken the dead cop’s gun, waited at the convent and killed Murphy. It was partly Murphy’s fault he’d had to kill the nun. He regretted that. But, of course, Murphy wouldn’t have come alone. There would have been one hell of a firefight. At least he could die with some semblance of honor. That was something sadly missing in today’s world. Honor.

  He wouldn’t run if they came for him. He would stand and fight. He’d faced death before. He wasn’t afraid to die. If they came for him, they were his enemy, and therefore enemies of his country. He would kill them all, or die trying.

  Chapter 42

  The dispatcher had tried to raise him on the police radio until he was out of range of the tower, but his cell phone rang repeatedly. He felt bad leaving Bigfoot behind to take all the heat, but he needed to do this, and Bigfoot had a wife and a new baby to think about.

  The female voice on his phone announced, “You’ve arrived at your destination.”

  “Screw you, Siri. Just shut the hell up,” Jack said. She’d been announcing every damn little bend in the road. It made him nervous to hear a voice in the car while he was trying to think.

  “I’m sorry, Supreme Commander. I don’t understand that command.”

  Jack parked in the hospital garage and went to the emergency entrance, where he knew a security guard or off-duty cop would be easier to convince to let him in after visiting hours. He was in luck. The cop on duty not only let him in, he accompanied him to the room so he wouldn’t get lost. Another uniformed policeman stood outside the door to Intensive Care.

  The cop asked, “Who the hell are you?” He was big enough to tear the head off a bull.

  Jack showed his EPD detective credentials, and the cop’s eyebrow went up.

  “You want to talk to Sanchez?” the cop asked.

  “Does the Pope shit in the Vatican,” Jack said, and the cop laughed and seemed to relax.

  “No one goes in but doctors and nurses.”

  “Can you tell him Jack Murphy is here?”

  “No one in or out. You will stay here,” the cop said to Jack and cracked the door wide enough to call a nurse over. “Tell him Murphy is here.”

  The door had just shut when a pale Lt. Sanchez came out.

  “Hey, Lou,” Jack said. “Sorry about Kim.”

  “He damn near killed her,” Sanchez said. “I couldn’t put word out because Toomey said Anna wasn’t sure we had the right guy.”

  Jack pulled up a photo on his cell phone. “We know who he is now. His real name is Cody Samuel Coté. He goes by Coyote.”

  Sanchez took the cell phone and stared at the photo.

  Jack said, “He resigned from Border Patrol five years ago. He and his partner—the driver here—were being investigated for the murder of an illegal immigrant. I called Angelina on the drive here. It was buried in the DHS files.”

  “In other words, hidden to cover someone’s ass?” Sanchez said.

  “Yeah. Hank and Cody had arrested the illegal several times for felonies, deported him, and he made his way back to the US, where he continued his criminal activities. Cody and his partner took exception to this, and the next time they caught up with him, they gave him an ass-whipping before he was deported. He came back, and this time he found Cody’s family. He raped and murdered the wife and daughter.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Jack continued, “Cody’s wife was raped, stabbed, and sliced open. His daughter was found the same way. She was nine years old. Their killer wrote ‘COYOTE’ in blood on the wall beside the daughter’s body.

  “The journal I found at the convent was Cody’s. He wrote that his Border Patrol buddies called him ‘Coyote’ because he would illegally transport the ones he and his partner captured back across the border into Mexico. They made
a lesson of some of these people as a warning not to come back. Angelina couldn’t find any records to back that up, but it sounds like our guy’s personality.”

  “Yeah. It does,” Sanchez said.

  Jack went quiet. His hatred for Cody, or Coyote, was fighting with his conscience. The man’s family had been sexually abused and slaughtered. Jack felt he might have done the same thing to the guy that had done that to his family. He’d ended a freak that was holding a knife to Katie’s throat, threatening to kill her in front of Jack. He hadn’t hesitated giving him a lead lobotomy. The difference between him and Cody Coté was that Jack had ended it there. He hadn’t gone after other scumbags, killed hundreds in retaliation. Cody was definitely a mad dog.

  Sanchez asked, “Why would the Border Patrol cover all of this up?”

  “Covering their ass. The Border Patrol didn’t need the bad press. Angelina said they were under scrutiny for several shootings of illegals along the border. This wasn’t the first time a Border Patrol officer had killed someone. But the attention from something like Cody’s situation would bring congressional hearings and all hell would break loose.”

  “I guess I can see their reasoning,” Sanchez said. “The illegal had gotten what he deserved. The government was happy to let Cody and his partner resign rather than go to court.”

  Jack said, “When Cody’s partner—the driver you had here in St. Louis—I forget his name...”

  “Hank Brown,” Sanchez said.

  “Yeah, when Hank, his old partner, went to work for the traffickers, it must have sent Cody over the edge. He was a decorated soldier in Vietnam, and that war ended badly for him. He was already angry with a system that would let a convicted violent felon back into the country to kill Cody’s wife and kid. To top that, he was facing criminal charges for killing the scumbag and had to resign. I think that’s what set off the chain of events we’re dealing with. Cody feels betrayed by his partner and his country. Psycho 101.”

  Jack thought Sanchez looked tired, wasted. Like he’d been on an all-night drunk and was trying to keep it together.