Chasing the Ghost v5

by Bob Mayer

  Chase read through, then folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. He put it, and the photo on top of the footlocker.

  Around the fourth beer, he was buzzed. His mother’s face kept intruding. And Sylvie’s. And another face. He pulled the picture of Rachel Stevens out of his pocket and stared at it in the flickering light from the television. He thought about the murder scene and the wound and was bothered in a way he couldn’t figure. This was different than combat, which he understood, even though combat was total chaos once the firing started. Finally, he put the picture away. He lay down and stared up at the ceiling.

  Chase started sinking into a ‘I fucked up’ syndrome regarding Anne. He couldn't put his finger exactly on how he had done that, but he knew there were two sides to the seesaw called marriage and when she'd jumped off her end, she must have had some reasons.

  He tried to shift his emotions and get pissed. Anger is a good healer of pain. But he just couldn't sustain it. The funny thing was that he had this feeling that Anne wasn't sitting in her new house, with her new fiancée, feeling guilty or bad, even though she certainly had her share of guilt.

  She'd taken up with another officer right after the separation. Maybe before, for all Chase knew. She was ready to pick up the officer’s wife life with just the slightest speed bump of the divorce. They were stationed back at Fort Bragg and her new man was on the fast track for higher command, something Anne had bemoaned Chase’s lack of enthusiasm in pursuing.

  Now she had what she wanted and Chase didn’t know what he wanted. He wasn’t going to contest the divorce even though she’d served him the initial papers while he was getting shot at in Afghanistan. Bad form, his buddies had said, even as several of them got the same thing. But Chase had known it wasn’t the separation that caused her to act, it was the fact he was coming back that had forced her hand.

  That he came back on a medevac flight after the initial papers were filed had caused her some discomfort and she’d been a trooper, coming to Walter Reed for a visit and holding off on the final paperwork. But her first visit had also been her last. It was not a place most people could stand, the screams of the wounded echoing through the corridors at all times of the day and night, despite the best efforts of the doctors.

  Chase still couldn't sleep and wondered if maybe he needed to finish the six-pack, weighing it against the headache tomorrow.

  His mind kept slipping back to the letter. It too had arrived while he was in Afghanistan, via the same re-supply chopper as Anne’s initial papers, while he was getting ready to lead his team on a long over-land raid north of Kandahar. By the time, the mission was over and he could make a call via satellite back to the States, his mother had died.

  Chase grabbed the last couple of brews, putting one against his leg and opening the other. He tuned in an old movie with the sound still turned low. He tried to stop his brain from working and mindlessly let the tube rule. After the last beer, he gave sleep another try and it worked, although he woke up a few times in the night, feeling the emptiness of the apartment and the mattress.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chase woke to the sound of an incessant beeping. He blinked, shook his head and grabbed the red beeper off the footlocker. He pushed the button on top and read the message:

  CALL—HAMMER

  Chase grabbed his cell phone and punched in #1 on the speed dial. It buzzed twice, the signal going up to a military satellite and then being relayed.

  “Hammer.”

  “This is Snake-Eater.”

  “There will be a helicopter at the Boulder Hospital helipad in twenty minutes. Get on it.”

  The phone went dead. Chase looked at his watch. 03:25.

  He spun the numbers on a heavy padlock on a large bolt latching shut a closet door. It clicked open and he reached inside pulling out an army-issue green, metal frame rucksack and a six-foot long duffel bag. One over each shoulder, he ran back out to the Jeep, tossing them in the back seat.

  Chase drove the eight blocks to Boulder Memorial Hospital and parked next to the helipad on the west side. He’d used up sixteen of his twenty minutes. Ignoring the looks of an EMT walking by, he stood in the parking lot and stripped off his slacks and shirt, pulling on black fatigue pants and shirt that he took out of the duffel bag. He slipped on a body armor vest, then an equipment harness, strapping a 10mm Glock pistol in a holster around his waist and then a snap around his upper left thigh to keep it from flopping about. He slid a knife into his left boot to back-up the double-edged dagger on the vest.

  Nineteen minutes. He could hear the chopper inbound. One thing about Fortin; he was anal about time schedules. Chase popped a handful of mints in his mouth.

  The National Guard Huey touched down fifteen seconds before the twenty minutes that Fortin had promised. Chase tossed the duffel and ruck on board and climbed in. He slid the door shut behind him, but the bird didn’t take off.

  There was only one other person seated in the cargo bay: Fortin. A tall, solidly built man in black fatigues, his background was a bit of a mystery to the members on the team, although the consensus was it most likely covert ops in the CIA or the DEA, one of the alphabet soups, but not military. Fortin had darkly tanned skin and a shock of thick blonde hair that he was prone to run his fingers through as he thought.

  He pointed at the seat directly across and Chase took it. He glanced forward and saw the pilot turn and nod and Chase nodded in turn. The pilot had a flight helmet with a bull’s eye painted on each side. His name was John Masters and he was on call just like Chase. Masters worked out of Jeffco airport just outside of Boulder and he would give Chase a ring whenever he had to take a maintenance or training flight. Masters had started the bull’s-eye motif because that’s what he said it felt like flying around Iraq. And if he was hit, he wanted to go fast. Chase thought he did it more as a taunt.

  The adrenaline overlapped the alcohol in Chase’s system. The sound of the turbine engines, the blades whopping overhead, the smell of JP-4 fuel being burned, the vibration of the helicopter, this was a world removed from the desk he’d been sitting at a few hours earlier. Chase was ready to get back in action.

  Fortin pointed at a headset and Chase put it on.

  “I don’t have much time,” Fortin said. “I didn’t take a debriefing from you because I was in the field with the rest of the team. Trying to correct your fuck-up.”

  Chase had been kicked out of the Forward Operating Base two days earlier after getting picked up by chopper and reporting his failure to take the shots. Fortin had called in that order.

  “I didn’t fuck up.”

  “You didn’t shoot.”

  Chase stared at Fortin. “I didn’t shoot for two reasons.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “One. I would have had to take out the man on the M-60 first. And as far as I know, he hadn’t killed a cop. Two. There was another sniper out there. Across from me. Mirroring.”

  “’Mirroring’?”

  “Covering me as I covered the kill zone.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Chase explained the trail and flash of light. Fortin appeared unimpressed. “Bullshit,” was his succinct summary.

  Chase fought back his anger, wondering why they weren’t taking off and heading to the FOB in Wyoming.

  “Next time,” Fortin said, “if there is a next time—you shoot when I tell you to.” Fortin pointed at the door. “Take your gear and get off.”

  **********

  Later that morning Chase drove around for ten minutes before he found a parking place. It was unusually hot with the sun blazing down. The CU campus was crowded and alive with that excitement that Chase had missed out on when he went to West Point instead of a real college. For the students at CU, finals were just around the corner and then the freedom of summer. At Hudson High, as the cadets at West Point had lovingly called the Academy, summer had meant military training.

  The CU campus was just south of downtown, stretching fro
m Broadway on the "Hill”, east to Route 36. The Hill was well known to all the cops in Boulder because it was the hub for the drug trade in town. And Boulder had a lot of drugs. Heroin, marijuana and LSD were the big three.

  There wasn't even a space on campus for Chase to use his police sticker on the visor. He was reduced to waiting for someone to leave, which following his ruminations on the drugs, on top of his hangover and the meeting on the helipad, didn't do much for his mood. He checked his watch. It was going to be a close call for his first appointment, Professor A. Silver, Rachel's instructor for her Thursday night course: Life Cycle and Human Development. To Chase, it sounded dull, like there was a formula or a rulebook a person could follow.

  The A. turned out to stand for Alice, and she was none too pleased to see Chase, his being a little late and interrupting her academic day. By that time he didn't have much patience either and when she started one of those ‘I'm so busy and it's so inconvenient to talk to the police’ routines, he had to rein in tight. He gave her a few more minutes as she landed her ivory tower superiority by ignoring him and fussing with papers on her desk.

  Chase used the time to check her out. Cold, a real cold woman. She reminded Chase of one of the nuns he'd had in grade school. The one who wore crepe-soled shoes to ensure the smack of the ruler was unexpected and therefore worse.

  Professor A. Silver wasn't much help. When he finally got her on task, she told Chase that Rachel Stevens had been a perfect student. Her work was excellent and she had never missed a class. So much for Porter's affair theory so far. The professor couldn't think of anyone whom Rachel had been close to in the class, but she did give Chase a copy of the class-seating chart. After some prodding, she also gave Chase the class directory, saving him some time on the phone numbers. It was a homicide investigation after all; he was forced to remind her.

  The next professor was in the same building. Same floor. When Chase knocked on the door to T. Gavin's office, he was prepared for anything. A short, bespectacled man sporting a beard answered.

  "Detective Chase, I presume."

  He'd stolen Chase’s line. "Yes."

  "Come in. Come in." He stuck his hand out after shutting the door. "Tim Gavin. Have a seat."

  The professor cleared off a chair in front of his desk, throwing Xeroxed magazine articles onto the floor. The office was a jumble of paper and books. Chase hoped the professor’s mind was more organized.

  Chase sat down and pulled out his notebook, but Gavin beat Chase to the punch again.

  "Your partner said on the phone that you wanted to talk about Rachel Stevens." He thumbed through a stack of papers and pulled out a couple of sheets. "Here's her grade sheet and the personal bio she filled out when we started the course."

  Chase took a look. Rachel seemed to have been school smart. All A's so far in Gavin's course: The Theory of Psychotherapy. The bio sheet gave Chase some basic background data. Chase was immediately struck by one thing: Rachel didn't list any family on the sheet. In fact, there was very little there other than the fact she had a bachelors in psychology from the University of Nebraska and a post office box number in the school mailroom. Nothing on her personal life at all.

  "It's terrible what happened to Rachel. She was a very nice person."

  Chase held back a sigh. Porter had told him that people always said that during a murder investigation. Chase figured that when Genghis Khan or Vlad the Impaler had croaked way back when, there had to have been someone standing around saying what a nice guys they'd been. In this case, though, it seemed to apply. He was waiting for the inevitable: "Do you have any idea who could do such a terrible thing?" but it didn't come.

  Gavin was leaning back in his seat watching Chase. That made him feel uncomfortable. He also hadn't had a chance to take any initiative so far. Chase had to remind himself that he was dealing with a psychologist here. They were used to controlling meetings.

  "Do you have a list of all the students in your Wednesday night class? Preferably one with addresses and phone numbers?"

  Another ruffle of papers and another sheet handed to Chase. Gavin was certainly being more cooperative than A. Silver had been.

  "Did Rachel Stevens attend class this past Wednesday night?"

  "No."

  "She didn't show up at all?"

  "No."

  "Was that unusual?"

  "I hadn't really thought about it. Students often cut class."

  “Did Rachel often cut?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  Chase waited. “Could you check?” He finally asked.

  Gavin pulled out a computer sheet and folded it open. He ran his finger down a page. "Let's see. Rachel had been absent, hmm, five times; that's if we include this past Wednesday."

  "Could I have those dates please?"

  "Certainly. The 29th of January. The 19th of February. The 11th of March. The 1st of April. And this past Wednesday."

  There was something about those dates that struck Chase. "Do you have a calendar?"

  Gavin looked briefly flustered. Chase had finally asked a question he wasn't prepared for. He opened a few drawers and finally produced a calendar. Chase checked the dates he'd given Chase.

  "There's a pattern isn't there?" Gavin observed from across the desk.

  "Every third Wednesday. Maybe she had some other commitment."

  Gavin nodded. "Most likely. You're a very observant man about details aren't you detective?"

  Chase answered, while he tried to figure if there was anything else he needed here or that Porter would want to know. "I try to be. Was there anyone in the class that Mrs. Stevens was particularly close to or talked with?"

  Gavin frowned as he thought. "No. Not really. Hard to say, truthfully."

  “Do you have a seating chart for your class?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I have it?”

  He pulled out another piece of paper.

  Chase accepted it without comment.

  Gavin was stroking his beard. "You know it's interesting that you say 'Mrs. Stevens.' I never knew Rachel was married. In fact she never even hinted at it."

  "She didn't wear her wedding band or engagement ring to class?"

  "No. How did you know that?"

  Chase didn't like being asked questions. "Did she say anything about her life outside of school?"

  Gavin frowned as he thought. "Not really, now that I think about it. It's funny because I had this impression of her, but now it appears I was all wrong."

  "What kind of impression?"

  Gavin looked slightly embarrassed. Chase figured it was hard for a psychologist to admit they didn't really know someone. "Well, it's odd, she never really said anything concrete but she acted in a way that made you think things."

  Chase wished this guy would get a bit more specific. "Think what things?"

  "Well, first off that she wasn't married. It wasn't just not wearing her rings. She didn't act married. Most people, especially women, act a certain way when they're married. They are no longer individuals, but half of a twosome and even when they are by themselves you can tell that there is someone out there with power over their lives that they are constantly filtering their thoughts and actions through."

  Chase hadn’t observed Anne doing much filtering during their marriage. Of course, he’d been deployed eighty percent of the time so he might have missed some things. "What other impressions did you have of her?"

  "She was smart and determined. I pictured her as a divorced woman working as a secretary or something like that during the day and knocking out this degree at night to improve her lot in life. Did you know that she only had one more semester, her internship this summer, and then she'd have her degree?"

  "No." Chase wondered why an upscale housewife from Pine Brook Hills would do all the work for this degree. Bored, probably. Chase realized this professor certainly had noticed a lot more about Rachel Stevens than A. Silver had. It was interesting that he'd noted she wasn't wearing any rings,
but couldn’t recollect that she’d missed class. Chase knew one thing about his gender; men noticed women like Rachel Stevens. They kept track of her on their testosterone radar on the naive off chance that she might rip off her clothes and threw herself into their arms just like on one of those late night Showtime soft-core porn flicks.

  Chase knew he had to check out Gavin. After all, he'd been in the right place at the right time and he knew the victim. "What time did you let your class out on Wednesday?"

  "Right at ten."

  "What did you do after class?"

  Gavin blinked. "I talked with a student about her thesis for about ten or fifteen minutes and then went home to my wife."

  "Could I have the name of the student you talked to?"

  "Patricia Albright." Gavin gave a short laugh. "Does this line of questioning mean I'm a suspect in a murder investigation?"

  Chase wanted to say 'you and the rest of the male population of Boulder and Denver', but he held it in. "No. I just have to get all these little facts. Sometimes when you put enough of them together you come up with a totally different picture." Sounded good, Chase thought. He vaguely remembered hearing something like it on a Law & Order episode.

  Gavin suddenly leaned forward. "I'm interested in something Detective Chase. Which is more important to you when you work a case? The facts or the personalities involved?"

  Gavin wasn't sure what the doctor was getting at and he really didn't have the time. "Thanks for your help, Professor Gavin. If I need anything else I'll give you a call."

  Gavin was graceful about the lack of answer and saw Chase out of his office. The question Chase needed an answer to was where had Rachel Stevens been when she wasn't in class on Wednesday nights.