Dead Center (The Still Waters Suspense Series Book 2)

by Dawn Lee McKenna

  “Thank you,” Evan said.

  He walked over to the other side of the room and waited behind two other people. He watched as Scott Waller took each picture. The man was polite without being friendly. He would look at his computer screen, call a name, and then instruct the person to stand against the wall. They would, and he clicked a little wand in his hand, told them thank you, and thirty seconds later he pulled their laminated license from the machine next to him. Then he told them to have a nice day and drive safely, and called the next person.

  When it was Evan’s turn, he waited to see if Waller was taken aback by the name. He wasn’t, and he didn’t seem to recognize Evan when he stood in the spot where he was told to, either. He was either a really good actor, or he didn’t know who the Sheriff of Gulf County was.

  He took Evan’s picture, then waited for the machine. The license slid out, and he checked it for a few seconds, then held it out to Evan. “Here you go, sir. Thank you and drive safely.”

  “Thank you,” Evan said, and walked away, license in hand.

  His cell rang when he was halfway across the room. He answered it without looking at the number, holding it with his head as he pulled out his wallet.

  “Caldwell.”

  “Oh, hey!” said Danny Coyle. “Sorry it took me so long to get back to you, right? But I was with Mitchell Overstreet’s brother. Very disheartening.”

  “That’s okay, Danny. Did you have a chance to look up that name?”

  “Yeah, sure, sure. No autopsy done, per se, we just signed off on the hospital’s COD,” Danny said. “You know, for the death certificate. Required.”

  “Okay, so what was the cause of death?” Evan asked, trying without much luck to cram his new license into the little plastic window.

  “Oh, acute liver failure. Yeah,” he added somberly. “Not especially common to find severe liver toxicity due to chronic acetaminophen use. More common with intentional overdose. Suicide attempts, you follow?”

  Evan glanced over his shoulder, but he was almost to the door, too far for Waller to overhear him. “Hold on one second, Danny,” he said anyway.

  “Oh, yeah, right, right. No problem.”

  Evan pushed open the door with his phone hand, then stopped by the front steps. He tucked the phone into his shoulder as he tried again to cram his license where it belonged.

  “You’re saying she died from acetaminophen?” he asked.

  “Well, she died of liver failure, which was due to damage caused by acetaminophen use. Yeah. Her medical records confirmed she was a longtime user due to cluster headaches. Those are wicked as all get out, by the way.” Danny took a breath. “Apparently, she didn’t like going to the doctor, so by the time she started experiencing symptoms, she’d already been taking way more than the recommended daily dosage for some time.”

  “Okay,” Evan said. “They can’t treat that?”

  “Well, early on, yeah, usually, but they didn’t catch it early on,” Danny answered. “She was only diagnosed four months before she died, right? Sadly, she passed away before they found a liver for her.”

  Evan stopped messing with his license. “Transplant you mean?”

  “Oh, yeah. Don’t get me started on the availability of healthy organs, right?”

  Evan stared down at his license. There in red print, right beneath his signature, it stated that he was an organ donor.

  “Crap, Danny, I gotta go,” Evan said, and disconnected the call.

  Evan was halfway down the hall to his office when Goff materialized from the bullpen and almost ran into him.

  “Hey, boss, we got the surveil—”

  “We have a motive,” Evan interrupted as Goff fell into step with him. “I’m almost one hundred percent.”

  “What’d he do, confess?”

  “No, come here and look.”

  They sped through Vi’s area, but she was at lunch and unavailable to be offended. Evan swung around his desk and pulled the victim files front and center.

  “The girlfriend, I forget her name—”

  “Elyse.”

  “Yeah. She died of liver failure,” Evan said as he started opening the files side by side.

  “All right,” Goff said.

  “She died because she didn’t get a liver transplant in time. Look.” Evan tapped one photocopied license picture after another. “Not an organ donor. Not an organ donor. And not an organ donor.” He looked at Goff.

  “And they were all stabbed in the liver,” Goff said, squinting.

  “‘You can’t have it, either,’” Evan said.

  “What?”

  “The guy at the hotel,” Evan said. “That’s what he heard somebody yelling.”

  Goff raised his eyebrows. “I’ll be dipped.”

  “We need to be on him like wet on water,” Evan said, “and call your cousin. I want a list of every single person who got a license between October whatever—look up the date Elyse died—and today, who was not an organ donor.”

  “That could be a lot.”

  “Doesn’t matter, we need to know who our potential next victims are,” Evan said. “Go do that. I’m gonna request search warrants for his house, his car, his dog, whatever.”

  “You want to move on that now?” Goff asked, his eyebrows raised in disappointment.

  “No, I don’t want to spook him yet. I just want us to be ready. If we don’t catch him stalking one of these people while he has the murder weapon in his pocket, we’re gonna need something else to nail him.”

  “You scared me, there,” Goff said quietly as he headed for the door.

  “I’m a little hurt by that,” Evan replied as he picked up his desk phone.

  TWENTY-THREE

  WALLER HAD ACHIEVED the lofty status of prime suspect, and as such, became the main recipient of the task force’s resources. The mounting stacks of friends, associates, and business contacts from the three victims still needed to be cataloged and cross-referenced, on the off chance that Waller had the type of bad luck that would land him dead center in a murder spree he had nothing to do with creating, but no one expected that to be the case. Two sheriff’s deputies and two officers from PSJ Police Department had been saddled with that chore.

  Evan had moved Meyers and Crenshaw to the surveillance detail as a reward for their hard work and dedication on the initial wave of phone data. It was intended to be a reward, anyway. Meyers and Crenshaw might not have seen it that way, though. The county had two unmarked patrol vehicles, but anyone who knew anything about vehicles would immediately recognize the silver Crown Vic or the dark blue Tahoe as undercover police, so Evan commandeered a small fleet of impounded vehicles to use for the surveillance operation. One Ford and two Chevy pick-ups, 90s era, and three wonderfully anonymous sedans in varying shades of beige. They all smelled funny, the most identifiable odors being pot, mildew and stale liquor. It was doubtful Scott Waller would notice one of them on his trail.

  The fact that Waller worked directly across the street from the SO was a convenience appreciated by all the deputies. Evan received several requests that in the future, all suspects be chosen from a pool of people who worked in close proximity to the department. Evan said he’d see what he could do. But for all the joshing and banter, tension like a steel wire ran just below the surface. Evan had authorized overtime as needed to maintain two teams of deputies running continuous surveillance on Waller 24/7.

  Vi had received, and passed on to Evan, the report from the DOL with the names of everyone who had been issued a license through the PSJ DOL since mid-October. Evan saw that Vi had highlighted nine of the names– those who had not checked the Organ Donor box. Three of those nine now rested in refrigerated stainless steel drawers, marred by more holes than they were born with. Evan intended to ensure that none of the other six joined them.

  He didn’t have enough manpower to maintain a watch on all six targets. It was also possible that Waller might go back through records to find non-organ donors from before his e
x-girlfriend’s death, in which case, his victim would not be on their list. Evan and Goff had debated warning the six potential targets; both had wanted to, but eventually decided against it. If denied his preferred victims, Waller wasn’t likely to just give up and go home. He would probably find a different pool to attack, which would make the job of protecting them, and catching Waller, infinitely more difficult.

  At the moment, Waller seemed to be comfortable, moving toward complacent. But if he became aware of Evan’s interest in him, or his targets, that would change. If he had already begun stalking a new victim, and then that target radically altered their behavior, it might alert Waller that the authorities were closing in. If that happened, he would become much more dangerous.

  In the end, Evan reluctantly opted to not notify the six but to maintain constant, double coverage on their suspect. He had also provided each deputy with the names, home addresses, and work addresses of the six targets, with orders to notify Evan if Waller came anywhere near them.

  By Friday evening, two days into the roving stakeout, Waller hadn’t given them anything. Evan sat in his rattan chair on the aft deck sipping his nightly golden milk, or what he called his turmeric tea.

  The cold air carried the Dockside Grill’s smoky aroma, mingled with the briny scent of the Gulf. Evan gazed out across the dark water. He was looking forward to the weekend, but only because it meant Quillen wouldn’t be around.

  The man had been demanding a quick resolution to the murders. Out of the other side of his mouth, he was fit to be tied about all the overtime money Evan had authorized. Evan offered to let Quillen fill in for one of the deputies, pro bono, which had ended the conversation quickly, but not well. If he had to choose one, Evan was glad it was the former. Evan expected the next conversation he had with Quillen wouldn’t go much better unless the situation changed, quickly.

  The buzz of his cell scattered his thoughts. “Caldwell,” he answered.

  “Hey, boss, it’s Crenshaw,” Jimmy said, sounding tense but excited. “I think we might have something.”

  “Tell me,” Evan said.

  “He’s down here at Dixie Dandy. He was here last night, too, just parked beside the building, watching the store.”

  “Dixie Dandy,” Evan asked. “What’s a Dixie Dandy?”

  “It’s that gas station out FL-30. Highland Park, across from the beach,” Crenshaw said as if he wondered how Evan could live in PSJ and not know that.

  “That isn’t on any of the target lists, is it?” Evan asked.

  “It’s not,” Crenshaw said. “But it should be. Turns out Kate Randall is on the list, and she works here.”

  Evan sat up straight. “How’d we miss that?”

  “It’s her second job,” Crenshaw said. “You’ve got her down as a secretary at the school, but she also works here three nights a week.”

  “You talked to her?” Evan asked, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice.

  “Nah, Meyers did,” Crenshaw said. “But don’t worry, he was cool. Took his personal vehicle, drove right up to the front like a real person, got a soda and left. No way Waller could have known why he was there.”

  “Okay, good. Just keep it calm out there, real low-key,” Evan said, even as he felt his own pulse quicken. He checked his watch as the hands crept toward eleven o’clock.

  “You might want to roll some units this way, boss,” Crenshaw said, “Store’s about to close and where she’s parked, she’s going to have to walk right past his car.”

  Evan was on his feet. He went into the salon and grabbed his holster, wallet, and keys, and headed back out on deck.

  “Look, do not let him get near her. Do your best to maintain cover, you blow it and we might never catch this guy, but first priority is Kate Randall’s safety.”

  Evan hopped to the dock and started for the parking lot.

  “Of course,” Crenshaw said. Evan heard him passing instructions to Meyers. “She’s locking up now, shutting off the lights… he’s…crap!” Evan heard a thump, which he assumed was the cell hitting the seat. Or maybe the floor. In the background, Crenshaw urgently hissed at Meyers, “Go, go, go!”

  Tires squealed. Evan listened as a confusion of muffled voices squawked over his cell. More squealing tires and honking horns. Evan hurried up the steps to the marina office and the parking lot beyond.

  “Talk to me, Crenshaw!” Evan demanded. “Crenshaw! What’s happening?”

  The phone was now quiet. Evan jumped into his Pilot and jammed the keys into place.

  Crenshaw finally responded, “False alarm. Sorry, boss.”

  This time it was Evan who was silent.

  “You still there, Caldwell?” Crenshaw asked.

  “What do you mean, ‘false alarm?’” Evan forced himself to take a long slow breath.

  “He didn’t go for her,” Crenshaw said. Evan could still hear the adrenaline in his voice, but it was on the ebb. “I mean, he did go for her, and we went to head him off, but another car pulled into the lot and Waller split.”

  “Did he make you?” Evan asked. He realized his right hand was aching. The steering wheel enduring its grip probably felt worse.

  “No, no way,” Crenshaw said, the smile evident in his voice. “We’re in this old Ford that Beckett lent us from his impound. Meyers just played us off as a couple drunken idiots. He was pretty convincing.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he was,” Evan said with a sigh. “I heard you guys from here.”

  Crenshaw chuckled, but more from nerves than humor.

  “What about Randall?” Evan asked. “Did she notice anything?”

  “I doubt it,” Crenshaw said. “Like I told you, another car pulled in just then. Ms. Randall was talking to the driver. Looked like she was giving them directions or something.”

  Evan took another long, slow breath. Let it out. Then did it again. Finally, he said, “Where is Waller now? Somebody still on him?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Crenshaw assured. “Peters and Means are the second team out here. They were a bit farther back. Meyers has been updating them on the radio. He says they’re still following Waller. Looks like he might just be going back to his house for the night.”

  Evan spent the next fifteen minutes grilling Crenshaw on every detail of the encounter, then instructed the deputy to file a report containing everything he had just related over the phone. Evan then repeated the routine with Meyers.

  The report made him shudder just a bit; the fact that he had missed Randall’s employment at Dixie Dandy bothered him. But, the certainty he now had about Waller counterbalanced his guilt. All he had to do was find a way to prove what he had just learned.

  The almost icy breeze sucked his exhalations away in wispy puffs as he walked back across the parking lot to his boat. Proving it was always the hard part, but a plan was forming in Evan’s mind, and he felt it was a good one.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  IT WAS SATURDAY NIGHT. They’d been in their positions since 9 pm, and every inch of skin covered by Evan’s vest was itching. So was the ear in which his earpiece was sitting. It was ten to eleven, and Evan was going to shoot Scott Waller on sight because he itched.

  Evan and Meyers were hunkered down behind an ice machine on the south side of the gas station, at the back. The front of the station faced FL-30 and the beach across the road. Goff was on his stomach over there in the sand and brush. On the north side of the building, Crenshaw, Peters, and Gordon were inside a low wall that enclosed a huge fuel tank.

  That side of the station was on Pompano, and two empty cruisers were parked in the garage of a helpful resident four houses down. Evan’s Pilot, which had brought him and Goff, was parked behind a defunct gas station on FL-30, two blocks south. An ambulance was waiting a few blocks away, parked with its lights off in an old boat storage shed.

  The only car in the gas station lot was Kate Randall’s little red Nissan pickup, parked in its usual spot.

  Evan tried to rub his ear on his shoulder, which did
nothing to alleviate his need to yank out the earpiece and rip his ear off his head.

  He was checking his watch for the nineteenth time when Goff spoke quietly into his earpiece.

  “Heads up. Suspect vehicle approaching from the south on thirty.”

  “Roger,” PD Officer Jennifer Hansen answered from inside the station.

  Evan pulled his service weapon from its holster, then keyed his shoulder mic. “Hold your positions until Goff has his location,” he said quietly. He checked behind him. Meyers had his weapon at his side.

  Goff’s quiet voice came back over the radio. “Suspect’s parked at the pump.”

  Evan keyed his mic. “Hansen, is she at the register?”

  “Roger.”

  “He’s out of the vehicle,” Goff said. “Okay, he’s seen her.”

  “Hansen, tell her to head back, then kill the lights.”

  “Roger.”

  Inside, Kate Randall, wearing a red uniform shirt and with her blonde hair in a ponytail, walked out from behind the register and headed for the back of the station, where the light switches were located, as was her routine.

  “He’s out of his vehicle,” Goff said. “Behind the pump.”

  “Move into your positions,” Evan said.

  Evan hurried about ten yards toward the front of the station, stopping just shy of the corner of the building. As Meyers stopped behind Evan, the parking lot lights went dark.

  Inside, Deputy Means was waiting with Kate Randall in the walk-in beer cooler. Hansen, wearing a red uniform shirt and with her blonde hair up in a ponytail, was making her way to the door. It wasn’t a close match, but in the dark, and with nobody having any intention of letting Waller get within ten feet of Kate, it would do.

  “Hansen’s coming out,” Goff said.

  “On Goff’s go,” Evan said.

  He listened as the bell over the door jangled, then he could hear Hansen shake the locked door as though to check it. He heard keys jangling.