Killer On The Train

by Bruce Alan Jensen

  “Dammit!” Alicia slammed the folder he'd handed her onto her desk. “Why was he eliminated?”

  “The people he said he was with during the first interview matched what others said.”

  “Get all you can about him and let's track him. Where is he vacationing?”

  “Aruba is what the housekeeper said. Took his wife, two kids, and her mother.” Smith waited while Alicia thought.

  “Just track them down and get them back here. If there's any problem, we'll go other routes. Get an interview or arrest him when he returns,” Alicia said, putting her hands over her face in disgust. She waved him from the office.

  “Wait a minute,” Smith protested. “Chris told me to look for Kurt Scott. According to the DMV and Wine Train records, he lives near here in a house on U Street. It's just off Highway 50. I found that he inherited the house from his mother. He freelances for the Sacramento Bee, but his editor hasn't heard from him in over a week.”

  “Thanks for the update. Keep up the good work. Please have Austin search for any other info on Drummond and Scott,” Alicia said. “Have Donovan check out his residence. You get Drummond, ASAP.” Smith sprinted from the room.

  Within a few minutes, Donavan knocked and entered Alicia's office. “I've got his address,” he said.

  “Hank, you can join us, but, only to watch.”

  “I understand. Thanks for letting me tag along.”

  Alicia, Donovan, and Hank arrived at Scott's fifties era bungalow within fifteen minutes. There was no car in the driveway. A small window enabled Donovan to peek into the dilapidated, one-car garage. He said nothing was there except piles of boxes and junk. As they approached the front porch, subdued voices came from inside the house. They couldn’t see inside because the sheet-like drapes blocked the window. Just as Agent Donovan was about to knock on the door, they heard a woman's voice scream, and then a gunshot.

  Donovan, his face ashen, looked to his boss for guidance.

  Alicia yelled, “Kick it!”

  SIXTEEN

  Donovan and Alicia entered with guns drawn to discover the TV was on, airing an old gangster movie. They did a quick search of the small bungalow. “All clear,” Alicia announced.

  Hank gasped, relieved that this wasn't what he feared. He hadn't been in this kind of a situation in a long time. In a few minutes, his heartbeat returned to normal.

  The interior had signs of extreme wear with dingy brown shag carpet was threadbare in the traffic patterns. The walls had cream-colored wallpaper, covered with stains and peeling in places. Spider-webbed and dusty popcorn ceiling had lost much of the corn. Moth-eaten, dirt streaked bed sheets draped the windows. Cement blocks and wood boards made a stand for the old television showing the movie. The house smelled of dirt and gloom.

  “Please turn that thing off,” demanded Alicia.

  Hank used his gloved hand to oblige. “This place looks abandoned. This guy wouldn’t get a seal of approval from Good Housekeeping, would he?”

  “You think that's bad, look in here,” Donovan said, pointing to the bathroom.

  Hank and Alicia each took a quick peek. The sink and tub in the bathroom, had black, greasy grime and rust stains. The linoleum floor was lifting up in various spots, probably from water leakage. The walls had blackened areas that appeared to be mold. A musky smell intensified the filth. Old stained and dirty towels covered the tub and floor. Silverfish were teeming in the corners and around the filthy toilet.

  “Yuck,” Hank said. “Pigs wouldn't live in this mess.”

  In the kitchen, several vinyl floor tiles were missing or broken near the refrigerator and stove. The counters and sink had chipped and discolored tile, visible between crusted plates, glasses, and other debris. The rotten smell of old food and body odor permeated the stuffy rooms. Fast food containers, crumpled bags, and pizza boxes covered the old scarred and stained dining table. Ants were having a party. Hank dared not open cabinets or the refrigerator. The back door had grimy glass, covered by a torn screen.

  The other two rooms were not in any better condition. Rumpled clothing scattered throughout the rooms, with wrinkled newspapers, other scraps of paper, and old magazines. The air throughout had an acrid and fetid smell.

  “Look at this,” Alicia called out. A converted bedroom had piles of old newspapers and magazines against the walls. Newspaper reviews, written by Hatchett, pinned on one wall, each marked, with a red marker, with a large 'F-minus' sign, as if someone had failed a school assignment.

  “He's been giving Hatchett a failing grade. Obviously, their relationship was acrimonious,” Hank said to Alicia. “Some of the magazines have a Colonial Heights Library label on them. Here's a Restaurateur mag with a label from the Florin Branch Library. Look at these cookbooks—French, Italian, Chinese.”

  “I guess he was doing homework. It looks like Scott has mounted everything he wrote,” Alicia said, pointing to the wall. There were prints of Scott's food blog and all of his restaurant reviews tacked to the wall. There was a twin sized mattress leaning against one wall opposite a desk made from a door and concrete blocks. A phone, a Wi-Fi router, an old PC, and a monitor, surrounded by sheets of note-filled and printed papers, sat on the desk. There was an old ink jet printer on the floor under the table. A three-gallon plastic bucket overflowed with crumbled paper, a half-eaten pizza slice, and several soda cans.

  The other bedroom looked like it came out of the fifties. It contained a stained and scratched maple dresser, a chair, headboard, and a make-up table. The crumpled and smelly sheets, along with a filthy quilt, flowed from the bed to the floor. The closet door was open, exhibiting dirty clothing on the floor, with shirts, pants, and jackets hung from old and warped, wire hangers. They didn't find a brown sports coat with brown leather buttons. The air was stifling with body odor.

  The three left the house, glad to be in the fresh air.

  Alicia called Agent Smith on her cell phone. “Cordero, find a judge and get a warrant to search this place. Then get CSU and come to the house. Join Donovan in a thorough search. Interview the neighbors about this guy. Has he been a good neighbor or whatever? You know the drill. And wear a gas mask.”

  She and Hank headed back to the Bureau offices, leaving Donovan to secure the house. Hank rode shotgun. Alicia reached for his hand, and they shared a look of contentment.

  Within minutes after arriving she went to her supervisor’s office.

  Hank returned to his motorhome.

  SEVENTEEN

  Later that night while relaxing at her apartment, Alicia’s cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller name, she quickly answered. “Hi, Bernie.”

  “I got the job at Sierra College. I start this coming Monday unless something drastic happens. I go full time in January.”

  “That's great! When do you get here?”

  “I'm leaving here tomorrow so I can spend Thanksgiving with family.”

  “You can stay with me until you get settled.”

  “Thanks, but no need, my cousin lives in Auburn. She insists that I stay with her until I find a place. I'm so excited to be able to see you again. What's it been? Two years?”

  “About that. We've got so much to get caught up on. How's the family?”

  “Oh, they're great. Mom and Dad are looking forward to moving to a place in Green Valley. They say hi. What have you been up to since we last talked?” Bernie asked.

  “Not much. The case is challenging.”

  “What about Hank?”

  “We've had dinner a couple of times. We shared some of our backgrounds, mostly work related.”

  “Could this guy suit your tastes? He sounds interesting.”

  “He is! A real gentleman plus he's good looking. I like his attitude, too.”

  “Are you going to hook-up?”

  “I don't know. It's too early, and he's not aggressive. Not the pushy type you’d expect from an ex-cop. He said he wanted to eat me up.” Alicia grinned and felt herself blushing with that last comment.
r />   “Well, there you are! Make a move and see what happens.”

  “I could, but I don't want to scare him away. Besides, he will be leaving for San Diego soon.”

  “Does he live there?”

  “No, he's a writer for magazines and has an assignment there. He lives in a motorhome and travels around the country. Doesn’t sound like he’s interested in a permanent relationship.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can't have some fun. Alicia, honey, you are a strong-willed, decisive woman. Go for it! Make the move and see what happens. What's the worst that could come of it?”

  “You're right. Maybe I should ask him to dinner when we both have some free time.”

  “Don't wait. You've decided that your career is priority one, but a little fun should be a close number two.”

  “Maybe after this case concludes and before he has to leave. I’m going to see my parents for Thanksgiving, and he has friends in San Anselmo he’s visiting. I know he likes me, and it's mutual. Anyway, call me and let's get together as soon as you get up here.”

  “I will. I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving. Let’s talk after the holiday.”

  “You too. We’ll talk soon. Bye.”

  EIGHTEEN Wednesday, November 27

  The team got a warrant to search Scott's house without a viable cause. Through the initial walk-through, they made notes, including addresses on envelopes from people in Oregon and letters posted on his wall. Ferguson contacted the various names on the letters and discovered Scott's current location. Donovan talked with the neighbors. One neighbor admitted, “I don’t like the young fellow who’s in that house. He acts like a stuck-up city type. Thinks he’s too good for the likes of us, but he's a total slob. Long brown hair, often unshaven, sloppy clothes. You can tell by his yard which is a mess.” Michaels determined that the house was mortgage free except for a recent second mortgage of five thousand dollars. The team assumed the man was short on income and living on this money.

  Time passed, and nothing else had developed, so Alicia got assigned a possible kidnapping of a 16-year-old girl near Stockton. This investigation interfered with her Thanksgiving plans.

  Molly and Hank left Sacramento around two o'clock to San Anselmo for a Thanksgiving visit with old friends. He looked forward to a few days away from the city but not from Alicia.

  Brian was 34 years old, his wife 32, and their son Mikey, 12. They met fourteen years ago at a UCLA student art exhibit. Hank got a quick tour of their studio and workshop and became impressed with his friend's talent and skills.

  Brian’s works were sculptures in wood, ceramic and other media. He created artistic furniture using specialty woods: redwood, maple, ash, walnut, even mesquite and burl pieces incorporated into the items. He accented the pieces with stones, granite, slate, soapstone and marble. He also was creating unique metal pieces, sculptures, and furniture. His work was contemporary and in demand.

  Marie, a freelance photographer, did all the photographing of Brian's work and artwork for other artists in the area. She designed and set up the graphics, photos, and descriptions on flyers and brochures for printing. Her landscape photos were on display in the store, along with several still life and portrait photos. Her art pieces were selling well as were Brian's.

  Friday, November 29th

  Hank slept poorly in a strange bed and woke with the sun shining through the window. Where am I? What day is it? Oh yeah, Friday at the Renick’s home. Molly was sitting next to the bed, staring at him.

  “Hi girl,” Hank said. She wagged her tail and nudged his arm. He checked the clock, five minutes to eight. “Time for a walk?” She did her little dance.

  Hank dressed, brushed his teeth and headed into the kitchen with Molly at his heels. Marie was already up and dressed. He let Molly out into the yard and accepted the cup of coffee Marie handed to him.

  “Thanks. I expected you’d be heading to the studio for Black Friday.” Hank sipped the coffee. “This is delicious.”

  “We’re leaving soon,” said Brian, walking into the kitchen. “Our business is mostly custom, so we don’t have a sale on the day after Thanksgiving. We accommodate the crowds by putting sale price tags on a few smaller items, but we're open for marketing purposes. We give out flyers and gift cards, and usually, get a five to ten percent return visit from this weekend.”

  “That's not bad, is it?” Hank asked.

  “No, not bad at all, but many want the custom pieces as Christmas gifts, and I can only make a couple in that time frame.” Brian looked at Marie. “Marie, on the other hand, sells many of her photos and gets appointments for private sittings for portraits.”

  Marie nodded in agreement. “I’m happy with what we sell, but I’d rather be out shooting photos than in the store. It is our livelihood, so we do what we need to. Well, I’m off to the studio,” Marie said. “Brian, will you take Mikey over to Grams?” He nodded.

  She called upstairs, “Mikey, I’m leaving. Daddy will take you to Grams, so be ready.”

  She hugged their old friend. “Hank, it was great seeing you again. Don’t be a stranger. You’re always welcome here. Gotta go, bye.” She gave Brian a hug, and a kiss then flew out the door.

  “You are one lucky guy, Brian. Hang on to her,” Hank said as Brian refilled Hank's cup and his own.

  “Yeah, I know. I never thought about married life. None of this would have happened without Marie. I'm surprised at how much joy having a child has brought. Mikey is a great kid.”

  “He sure is a fun little man. You must be proud.”

  “Proud is an understatement. My life's enriched. How's your daughter doing? She's at UC Santa Barbara, right?”

  “Yes, I’m surprised you remembered. Sandi is doing well, a sophomore. Fortunately, we're having more contact. She's followed my trips in Europe and the U.S. through my blog, and we exchanged emails. I'm hoping to see her in a few weeks.”

  “That's good, Hank. I'm sure she wants to get close to you.”

  The men chatted for a while. Molly ate her food, and Hank snacked on a toasted bagel. A half hour later they went their separate ways; Brian to his shop and Hank back on the road to the city.

  Hank fought the traffic through town before heading north on 101 and then east on 37. He stopped in Vallejo for gas and to walk Molly. Feeling good, he took a chance and called Alicia’s cell. To his surprise, she answered.

  “Hi, Hank. I’m so glad you called. How was your visit with your friends?”

  “Fun. What about you? Are you still on the abduction case?”

  “No. It was a fraud. No kidnapping. It turned out it was just two kids who thought they could get money from the girl's parents. The girl was pissed because her parents had refused to let her spend the weekend with her boyfriend, so they made up the kidnapping to get even. Dumb kids.”

  Laughing at the absurdity of it, Alicia continued, “a decision to charge the girl with filing a false report or extortion hasn't happened. And since the guy is also under eighteen, no one knows what to do. The District Attorney’s Office will meet with the parents to decide whether charges will be filed next week,” Alicia concluded.

  “I’m glad it wasn’t an actual kidnapping. Were you able to spend Thanksgiving with your family?”

  “Yes, but not until around nine. My brother, Jason, was still there. Mom, as usual, made up a turkey dinner plate for me. Mom and Pop stayed up until about eleven, so we got a chance to talk. After they had gone to bed, Jason, and I chatted for another couple of hours. It was great seeing him again.”

  “Are you still there?”

  “No. Up at seven because Jason had to catch a plane. We all had breakfast together. It's been quite a while since we could do that. I dropped Jason off at the Travis Air Force Base. I'm driving back to Sacramento.”

  “Where's he off to?”

  “I don’t know. He was unable to say where or why he was leaving. Want to come over for dinner tonight?” Alicia asked.

  “I’d love to be your guest. Ca
n I bring anything, how about a bottle of wine?”

  “Not necessary. See you at seven? My address is The Fremont Arms, Unit 624, on Sixteenth Street.” She provided Hank with directions.

  “That’s a date. Bye.” They disconnected.

  Hank’s mind and heart raced for the rest of his drive.

  NINETEEN Friday, November 29

  A cold rain was falling as Hank arrived at Alicia’s apartment at six-fifty. He buzzed the intercom. “Come up.” The door clicked open.

  When he exited the elevator, she stood provocatively in her doorway.

  “Are you always so punctual?” She asked.

  “I try.”

  She was wearing a sexy black silk mid-thigh sleeveless dress with scooped neck. Her red lip gloss shined, and her auburn-blonde hair draped over her shoulders.

  “Wow! You look beautiful,” he said as she ushered him in.

  “Thank you.” He received a warm kiss after he handed her a bouquet of yellow roses.

  “You are so thoughtful and sweet.”

  Hank sniffed the succulent aroma wafting in the air. “Something smells delightful.”

  “I’ve made my version of Coq Au Vin and have two bottles of Napa Nouveau chilling.” She placed the flowers on a side table. “Your jacket?” She asked taking his rain and sports coats to the entry closet.

  “I can't wait to indulge.”

  “Wait ‘til you taste it before making any judgment. I have kir or almost any libation of your choice. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Kir would be great. I like it, but seldom find it offered,” Hank said. Kir was a popular French cocktail, made with a measure of crème de cassis, topped up with white wine.

  “Kir, it is. Have a seat.” She directed him to the sofa before heading to the kitchen. "I'll put these flowers in a vase."