by Kip Cassino
Hector Medina looked at his watch. “What time were they supposed to get here?” he asked Leo Cardiff.
“They said ten,” Cardiff replied, “but there’s a haboob moving in over Picacho. That might have slowed them down.” The men sat in a conference room at Pima County Sheriff’s Department headquarters, on east Benson Highway south of Tucson. Haboobs―mountainous walls of dust, sometimes erupting from the high winds of collapsing thunderstorms―could stop southern Arizona traffic for hours when they occurred. They hoped that hadn’t been the case today. Both men were far too busy to cool their heels at headquarters much longer.
Medina looked through the room’s window to the parking lot below. “It’s O.K.,” he said. “They’re here. Want to call in Sarah Won’t?”
Cardiff nodded. “Sure. I’ll buzz her now. She’ll be fascinated with this.” He pulled a phone on the table to him.
Jack Prell and Andy Rhodes stepped through the conference room door just then, both carrying bulky briefcases. “Sorry we’re a little late,” Prell said. “We hit the edge of a bad dust storm about an hour out.”
“We figured,” Cardiff said. “No harm done. Would either of you like some coffee or a soft drink? We’ve called our data specialist, Sarah Wontioski, to join us. She’s the one who discovered the matching cases we showed you.”
Prell nodded. “I’ll take you up on the coffee,” he said, “as long as it’s no worse than what we drink in Phoenix. I know we’d both like to meet Sarah. From what we can see, she’s done some very good work.”
“I’ll take some soda, if you don’t mind,” Rhodes added.
After a few minutes, the four men sat facing each other at the end of the conference room’s long table. “Thanks for agreeing to meet,” Prell said. “As I told you on the phone, the count’s now up to eight very similar murders. They’ve all occurred between 2007 and this year. The latest was here in Tucson, a few weeks back.”
“That’s three more than we found,” said Cardiff.
“Hard to believe, I know,” Rhodes said, “until you look at the similarities: the murder weapon is always a big knife, five out of the eight talk about a badly scarred man, four identify him as ‘Pauley’ or some similar name, several mention an accomplice. All the murders have occurred in the west and southwest, always in suburbs or small towns.”
Just then, Sarah Won’t entered the room. She slid unobtrusively into a seat near the end of the long table, and began to take notes on a legal pad she’d brought along. “This is our researcher, Sarah Wontioski,” Cardiff said. “Sarah, this is agent Jack Prell, and technician Andy Rhodes. They’re both from the F.B.I. field office in Phoenix.”
Prell rose, and moved around the big table to shake Sarah’s hand. “I am certainly pleased to meet you,” he said. “Your excellent work uncovered a serial killer who’s been running around the country for a decade. Please, sit closer. Join us. We’d like to hear what you have to say.” As she got up to change her seat Prell thought to himself, this woman is beautiful.
“O.K.,” Medina said. “You’ve found other cases. What does that have to do with us?”
“We want to form a task-force,” Prell said. “Some law enforcement officers in other jurisdictions have already signed on. The Tanner murder is the freshest case. We have more chance of finding evidence, background, and clues here than anyplace else.”
Medina remained stone-faced. “I’ll check with my superiors,” he said, “but our plate’s pretty full right now, and snowbird season is coming up.” He looked at his watch again.
“We’d appreciate any assistance,” Prell said, glancing at Sarah. “Your department has more resources available than most of the places where these crimes took place. Please check. Andy and I will wait here for an answer, if you don’t mind.”
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Medina said, rising from his seat. “Leo and I will go see our lieutenant now. Just don’t be surprised if you get ‘no’ for an answer.” He and Cardiff left the room.
Sarah Won’t remained. “Can I see the data you got back from IAFIS, Mr. Rhodes?” she asked. “I don’t handle that as well as I should. I could use some pointers.”
“Sure thing, and the name’s Andy,” Rhodes said with a smile. He pulled a file from his briefcase and spread the papers before them. “Now, the key is how you use this query …”
Less than an hour later, the Pima County detectives returned. “I got to tell you, I was surprised,” Medina said, resuming his seat. “My boss and my boss’s boss are both on board.”
“That’s great news,” said Prell, nodding to Rhodes.
“We can’t spare much,” Medina continued. “We’ll agree to put Leo on your task-force, and you can have access to Sarah’s services if you need them. That’s all the help we can offer, right now.”
“That makes seven people onboard,” Prell said, “and more on the way. We’re strong enough now to put some dents in this case. We’re concentrating our efforts on a man named Vernon Taws.”
“Who’s he?” Cardiff asked.
“He’s the clean set of latent prints you found when you dusted Abbott’s flat,” Prell said. “Pauley―or some similar name―had a partner in several of the other murders reported. We think that man could be Taws. If he’s the guy, we know where to start looking for him. He got out of the Army in Grand Forks, North Dakota twelve years ago.”
“What about Abbott himself?” Medina asked. “Seems to me he’d be a better target.”
“He definitely would be,” Prell said, “if we could find him. The prints you collected were mutilated. It looked to us like they were burned. So far, we haven’t been able to link them to a name. You’d be amazed how many people are named ‘Paul Abbott.’ Andy has a theory he’s trying out. It may help us.”
“The prints you gave us are badly scarred, probably from fire,” Rhodes said. “Still, they’re not completely erased. There are definite patterns around the edges of the burned areas―on the sides of the fingers. I’m trying to get the computers to help me match those.”
“I’d love to help you with that, Andy,” Sarah said. She turned to Medina. “We need more expertise with IAFIS. It will help us with other work we have here.” She turned back to the data sheets she’d been reviewing with Rhodes. They continued to discuss them in low tones.
“O.K, now that I’m on board, got any assignments for me?” Cardiff asked.
“I’d like to get some more information on what these men did in Tucson, before people here begin to forget about them,” Prell said to Cardiff. “You and I need to start with that landlord, to see if there’s anything else he remembers. We should talk to the people at the store, to see if there’s anything they forgot to tell you―things Abbott might have said, habits he may have had. Eventually, we want to build a profile of both men, constructed from bits of information from people who have crossed their path. Maybe then, we’ll get some insight into what’s driving them and where they might go next.”
“Let’s go then,” Cardiff said. “No reason to wait.” He rose from his seat.
Prell rose as well. “Andy, stay here and work with Sarah,” he said. “I’ll be back to pick you up.”
Before they left, Cardiff called the landlord, to make sure he’d be home. He was. By the time the two men got to the place, it was early afternoon. They introduced themselves to a portly, goateed retiree. He met them wearing a shirt festooned with chili peppers, tan shorts, and sandals. He invited them into his home at once. “Can’t tell you much more than I did before,” he said to Cardiff.
“Humor us, Mr. Levy,” Prell said. “Sometimes the smallest piece of information can become extremely valuable. Do you rent this room out often?”
“Used to,” Levy said. “Not since those two left, though. Scared the missus. She never did like strangers hanging around.”
“How do you think they found out about your room?
Did you run an ad in the paper, or online?”
Levy laughed. “Nah,” he said. “Nothing that fancy. I got a friend who volunteers at the Vet Center, down on First. If he saw guys who needed a place to stay, clean and no trouble, you know, sometimes he would send them my way. I’m a vet myself, you know,” Levy continued. “Punched my ticket in Vietnam. I never minded helping guys who needed it. Money came in handy, too. Wife never liked it though. Now, she’s put her foot down.”
“So, tell us about these guys,” Cardiff said. “We know one of them was named Abbott. What was the other guy’s name?”
“You know, I can’t remember,” Levy said, shaking his head. “Must be written down somewhere. I’ll see if I can’t find it. They hardly talked, to me or to themselves. The one man, the guy with all the scars, that was Abbott. I know that, because he signed the rental agreement. His hand was so messed up he could hardly hold the paper. The other guy, I just can’t recall. Hardly ever saw either one of them. They was quiet as ghosts. One went out in the morning, came back at night. Then the other went out. Hardly made a noise.” He thought for a second. “I do remember the one guy―Abbott―called the other guy ‘Captain,’ or something like that. Like they was still in the service, you know. Didn’t make much sense to me. They paid in cash. That much I remember. I’d find an envelope full of bills on the back porch every two weeks. Never even a day late, the whole time they was here.”
“Did they ever go out, except for work?” Prell asked. “Did anyone visit? Did they have any friends?”
“No visitors. None at all, men or women.” Levy said. “They stayed here more than half a year, and never saw a soul. My wife thought they was gay boys, but I know better. They were buddies, nothing more. They took care of each other, just like we used to do back in the Army, you know?”
“How about mail, or phone calls?” Cardiff asked, probing further.
“No calls, though I told them they could use the phone on the back porch as long as they paid me any charges. No mail either, except for junk. The one guy would throw it all out every once in a while. Wait a minute. I take that back. Every so often, they’d get mail from the V.A. I recognize the little mailers they send, to tell you about appointments. Hell, I get them myself, you know.”
“How did they get around?” Prell asked. “Did they have a car?”
Levy shook his head. “If they had a car, I never seen it,” he said. “As far as I could tell, they walked everyplace they went. Maybe they used the Sun Tran busses. I don’t know.”
“What happened when they left?” Cardiff asked. “Did either one say anything to you?”
Levy leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if he was trying to visualize that day. “Nope,” he said. “Nothing was said. No thank you’s or goodbyes. I looked out my window, it was a little after ten in the morning. Maybe I heard something, you know. There they was, the pair of them, wearing their packs, walking away down the street. Never saw either one again. Around noon, I went to look in their room. Neat as a pin, nothing out of place. Keys on the table, nothing left behind. No sign they’d ever been there at all.” He looked at Cardiff. “Until you came by, I was starting to wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing.”
Cardiff and Prell thanked the old man, rose and shook his hand. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Levy,” Prell said. “The information you’ve given us will be very useful. Thanks for your time.”
They returned to their car and drove back to Sheriff Department headquarters. As they entered the building, Andy Rhodes met them at the foot of the staircase. “Perfect timing,” he said. “Sarah and I just finished up.”
Prell looked at his watch. “If we leave now, we’ll beat some of the rush hour traffic,” he said. He turned to Cardiff. “An interesting interview, Leo. More pieces in a growing puzzle.”
“Everything has to start somewhere,” Cardiff said. “This was our start. Let’s hope it leads us somewhere.”
Nothing more happened for two days. Then, Cardiff got a call from Prell. “Want to join me on an airplane ride?” Prell asked. “We got word today a man named Vernon Taws has just been released from jail in a place called Grand Junction, Colorado.”
“Huh,” said Cardiff. “That’s seven hundred miles from here.”
“The Bureau’s got a little jet that can make that run in a hurry,” Prell said. “I’ll meet you at Tucson International Airport in an hour.”
Chapter 6
Grand Junction, Colorado
Eight Weeks After the Tanner Murder
No one expected the police raid. As far as the Mountain Orchard telemarketers knew, everything about their operation was completely legitimate. The Captain cursed himself for not having been more observant. When he’d arrived in the morning for his shift, the grossly fat straw boss wasn’t there. “Where’s Sweeney?” he asked the woman in the cubicle next to his.
The pale, asthmatically thin woman shrugged her bird-like shoulders. “Don’t know, don’t care,” she said in her soft, wheezing voice. “That pig can stay away from now on, won’t bother me.”
The Captain sat down, put on his earphones, adjusted his mike, and turned on his monitor. In a few seconds, Mountain Orchard Marketing’s computer began flashing phone numbers on the screen in front of him. He keyed the first one on the glowing list: Chapman, Arthur A.
Chapman, Arthur A. wasn’t answering his phone today. The Captain had started punching in the second entry when uniformed police in riot gear began pouring through the door to his left rear.
“Police! Police!” blared a megaphone somewhere nearby. “Stay where you are! Keep your hands in plain sight! Do not attempt to leave! Do not move! Do not speak to each other!” By now there were at least ten heavily armed cops moving up and down the aisle of the narrow, dark room. Overkill, the Captain thought.
A hand shook his shoulder. “Stand up,” a voice behind him said. “Don’t look back. Look straight ahead. Put your hands at your sides, palms facing in.” The Captain did as he was told, pausing only to remove his headphones and mike as he rose. He felt plastic zip cuffs bind his wrists.
The hand on his shoulder twisted him left. “Move,” the voice said. “Follow the person in front of you.” The seven telemarketers were now in a line, leaving the building one at a time to stand outside its door on the surrounding grass. Everyone was puzzled and frightened. Several police vehicles were arrayed haphazardly in the nearby parking lot, their lights flashing. Staccato radio calls could be heard in the background. A cop wearing a tactical vest and Kevlar helmet stepped forward to address them.
“You are all under arrest for wire fraud and other offenses,” the cop said. “I’m going to read you your rights. Then, we’re going to take you to a holding area downtown, where you will be questioned. After that, you’ll be confined until you see a judge. For those who need it, we’ll make arrangements for you to get ahold of family after you’re booked. Don’t ask me any more questions. That’s all the information you’re going to get for a while.” The cop proceeded to read them their Miranda rights, and all nodded their understanding. They were pushed and led to a police van, then packed inside.
Frustration and anguish flashed through the Captain’s mind. His chief concern was for Pauley. Without him there, his friend would not get his meds when he woke up later in the day. He might last a shift at work on the lithium carbonate already in his system, but that was far from certain. Once he began to revive from the drug’s brain-muting effects, the results could be ugly.
He would suffer as well, the Captain realized. Without his own meds the flashbacks, the intrusive thoughts, the senseless rage, they’d all start to come back. He’d taken his pills that morning. He’d be O.K. for the rest of the day. The coming evening would be another story. His and Pauley’s ability to cope with society hung by a tenuous thread of medication, he knew. If that thread frayed or broke, both would be cast into the limbo of menta
l instability, where thoughts and senses no longer pictured reality.
The Captain looked around the van, at the six other people with him. Two of the three women were openly weeping. They’d have had their heads in their hands if that had been possible. One of the men was crying as well, a post-adolescent who probably still lived at home. “Now they won’t let me in the Navy,” he bawled. The rest, himself included, sat silent and grim, without attempting any eye contact
After a fifteen-minute ride, the van slowed and then stopped. The rear doors opened, and cops led the Mountain Orchard telemarketers into the dark hallway of a nearby building. Here they were told to stand and wait. They were called forward, one by one, and their hand restraints were removed. They were body-searched and finger-printed at a counter near the hallway’s end. Mug shots were taken there as well. Finally, each was escorted into a large, gloomy room with scores of seats. A few people were already there. “Pick a seat,” the Captain was told when his turn came. “Sit down, don’t move around. No talking. Don’t pull any crap. You’ll be questioned soon.”
He chose a seat at the rear of the large room and did as he was told. As he looked around, it became apparent others were not good at following directions. Several huddled together in obvious whispered conversation. One man, in some distress, paced up and down the side of the room, muttering and gesturing wildly. A drunk slept, slumped in his seat, snoring loudly. Two thin younger men in hoodies circulated through the room, stopping to visit all in their path. They reached the Captain, one beside him and the other to his partner’s rear. “Got any money, man?” the taller man whispered, his face occluded by the hood of his sweatshirt. The one behind him giggled.
“No,” the Captain answered. “Now, beat it.”
“I think you do, man,” the tall one said. “You got a nice watch, too. Give it here, or we’ll hurt you, man.”
The Captain sighed. Now there would be trouble. He sprang to his feet, bringing his knee up as he did. At the same time, he grabbed the tall one’s hoody, forcing his face down to meet the rising kneecap. He heard the crushed nose snap. As he let go of the hoody, the semi-conscious, bleeding man fell to the room’s floor. The Captain turned to the man’s accomplice, who had backed away. He pulled the smaller man closer. “Come get your friend,” he whispered. “Then get away from me and leave me alone, or I will hurt you badly.”
