BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense)

by John W. Mefford

  “Dammit,” I said.

  “Freakin’ press thinks their presence doesn’t impact a situation like this, they’re full of shit.” Paco and others dressed in blue barked into their shoulder radios, then he disappeared into the crowd of blue uniforms.

  Not a single head from the unruly crowd looked skyward, although the noise made it difficult to hear specific words. I scanned the area, noticing a general wave of locals heading this way to join the rally. The protestors numbered at least a thousand now. Off to the right, three more black and whites pulled up, and six cops emerged already dressed in riot gear. They moved into position next to their comrades. A show of force. That was the last thing this event needed.

  More skyward thumping, and I twisted my head and saw two more helicopters nearly on top of us. One had blue stripes. The DPD had brought in its own helicopter, likely nothing more than providing a bird’s-eye view to help the cops on the ground somehow not let this raging, passionate fire break containment.

  Through it all, I felt completely helpless, with comrades and friends on one side, my community, old friends, and family on the other. Both sides had every right to take these positions, and despite my roots, street skills, college education, and years of experience, I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop this.

  Over my seven years on the beat, I’d been in similar situations, but on a much smaller scale, where people could see my sincere concern for their well-being and typically would back off. There had been rare exceptions, cases where drugs and alcohol were major players, and when dirty cops got involved—like Sims beating up George.

  Long shadows danced all over the street as sun rays pierced openings of a few tall red oaks. Swirling wind kicked up sand and small pebbles, peppering us with prickly stabs on exposed skin. A few folks covered their eyes, but it only incited more agitation. This wasn’t going to last much longer…someone was bound to pull out a weapon, or at least throw a punch. I hoped for the punch.

  The next few seconds came at me in slow motion. First, a low-pitched thump from behind me, then a hissing sound of something sailing overhead. Just before impact, I knew what it was, and I wanted to leap like Superman and fall on it before it went off. But I couldn’t get to it, and a cloud of smoke burst from the canister.

  A tear gas grenade had been shot right in the middle of the crowd. Slow motion turned into utter chaos. People screamed and raced away from the smoke; the wind blew it away from me, but I could still feel a sting in my eyes. Protestors ran in every direction, then I heard a loud splintering glass crash to the concrete. I jerked left and realized it was a Molotov cocktail as flames spewed out, scattering officers.

  A hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw Paco, sweat rolling down his forehead.

  “Call just came in to Central Division. Someone called in a bomb threat at the Old Red Courthouse.”

  My heart nearly popped out of my chest. I flipped around and raced toward my Saab.

  11

  “Wake up, wake up, wake up. It’s time to wakie up, ohhh, wake up, ohhhh, wake up, ohhhh, wake up, up, up!”

  Using a masterful Mister Roger’s voice, the man sang one of the most precious tunes he’d ever heard his mother recite when he was a young boy. Every morning he could recall, his mom would walk down the hall whistling away, an uplifting spirit if there ever was one. Timed perfectly with opening his bedroom door, she’d vocalize her entrance with the opening words of her authentic tune. He always pretended to be dead asleep, unaffected by her playful, loving serenade. But just before the last couple of words, he couldn’t help but curve his lips upward in anticipation of…the tickle box. Laughter filled the room as he kicked and flailed, happiness pouring through every pore in his skin. He laughed so hard he often shed tears.

  Everyone should wake up to such euphoria.

  He wondered if the man he was watching through a handy pair of nighttime binoculars would wake up just as exhilarated, albeit feeling the opposite end of the excitement spectrum.

  The final shades of purple faded into a dark, nighttime sky, and the man with all the voices anchored his elbow on the stone edifice behind the grassy knoll—the same location where many wondered if a mystical figure stood and shot John F. Kennedy more than fifty years before. Peering through his binoculars, he regained his sights on the unconscious, bare-chested man dangling from the clock tower at the Old Red Courthouse, across Dealey Plaza, just a block away from where the thirty-fifth president was assassinated.

  “Hmmm,” he said to no one other than himself.

  The irony of these Dallas milestone events wasn’t lost on the man, who stood about the same height as Lee Harvey Oswald. But this man carried no weapon other than his God-given brain, had never traveled outside of the United States, and had no interest in Communism or any other “ism” for that matter.

  He knew the deathly Dallas events both symbolized a rude awakening to the average person roaming the streets: no one was safe, regardless of their location, their place in society, or the color of their skin. This news shouldn’t be a surprise, but people tended to get far too comfortable in their tiny bubbles, virtual or otherwise.

  Blood gushed through his veins, and he felt a renewed sense of pride that his name would eventually be associated with Oswald’s, only because how it dramatically and unequivocally altered people’s perception of trust…especially in each other.

  But the man with so many voices could have cared less about conspiracy theories and governments. He believed political activism was passé, better suited for times when people actually had a voice, not drowned out by hundreds of millions of babbling idiots. He shrugged and realized that he was doing his part to help control the population. He was simply going about it a little differently than Bill Gates and his silver-spooned foundations.

  A distant electronic whoop sounded off three times, followed by a longer whaling echoing off the downtown buildings.

  “Ah, the Calvary is on the way.”

  He tapped the speaker button on his smart phone app, which connected to the wireless receiver/microphone placed in the man’s ear. The man was tied to the face of the enormous clock.

  “Big bear, big bear, what do I see? I see a cross on my chest, I see.” Sitting like a catcher, the man howled out loud and nearly rocked off the balls of his feet.

  A flinch, then a twist of the head from the clock tower.

  The man behind the stone wall felt his pulse sprint, because he knew the show would continue as planned.

  “Ashtonnnn.”

  Eyes popped open, then his mouth. Within seconds, the man could see Ashton realizing his arms were bound, his torso wrapped with a strong rope, his neck surrounded by a noose—still hanging loosely, however. Yes, the noose was one of those old-fashioned, coiled types, which provided the most strength. It was possible that years ago one of Ashton’s family members might have hanged a black man off a tree with a similar contraption.

  Bigots.

  The man’s mission had far greater meaning.

  To pull off such a performance, it took tremendous planning, dubious research, and a kick-ass final act, accentuated by the ultimate climatic moment. A brief tremor shook his body, and he felt the most wonderful tingling sensation permeate his core.

  “Ashton, I need for you to stay calm and listen to me,” the man said, as if he was sitting on the back porch, drinking lemonade, and watching lightning bugs with his mother many moons ago.

  “What? Who the fuck is this?” Ashton twirled left and right, his feet banging off the big hand on the clock. He screamed in intermittent, high-pitched yelps.

  “Ashton, there’s no reason to get upset. I recommend you stay calm, and I can explain everything. I promise.” His voice was as cool as a summer breeze.

  “Ahh, ahh, ahh!” Ashton belted three quick shrills, then released tears like he had no control over himself.

  That wasn’t far from the truth.

  “Ashton, it’s okay to cry, but it’s not going to get you anywhere,” the man sa
id.

  Sirens whooped from all directions now, as police, fire, SWAT, bomb squad, paramedics, and even the Feds would converge on the new epicenter of the universe—100 South Houston Street in downtown Dallas. The man knew this would be the lead story tonight, not just locally or nationally, but across the globe. A warm, settled feeling calmed his soul.

  He lowered his binoculars and watched cars screech to a stop in front of the building that previously served as Dallas’ courthouse. “Lookie here, our first responders.”

  He put down his tools, then clapped. “Way to go, guys. You get today’s gold ribbon! Weeeeee.” With his eyes peering into the sky, the man turned around and around, like he was dangling a streamer from his hand.

  An alarm sounded on his smart phone, which happened to be a playful trolley jingle.

  “The time has arrived, Ashtonnnn,” he said.

  “Look, my dad can pay you any amount of money you want. Any.” Ashton’s voice cracked. “Do you hear me?”

  More uncontrollable crying.

  “Ashton, before you go, I’m going to need for you put on a little performance. It’s all about timing, so I’m giving you the five-minute warning.”

  “Go? Where? What? What the fuck are you talking about, you crazy fuck? Get me off this tower. Now, motherfucker!”

  “Ashton, you must have been a real pill for your mother growing up.”

  More screaming, sobbing, and flailing.

  The man’s teeth clenched a bit.

  “Ashton, there’s no need to blow your wad. It’s all about timing.”

  The man snorted at his own joke, proud for introducing a bit of humor into what he knew was a serious topic. “Mother always said you had to find the good in everything you do,” he said to himself.

  Red, blue, and white lights splashed across downtown, including the bed of grass in Dealey Plaza. Center stage, however, was the courthouse, with its sconces accentuating the red sandstone exterior and now, the patriotic light show highlighting the man hanging from the clock tower.

  “Please, please, pleassssse,” the man wailed.

  “Ashton, you need to listen carefully. I’m going to give you a count of three. When I hit three, I want you to dance like you’ve never danced before.”

  No answer, just more crying. “I don’t want to die,” he heaved, as liquid poured out of every orifice.

  The man huffed. “Some people just can’t put their own personal drama aside. It’s all about me, me, me.”

  Suddenly, tires squealed nearby, and the man shifted his eyes left. Two . . . no, three black and whites rocked to a stop in front of the infamous Book Depository building. More squealing tires, and the man twisted his torso and found lights bouncing off the back of the same building.

  Do these idiots think the person, or group, behind this act is hiding in the building where Oswald fired his rifle? How cliché.

  He certainly wouldn’t want the FBI writing his script. It was obvious they were involved now, their Ivy League-educated analysts and million-dollar software programs spitting out one absurd theory after another. Not a single grain of imagination. Zilch.

  The man’s eye twitched, fearing that once the search ended inside the building that now housed the Sixth Floor Museum, the cops would fan out to the surrounding area. Eventually, they’d stumble upon him—“stumble” being the operative word.

  But like he told Ashton, it was all about timing.

  “Ashton, we’re about ready for your grand swan song. Are you ready?”

  Ashton’s head hung down, most of his energy wiped from his body apparently. He only responded with a weepy moan.

  The man swiped his finger across the phone screen and opened another app, one he’d custom developed. Damn, he was good. He licked his lips, preparing to savor the taste of redemption.

  12

  As I motored down Griffin toward the Old Red Courthouse, curling around a bend in the road, my progress was halted thanks to a car crash. I downshifted while applying the brakes, my speed down to a crawl in mere seconds.

  A man with a bushy mustache wearing a pilot’s uniform had already exited his vehicle and was surveying the damage while rubbing the back of his neck. He drove an older Mercedes. The other driver, a woman, emerged from her monster-sized SUV with a designer handbag in tow, wearing a green, sparkling dress with a V-neck that must have dropped to just above her belly button. But it was the red lipstick smeared across her face that got my attention. She looked like a drunken clown.

  “Suburban soccer mom,” I said to myself. I could spot them a mile away. There were other parts of her I could also detect from my distance, about fifty feet, but right now I didn’t care to ogle.

  I’d been surrounded by other rubberneckers, onlookers who couldn’t take their eyes off the accident. What were they hoping to see? Detached limbs scattered across the concrete? Or maybe some had stopped just to check out the woman’s boobs?

  A week ago, I would have flipped on my lights, called in for backup, set up flares to keep other drivers from crashing into these folks, and then taken their statements. Given the woman’s painted face, I could have written the statement for her, if she was telling the truth. But that whole he-said she-said act had grown tiresome.

  I twisted around and saw nothing but cars surrounding my Saab. I was trapped, unable to reach ground zero, the Old Red Courthouse. Knowing my tools were limited, I had to figure out a way to get around this roadblock. A quick thought popped into my mind, and I jumped out of my car.

  Pulling out my thin wallet, I flashed it open, holding out my other arm.

  “Please back your car up. This is official business with the FBI.”

  One driver squinted through his windshield at my wallet, which I knew didn’t show a metal badge. I diverted his attention and popped his hood with the palm of my hand.

  “Sir, sir, do you hear me? This is urgent. I’m with the FBI and I need to get out of this jam. Please back up behind the blue sedan.”

  Other cars moved, but the one right behind me, driving a new Lexus, just stared at my wallet as I walked toward his door.

  “Sir, can you hear me?”

  He lowered his tinted window.

  “I demand to see your badge. It’s my God-given right to see your badge,” he said, thumping the steering wheel for emphasis, but his eyes stuck with my wallet.

  I lowered my body closer to the window, and his eyes followed my wallet as I stuffed it into my jacket.

  “You’re no FBI agent. I’m not moving my car.” He crossed his arms and rolled his droopy eyes.

  “Move you damn car back,” I said between clenched teeth.

  He stuck out his chin. “What are you going to do, put me on the FBI blacklist, tap into my phones, hack into my home computer? Damn country has gone to hell. I’ve got no rights, I tell you.”

  I’d dealt with many assholes like this guy, but the power of the shield had usually allowed me to emphasize the need for his cooperation.

  I had no shield. I had no power. But I had chugged a liter of water since I’d left the protest back in my old hood.

  “If you don’t move your shiny new car right now, I’m going to piss all over it.” I twisted my head inside his window, just so he could feel the steam pouring from my nose.

  His eyes crinkled together. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  I took a step back and unzipped my pants, then huddled up next to the hood of his LS 460.

  “You’ve got three seconds. One, two—”

  “Okay, okay, you fuckin’ psycho.” The man shifted into reverse, turned his head, and slowly backed up.

  I ran and jumped into my Saab, popped the clutch, leaving a little rubber, and weaved around four cars to escape the entrapment. I turned the car right, but not before the old man stood outside of his car and flipped me off. I chuckled, thankful I was unofficially on my way out the door of the DPD.

  Without much room left on the street, I had to jump the curb, the right side of my car six inches higher on
the sidewalk. Moving about twenty miles per hour, I scooted by the accident. Once clear, I scrambled back onto Griffin and punched it, leaving even more rubber.

  Predicting where they had set up the central command center, I drove north two more lights, then swung a sharp left onto Main. I quickly spotted the downtown campus of El Centro Community College on the right and yanked the Saab into the front parking area. It appeared I needed a parking pass, but I didn’t have time to find another lot, so I hopped out, clicked the key once to lock my car and marched toward the flashing lights. I heard some guy in a security uniform shouting at me, but I just kept walking.

  I had more important things to worry about, starting with another bomb threat. I knew I shouldn’t get involved, and I knew, legally, there wasn’t much I could do to prevent another mass killing. But I cared too much about my city to not show up, offer assistance, try to figure out who was behind this.

  Just as I expected, the command center had been set up in a parking lot at Main and Market, about a block down from the Old Red Courthouse on the north side of the street. The whole area was blocked with yellow tape, cop cars, and makeshift barriers. No one was going through unless they had a badge or at least a uniform.

  I had neither.

  Onlookers gathered near the blockade, and I raised my neck above the crowd searching for any cop buddies. I saw a few familiar faces, but no one who would do me any favors.

  “Did you hear there’s a man hanging from the clock tower, half-naked with something written on this chest?” A young Hispanic woman was giving the scoop to her friend.

  I took a step closer but glanced away, trying not to be too obvious.

  “Freaky shit, girlfriend. After seeing the video of the bus exploding earlier this week, I don’t know what the hell is going on. Looking at all the cops around this place, I don’t think they’re looking at this as a bomb threat. They’re thinking this place is going to go boom.” Her hands jerked upward, forming the shape of mushroom cloud.