by Rick Reed
He preferred living in shelters, abandoned houses and buildings. One time he’d watched an old couple load their car with luggage and leave. They were going to be gone a while. He broke a glass pane in the back door and stayed in their house for a couple of weeks before they came home and called the police. He’d been placed with a foster family as a result of that, but he didn’t stay long. He thanked the nice people and left as soon as the caseworker was out of sight.
He had learned a lot of useful skills while living on the street. He’d learned how to steal what he needed, how to take what he wanted, how to stay in someone’s house while the owners were gone. A guy at the shelter had shown him that one.
He fingered the wad of bills in his pocket. Finding the money had been good luck. Dayton came in the room before he could go through the clothes, and ran out of the house screaming. The guy’s boots were a little big, but when he put the socks on over his own they took up the extra room. He’d helped himself to the jacket. It was heavy, better than anything he’d ever owned. That’s when he found the money, the badge, the ring and the gun. Whoever killed the guy had put all this in the coat pockets.
He started to run out the back, but there was no way he would leave Dayton in the shape she was in. He’d promised to take care of her. He kept his promises, but he had the problem of what to do with some of the stuff he’d found. A guy at the shelter had told him the best hiding place was in plain sight. He went quickly through the rooms. Nothing good. He went out the back and saw a cleanout plug for a sewer line. He was able to get the plug unscrewed and put the gun and some of the money inside the pipe before he heard a car coming. He screwed the plug back in, shoved some roofing shingles over it and ran out front in time to see a cop car coming down the street.
He’d kept the badge and the ring. He’d thought maybe he’d wear it. But it was big on him, like the boots and jacket. He probably shouldn’t have taken the guy’s badge. He knew that now, because that was what got him caught.
He didn’t appreciate the way that detective had roughed him up. He’d been in lots of fights, beat up some old drunks, but the detective scared him. He didn’t like the feeling. Besides, the cop had no right taking the ring from him. For all they knew it was his ring. Of course the cops wouldn’t believe someone like him would have anything like that unless it was stolen. It was true he’d taken the boots and coat and money, but he needed them, and the dead guy didn’t.
The cop had taken everything from him—even his socks and combat boots—and kept them. The blue jean jacket was the only one he owned. Socks and boots too, for that matter. The woman from CPS had given him a CPO jacket that was two sizes too big, dress socks and a pair of oxford loafers with pennies stuck in the strap on top. She’d bought him a hamburger from Wendy’s and sent him on his way. He’d known they’d release him. They always did.
As soon as he’d left CPS he hotfooted it over to the house where he’d hidden the gun and money. There were still some cops wearing those white CSI clothes, but they were all inside or going back and forth to a wagon out front. He waited until only one cop was left, and snuck around back. The roofing shingles had been disturbed. At first, he was afraid they’d found his stash, but it was all there. He stuffed the cash in his coat pocket, stuck the gun in his waistband, put the cleanout plug back and walked away at a pace befitting the cold.
A few blocks down the street he had squatted between two wrecked cars on Dewig’s Body Shop parking lot and counted the money. Ten thousand! His first thought was that he could buy airline tickets for himself and Dayton to fly to Hollywood. Hitchhiking in this cold was crazy. He scrapped that idea. He wasn’t sure if they’d need some kind of identification to get tickets. He didn’t have anything. Not even a birth certificate. But at least he had the money. They could take a Greyhound.
He’d taken the gun from the back of his waistband and popped the ammo magazine. It was loaded. He read the name on the side. Glock. A .45-caliber. Big-ass gun. He didn’t know how to shoot, but he probably wouldn’t need to anyway. Just the sight of it was enough to make someone back off. With a psycho running loose, and every badge-wearing mofo in the city knowing he was the one that found the cop’s body, he’d need the gun. The cops wouldn’t have given two shits if it was him or one of his friends at the shelter that were killed.
He’d taken his booty and gone to the Army Surplus Store on First Avenue, where he boosted a fatigue jacket to wear over the shitty CPO jacket. He’d walked back streets until he got to the CVS on the corner and called Dayton. She didn’t answer, but they’d made a plan. She knew to wait a few hours and meet him outside the little market when she could get away.
The sun was out, but the wind felt like little razor blades, slicing away at his face and the backs of his hands. He shoved his hands inside the pockets of the fatigue jacket and hoped like hell Dayton would show up soon. Maybe she wouldn’t show up at all. If that prick father of hers caught her sneaking out, Zack knew the cops would show up instead. That would be bad. Bad for the cop that tried to stop him.
He lit a Camel cigarette, non-filtered, from a pack he’d lifted from Sam’s Market. The jerk behind the counter didn’t even look American. He had it coming. Zack stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and the wind blew ashes into his eyes. He blinked and wiped at his eyes with the back of the coat sleeve, trying to be cool. He stuffed the Bic lighter and the pack of Camels into his coat pocket and buried his hands in with them.
He crowded into the doorway, trying to get out of the cutting wind. He was dancing from one foot to the other, eyes still burning and watering from the cold and the smoke. When he turned back around, a brand-spanking-new black sedan pulled to the curb. The windows were dark. Zack couldn’t see the driver, but he figured the guy had to be an asshole. People who owned cars like that always were. The passenger window powered down and an old dude leaned across the seat. He was smiling at Zack.
“Whatever you’re sellin’, I’m not buyin’, asshole,” Zack said and flipped the half-burned cigarette at the car door. That was another thing he’d learned from the homeless guys at the shelter. Rich dudes were always trying to pick up young guys.
Zack reached inside his jackets and fingered the butt of the gun. He didn’t want to threaten the old turd with it because that would just bring more cops. Where the hell was Dayton? The driver continued to smile at him. The passenger door popped open.
“Shit!” Zack said under his breath and wrapped his fingers around the grip of the .45. “If you don’t shut that door, you’ll be sorry,” he said, making his voice as threatening as he knew how. He was an actor, so he had practiced it. It sounded pretty good.
The man’s smile grew wider, and the back passenger window powered down.
“What the…” Zack said.
Dayton sat in the back of the car, unnaturally still, tears running down her cheek.
“You asked for it,” Zack said. He leaned down in the car window with one hand on the gun and froze. The barrel of a gun pushed against his forehead.
“Give me the gun and get in, hotshot,” Sully said.
“Please do what he says, Zack.” Dayton’s face had gone white, and he could see a long red mark across her forehead. A trickle of blood ran from one of her nostrils.
Zack slowly handed over the gun and slid into the passenger seat. He asked, “You okay, Dy?”
“She won’t be if you say anything else,” Sully said, and shoved the gun into Zack’s ribs while he patted him down. Sully switched the gun to his left hand. “If you do anything I don’t like I’ll make you watch me kill your girlfriend. You understand?”
Zack nodded and said in a trembling voice, “What’s going on? Who are you?”
“Shut up,” Sully ordered, and Zack did. “Now put your seat belt on. Going without is not only illegal, it’s unsafe.”
Sully rested his left forearm across his lap, the gun’s barrel pointe
d at Zack. Zack pulled the seat belt over his shoulder and clicked it in place. “Now sit on your hands and keep them there.”
Zack put his hands under his buttocks.
“Ain’t love grand?” Sully pulled away from the curb.
Chapter 35
A uniformed officer waylaid Jack and Liddell as soon as they entered the back doors of the detectives’ office. “The chief’s asking for you in the lobby.”
“More meetings. Just what we need,” Liddell said.
The officer said, “Not the Chief. Double Dick. He’s in the lobby surrounded by reporters. I heard him promise an interview with you two.”
“You didn’t see us,” Jack said and turned for the door.
“Too late,” the officer said. “He heard you tell dispatch you’d be at Headquarters. He was standing ten feet away from me. Sorry.”
“That’s what happens when you keep your radio turned on. Rookie move,” Jack said, and the officer grinned. “Let’s get this over with, Bigfoot.”
“Oh. Since I had my radio on,” the officer said, “I heard a missing person run come in. It sounds like the girl you brought in this morning is gone again. Dayton Bolin, right?”
“How long ago?” Jack asked.
“Maybe thirty minutes.”
“Who got the run? Please tell me it’s not Jansen,” Jack said.
“I think Sergeant Woehler took it.”
“Great. Thanks,” Jack said. “I take back all those nasty things I was thinking.”
“Don’t be nice to me, Jack. Scares me,” the officer said and got out of the area quick.
Jack and Liddell entered the lobby. The officer had lied. Double Dick wasn’t surrounded. Only a handful of reporters were present. Most had probably left when they heard Jack was coming. He was not known for his cooperation with the media.
Double Dick spotted Jack and Liddell. “Here’s our investigators now. Detective Jack Murphy and Detective Liddell Blanchard,” he said unnecessarily. “They can answer a few questions, but I’m sure they need to get back to work, ladies and gentlemen.”
Someone from Channel 18 shoved a microphone in Jack’s face. “Detective Murphy, are you making any progress in Sergeant Caparelli or Judge Knight’s murders?”
A woman from Channel 12 asked, “Are the murders related? Have you talked to their families yet?”
That was newspeak for “Can we get film footage of someone in the family crying? Even a complete stranger crying will do.”
Jack said, “I can’t answer any questions concerning an ongoing investigation.”
Jack and Liddell turned around and headed for their office.
“Very diplomatic, pod’na.”
“Screw a bunch of media,” Jack said loud enough for the reporters to hear. “They’d suck the blood out of a leech.” How’s that for a sound bite?
Deputy Chief Richard Dick said, “The detective is correct. It’s not police department policy for the investigator to talk with the news media during an ongoing investigation.” He glared at Jack’s back. “I can’t tie up the investigation, folks. I’ll answer the questions I can. Please, one at a time.”
Liddell punched Jack playfully on the shoulder and said, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of Double Dick, I shall fear no reprisal.”
“Screw Double Dick,” Jack said. “Twice.”
“Feel better?”
“No.”
They went to the office and Jack called Deputy Findlay to request a blood sample be taken from Uncle Marty. Findlay sent a nurse to get the blood sample. “Crispino’s still out cold,” he said. “Is it a good or bad thing that he’s still alive?”
“Too early to say,” Jack said, and disconnected the call. Jack put the phone on speaker and called Detective Woehler in the Juvenile Unit. He was out of the office. Jack called Woehler’s cell.
“Woehler,” the phone was answered.
“I’m on speakerphone. Don’t say anything bad about Bigfoot,” Jack said.
“Jack, I was wondering when I’d hear from you,” Woehler said. “I just finished taking the report from Mr. and Mrs. Bolin and they’re not happy. Ain’t this the shits?”
“When did she go missing?” Jack asked.
“We don’t know an exact time,” Woehler said. “The parents picked her up here this morning and went home. Mrs. Bolin went to the store and Mr. Bolin had to go in to his office. When Mrs. Bolin came home an hour ago Dayton was gone. No note. Nothing. Dad is going postal. Mom needs a Xanax.”
“Did she run off with Zack again?”
“No one has seen that kid all day. CPS took him home and dropped him off. I had officers check his neighborhood. We can’t find his dad and we checked every bar around. But I did get something on Dayton. Let me pull over.”
Jack waited and Woehler came back on the line.
“I checked with Dayton’s neighbors. The woman across the street said a newer black car pulled up in front of the Bolin’s house. A tallish man in a dark suit got out and went to the front door. Dayton followed him to the car and got in. He left. The neighbor thought it was one of Mr. Bolin’s banker friends. She thinks that was around two hours ago.”
“Did she have a better description of the man or his car?” Jack asked.
“White male, late forties to early fifties, thin, tall, expensive black suit. No beard or glasses that she could recall. The car was a Mercedes sedan. She remembers that because it’s almost the same as Mr. Bolin’s car.”
“I don’t expect she got the license plate number?” Jack asked.
“No luck there. Do you know who it is? I’m debating an Amber Alert, but wanted to give it a few more minutes to see if we can find Zack. What do you think?”
“I think I know who picked her up,” Jack said. “I’ll have Liddell text you the information. We already have a BOLO on this guy and his car. You should do the Amber Alert and mention this guy. His name is Vincent Sullis.”
“Do we suspect he’s the one that took her?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. Liddell was already texting the information to Woehler’s cell. “Put the Amber Alert out. He’s an attorney from Boston. The car will have Massachusetts license plates that read SO SU ME.
Jack hung up and called Frank Tunney’s cell phone.
“Jack. Glad you called. I heard you have Martin Crispino in custody,” Tunney said.
“He’s at Mercy Hospital in Henderson.”
“Kentucky?” Tunney said.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Crispino was found unconscious on the river bank and doesn’t know how he got there. He admitted being at Sonny’s house, then waking up in the hospital. He’s got a hell of a head wound and hypothermia. They’re keeping him knocked out.”
“How did he get hypothermia?” Tunney asked.
“Why don’t you come by the office and I’ll fill you in?”
“No can do,” Tunney said. “I’m on my way to meet with someone. I won’t be long.”
Liddell said, “You don’t have any friends. Where are you really going?”
Jack could hear sounds of traffic in the background. “I’ll give you the brief version since your friends are more important to you than catching a multi-murderer.” He filled Tunney in on the visit with Crispino.
“Crispino thinks these killings are revenge for the murder of a college student from five or six years ago?” Tunney asked. “If that’s true, you have to ask yourself the question: What role do the monkey carvings and spikes play?”
Jack said, “I have an idea.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Crispino said this mobster’s son raped and killed the girl. The mobster is Big Bobby Touhey. Ever hear of him?”
“Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Sonny and Sully were Boston detectives back then and worked for Touhey. Touhey had a kid, Little
Bobby, who killed the girl, and Big Bobby asked them to get rid of the body. Sonny and Sully burned the body to destroy the evidence. The Boston detective I talked to said Little Bobby was killed a few weeks ago in Boston. He was cut open, his stuff was cut off and nailed to the floor with a railroad spike. They found another of these monkeys in his throat. Do No Evil this time. Hey, you ever heard of a Detective Yankowski?”
“No. I haven’t been to Boston for quite a while. Did he say he knew me?”
“No. No,” Jack said. “Yankowski said some creep came forward and confessed to killing the girl and burning her body. Yankowski didn’t believe him, but he was convicted and given a five-year sentence. Guess who the Assistant D.A. was that made the plea deal?”
“Judge Knight,” Tunney said.
“You should have been an FBI profiler,” Jack said.
“Do they have any leads on this Little Bobby’s killer?” Tunney asked.
“Not that Yankowski told me. He’s digging on that end and will get back to me. Looks like we’re looking for the same killer,” Jack said.
“You’re probably on to something there, Jack. You’ve connected the dots, but I say again, how are the monkeys and the spikes involved?”
“I thought you would tell me,” Jack said.
“Okay. I’ll be your Huckleberry. A monkey was found in the throats of all three victims. Sonny, Knight and Little Bobby. Each carving depicts a different part of the legend of the Wise Monkeys. See No Evil. That’s Sonny. Hear No Evil, Knight. Do No Evil, Little Bobby. If we’re right, Sully will be next. Speak No Evil. I thought this guy Marty was interesting, but now I think he was just in the wrong place at the right time because he wasn’t killed.”
Jack asked, “What do you think of the old case Sonny and Sully were involved with in Boston? Knight gave the confessed killer a sweet deal. Maybe someone’s getting even.”
