by Ty Patterson
‘I’ve seen this!’
Her twin rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, babe. All those who’ve seen that George Clooney flick, have.’
Zeb had called ahead and when they reached the reception, they were efficiently led through brightly lit corridors that didn’t try to conceal the purpose of the building. They were met by a burly man with a neatly-trimmed moustache in his cramped office.
‘Kandor, Senior Corrections Officer.’ He thrust his hand out, gripped Zeb’s in a bone crusher grip and smiled when Zeb offered a limp hand in return. ‘The Superintendent said you guys wanted to know about Rausch?’
Zeb nodded.
He shut the door to his office. ‘He was a prick. No one shed any tears when he was killed. He had it coming.’
That’s very helpful. Zeb returned the man’s stare. ‘What kind of person was he? Was he close to anyone?’
‘Arrogant, vicious, thought he was right, warped sense of morals. I could go on, but I think you get the picture. Friends? Anyone close to him? He had none. Truth is the man cultivated an aura and liked it that people feared him. We get inmates of all kinds in this place, some of them are vicious killers, and many of them have gang affiliations. The one thing in common with most inmates is that they all hate sex offenders. They bitterly hate those who molest children.’
‘Guess what Rausch did on his first day in prison? He stood up in the dining hall and said he’d molested his son and if anyone had any problem with that, he would be happy to meet them. He sat down in the silence that followed and calmly ate his lunch.’
‘The next day he was attacked by a bunch of inmates. He was left bleeding from a blade to his stomach, but he broke the legs of three of his attackers and left the fourth in a coma. He was left alone from that day on.’
‘He was hated, bitterly hated, but he was left alone.’
‘So why was he killed?’ Zeb asked him.
‘It was coming. When news of his son’s death filtered, he showed no remorse. He strutted around saying he would miss that fine ass.’
Kandor looked at the shock on the twins and smiled wryly. ‘This’s a supermax prison, but Rausch,’ he shook his head. ‘That man was something else.’
‘You knew him well?’ Zeb brought the officer’s gaze back on himself.
‘Not really. I had my routine in the cells in those days and Rausch was under my supervision. Most inmates want to serve their time as quickly as possible and get out. Rausch, he took a lot of pleasure in taunting everyone, making life difficult for himself.’
‘Maybe he had a death wish?’
‘Nah. There are far easier ways to get killed when in prison.’
‘Any visitors?’
‘Not one.’ Kandor stopped his head shake. ‘All other inmates had someone who came to visit once in a while. Our man sat in his cell those days and turned even more vicious. He’d generally be involved in a fight when someone he knew had visitors. It was like clockwork.
He spotted something in the Petersens’ posture and slid across a photograph at them.
A heavily tattooed African American stared back at Zeb with a sullen look. ‘Marvin Tempers. He was an inmate at the same time as Rausch. Tempers probably was the only one who had some sort of cordial relationship with Rausch. He was released from prison five years back and is now working at a construction site in New York.’
He gave Zeb a card on which he’d neatly printed the contact names and numbers for the construction company.
Zeb thanked him and as they turned to leave, fired one last question. ‘What did Tempers serve time for?’
‘He caught his wife in bed with her boyfriend. He killed them both.’
‘With a baseball bat.’
Chapter 16
Tempers was working as a forklift operator on a construction site in Jamaica when they tracked him down.
‘Affordable housing. Two hundred apartments at a price New Yorkers can afford.’ The site manager’s line was glib and probably came off publicity material. He had to shout to be heard above the roar of pneumatic drills as he handed Zeb a safety helmet and goggles. ‘We started employing ex-cons three years back and haven’t regretted it. They work hard, are cheap and it’s a great PR gesture.’
The manager squinted at Zeb. ‘Tempers’ in trouble? I hope not. He’s been a model worker all the time he’s been with us. I’ve nothing but good to say of him.’
‘How long has he been with you?’
‘Three years. He was one of the first ex-cons we took on.’
Zeb looked around the site, at the activity and noted several openings in the fifteen-foot-tall protective wooden wall that ran around the site. Entry or exit points through which people or construction material could slip in or out. He counted seventy people working on the site.
Probably more on a construction of this scale.
He’d come alone, the Petersens were with Broker, working on a few tasks. One was to find out everything about the neighborhoods the Rauschs had lived in the various states, track down any neighbors who still remembered the transient family. Meghan’s call to the foster family in New Jersey had come back empty. The family didn’t want to meet, had nothing much to add.
Meghan said. ‘Ivan Rausch was a quiet boy most of the time, but could fly into a furious rage at anything. He didn’t speak once about his father, mother, or his background. That’s all they had. Said they didn’t want to revisit that time again.’
Beth was trying to make contact with Slick, Broker’s informant, to see if he could arrange a meet with the gang Ivan Rausch had hung out with.
The site manager led Zeb to a portable office - a container done up from the inside with a desk and a couple of chairs, a computer and phones. No air conditioning. His phone vibrated. A message from Meghan.
Tempers is clean.
The manager returned with the ex-con and closed the door behind him.
Tempers had the same build as the killer, the same dark eyes, and those eyes stared back with hostility at Zeb.
‘You a cop? You can’t be. I can smell them a mile away.’
Zeb produced the NYPD identification Pizaka had made for them.
Tempers tossed it back at him, pulled a chair and sat. The chair creaked under his weight.
‘Lowell Rausch. You knew him.’
‘What of him? He’s dead.’
‘Tell me about him.’
The hostility turned to anger. ‘Dude, I’m paid hourly here, you’re eating into my wages. This’d better be quick. Rausch died five years back, what’s there to tell?’
‘You’re the only one who managed to get close to him.’
Tempers snorted. ‘The rest of them were pussies. Rausch swaggered and those chickens trembled.’
‘You didn’t?’
Contempt. ‘Rausch was a killer. So was I. Why would I be scared of an asshole like him?’
‘He tell you anything about himself, his family, backstory?’
Tempers looked pointedly at his watch.
‘You’ll get paid in full.’
The dark eyes stared at Zeb and the shoulders relaxed for the first time. ‘You’ve got that kinda juice?’
Zeb nodded.
‘We spoke a lot. When you’ve got no future ahead of you, just the four walls of the cell and endless amount of time, you speak with whoever you can. He was an asshole, a prick, a head case, but for some reason, he and I got on okay. That swagger dropped when he was with me. Maybe he saw I wasn’t intimidated by him.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Cars mostly. He was a car nut and so am I. The first time we both spoke, he mentioned his son. I rose, went close to him. Told him, I have been doing time for ten years. There was nothing for me outside. I could do twenty, thirty, it made no difference to me. He got my message. He never mentioned his son or family again.’
The teardrop tatts on Tempers’ face quivered as he spoke, a dragon on his cheeks flexed as his lips moved. The eyes remained still and coal black. Hostili
ty was replaced with wariness.
Zeb decided to take a leap.
‘You’ve heard of the Baseball Bat Killer?’
The ex-con snorted. ‘Who hasn’t? I’d like him to take me. I’d set him right.’
‘The killer has taken Ivan Rausch’s identity.’ Zeb didn’t tell him about the DNA, it wasn’t necessary.
Tempers stilled for a moment as he digested Zeb’s words and then his eyes widened. ‘But he’s dead!’
He snapped his fingers. ‘That’s why you’re here.’
He fell back in his chair and thought rapidly, a far way look in his eyes. He shook his head finally after long moments.
‘Sorry dude. He was a twisted freak and we just didn’t discuss family. I’m no saint. But his own kid! I’d probably have killed him, if he’d brought his son up.’
Zeb gave him his card as they left the office. ‘Call me if you remember anything.’
Another dead end.
‘Bro, this is a gang. They’ve killed people. They’re major badass. You just can’t go to them as a cop.’ The speaker’s voice was earnest, but his appearance was anything but.
He sprawled on the sidewalk with just his upper body resting against the closed shutter of an adult store in Brownsville, Brooklyn. A tattered army surplus coat covered him, not very well, since he shivered frequently in the cold of the night.
Zeb crouched smoothly beside Slick, rested his back against the shutter and ignored the stench of urine around the informant.
‘Besides, Harlem isn’t my territory,’ Slick hissed. ‘I don’t venture beyond Brooklyn.’
Venture. His language suggests an education. Broker said he’d once spotted a poetry book in his coat.
‘Those guys might just decide I’ve lived enough on this sweet earth. Heck, man, you couldn’t protect Broker, how will ya protect me? I’ve got mountains to climb and babes to bed.’ Slick’s started off indignantly, quieted immediately when Zeb looked at him.
‘Just saying.’ He sniffed.
They fell silent when a pair of men approached them, swaying unsteadily. ‘Yo, Slick, got a light?’
One of them stooped over them and lit his cigarette with shaky hands, nodded politely in Zeb’s direction as the pair walked away.
‘Your friends are always this polite?’
Slick snorted. ‘Only in front of strangers.’
‘Slick, I need to talk to them.’ Something in Zeb’s voice made the informant sit up straight and look at him.
‘It ain’t worth my hide man.’
‘They could lead me to the guy who attacked Broker.’
‘Why – oww,’ he broke off and rubbed the arm Zeb had gripped tightly. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place instead of gabbing for an hour?’ He whispered furiously, rose and steadied himself against the shutter.
‘It’s called empathy.’
Slick cursed him, powered himself off the storefront and walked away. ‘I’ll call when I’ve set it up. Keep an eye on your phone.’
The killer kept watch the whole day and continued his vigil in the evening.
His targets didn’t turn up.
Bitches. I wait all day and it’s the one day they don’t show.
His rage grew and he lashed out at a sign on the sidewalk advertising cheap pizza. The sign fell over, skittered and made other pedestrians look around.
Calm down.
He smiled sickly at them, mumbled an apology and set the board upright. He had parked the van in the morning, but when the twins didn’t appear, he’d moved it. The longer it stood, the greater the chances of it being remembered.
He brought back the van in the evening, but the twins didn’t appear.
They’re back from wherever they’d been. Carter drove them back. But they haven’t left the apartment.
The need in him was growing, it needed an outlet. He could feel his saliva rising and thought he was frothing, but a quick glance through the store front assured him. They weren’t inside.
Breathe deep. Loosen up. Don’t stand out.
He gripped the scalpel so hard that he thought he’d cut himself. He’d thought about switching to the scalpel, it would go in so smooth, but it didn’t talk to him like the bat. It didn’t sing through the air.
Will stick to bat. Now if only those bitches turn up, they’re late for our date.
Beth Petersen looked up from her scratch pad. ‘Meg, you know there are six letters that could be turned into a B? D, E, F, I L and P.’
Meghan pushed her hair back from her head and looked up from her computer. ‘Yeah, and this awesome insight will help us how?’
Beth twirled a pencil in her fingers. ‘Zeb and Jase are pretty convinced that Sandoval wrote the first couple of letters. The killer wrote over them. I’m thinking of running the letters through Werner and see what comes back.’
‘Do it, sis. What’s stopping you?’
‘Well if you moved your ass away from the computer, that’d help. One of us needs to work. The only thing you’ve done is stare at Ivan Rausch’s photo all day.’
Meghan frowned at her. ‘I get the feeling I’ve seen him somewhere. I just can’t remember where. And just so you know, smarty pants, I’ve made calls all day to three states, tracking down Lowell Rausch’s neighbors. I’ve set up appointments with some of them. That’s not all. I’ve also run his image through the facial recognition program against social media profiles. I’ve also compared his image against the assassins’ and cons and ex-cons gallery we have.’
‘And?’
‘Zilch. The man’s a ghost. Cleary got that one right.’
Beth stifled a yawn and headed to the Jura. Broker had warned them to keep ten feet away from his coffeemaker, but that hadn’t stopped the twins. Broker had grinned at Zeb. ‘Good thing they didn’t listen to me. They make better coffee than me.’
The rich smell of Jamaican Blue Mountain spread through the office as Beth balanced two cups in one hand, cookies in another. ‘That aroma alone should get Broker out of the hospital.’
Meghan took an appreciative sip. ‘I thought you’d want to go to the café. We’ve been cooped up all day.’
‘Not today. Let’s see what Werner comes back with on the letters. By the way where’s our boss?’
Meghan brought up the GPS program. ‘He’s in Harlem. He said he would be meeting Rausch’s gang.’
The gang was thirty strong and called itself Harlem Bloods. It was bossed by a thirty-year-old bald man whose eyes glittered as they watched Zeb approach.
Slick had set the meeting up.
‘They said they’d take my kidney in return. It’d get them some twenty ks on the street. Way I’ve been living, I said they’d get diabetes for sure, and would be lucky to get a couple of hundred on top. It’s in your court now, how you extricate yourself is your problem.’
Another one of those words.
Zeb clasped his shoulder. ‘You did well, Slick. Thanks.’
The drunk flushed and looked away in embarrassment. ‘Watch your back and come back in one piece.’ He snorted when he saw the warmth in Zeb’s eyes. ‘Don’t go all teary eyed on me. I’ve been reading up on empathy.’
The meet was in a warehouse that once had furniture stacked in it and still had faint lines on the floor that carried the imprints of heavy pieces. Now it was empty except for the men facing Zeb.
The bald man, Big Boy, had four others flanked behind him, all of them armed with hand guns or knives. Tattoos adorned all of them, a crudely inked drop of blood on all their faces. The gang’s colors. Zeb’s eyes lingered for a second on two of the men, a lanky bald man with steady eyes who stood next to a short man with a restless gaze.
‘That’s far enough,’ Big Boy halted Zeb when he was ten feet away. ‘You’ve come alone?’
‘Yeah. Your guys on the street didn’t tell you?’
Big Boy shifted on his feet. ‘You want to know about Rausch? Why? What’s in it for us?’
‘Slick told you. I work with the cops.
Am helping them on the BBK case. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. I think your business is suffering because of him.’
One of the men sneered. ‘You think we’re one of those directories? Harlem Bloods, All Your Questions Answered?’
Some of the men laughed. Big Boy twitched and the men fell silent.
‘What’s in it for us?’
‘Goodness of your heart.’
Big Boy’s eyes narrowed as he looked beyond Zeb, turned his head slightly and addressed his men. ‘This dude came alone? You’re sure?’
‘Yeah, BB. We tailed him. Not a shadow on him.’
Satisfied, the gang leader turned to Zeb. ‘You’ve a lot of attitude for someone who may not leave alive.’
Zeb laughed. ‘My attitude? What about yours? Look, Big Boy or whatever your real name is. You want to carve a piece out of me. Go ahead. You want to talk. Talk. Don’t waste my time with this silly posturing. I’ve got things to do, and I’m sure you’ve got a gang to run. I want some info on Rausch and maybe that’ll get this scumbag off our streets. I want to talk to someone who was close to him. If you can’t help me, let’s end this.’
Big Boy and his men froze for a moment as they stared incredulously at the man in front of him. The gang leader was the first to relax and a thin smile came across his pale face.
‘You’ve got balls. Matches?’
Matches, the man with the restless eyes, came forward, slid his gaze away from Zeb and turned to Big Boy.
‘Matches here lived with Rausch. He’d know more about that boy than anyone else.’
Matches spat on the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Whaddya want to know?’
‘Did Rausch talk about his past? His father, where they lived?’
‘He wanted to kill his old man. He used to go on about it. He finally shut up when Big Boy told him to. Where he came from? Never said, man.’ Matches shook his head. ‘We used to talk about babes. He’d never been with one, wanted to hook up any babe.’
‘Nothing about where he’d lived, his family?’
