Kill Tide

by Timothy Fagan

  Then Pepper had a thought that gripped him like an icy hand on his neck.

  If I die, I’ll never get to explain…

  Then his world slid to darkness.

  Chapter Forty-One

  WONDERBOY.

  That’s what the Boston Herald headline called Pepper the next morning. The TV news anchors quickly picked up the story and Pepper’s new nickname.

  When he woke, his dad told him all about it and showed him copies of the Herald and the Boston Globe. He learned he was in a hospital bed at Cape Cod Hospital in Hyannis. His dad was in a chair by his side. Jake was in a chair by the window. Both looked exhausted and worried.

  The evening before came flooding back in nightmare fashion. Stopping the van. The chase. The fight. The blood. Pepper had a sudden panic that under the influence of painkillers he might have already blurted out the truth about the brown van incident.

  After a light knock at the door Lieutenant Eisenhower stepped in, holding hands with Mrs. Eisenhower. Zula was a step behind them, looking scared and younger than her fourteen years.

  Mrs. Eisenhower came over and leaned in as if to give him a hug. After seeing all of his bandages, she settled for squeezing his leg.

  Zula stayed at the foot of the bed with her father, staring at Pepper. Her eyes were almost as big as her glasses. They were red like she’d been crying.

  “You look awful,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “Thanks, kid. So do you.”

  She gave a little laugh and swatted at his feet. The old Zula.

  “I was just about to fill Pepper in on everything he missed,” said his dad. He did so, quickly and efficiently, like he was testifying in court.

  The police had cleared the cab of the brown van, then opened the back of the van to clear that too, and they had found a nine-year-old girl named Leslie Holbrook, mouth, hands and legs bound by duct tape, but awake and feisty. She was kicking the van’s rear doors even as the police opened it.

  “I heard thumping noises,” interrupted Pepper. “But I didn’t know what they were.”

  His dad continued. The New Albion police, the sheriff’s office, the Staties and the FBI had swarmed the scene. They’d found a white bag lying in the deep grass back by the intersection—Leslie’s beach bag. She’d been walking home in the warm rain with a friend which her parents had told her not to do. Once they had reached the friend’s house, Leslie decided to walk the final two blocks home by herself.

  Leslie’s parents called 911 fifteen minutes after the van stop, not knowing where their daughter was, and a police officer had picked them up at their house and driven them to the crime scene to see that Leslie was okay.

  His dad said Leslie was unharmed other than bruises received while trying to fight off her abductor, an egg on her head which might have happened when the van hit the tree, and the unbelievable trauma of the incident. The police had taken her to the hospital with her parents to be examined and treated.

  “Who was the guy?” Pepper asked. The guy he’d killed.

  “His name was Leo Flammia.” His dad explained that Flammia lived in New Albion and was one of the persons of interest they’d interviewed as part of the investigation. He’d served eighteen months in prison and was paroled five years ago. He had a small landscaping business in town.

  Pepper remembered he’d been in the Big Red Yard on Monday, meeting with Dennis Cole. He wondered if Cole and Flammia had crossed paths there. And he also wondered again where Cole had disappeared to.

  “We’re searching his home and his space at the Big Red Yard,” said Eisenhower. “And we’re bringing in a K9 this afternoon.”

  “So no one’s found the girls yet?” Pepper asked, and couldn’t help looking over at Zula.

  “Not yet,” said Eisenhower, his face failing to hide his disappointment.

  His dad continued. They’d gotten a quick search warrant and searched Flammia’s home, but they found no sign of the Emmas. Nor the two million dollars in ransom money. They had discovered a yellow legal pad which had been used to write the ransom note, with indent markings on the pad to prove it.

  The police also found four Rite Aid bags in the front seat of the van. The bags held all kinds and sizes of tampons, maxi pads and other feminine hygiene products.

  “The Orleans police actually got a call from a Rite Aid clerk over in the Orleans Shopping Center. The clerk thought it was weird that a guy would buy so many random female items. So she reported it.”

  “We don’t have DNA results from inside the van yet,” added Lieutenant Eisenhower. “But we’re confident Leo Flammia was the Greenhead Snatcher. His van was originally white—he repainted it brown within the last couple of days. Probably he hoped a cheap paint job would throw us off.”

  Pepper felt a little better knowing the man he killed was the Snatcher and that the girls were likely alive. “So the other suspects—they had nothing to do with it?” he asked.

  “Looks like that’s true,” said Eisenhower. “It’s a weird coincidence Flammia lived only two blocks from Casper Yelle, our old number one suspect. We were that close to the right location…”

  “Absolutely,” said Pepper’s dad. “Last night we showed Flammia’s picture to the staff at Sandy’s Seafood Restaurant. Several waitresses said he was a regular—once or twice per week that summer. Always alone. And we asked the waitresses if Flammia ever spoke to our other suspect, Scooter McCord. No one remembered seeing them talk, but no one was sure.”

  “The FBI’s still comfortable Flammia acted alone. For now, anyway,” said Eisenhower. “Even though he wasn’t as intelligent as the FBI’s profile had predicted.”

  “He might have been on something last night,” said Pepper. “He seemed like he was high, unless he was just crazy.”

  “Either way, he’s dead now,” said Eisenhower. “So it’s all about finding the girls now.”

  And there it was. Pepper knew the brutal truth, which Eisenhower wasn’t saying in front of his wife and daughter. Pepper had killed the only man who knew where the girls were.

  “We’ll find them,” said his dad. Everyone went silent for a long minute.

  “So what about all these bandages?” asked Pepper, trying to change the subject. “When can I get out of here?”

  “You had a .22 bullet in your shoulder,” answered his dad. “You had surgery last night to remove it.” He explained Pepper had also been shot in the hip, but that shot grazed him and he only had a superficial wound. “And you lost the top half inch of your left thumb. We think the same bullet hit Flammia in the throat and killed him.”

  “So when you get to Harvard, you’ll only be able to count to nine and a half,” joked Jake. Everyone tried to laugh.

  “The doctors say you’re still in serious condition,” said his dad. “They’re worried about infections. Other complications like that.”

  “But the database?” joked Pepper.

  He was glad his dad smiled. Then his face became serious again, and he said, “You’re a hero, son. But I’ve asked the state police to do an independent review of the incident, since you were driving a New Albion police vehicle when it happened. I’ve hired a great lawyer named Barnaby Stamen to sit in on the interview. It’s just routine, but it’s the right thing to do.”

  Pepper knew that when a New Albion police officer was in an officer-involved shooting, New Albion handed over the investigation to the state police to investigate. Pepper wasn’t actually a police officer. And he hadn’t been carrying a weapon and hadn’t shot Flammia. His dad was probably taking the cautious route since he was the New Albion chief of police and didn’t want any criticism about a whitewashing of the incident.

  “Fine,” said Pepper, but it wasn’t fine. What could he do—say he’d been trying to piss off his dad, to get fired? No way.

  He promised himself he’d keep it simple, answer the Staties’ questions. He had only one goal—to not reveal the truth. Because the true story, clear and painful in his mind, was that he’d
initially stopped the brown van with a stupid, selfish purpose: to force his dad to fire him. The situation had unfolded so fast and escalated so unexpectedly… He hadn’t really had time to think.

  Secretly, he considered himself responsible for everything which followed, including the van driver Flammia’s death. It was just incredible, dumb luck the man had committed a kidnapping only minutes earlier. The entire incident appeared to be something miraculously just and wonderful. Like heroics right out of a movie. Instead of what it’d really been—selfish, immature and probably illegal. A disgraceful incident which would have sunk his family’s reputation and his own future.

  He didn’t want to even think about it.

  Lieutenant Eisenhower leaned over and hugged his daughter Zula. She hugged him back.

  Pepper knew Zula was not much older than Leslie Holbrook. And that Zula was pretty much her dad’s entire world. He knew with no doubt that Eisenhower would have his back, despite any open questions in the lieutenant’s mind.

  Pepper knew what he would do. He would keep his story simple. Get by with as few lies as possible. He could ride this thing out, right? He closed his heavy eyes.

  I’ll survive this week and then no one will ever know the truth.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “You’re a hero and a victim,” said Barnaby Stamen, Pepper’s new criminal defense attorney. The man had arrived in Pepper’s hospital room with his dad.

  Stamen was a short man—about 5’5” with a bald, shiny head and round green-framed glasses. He was wearing the most expensively tailored charcoal suit Pepper had ever seen. His shiny black shoes had little tassels.

  Pepper’s dad had told him Stamen was the only criminal defense attorney on Cape Cod he would hire if he was in trouble himself. Stamen owed Pepper’s dad a favor and his dad had called it in and got him to the hospital on short notice.

  After Stamen clucked over Pepper’s injuries, he asked his dad to wait in the hall. Then he asked Pepper to tell him what happened.

  By now Pepper’s head was clear enough, and he’d had enough time to get his story straight. So he told his story to Stamen (the simple, bullshit hero version, leaving out that he’d been an idiot who was actually trying to get fired).

  Stamen didn’t interrupt. He just took notes in tiny handwriting and nodded encouragingly as Pepper spoke. When he finished, Stamen smiled. “Very good. When you tell your story to the state detectives, do it exactly like that. Focus on the facts. Oh, and don’t assume they’re here to help you or that they’ll be fair.”

  “Ah, okay…” said Pepper.

  “They will ask you some hard questions. The shorter your answers, the better. Don’t worry, just tell the simple truth.”

  Easy for you to say, thought Pepper.

  The two state police detectives arrived shortly after lunchtime.

  They introduced themselves as Dan Miller and Wendy Chin and said they were attached to the Cape and the Islands district attorney’s office.

  Detective Miller was a heavy white guy with salt-and-pepper hair in his late forties—he looked like he was one fisherman’s platter away from a heart attack.

  Detective Chin was of Asian heritage and looked to be in her thirties. She also looked like she competed in triathlons. Ropy arms, athletic, short hair.

  They both had the same severe cop eyes as his dad. Like they’d seen it all, so don’t even dream about bullshitting them.

  Which Pepper knew he had to do.

  The detectives pulled up chairs at the foot of Pepper’s bed. Barnaby Stamen had positioned his chair at Pepper’s side.

  Detective Chin placed a recording device on the tray table next to Pepper’s half-eaten turkey sandwich. She recited the time, the location, and who was in the room.

  Each detective also had a legal pad and pen to take notes.

  She stated that Massachusetts state police assigned to the district attorney’s office had responded to an accident scene last night and were responsible for collecting evidence, interviewing witnesses and conducting a review of the incident, including Pepper Ryan’s role in it.

  “Is Pepper your legal name?” asked Chin.

  “It’s Peter Ryan. But you can call me Pepper.”

  Then Detective Chin asked him to tell what had happened last night.

  And Wonderboy lied, of course.

  Pepper began his narrative at the moment he first saw the brown cargo van. He stuck to what had happened, step by step, leaving out his feelings, his opinions and any side comments. Just the facts, ma’am.

  Stopping the van that’d run the stop sign.

  Calling dispatch for backup.

  Getting rammed.

  The chase and running the van off the road.

  The gunshots and the fight in the street.

  Pepper’s first-aid attempts and the man’s death.

  Lieutenant Eisenhower’s arrival at the scene.

  Leaving out the bad stuff, like why he’d taken the police car. He left out Delaney Lynn, his plans to quit and his inspiration to get fired.

  The detectives didn’t interrupt. When Pepper reached the end of the story, they asked him to start again from the beginning. This time they interrupted him with questions.

  “Why did you focus on the van on the first place?”

  “It was driving erratically. It ran the stop sign and its right-turn indicator was signaling, but it drove straight instead. But that wasn’t the important thing. I believed the van was being operated suspiciously and probably was involved in the two abductions in the Cape in the past week.” Pepper said it just like Stamen had agreed was the right way to say it.

  “You believed it was the van used by the Greenhead Snatcher?” asked Detective Miller, sounding incredulous.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll circle back to that,” said Detective Chin. “Where were you going? Isn’t your home in the other direction?”

  “I was picking up a friend on the way home.”

  He told them Delaney’s name and address. He didn’t know her phone number by heart and didn’t want the Staties scrolling through his phone. Detective Miller noted Delaney’s info on a little pad.

  “Did you think at the time you had probable cause to stop the van?” asked Chin.

  Pepper didn’t like the way she hopped around with her questions. He knew it was a tactic to trip him up if he was lying…

  Stamen had earlier explained to Pepper that a law enforcement officer needed to have reasonable suspicion a driver had violated a traffic law before he could pull over a vehicle. The detective’s tone suggested she didn’t think he’d had probable cause.

  “I wasn’t acting as an officer,” said Pepper, as Stamen had coached him to say. “I was making a citizen’s arrest.” He explained he believed, based on the specific circumstances, that an abduction had just occurred.

  Stamen interrupted smoothly. “And the good news is Massachusetts law is perfectly clear on this point. A private citizen can lawfully arrest someone who has in fact committed a felony.”

  “Can you explain again why you suspect an abduction took place before you arrived at the intersection?” asked Miller. Still sounding doubtful. Maybe even belligerent? “You couldn’t have known the driver of that van had just kidnapped a girl. Not many officers could have made such a leap of intuition, let alone an inexperienced cadet.”

  Pepper swallowed.

  Stamen fielded this question too. “The beauty of the law on this point is that it doesn’t matter,” the attorney said. “Mr. Flammia had in fact committed a felony—aggregated kidnapping, since he carried a firearm. There’s no doubt about the evidence on that fact. It doesn’t matter if Mr. Ryan had probable cause, or acted on what you would consider merely a hunch. The citizen’s arrest is justified by Mr. Flammia’s felony.”

  Detective Miller looked like he wanted to continue arguing the point, but Detective Chin took the questioning in a different direction again. She asked a series of questions about the wrestling match on
the road.

  “You said you saw a handgun in the man’s hand. What make and caliber?”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “And what weapons did you have?”

  “None.”

  Detective Miller interjected. “Then why the hell did you do it?”

  Pepper paused, getting angry but trying to push down his emotions. “I was reacting to his attack. How many times should I have let him kill me before defending myself?”

  Stamen held up a hand and Pepper stopped talking.

  “Tell us again everything the man said to you during the struggle,” requested Detective Chin.

  “Not very much. No full sentences or anything. I think he said, ‘We don’t’ and ‘We can’t’…” Pepper found he was sweating now as he relived the moment-by-moment details of the van incident. “At least that’s what I remember.”

  The questioning dragged on. In total, how many shots were fired? Five, probably. Was Pepper’s finger on the trigger the final time the firearm discharged? No.

  Then Detective Miller swung the questioning in a different direction. “So why were you recently involved in a ransom drop to the Greenhead Snatcher?”

  “Whoa, whoa…that has nothing to do with the incident under review,” objected Stamen.

  “No? The kid drops off two million dollars to a kidnapper, then the next day he kills the same guy?” asked Miller, his voice making it clear he didn’t believe in that kind of coincidence.

  “If you want to know more about the ransom drop, talk to the FBI,” said Pepper. “They’ll tell you whatever you need to know about it. They were in charge, not me. And I didn’t volunteer to do the ransom drop, the FBI drafted me. So I tried to deliver the money to help get the girls back alive.”

  “Well, that hasn’t worked out very well, has it?” grumbled Miller.

  Then the detectives took Pepper back to the beginning of the incident and worked him forward for a third time, branching out with their questions and asking old questions again, with new slants.

  Then Miller almost got him. “Was it usual for you to drive home a police vehicle?”