Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  “Shut up!” Engler screamed. “Shut the fuck up!”

  “No witnesses. Remember? No goddamn witnesses! What’s that I see sitting behind you? A witness? Or your little fantasy wife?”

  “Keep talking.” Engler’s eyes blazed in the rearview mirror.

  “You got some sick freaky shit happening in your head, John. Sick.”

  Ann worked the duct tape off her mouth to breathe just as a second police car went by them in the opposite direction. She was beyond praying, beyond hoping. She was trapped in a nightmare. If Engler and Tribe didn’t kill each other first, one of them would kill her.

  She had to escape. Or die trying.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Kimberly Sue Gamer’s wedding diamond sparkled as she twined and untwined her fingers under the dome light of the Carter County Sheriff’s Department’s car.

  “I think he would’ve killed me.”

  Deputy Josh Throll nodded and passed her a fresh tissue.

  “I never stabbed anyone in my life, he just grabbed me and told me to keep quiet if I wanted to live.”

  Throll reviewed the notes he took during his twenty-minute interview with Gamer. She was a twenty-eight-year-old Sunday school teacher from Lone Grove. According to her, a white male had grabbed her from behind, forced her into the tent where he attempted to sexually assault her before she plunged her small blue-handled sewing scissors into his face. The pair her aunt Bell with the bad arthritis had given her. That was all Gamer could tell Throll. Thirty-one witnesses, most of them young girls, saw the suspect flee into the night. No one was certain which direction, or had a usable description.

  But Throll was undaunted.

  He had put in eleven years with the St. Louis Police Department, the last four as a homicide detective, before honoring his ailing mother’s wish and returning to Ardmore, Oklahoma, and the farm where he was raised. He touched Gamer’s hands to assure her. “Kimberly Sue, I want you to think. Are there any more details you can remember, anything, no matter how trivial? It might help.”

  “He stunk. Like beer and BO.”

  Throll noted it.

  “Did you call my husband at the tire plant?”

  “He’s on his way,” Throll said, thanking Gamer for her help. “I think we’re done for now. Please wait here. Joleen, the counselor from the county services, is on her way to talk to you, tell you what we need.”

  Gamer nodded, twisted her ring, and stared into the night. Throll’s flashing police lights lit up the encampment, along with those of the other cars that had responded.

  An Oklahoma Highway Patrol trooper had been first on the scene, followed by a night-shift officer from Healdton PD who’d caught wind of the call and came to assist. Two other Carter County deputies were stretching yellow crime scene tape around the tent. The Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation had paged on-call forensic agents.

  Throll’s skills as an investigator were respected by the younger lawmen. When they saw he’d finished with the victim and was searching the ground with his flashlight at the edge of the camp, they approached him.

  “What’s your read, Josh?”

  “Stop where you are, guys.” Throll’s request halted them. “Did any of the girls here, or any witnesses, say they saw our guy drive off?”

  “Nothing like that, Josh.”

  “I think he came on foot.” Throll’s flashlight lit on a beer can. “I don’t expect that belongs to anyone at this Bible camp.”

  “Hey, that’s a lead,” one of them said.

  “Chester, seal this spot. Get your car-wreck camera and take pictures of the can. I want OSBI to see if they can print that. And call Fred Reems again to get his dog out here.”

  “Josh, where’re you headed?” one of the officers called.

  “The motel. Bobby, come with me. Hang back a bit, watch my rear in case he’s out there. You other boys stay put. Protect the scene.”

  Moonlit Dreams was a ramshackle fleabag motel situated off a quiet stretch of State Road 76 between Healdton and Fox. Seeing as there was not much else nearby, it seemed a logical place to start looking. Throll made a direct line to it while raking his flashlight across the rolling oil-rich plain. After a short distance, he’d realized something and reached for his radio.

  “Chester, can you drive round to the motel, and grab every plate there, ask the night clerk for all registration information?”

  “Ten-four, Josh.”

  Throll stopped, so did Bobby, who was fifteen yards behind him also sweeping the field with his flashlight. Throll watched the camp as he talked on his radio. “Chester, be quiet about it. No lights or sirens. Try not to let anyone leave the motel.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Satisfied upon seeing a sheriff’s car leave the camp for the road to the motel, Throll, with Bobby behind him, resumed his trek. He searched for several more minutes, until his light picked up something that looked like trash.

  What’s this? Looks fresh. Take-out food box, fry tray, slaw tub, lid, foil wrapping. A grease-stained brown bag from Red-Jack BBQ, that chicken place down the road. He pulled out his pen, prodded the bag until he saw gold. A computerized receipt from Red-Jack with the date and purchase time.

  “Doreen?” Throll said into his radio to his dispatcher.

  “Go ahead, Josh.”

  “Get the night manager at Red-Jack BBQ to call me now on my cell.”

  “Sure, Josh.”

  “Hey, everything all right?” Bobby called.

  “Just marking this trash for OSBI.”

  Throll looked around until he found a couple of sticks. He shoved them in the ground, a yard from the bag and box, a crude evidence marker. Then he continued to the motel when his cell trilled and the keyboard lit up. “Throll.”

  “Hi, Deputy. Steve Suther at Red-Jack. We’re just locking up. Is there a problem?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Your security camera’s working okay, still recording?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you and your staff volunteer to stay late so I can view your tape from tonight with you, maybe talk to them about customers?”

  “Sure. Can you say what this is about?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Be there in about thirty minutes, Steve. Now don’t touch your security camera. It’s very important. Please.”

  “I understand, Deputy.”

  Throll stopped walking. He found a second beer can. “He stunk. Like beer and BO.”

  Several minutes later, Throll and Bobby arrived at Moonlit Dreams. They were greeted by Chester and the night clerk, a pimply-faced metal head wearing a black T-shirt, black jeans, and a black vest.

  “Josh, Jason here says he only rented two rooms tonight.” Throll’s eyes spotted the keys clipped to Jason’s Indian beaded belt. “You got the key to the rooms?”

  Jason jingled the set.

  Throll took the keys, waving Jason a safe distance aside. He sent a deputy to the rear while he and Bobby drew their guns. They started with number 6 and knocked.

  No response. No sounds.

  They unlocked the door and entered the empty unit.

  “Don’t move,” Throll said to Chester after switching on the light and spotting Kimberly Sue Gamer’s blue sewing scissors in the pool of blood on the floor.

  “Chester, Bobby, we’ve got to seal this room.”

  “Right.”

  “And get Doreen to call in the FBI. Chester, I got to borrow your car.”

  “Sure, where you going, Josh?”

  “To Red-Jack’s.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  After the case status meeting at the Hall of Justice, the homicide detail’s secretary rapped on the lieutenant’s open door. “Urgent call from Detective Gutteres in San Bernardino, Leo.”

  Gonzales caught Turgeon and Sydowski armed with files and departing. “Linda, Walt. Wait. It’s Gutteres. Can one of you take it?”

  “Send it to me,” Turgeon said.

  �
�What is it?” Sydowski said.

  “Said it was urgent,” the secretary said. “Also got Tom Reed out front for you, Walt.”

  “Reed? We were on our way to see him.” Sydowski set his files down.

  On the phone, Turgeon said, “Say that again.” Then, staying on the line, she waved for Sydowski to look at her notes. “Hang on, Marv. I got Walt here. San Bernardino’s got a shell casing with a new print. You won’t believe this.”

  “Could you tell Reed I’ll be a minute?” Sydowski asked the secretary.

  Turgeon went back on the phone. “The BATF and the FBI are helping out on the new stuff right now. Marv says a kid taking pump readings at a truck stop near Barstow saw a shell casing fall from an SUV a few days ago.”

  “A few days ago?”

  Turgeon ping-ponged between Sydowski and Gutteres on the phone.

  “Marv says the kid got sick, then forgot about it until all the news got out. Turns out the kid had picked up the casing, put it in his pocket; and get this, he noted the plate on his clipboard.” Turgeon nodded big nods. “The kid said two big white men. No female.”

  “Maybe she was concealed,” Sydowski said. Or dumped.

  “What’s that, Marv? They paid cash. That’s all he can remember. The time from the kid’s pump records would be consistent with a vehicle en route to Baker and Death Valley. The tag matches the VTN of our burned-out desert car.”

  “What about the casing?” Sydowski said.

  “Marv says BATF says the caliber matches the casings from the jewelry store. They’re running the latent and going through the truck stop’s security tapes for the time period. Not much there. Ball cap. Big glasses, long sleeves.”

  “They’re smart.” Sydowski nodded, hoping against the odds that the new print was distinct from Tribe’s. That would give them hope on both suspects.

  “Reed’s here, Linda, I’ll talk to him. You keep working with Marv and let Leo know what’s up.”

  Reed’s eyes were bloodshot. He hadn’t shaved. It broke Sydowski’s heart, knowing what he was going to tell him.

  “Tom, we were coming to see you.” Sydowski noticed Reed had a file bulging with papers and cassette tapes under his arm.

  “I can identify one of them, Walt.”

  Sydowski wondered how Reed could seriously identify anyone in his condition.

  “Tom, we’ve identified one too and we’re going to hold a news conference. We’ll talk in the interview room.” Reed sat at the table.

  “Are you okay?” Sydowski closed the door. “Getting any sleep?”

  “Walt, I’ve been on the street chasing stuff down.”

  “You’ve got to leave that to us. We talked about this.”

  “No one will stop me from searching for her.”

  “We’ve got a break, but brace yourself.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “No. We got a positive ID on one of the suspects.”

  “Engler. John Engler, is it him?” Reed patted his files.

  “Who?”

  “John Mark Engler. I did a story on him. It’s all in here. Is he your guy?”

  Puzzled, Sydowski glanced at Reed’s file folder, then his. “No, we’ve identified Delmar James Tribe, an ex-con from Folsom.”

  “Delmar Tribe? Never heard of him. But Engler went to Folsom.” Reed slid his file to Sydowski, telling him everything as he read.

  Turgeon entered.

  “Linda, call Marv.” Sydowski passed a few pages from Reed’s file to her. “Tell them to compare their latent from the truck stop immediately against John Mark Engler, if it’s not Tribe’s.” He tapped the page. “There’s Engler’s DOB, his CDC number, NCIC and LEADS numbers. Tom’s got it all right here.”

  “Sure, with those specifics it won’t take long. Be right back.”

  “And these cassettes, Tom?” Sydowski turned over three standard cassette recording tapes, each with sixty minutes of HF normal bias recording time.

  “Tapes of my interviews with Engler. They were in storage with tons of old stuff. I’m not very organized but I never throw anything away. I’ve listened to them again. I think he’s on the 911 tape you gave me.”

  Sydowski left and returned with a cassette player to run a minute or so of Reed’s tape, then the 911 recording. “We’ll have to pass it to an examiner,” he said. “See if they can get a positive or probable voice identification.”

  Turgeon returned, holding up a slip of paper. “Bingo. Direct hit. The print matches. John Mark Engler.”

  “Alert Leo, we’re going to need a warrant for him,” Sydowski said, “and we’ll get the FBI to help us get both Tribe and Engler blasted out there together on the news ASAP. In a few hours everyone in the country will be looking for these two. Tom, this is a break. Tom?”

  The smiles melted on Sydowski’s and Turgeon’s faces.

  Reed was lost in Sydowski’s file of Delmar James Tribe on a passage he’d found from a psychiatric report.

  Tribe has either raped, or tried to rape, every woman he’s had any substantial contact with. In many instances he hunted for victims and attempted to kill them afterward. We may never know how many times he’s succeeded....

  Reed was wrenched back to the grave site at Death Valley. He didn’t feel Turgeon’s hand on his shoulder. “Tom? Tom?” He felt the hellfire heat of the desert engulfing him, burning him alive. “Walt, we should call the paramedics. Tom?” The headless, handless corpse being lifted from the shallow grave.

  “Tom?”

  Why did he write about Engler? Why did he write about crime and dark things? He’d been warned.

  “Be careful...don’t get too close to your subject....”

  Reed’s darkness had manifested itself in the shape of two. Engler and Tribe. They had taken Ann.

  How could any sane person hope she was alive?

  SIXTY-THREE

  Tia Layne took a hit of coffee from her oversized takeout cup. She drummed her polished nails on the wheel of Worldwide's rented SUV, parked near the Hall of Justice. Her concentration never left the door where she expected Tom Reed to exit.

  “Something huge is popping in there, Cooter. Huge! Can’t you feel it?”

  Cooter was sleeping with his head pressed against the passenger window. Layne patted his knee. “You rest there, hon. You’ve earned it. It’s been hard work but it’s going to pay off. We’re so close now I can smell the money.”

  It was Cooter’s brilliant idea to hire a private investigator to report Reed’s movements. The PI’s late-night call had alerted them to Reed’s secret trip to Oakland where they’d struck gold with Angela, girlfriend of ex-cop Donnie Ray Ball, a convicted bank robber and Folsom inmate.

  This story kept getting better. Layne pulled out her cell phone. She pushed her speed-dial button for her editor in New York. Waiting for a connection, she reflected on their recent work.

  In Oakland, the PI, an “ex-federal agent” who kept a fat cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth, lent Cooter his parabolic microphone and night-vision video gear, “top-of-the-line, no blooming or whiteouts.” It was fantastic. They saw, heard, and recorded everything. Until Reed spotted them.

  They went back to the office, sent their uncut pictures off. The PI was good. In a few hours he would hand-deliver to Layne all the criminal files, photographs, news stories, and available photos that would help Layne tell the story of Reed’s link to the fugitive killers and his quest to find his wife. The total cost to Layne: five thousand bucks.

  But her reward...

  Sure, it might be measured in six figures, but how to measure the triumph of a woman who, after a lifetime of being made to feel inferior to others, proves her worth to the entire damned world?

  And soon her money would be in the bank.

  Come on Seth, answer. They had exclusive grainy dramatic night pictures from Oakland, Reed entering the Star at night, then rushing to the police. It was engrossing stuff.

  “Seth here.”

  “Tia in San Fr
ancisco.”

  “London wants to know the latest in California.”

  “We’ve just about got this nailed.”

  “London’s excited about the night footage. Thanks for rushing it to us. Legal is going through everything. The surreptitious recording, your controversial tie to this case over the previous incident. Indications are we should be clear on most of it, depending on how we present it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Routine ass covering. What’s the real status, Seth?”

  “Still no charges.”

  “And?”

  “London loves what you’ve got.”

  “But?”

  “They said all that’s required is an exclusive clip of Reed talking about his one-man pursuit. That would guarantee you’re the top story and bump the current piece, Hollywood addictions and infidelities. You’d be the Worldwide exclusive; ‘the story behind the story that has gripped America.’ Can you get Reed to talk about it on camera, Tia?”

  “For how long? He won’t do a sit-down.”

  “Longer is better, but even a few dramatic emotional seconds. Ambush him. Coldcock him on a public street. Do whatever it takes. We can stretch a few words, slow-mo his image. You know. It would harmonize with the story’s tone and our style.”

  “How much?”

  “One hundred.”

  “Two.”

  “We’ll talk when you get something.”

  “I know the numbers are hot for this story, Seth.”

  “Tia, can you get what’s needed?”

  “Shit! There he is! Cooter! Wake up, baby!”

  Reed exited the Hall of Justice.

  Layne dropped her phone, spilled her coffee as she shook Cooter. He growled awake, grabbed the camera, microphone cords dragged on the sidewalk; Layne scrambled to catch Reed as they rushed to the stairs.

  “Tom, please. Just a few words.”

  As he recognized Layne, Reed’s distress became disdain. “Get away from me. I’ve got nothing to say to you.” Reed walked fast down the street with Layne and Cooter in tow. No other press in sight.

  “Tom, we know about your incident with the drug dealers, your meeting with Angela in Oakland—”