Wounded Prey

by Sean Lynch

  Farrell nodded once. “It’s ‘retired’ Inspector, Agent Hoersten. Shouldn’t you normally ask how someone is feeling when you first enter their hospital room? Where’re your manners? And where’s Agent Scanlon?” Farrell thought he heard Detective Parish grunt behind Hoersten.

  Hoersten didn’t crack a smile. “I was told you’re a smartass,” he said. “Agent Scanlon is indisposed. You’ll be dealing with me from now on. You’re not going to like it.”

  “Indisposed,” Farrell repeated. “That’s what they said on the TV. May I see some identification please? You can never be too careful. There’re all sorts of shady characters impersonating federal bureaucrats for nefarious purposes these days. And while you’re at it, may I have one of your business cards?”

  Parish and Evers couldn’t stifle their chuckles.

  “No you may not,” Hoersten snapped, glaring at the two county cops. “If I were you, Mister Farrell, I’d be less smartass, and more kiss-ass. You’re in a lot of trouble.”

  Farrell shrugged, a painful act given his stitched and slung shoulder. “You brought an entourage in here to tell me that? What do you want?”

  Hoersten motioned with his head to Keller, who stepped forward and opened a file he was carrying.

  “Mister Farrell, you have an impressive list of charges accumulated against you. During an approximately two-month period you’ve impersonated an attorney to interfere with a felony investigation; impersonated a federal officer; gained unlawful access to federal facilities; committed theft from those facilities; impeded federal investigations; effected the escape of a homicide suspect from custody; recklessly discharged firearms; obtained firearms and vehicles while using false financial instruments and identifications; assaulted federal officers; stolen their firearms; assaulted and brandished a firearm against uniformed peace officers; stolen their firearms; driven with reckless disregard for public safety; as well as engaged in a criminal conspiracy with Deputy Kevin Kearns, and your daughter, to commit some of the aforementioned crimes, including assaulting a federal agent, twice. These are just the highlights. There are also numerous other charges spanning multiple state and local jurisdictions. All of these acts are felonies. As I already said, an impressive list of charges. Any three of these could put you away for the rest of your life.”

  “I’m apparently a one-man crime wave.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Hoersten said.

  “You forgot to add a couple of charges to the list,” Farrell said.

  “And what would those charges be?” asked Keller.

  “Driving while intoxicated. I was in the bag most of the time I was crime-waving.” Evers and Parish snickered again. Keller ignored them.

  “Anything else?” Keller asked.

  “Yeah. That I put down Vernon Slocum while the FBI sat on their asses.”

  Keller shook his head and stepped back. Hoersten pointed his finger directly at Farrell’s face. “Crack wise while you can, dickhead. Where you’re going the laughs are going to be pretty scarce. Ex-cops don’t do a lot of giggling in federal prison.”

  It was Farrell’s turn to shake his head. “I’ll ask again. What do you want?”

  Hoersten lowered his finger. “It’s not what I want, jerk-off. It’s what you’re going to give me.”

  “What am I going to give you?”

  Hoersten folded his arms across his chest. “For starters, a full statement and confession to the charges against you. Then a guilty plea to those charges.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “In exchange for leniency on the charges against your daughter Jennifer. I can’t make any guarantees, but with your full cooperation, we’ll try to convince the US Attorney’s Office to reduce some of her charges to misdemeanors instead of felonies. That way she wouldn’t do any prison time; only county jail time.”

  “What about Deputy Kearns? What does my cooperation and guilty plea buy him?”

  “Nothing. He’s bought and paid for. He’s going to do federal time, no matter what you give us.”

  “And me? What have you got on the table for me if I cooperate and plead?”

  Hoersten smiled. “Not a goddamned thing. You get the full package. You’ll spend the rest of your miserable days in federal prison wishing you’d never fucked with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  The room grew silent. Farrell rubbed his chin. “Let me understand the deal you’re offering, Agent Hoersten. In return for my full confession and guilty plea to all charges, which would spare the federal, state, and local governments the massive time, trouble, cost and publicity of taking me to trial, my daughter gets sent to jail for up to a year, Kevin gets a long federal stretch, and I get the key thrown away? Is that the deal?”

  “That’s the deal,” Hoersten smirked.

  “When I was in Vietnam,” Farrell said, “we didn’t call that a ‘deal.’ We called it a dry-socket skull-fucking.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you call it. Take it or leave it.”

  Farrell nodded to himself, deep in thought. Finally, he looked up.

  “Anybody got a smoke?” Farrell asked.

  “Quit fucking around. You know you can’t smoke in here. What’s it going to be? You going to let your daughter get fucked over, or are you going to play ball?”

  “I’d like to propose a counter-offer,” Farrell said dryly.

  Hoersten laughed out loud. “You really are a stupid fuck. You’ve got to be in a position of advantage to deal, and you aren’t holding any cards. You’re just a burned out ex-badge with a booze habit and a long prison sentence hanging over your head. Look at the bright side though; you’re probably only going to have to serve a few years before your liver or your ticker gives out and you cash in your chips. Only question is, are you going to man up for the first time in your life and do something unselfish, and think of your daughter’s well-being, or are you going to be a prick and let her go down the toilet along with you?”

  “You leave me little choice,” Farrell said, his voice wilting.

  “Actually, no choice at all. Even someone as stupid as you must see that logic. So what’s it going to be? Mister Keller is prepared to take your statement right now.”

  “Well,” said Farrell, slapping his knee with his good right arm. “Don’t you even want to hear my counter-offer?” His smile returned.

  “Still a smartass? Nothing you’ve got to say I need to hear, except your full statement and confession.”

  “How about this?” Farrell began. “How about I tell you and the hairdryer lawyer to rubber up and fuck each other? Then I get my Californian attorney, which you can’t deny me, and you should have offered before this conversation began. Then I plead not guilty, and go gladly off to jail to await trial. Where I’ll have a lot of time to fight every charge, file every appeal, and run up the cost of prosecuting me for all those complicated charges in all those different jurisdictions to astronomical levels. You’re forgetting I was a cop for almost thirty years, Agent Hoersten; I know all the tricks. And I’ll have nothing but time to play them.”

  Hoersten looked at Keller, who looked back with a blank face. “So what? We’ve got an airtight case.”

  Farrell continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “And then, to really get the party started, I’ll have my attorney contact the press. You remember them, don’t you? Those nosy reporters? I’ll make sure they get every nuance of my hunt for Vernon Slocum; especially all the juicy details regarding the FBI’s ineptitude. I might even write a memoir. And I’ll make certain that particular attention is devoted to the chapter on how the US Government knew what kind of a monster Vernon Slocum was in 1967 when they shipped him back to the States to be turned loose on an unsuspecting public. I’ll bet the families of those two murdered Iowa state troopers would like to know all about it. And I’m certain Tiffany Meade’s family would be interested as well. But do you know who’d be the most interested? Their attorneys, am I right? Hell, I might even make it on 60 Minutes.�
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  Hoersten’s face lost some of its color. Farrell went on remorselessly.

  “I know who and what you are, Special Agent in Charge Hoersten. You’re the guy who is supposed to make the deal, get the quiet guilty plea, avoid the messy trial, and deliver this whole package neatly wrapped up to Washington so they can file it under ‘Let’s Pretend This Never Happened,’ and forget it. And then you get to burnish your reputation as a ‘Get things done guy,’ and move up the Bureau ladder. But instead, you’re going to have to report to your Bureau overlords back in DC that the whole shitty thing is about to go public and blow up in everybody’s face. I’ll make it my personal mission to ensure the Iran-Contra scandal looks like a tea party by comparison. Who do you think will want the story first: Mike Wallace or Dan Rather?”

  “You’re bluffing. Besides, you haven’t got the juice. It would be your word against the Federal Government’s. Who’s going to believe the prison rants of a disgraced ex-cop?”

  Farrell leaned back in his wheelchair, his eyebrows lifting. “Agent Hoersten, I’m surprised at you. I thought you were a more experienced law enforcement officer. Haven’t you ever wondered what happened to all those files I swiped? Do you really believe I’d be in possession of Vernon Slocum’s full military and medical files for almost two months, as Mister Keller already so deftly pointed out, without making copies?”

  What little color left in Hoersten’s face vanished completely. US Attorney Keller mirrored his complexion.

  “And do you really think I wouldn’t have those copied files placed with persons of trust who would ensure their delivery to the appropriate press outlets in the event of my apprehension by the authorities, or if I was to suffer an accident?” Farrell flashed his Cheshire cat grin. “Even someone as stupid as you must see that logic.”

  Hoersten’s jaw clenched at the sound of his own words fed back to him. “I still think you’re bluffing.”

  “Call it. This conversation is over. I want my attorney. But I suggest you call Washington and give the boys at the J Edgar Hoover building the bad news before they get it from me. Or from the evening news.”

  “Now just hold on a minute, Inspector Farrell,” Keller said, motioning Hoersten aside and stepping towards Farrell. “No need to make threats. We are not immune to the bigger picture. We can discuss this like adults.”

  “Of course we can,” Farrell said. “How about over a cigarette and a drink?”

  “Hoersten,” Keller said over his shoulder without looking back. “Get me some smokes and a bottle. Now.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I’m not kidding,” Keller barked, “and I’m not asking. And make it fast.”

  “I’m a bourbon man,” Farrell shouted as Hoersten stormed out of the hospital room, cursing under his breath.

  “Inspector Farrell,” US Attorney Keller began, pulling up a chair. “I believe we can come to an accord which would be amenable to both the United States government and to you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Former Story County, Iowa, Deputy Sheriff Kevin Kearns walked warily through the lobby of Highland Hospital in Oakland. Nearly three weeks had passed since he’d awakened in the intensive care unit. He’d resided there for more than a week before he was upgraded to “guarded” condition and moved to the Secure Wing of the hospital, staffed by Alameda County sheriff’s deputies. It wasn’t quite jail, and it wasn’t quite a hospital; it was something in-between. Kearns shared a room with an African-American man who’d been shot multiple times in an apparent drug dispute.

  Kearns had suffered a perforated lung, a ruptured spleen and massive blood loss at the hands of Vernon Slocum. Only the fact that the Alameda Fire Department had a station less than a mile from Cole Ballantine’s home saved him. He was at death’s door when the EMTs arrived. But thanks to the very experienced trauma surgeons at Highland Hospital, he was expected to make a full recovery.

  The day after he was transferred to the secure wing, a harried man in a rumpled suit came in and announced he was with the Alameda County Public Defender’s Office. He said that since Kearns’ charges were all going to be federal, he would be arraigned by a US Attorney at a later time. Two days later a very business-like woman with a stern face and a stenographer arrived, and told him he was being charged with everything but the Lincoln assassination. Kearns said nothing, only asking for an attorney. It was all he could think to say.

  Other than these visitors, Kearns had no contact with the outside world. He was offered a phone call by a deputy each day, but declined. Even if he could remember Bob or Jennifer Farrell’s numbers, he wouldn’t have phoned. The lines were probably recorded, and he wanted none of his troubles traced to them.

  After two weeks at Highland Hospital, Kearns was almost back to his old self. His stitches had been removed, and he was allowed to exercise. He couldn’t muster more than walking and push-ups, but most of his pain had subsided, and he was in better shape than he’d hoped. He desperately wanted to ask one of the deputies about any developments in the Slocum case, but dared not compromise himself by such a query.

  Then one day he was given clothes - a pair of ill-fitting jeans and a hospital shirt - and told he was being released. The clothes he was brought in with were discarded on the night he was admitted, and he had no personal effects. Confused, but not dissuaded, he allowed a nurse and a sheriff’s deputy to lead him to the exit. The nurse gave him instructions on how to care for his still-healing wound that were printed in Spanish, and he signed a form. Suddenly he was standing on an Oakland street on an overcast January day with a quizzical look on his face.

  Kearns had no money, and it was cold. The part of Oakland hosting Highland Hospital was not in the best neighborhood in a city with few good ones, and for the first time he realized that although he had his freedom, he had nothing else. He looked around, trying to formulate a plan.

  Kearns walked through the parking lot, past parked ambulances and police cars, and found himself on East 31st Street. From there, he didn’t know which way to go. He was contemplating returning to the hospital to ask one of the deputies the address of a local homeless shelter when he heard a whistle.

  Turning to the sound, he saw a familiar silhouette leaning against a parked Oldsmobile the color of fresh blood.

  “Jesus, Kevin, you look like Oliver fucking Twist.”

  “I left my tuxedo at the cleaners.”

  Neither man spoke for a while. Kearns noted the arm sling, and Farrell the stiff manner in which Kearns walked.

  “Last time I saw you I thought you were dead,” Bob Farrell finally said, exhaling smoke.

  “Last time I saw you, I think I was,” Kearns said truthfully.

  “I’m glad you’re not.”

  The men embraced.

  Finally stepping back, Kearns produced a weak smile. He looked around at the bleak Oakland landscape. His eyes met Farrell’s. “You responsible for getting me sprung?”

  “Something like that,” Farrell smiled back, tossing his smoke to the curb.

  “Where’s Slocum?” Kearns asked.

  “Feeding the worms, kid. His old man, too.”

  “You punch their tickets?”

  “Yeah. Put the coins on their eyes myself.”

  “And the little girl? Cole’s daughter?”

  “Safe and sound. We did it, Kevin. We saved her.”

  Kearns nodded solemnly. “I guess that’s something.” More silence.

  “Looks like Slocum got a piece of you,” Kearns finally said, thrusting his chin at Farrell’s sling.

  “He took a piece of both of us, Kevin.”

  “Yeah. I guess he did.”

  Kearns rubbed his head. “So what now? FBI still after us?”

  “Would you be walking the streets a free man if that were true?” Farrell put his good arm around Kearns’ shoulders, leading him to the car. “We’re in the clear.”

  “How is that possible?” Kearns demanded. “Af
ter all we did you’d think we’d be public enemy number one.”

  “I’ll tell you about it over lunch. You look like you could use a good meal.”

  “I could, but it’s got to be mostly liquid for a few more weeks.”

  “My preferred diet,” Farrell said. He withdrew his flask from his pocket and took a swig. He offered it to Kearns. Kearns shook his head.

  “How’s Jennifer?’ he asked tentatively.

  “Too good for a thug like you. Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Who said I had ideas?”

  “I warned you once about lying, Kevin. You prairie types aren’t any good at it.”

  “So what now?” Kearns asked, steering the subject away from Farrell’s daughter, whom he definitely had ideas about.

  “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. I’ve started a business.”

  “A business? What kind of business?”

  “Private investigations.” Farrell puffed out his chest. “Hanging a shingle, I am.”

  “A private investigator? You? Really?”

  “What else would I do? Besides, you have to admit, I’ve got the knack for it.”

  “If by ‘knack’ you mean a propensity for drinking on the job and getting into trouble, then yeah, you’ve got it alright. In spades.”

  “So what are your plans, ex-Deputy?”

  Kearns gestured to his secondhand clothes and then at the bleak Oakland landscape. “As you can see, I’m presently between jobs.”

  “I tried to get you reinstated at your old sheriff’s department, but the feds had to draw the line somewhere. Be happy with a clean record.”

  “I have a clean record? How did you manage to accomplish that?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it another time, Kevin. So what do you say? Want to go into business with me?”