Burke's War: Bob Burke Action Thriller 1 (Bob Burke Action Thrillers)

by William F. Brown

  Without turning on any lights, he rolled off the bed and walked silently down the corridor to the townhouse’s rear bedroom. Its double window faced the alley and garage. He had installed a set of two-inch-wide wooden, horizontal blinds, which he always left 80% closed. That kept the room shaded during the day, while giving him a narrow gap through which he could look down into the alley. While his own exterior lights were not on, there was a sodium vapor light on the telephone pole at the end of the alley. Normally, its eerie yellow bulb provided enough light to see what was going on in the alley and in his rear yard, but not tonight. Curiously, the light on the pole was out, and that immediately caught his attention. The sodium vapor light had been on when he pulled into the garage several hours before. Besides, those lights never wore out, and Bob didn’t believe in coincidences.

  He returned to the front bedroom and paused to look again at the display on the phone. The motion sensor in the garage had now reset to normal. The sensors on the door from the garage to the kitchen and the motion sensors inside the kitchen had not been triggered. Whoever it was had confined their activities to the garage and did not try to gain access to the house. Or, that was what they wanted him to think.

  Questions without answers were like fingernails down blackboard to him, particularly when they involved personal threats. An intruder in his garage did not rise to the level of concern of an intruder in his townhouse or in his bedroom, so he did not go into an active personal defense mode. Still, his Saturn was parked there, and there was always the possibility of someone tampering with the car, rigging a bomb, or leaving some other present inside. Whichever, an intruder was an intruder, and they needed to be dealt with before they made it a habit. He was already dressed and had his shoes on, so he glided down the stairs to the first floor, looking left and right and checking out each room and closet as he went. None of the alarms or sensors inside the townhouse had been triggered, but that didn’t mean the intruder wasn’t as well trained and practiced as he was when it came to electronic security.

  There were a dozen ways to play this. He could go directly into the garage from the kitchen. He could leave the house through the back door, cross the patio and rear yard, and enter the garage through its side “man door.” Or he could go out the front door, loop around the neighborhood, and approach the garage through the alley from either end. He decided to go in through the kitchen, which would give him an opportunity to examine the car first. Adjacent to the sink was a drawer that held a six-cell police flashlight and a set of innocent-looking carving knives. The flashlight cast a long, narrow beam, and it was solid enough to double as a fighting club. As for the "carving knives," they had many other uses. He rarely cooked and almost never cut meat, so he left several of his favorite six-inch throwing knives in the drawer under the normal kitchen set. They had serrated blades and perfect points, fine edges, and perfect balance for stabbing, slicing, or throwing. In his hands, that was a lethal combination.

  He unlocked the kitchen door and stepped into the garage, pausing to let his eyes, ears, and nose adjust to the space. The intruders had been standing by the car trunk, but he would clear the rest of the garage first. Dropping to his knees, he rolled onto his back and examined the underside of the car with the flashlight. There was nothing attached to the frame, the motor mount, transmission, or in the wheel wells. Methodically working his way back, he opened the side doors and looked under the seats, under the dashboard, and around the ignition and steering column. Nothing. Finally, he raised the front hood and looked around the engine, carburetor, and wiring. Still nothing. The overhead garage door wasn’t open very long; so whatever they did, it had been quick and simple. He walked around the car and checked the tools and boxes sitting along the exterior walls. He looked in the corners of the garage, but nothing appeared moved out of place. Whatever it was they did, they got in, did what they came to do, and got out.

  That only left the Saturn’s trunk. The garage was small and the car was parked too close to the overhead door to allow him to open the trunk without first raising the door. That was a problem. He was already regretting having left the guns, two-way radios, and cell phones he took from Scalese’s goons in there. He intended to deliver all that stuff to Ernie Travers later in the morning, but in hindsight, the smarter play would have been to dump it all down a storm sewer or toss them in the river. Too late now. He knew he needed to find out what they left. He walked back to the alarm system keypad at the garage’s man door, entered the codes to raise the overhead door, and turned on the outside lights and cameras. As the garage door noisily ground its way up, he held the knife down the side of his leg, and waited. Rather than step directly into the alley, he gave it five minutes, opened the garage’s man door instead, and stepped into the side yard. He looked into the alley through the gaps in the tall board fence, but still saw nothing, so he went back around through the garage and stepped out into the alley.

  Whoever was out there, they were more patient than he was. The answer must be in the Saturn’s trunk, so he turned and walked back to the rear of the car. He was about to pop open the trunk and see what they left inside, when he realized that in his haste he had left his car keys, his wallet and his cell phone upstairs on his bedroom dresser. No big deal he thought, as he walked around to the driver’s side door, reached inside, and pushed the trunk release button. That was when all hell broke loose. Three police cars came racing down the alley toward him, two from one end, and one from the other. While their bright headlights partially blinded him, he could see that two were white and green police cars with low-slung red and blue light bars flashing on their roofs, their headlights on high beam, and their spotlights aimed at him. The other car appeared to be a black, unmarked sedan with a single red strobe light sitting on its dashboard.

  The three cars screeched to a halt 20 feet away from him. Through the blinding lights, the clouds of dust, and the squeal of tires, someone with a bullhorn screamed at him, demanding he get on the ground, with his hands over his head. No doubt, that was his old friend Bobby Joe in one of the white police cruisers, and Chief Bentley in the other. They both got out with their guns drawn and pointed at him. Much to his surprise, he saw a reluctant Ernie Travers of the Chicago Police Department get out of the unmarked car. Unlike the other two, Travers had his hands on his hips and he kept his distance. He did not have his gun out or look very happy.

  Bob dropped the kitchen knife and the flashlight, and raised his hands over his head; but that was as far as he went.

  “Ah told you to get down on the ground!” Bobby Joe screamed as he stepped forward and pointed his long-barreled .38-caliber Police Special revolver at him.

  “Take it easy,” Bob told him. “That thing might be loaded.”

  “You bet your ass it’s loaded! Look, Chief, the perp’s got a knife!”

  “It’s from my kitchen, you moron, and I’m no perp! I came out here because someone broke into my garage,” Bob snapped back.

  “Well, that’s mighty convenient,” Bentley joined in.

  “Yes, and this is Arlington Heights, not Indian Hills or Chicago,” he countered as he looked at all three of them. “I know what these two are up to, Lieutenant; but why are you here? None of you have any jurisdiction.”

  “We do, when we’re in hot pursuit of a serial killer,” Bobby Joe giggled.

  “Now wait a minute,” Travers said shaking his head. “You told me you had proof and you’d do this by the book, Chief.”

  “Oh, I am, Lieutenant. I surely am. We need to open this man’s trunk.”

  “It’s already open. You saw me open it as you drove up, and I was about to take a look myself,” Bob Burke told him. “My alarm system went off…”

  “What alarm?” Bobby Joe frowned. “Ah didn’t hear no alarm.”

  “Shut up and see what's in there,” Bentley barked at him.

  Bobby Joe eagerly stepped to the rear of the car and raised the trunk. Lying inside, they all saw the body of a woman wrapped in a pla
stic drop cloth. Travers picked up Burke’s flashlight, turned it on high beam, and looked more closely. Through the multiple layers of twisted, clear plastic, he saw enough of her face to know it was Sabrina Fowler, the United Airlines flight attendant. She was naked, with a belt or piece of rope tied around her throat, and bruises all over her face.

  “See, Ernie, I told you this guy was bent from day one. Didn’t I?” Bentley beamed. “I’ll bet he’s the Northside rapist. Yes sir, that’s who we caught here.”

  “The Northside what?” Bob turned and questioned.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s him all right,” Bobby Joe giggled. “He already killed five women, not countin’ this one, and I’ll bet he killed that Purdue woman, too.”

  Travers stared at her body and then at Bob Burke, still not believing it. “I don’t know, Chief,” Travers said, looking suspicious. It was obvious someone tipped Bentley about the body being here, unless he or Bobby Joe put her in the trunk. He wasn’t buying it, and suspected Burke had been set up.

  “Lots of luck finding my fingerprints on her, or on the plastic,” Bob interjected.

  “All that proves is you was probably wearing gloves,” Bobby Joe quickly answered.

  Bob looked at him and saw the thin, black leather gloves on Bobby Joe’s hands. “You mean like those?”

  “Never you mind what Bobby Joe’s wearing. He’s been with me,” Bentley snapped and then turned toward Travers. “Ernie, your problem is you swallowed this man’s story hook line and sinker yesterday. You don’t want to believe he did anything wrong.”

  “He was up in the airplane when the Purdue woman was killed.”

  “That’s what he said happened. For all we know he could have murdered that Purdue woman the night before, got rid of her body, flown to Washington and back, and then made up that whole story about Doc Greenway on the CHC roof to send us on a wild goose chase,” Bentley said, stepping closer, hands on hips and his beer gut out. “A clever bastard like him? I’ll bet that’s exactly what he done.”

  “That doesn’t wash either.” Travers shook his head. “That receptionist in the lobby, Linda Sylvester, she said she saw the Purdue woman that morning, in the office.”

  “Maybe she's in on it with him,” Bobby Joe offered as he waved his Colt at the trunk. “That’s the body of the stewardess what was with him, and it’s his trunk, his car, and his garage. That’s all we need to know, ain’t it Chief?”

  Bentley smiled. “Bobby Joe isn’t the brightest bulb in the pack, but I do believe he’s got that right,” he said, stepping even closer, going with the flow. “I figure Burke killed this one here, because she knew there never was anyone up on that roof. That’s why he had to shut her up. Maybe the man’s got some grudge against Dr. Greenway or CHC? I don’t know. But I think he came out here to the garage because he was headin’ out to dump her body, like he did with all those other women he killed. Unfortunately, we got here first, didn’t we, Burke?”

  Burke turned and looked at Travers. “You know this isn’t right, Lieutenant. I don’t know who killed her, but it wasn’t me.”

  “Oh, no? Well, lookie here, Chief!” Bobby Joe crowed as he shoved Burke back with the barrel of his revolver and lifted a corner of the plastic sheet. “There’s three handguns, some radios, cell phones, a black ski mask, a black sweater, and a pair of black gloves laying back here under her body. I suppose you need them tools to fix telephones, huh, boy?” he asked as he pushed him again in the stomach with the muzzle of his pistol.

  Having put up with more bullshit than he felt like taking for one night, Bob’s left arm swept down and pushed Bobby Joe’s pistol aside. The fat police officer pulled the trigger and it went off with a loud Blang! He was surprised and seconds late as the bullet flew wide of the mark and struck the sidewall of the garage. In a lightning-fast Tai Chi move, Bob brought his right hand over, grabbed Bobby Joe’s gun hand and twisted his arm clockwise. With little effort, he took the .38 from the fat patrolman’s grip, while continuing the twisting motion, running Bobby Joe around in a small circle until a leg sweep sent him flying head over heels into Bentley and Ernie Travers like a bowling ball going for a 7-10 split.

  The three policemen ended up in an awkward heap in the alley, with Bob Burke standing over them holding Bobby Joe’s Colt revolver. “Don’t move,” Bob warned, as he leaned forward, and pointed the pistol back and forth between them. He learned a long time ago that nothing focuses the mind quicker than having the barrel of a handgun pointed at your nose.

  “She was a nice girl, Bentley,” Bob told him as he looked down at the police chief, his expression growing hard and ice cold. “And she didn’t deserve to die like that — raped, beaten, and strangled. Is that your handiwork? How about you, Bobby Joe?” He poked the fat police officer in the gut with his own pistol. “Are you the one who did her?”

  “No, man! I had nuthin’ to do with that, I swear!”

  “No? But you were already here,waiting for me to come out, and you watched the ones who did put here in there, didn't? That's why you know there was no alarm.”

  “No, no, uh… The Chief got a call. He got a tip.”

  “Shut up Bobby Joe!” Bentley banged him in the ribs with his elbow.

  “Did the caller have an Italian accent? Or was it New Jersey?” Bob asked, not expecting an answer. Finally, he turned toward Travers. “I didn’t ask for this, Ernie,” he said as he bent down and quickly took Travers’ pistol and Bentley’s and tossed them into the car trunk, with the body and the other guns and equipment. “This is a set up, and you know it. These two are either part of it or too damned stupid to understand.”

  “Oh, I know you didn’t kill her or the other one, Bob,” Travers answered, equally frustrated, “but you’re digging yourself a deep hole here you’re never gonna climb out of.”

  “Watch me, because I’m just getting started,” Bob answered as he frisked them, patting down their pockets and tossing their two-way radios, wallets, badges, cell phones, Travers’s and Bobby Joe’s car keys, and even Bentley’s wide-brimmed Smokey the Bear hat into the trunk of the Saturn. Both Bobby Joe and Bentley were carrying two sets of shiny, chrome-plated handcuffs in their patent leather police utility belts. They were intended purely for show, but not tonight. Bob then handcuffed Bobby Joe’s left wrist to Bentley’s left ankle, his right wrist to Travers’s right ankle, Travers’s left wrist to Bentley’s right wrist in a daisy chain, using the last set to fasten them to the rear suspension of the Saturn. That should hold them, he thought.

  “In a couple of hours, I’ll have all the proof I need to lock Greenway, Scalese, and the rest of them up for a long time. You see, Eleanor Purdue stole a set of CHC’s books — the real ones, which will show the phony Medicaid and Medicare billings, the crooked foreign sales, and the medical devices and the drugs nobody needed. They show all the kickbacks and payoffs, and I suspect Chief Bentley and the rest of the Indian Hills crowd are featured prominently on the list. Once I get that stuff to O’Malley, the State Police, or someone, I won’t be the one in jail, they will,” he said as he tossed the Colt into the trunk. “And here,” he said as he reached into his hip pocket, pulled out the driver’s licenses he had taken from the gunmen the night before, and held them up for Travers to see before he tossed them in the trunk, too. “Check those guys out. They’re DiGrigoria gunmen who work for Tony Scalese and CHC as security guards. They were staking out Eleanor Purdue’s house last night and I took the guns and all the rest of that stuff off them. I’m sure you’ll find their prints all over Eleanor and Sabrina’s houses, and all over the plastic and her body, too.”

  “You… ‘took it off them?’ ” Travers asked, surprised, but not really.

  “Like taking the pistol away from Bobby Joe, it wasn’t all that hard.”

  “Okay, okay, I believe you, but don’t do this, man,” Travers warned. “Let me take you in. We’ll do this thing together.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Ernie, but I’m more effective w
orking alone. And don’t worry, it isn’t gonna take all that long.” He looked down at Bentley, and added. “You know, I hate a crooked cop even more than I hate the men who did that,” he said as he motioned toward the trunk of his car. “They’re sick animals who need to be put down, but you know better and you’re going to pay for this.”

  “You can’t touch me, boy!” the police chief glared back at him.

  “I won’t have to. As soon as your new pals decide you’re their next liability, they won’t keep you around very long. You’ll get a love tap from a .22-caliber long in the back of the head. The Chicago Tribune says that’s how Mr. D gets rid of ‘loose ends,’ followed by cement overshoes and a quick boat ride on Lake Michigan.” Bobby Joe’s eyes went wide as Bob looked over at him and laughed. “I’ll bet your Uncle didn’t tell you about that last part, did he?”

  Finally, Bob turned back to Ernie Travers. “Until now, this has been an interesting exercise in crime and petty corruption; but when they killed Sabrina like that and tried to pin it on me, they made it real personal, and they’re going to regret that.”

  He walked to Bobby Joe’s police cruiser and to Bentley’s, turned off their lights, and grabbed the keys from the ignition. He threw them in the trunk of the Saturn with everything else, slammed it shut, and locked the Saturn’s doors. Satisfied, he jumped into Ernie Travers’s unmarked car, turned off the dashboard flasher, and drove away into the night.

  Twenty minutes later, after one of Bob’s neighbors finally called the Arlington Heights Police Department to complain about the bright lights, emergency flashers, and gunshot they heard in the alley, a half dozen Arlington Heights police cars descended on the scene with more flashing red and blue strobe lights, bright spots, and six officers with shotguns, helmets, and tactical vests. They quickly surrounded the three men lying handcuffed together in the alley outside the garage.