by Matt Coyle
“No. Listen, everything is going to be okay. I’ll try to find him.” Calm, but the concern in my gut now yanked with both hands. “Call me if Trey finally shows up or calls you. Otherwise, I’ll call you back in about a half hour.”
I called Trey’s latest phone number. Automated voicemail. I left a message to call me right away. I grabbed the coat that had the blackjack in the pocket and wished again that I still had a gun as I ran to my car.
Trey’s rental Ford Focus was parked in the front driveway. I fought back the growing sense of dread gnawing at my body. I parked behind the Focus, the Mustang’s ass hanging out into the street. I jumped out of the car and ran back to Trey’s bungalow and pounded on the front door. “Trey!”
Nothing. I tried the doorknob and it turned. I pushed the door open and rushed inside, slipped on something wet, and nearly fell down. The scent of iron hung in the air. I flung up the light switch and saw red.
Blood. Streaked castoffs on the walls and ceiling. Wet, pooled on the hardwood floor under my feet. Two bodies strewn on the floor.
Trey Fellows lay face up to the left of the door. What was left of him. I recognized the tan board shorts and gray sweatshirt he’d worn earlier that night. Now both were red with only a few dry patches of the original color. Trey’s head, a broken eggshell. Half of it beaten jagged with brain and blood oozing out, one eye socket empty, the other holding one dead, staring eye.
The other body was prone in the middle of the room, its lower extremity blocked by the loveseat. It was a man, or had been. His skull gashed open, brain matter and blood congealing in light-colored hair now turned pink from the blood. Then I saw it. A caved-in cowboy hat on the floor a few feet from the body. I took a step forward and my eyes cleared the loveseat. Cowboy boots beneath Levi jeans. The gray end of a ponytail curled under a shoulder.
Timothy Buckley.
Tears boiled out of me and I ran outside as my stomach emptied out my throat. I fell to my knees and retched until the only thing left in me was stomach acid. I staggered to my feet and called 911 on my cell phone. The dispatcher told me to wait there and the police would arrive in less than five minutes.
I stayed back by the bungalow and guarded the empty, broken bodies.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I heard the siren three or four blocks away. I walked out to the Focus and snatched the tracking device I’d planted under the car earlier. I hid it and the blackjack back under the spare tire in the trunk of my car. Hard to explain either to the police.
I waited for the patrol car to arrive. It did, lights flashing and siren wailing, ten seconds later. The driver whipped open his door and jumped out of the car. Another cop calmly got out of the passenger side. He walked over to me with the younger driver right behind him.
The older cop asked the questions. I told him everything about the night back to the phone call from Kelsey Santos that woke me up. The cop’s first concern was if the suspect or suspects were still in the area. I told him the scene was quiet when I arrived.
“Where did you find the bodies?”
“In the cottage around back. It’s…it’s a massacre.”
“Stay with Officer Lewis. I’ll be right back.”
Officer Lewis was the driver. Twenty-four, twenty-five. Thin. Baby face.
“Pretty bad back there, huh?” A little too eager.
I’d been young and eager once. Back on the job in Santa Barbara. Eager for action, never for blood. “Fuck you.”
The young cop’s face pinched mean and his eyes seemed to be searching his mind for what to do. I hoped he’d make the wrong decision so I could make a wrong one too. A night in jail with scraped knuckles and black eyes fueled on adrenaline would be welcome if it would give me some relief from the images of mutilation strobing through my head.
My cell phone rang. The cop kept staring at me. I pulled the phone out of my pocket. Kelsey Santos’ number. My stomach sank again. A different kind of dread this time, but just as painful as the first. I answered the phone.
“Rick, did you find him?” Excruciating hope.
“It’s not good.”
“What! What! Tell me!”
“I’m sorry…Trey’s…Trey’s dead.”
A screech and wails. I listened. All I could do. I wished I could have found a way to comfort her. And myself. But there wasn’t one. Death was without comfort. Unless it ended unbearable suffering. Unexpected death was its own suffering for those left living.
“Where, where is he? I have to see him.”
“You can’t see him. He’s gone. Please call family or friends and have them come stay with you. Can I call anyone for you?”
“You’ve done enough! You and that fucking lawyer, Buckley. You got Trey killed. You used him and then you left him exposed! You killed him!” She hung up.
Buckley had died for his sins. I had to live with mine.
The night swirled around me. Buckley and Trey’s slaughtered bodies, Kelsey’s anguish, and then her vitriol. My knees deserted me, and I sat down hard on the asphalt next to the cop car.
“Whoa.” The young cop’s face hovering over me. A smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Not so tough, after all. Deep breaths. All that blood, huh?”
A pair of homicide detectives arrived a half hour later. This was the San Diego Police Department’s turf, so I didn’t have to worry about Detective Denton or Chief Moretti. No complaints.
I told the detectives all I knew. The whole story about Trey as the key witness against Raptor Steven Lunsdorf in getting Randall Eddington out of prison, the Raptors’ pursuit of Trey and Sierra Fellows, Trey holing up at Alan Rankin’s house. Trey, Buckley, Randall Eddington, and I meeting at Trey’s house earlier that night.
I left out my physical altercations with the Raptors, and discovering Eric Schmidt’s body at the Candlelight Drive house and its subsequent disappearance. Maybe I should have copped to the laws I’d broken and given the detectives the complete story. But my history with police and my survival instinct wouldn’t allow me.
The cops were done with me by three forty-five a.m. I drove home in a haze. Midnight greeted me at the door and sniffed at the dried blood on the soles of my shoes. I took a shower and scrubbed at blood that wasn’t there, then went to bed.
The images of Buckley and Trey pressed down on me, forcing out all else. Kelsey’s accusation, the soundtrack playing behind the horrific images. I prayed for sleep. I welcomed the nightmare of the dead man with the gun that woke me almost every night. Anything but what I’d seen tonight. Anything to shield me from the truth of Kelsey’s words.
I was culpable in Trey’s death. So was Buckley, but he had paid the ultimate price. Buckley and I had gotten what we needed from Trey and left his security in the hands of a stranger. A stranger who turned out to be linked to the imprisoned Raptor kingpin. Had Alan Rankin used Trey for his own purposes and then had him murdered? Or had he given Trey up to Lunsdorf and his crew? The body bludgeoned beyond recognition was a Raptor signature. Why had Trey gone back to his house, and why was Buckley there? The Raptors murdering Trey, as horrible as it was, made sense. Buckley being at Trey’s and ending up collateral damage did not.
The police would investigate and, hopefully, bring those responsible to justice. But not all of those responsible would go on trial. Not in Kelsey Santos’ eyes.
And not in mine.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The murders were all over the TV news. A news camera had gotten a shot of me standing next to the police car and talking to the detectives. My landline started ringing as soon as the shot of me aired. I let all the calls go to the answering machine. No doubt, reporters who saw the shot of me on the news recognized me from my fifteen minutes of infamy over the years.
A few hours later my cell phone rang. I allowed a glimmer of hope to seep through the darkness that it might be Kim. I pulled out the phone and the glimmer burned out.
Randall Eddington.
“Mr. Cahill, are you okay?” Subdued.
“I’m okay. What about you and your grandparents? I know they’d gotten pretty close with…with Buckley.” His name came out jagged and broken.
“We’re all in a state of shock. Grammy is really taking it hard.” His voice tightened. “She thought Mr. Buckley was my guardian angel. Thinks you are too. Anyway, Mr. Buckley spoke very highly of you, and I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks, Randall. If there is anything I can do for you or Rita Mae, let me know.”
“Will do, Mr. Cahill.” He paused without saying good-bye, like he was waiting for me to say something or he had more to say. “The police came by my grandparents’ condo today and questioned me about visiting Trey last night with Mr. Buckley. Did you tell them about that?”
“Yeah. I know we all agreed to keep it a secret, but the crime-scene lab techs will be all over Trey’s house. If they turn up our DNA, I want the detectives to understand why it’s there.”
“Horrible to have to think about such a thing. But that was very smart of you, Mr. Cahill. I wouldn’t have thought of it.”
“Did the detectives seem suspicious?”
“Not really. I think they were just doing their job and eliminating suspects. But…” He paused again. “I do feel somewhat responsible for what happened. If Trey hadn’t come forward with the confession, and Mr. Buckley hadn’t taken my case, they’d both still be alive.”
Of course, he was right, but he wanted a denial to feel better. I hadn’t lied to myself, but Randall deserved a reprieve. All he’d done was go to prison for seven years for a crime he didn’t commit. He couldn’t help it if the truth coming out had gotten people killed.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Randall. The cops, the old district attorney, and the State of California were wrong in the first place. If they’d all done their job better, Trey and Buckley would still be alive, and the man who murdered your family would be in prison.”
All true, but none of it mitigated my responsibility for not realizing how vengeful the Raptors were.
“It has to be the Raptors, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think…ah.” Low, timid. “Do you think my grandparents and I are in danger? That the Raptors would want to kill us?”
“I don’t think so.” But I’d already been horribly wrong once. “The DA isn’t retrying you. If they bring charges against Steven Lunsdorf, you won’t be called as a witness. You don’t have anything to do with the Raptors. But be careful anyway.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have called Lunsdorf a killer on TV the other day. Not very smart in retrospect. But I wanted to put pressure on the police department.”
“You did.” Images of Trey’s and Buckley’s mangled bodies pushed their way back into my head. “The pressure is on now more than ever.”
“My publisher offered to put me and my grandparents up in a hotel for a couple weeks until the police arrest Lunsdorf.”
“Your publisher?”
“Yes. I’m writing a memoir.”
Barely twenty-six and writing a memoir. But he’d lived enough for two lifetimes in his short time on earth. And suffered enough for many more. The story of his life would, no doubt, be a New York Times best seller. Probably become a movie too. Youth and tragedy sold in today’s America. Put both together and you had a blockbuster. I wouldn’t judge Randall for cashing in on his tragedy. He’d already paid a debt to society he didn’t owe. No harm in society paying some of it back.
“You should probably take up your publisher on their offer. Just to be safe.”
“I think you’re right.” An exhale, like he had more to say. Finally, “I know you probably also feel somewhat responsible for Trey’s and Mr. Buckley’s death.”
No argument.
“I know that’s the kind of man you are. But you shouldn’t feel guilty.” The words were peeled of emotion. Matter of fact. “Trey understood the danger when he came forward, and Mr. Buckley did, too. If you hadn’t investigated his claim, someone else would have. Maybe not someone as determined as you, but the outcome would have been the same. I believe that with all my heart.”
His words didn’t make me feel better. I’m not sure they were meant do. Sounded more like a statement of fact. How the world worked. That was fine by me. I didn’t want a pep talk. Or any more talk at all.
“Good night, Randall.” I hung up.
I spent the next three hours sitting in front of the TV. The TV couldn’t block the images in my head or the voice of Kelsey Santos. I fought the urge to call Kim. She’d made the decision I always knew she should. It wouldn’t be fair to try and pull her back now. And it hurt that she hadn’t called me after my cameo on the news. She’d asked me to walk away, and I had. Now she’d closed the door behind me.
I glanced toward the kitchen and the liquor cabinet. A crutch to hold me up or push away the truth. Too easy. Too cheap. And the truth would still be there in the morning, along with a headache and regret.
Midnight sat close and gave me big-eyed Lab concerned looks. I scratched his head. The one sentient being I could reassure and comfort. He let out a contented sigh.
Someone knocked on my door about nine. Midnight growled and bolted upright. I quieted him and went to the hall closet and grabbed a baseball bat. Hickory. I went to the front door with Midnight at my side, ready to pounce. I looked through the peephole, then set the bat down and opened the door. Midnight waited for an attack command. He wouldn’t get one.
Scott Buehler, reporter for The Reader, a free local paper, smiled up at me. “Rick. You didn’t return my calls, so I thought I’d try to talk to you directly.”
“How the hell did you find out where I lived?”
“Like you, I have my sources. Could I come in and ask you a few questions about the Fellows and Buckley murders?”
Buehler had been the only reporter in San Diego who’d gotten things right in the murder case I’d been involved in a couple years back. Well, mostly right. As right as LJPD and I were willing to admit to. He’d made me look like some kind of hero. I hadn’t been. But the rest of the press had made out LJPD to be a hero, and it hadn’t been one, either. Even less so than me.
“No.” I didn’t want to be mislabeled a hero again. I started to close the door.
“My editor wants to call the murders a drug deal gone bad.” He spit the words out before the door closed in his face.
I held the door open just enough for my head to stick out. “Is that what the police told you?”
“They haven’t told me or anyone much of anything.” He looked me straight in the eyes. “That’s not what happened, is it?”
“Look, I can’t give you anything better than the police can.”
“Is that how you want Trey Fellows to be remembered, as some small-time criminal who was murdered in a drug deal gone bad, with Timothy Buckley getting caught in the middle?”
Somehow, he knew how to get to me. I opened the door and let him in.
We sat at the kitchen table. Buehler balding, studious, looked fifty, but I figured he was ten years younger. He started to ask a question, but I beat him to it.
“Tell me what you know or think you know, and I’ll guide you as best I can.”
He told me about Trey’s suspected Raptor drug connections and that Brad Bauer, Trey’s best friend and Sierra’s boyfriend who had gone to prison for dealing cocaine, was thought to be supplied by the Raptors too. He didn’t say anything about Trey coming forward with evidence incriminating Steven Lunsdorf in the Eddington family murders. LJPD was keeping that info secret for now, probably so Lunsdorf wouldn’t run. He obviously hadn’t run after Randall called him out at the press conference the other day. Or, if he had, he’d left behind some animals to do his killing for him.
“Why does your editor think it was a drug deal gone bad, other than Trey and the Raptors having a supposed connection? Were there any drugs or a suitcase of money found at the scene?”
I hadn’t seen any evidence of eith
er, but everything I remember was outlined in blood.
“The police haven’t conceded or denied a drug connection. But my editor thinks the viciousness of the attack was a warning to other business partners not to step out of line. That’s the Raptors’ MO.”
“That seems like quite a leap, without any evidence to prove it.”
“I know. He thinks it’s too coincidental that Brad Bauer and the Raptor chief, Rock Karsten, are in the same prison, and that the connection between both of them was murdered. He thinks maybe Bauer was ready to give up some of the Raptors for a deal to get the cops who arrested him to speak on his behalf at his parole hearing.”
I froze. “What did you say?”
“That maybe the Raptors had Trey Fellows murdered as a warning to Brad Bauer to keep him from talking to the cops.”
“No. You said Rock Karsten and Bauer were in the same prison. When was Bauer transferred to Corcoran?”
Buehler frowned. “He wasn’t. He and Karsten are both doing time in San Quentin.”
“Karsten is in Corcoran. I checked the CDCR website.”
“No.” Buehler shook his head and ran his finger on his computer tablet from left to right over and over again, scrolling back over notes. He stopped. “Karsten has been at San Quentin for the last seven months. The state transferred him earlier this year. The CDCR website is notoriously slow to update. I talked to someone in records on the phone.”
A chill ran up my spine and the dread from early this morning attacked my insides.
“What block? At San Quentin.” I could hardly push out the words.
He scrolled a bit more. “I believe North.”
North cell block. The same block I’d visited Randall Eddington in when I agreed to take on his case. Alan Rankin, Rock Karsten’s lawyer, secretly meeting with Trey Fellows before he testified against Steven Lunsdorf. Lunsdorf, the man who took over the Raptors from Rock Karsten, and became his enemy when Karsten went to prison. Alan Rankin, the man who had been secretly “protecting” Trey Fellows right up until he was murdered.
“Scott, it’s been a long day. The weight of it just hit me. Call me tomorrow and we can try again.”
