Tagged for Murder

by Jack Fredrickson

  ‘Weasel’s dirty in this?’

  ‘Hard to tell where Weasel comes down. Some of his clothes were grabbed out of his house. He might have escaped.’

  ‘A drug lab, you’re sure?’

  ‘One big-time facility is being set up now. Two more buildings are being kept, and guarded, for later.’

  ‘You’re messing with cartel,’ he said.

  ‘Someone big, for sure.’

  He looked down the street, thinking. ‘There’s a guy I’ve done work for. He’s something like you, Dek. He loves a challenge and comes across as righteous.’

  ‘All I want from him is a device and expertise.’

  ‘He’ll have to check things out, make sure you’re on the level and that the target isn’t.’

  ‘How do I contact him?’

  ‘You don’t; I do. If he’s interested, he’ll contact you. He’ll want details, and then he’ll verify them. He works only with burner phones. You’ll never see him, you’ll never meet – at least not face-to-face.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘I’ll make contact,’ he said, and went back inside.

  THIRTY-SIX

  They returned to search the bank of the Willahock at nine the next morning. I walked down, for I’d been up half the night, working out details. They were two of those details. I was fully inspired.

  I knew the squat, unshaven fellow in the army surplus camouflage jacket and backward Oakland Raiders ball cap, of course. He was Benny Fittle, the town’s parking enforcement officer, the fellow I’d awakened after he’d fallen asleep in the process of parking his orange Maverick.

  I did not know the girl in the slightly smaller army camouflage jacket, though I’d seen her with him often, the past few months. She was dumpy like him and also wore rock band T-shirts in warmer weather. I’d never seen her up close, but as I approached them, I saw that her face had the familiar pinched features and small eyes of the clan that ran Rivertown.

  ‘Oh … hey, Mr E,’ Benny said, as startled as when he’d jerked awake in his half-parked car. There was no longer any mystery about what had tired him so powerfully that day; he’d been spending most of his nights fully awake, helping his squeeze bang a drone up the side of my turret.

  He turned his back to the muck along the riverbank, as though frightened that what they were searching for might suddenly burst up from the water like a joyous, whiskered carp and reveal itself, and its mission, to me.

  ‘Looking for something, Benny?’

  ‘Sorta.’

  ‘And you are?’ I asked, turning to the girl staring at her muddy, high-topped green sneakers.

  ‘Edwina,’ she said, still looking down. A flush had risen on her pale, acned neck.

  ‘Edwina who?’ I asked, like I couldn’t guess.

  ‘Edwina Derbil,’ Benny said, ever the helpful gentleman.

  ‘Elvis’s …?’

  ‘Niece,’ she said, looking up at last. She fished in her muddy jeans pocket, and came out with a crumpled business card. Below the City of Rivertown seal, emblazoned with a rendering of my turret at its center, it read, ‘Edwina Derbil, Aviation Department.’

  It so figured – an aviation department created to oversee the operation of one drone, a drone that had now gone missing – as a brain spasm of her uncle. Elvis Derbil, Rivertown’s zoning commissioner, had been my nemesis since the day I’d materialized unexpectedly in his office, flat broke, unshaven and likely stinking of whiskey, to request an occupancy permit to move into the five-story limestone turret that I’d inherited.

  It had been decades since Rivertown’s ruling lizards, invoking eminent domain, seized most of my grandfather’s acreage and all of his great pile of unused limestone blocks to build a magnificent city hall of tiny public rooms and expansive private offices along the Willahock River. They’d not wanted the turret – the only part of a castle my grandfather managed to get built – and so it had languished in my family’s hands, who’d not wanted it either. For years, it accrued unpaid taxes and pigeon streaks, until the lizards sought to lure new developers to their greasy, rusting old factory town. They termed this potential rebirth the Rivertown Renaissance, and adopted the turret as its symbol, it being the only medieval-looking structure around. To make sure their new symbol would remain unchanged by any future owners, they offered my aunt, the last known survivor of my grandfather’s children, a deal. They would wipe away all the years of unpaid taxes in exchange for being allowed to rezone the turret as a municipal structure, thereby ensuring that the exterior of their new icon could not be changed without lizard approval. Such a zoning change, reclassifying a privately owned building into a municipal structure, was something that could only have been conceived in a slick grease pot like Rivertown.

  My aunt, no dummy, seized the deal to free herself and her children from any liability for those back taxes. But to make doubly sure she and her heirs would be free of them forever, she willed the turret to me.

  As a municipal structure, it accrued no new taxes and so, for years, I ignored it, too. But then I’d gotten falsely accused of faking evidence in a notorious criminal trial. I was exonerated, but my notoriety cost me clients and I’d spiraled drunkenly out of control, and out of my marriage. Wisely, Amanda had thrown me out of her home. I had no place to go except to the turret, which, in one of my foggiest inspirations, I began to see as something I could restore into a saleable residence, while maybe, just maybe, restoring myself.

  Elvis Derbil had to give me an occupancy permit because I owned the turret, but he’d warned me of the codicil. The city of Rivertown, protecting its icon, forbade any modification to the turret’s exterior. For a recovering drunk in dire need of shelter, I accepted the restriction as something I could fight later on, when the turret, and I, dried out.

  Now Elvis had sensed an illegal modification. He, or one of his grubs, must have spotted the delivery of my furnace some months before and figured that where there’s fire, there must be smoke, and therefore an unallowable chimney vent cut somewhere into the turret’s exterior. And so he’d created a department of aviation – in a suburb that had no runways, no hangars and no planes – and outfitted his niece, Edwina, and her tag-along boyfriend with a camera fitted to a drone to find proof of the illegal exterior modification. It was but the latest round in a series of bouts between Elvis and me.

  ‘You’ve spent quite a bit of time lately looking for something,’ I said now to Edwina, the aviation czarina.

  She nodded, and so, therefore, did Benny.

  ‘Using something you’ve been banging up the side of my turret, ruining my sleep.’

  Only Edwina nodded this time. Benny simply yawned.

  ‘A drone to surreptitiously photograph the exterior of my turret,’ I said.

  Edwina Derbil looked away, likely from embarrassment. Benny said, ‘Huh?’

  ‘“Surreptitiously” means “sneakily,”’ I said to him.

  He smiled and nodded in agreement.

  ‘And now your drone, Rivertown’s sole aircraft, has gone missing?’

  ‘My uncle will kill me,’ Edwina said. ‘He spent six hundred dollars on it.’

  ‘Including the camera?’

  Tears began streaming down her face. ‘That was extra.’

  ‘I’ll help you look for your drone, but if I find it, you have to spend a couple of hours teaching me how to operate it,’ I said.

  Edwina nodded quickly. Benny yawned.

  ‘Until then, don’t waste your time searching,’ I said, ‘and, for sure, don’t waste your time searching for changes to the turret.’ There’d been no changes. I’d snaked the heatproof vent piping up through one of the fireplace chimneys so it wouldn’t be spotted.

  Edwina smiled, full of hope for the drone. Benny smiled, too, full of hope for sleep. Watching them both leave, I had the thought I’d like some hope, too.

  Five minutes later, my phone rang.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘Mr Elstrom?’ The call was coming
from a blocked number.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ve been referred to me.’ The voice, tinny and mechanical, was coming through some sort of voice synthesizer.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll meet.’

  ‘I thought it was only by phone.’

  ‘It’s both.’ He named a Wal-Mart five miles away, in the city. ‘Be in the parking lot in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Where shall I park?’

  ‘Wherever you’d like.’ He clicked off.

  The man was careful, not only in using a synthesizer and a burner phone, but in setting up a meet on the spur of the moment, too quickly for anyone to mobilize something against him. I figured he was already in that Wal-Mart parking lot, watching now to see who arrived. I hurried down to the Jeep.

  The parking lot was two-thirds full. I took a slow turn around the perimeter, sure that Booster had told the man what I’d be driving, and then parked in the middle so he’d know I wasn’t interested in isolating him to be seen.

  My phone rang a moment later, from a different blocked number. ‘Now, exit your vehicle,’ the synthesized voice said. ‘Remove your outerwear and stand by your front bumper.’

  I got out, tossed my peacoat back into the Jeep and went to the front bumper.

  ‘Thank you,’ he went on. ‘Tell me what you wish, and why.’

  I didn’t look around. It wouldn’t have done me any good. The man was too careful, too cautious. He was sitting in one of the cars or trucks parked close enough to have a clear view of me, likely behind dark tinted glass.

  I began by telling him of the corpse found dead on the railcar, and the subsequent explosion of the Central Works building.

  ‘I read it was arson,’ he said.

  ‘Fire plus explosion. The building – an abandoned, uninsured building – was wired to explode in case uninvited competitors or cops stopped by.’

  ‘Professional rigging, professional explosion.’

  ‘The purchasers of the Central Works bought three other buildings, so the loss of one wouldn’t slow their mission. All might be wired to explode in the same way.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘I’m worried some higher-ups are corrupted. Two teams of detectives are working the Central Works victim and the deaths that followed. The lawyer who handled the real estate purchases, the realtor who found the properties, the property manager and his receptionist who fronted for the real buyers have all been killed, their links to the property buyers eradicated. The cops are fumbling with it all, perhaps being deliberately directed to not collaborate.’

  ‘That’s why you’re taking back? Because the cops won’t?’

  There it was again, that phrase, ‘Taking back.’ It wasn’t just Amanda’s; it wasn’t just what was crudely lettered on the Rules of the Block boards in Austin. ‘Taking back’ might have become the budding mantra for those in Chicago furious enough to begin taking matters into their own hands. And, I supposed, I’d become part of that movement, and it was why I’d come to that Wal-Mart parking lot.

  ‘Innocents are dying,’ I said. ‘Innocents like the realtor’s assistant, who got murdered a couple of days ago. Innocents like all the hapless kids that are going to overdose on the drugs made in those drug labs.’

  I told him of the Vanderbilt Supply and the Bureski buildings, boarded up and empty except for armed guards and, likely, explosives. And I told him of the fourth building, where I supposed the fixtures and equipment originally destined for the Central Works site had been rerouted.

  ‘You’re sure it’s being outfitted as a drug lab?’

  ‘Sure enough to set a fire, at least. My evidence is circumstantial, but if that building, or either of the two others, was intended for a good purpose, the projects would have been hyped by aldermen, and even the mayor. I’ve searched the Internet, where everything seems to get reported. I found nothing. Everything’s being kept under the radar.’

  ‘How about building inspectors? Bought off?’

  ‘It’s been known to happen, especially in Chicago.’

  He paused, thinking, and then asked, ‘You want to level that building to the ground?’

  ‘I want it to be noticed. I want it to be swarmed by firefighters, cops and news people. I don’t need to destroy that building and risk killing any innocent people working inside. I do want to kill what’s being planned by shining a harsh light on it, and that means a fire on the roof hot enough to spread down a floor or two. I want an investigation to follow that no one can kill.’

  ‘But if it’s wired to explode …?’

  ‘Then that’s an answer in itself.’

  ‘What are you envisioning, exactly?’

  ‘As I said, a burn from the top down. I want to land a drone on the roof to set the fire.’

  ‘Visible for miles around? Intriguing, but why not simply approach on the ground?’

  ‘The building sits by itself in the middle of a bulldozed clearing. It is heavily guarded. I’d never get close enough.’

  ‘Where is this building?’

  I gave him the location.

  ‘I will assess this. Do you have experience with drones?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘I’ve prepared the sort of device you’re seeking twice before.’ He told me of a shop not far away that sold a specific model of hobbyist drone. ‘Buy one, Mr Elstrom, and familiarize yourself with its operation. Become proficient quickly.’

  ‘You require nothing more of me?’

  ‘Our mutual friend assured me you’re to be trusted for truth and confidentiality. Please drive off.’

  ‘When will you get back to me?’

  ‘No telling. Until then, you’ll merely own an expensive toy.’

  Six hundred and fifty dollars later – the price of the drone Booster’s shadowy man had specified – I found Benny Fittle double-parked on his usual turf, one of the side streets immediately off Thompson Avenue. He was writing a ticket for a sedan whose meter still had eighteen minutes to run before expiring.

  ‘We’re set to go,’ I said.

  He put his stub of a pencil back to the top of his ear as comprehension descended on his face. ‘You found it?’ he asked.

  I tried to beam like I’d actually searched.

  ‘Wait till I tell Edwina,’ he said, moving toward his car.

  ‘We’ll meet where?’

  ‘Elvis Derbil, in a half-hour,’ he said, untroubled by the fact that he was on duty.

  I headed back to the turret, grabbed the City of Rivertown drone and drove to the park that Elvis Derbil, the city’s zoning commissioner and uncle of Edwina, had named for himself. A manufacturer of harsh engine degreasing chemicals had operated there until its sewer drains began catching fire. The city bought the property – from a cousin of a previous mayor, which raised no eyebrows in Rivertown – and bulldozed the building. It was now a park in name only, a clearing bereft of playground equipment, baseball diamonds and goalposts, since grass wouldn’t grow on ground that even years later oozed up noxious, dark liquids.

  They were already there. Edwina spotted the city’s drone on top of the box I was carrying and ran up, her arms outstretched.

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Some instruction will be thanks enough,’ I said, unboxing my own drone.

  ‘Yours is nicer,’ Benny said.

  Mine was black and significantly larger – three feet square. Though both drones had four rotors, Booster’s mysterious acquaintance must have specified a larger one because it could carry a heavy object.

  Edwina loaded the batteries into my drone and control unit, motioned for us to step back, and pressed a toggle-like stick at the center of the control. The drone rose slowly, straight up, sounding like bees.

  She performed some simple maneuvers, back and forth, up and down, and piloted the drone back to a smooth landing. She seemed so proficient that I wondered why she’d kept banging her drone against the side of the turret, until I realized she’d be
en probing the limestone closely for the smallest of vent holes.

  She handed me the control. ‘It’s simple.’

  I pressed the button. The rotors whirred louder, and the drone lifted straight up. Manipulating the joystick, I aimed the drone in one direction after another.

  She was right. It was alarmingly simple to operate and, five minutes later, I told them they could both go. I stayed around for another hour until the drone and control batteries wore down, and then I headed back to the turret to recharge them and my thinking.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Blue lights flashed in Kutz’s clearing.

  I’d planned on returning Herbie that night. I’d come to reconnoiter, to think, to plan out the simple steps I needed to drop him in that guarded clearing, after dark.

  But cops were there now.

  I shot my right foot to the brake pedal, to slam to a stop, to shift into reverse and be gone. But I’d be noticed. And maybe I’d be chased.

  I eased my foot back to the accelerator and drove forward slowly.

  The two Rivertown cruisers were nosed up to the trailer. One cop leaned against one of the cars, smoking a cigarette. The other cop wasn’t visible, which might have meant he was around back. By the freezer.

  I shut off the engine a good distance away, first thinking to sit in the Jeep, breathing deep, strategizing words to say and surprise to show. But such an obvious lack of curiosity about the presence of two cop cars would raise interest even in someone as sluggish as the leaning, smoking Rivertown patrol officer, for any normal citizen would jump out nosy, race up to the cop and demand to know what was going on. So I did just that. I got out, a normal nose, and walked up to him on legs that didn’t feel normal at all.

  ‘Hey, Elstrom,’ he said. He knew me. All the cops knew me. Some, the veterans, remembered when I’d been a murder suspect in high school. Others, younger, knew me as the oddball that lived in the stone cylinder they passed several times a day on their way to and from the police station hidden discreetly at the back of city hall. He was one of the younger ones.