by Nat Williams
“No, I like my money too much. You?” (used before?)
“Nope. Speaking of gambling, whatever happened to the stuff in that bag the nurse dropped at the crime scene?”
“It’s locked up in the evidence room. We’ll probably release it before too long. I don’t see any connection with the crime.”
“Weren’t there some lottery tickets in there?”
“Yeah, she said she always got some for Dr. Van Okin.”
“What if one of ‘em’s a winner? A big winner? You know, no one’s ever checked those tickets, right?”
“You’re a sick fuck.”
“I can’t argue with that, but my point stands. Nobody has checked those tickets. What if one is a jackpot? Who stands to get the money?”
Bachelor turned toward Carroll and shook his head.
“We’ll leave that to the lawyers. Right now, we’ve got our hands full with a double murder, no suspects, the press breathing down our necks and everyone in town scared shitless, wondering if there’s a serial killer out there.”
Before long the Mississippi Jewel came into view. Bachelor navigated the car into the parking lot and the officers walked through the tall glass doors, which bore the casino’s golden logo.
They strolled across the plush carpet through the seemingly endless lobby. Bachelor had given a heads-up to the manager, Richard McKnight, that they were hoping to get some information on a murder case.
He was told that casino policy didn’t allow anything about customers to be released over the phone, fax or internet. Even about customers who were deceased. Even to people claiming to be law enforcement working a murder case.
After dodging a minefield of flashing, noisy slots the officers made their way into McKnight’s posh office suite. They announced themselves to a secretary and were welcomed into the main office. In contrast to the garish environs beyond its doors, the space was subdued. A sparsely decorated bookcase stood against one wall and a shelf lined with knickknacks graced another. The beautiful oak desk, topped with a glass pane, was uncluttered.
McKnight stepped out from behind the desk and shook the hands of the officers. He was a big man – Bachelor guessed about 250 pounds. He wore a full salt-and-pepper beard and a handsome suit.
“So what can I do for you?” he asked as he motioned for the officers to sit on leather-covered oak chairs with carved armrests. “I understand you’re investigating a murder.”
“A double murder, actually,” Bachelor said. “A doctor and his wife.”
“Wow. Terrible.”
“From what we’ve seen, he was a pretty good customer. We’d like to know just how good. Name’s Van Okin. Elmer Van Okin.”
McKnight put on his reading glasses and tapped a few keys on a computer.
“Yep. Platinum Club,” he said. “What else do you need to know?”
“We’d like to get an idea of how much he spent, how often he came, just some basics.”
McKnight scanned the screen, repeatedly tapping the Page Down key on the keyboard.
“Not much activity,” he said. “His visits were sporadic. Maybe once or twice a year, it looks like.”
“Then why the Platinum Club?”
McKnight backed off the computer and removed his glasses.
“It wasn’t him. It was Mrs. Van Okin.”
CHAPTER 38
Bachelor’s phone rang shortly before he and Carroll were back in Cherokee Camp. It was Doug Munro.
“Anything new?” the FBI agent said.
“I was about to ask you the same thing. Actually, there’s a new twist. Meet you at my office? About four?”
Soon the three men were standing around in Bachelor’s office in the bowels of the Gilbert County Courthouse. Bachelor filled Munro in on the news about the casino trip.
“It turns out Mrs. Van Okin was gambling heavily,” he said. “Judging from cash-out and cash-in figures she was losing thousands every month.”
Munro rubbed his chin.
“That may explain why the doctor was desperate for income,” he said.
“Quid pro quo,” Bachelor said. “How about filling us in on your case? What do you think Dr. Van Okin was involved in? What exactly are you investigating?”
“I guess it’s as good a time as any,” Munro said. “Let’s sit down, shall we?”
Bachelor and Carroll were transfixed as Munro described an elaborate scheme in which Dr. Van Okin was filing medical claims for treating patients who weren’t really patients, for conditions they didn’t have.
“Medicaid,” Munro said. “And CHIP. Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of claims were filed.”
“What’s CHIP?” Carroll said.
“Children’s Health Insurance Program,” Munro replied.
“How long has this been going on?” Bachelor asked.
“From what I can tell, five or six months.”
“Sounds like a conspiracy. Who else was involved?”
“I’m still working on that. But it looks like the guy you like for the murder.”
“I assume you’re not talking about Manny Tucker.”
“Nope. Dr. Van Okin’s son-in-law.”
“How does David Purcell fit into this?”
“Let’s say he was a supplier,” Munro said.
It wasn’t hard to connect the dots. David Purcell’s migrant workers were responsible for a sizeable increase in Elmer Van Okin’s patient load. They were assigned made-up illnesses and provided with phantom treatment at the doctor’s very real clinic.
“He needed the money to cover Mrs. Van Okin’s gambling debts,” Carroll posited. “But what motive would Purcell have to murder the couple? Not to sound crass, but why would he kill the goose that laid the golden eggs?”
“That’s your case, not mine,” Munro said. “Who knows? Maybe their partnership splintered. Maybe Dr. Van Okin was threatening to give it up, and take Purcell down with him.”
“How close are you to making an arrest?” Carroll asked.
“Not close enough. I’ve talked to a lot of people, and that’s helped me draw the conclusion that I’m not where I need to be on this.”
“How did all this come about?” Carroll said.
“You know we at the Bureau don’t kiss and tell.”
“I don’t want a kiss. Just a tell.”
Bachelor interrupted. “Agent Munro is under some of the same restrictions as we are,” he said. “The Bureau doesn’t appreciate their field guys giving up too much, right, Doug?”
That didn’t really mean anything, and Munro knew it. It was a verbal hint that this unofficial partnership was still in the flirting stage.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Munro said. “We were tipped off by a whistle-blowing bureaucrat, believe it or not. Surprisingly, there are a few pencil-pushers lost in the swamp who actually give a shit about people screwing the system. My cynical side would say there may be a monetary reward for such things, but I don’t know. Don’t really care. I just snoop where I’m told to snoop.”
“You been snooping on Janet Purcell?” Bachelor said.
“Not much. She hasn’t been on my radar. So far, I haven’t found anything that ties her to the case. That doesn’t mean she isn’t. It’s hard to believe she is unaware of a conspiracy that involves both her husband and father.”
“True,” Bachelor said. “But stranger things have happened.”
“Yeah, like the Green River Killer,” Carroll said.
“What about it?” Munro said.
“You know, the serial killer. Washington state, I believe.”
“Yeah. Gary Ridgway,” Munro said. “I’m familiar with the case.”
“I saw a documentary on TV,” Carroll said. “His wife didn’t have any idea what was going on. Her husband was cruising around night after night, picking up hookers and killing them.”
“That’s true,” Munro said. “He chalked up nearly fifty bodies. She said when she first moved in with him she noticed the carpet was gone from the living
room. Ridgway apparently used it to wrap up one of his victims before he met her.”
“What does that have to do with the Van Okins and the Purcells?” Bachelor said.
“Just that it’s possible she wouldn’t have known about a conspiracy that her husband and father were involved in,” Munro said.
“Possible, but not assured,” Bachelor added. “She’s still on the list. Everyone is. Until they’re not.”
CHAPTER 39
Dozens of cars slowly rolled over the smooth, narrow asphalt roads crisscrossing the beautiful Silver Meadows Cemetery, named for the numerous silver maple trees providing occasional shade. Some mourners were forced to walk hundreds of yards to listen to a preacher say a few words and watch two caskets being lowered, side-by-side, into concrete crypts. Many used paper service programs from the funeral home to fan themselves in the hot afternoon sun of an August day in southern Illinois. The temperature was in the nineties with high humidity punishing those who boasted about being able to bear the heat, as long as it was a dry heat.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, perp to perp, Doug Munro thought as he scanned the crowd looking for nothing in particular. He drew from a course he had taken years before, when he was still a prospective FBI agent. Observe. Take in the scene. Watch, listen, smell, feel. Use all your senses. Let it all marinate. A tiny piece of it may not matter today, it may not matter tomorrow. But maybe the next day.
Munro always thought that advice drifted a bit too close to Zen but he listened anyway, taking in the relevant parts. He was never one to dismiss an idea until he had tested it and determined its value.
In this case he had an elevated interest in observing a few subjects. Among them were David and Janet Purcell. Their behavior at the funeral may not provide Munro with any revelations, but observing the couple certainly couldn’t hurt. It was definitely worth the price of admission.
Obie Lynch was another person of interest. How did he fit into all this? He had a history not only with David and Janet, but with David’s late father.
Munro detected movement in his peripheral vision through his wrap-around sunglasses. Bachelor was also attending the burial. Munro was impressed. Local cops don’t always appreciate the importance of gauging the movements of persons of interest during rites like this one. Funeral services, wakes, visitation, burials … they are always worthy of attention. Not necessarily because they produce evidence, but because they provide context.
That’s especially true of burials. Often, murderers will skip the visitation and funeral, but make a presence at the cemetery.
Munro recalled a psych class at Quantico about thrill killers – especially serial killers. The instructor was Herbert Morley, who had attained legend status at the Bureau after cracking the Rattlesnake Murders case.
The serial killer – later discovered to be Brad Withers - got the nickname from the unusual manner in which he committed his crimes. He would walk behind his prey – always a young woman – and shake a box of Tic Tacs, getting her attention. When she turned around he would be ready with a handkerchief soaked with chloroform which he would use to put her under.
His odd tactic came to light because two would-be victims were able to dodge the chloroform and make a getaway. They were, however, unable to provide a good description of the man who wore dark clothes, a baseball cap, a hoodie and large sunglasses.
The media gave Withers the nickname because his M.O. reminded some of the warning a rattlesnake gives before it strikes. To the relief of the Italian company Ferrero, which makes the tiny mints, Withers wasn’t forever known as the Tic Tac Killer.
Morley solved the case through a combination of psychology and good, old-fashioned shoe leather. He believed the killer got a kick out of observing the grief his crimes caused and made appearances at burials, often just driving around the cemetery. He was right, and Withers is riding out the rest of his days in a cell in the Federal Correctional Institution at Berlin, New Hampshire.
When Morley spoke veterans paid attention. Rookies were entranced.
Killers often can’t resist getting a final peek at their latest score. They get off on the sobbing, the Kleenex being pulled out of small cardboard boxes, the awkward efforts by mourners to comfort the survivors, the confused movements of kids walking around in ill-fitting suits and dresses, kicking at the grass with shoes they would never wear again.
This was the moment when many friends and relatives would finally reach the breaking point.
They may have endured the visitation and the funeral with aplomb, largely because there were so many welcome distractions. Choosing the appropriate attire, shaking hands, receiving clumsy hugs, being re-introduced to people long forgotten, dealing with the funeral director, picking out a modestly priced casket, going through photo albums and videos for the memory montage, helping traveling mourners find hotels nearby, dealing with police and media.
But then it was over. Except for the slow, silent, bar-lighted cop car-escorted drive to the final resting place, a somber gathering of a few people, a brief ceremony and the flowers thrown on the casket being lowered into the pre-dug pit. The man in the cab of the front-loader lurked nearby, ready to finish the job.
It is often during these moments that grief-stricken family members finally let it all out. Raw emotions take over. Sometimes they bawl, they wail, they fall on the ground and flail about, they ask God why this happened. Not every scene is that dramatic. But they almost always reveal their painful grief in some fashion.
That kind of thing is crack cocaine to thrill killers. They relish witnessing the extensive collateral damage of their act. Taking in the anguish of their victims’ loved ones turns them on. That’s why cops who work these types of cases hate these perps even more than the public does; they are cursed with knowing the killers a lot better than those who read the abridged media accounts of the crimes, which describe such acts of pure evil in sanitized terms.
Munro had no reason to believe the suspect in the Van Okin murders shared the warped nature of Brad Withers. But he figured the time spent here would somehow be of value.
Janet and David Purcell sat near the grave in folding chairs. Janet was wearing a cotton dress with a light gray jacket. David wore khakis and a white short-sleeve, button-down shirt with an awkwardly placed tie. He had left the jacket in the car.
The Rev. Garrett Young said a few words as mourners in the stifling heat continued to fan themselves with whatever they could. David and Janet Purcell acted like the daughter and son-in-law of a murdered couple. They showed some emotion, with Janet clutching a tissue in one hand and occasionally saying a word or two to David.
David sat rigid and seemed uncomfortable. But that’s how everyone feels at such a moment, Munro thought. No tell here. But it seemed that David and Janet Purcell were not near each other even distant though they were sitting side by side. There was little conversation and no touching.
The service was short and everyone rose as if they were in slow motion.
Following a few handshakes, hugs and soft words of concern, the mourners dispersed and headed for their vehicles. Bachelor caught sight of Munro as he headed toward his car and shook his hand.
“How’s everything going?” Munro volunteered.
“Actually, I’m trying to decide whether to corner Purcell today or wait until tomorrow. I believe we’re closing in.”
Munro tilted his head.
“OK, what?” Bachelor said.
“I wouldn’t tell anyone how to run their case,” Munro said.
“And there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, right?”
“If I were in your shoes I might give him the rest of the day off. Let him endure the banality involved with the day of a burial. He’ll be mingling in the church fellowship hall, loading up on catered fried chicken, hearing different versions of the same sentiment from everyone else there. Let him get all of that out of his system. Then hit him up tomorrow when he’s fresh. When he’s had time to rid himself of the minut
iae surrounding the funeral.”
Bachelor gazed across the cemetery, watching as David, Janet and Obie headed toward their vehicles that were parked next to one another. He watched Janet and Obie embrace. Was it more than just a friendly hug or was he imagining things?
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” he said, as he turned to Munro. Munro managed a Mona Lisa smile.
“Good thinking,” Munro said. This time it was Bachelor’s turn to grin.
CHAPTER 40
“Hi, Sheriff. What’ll you have, gentlemen?”
Mindy – that’s the only name Bachelor knew her by - a thin, brown-haired waitress in her late 20s, chewed gum, but had a knack for knowing exactly when to toss it with her tongue into the inside of her cheek so that she could clearly enunciate her questions and answers.
The single mother managed to get by on salary and tips from customers at Roy’s Diner, a coffee shop about a block from the courthouse in downtown Cherokee Camp.
Bachelor ordered the shrimp salad and Munro opted for the chicken-fried steak, which included mashed potatoes and gravy, turnip greens and sweet tea.
“Love a good diner,” Munro said as he handed the menu to the waitress.
“Really? I thought you’d be the metrosexual type, spending your time on Lakeshore Drive, eating at fancy cafes and hanging out at Navy Pier,” Bachelor said. “Might enjoy an occasional Chicago dog or deep dish pizza, but wouldn’t be caught dead in a place that slings hash.”
“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know.”
“Like what?”
“My expertise is not in regular sleuthing. It’s profiling.”
“Psychological profiling? Then why are you running fraud cases?”
“Because profiling is bullshit. I don’t put much stock in the very thing I studied. Most of it is common sense, with a little psychobabble thrown in. But my training wasn’t a total loss. I picked up a few pointers that help in real FBI work.”
“Do tell.”
“You tell me. Why were you at the burial?”
