by Scott Gamboe
Jim felt better than he had in a long time, even before the shooting. He tapped the "play" button on his iPod, keeping the volume low and listening as the pounding of the ocean formed a harmonic background for the music.
Over two weeks had passed since the shooting. He was finally able to sleep without hearing the explosion of his pistol or seeing the spray of blood. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. At last, the headache was beginning to fade. He should be fine for a few days.
Matt emerged from a beachfront shop with two bottles in one hand and a sack in the other. They met next to a long pier that jutted out into the choppy waters and reached almost longingly for the island of Cozumel, barely visible on the horizon. Not surprisingly, Matt carried two Mexican-style beers and a pair of cigars. He lit one and handed the other to Jim.
"Here you go, buddy. Light up. These are Cubans, so they're a little harsh."
Jim took the cigar with a grin. "I saved your life, and now you're trying to end mine?"
He lit his cigar and looked up to see Matt studying him with a lopsided grin. "Jim, I know we agreed not to talk about what happened." He motioned for Jim to keep walking. "But I just wanted to say 'thank you' one more time. You saved my life, man. I owe you a debt that can never be repaid."
Jim considered his words carefully. "As long as I know you're at my back, that's enough." He gripped his stogie between his teeth and slapped a firm pat on his friend's back.
"Hey, careful, Jimbo." He motioned to the women, sunbathing in their bikinis. "Don't give the ladies here the wrong idea about us."
CHAPTER 3
The smell of sweat permeated the department's weight room. With a grunt, Jim lifted the barbell a final time and dropped it onto the stand. Matt wiped his hands on a towel, and they switched positions. Jim would have preferred to have music blaring over his iPod, but Matt wanted to watch a television broadcast about a major arrest in Chicago. Jim always preferred to have music playing over his iPod.
"There it is," Matt said. He stopped in the middle of his set and ran to the television to turn up the volume. Behind the newscaster, the Chicago Police Department logo was prominently displayed beside a depiction of the scales of justice.
"Chicago Police announced a major breakthrough in the ongoing battle against organized crime," the reporter said. "According to Detective Lieutenant Joe Beeson, head of a joint Chicago PD and FBI task force, a lengthy investigation concluded with the arrests of several members of the Lorenzo crime family, including the man many consider to be the family's 'godfather,' Anthony Lorenzo. Charges in the case include extortion, racketeering, bribery of government officials, operating a prostitution ring, gambling, and homicide. An anonymous source within the investigation suggested that a former Illinois governor may be implicated in the case. More details tonight at ten."
Matt gave a low whistle. He tapped the television's power button and motioned to Jim's sound system. "Can you imagine, Jimbo? What would it be like to arrest people involved in a huge criminal organization? That sure puts our petty vandalism calls to shame."
Jim flipped the switch on his radio, attached his iPod, and turned on the music. "Yeah, that's more than we'll ever see around here. Recent shootings excepted, of course."
"Then again, no one in the twin cities is going to put a contract out on us for doing our job, either."
Jim nodded as he picked up the weighted bar once more. "It's a perk."
#
Grigory pushed the branches apart far enough to afford a view of the barn. He saw no one, nor were there any lights. He hesitated a few moments longer, but a crack of thunder made up his mind for him. The first raindrops fell just as he reached the relative comfort of the dilapidated barn. The storm built in intensity while he inspected his newfound accommodations. The roof leaked in places, but it was better than being out in the elements.
This was the most miserable leg of his journey. He had originally planned to drive all the way to the airport in Grozny, but his car played out only halfway there. He had walked for the past two hours until he spotted the barn. With the approaching storm, it seemed like the logical choice. In the morning, he would be faced with the daunting task of finding safe passage to the airport.
He found some clean straw and scooped it into a comfortable pile. With his back to the wall of a horse stall, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Only a few moments later, he fell victim to temptation. He pulled one of the briefcases onto his lap, entered the combination, and lifted the lid.
Wonder and awe flooded his consciousness. It was not the first time he had admired the contents, nor would it likely be the last. Despite the danger inherent in his cargo, he could not help but feel drawn to the elegance of the weapon. Such a small thing, and yet Americans would die by the thousands. Maybe even millions, God willing.
He closed the lid and set the briefcase aside. While the thunderstorm raged outside, his thoughts turned to the future. His cargo would eventually be delivered into the waiting hands of God’s Soldiers, the men of the Martyr Brigade. The martyr’s embrace would devastate the populations of entire cities. The Great Satan shall be brought to its knees!
#
Jim pulled his unmarked squad car into the parking lot behind the Bloomington Police Station. It was his first day back after his administrative leave. He felt refreshed, ready to tackle the pile of cases he knew was waiting for him on his desk. He reached the detective bureau and was immediately called over by the bureau's secretary.
"Hey, Jim, welcome back! How are you doing?"
"Great, thanks, Elaine. How have things been here?"
"We're getting by. I hate to do this to you so soon, but your boss wants to have a word with you. He's had quite a while to stew on this one, so brace yourself."
"Sweet."
He picked up the heavy folder of paperwork that Elaine had somehow managed to wedge into his narrow mailbox and bypassed her desk. He knocked on the door behind her. He heard a mumbled reply and pushed the door open. Lieutenant Ben Johnson, who was on a phone call, waved him into a seat. Jim waited for the rebuke he knew was coming.
The lieutenant slowly lowered the phone to the cradle and folded his hands together. His eyes narrowed as he stared hard at his newest detective. "Good morning, Mr. Hunter. How was your vacation?"
"Tolerable, sir. It's much better being here in your office."
Johnson sighed. "Cut the crap, Hunter! I want to know why it is that every time my officers gather at your apartment, someone ends up in the emergency room."
Jim managed to present a stoic, serious expression. "Oh, you mean Hutchinson."
"Yes. Hutchinson, who is on light duty for two weeks. Hutchinson, who has thirty stitches in his forehead."
"That was an accident. We were playing bocce, and¬-"
Ben held up a restraining hand. His forced scowl slowly dissolved under the onslaught of a smile. "Wait a minute. Detective Hutchinson split his head open . . . playing bocce? How?"
"Well, one of the other officers thought he was looking and threw a bocce ball at him. Hit him right between the eyes. Do you know how heavy those bocce balls are?"
"Yes, I know how heavy they are. Go on."
"There's really nothing else to tell. We slapped some towels on his head to stop the bleeding and rushed him to the hospital. The doctor let me take pictures while he sewed him up. I could email them to you."
"Shut up, Hunter. One of these days, these little stunts of yours are going to get someone crippled." He laughed. "How are the headaches?"
"Better, thanks. It’s been several days since the last one."
Ben glanced at the stack of papers in Jim's hand. "Okay, stow those cases in your desk. I have a priority case for you to work. A local inventor was found dead this afternoon. It looks like suicide, but let's be sure. He was a close friend of the mayor, so we need to make sure to dot all the T's and cross all the I's."
"Sir, don't you mean to dot all the-"
Ben sighed, making anot
her unsuccessful attempt at hiding a grin. "Hunter! Shut the hell up and get out of my office!"
#
Jim paused outside the small storage shed, set a short distance behind a three-bedroom ranch house on the north side of town. From his vantage point in the sun-dappled backyard, the interior of the shed seemed small, confined. He closed his eyes and took several slow, deep breaths before he entered. Although his heart began beating harder, he remained calm. The fresh air that drifted in through an open window helped him fight off the attack of claustrophobia. Jim turned his attention to the body in the middle of the floor.
His name was Albert Perkins. He had taught at Illinois State University in the chemistry department for over two decades. One year ago, he retired from teaching. A grieving colleague from the campus had confided to a patrol officer that Albert had recently applied for a patent on an invention that he said would change the world. Jim chuckled softly, wondering how many inventors made that particular claim each year.
He knelt beside the bloody remains. A large-bore shotgun, probably a twelve gauge, lay beside him. The long barrel was draped across one arm. The dead man had a hole in his forehead with gray-black marks surrounding the wound. Muzzle imprint . . . a contact wound. The back of Albert's skull had been totally blown away by the blast, which was usually the case with a shotgun fired in direct contact with the head.
Blood, brain matter, and skull fragments were scattered across one side of the room, covering the floor and lower portion of the wall with a varicolored, sticky mess. Somehow, the ceiling had avoided the bloody deluge. Where Albert's skin was in contact with the floor, a reddish discoloration had formed. This lividity provided mute testimony that the body had not been moved. Jim rose to his feet and stepped back. After a few moments, he frowned. Matt would accuse him of making a case where there was none, but he could not shake his feeling of uneasiness.
Donald Scott, one of the crime scene investigators, stepped to his side. "You don't like this one either, do you, Hunter?"
Jim shook his head. "I can't put my finger on it. He was a retired professor. His wife was still with him. He had no financial troubles, no medical conditions, no signs of depression. Then he kills himself? It doesn't make any sense.""Neither does the pattern of the blood spray. Based on the entry and exit points, for him to not get any higher than he did, he would have had to be looking upward."
"That's pretty unlikely. Wait a minute." Jim knelt once more and pulled a small tape measure from his pocket. He took a few measurements.
"Okay, Don, let's ignore for a minute the fact that this is a heavy shotgun, and he is old and thin. Look at his arms. There's no way he could have reached the trigger, and there's nothing around here he could have used to stage the trigger."
Don's eyes narrowed. "I think we're going to be here for a while."
Jim pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. The answer came after only one ring.
"Lieutenant Johnson."
"It's Hunter. We have a homicide here."
#
Jim knelt beside the open window of a squad car and handed the slip of paper the officer. "Can you run this plate for me? A neighbor reported a suspicious black Mustang in the area and copied down this plate."
"Sure thing, Hunter." The officer tapped the number into his computer. Moments later, he shook his head. "Sorry. This comes back with no record on file."
"It was a long shot anyway. The guy who wrote it down doesn't see very well."
The officer laughed. "The new Illinois plates don't help. Not only are the letters too narrow, but putting blue characters on a half-red background was a really stupid idea."
"At least they're pretty."
"That, they are."
"Thanks anyway."
He returned to the Perkins residence. Donald Scott waved to him from the hallway. "Hunter, over here."
Donald led him to a small room at the rear of the house. Jim looked across the room as he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. Various gadgets and pieces of electronics lay scattered across three different tables. A filing cabinet stood in one corner, about four feet high. The top drawer was partially open. Donald gestured to the cabinet. Jim pulled the four different drawers open, one at a time. While the other three drawers were crammed full, the top drawer was nearly empty.
"We checked the dates on the notes he left in the files,” Donald said. “There was nothing in there from the past six months."
"Something has to be missing, then."
"Yeah."
Jim scrutinized the computer on the table in the corner. "Maybe he left some information in there. Let's take it."
Jim’s radio gave a squawk, and he heard his call sign. He keyed the mike. "Hunter."
"Can you come out front? There's a gentleman here who wants to talk to you."
#
The sleek black Mustang zipped through Chicago freeway traffic. The driver, seemingly oblivious to traffic laws, pushed the car up to twice the speed limit. His cell phone rang. The Caller ID was blocked, so he assumed it was Othman, checking on the transaction. He tapped the button on his headset.
“Hello.”
“May I assume that your task went as expected?”
“Just as we planned. One of my men in Bloomington monitored the police scanner. They called it a suicide.”
“Your reputation is well-earned. I’ll have the rest of the money wired to your account. But on to other business. Do you have any word on my shipment?”
“I have to apologize. My carrier is having vehicle problems.”
The man on the phone sighed. “That is most disturbing.”
“Don’t worry. He is very resourceful. I’ve never met him personally, but he has worked for my organization before. If anyone can get the satchels across the border and into America, Grigory can.”
“I’m placing my trust in you on this one.”
“Not to worry, my friend. I’ll keep you posted on the progress.”
The driver ended the call and put his phone away. His father would never have approved of a deal with a man like Othman. Unlike his father, the driver did not concern himself with what might be done with the package once it arrived. He knew the deal had tremendous profit potential. Othman and his militant allies could never get the packages past American border security, but with his drug distribution system already in place, the driver could. He knew this deal was just the beginning.
#
Jim walked through the scene once more to check for anything they might have missed. When he reentered the workshop, Don was examining a small white card. The crime scene investigator squinted and craned his neck.
"You're getting old, Don. I think you need glasses."
"Hah. Hah, hah. You're a funny man." He drew his magnifying glass from his pocket and brought his face down close to the card.
"Is that a fingerprint?"
"Yeah. You should be a detective."
Jim managed a smile. "Are you going to share this with me or keep me in suspense?"
Don let out a long breath. "There aren't enough points on this print to make a positive identification, although we should be able to eliminate some people. I've already confirmed the print wasn't left by Perkins."
"I just talked to an acquaintance of his. This guy said Perkins never let anyone else in here. He was very secretive . . . wouldn’t even tell his friends what he was working on. This friend of Perkins said that all he knows is the device had something to do with electrolysis, and that Perkins was offered a lot of money for the rights to the design. Maybe the person who made the offer had something to do with this."
Donald shrugged. "Hopefully whoever went through this cabinet took their glove off for a moment. They might have had trouble flipping through the files with gloves on. I picked up this print from the inside of the cabinet."
"Excellent. I'm going to head back to the office and work on a partial license plate number. Keep me posted."
Jim drove back to the police station. He collect
ed his papers and walked inside. His thoughts returned to the idea that whoever tried to buy the victim's upcoming invention finally lost patience and killed him, then stole the design. But what kind of device from an amateur inventor could be worth a man's life?
"Jimbo! You going to make the game tonight?"
Matt came up behind him and followed him to his desk. Jim remembered it was Wednesday, softball night. He turned on his desk fan. "Yeah, I'll be there. This case isn't going to be solved today, anyhow."
"Solved?" Matt's brow furled. "The patrol sergeant said it was a suicide."
Jim shook his head. "Doesn't look that way."
"It sounds to me like you're just looking to make extra work for yourself. Come on, let's hit the batting cage."
"I'll be along shortly. I just want to run some possible plate combinations through LEADS."
"And try to match it to what?"
"A black Mustang. One of Perkins’s neighbors saw it in the area."
Matt shrugged. "Okay. I'll see you there. Don't blame me when you go oh-for-four tonight."
Jim spent the next ten minutes lining up different combinations of possible letters for the license plate. One after another, he meticulously entered each one into his computer. The LEADS system at the Illinois Secretary of State's Office responded with information about the associated vehicles. He eliminated those plates not checking to Ford coupes. In about thirty minutes, he had narrowed the field down to three entries. Unfortunately, Illinois did not include color or exact model in its vehicle database.
He checked the registered addresses, but none were local. Two of the plates listed addresses in Chicago, the other in Carbondale. But one of the Chicago vehicles caught his attention. It was registered to a corporation, which was not unusual given the associated tax benefits. However, according to the computer, a McLean County deputy had run the plate the night before Perkins was shot.
