Dead Shot (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 1)

by Jack Patterson

  Framing people was an art form—and the people of Statenville had been painting Louvre-worthy canvases for snooping parties for 20 years. If anyone managed to make it out alive, the person’s reputation was sullied beyond repair, and their word was rendered meaningless.

  Cal and Kelly were next.

  CHAPTER 51

  LIKE THE WHEELS ON the Vmax, Cal’s mind couldn’t stop spinning. He was creating scenarios in his head of what was really happening at Cloverdale Industries—some good, some bad. But he couldn’t logically believe he saw something he shouldn’t have. People were dead. Drugs were visible. His life was in danger. What other physical evidence could trump the empirical evidence he already had? What Cal had might not stand up in a court of law, but it already won a gavel-banging judgment in the court of his own opinion. The one thing that ate at him was Walker’s connection to the situation. What was he doing there? And why did he tie them up?

  Cal allowed Kelly’s embrace from the rear seat on the motorcycle to interrupt his furious theory building. In the midst of running for their lives, Cal’s fondness for Kelly was pushed to the edge of his consciousness. This wasn’t some action movie. The two stars of this adventure didn’t have time to share a passionate kiss before he ran at the bad guys with guns blazing while she admired her man’s bravery. No, this wasn’t Hollywood. There was no dramatic music, no feeling that everything would eventually be fine. But, oh how Cal wished it was. Having Kelly nestled up to him was heaven enough considering the circumstances.

  Buzzzzzz. Buzzzzz.

  Cal’s phone jolted him back to reality. He slowed down the bike and pulled over. There were only two people he was interested in talking to: Guy and somebody from the FBI field office in Salt Lake City. The “restricted” name listed on his iPhone’s caller ID let him know it was the latter.

  Cal walked away from the bike with Kelly. They took a few steps toward an open range with scattered cattle roaming about for an evening snack. He answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Cal?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Eric from the FBI’s Salt Lake City field office.”

  “Hi, Eric. Did you find out anything?”

  “Well, this isn’t normal protocol, but this isn’t a normal situation. You need to do everything in your power to keep this substance from getting into the public’s hands.”

  Cal said nothing.

  “It appears that the chemical agent being manufactured is CPZ—and in high doses.”

  “How dangerous is CPZ? What does it do?”

  “In small quantities, not much. It’s used to treat psychosis patients. But in large quantities, it can do a lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like shut your liver down for one thing—and shut it down in a hurry, especially when it’s combined with other accelerants.”

  “What accelerants?”

  “Methamphetamine would cause it to start working quickly.”

  Cal’s heart was pounding. All those questions that nagged him since he started investigating were now beginning to have plausible answers.

  “And what kind of symptoms would manifest as a result of the liver shutting down?”

  “There are plenty of things that happen. For one, the person would look jaundiced. But the most painful that would present, physically, is all the bile seeping into the blood stream.”

  “What would that do?”

  “It would create an intense itching sensation all throughout a person’s body, much like suffering from the autoimmune disease, Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis. Due to liver malfunction, PSC causes itching beneath the surface of the skin and renders scratching that area useless. You can scratch all you want, but the itching sensation never goes away. That bile is still there, underneath the skin, irritating you.”

  “So, if you put this high dosage of CPZ with an accelerant, how would it impact someone?”

  “Well, it’s not deadly in and of itself, but the itching would be intense.”

  “Intense enough that you could scratch yourself to death?”

  “I suppose that’s possible, but I’ve never heard of such a thing. I don’t know how any lab would sign off on the testing of this chemical on animals for the express purpose of shutting down the liver—so I doubt that’s a question we could ever answer.”

  Cal had sufficient information at this point to draw some obvious conclusions, but he never ceased to marvel at how last-second questions seemed to produce the juiciest pieces of information.

  “Any other information I should be aware of?”

  “Well, in doing some cursory research, I found that the FBI once had a team of people working on a way to use CPZ as markers in drugs, much like what you mentioned with methamphetamines. They wanted to figure out a way to mark drug users and substantial dealers’ distribution networks. The strange nature of the cases would send out an alert to the CDC from which the FBI could obtain basic information on the spread of a dealer’s network.”

  “So what happened to the program?”

  “In 2008, they tried it in field tests by undercover operatives in three cities—Seattle, L.A., and Phoenix—by tainting an individual dosage—and each time the drug user died, though the report I read didn’t say from what. So, they disbanded the program. That’s not the kind of publicity the FBI wants, even if it helps accomplish its end game.”

  “End game of what? Eliminating drug pushers?”

  Eric answered with nervous laughter then continued.

  “Well, interestingly enough, both Walker and Mercer were part of those teams that did the testing.”

  Cal knew he wasn’t getting another answer out of him.

  “Thanks for your help, Eric.”

  “No problem, Cal. I’ll let my superiors know and hopefully we’ll have someone in Statenville tomorrow to investigate what’s going on. I’m sure we’ll find you.”

  Cal hung up the phone. The last thing he wanted was anybody finding him, especially the FBI. His list of theories was growing—and Kelly looked anxious to hear what he had learned.

  Five minutes into rehashing his phone conversation and introducing a new theory, Cal’s iPhone buzzed again—this time, it was Guy.

  “Where are you guys, Cal?”

  “We’re about 30 minutes outside of Statenville. Why?”

  “Don’t come back. Head back to Salt Lake or somewhere nearby. Things are getting ugly here, and I know you’re next. If they find out I helped you, they’ll kill me.”

  “Whoa. Slow down, Guy.”

  “No, I’m serious—especially if they see you on my bike. That’s bad news for both of us. There’ll be no doubt then who helped you.”

  “So, what am I supposed to do? Stay in Salt Lake City? And for how long? I’m almost broke. I work at The Register, remember?”

  “OK, call the paper and ask for Dave Youngman. Tell him that you’re a friend of mine and that I asked him to take you in as a favor.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then, you write your story. Does Kelly have her camera?”

  “Yep, she’s got it.”

  “OK, put together her best photos with your story and send it to The Tribune in Salt Lake and The Times in Seattle. I’ll let those editors know your story is coming.”

  “And they’ll print it, Guy?”

  “If I tell them you’re trustworthy, they will. They’ll know what to do with it.”

  “OK. Thanks, Guy. Take care.”

  “You, too.”

  It had always been Cal’s dream to write for The Times. He never believed he would be writing about a mind-bending conspiracy with the hard evidence in hand to prove its truth. Nor did he think he would get a 1A byline story before his friend, Josh.

  But then, neither did he ever imagine anyone would hunt him down with the express purpose of killing him.

  CHAPTER 52

  THERE WERE ONLY TWO reasons Mayor Gold ever drank alcohol. The first was to celebrate on New Year�
�s Eve. The second was when pacing wouldn’t calm his nerves. New Year’s Eve assured that the bottle of Crown Royal hidden in his study would never go a year without taking a hit. However, uncapping his secret elixir rarely occurred before the annual visit from his in-laws at Thanksgiving. This year, he was three months ahead of schedule.

  Pacing and drinking only hyped up Gold. He preferred to take his whisky sitting down. But he didn’t know if anything could settle him at this hour. Presiding over the murder of not one but two FBI agents was enough to make him consider searching for a barrel of whisky. But he knew that would be the least of his problems if the feds discovered what exactly Statenville was up to. All he could now was wait.

  The clock ticked slowly. It was 10:30 p.m. Thus far, Gold’s contingency plan had been executed flawlessly. However, the two reporters trying to be superheroes threatened to mar his precious ointment. For years, Gold held The Register under his thumb, buying off editors with the publisher firmly in his pocket. He never really considered a reporter from The Register having the ability to flesh out this story, much less two of them. They usually consisted of halfwits who – if they somehow graduated from community college – struggled to write a well-constructed sentence. But the economy’s poor state flooded the market with able-bodied reporters, even The Register had jobs available that appealed to top journalism students. They had to write somewhere. Gold had underestimated Cal’s skills and wherewithal to pursue this story. It was a rare mistake.

  Gold looked at his watch again and took another pull on his whisky. He figured Yukon Grant was about 30 minutes away from correcting that mistake.

  Keeping a secret of this magnitude requires a commitment to sacrificing profit to keep it silent. When you tell people you’re going to pay them, you pay them. And when they do a great job, you sometimes pay them more than you agreed. Happy employees don’t blow whistles. Keeping a secret like this also requires the guts to do the dirty work. This was the part that Gold didn’t like, but one he accepted as a necessary evil.

  He didn’t simply dislike the dirty work—he loathed it. But Yukon wasn’t the only one with an assignment. There was one job Gold needed to finish on his own. He drained the last drop of whisky and grabbed his 9 millimeter handgun. His work was almost done.

  ***

  Guy hung up the phone. He wasn’t sure if he could convince his old paper, The Tribune, to run Cal’s story, but he had pulled it off. He had done the same with The Times, too. If Cal could put together what Guy thought he was capable of, tomorrow might bring relief. No more lies. No more deception.

  He began buttoning up the house for the evening, shuffling from room to room in his robe, turning off all the lights and securing all the doors and windows. His bedtime routine consisted of being fully ready for bed and sitting up for his DVR replay of the late local news. It was a luxury never afforded to him so early in the evening while working the late shift at a daily newspaper. But working at a weekly newspaper with 9 to 5 hours almost every day made him feel like he had a somewhat normal life. At least now he could slice up his time into convenient and predictable parcels like most Americans.

  Guy had just finished brushing his teeth when he froze.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Somebody was knocking at his backdoor.

  Guy crept back toward the kitchen, unsure of who might be dropping by unannounced at this late hour. Would it be Cal and Kelly ignoring his warning to stay out of Statenville? Would it be one of the mayor’s thugs?

  He grabbed a wooden baseball bat from the large floor vase he used to store his umbrella—and other objects handy during a home invasion. He inched closer to the door and flipped the back door light on.

  It was Mayor Gold.

  Guy exhaled. He slid the baseball bat back into the vase and swung the door open.

  “Mayor Gold. What brings you out here at this time of night?”

  “We need to talk,” Gold said. “May I come in?”

  “Sure. What’s going on?”

  This wasn’t Gold’s first time visiting Guy. Gold strode through the kitchen and into the den, while Guy scrambled to turn on some lights. They sat on opposing couches with only a glass coffee table separating them.

  “I know it’s late, so I’ll be brief,” Gold started.

  “So, what’s going on?”

  “Well, I need to ask you a very important question.”

  “OK, shoot.”

  “Why did you help Cal and Kelly escape Statenville today? I was under the impression that you had been instructed to keep them pre-occupied with other assignments so they wouldn’t be digging too deep on things that are best left alone.”

  “What do you mean? I didn’t help them do anything but their job.”

  “Well, I know your VMAX is missing and we’ve had reports from several people that Cal and Kelly were seen on it heading out of town. Care to explain?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Should we go to your garage and look at your VMAX.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. You know I would never break our agreement.”

  Gold didn’t say a word. He pulled a digital recorder out of his pocket and placed it on the coffee table. He pushed play.

  “… put together her best photos with your story and send it to The Tribune in Salt Lake and The Times in Seattle. I’ll let those editors know your story is coming.

  “And they would print it, Guy?”

  “If I tell them you’re trustworthy, they will. They’ll know what to do with it.”

  Gold pushed stop.

  “Would you care to revisit your last statement, Guy?”

  Guy avoided eye contact and said nothing.

  “I thought you were on our side, Guy. I really did. I trusted you. But that is unforgivable.”

  Guy knew he should’ve known better. Tapping his phone should have been a given, especially with the suspicious treatment he received earlier in the day. But he was careless.

  Gold pulled out his gun and pointed it at Guy.

  “You’ll never get away with this, you know? I know deep down you’re a decent man. You wanted to make a better life for people in this town, but you made some poor choices a long time ago. You don’t have to take another innocent life.”

  “You’re not innocent, Guy—stand up!”

  Gold was already standing, while Guy slowly rose from the couch, placing both hands in the air as to surrender. However, Guy knew this wasn’t a time to surrender. In a matter of minutes, Gold was going to fill him with lead, dump his body and have a tight alibi and plausible story about Guy’s accidental death.

  “Go get some jeans and a shirt on. We’re going outside. Move it!”

  Guy had resigned himself that this was the end. With all the accidental deaths in Statenville, you would’ve thought local clothing shops only offered shoes in pairs of left feet. Guy knew the truth behind every single one, but printed the invented version fed to him by local law enforcement. He knew his story would be no different.

  Well, if I’m going to die, I’m not going to make it easy on the mayor.

  Gold marched behind Guy as he moved through the kitchen toward his bedroom. Just as Guy was about to leave the kitchen, he lunged for his baseball bat.

  Gold didn’t even wait for Guy to turn around. He shot Guy twice in the back and once in the head.

  Guy fell toward the corner, his head slamming against the now blood-spattered wall. He slumped face-first to the ground, his maroon robe turning a deeper hue of red.

  ***

  Gold looked at the mess in Guy’s kitchen. One of his workers would scour the house. It would be spotless when Sheriff Jones came to do a standard investigation on the strange death of Guy Thompson, who would drown in a fishing accident on the Snake River. A number of witnesses would see him fishing that evening after work. But only the coroner would see his body, falsifying his report about the cause of death. A cremation would follow since the next of kin never responde
d.

  Gold sighed and looked at his watch. He couldn’t stand waiting much longer to hear from Yukon. If Gold was lucky, Cal and Kelly would be in Yukon’s possession right now.

  CHAPTER 53

  CAL AND KELLY NEEDED to find a makeshift workstation and fast. The nearest possibility was about 20 miles back in the town of Ellington, which had a McDonald’s. Covering the Statenville-Ellington football game the year before, Cal learned that the dining room in the Ellington McDonald’s stayed open until midnight on the weeknights and 2 a.m. on the weekends. It was the only eating establishment open late at night in Ellington with the exception of Esther’s Café and Eats located inside a local gas station.

  When they pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot fifteen minutes later, it was nearly vacant. Cal hated writing in public places, but if it was quiet at least he could begin to organize his thoughts and pound out a story. Between the two of them, they had three pieces of equipment: two iPhones and a camera.

  “You start uploading photos and video to a drop box somewhere and I’ll start writing.”

  Cal wasted no time and began pecking away. Kelly hooked up her SD card reader to her iPhone and went to work, uploading videos and photos that backed up the extraordinary claims they were about to make.

  Most of Cal’s story was written in his head so it didn’t take him long to turn it into a thrilling read in an email to be sent off to two major metro dailies.