by Bryan Koepke
Unlike most families, it had not been his father that was so enamored of his talented son. His mother was the one that went to all of Raymond’s games, and she continued to dote on him even now. Reece had long ago tired of being left out of the special loop between his mother and his older brother. Raymond had taken his father’s place after the murder, and these days Reece was always the last to hear about anything. That was just fine with him. He was busy living his own life. Yet on some level he wanted to be there for his mother, Helen. He knew it was hard for her being a widow.
She never turned to him for help, though, and hadn’t since that awful day shortly after his father had been killed. Reece had been visiting Raymond when his older brother angrily took him aside.
“Mom got a visit from that FBI agent who was working Dad’s case. He’s got her all worked up. They have a theory as to why Dad went all alone to that farm on the outskirts of St. Louis.”
“What kind of theory?” Reece said.
“When they found his body, they recovered a Nikon camera with shots from in front of a house back in the suburbs.”
“Yeah, I know all about those pictures. Haisley got me copies,” Reece said.
“Yeah, well, did you know about the broken camera?” Raymond said, clenching his hand into a fist.
“What are you talking about?” Reece said.
“They found a second camera, a Canon digital. It was in Dad’s home office in St. Louis. It had your prints on it.”
Reece thought back to his father’s office and the last time he’d been there.
“Are you with me little brother,” Raymond shouted, stepping closer.
“What are you trying to say?”
“The FBI think you went with Dad to take pictures with the Canon camera and somehow, under your watch, it got busted.”
Both Raymond and his mother had held Reece responsible ever since for the murder. Reece knew that wasn’t right, but the only way he’d ever redeem himself is if he found his father’s killer himself. Reece had decided to put the training he’d received in the Air Force during his four years in the security police to use by doing his own investigation. He took a six-week leave of absence from his engineering job at Caulder Space Systems and never returned. A year later, he was still looking.
Irritated by his failure, he decided to get busy. With the cordless mouse in hand he scrolled through half a page of junk before coming to one from his dad’s old police detective partner, Haisley Averton. He’d been a good friend of the family for as long as Reece could remember and had stayed close after his partner Al’s death.
Haisley answered after two rings. “Hey, buddy, what’s going on?”
“Hey, I’ve got a favor to ask,” Reece said.
“What’s going on?” Haisley said, sounding curious.
“I’ve got a missing person’s gig. Is there any chance you could get back into that old precinct of yours, and get me a copy of a case file?”
“I could try, but the new chief of detectives runs a tight ship. I’ll call someone and see if they’ll let me in the back door.”
“I’d really appreciate it. The name is Tracey Roberts. DOB is 1962, and I’m guessing place of birth to be St. Louis.”
“St. Louis, your old stomping ground.”
“That doesn’t matter anymore,” Reece said, more sharply than he intended. “It’s just the source of my next pay check now.”
Chapter Three
A white Ford Econovan drove through a large beige-sided apartment complex on the outskirts of Jenks, Oklahoma, just south of Tulsa. The driver eased over a section of speed bumps before parking with the grill of the vehicle facing a grove of cottonwoods. A muscular man dressed in dark blue jeans and work boots got out and gazed at the three-story complex. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his thick white hair, opened a lighter under the tip of an unfiltered cigarette, took a long draw, and welcomed the taste. He set out past the trees on his way into the adjacent park and spotted a lone figure dressed in black sitting on one of the wooden picnic tables fifty yards distant. The once green grass had long ago turned brown and matted from a lack of moisture and an abundance of children. He took several quick steps toward the tables, puffing on the cigarette before dropping it to the ground. As he closed the gap he noticed the gold weaved trim on the rear of the distant man’s vest.
The scent of a cherry-flavored cigar came to him as he approached and confirmed it was Rocco, the blackjack dealer. The driver reached around his back and pulled a large black .45-caliber handgun from the waistband of his jeans. He crept forward happy he and the dealer were destined to meet one last time. The blackjack dealer sat on the top of the picnic table, oblivious to the approaching figure who’s gun was held outward at arm’s length, aiming at the back of the man’s head. The driver advanced until the stout barrel of the gun collided with the rear of the dealer’s skull.
Rocco leapt off the table and onto his feet, stumbled, and then turned toward the man with the gun. “What are you trying to do? Scare me to death?”
The driver smiled as he skirted the table and shoved the gun into Rocco’s spine.
“Start walking,” he said, placing his left hand on the blackjack dealer’s belt.
After reaching the parked van, the driver slid open the side door and ordered the dealer inside, encouraging him with the blunt nose of his gun. He followed after and slid the door closed.
Rocco turned toward him, pleading, “I don’t know what you think is going on, but you got the wrong guy. I’m on your side. Let’s talk about this.”
The driver held the gun against the kneeling man’s head and pulled a pair of stainless steel handcuffs from a rear pocket of his jeans. He fastened one side onto the right wrist of the dealer and cuffed him to a steel eyebolt on the floor of the van. The dealer protested with a flurry of cusswords. The driver pulled a roll of silver duct tape out of a steel bin on the side wall of the van, tore a length from the roll, and ran it over the man’s mouth. The dealer’s eyes went wide with fear as the driver held his gun up and then came down hard across the man’s cerebellum. Rocco dropped face first into the floor with a thud.
The driver made three revolutions with the duct tape around the unconscious man’s calves and crawled toward the front seat. He reached into the console between the front seats and pulled out a large plastic syringe. The driver rolled the dealer over and undid the buttons on the front of his white dress shirt, peeling it down to expose the pale white flesh of the man’s shoulder. With the syringe in his hand he inserted the needle into Rocco’s shoulder and pushed on the plunger with his thumb, emptying the contents of the hypodermic.
He didn’t wait for the drug to take full effect. He started up the van and roared off down the two-lane blacktop road. Soon the white Ford van turned off and barreled, shaking constantly with the ruts, down a narrow dirt road for a couple of miles. The van slowed as it reached a heavily treed area alongside the Arkansas River. The engine ceased and the driver’s side door opened, freeing a cloud of cigarette smoke. The white haired driver hopped out and listened until he was convinced he was alone. He went around to the back of the van and opened the twin doors. Inside, the blackjack dealer lay quiet, eyes open, staring up at the interior roof. The drug was doing its job.
The driver slid his hands into a pair of latex gloves, pulled a plastic apron from a white shopping bag, and put it on. He went to the passenger’s side door, pulled out a red gas can and a blue and orange cardboard box containing his brand-new Husqvarna chainsaw. He pulled the tab out of the side of the box, thinking he’d keep it to store his new toy when he was done. Looking back at the blackjack dealer, the driver felt a bolt of excitement and tore open the cardboard box freeing the chainsaw. It felt good in his hands. He was powerful. He stabbed it toward the ankle of the still man, scraping his skin. The dealer gave out a muffled moan.
“Next time you’ll think twice about opening your mouth. Hell, you had it made working for us and you had to mess tha
t up too,” the driver said, puffing on another of his cigarettes. He climbed into the back of the panel van, undid the handcuff from the eyebolt, and fastened it onto a twenty-foot length of bright steel chain he’d bought earlier.
With the chainsaw fueled and resting on the top of a short stump, he stuck the toe of his work boot through the orange plastic handle and pulled the black cord six times. Next, the driver moved the red plastic lever from choke to half. Glancing over at the dealer with a broad smile, he pulled the starting cord a seventh time bringing the chainsaw to life with a roar. He squeezed the trigger and felt the torque of the saw in his arm.
“It’s time to do a little trimming.”
*
The driver set the shovel down so it was leaning against the rear bumper of the van. The sand he’d shoveled into the top of the blue plastic container would do its job weighting it down once it found its home in the river. He leaned against one of the rear doors, savoring the taste of his unfiltered cigarette and admiring his handiwork. The hard part was over. He grabbed the white steel lid and its clamping mechanism from the rear of the van and walked over to the blue barrel.
With the cigarette hanging from his mouth, he pursed his lips and took one last puff before letting it drop to the ground. The view into the fifty-five-gallon barrel was less than pleasing but held the remains of an honest day’s work. The driver pushed the white metal top down onto the plastic drum in an effort to seal it. The fit was tight and he held it down with his hand while fitting the clamp onto the seam between the lid and the top metal flange. It wouldn’t close all the way. Something was keeping the lid from sealing.
He pulled the clamp lid off and noticed that one of Rocco’s shoes, still fitted onto his big bubous foot, was sticking up out of the barrel just far enough to keep it from closing. The driver grasped the ankle of Rocco’s leg and pulled up. He twisted the black dress shoe from the dead man’s foot and shoved it back into a void in the top of the drum between an elbow and a hand. It was messy work, but he needed to get it right.
*
Who knows who might come out here on any given day? He remembered back to the days of his youth when he and his friends had ridden dirt bikes along the banks of Lake Michigan. They’d had fun in those days stealing beer and cigarettes from the dime store and then racing off to the next town along the expansive lake to see what new trouble they might find.
He smiled thinking back to all the trouble he’d gotten into and was proud that he’d never seen the inside of a prison cell. He was good at his job. The best there was in his line of business and he was proud of that fact.
With the top of the barrel firmly in place, the driver bent over it and reefed on the steep clamp, closing it and fastening the lid securely in place. He fished the spool of bailing wire he’d brought along out of his back pocket and began twisting the black strand around the steel clamp. He wished he’d brought along a pair of pliers, but his hands were all that he had.
The driver stood admiring the sealed drum and pulled another cigarette out of the wooden container in the rear of the van where he kept his smokes. He lit the end with a blue Bic lighter. The first puff was always the most satisfying, and he welcomed the smell of the burning paper and tobacco. Well worth the hacking cough he woke up to every morning.
With the shovel in his hand he walked past the van toward the hill overlooking the Arkansas River. He’d come a few days before, scouting out a place to dispose of the blackjack dealer. He was glad he’d caught Rocco in the act and taken care of it before any trouble came to his boss.
The view out over the river was favorable, but he wondered how deep the water was close to shore. He ventured down the river’s edge a few hundred feet until he came to a gentle slope. This would be a problem. There was a five-foot wide section of shallow water and then the sandy bottom disappeared into brown murky water.
He picked up a rock and threw it out past the shallows. The splash was high, indicating the water was deep. That was where he needed to roll the barrel. It needed to sink deep enough so that its bright blue exterior couldn’t be spotted from on top of the hill. The world was filled with treasure hunters, and he didn’t want anyone discovering what he’d buried within the blue drum.
The driver climbed back up the steep slope a ways until he came to a wide shelf of dirt. It was near the bottom of a steep slope. Once the barrel was rolling it would be moving very fast by the time it got this far down the hill. He went to work building a berm. He figured once he got the barrel rolling down the hill, it would hit the ramp and launch off the ground and in doing so clear the shallows on the verge of the river. This job was turning into something way more time-consuming than he’d imagined, but he couldn’t stop this far into it.
With a new cigarette smoldering from his mouth he pitched dirt back toward what was quickly becoming a three-foot-wide jump that ran the width of two barrel lengths sideways along the hill. It was a good two feet tall at the high end and spread back toward the slope of the hill, looking like a jump he’d navigate with a dirt bike. He’d had plenty of experience building jumps when he was younger and loved the feeling of going flat out off them. He’d fly through the air aiming for the other side and feel strong doing it.
After climbing back up the hill, he returned to the van. He looked around listening for any signs of company. The job had taken far too long, and that was when you’d end up getting caught in the act by some passerby. He glanced into the van and spotted his big black semi-automatic handgun on the passenger’s seat.
The driver tipped the barrel over and smiled at the sloshing noise it made as he pushed it through the leaf-covered grassland toward the edge of the hill. It was heavy and hard work rolling what was now close to three hundred pounds of dead weight. With his left hand on the top and the other on the bottom rim, he pushed out away from his chest, rolling the drum two to three feet with each gesture. His lips were dry, he discovered. He’d need water when he was done disposing of the barrel in the depths of the river.
Finally, he got to the top of the hill and let the weight of the barrel roll back so it was resting against his shin. He stood catching his breath and staring out across the half-mile wide section of river. A breeze ran through the trees behind him and he twitched as it flooded his sweat-soaked shirt and chilled him. He bent over, grasping the barrel, and lined it up, aiming at the jump he’d constructed near the bottom. He rolled it a half revolution forward till it was right on the edge of the dropoff and gave it his best shove. It rolled slowly at first and then picked up speed a third of the way down the steep hill.
He waved the flame of his lighter under a cigarette as he watched the blue container barreling down the slope. It hit the dirt jump, went airborne, and flew a good twenty feet out into the brown murky waters of the Arkansas River before disappearing beneath the water’s surface.
He smiled in satisfaction at the gigantic splash it made. That made all of his hard work worthwhile.
Chapter Four
Reece was straightening the books in one of the twin walnut bookshelves when he heard the exterior door slam. The clicking of her fancy high heels on the linoleum confirmed his suspicion of who it was.
“You look nice,” he heard her say. Reece turned and liked what he saw as well. She was wearing black tights that left nothing to the imagination and a navy blue silk shirt. Her red hair looked like she’d just come from the salon, and her cheeks were reddened with makeup that matched her lips.
“Could I get you something to drink?” he asked, hoping she liked diet coke or water. He slid open the door of the wooden credenza he’d picked up a few weeks back, and pulled open the mini fridge.
“If you have ice water, I’d take a glass of that,” Crystal said in a seductive voice. He filled a glass with ice cubes, pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, and turned back toward her. She had her elbows planted on the desk with her chin in her palms. Reece caught himself staring and quickly poured the water into the glass.
He took
a seat behind his desk and handed her the glass. She leaned back and took a long sip.
“So how long have you lived in Denver?” he asked studying her face.
“I’ve been here since 2004. I followed my husband Nathan here.”
“Nathan doesn’t mind you spending your Sunday evenings with strange men?” he asked, knowing that where Nathan was, he wouldn’t be caring.
“No, I’m widowed,” she said with a hint of sadness.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. I guess I’m to the point where I should be over it. It was an accident. We were skiing in Vail. Nathan was a very good skier, and was always pushing himself to test out harder terrain.”
“What happened?”
“We were chute skiing and he made a wrong turn. The winds were up, and it was near whiteout conditions. I was following him, but I couldn’t see, so I stopped. I heard his scream. It was horrible. He went off the edge,” she said, looking like she was on the verge of tears. Reece pushed the square Kleenex box across the desk, but she regained her composure.
“The sight of him lying there in the boulder field is something I’ll never be able to forget,” Crystal said.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” he responded, though he wondered how she could have seen her husband in a whiteout.
“Was Nathan your first husband?” he asked.
“No, I was married before to Paul.”
“Did that end in divorce?” he asked, watching her wad up the used Kleenex and stuff it under the sleeve of her blouse.
“No. I don’t really want to talk about that. What do you need to know to find my mother?” Crystal asked.
