I watched in horror as Stimson removed a small hand towel from her bag and began wrapping it around the barrel of her gun. I struggled in vain against the restraints that secured me to the chair. I felt the plastic cuffs cutting into my wrists. Blood trickled down and ran onto my hands. The cut above my eye bled freely, making it difficult to see.
When she tied me, she had neglected to run the duct tape around my ankles, which gave me a chance to stand and use the chair as a weapon. It was an act of desperation, but I had run out of time and options. I tried to scream but only managed audible, muffled groans of protest. As she turned her back to me and walked slowly across the room to deliver the fatal head shot to Aunt June, I stood up and charged. At six feet four inches and two hundred pounds, I hit her hard from behind, driving her headfirst into an end table next to the couch. I landed on top of her. She went down hard and came up with a bloody nose, cursing.
“You fucking bastard. You want it the hard way, I’ll give it to you the hard way.”
I tried to keep her down by using my legs to kick. It didn’t work. Glowering from above, she kicked me until I lost count of the blows. I remember instinctively trying to protect myself by getting into the fetal position, but I was quickly losing consciousness. I heard Sara crying. I vaguely recalled hearing the pop-pop sound of gunshots.
***
The bathroom window was just wide enough for Kate to slide through. Once inside, she stood perfectly still and hoped that Stimson hadn’t heard the noise she made.
She quickly removed her shoes and slipped quietly into the hallway leading to the stairs. She heard the faint sound of voices, but wasn’t close enough to make out who or what was being said. With gun in hand, she slowly ascended the stairs. About halfway up, one of the hardwood steps groaned loudly enough that Kate was certain it must have been heard on the main level. She momentarily froze, dreading the next step and the one after that. The female voice was loud and clear, a voice that must have belonged to Carol Stimson. The top of the stairs opened into an entry foyer near the front door of the residence. The hushed voices were close now, probably not more than twenty feet away, and appeared to be coming from what Kate thought was the living room. It had momentarily grown quiet, so quiet that Kate stood frozen, afraid to move. Then all hell broke loose.
As Kate came around the corner and stepped into view, Stimson looked up and saw her. The shooting corridor was extremely narrow, with two hooded hostages seated to one side on the living-room couch and Sam curled up on the floor at Stimson’s feet. Before Kate could order her to drop the weapon, Stimson fired two wild shots, both narrowly missing her. Sara was crying hysterically, and Aunt June had rolled partially on top of the child in a futile attempt to shield her body. The risk of hitting an innocent hostage was a possibility, but Kate had no choice. The first shot struck Stimson in the left shoulder. She howled in pain, but didn’t go down. The second one struck her in the neck, hitting the carotid artery. This time she went down as blood pulsated from the neck wound like a fountain.
Kate heard breaking glass at the front door and turned in time to see Vince and Terry burst into the home, weapons at the ready. Patti, following instructions from Kate, had notified them of the likely hostage situation.
***
In a matter of minutes, my home, already in shambles, was turned into a major crime scene. There were enough police and fire officials on the premises to open a doughnut store. It became a repeat performance of what I’d encountered that first night at the home of Levi Vogue. Cops from several agencies, crime scene techs, fire and emergency medical personnel were everywhere. Within an hour, print and television media groups were crawling all over the place.
Despite Terry’s effort to stem the flow of blood, Stimson died from shock and blood loss on the helicopter flight to the University of Utah Medical Center. Sara and Aunt June, though badly shaken, were not seriously injured. For Sara, however, the terror of this day would not soon be forgotten. As for me, a cut above one eye, a couple of cracked ribs, and assorted bumps and bruises were about it. I would be sore for a few weeks, but the sanctity of my home had been violated, and my family terrorized. Now it was personal. Alone, or with Kate’s help, I intended to end it tonight.
Chapter Forty-eight
An ambulance transported Sara and Aunt June to a Salt Lake City hospital. I rode with them, and Kate followed. Aunt June’s condition had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, and I was worried. Shortly after we arrived at the hospital, she had begun to complain of chest pains. The hospital ran a series of tests to identify the problem. A traumatized Sara was examined, given a mild sedative, and had fallen fast asleep. Both were held overnight for observation. As soon as Sara had fallen asleep and an emergency room physician stitched the cut above my eye, Kate and I left the hospital and drove to the Salt Lake City Police Department. The hostage incident and subsequent shooting of Stimson had occurred after the local evening news. It would be the lead story on every television news station at the nine and ten o’clock hours. If we wanted to maintain the element of surprise and apprehend Stimson’s co-conspirators, we needed to move quickly.
The subsequent search of Stimson’s Ford Explorer had yielded another piece of important evidence. Aside from a passport and over $200,000 in cash, she had kept a journal—a very incriminating journal that detailed her activities and those of her colleagues for the past three years. Among other things, the journal revealed that the group referred to themselves as the Commission. Their activities ranged from the theft of inmates’ personal property to drug trafficking both inside the prison and on the street. They also sold parole release dates and operated a prison protection racket where selected inmates paid for protection to avoid getting hurt. It was a tale of corruption and greed that was about to produce the biggest scandal in the history of the Utah Department of Corrections, a department that up to now had enjoyed a reputation for being squeaky clean.
Besides Kate and me, John Webb and Harvey Gill from the Sheriff’s Office, Deputy District Attorney Tom Stoddard, Captain Hyrum Locke, and my boss were at the meeting. I had no idea how Sloan heard about the shoot-out, but somebody had called him.
Looking at me, Locke asked, “Exactly where are the remaining suspects at the present time?”
“As far as I know, Bill Allred is still at home where he’s been most of the day. Steve Schumway is pulling a swing shift at the prison until eleven. As for Fuller, it’s hard to say. He usually works in his office until around six o’clock, and then goes home. Some nights, he stays late.”
“Then I suggest we get a team out to the prison immediately, and I believe I should assume command,” said Locke.
“No, I don’t think so,” Sloan said. “These are my employees, and they’ve sullied the reputation of an entire department.”
“All the more reason you should stay out of it,” countered Locke.
“They’re going to go down, all right, and the Utah Department of Corrections is going to take them down. It’s important to the future of this department for the public to see we’re not afraid to clean our own house. It’s also important for the morale of every honest man and woman who works for the department—and that’s ninety-nine percent of them,” said Sloan.
“But I insist,” Locke started to say when Sloan cut him off.
“No, Hyrum, you don’t insist. This is my party and you’re not invited. I’m afraid this is one time you’re going to miss out on a photo op.”
“You can’t do this,” said Locke indignantly.
“Watch me,” replied Sloan.
With that, a visibly angry Locke stormed out of the room and slammed the conference door behind him. While everyone else in the room maintained appropriate decorum during the tirade, I was grinning like a man who’d just won the lottery.
Sloan looked over at me, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Not a word out of you, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Yes, sir.”
***
We split into two teams. Kate,
Stoddard, and I went to Bill Allred’s home. Sloan and the detectives from the Sheriff’s Office headed for the prison. I assigned Burnham and Marcy Everest to assist Sloan.
I was certain how Sloan intended to play this. Brad Ford would be lurking somewhere at the prison. Once the arrests were made, Ford would assemble the media and deliver a carefully worded press statement announcing the enforcement action taken by the department against four of its own staff. It was vintage Sloan engaged in damage control, doing the best he could to place a positive spin on a nasty department scandal.
Allred hadn’t left his home all day. When we arrived, Kate covered the back of the house, while Stoddard and I went to the front door. A subdued-looking Allred answered, and with as much bluster as he could manage under the circumstances, demanded to know what we wanted.
“Cut the bullshit, Bill,” I said. “For starters, you’re under arrest for three counts of conspiracy to commit first degree murder, and before it all shakes out, heaven only knows what else. Would you like me to read you your Miranda warnings?”
“Save it. I’m well aware of my Miranda rights,” he snapped. The momentary act of bravado had given way to a look of genuine desperation.
He turned to Stoddard, ignoring Kate and me. “My attorney is Franklin Meadows, and I want to make a deal.”
“Meadows is one of the best, and trust me, you’re going to need the best,” replied Stoddard.
“This is what I want. In exchange for my full cooperation, the death penalty is off the table. I want to be placed outside Utah in a federal minimum security institution, and I want you to go on record during my sentencing hearing that I cooperated fully,” said Allred.
“We’re getting a little ahead of ourselves,” said Stoddard. “Whatever we might decide to offer will be contingent upon how much you know and how fully you cooperate. Everything you’ve demanded is within our power to grant except a guarantee of placement in a minimum security federal prison. If the state agrees to pay to have you confined in a federal prison, the feds decide which one of their institutions you’re assigned to, not us. But until we know more, I won’t promise you anything.”
“For today, I’m invoking my constitutional right to remain silent and right to counsel. I’ll make no statement until I’ve conferred with Mr. Meadows.”
“Fair enough,” said Stoddard.
We released Allred into the custody of Sheriff’s Department deputies, who took him to the Salt Lake County Jail.
***
By the time we returned to the prison, Steve Schumway had been taken into custody without incident. He had invoked his right to remain silent and was demanding an attorney. Ford read a prepared statement to the assembled media, and then provided a photo op of Schumway as he was loaded into a waiting sheriff’s department vehicle for transportation to the Salt Lake County Jail, where he would join Allred.
Bob Fuller had left the prison earlier in the evening. His whereabouts were unknown. As soon as Schumway was driven away and the news media departed, Sloan pulled Kate and me aside and announced that we were taking a drive to the home of Deputy Warden Fuller. Burnham and Webb followed in Webb’s car.
Fuller lived in an upscale residential suburb of Salt Lake City. His beautiful home sat high on the east bench, where he had a spectacular view of the entire Salt Lake Valley. On the way there, Sloan reminisced about a long-dormant friendship with Fuller dating back almost twenty years. Sloan recounted years of camping, fly-fishing, and fall hunts that often included their wives.
“And then his lovely wife, Mary, died rather suddenly of colon cancer. I think it was about the time I became executive director, maybe five years ago. Bob never seemed to be the same after Mary’s death. Over time, we drifted apart and didn’t see much of each other.”
Sloan didn’t say anything else for several minutes. As I drove, he stared out the window into the empty night, lost in his own thoughts. He finally broke the silence, and in a melancholy tone of voice asked, “I wonder, if I’d paid more attention to our friendship after Mary’s death, if it might’ve kept him out of trouble?” It seemed a rhetorical question that neither Kate nor I tried to answer.
When we arrived at Fuller’s home, both the interior lights and the front porch light were on. It was almost as though he was expecting us. And maybe he was. Burnham agreed to cover the back of the house while Webb remained in front. Sloan didn’t anticipate problems, but I wasn’t so sure.
As I followed Sloan up the driveway, I turned to Kate and asked, “You wearing a vest?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?” she replied. “You’re not, are you?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one on,” I lied.
As we reached the front door, I was startled to hear Fuller’s voice over the intercom. “Please come in. I’ve been expecting you. I’m in the study down the hall.”
I didn’t like the feel of this and neither did Kate. We both unholstered our weapons and held them at our sides. Sloan walked into the living room and started down the dimly lit hallway, seemingly oblivious to the potential danger. Kate and I tagged along close behind.
Fuller was seated behind a large mahogany desk in a high-backed, black leather chair. The well-appointed office was shrouded in darkness, a small desk lamp providing the only light. Sloan wearily sat down in a chair facing the desk. He looked like a man carrying the burden of the world on his tired shoulders. Kate and I separated, moving along the office wall in opposite directions while trying to remain discreetly in the background. Fuller’s hands were folded and rested on the desk in front of him. Both hands where I could see them made me a tad less anxious. For a moment, neither man spoke. Sloan finally broke the silence.
“You said you were expecting us. How come?”
“Betty Schumway called me. She was upset to say the least—wondered if I knew what was going on. She’d seen your carefully orchestrated news conference on one of the local stations. I channel-surfed until I saw it myself.”
“For Christ’s sake, Bob, why did you do it?” Sloan asked. “You’ve not only managed to bring your own career to a disgraceful end, but look at the other lives and reputations you destroyed in the process.”
“Couple of reasons, actually. After Mary died, I bought a small ranch in Panama about an hour into the mountains outside Panama City—God’s country, a truly beautiful place. A gringo can live down there like a king if you come in with enough money. And I mean a king—cook, housekeeper, the whole package. I even had a young Panamanian señorita waiting for me. If you’re willing to lift a young woman out of poverty and treat her to the finer things, age differences don’t matter much down there.”
“For chrissake, Bob, you earn a decent salary. I just don’t understand,” said Sloan.
“Ah, but not enough money, Norm, at least not enough to live the lifestyle I had planned. And I almost made it—six more lousy months and I’d have retired, leaving all this shit behind.”
“And the other reason?” said Sloan.
“For whatever it’s worth, I never intended for it to go this far. I really didn’t. I’m not apologizing for taking from those asswipe convicts. They deserve whatever they get and then some.” A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. “In a perverse sort of way, I got hooked on exploiting inmates. Imagine having the opportunity on a daily basis to threaten, intimidate, and take from a group of powerless lowlifes who have spent a lifetime doing exactly that to other people—kind of poetic justice, don’t you think?”
“Christ, Bob. That’s pathetic,” Sloan muttered.
Fuller continued, ignoring the insult. “But the killing, that was something altogether different. When we couldn’t get Vogue on our side, it threatened our entire operation. We couldn’t allow that to happen. We had reached a point where influencing parole release dates had become just as lucrative as the drug trafficking and protection rackets, and it was also a lot cleaner. Nobody in the Commission was particularly enamored with the idea of killing Vogue directly, so we came up with what
we thought was a good idea—hire somebody who hated the man to do it for us.”
“Enter Charles Watts,” said Sloan.
“Yup. At first, we entertained the notion of leaving Watts alone after the hit. But we decided we couldn’t do that. He’s a druggie with a big mouth. At some point, he’d have gotten high somewhere and started talking. So we decided to take care of him ourselves—set it up to look like a suicide. As for Sorensen, not that he’s any great loss to the world, but we probably would have left him alone if you hadn’t discovered the staged suicide.”
“We didn’t discover the suicide,” replied Sloan. “The Medical Examiner’s Office did, but what difference does it make anyway?”
I stood transfixed listening to this sordid tale of greed and murder, knowing that not one word of what Fuller had just said would be admissible in court. The incriminating statement had come as the result of questioning without the Miranda warnings. A simple motion to suppress by a competent defense attorney would render the entire confession null and void. But Sloan was intent on ending this in his own way, and either was ignoring, or simply didn’t care about the legal niceties required by the justice system.
“You’re going to have to come along with us now, Bob,” Sloan said sadly.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, old friend.”
Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission Page 21
