by William Mark
“One more?” the bartender asked.
Curt held the stare of Rachel Goodwin, and without facing the bartender, he declined the drink and put down cash to settle the bill. Rachel smiled at the small victory for her new friend. She knew it was a hard choice to make but was glad he did. As Curt stepped away from the bar, she noticed a small medallion hung loosely around his neck. She recognized it immediately.
“St. Anthony, huh?”
Curt, unsure of where the question came from, looked down and saw the pendant exposed on the outside of his white shirt. He normally kept it underneath his clothes, but it had managed to fall out as he moved away from the bar stool.
“Yeah, it’s kind of a good luck charm.”
Rachel and Curt kept talking as they walked from the bar down the first floor hallway.
“Alexis gave it to me when I first met her at some fundraiser for missing children in Tallahassee.”
“That when she recruited you?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Well, St. Anthony was the patron saint of lost items, but many think he was the saint of missing children as well. As your medallion symbolizes, he is carrying a small child, who many say is the young Jesus Christ. He faced all life’s difficulties and still heard the call to love and forgive. He looked after the needs of others and dealt with crisis, no matter how big or small, and he remained steadfast with the trusting love of God.”
Curt had never heard such elegant words used to describe a patron saint, but listening to her, it was clear why Alexis chose it and why she chose to give it to him. He let Rachel’s words settle in. Until then, it was just a trinket and a focus for nervous energy.
She added, “Pretty fitting for what we’re doing; isn’t it?”
Curt nodded. “Catholic school?” he asked, adding a little levity to the moment.
“Yep, six long years, through high school.”
Neither of them noticed that they had walked down the first floor corridor and were currently standing outside of Rachel’s room. It felt like the awkward ending to a first date, complete with the anxiety that normally accompanies the less than confident.
Silence fell on the couple in the empty hallway, forcing them to address the awkward situation. Curt nervously looked around as his mind was buzzing in thought but remained speechless. Rachel began to twirl her ponytail that was lying in front of her shoulder. Both were clueless as to what to do next.
Curt moved the half step toward Rachel as her back was to the door. She stood still, not shying away from the approach and put her hand softly on his arm in acceptance. She felt her heart beating rapidly as he gazed down into her eyes. She saw the desire in his eyes earlier in the night as they were trading their tragic stories, but she had put it aside because she had ruined so many past relationships by engaging that desire too early. She liked Curtis Walker, but after a near death experience, where she was saved by his last minute heroics, she couldn’t help but be drawn to him. She wanted him. She stared up into his eyes, willing him to make the first move.
Curt stood frozen, unsure of himself, but he wasn’t ready or willing to walk away. He stepped even closer, pushing his body up against hers. She welcomed his touch as he put his arm around to the small of her back and pulled her against him. She melted in the warm embrace of his strong arms, and she instinctively reached her arms around his neck. She closed her eyes in anticipation of his lips on hers. He closed his eyes too as he met her supple lips with a soft kiss and held it there while their surroundings seemed to disappear. Time stood still as they held each other close, not as teammates, friends, or even lovers, but as two people who, in that moment, needed each other.
She was the first woman he had kissed, other than his wife, in twenty years. She was gentle at first but turned more assertive as her hands started to explore the rest of his body. Curt felt himself being steered to a point of uneasiness but didn’t want to stop either. He hadn’t seen his wife in over two years and wondered if she had moved on or even found comfort in another man. He had just left her back in Tallahassee in the search for their son and hadn’t been back since. He didn’t know where that left their marriage or even if there still was a marriage.
Curt held her tight in his arms and kissed her back with fueled passion, needing her warmth in the world of cold darkness. Suddenly, Rachel stopped and pulled away but held his stare with longing eyes, telling him that she wanted to continue. He opened his eyes and looked down at her, half expecting to see Tracy. There was a slight shock as it was Rachel’s pretty but bruised face looking back.
She pulled out her hotel room key and slid it in the door reader with urgency. It beeped and flashed a small, green light unlocking the door. She opened it with an inviting smile. She bit the corner of her bottom lip and nodded toward the room. Even amidst the injuries to her face, she was a very sexual woman and incredibly attractive. His heart thumped loudly, nearly jumping through his chest. He imagined what Rachel would feel like as he made love to her, and although he wanted to make that a reality, he stopped at the door and bowed his head.
“I want to…but….”
Like the alcohol he consumed to help him get by in his miserable existence, this wasn’t the answer either. He needed more than just sexual gratification to feel whole again. His stain covered too large an area of his soul.
Rachel smiled back at his refusal with only mild disappointment mixed with respect. She exhaled letting out her own sexual energy and leaned back against the door, holding his gaze. She was actually glad he took the moral high road and stopped before they continued in the hotel room. She wished most of the men in her previous life would have been as strong-willed and done the same.
“It’s okay. I understand.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“G’night.”
“Good night, Rachel.”
Curt headed over to his room and disappeared within. Rachel stepped in and leaned against the door as it shut, reflecting on the moment that had passed and just smiled to herself.
Chapter 19
Detective Edgar Rankin walked away from the house on the bluff, ducked under the crime scene tape, and shoved off the attempts from the gathered news reporters who had caught wind of a deadly shootout. “No comment” was his mantra as he ignored the distraction of the inquisitive and found the way to his unmarked car. He took the final drag of a cigarette and finished a thought while he exhaled. He looked back at the scene and tossed the finished cigarette to the ground. He yelled out for his partner, a junior man ten years younger, to hurry up. His heavy and raspy voice echoed off the walls of the bluff.
The morning sun peeked over the eastern ridge of the mountains, sending rays of warmth down into the heart of the small mountain town. Rankin and his partner stopped at a local coffee shop, grabbed a dozen glazed donuts and a gallon of hot coffee for the rest of the squad, and headed back to the police station. It was going to be a long few days, and there was a lot of work to do.
Rankin addressed the squad and wanted to get the rest of them up to speed. He requested that the crime scene tech deliver a CD of pictures from the crime scene to give them the visual tour of what they’d been working. With the help of the junior partner working the computer, he had the gruesome images displayed on a LCD television mounted to the conference room wall.
The senior detective led the squad on the photographic path of the bloody crime scene, frame by frame. He started through the front door, and the dead bodies of two unidentified Hispanic males distinguished to the squad by the “big one” and the “smaller one.” The “big one” was lying on his back a few feet inside the doorway with two bullet holes in his chest and a black semi-automatic handgun just out of reach of his hands. The “smaller one” was deeper inside the house in a formal room to the right of the entrance way. He too was lying on his back with gunshot wounds to his chest and a chrome handgun a few feet away on the tile floor. A large pool of blood had collected underneath his body as a resu
lt of a bullet severing his aorta, the detective surmised.
“And we don’t know who they are?” someone asked.
“No, no IDs and nothing so far when we ran their prints.” The junior detective turned in his seat at the computer to address the squad.
The next few images were others of the formal room, and he skipped over a few shots to get to the blood spatter on the far wall closest to the body of the “smaller one.” He told the junior detective to enhance the image on the wall. He stepped up to the television screen and pointed out the void of blood on the wall. He concluded the aorta had been severed by the bullet, and he assumed it exited his back which had caused the blood to spray out on the wall. He pointed out the break in the spatter that defined the void. He paused a moment as something churned within. He stepped back and ordered the junior detective to pan the image outward. As he made the view broader, he saw it.
“See that?” he said excitedly. “See it, right there?”
The squad squinted and stared at the picture on the television, waiting for the image to become apparent. Of course, Rankin had been around for a while, and collectively, the rest of his squad had the same experience, so they kept quiet as they were unsure of what they were supposed to be seeing.
“It’s a head!” The junior detective spoke up again from the computer.
“Yes, it’s a head. There was someone either sitting there or kneeling or doing something at that level when the ‘small one’ got zipped.”
Ahhs followed by questions and speculations filled the room as Rankin’s theory was swirling around in his head. He settled the room and got them back on task as the images continued. He resumed the slide show and turned the angle around in the formal room and showed a close-up of the bullet hole in the wall next to the entrance.
“Return fire?” someone asked, clearly reading the angle of the shooter was the direct opposite of this round.
“I think so too. We found five casings in the room, two near the entrance and one close by the ‘small guy,’” Rankin answered.
The action of the shooter was pretty much a consensus to this point in the investigation, but Rankin’s face held skepticism. He remained silent as he continued the briefing.
Images leading from the formal room flipped by quickly as the view moved down a hallway behind the open stairway and led into a bedroom. It was a tidy room with no discernible disturbance containing a bed and a small night stand. The squad questioned why he slowed down the pictures, but the next image answered their concerns.
“This is Jack Cauldress.” Rankin said as the next image clicked over to show a man slumped over on his knees with an apparent gunshot wound to his head. He was half-way dressed, and Rankin added that his wallet and expensive watch were still on him. There were a few sexual paraphernalia items found in a drawer during a search, but nothing else stuck out. Rankin read a few of his team’s faces, seeing questions and confusion. He knew the feeling.
Detective Rankin asked the detective to give out the known history and any intelligence on Cauldress. He read of his arrest in Texas for the fraud, suspicion of other frauds in other states, and his job at the bank that tied into real estate.
“We sent some uniforms over to his apartment and found it ransacked.”
Surprise and conspiratorial theories spewed forth within the conference room. Rankin explained that nothing from the apartment looked like it was missing. All electronics, valuables, and other high dollar items were left behind, but he mentioned the unlocked and opened floor safe in the closet. They had found it empty and were left with only speculation as to what was inside.
The questions from the squad flooded the room which Rankin quelled quickly. “There’s more!” he said, silencing the room.
The presentation of images continued to the bedroom adjacent from where Cauldress was found. It was a mirror image of the first, but no dead body. It too, was neat and tidy. However, the bed was slightly messed up, and the window was left open. Rankin agreed that didn’t make sense since the shooter clearly came in through the front door. The visual journey made its way to a back stairwell leading up to the second floor. Upstairs was just as sparse as the rest of the house with a couple of empty bedrooms that the detective flipped past without concern. The view went down to the end of the hallway and into what was assumed to be the master bedroom. Inside were several bags of women’s clothes, make-up, jewelry, and personal hygiene products that begged the obvious question, whom does all of this stuff belong to? The detective moved through those images and stopped at a small blood stain on the floor by the bed.
“What was in those bags?” one detective asked.
“Let me guess…more sex toys?” another inquired.
“Yep,” Rankin finalized.
“So, the house was a brothel or something?”
“I’m thinking you’re probably right,” Rankin agreed. “I think there was probably a girl, a prostitute, up here and that she’s the void on the wall downstairs. Then the shooter took her with him. Maybe it was about her and not a robbery?”
The squad discussed the ownership of the house and quickly discovered its connection to the First National Bank of Colorado. They weren’t surprised to hear that that was where Cauldress worked. Rankin assigned two detectives to follow that angle of the investigation and see what skeletons in Cauldress’s closet, literally, had come out and triggered the death of Cauldress and two others.
Rankin allowed the team a quick break as he withheld the last complication from the chaotic crime scene. He shot a knowing glance at his junior partner wondering how it would go over. Once the team settled back in, he grabbed their attention and emphasized the importance of what he was about to say.
“I want to show you guys something odd. I’ve worked my share of scenes and never found anything like this before, so here goes.” He pulled a small, tan, plastic-looking lima bean, packaged in an evidence bag, out of his pocket and tossed it on the center of the table.
“I’m not sure what that is, but we found it upstairs in the bedroom with the bags near the blood stain on the floor.”
The squad leaned forward in their chairs to examine the small piece of evidence. One curious member reached over and took the bag for a closer look. He pulled it within inches of his eyes and then passed it along.
“An earpiece,” he offered confidently. “It’s a small transmitting and receiving earpiece. I saw some Special Forces guys use them on some missions in the Army.”
Rankin absorbed the detective’s conclusion and agreed as it made the most sense. However, as he digested the information, he wasn’t sure how it fit into his theory and realized this created a myriad of questions.
“How can you…?” He stopped for a re-thought. “Can you turn it on? Use it?” Rankin asked.
The detective picked up the evidence bag and manipulated it again in his hands.
“I’m not sure how. It looks like it is intact, but it may be accessed remotely.”
“Okay, so how do we go about that?” Rankin added a degree of frustration to his tone at his own technical deficiency.
“I’ll get up with the tech guys and see what they can do.”
“So what the hell does that mean? What do you think really happened?”
“I’m not sure, but I have a feeling that the earpiece is the key to finding out who was responsible for this.”
At the tail end of the briefing, a forensic tech popped her head in the room to provide an initial assessment of what she’d been working on. She explained that she found at least ten sets of fingerprints to sift through.
“Ten?” Rankin’s harsh voice unexpectedly hit an octave higher.
“Yeah, there were at least four we found around the bar in the formal room, mainly from the high ball glasses. And up in the master bedroom, there were at least five sets that I could see off the bat—mainly from the vanity and in the bathroom. A few more sets were in the bedrooms downstairs. I’d say ten from the initial look. It’ll take me the res
t of the day to determine if they’re the same or all different. So I’ll compare them to the victims first and I’ll await suspect names and let you know what I find.”
“Fuck…ten? That puts a wrinkle in things,” offered the junior detective.
Rankin quickly piped up, “Not really. It makes sense actually. How many bags were upstairs?”
Another member quickly looked over his notes and answered, “Five.”
“Okay, so there you go; five girls, five different sets of prints. That leaves the three dead guys, eight, and then two offenders. That’s good, but that means we have five witnesses out there and unaccounted for.”
Detective Rankin nodded. He saw how daunting a task this case was quickly proving to be. To track down five unknown witnesses, most likely prostitutes unwilling to talk to the police and to identify two gun toting victims who weren’t in the system and then to find the suspects—and who the hell left the earpiece behind? It was a list that epitomized the old question in detective work, “Who done it?”
Rankin excused the team as they left for their individual follow-up assignments and sat quietly alone in the conference room. He pulled out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. He stopped himself from lighting it. Smoking inside the building had been banned for years, but he remembered the time when he could. He thought about all the evidence on the scene that seemed to leave more answers than questions. He had to remain confident that the answers would come soon enough.
“Detective?” A kind-faced woman, with the title “administrative assistant” on her desk, poked her head through the doors of the conference room.
“Yes, Karen?”
