Vengeance is Mine - A Benjamin Tucker Mystery

by Harry James Krebs

  CHAPTER 53

  I ran out to pick up a few groceries and see if the storm did any damage to the neighborhood. My new toy worked like a charm, gates sliding aside to let me out, and sliding back in place after I drove out. The estate was like a fortress, but I still felt exposed. A murderous madman was still out there gunning for me.

  There were small branches and leaves strewn all over the streets, but no major damage that I could see. The storm was typical of springtime in the North Carolina Piedmont. We all knew when to take cover, and when it was over, the road maintenance crews got right on the ball, taking care of any damage. Mother Nature slaps us around sometimes, but we get right back up, swinging.

  When I got back home, I threw a small beef chuck roast in the crockpot with potatoes, onions and carrots. Oscar and I needed comfort food. I dug out a DVD collection my baby sister Alex had given me last Christmas. It consisted of classic Sherlock Holmes movies, starring Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. The movies were short; some of them only seventy minutes long, but there were fourteen of them—more than enough to get me through another sleepless night.

  I stopped my Holmes-a-thon at nine o’clock, and we had dinner. Oscar had a couple of pieces of beef, three small carrots, and a potato wedge. I had more than that.

  My cell phone rang shortly after ten o’clock. It was Netter.

  “His name is Jason Prescott,” Netter said. “He’s a mechanic at Albert’s Auto Emporium off of Avent Ferry Road here in Cary. Woodward’s people have confirmed that Prescott worked on the two cars belonging to Clancy and Knudsen. He was also employed for a short time as the service writer at a repair shop used by Krauss.”

  According to Netter, Jason Edward Prescott was born in Cookeville, Tennessee on September 17, 1980. He had a twin brother, Michael John.

  “That would be me, right?” I asked.

  “Right. That’s what our DNA evidence indicates. But it appears to us that the documentation on Michael John Prescott is bogus. He, that would be you, was supposed to have died at birth. Woodward located a certificate of fetal death naming Carolyn Irene Prescott as the mother. It was signed by Dr. Glenn Torrence, who died in 2007 from complications due to congestive heart failure. According to records, Michael John Prescott was supposed to have been cremated, and his ashes scattered. But there’s probably no way to confirm that since the crematory closed down fifteen years ago.”

  “What about the father?” I asked.

  “The father was listed as unknown. Looks like Carolyn Prescott had twin sons out of wedlock, and probably didn’t have the financial resources to support two kids, so we believe Dr. Torrence falsified records and helped her sell one of them on the black market. And that would be you. We believe scumbag Torrence handed you off to baby traffickers working with that other scumbag, attorney Hayworth, and your unsuspecting parents ended up with you. Poor things.”

  “But here’s where it gets interesting,” he said. “Jason Prescott was removed from his mother by the state of Tennessee in 1994. His social worker was Gloria Parker. According to Parker, the mother had gone kind of loony and turned into a religious nut. She began to have delusions that her son was evil. Let’s see … how did she put it? Something like, ‘he was the evil seed of a malignant spirit.’ The mother felt the need to cleanse Prescott of the evil that was within him. So she’d take off his clothes, shackle him in the garage by his wrists and ankles, and give him an enema. An enema! Can you believe that shit? She’d do it to him two, sometimes three times a day! When she was done, she’d hose him off with cold water and leave him there wet and freezing. No wonder this guy is so fucked up.”

  “Prescott was moved to the foster home of Lester and Hazel Whaley, where he lived until shortly after his high school graduation. The Whaleys said Prescott became distant, moved away, and rarely made contact.

  “We also investigated the birth mother. She disappeared in 2005. She was forty-nine years old, and when you look at a picture of her when she was younger, you’d swear that she, Clancy, Knudsen, and Krauss were all sisters. And Parker said that at the time Prescott was put into the foster care system, the mother wore her hair with a long braid in back.”

  “There’s one more thing. Prescott had a sister, Marie Louise Prescott, two years older than him—different father. She was also removed from the mother and later wound up adopted. Woodward’s looking into her, too, but those records are sealed. Hopefully, Marie will never need to find out that her brother was the worst serial killer ever seen in this area.”

  “What about an address?” I asked.

  “He lives in an apartment complex off of Wade Avenue in Raleigh … not far from the Art Museum. Drives a silver-colored Chevy Cobalt, which matches the description of the car seen leaving the museum. We have plainclothes officers staking out his apartment right now.”

  “Are they going in after him?”

  “No. I’m gonna play this by the book. Right now we’re just watching to get a visual ID. Meanwhile, DA Wallen is on his way over here to Cary PD. He and Frank and I are going to pay a little visit to Judge Axelrod to get a search warrant for Plum’s apartment. We’ll hit it tomorrow after he leaves for work.”

  “Judge Axelrod? I thought you said he was a complete asshole.”

  “He is,” Netter said. “That’s why I’m going to wait a couple of hours, so I can get him out of bed. But with public scrutiny and this level of probable cause, he can’t turn us down. Anyway, I’ll give you a buzz tomorrow after we’ve served the warrant.

  CHAPTER 54

  After taking Oscar out to doofus around a whole lot before finally taking care of business, I tried to get some sleep on the sofa. No such luck. I was just too wired, anxious to know what the investigators would find when they searched Prescott’s apartment.

  I nuked some popcorn and resumed the Holmes-fest. Nine movies left. I think I finally dozed off sometime during The House of Fear.

  Netter’s call jolted me awake, and I picked up immediately. I squinted in the morning sunlight and looked at the time banner at the top of the phone. 10:15.

  “Tell me you found something,” I croaked.

  Netter laughed. “Oh, yeah! How about Krauss’s head in a plastic bag in the freezer, right next to the fuckin’ sausage croissants?”

  I pumped my fist. “That’s bloody brilliant!” I shouted in a British accent.

  He skipped a beat, “Ah, yeah … well, we also found a box of Bibles that match the ones left at the crime scenes, a pair of high-top work boots with soles that appear to match the bloody footprints found at the scenes, a Glock Model 19 nine millimeter semi-automatic, and a portable reciprocating saw. Dreckmann‘s people also pulled carpet fibers that appear to match those found at the scenes. And … he has a cat … cute little bugger. I guess Prescott rapes, kills, and decapitates his victims, and then goes home and pets his fuckin’ cat. We’ve got this son of a bitch, Tucker! And you’re the one who busted it open.

  “Now, get your ass over here,” he said. “Frank and I are going back to Axelrod for an arrest warrant. Then we’re meeting back here at headquarters at one o’clock to plan the arrest. We’re going to nab him at the Auto Emporium where he works. I figure there shouldn’t be many bystanders there in the middle of the afternoon. We also have visual ID. Mallory swears he’s the spittin’ image of you and wants to shoot him.”

  “Very funny. I’ll take a quick shower and be right over.”

  I got to the Cary PD shortly before noon. Netter kept me waiting for over an hour before he finally came down to escort me in. I knew immediately something was wrong by the look on his face.

  “Sorry, Tucker. I have orders not to let you in on the bust—mainly from Richards, but also from Chief Lacy. I don’t give a fuck about Richards, but Lacy’s my boss.”

  “You have got to be shitting me.”

  “Wish I were. I’ve been told to tell you to go back home—and keep your mouth shut. And I don’t want you to go near my brown sedan, which is parked out back. Becau
se I left the back doors open, and Frank and I never look back there when we get in.”

  I said nothing.

  Netter returned to the restricted area of the building, and I walked out. I retrieved Pure Reason from the Jag, walked around back and located Netter’s sedan, and crawled into the back seat. The stench of stale cigar smoke was overpowering. Something crackled as I lay on the seat. I reached under my right arm and pulled out an open bag of fried pork rinds.

  “For Christ’s sake,” I muttered. “I can’t imagine why your cholesterol is high.”

  Half an hour later, I heard voices coming toward the car. Two doors opened; Netter and Cox got in, and we drove off.

  “Too bad they wouldn’t let Tucker come with us,” Cox said.

  “It’s just as well,” Netter said. “He’s a selfish, arrogant bastard. Probably’d want us to stop for lunch on the way.”

  My head was resting on my right arm, and I was looking at the map pocket on the back of Cox’s seat. “Funny, funny guys,” I said. Netter tried to look at me in the rearview mirror and chuckled. It wasn’t a bad idea, though. I hadn’t eaten since last night.

  A few minutes later, Netter pulled over and stopped. I sat up and looked around. There was a set of railroad tracks fifty yards ahead. “This is good,” he said. Netter and Cox pulled the magazines from their nine millimeter pistols, verified they were loaded, and then shoved them back in. They both ratcheted the slide to insert a cartridge into the chamber.

  “We’re about three blocks away here. Tucker, you stay in the car. And I mean it! I can’t take any chance somebody’s going to shoot you by mistake.”

  “I have an idea,” I said. “What if go in alone and talk to him? Maybe I can get him to surrender peacefully.”

  The two of them looked at me like I was from the dwarf planet known as Pluto.

  “So you’re not even going to consider it?”

  “Tell ya what, Tucker,” Cox said. “We’ll consider one of your suggestions when it’s not a stupid fuckin’ idea.” He looked at Netter and shook his head. “Jesus!”

  Netter turned up the volume on the police radio. “You can listen to what’s happening. We have ten people, all plainclothes, coming in from different directions. We’re all miked, so you’ll be able to hear everything.” Then he looked me in the eye, dead serious. “I know he’s your brother, Tucker. We’ll do what we can, but I’m making no promises.”

  I nodded my head in understanding.

  Cox pointed out the side window. “There’s another fuckin’ storm comin’ in. We’re gonna get drenched.”

  Netter looked at the darkening sky and nodded. “Looks like it.” He turned on his microphone. “This is Netter. Everyone in position?”

  One by one, they replied.

  “Let’s roll,” he said. The two of them got out and began walking down the street.

  CHAPTER 55

  Rumbles of thunder off in the distance were getting louder and closer. I waited impatiently, listening to faceless voices on the radio, as the officers worked themselves closer to the Auto Emporium parking lot.

  A bright flash and a crack of thunder scared the bejeezus out of me. When I started breathing again, I looked up at the swirling black sky. Thank you very much!

  Minutes stretched on like hours. Then chatter peppered the airwaves.

  “I’m in. No visual.”

  “In the back. No visual.”

  “Parking lot. No visual.”

  “East side. No visual here.”

  I sat forward with my arms on the back of the front seat, staring at the radio, straining to hear. I saw something move out of the corner of my eye and glanced up as a black hoodie walked toward me and stopped. Prescott!

  The two of us froze, motionless, staring at each other. Then he took off and bolted to my left. I yanked Pure Reason from my holster and struggled to get out of the car. The fucking back doors were locked! I fumbled frantically and finally found the lock thumb release. I flipped it and almost fell out on my face.

  By then, Prescott was almost a hundred yards away. I sprinted as fast as I could, following him over the railroad tracks and toward the Home Improvement Center where I’d picked up a garage door transmitter just a day earlier.

  It was raining heavily, but I could clearly see him running along the side of the building, and then round a corner toward the back by the loading docks.

  When I came around the back corner, I stopped and scanned the area, adrenalin surging. There was no sign of him. The entire loading area was surrounded by a fence that must have been at least ten feet high. No way could he have gotten over that fence in such a short time.

  The only other place he could have gone was onto the loading docks.

  The storm intensified, and flashes of lightning streaked across the sky, followed by earsplitting cracks of thunder. Violent winds drove torrential rain in a crazy angle as I climbed the eight steps up to the loading platform. I worked my way slowly toward the wall and inched my way deeper into the building.

  A rocket of lightening, followed by an immediate crash of thunder, left me in the dark as the transformer that fed power to the area exploded. Seconds later, the emergency lights came on, but it was still too dark to suit me.

  I pulled out my cell phone to call Netter—no bars. Fuck!

  The cavernous loading docks were almost empty, and with each flash of lightening, I scanned the area for any sign of Prescott. I saw nothing. With my back against the wall and Pure Reason raised and pointed in front of me, I slowly made my way to the door that led to the warehouse portion of the building. As I entered, I could hear the faint rumbling sound of a freight train approaching.

  I crept slowly up and down the towering warehouse aisles in a serpentine manner, looking for him. As I turned into Aisle 3, something crashed over me from behind, and I collapsed to my knees.

  The impact had knocked Pure Reason from my hand, and I feverishly groped around on the floor to find it. C’mon, c’mon, I prayed, work with me here! When I turned behind me, I froze. A pair of feet was standing there.

  My heart was pounding in my chest, and my life flashed before my eyes as I slowly looked up. It was Prescott—pointing Pure Reason at me with his right hand. Even in the dark, I could see what looked like old scarring around his wrist.

  He wore dark jeans and black work boots and a blue work shirt of some kind under the black hoodie. Even with the hood up, I could see that his hair was now cut like mine. It was like looking into a mirror, but not exactly.

  “Hello, Ben.” The sound of the train grew steadily louder as it came closer. “Stand up slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  I did as I was told.

  Prescott shook his head. “My god. This has been a dream come true. My life was nothing before I found you.” He paused and carefully studied my face. “And now you’ve found me.”

  Paralyzed with fear, I finally found the strength to speak. “How did you get away from the police?”

  “That first big burst of thunder. I looked outside to see how bad the storm was going to be … and I saw your buddy Netter walking up the street. He should really lose a few pounds. All that weight has to be bad for his heart.”

  Prescott ran his left hand through his wet hair. “So how’s Officer Stanton? Did she get my flowers?” I looked confused. “Oh, I guess they didn’t tell you about that.”

  “She’s out of the hospital and going to recover,” I said. “At least physically.”

  “I’m glad. That just wasn’t supposed to happen. I have no ill will toward her. She seemed like a sweet kid.”

  I took a deep, ragged breath. “There’s something I need to tell you. DNA analysis has proven that you and I are brothers—twins. Netter believes I was given up by our biological mother for money.”

  He became agitated and shook the gun at me. “Don’t take me for an idiot! I know the two of us have a destiny,” a crazed look of anguish suddenly spread over his face, “but you’re not my brother!�
� He took a deep breath, and his face changed again, this time becoming calm, almost angelic. “Mother was my first.” He said. “It was wonderful.”

  “Look,” I said. “This doesn’t have to end badly … for either of us. Come with me. Surrender peacefully. I’ll see to it that you get the best defense attorney money can buy. And I’ll stand by you … I swear. Just put down the gun and come with me.”

  The train was getting closer.

  “I believe you, Ben. But no deal. I still have too much left to do … and then we’ll go together.” He listened. “You hear that train? That’s the four o’clock freight to Charlotte. It’s a slow mover, and I can jump on it.”

  He looked at me and his face changed again, obsessed, merciless. “I’m on a divine mission, and there’s nothing … absolutely nothing that will stop me. It would take the intervention of almighty God. But I know you, and you won’t let me hop that train and finish what I have to do. That’s why I have to shoot you.”

  The rumbling told me the train was almost here. I needed to make a move, but I had little chance.

  “I’m sorry, Ben. I really don’t want to do this.” He began raising the gun. “Stand still. I’ll try not to kill you. Just stand still.”

  The walls and the roof began shuddering violently, and Prescott glanced up at the ceiling. I lunged, grabbing his right wrist, and Pure Reason discharged to the side with a deafening blast. We struggled wildly, but Prescott was stronger, and he spun me around and pinned me against a rack loaded with electrical conduits.