by Rick Reed
“What did he say?” Jack offered.
“I asked if he wanted anything else. He said “No.” I told him I was closing. He left a twenty to pay a three-dollar tab and didn’t wait for change. I looked around when I left because I was scared he was after something else. Know what I mean?”
Jack didn’t want to know. The thought of it made him vomit in his throat just a little. “I can see where you would think that,” he lied.
“You’re so full of it,” she said and gave that mostly toothless smile again.
“Did anyone else come in?” Jack asked.
“Too cold,” she said, motioning toward the university dorms. “Them kiddies stay inside smoking their wacky-weed and fornicating all day like rabbits. Bunch a’ dummies. I hired one or two of them over the years, but they couldn’t even make change without getting on them damn phones.”
Jack changed the subject. “The car down the street with its engine running,” he prompted
“Yeah. I locked up and checked my surroundings—a woman can never be too aware. Plus I had the day’s money in my pocket. No one was on the street but there was that car half way down the block. That way.” She pointed south. “The engine was running and someone was in it. Maybe two people. I couldn’t see if it was man, woman or child.”
Jack asked for a description of the car and was surprised at how succinct the answer was.
“Seventy-four puke green Volkswagen Beetle,” Freyda said.
“You’re sure?” Liddell asked.
“Asshole husband owned one. I sold the damn thing the day after he died. Got me a Cadillac convertible. Always wanted one but asshole said it wasn’t in the budget. He was so tight he’d squeeze a penny until old Abe’s gums bled.”
Jack remembered seeing a faded green older model VW down the street when they arrived. He was getting on his radio when an officer came in.
“Detective Murphy, we’ve got a car down here that was stolen overnight,” the young officer said. “Stolen close to here. The owner is coming over. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Thank you,” Jack said.
“Wait a minute,” Freyda said. She went to the stove and came back with the remains of the cherry pie wrapped in aluminum foil.
Liddell said, “For me?”
Freyda answered, “You might as well take it. Won’t be many customers today.”
Jack turned at the door and asked, “Where was the customer sitting?”
“The other booth,” Freyda said. “Ain’t cleaned it yet. You think there might be some latent fingerprints you can run through that Automatic Fingerprint machine?”
Jack looked at the condition of the floor and countertop. In the back of the shop was another room with no door. “What’s back there?” he asked.
“Supplies,” Freyda answered. “And trash.”
“Freyda, is there any chance you didn’t wash the dishes?”
“Maybe. The pie he didn’t eat is in the trash can.” Her eyes widened. “DNA. You guys are almost as good as Mark Harmon. Want me to see if I can find them dishes and stuff?”
“I’ll have a crime scene detective come in and you can let him do that. You’ll need to show him where to look. Can you do that?” Jack asked.
Another toothless grin. “Will there be a reward?”
* * * *
Jack and Liddell followed the officer down the street to the stolen car. It matched the description Freyda had given them, except there was a dog inside this one. A black and white border collie jumped at the driver’s window, snarling and showing his displeasure at having three men leering in the windows.
“When I called the owner he said he didn’t have a dog. I’ve called Animal Control,” the officer said.
While the officer kept the dog’s attention on the driver’s side, Jack went to the passenger side and saw the ignition had been torn out. He said to the officer. “Be sure no one touches anything before crime scene can do their thing.”
“You think this car is involved?” the officer asked.
Jack had only seen the young officer around recently. Only a rookie would ask that question.
“Possible until we find out different,” Jack said. “Can you interview the owner when he shows up?”
To Jack’s disappointment the officer replied, “I don’t think he’ll know anything except his car got stolen.”
“You got something else important to do…?” Jack looked at the officer’s nametag. “Officer Keene.”
“I got off an hour ago, Detective Murphy. My wife’s pregnant and she’s sick, sir. I’m sorry but I didn’t think I’d be here this long.”
Jack wanted to say something like “That’s the job you signed up for kid,” but he said, “Wait until Animal Control gets the dog and you can go home. I’ll tell the Sergeant I dismissed you. I’ll take the report. Give me the guy’s name and such.”
Officer Keene handed Jack a page from his notebook and said, “The car owner’s name is Samantha Lee.”
“You’ll need to write up a detailed report of what you did here. When you were dispatched, etc. And tell Animal Control to keep the dog by itself. Don’t hurt it. When crime scene gets here, and the dog is gone, you can leave. Got it?”
“Got it,” the officer said.
Jack and Liddell headed back to The Coffee Shop when they heard a curse come from behind them. Jack turned in time to see Officer Keene on the ground and the Collie bouncing off his chest, coming their way fast.
“What the shit?” Liddell said as the dog flew past them and turned down the alleyway.
Keene ran after the dog. “Sorry, detectives. I was just checking to see if the car was unlocked and the damn thing came out.”
Jack rounded the corner. The dog was sitting beside the body, its haunches against the dead guy, teeth bared at the crime scene techs as they backed away.
“I guess we know whose dog it is,” Liddell said.
Keene put his hand on the butt of his gun and Jack put a hand on Keene’s arm. “Do not shoot the dog. Animal Control will be here. I need the dog alive and talking.”
Liddell muttered, “You old softie.”
“Bite me, Bigfoot.”
Jack’s cell phone buzzed and he pulled it from inside his heavy coat. To Liddell he said, “We need to get Freyda to ID the car.”
Jack answered the phone and the dispatcher said, “Jack, you and your partner are wanted behind the old sheet metal works off Fountain Avenue. That’s near the railroad tracks just across the creek.”
“We’re kind of busy here,” Jack said. “Can you send someone else? Call Captain Franklin. He’ll call someone in to take that run.”
“Captain Franklin knows what you’re on. He said to send you and Blanchard.”
When it rains it pours. “Okay. We’ll leave here in about five or ten minutes.”
“You need to go now, Jack. There’s multiple dead, and—”
Jack hung up on her. “We need to go.”
Bigfoot headed to their car.
“Who’s going to pick this one up?” Liddell said. It was a Saturday. They were the only detectives were working weekends and Captain Franklin had ordered both of them to go to the other scene.
“You call Walker, Bigfoot,” Jack said. “I’ll drive. I want to get there before the Earth cools. You drive like an old woman.”
“Do not,” Liddell said and made the call.
They jumped in the Crown Vic and headed toward the Fountain Avenue Bridge. Jack got on his cell and called dispatch. “Have the officer call my cell phone right away.”
His phone rang. “What have you got?”
The female officer’s voice was trembling like she was crying or was about to. “Oh God, Jack!”
Jack recognized the voice. It was Crime Scene Tech Joanie Ryan. He could hear voices in the backg
round giving commands to “Stand back. Move back.” He stepped up his speed and was there in just minutes.
He turned onto a gravel easement, drove over some railroad tracks and behind a warehouse where several police cars had formed a circle around a large Ryder box van. Outside of these cars were several news vans with antennae raised like ants surrounding their prey. A uniformed officer was talking to the driver of a news van by gestures that brooked no argument. The driver backed away from the scene, and the officer moved on to the next van, shooing them away.
Sergeant Mattingly directed the stringing of crime scene perimeter tape. He and his team were forcing the gawkers and news hawkers back almost to Fountain Avenue. In Jack’s world, there were two different sets of Constitutional rules. One for police. A different set for the news media. If police stood in someone’s yard or filmed through the window of their house there would be a lawsuit and criminal charges. The news media called it their First Amendment right.
Jack and Liddell made their way over to Crime Scene tech Joanie Ryan. She had composed herself but stood, camera in hand, an uncertain look on her face.
“Are you okay, Joanie?” Jack asked.
The words meant as comfort brought the tears flowing. “I never…”
“Show me,” Jack said. He took her arm and walked her toward the Ryder truck that was backed almost into the trees that lined Pigeon Creek. The doors of the truck were open. A cut padlock lay on the ground. Even without prior knowledge of what he would find, Jack could smell the contents before he rounded the back of the truck.
Inside, scattered in piles, were over a dozen bodies. A number of these were huddled along the back wall of the truck, nearest the cab. They appeared to have been clinging to each other for warmth. All were unmoving.
Jack asked Joanie, “Who cut the lock?”
“I did,” Sergeant Mattingly said as he approached them.
“Can you get the bridge closed off?” Jack asked Mattingly.
“I’ve got cars securing the road on both sides of it.”
Jack said, “Can you spare someone to go across the other side of the creek from here and keep the news from trying to film the back of the truck?”
“The buzzards are circling,” Mattingly said, and moved away to give the orders.
Jack said, “Before I forget, at the other murder I told Officer Keene he could go home to his wife.”
Mattingly said, “Keene’s not married.”
“The lying little shit,” Liddell said out loud.
Jack held a hand up and said, “Shhh. Listen.” He listened and looked for any signs inside. In the pile of bodies at the back, near the truck’s cab, the fingers of a small hand moved and the sound came again.
“Someone’s alive!” Jack shouted and hoisted himself into the opening.
Acknowledgments
Writing fiction is akin to lying with permission. I’ve been asked if I ever have writer’s block. My response is always, “No. But I have liar’s block. I can’t remember what lie I just told.” This novel is a work of fiction and is not intended to reflect negatively on any law enforcement agency. Any resemblance to persons, places, or events is unintentional and a figment of your overactive imagination. Shame on you.
I want to acknowledge the Evansville Police Department for allowing Jack Murphy and Liddell Blanchard work among their ranks.
A very good friend, Marty Crispino, was the inspiration for the Uncle Marty character in this book. Another good friend, Mindy Middleton, graciously allowed me to use her name for one of the main characters. The real Marty doesn’t break legs to collect debts and the real Mindy is not an airhead.
Writing a series is difficult work. I could not do it without the help of my editor, Michaela Hamilton, and Kensington Books’ expert staff of marketing, publicity, designers, proofers, copy editors, legal professionals, and all the others that work the magic of publishing. When I was a teen I worked in a donut shop making the dough (not money). The bakers would then transform this glob of stuff into wonderful donuts and pastries. My relationship with Kensington is just that. I make the dough, they make the donuts.
I thank all of you who have read, written to me and/or written reviews of my books, either to praise or to critique.
Meet the Author
Photo by George Routt
Sergeant Rick Reed (Ret.), author of the Jack Murphy thriller series, is a twenty-plus-year veteran police detective. During his career, he successfully investigated numerous high-profile criminal cases, including a serial killer who claimed thirteen victims before strangling and dismembering his fourteenth and last victim. He recounted that story in his acclaimed true-crime book, Blood Trail.
Rick spent his last three years on the force as the commander of the police department’s Internal Affairs Section. He has two master’s degrees, and upon retiring from the police force, took a full-time teaching position with a community college. He currently teaches criminal justice at Volunteer State Community College in Tennessee and writes thrillers. He lives near Nashville with his wife and two furry friends, Lexie and Belle.
Please visit him on Facebook, Goodreads, or at his website, www.rickreedbooks.com. If you’d like him to speak at your event, or online, you can contact him at his website or at bookclubreading.com
