by Chris Culver
Ash and Hannah tucked Megan into bed shortly afterward, and he went into the backyard. Insects chirped around him, and he could smell a faint whiff of burned charcoal and lighter fluid from a neighbor’s barbecue grill. The leaves on nearby trees swayed in a warm, evening breeze. Ash sat on the hammock he had strewn between two cedar posts of the pergola over his patio. Hannah joined him a few minutes later.
“You okay?” she asked.
“It’s been a long day.”
“Are you thinking about having a drink?”
He hesitated before answering.
“I’d be lying if I said no.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything for a few minutes.
“We can talk about it if you want.”
“How about we talk about your day instead?”
They talked for maybe fifteen more minutes before they both lay back on the hammock and stared at the sky. Neither of them said anything, but for the first time that day, he felt normal. It was nice.
* * *
It still felt like the middle of the night when Ash’s alarm rang the next morning. He rolled over and found his wife’s half of the bed empty. Hannah liked mornings; Ash didn’t know how she did it. He kicked off the covers and threw some water on his face in the bathroom before throwing a robe over his pajamas. The sun would rise in another half hour. Ash normally looked forward to Ramadan every year. It helped him focus on his family and his faith, the two things he cherished most in the world. This year had been difficult, though. Every day felt longer than the one previous, and every day came with new burdens for his already overburdened self to carry. Maybe today would be better.
When he walked into the kitchen, Megan immediately scooted her chair from beneath the table and ran toward him with her arms extended. Ash knelt down and caught her in a hug that lifted her from her feet.
“Good morning, honey,” he said, smiling.
“Hi, Bob,” she said. “Ummi said you needed a hug.”
“I always need a hug,” he said. He kissed her forehead and put her down so she could finish her breakfast. She joined her mother at the breakfast table. Ash mouthed, Thank you and then picked up Kaden. The morning went as well as he could have asked for. They had suhoor and then dawn prayer, followed by a few minutes watching cartoons in the living room. By the time he left at half after seven, he felt better than he had since starting his case a few days earlier.
When he arrived at work, Ash went to the conference room and immediately started making phone calls. The Tippecanoe County coroner’s office had conducted an autopsy of Rebecca Cook late the night before. The gunshot wound killed her, but a deputy coroner found bruises all over her body; residue from tape along her mouth, wrists, and ankles; skin cells from beneath her fingertips; and hairline fractures in her knuckles. An acid phosphatase test for seminal fluid reacted positively on swabs taken from various parts of her body. She had been assaulted, but Rebecca fought with everything she had before dying.
Ash took a couple of breaths and sat back before thanking the coroner for his time and hanging up. When his initial revulsion passed a minute or two later, he called Captain Bowers with the news. Someone would need to talk to Rebecca’s family, and since the case kept Ash glued to his phone, Bowers said he’d track down the department’s nondenominational chaplain and go over with him that morning before the news hit the papers.
Ash wished him luck before hanging up the phone. He thought they needed it. He tried calling Agent Havelock last to ask about Alistair Hines, the name Marvin Spencer had given him last night, but the phone rang four times before going to voice mail. Ash left a message asking for a return call but didn’t expect to receive one anytime soon. If Havelock had become too busy to answer his phone first thing in the morning, he’d probably be too busy for a while.
With the current state of the investigation in mind, Ash needed to start thinking about how to move forward. One course of action stuck out more than any others, though; they still had two parties to the case that, as far as he knew, no one had talked to yet. The man and woman who had been picked up at the trafficker’s home in Avon. Ash called Captain Bowers for the second time that morning.
“Mike, you got a number for anybody in the Hendricks County Sheriff’s Department?”
“I know the chief deputy. Why?”
“I can’t get in touch with Agent Havelock, and I want to find out where they took the man and woman from the house in Avon yesterday.”
“Indiana University Hospital. Havelock told me last night. No one’s going to be able to talk to them anytime soon, though. The girl is in a coma. They’re watching her and hoping she pulls through. The guy is going through withdrawal pretty bad.”
“They know what he was on?”
“Heroin. He was a real winner.”
“Is he physically able to talk?”
“I guess. From what I hear, he mostly just screams a lot.”
“I’m going to visit anyway and see if I can have a conversation with him.”
“If you want to waste your time, go right ahead. I won’t stop you.”
“I appreciate and value your words of encouragement, Mike. I truly do.”
Bowers grunted before hanging up. Opiate withdrawal hurt like hell, and it might make someone want to die, but it alone wouldn’t kill somebody. Ash thought he could use that. He used his cell phone to find the grocery store nearest the hospital and drove over. He purchased a bag of the darkest brown sugar he could find, cling wrap, rubber bands, and a package of metal spoons. When he got to his car again, Ash broke open the bag of sugar and poured a couple of grams into the cling wrap. He then used the rubber band to close it up. He did that two more times and then laid the bags on his seat to gauge his results. It looked close enough to brown street heroin that it could fool Ash at a glance, and he saw bags of it once or twice a month. It ought to look close enough to the real thing to fool a user hurting for a shot. He also grabbed a spoon from the package he purchased and put it in his pocket.
He slipped his packages inside his jacket and drove to the hospital and felt a sense of déjà vu as he walked through the front doors. About eight months ago, he had driven himself to that hospital in the middle of the night after a car accident. Before he could explain what had happened to him and why he had driven there, a pair of security guards saw him reaching into his jacket and tackled him, thinking he meant to grab the firearm clearly visible against his chest. In fact, he had been reaching for his ID. It hadn’t been a fun trip.
He kept his head low as he walked into the lobby, half-expecting to see burly men in blue careen around the security desk and pin him to the ground. That didn’t happen, thankfully. Men and women, both hospital staff and not, walked around him without saying a word. Even in the public space where few patients strode, the building smelled like antiseptic. The porcelain tile floors gleamed and the oak receptionist’s desk appeared large and imposing in front of him. Ash waited in line and then showed his badge to the first available receptionist. As soon as she saw that, she called the hospital’s chief of security, a heavyset older man, who escorted Ash to the small section of the hospital where they held inmates needing medical care.
Neither he nor the security chief said anything until they reached the inmate’s private room at the end of a long hallway. Thin carpet muffled sounds around them. The white walls appeared sterile and clean. The prisoner’s door had been propped open, and Ash thought he could hear panting from inside.
“I’m going to need to talk to him alone for a few minutes,” said Ash. “Is it okay if I close the door?”
“As long as you’re in there, I don’t see why not,” said the security chief. “He’s secured to his bed, so he shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good. Thank you.”
Ash waited for the security chief to walk partway down the hallway before going inside the room. The stark white walls and gray carpet continued inside. A thin man in a hospital gown lay on the bed, a grimace on his face
. Brown leather straps on both wrists and ankles immobilized him and kept him from ripping the IV needle out of his arm. Machinery monitored his heart rate. Ash closed the door behind him and partially opened the blinds covering the room’s only window, allowing in sunlight. The prisoner recoiled.
“Get out. I’m not talking.”
Ash ignored him and picked up the medical history report from the receptacle built into his bed. Francis Hayes. He probably went by Frank. The attending physician had declined to put him on methadone maintenance treatment, one of the standard treatments to help heroin users detox, after learning that Frank had abused it in the past. A nurse noted on his chart that he had marked muscle cramping and diarrhea overnight, so, under the supervision of a physician, she gave him over-the-counter drugs to relieve those symptoms.
Ash put the chart back on the bed and pulled a rolling stool to a stop near the bed.
“You go by Frank or Francis?”
He clenched his teeth. “Fuck you.”
“You and your buddies must read from the same script because Marvin Spencer told me the same thing.”
“Fuck Spence.”
“At least that’s new,” said Ash, nodding. “How’d you meet that girl we found you with?” Frank clenched his jaw and closed his eyes but didn’t answer. “I get the feeling something is bothering you.”
“It fucking hurts, man. They won’t give me anything.”
“That’s because you broke into a methadone clinic the last time doctors tried to help you. Don’t worry, though, because this time, you’ll be in prison. It’s much harder to break into their clinic. That should keep you on the straight and narrow.”
Frank tried to sit up, but the restraints held him down. “What do you want?”
“I’m here to talk. Where’d you get the girl we found you with?”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
“No, she’s not,” said Ash. “Where’d you find her?”
He didn’t say anything.
“She’s in a coma. If she dies, I’m pretty sure you’re not going to like the next needle put in your arm. You talk to me now, we might be able to work something out.”
“Leave me alone.”
Bubbles of spittle formed at the edges of his mouth. Ash wheeled the stand and table containing Frank’s IV bag closer to the bed and reached into his pocket. Frank’s eyes opened wide when he saw Ash put one of the packets of sugar on the table. The collapsed veins in Frank’s arms stood out bright and red against his skin as he strained to grab the bags.
“What is that, man?”
“I think you know what it is,” said Ash. “And it’s yours if you talk to me.”
Frank coughed violently. “You’re lying.”
“No lie,” said Ash. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a second packet as well as the spoon. “It’s yours if you talk to me.”
“Where’d you get it?”
Ash scowled. “I’m a cop, moron. Where do you think I got it?”
Frank shook his head and struggled to sit up straighter. “It’s not real. You’re trying to trick me.”
“It’s real, and it’s right there,” said Ash. “We picked up four bricks of this from some kid driving from Los Angeles to Baltimore. Our lab said it was pretty good.”
“Give it to me. I need it.”
Ash pulled the third bag out of his pocket and started to give it to Frank, but then pulled his hand back and looked at the bag.
“I think you ought to give me something first. Don’t you?”
“What do you want?”
“Tell me where you got the girl.”
“My boss gave her to me.”
“Who’s your boss?” Frank started shaking his head. Ash stood, walked to a white cabinet on the far side of the room, and started rummaging through its drawers. He found what he wanted in the third and pulled out a disposable syringe. Frank’s breathing increased in tempo. “Is Lukas your boss?”
Frank nodded. “Yeah.”
Ash walked to the IV stand and lay the syringe beside the bags of sugar. “What’s his last name?”
“Fleischer. It means ‘butcher’ in German. That’s how he introduces himself. Lukas the Butcher. He thinks it makes him sound scary.”
“I don’t know. Bill the Butcher sounds scary. I’d even say Bart the Butcher sounds scary. Lukas the Butcher doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Frank’s eyes never left the bags of brown sugar. “You going to give me that stuff now?”
“Nah,” said Ash, shaking his head. “We’re just starting. I’ll tell you what, though. I’m going to go get a lighter for you so you can get started soon.”
“Fine, whatever. Just hurry.”
Ash said he’d do his best before grabbing the bags of sugar and slipping into the hallway. He called Captain Bowers and told him that they needed to look for someone named Lukas Fleischer. He didn’t have a spelling on the name, so they’d have to look at multiple variations. If they were lucky, the Bureau would have something on him. When he went back inside, Frank had resumed shaking. Ash waited beside his bed without saying anything until that passed.
“Thank you for waiting for me. Assuming you’re ready, let’s get back to my questions.”
“Where’s the lighter, man?”
Ash furrowed his brow as if he didn’t know what Frank meant. Then he tapped his forehead and rolled his eyes.
“I feel like an idiot,” said Ash. “I went to the bathroom and totally forgot. Don’t worry, though. I’ll get it. You said Lukas was your boss. What’d you do for him?”
“I drove a van.” Ash waited for him to elaborate on that, but he didn’t say anything else.
“I see. You wasted gasoline for him. Did you do that for any special reason?”
“I picked up girls for him and then moved them wherever they needed to go.”
Ash nodded and jotted a couple of notes.
“So you actually interacted with him?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You saw Lukas. He gave you orders.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I used to meet him at a bar.”
“A bar in Indianapolis?”
“No, Chicago. It was in Bridgeport, my old neighborhood.”
Frank seemed to finally understand that Ash wanted more than just one-word answers.
“Good,” said Ash. “What’s he look like?”
“What do you care?”
“Just in case I happen to go to a bar in Bridgeport and see him,” said Ash. “I’m a nice guy. I like saying hello to people.”
“He’s got white hair and gray teeth. What else do you want to know?”
“Is he old?”
“I said he’s got white hair, didn’t I?”
“Fair enough,” said Ash. “Where’d you pick up the girls, and where’d you take them?”
Frank kicked his legs against the bed and shook. “Come on, man. I need some stuff.”
“All good things come to those who wait,” said Ash. “Where did you get the girls, and where did you take them?”
“All over,” he said. “I picked them up at O’Hare and either took them to an old house in Englewood, or I’d drive them to that house in Indianapolis.”
“You mean the house we found you in?” asked Ash. Frank nodded, his eyes closed tightly. “How many girls would you say you’ve picked up at the airport?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t keep track.”
“Just guess.”
“Fifty or a hundred. They sort of blend together. Haven’t I said enough?”
“You’ve said plenty,” said Ash. “Are those the only two places you took girls?”
Frank didn’t respond. He coughed hard enough that Ash considered calling a physician to check him out. According to the monitor beside his bed, his heart rate remained steady, though, so Ash simply let him catch his breath.
“Do you want me to call a nurse? She might give you some water.”
“Water isn’t what
I need.”
“I know, and we’re almost there. Did you take girls anywhere but those two places?”
He closed his eyes tight. “Some big house out in the sticks east of Indianapolis and a farm near Louisville.”
Ash wrote that down. They hadn’t found the farm yet. The girls might have been there.
“Where is this farm?”
“It’s off Sixty-Four. Just some rinky-dink town.”
“Describe it.”
Ash managed to coax enough detail out of him that he had a fair idea of the farm’s location. He ought to be able to find it.
“When did you last go to this farm?”
“Yesterday morning.”
Ash almost stopped breathing. “And you took girls with you?”
Frank nodded. “Seven, but Lukas let me keep one. Somebody else brought in a few others. He gave me some stuff, too, as a thank-you. I gave some to Maya, but I didn’t get to take any.”
If Ash had to guess, that “stuff” had been designed to kill them both and eliminate witnesses who could identify Lukas in court.
“Maya was the girl you were with, right?” asked Ash. Frank nodded and gritted his teeth. “How many men work for Lukas?”
“A lot. I don’t know.”
“Does the name Palmer mean anything to you?” asked Ash. Frank shook his head. “How about Alistair Hines?”
“He and Lukas know each other. He came in to clean up this mess,” said Frank. “I never met him. Come on, man. Just give me the stuff now.”
“Sure,” said Ash, reaching into his pocket. He put the packets on the heart rate monitor. “They’re brown sugar. Maybe the nurse can put them in your coffee.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not going to give an addict drugs. Are you kidding me? Who do you think I am?”
Frank thrashed against his restraints. The monitor beside his bed started emitting a high-pitched tone, signaling a dangerous rise in his heart rate. Ash took a step back from the bed and grabbed the sugar packets. Two male nurses ran into the room in short order.
“What happened?”
“We were just talking, and he started freaking out. I don’t know.”
