Hunt for a Phantom

by Stephen L Brooks

“Yeah. It may be breaking news to you but I actually know other single guys besides you.”

  “Yeah. Of course you do.” That didn’t mean he’d have to like the fact.

  “Tell you what: if this doesn’t work out I’ll go out with you wherever you’d like tomorrow night.”

  “Okay; guess that sounds like a plan.”

  “Sure; it’s a date. But so is this,” she added, brandishing her cell phone, “and he’s waiting for my call.” She wished him good night, shouldered her purse and went out.

  Banning watched her go, stunned for a moment. The sudden ring of the phone startled him and he picked it up. It was Taylor.

  “Daisy Rae has been monitoring this IronGuy’s phone and picked up on a couple of interesting text messages.”

  “Oh?” Banning was immediately interested. “Do you think they may be a break in the case?”

  “I think so. One of them is between IronGuy and someone who calls himself Stones.”

  “Hmmm. Wonder if either of these guys lives up to his nickname.”

  “Maybe we’ll have a chance to find out; at least where IronGuy is concerned.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Well, Daisy thinks Stones is probably the guy in the morgue from the hotel room. Then there’s the other message Daisy picked up. It’s between IronGuy and somebody called Rusty.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Judging from the messages, Rusty is female.”

  “His next victim no doubt.”

  “Not if we can figure out who Rusty is and stop him.”

  Betsy nodded resignedly. “Well, good luck with that one.”

  “Daisy thinks she can trace Rusty’s phone number and track her, if her phone has a GPS on it.”

  “Like I said, Good luck.”

  Banning hung up the phone. The realization exploded in his mind.

  Betsy had once told him: Rusty had been her nickname when she was in high school, because of her reddish brown hair.

  He bounded out the door and jogged around back. Betsy was still in her car, on the phone. He hesitated, staying out of sight. Should he stop her? If he let her go, she might be headed for some real danger. But if he let her go, she might also lead him to the man who put Dana in the hospital; the man who killed the Flemings.

  Betsy’s usual NASCAResque exit from the lot forced his decision. And as she turned onto the road, still unaware he was watching, something Taylor had said gave him an idea.

  He went back in and grabbed a device from a supply cabinet. He had bought it on a police equipment website a couple of months before and this was his first opportunity to use it. Locking the office door he ran to his car.

  Once in the seat he attached the device to his GPS and sat it in a slot in his center console. He switched both on and typed Betsy’s phone number into the device’s keypad, praying her cell phone was still on. He prayed again, a quick “Thank You,” when a dot appeared on the screen indicating her location. With this he could follow her at as leisurely a pace as he chose, in spite of intervening traffic, as long as she kept her cell phone on.

  Nevertheless, he had no intention of taking his good old time.

  * * *

  It was the sports bar and ribs place in Perry Hall where the blip on his screen came to rest. They had been there once or twice; food was good, but it was a bit noisy. He figured IronGuy might have chosen the place for just that reason.

  He by-passed the hostess when her station was momentarily vacated and wandered into the restaurant. He spotted Betsy in a booth with a guy, but couldn’t see him clearly. But they were in the bar side of the establishment, and there were seats at the bar where their booth reflected in the mirror. He chose one that gave him a view of her without, he hoped, her getting a view of him.

  Banning saw enough to see Betsy had stopped long enough to change her appearance. She never looked her twenty-something age to begin with; but she had somehow reversed time. Her hairstyle, make-up and clothes made her pass --- at least in this dim light --- as a teen.

  As a sports bar, their cable subscription naturally was heavy, if not exclusively, into all-sports channels. The game was playing on each of the six 50-inch screens. What game it was, he couldn’t tell. It might have been the Super Bowl from ten years before; it didn’t matter. And with the din that all six sets, wired into a monster sound system, created the result was a cocoon of sound which forced any foolish enough to attempt conversation to learn lip-reading real fast.

  Banning ordered a beer and a dozen Buffalo wings. As hungry as he was he didn’t want to order a full meal. He didn’t know when he might have to split, in case Betsy and Stones didn’t stay long. The first wing incinerated his tongue, in spite of the cool sour cream, and half of his beer followed to extinguish the blaze. Man, these wings were good! He immediately had another. A quarter of the remaining beer washed after it. These guys knew what they were doing: make the wings as hot as Hades and you sell a helluva lot more beer that way.

  They had ordered dinner, so he decided he’d better get something else anyway. The burger was huge, piled with every condiment known to man and a few more besides, and came with loaded fries. Guy Fieri would have loved it. As he finished the last cheesy-chili-bacon-soaked deep-fried potato strip, he knew he would have to spend the next day in the gym to make up for it. Maybe the next two days.

  Was this IronGuy? And was IronGuy the one who had lured Grace Fleming to that murder room in the hotel? Maybe they’d have the answers before the night was over.

  He saw Betsy’s date signal for the check, but all he saw was his raised arm and hand; not much to make an identification. He blindly tugged some bills out of his wallet and dropped them on the bar. The bartender and cook would soon split a tip which was the price of Banning’s meal, but this was no time for advanced math. He waited until they left, unfortunately taking the route away from him so he still didn’t see IronGuy’s face, and followed a moment later.

  Betsy still had her cell phone on. Maybe that was deliberate; she might even be hoping he was tracking her. At least, Banning hoped so. She had helped him in the fight that ended his last case, but then her opponent had been a woman and one kick in the stomach had ended that one. He hoped her self-defense classes hadn’t made her too sure of herself. He liked that she wasn’t a girly wall-flower when the chips were down, but he didn’t want her to get too cocky either. From what he had seen of this guy, he looked tough. If he was the same guy, he had put Dana Fisher in the hospital. And if it got physical, it was a sure thing IronGuy wasn’t going to let her win.

  Yes, she was on his radar; but he had also seen the car that IronGuy had gotten into, and though he still hadn’t gotten a good look at him he noticed his car was following Betsy. As they continued on, Banning recognized the neighborhood. Betsy was driving home to her apartment. Whether she knew IronGuy was following her, Banning didn’t know; but he hoped it wasn’t part of her plan.

  IronGuy or whoever Grace and Dana had met with may have had several dates with them before deciding to put an end to it with violence. But he had to know he was being tracked; so he might not take chances on being recognized or remembered. The fact he was following Betsy suggested he intended this to be a one night stand, like the one he just had with Dana.

  He stopped and parked about a block or two before her apartment complex in order not to be seen. He saw IronGuy drive onto the lot a moment later. He got out his cell phone and called Taylor.

  “I don’t have much time, so listen. Betsy is Rusty, and IronGuy just followed her to her apartment.” He gave Taylor the address so he wouldn’t have to look it up. “Have your buddy from Sex Crimes get here so we can nab this SOB before Betsy gets hurt.”

  He got out of his car and slipped to concealment behind the hedges bordering the lot. Peering between two of them he saw Betsy waiting at the door of her building, smiling, and Stones coming to join her. The two went inside.

  So that was part of her plan! A lecture on doing her own investigation wi
thout clearing it through her boss prepared itself in his mind. He just hoped he’d be able to deliver it!

  * * *

  As soon as Betsy let him in her apartment and locked the door she regretted it. Not that he seemed to pose an immediate threat, but that she may have sprung her trap not upon Stones but upon herself.

  She moved toward the kitchen, avoiding his gaze but trusting to sidelong glances and her sixth sense to gauge his movements. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I’d love some,” he said.

  She unlocked and slid open the patio door. It was a pleasant night and the fresh air felt good. It also gave her an avenue of escape, if necessary. The mundane routine of preparing a pot of coffee settled her nerves somewhat and her adjustment of the angled butcher block that sheathed her collection of kitchen knives, putting them within nearer reach, was more instinctive than strategic.

  She felt rather than saw him follow and come up behind her. A quick maneuver and the knives were at her back and he was before her. Betsy leaned against the counter, elbows resting on it, feigning an unfelt casualness. A shudder quivered through her unchecked and she sensed the blood draining from her face. She had noticed before the abrasions on his knuckles and asked how he had gotten them. That must have been some sparring match, she thought.

  “You’re nervous,” IronGuy said.

  At the restaurant he had introduced himself as Tom. Betsy doubted that was his real name.

  “Am I?” Betsy’s voice confirmed it. “I guess I am.”

  Tom smiled.“There’s no need to be.” His grin widened as he leaned confidentially forward. “And you won’t need to use one of those knives on me, either.”

  Betsy’s laugh was artificial. “Of course not. Why should I think so?” Yet her stance didn’t change.

  Tom stepped back a little and spying a mug tree in a corner chose two mugs and placed them on the table. “I asked you a question at the restaurant and you really didn’t answer.”

  “Question?”

  “Ahuh. I mentioned that I was a little surprised to see you.”

  “Didn’t you think I’d come?”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t that. You remember I said you weren’t what I expected. And also, I immediately added that it was meant as a compliment.”

  The coffee maker was making its brewing noises as the carafe began to fill. The aroma was spreading and Betsy took a deep breath of it, seeking comfort in its attraction.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  Tom sat at the table, his ease real and not feigned. “Then you also remember my asking why you used such an old photo of yourself with your messages.”

  She turned placing him within her peripheral vision and the knife block near her right hand. “I don’t know. Of course, you could tell it was an old photo when you saw me. I wore this green sweater so you’d recognize me, though.” She was talking too much. She stopped.

  “Oh, I knew it was an old picture as soon as I saw it. It had that high-school-yearbook look to it.”

  Betsy was surprised at her chuckle. “You guessed my secret. Yes, that’s what it was.”

  “And not a recent yearbook photo, but one from a few years ago. But why didn’t you use a current picture? You’re prettier now than you were then.”

  She didn’t dare tell him why. “Did you agree to meet me because you thought I was a high school girl?”

  Tom laughed. “Of course not. Like I said, I saw through it immediately. Really, I wanted to meet the woman that the girl in the photo had become.”

  Betsy frowned. “Then, you’re not into dating high school girls?” Too late; what is spoken aloud cannot be remedied by a Delete key.

  Tom frowned and abruptly stood. “What do you mean by that?”

  Betsy crawled her hand toward the knife block.

  Tom saw the movement and leaped on her, bearing her away from the counter and in a tackle, taking her down. He was on top of her and tried for control.

  The woman under him had suddenly turned tigress, and grown extra hands and feet in an instant. She kicked, tying to dislodge him, and nails like talons raked his face. The edge of her hand struck hard against his throat, and as he choked and gasped for breath she wrestled free. She rolled away from him and grabbing the counter, pulled herself to her feet. Winded as well, she could only stand and pant as he caught his breath and rose slowly to his feet. Her blouse was torn where he had grabbed her, exposing a shoulder. She felt the bruise starting to form.

  The knife block was out of reach, but the patio door wasn’t too far. Thoughts of escape now took over, as he again started toward her, wary now, but with eyes glaring revenge.

  A sudden series of loud knocks on her front door startled both of them.

  “Police! Open up!”

  He was between her and the door. She hesitated, sidling to her right. He mirrored the movement.

  Another series from a pounding fist against the door, this time louder, distracted Tom for a second and Betsy reached the patio screen. But Tom was at her in a bound, an arm blocking her from escape, a hand again painfully gripping her arm.

  “How did you call the police on me? Why?”

  He was close, barely arm’s length from her.

  She wondered why they hadn’t broken down the door.

  Was that the metallic click of a key? Who had a key?

  Betsy drew a breath that fed her courage and, bet all upon her training. Her knee shot into his crotch and he staggered back, clutching himself.

  But it only angered him and he grabbed her again.

  “Yeah, I like high school girls,” he confessed, “and I liked your picture.”

  She struggled but couldn’t get loose.

  “I just thought I’d see what you were like.”

  She tried kicking back at him, but he shook her.

  “Shoulda figured you were workin’ with the cops.”

  The door banged open.

  “Freeze! Back away!”

  Tom froze, his hands still clutching her arms.

  There was the click of a hammer being cocked.

  “Back away or I’ll shoot!”

  Betsy didn’t recognize the voice but welcomed him with a silent, thankful prayer. There were two holding guns on Tom, a man and a woman. One or two more uniformed officers were on the back deck, guns trained on his back; opening the sliding door had been inspired.

  And just beyond the two plainclothes, in the hall, Betsy saw through the doorway a face she did know.

  Tom released her, raised his hands, and stepped back. Betsy lost no time in distancing herself from him, stopping at a side of the kitchen out of the line of fire.

  One of the uniforms came forward and with professional efficiency snapped handcuffs on him, announced his arrest for attempted assault, and read his Miranda rights.

  The next thing she knew Banning was embracing her.

  * * *

  It wasn’t over yet; there were statements to be recorded, forms to complete, reports to sign, and Banning and Betsy were needed for all of it. Samuelson and Corelli of course had been the detectives who Taylor had sent at Banning’s request. Since much of the investigation had moved from the city to the county, both Samuelson and Corelli had been temporarily assigned to County and were given cubes in the County detective bullpen. They sat by Samuelson’s desk as he worked his notes into a report, back-checking with them when necessary. While the detective was doing his part of it Banning briefed Betsy on what he had done.

  “So you were following me the whole time?”

  “Thanks to my handy-dandy GPS.”

  “And you used the spare key I gave you to let the police in?”

  “Sure. It’s a good thing we traded spares for emergencies, ‘cause this sure counts as one.”

  She punched him in the arm, hard. “Damn straight it does. So why didn’t you come in sooner?”

  He held his arm in mock pain. “Ouch! That hurt!”

  “Answer my question or I’ll hit you on the o
ther side and even you out.”

  “I didn’t know what was going down. Maybe you were getting some info from the guy and my showing up might’ve quashed it.”

  “Actually, he was quizzing me.”

  “About what?”

  “Why I had used an old yearbook photo in my emails to him.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t. I thought he might trip himself up. And he did.”

  Samuelson had called them over to his desk. Betsy sat in the single institutional chair at its side and Banning chose the corner of the desk. “You know who this guy is?”

  “No. Never set eyes on him before tonight,” Betsy said, “except for his picture on the web. His screen name is IronGuy.”

  “You mean like Robert Downey?” Samuelson asked, his screwed brow displaying his confusion.

  “No,” Banning said, “his iron is part of his anatomy; at least that’s what he thinks.”

  Samuelson blinked and shook away further pursuit of the topic. “Well, he isn’t telling us. He refuses to talk until his lawyer comes. He’s probably calling him right now. But we’ve got his prints. We should have a full ID on him soon enough. If he’s in the system somewhere.”

  “And the way this case is going,” Banning said, “I bet they’re not.”

  “You’d probably win that bet,” Samuelson agreed.

  “But I’ll tell you what we suspect,” Banning said. “He’s the phantom we’ve been hunting since the Flemings and that unidentified body in the morgue were found.”

  “You think he’s the one who killed them?”

  Banning smiled. “I’ve got my own ideas about that.”

  Samuelson said, “OK; I’m open to suggestion.”

  “No way; I want to hear what this guy says first.”

  “I’ll try to see you have that chance, but I can’t guarantee it. Excuse me.”

  Samuelson made a phone call and Betsy turned to Banning.

  “All right, boss; you gonna tell me what you think?”

  “No; I’m hoping when they interrogate him he’ll say it himself. If it went down the way I now suspect, most everybody is in for a surprise.” Banning regarded her sternly.