Buddies

by Kip Cassino

  The Captain nodded. “I didn’t sign up with you to rest on my butt,” he said.

  “Good,” Staley replied, smiling. “Got a load of girders out of Allentown, headed for Bangor. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  His work completed, the Captain climbed into the anonymous grey pickup to drive back to the trailer, eager to see his buddy. He wondered how Pauley had fared during the past three days, and whether any surprises awaited him.

  Chapter 16

  Phoenix, Arizona

  December, 2017

  Miguel Obregon’s testimony had opened many doors. Not only did Prell and his taskforce now know where Taws and Abbott had gone after Grand Junction, they also had an idea where they’d headed after they left Seguin. At least, they had a general direction: east. The Jimenez soldier also pointed out where the pair had stayed during their time on Sixto’s farm. The little casita yielded valuable forensic evidence, including much-needed DNA. When matched to other evidence already collected, the new samples confirmed and solidified the case against the two men. When finally brought to bay, they’d face an insurmountable mountain of carefully collected confirmation of their guilt.

  Now certain of the culpability of their suspects, Prell navigated another legal and bureaucratic labyrinth to obtain the full V.A. medical records of Taws and Abbott. Along with other evidence, these were turned over to F.B.I. experts in an attempt to build psychological profiles of both men. The central question: were both men killers, or only one of the two?

  Profilers studied every piece of history known about Taws and Abbott: upbringing, military service records, testimony from people who had known them. Profiling is an innate skill as much as a teachable function―it is truly as much art as science. After conducting a series of in-depth interviews among the families and acquaintances of both men, including their military peers and co-workers, the team pored over crime scene evidence from each of the eight murders attributed to them. Their evaluation left little doubt that the killings had been committed by the same man, probably using the same Ka-Bar knife. Nor was there disagreement that both Taws and Abbott harbored serious levels of long-standing mental illness that could make either one violent and vicious. Still, total consensus could not be reached as to which of the men actually killed the victims.

  None of the murders were planned―that much was clear to all the profilers who studied them. They were all “disorganized” crimes resulting from emotional breaks. The most probable trigger was angry, aggressive, or threatening acts by the victims, all of whom were men. The modus operandi (M.O.) was the same for all eight murders: a deep, brutal slash across the victim’s neck, sometimes accompanied by a viscera-emptying cut traversing the abdomen, resulting in immediate death. A Ka-Bar knife was always the murder weapon. There was no evidence of retaliatory or defensive acts by any of the victims. They simply weren’t given time to react. By the time the killer’s targets realized what was happening to them, they were already falling to the ground―bleeding out from fatal, artery-ripping neck wounds.

  Two profilers concluded that the bulk of the evidence pointed to Paul “Pauley” Abbott as the actual murderer. He was by far the stronger of the two men, and had been trained in hand-to-hand combat by the Marines. He would be familiar with carrying and using a Ka-Bar knife. Several of the murders occurred immediately outside places where he worked at the time they took place. Abbott’s dosage of lithium carbonate should have made such exertions impossible. Profilers who chose him as the murderer believed that the shattering energy of a psychotic break temporarily overwhelmed the effects of his medications. If that was the case, the profilers theorized Abbott would not clearly remember his crimes. He might think of them as dreams, or illusions. His memory of them would be vague and incomplete. Competent defense counsel at trial might build a strong insanity plea around that theory.

  Vernon Taws was selected by the third profiler as the most probable murderer. Her case was less straight-forward but compelling, nonetheless. She theorized that Taws saw himself and Abbott as if they were a military unit, with him as its commander. He would defend that unit from harm at any cost, just as he had his army company in Afghanistan. He would covertly guard the places where his friend worked from time to time, just as any commander patrols his unit in the field. If violence erupted, he would strike down its source to protect his buddy. Taws also knew how to use the Ka-Bar knife. Though not as strong as Abbott, he was agile and quick―a formidable opponent in his own right.

  Could the two men have worked together to slay all or some of the eight victims? The profilers agreed this was unlikely, primarily because they had no means of contacting each other―neither man possessed a cell phone. Close examination of the wounds of those killed indicated that a knife in the same right hand had caused them all. Both Taws and Abbott were righthanded. One of them was undoubtedly the killer, but both men were aware of the crimes and accepted the reasons they had been committed. Both had moved through an unaware nation harboring severe, violent mental illness―left over from their military service in the appalling killing fields of Afghanistan. No matter which man actually wielded the knife, both had to be captured and removed from society before another murder occurred.

  The profilers’ report was sobering to all who read it. Jack Prell also found it profoundly motivating. Here was a pair of men who’d committed murder after murder, largely unnoticed and undetected, in town after town all over the west and southwest. Only the work of a brilliant woman―his wonderful Sarah―had focused law enforcement’s resources to finally track them. Many of the victims had not been good men. There were bullies, braggarts, drunks, and minor criminals among them. That didn’t matter. It was not up to Taws and Abbott to decide when and how their lives would end. The task force would bring both suspects to justice as quickly as they could.

  Prell’s phone rang. Maryland authorities had reported the use of a fake credit card to purchase three hundred dollars’ worth of goods from a store in Elkton, two weeks ago. The card had been traced back to Texas. Several just like it had been seized during the recent raid at a drug running facility in Seguin. Prell asked if the store had surveillance video of the transaction. They did, he was told. A copy of the tape was on its way to him by overnight mail.

  The video tape arrived the next day. Prell and Andy Rhodes quickly set up a monitor in a nearby conference room to watch the recording. The video camera had been positioned above and behind a cash register, showing the back of the cashier’s pony-tailed head and a chest-up view of her customers―as they unloaded purchases from their shopping cart in front of her. The grainy footage showed both men clearly. The man on the right was of medium height, his grey hair cut short. Wearing a leather jacket, he seemed calm and relaxed as he peered into the monitor. His companion was taller, with longer dark hair. He wore a heavy, hooded sweatshirt that obscured the left side of his face. The segment of his pale face that was visible showed no emotion. Prell paused the recording and stood from his seat to stare at the monitor. “My God, Andy. There they are,” he said in awe, pointing at the screen. “Taws and Abbott, standing in front of us.”

  Rhodes nodded. “The recording’s date-stamped,” he said. “Just over two weeks old.”

  “There’s no question, that’s them,” Prell said. “Elkton, Maryland. Where is that?”

  Rhodes keyed the laptop he’d brought along. “It’s a fair-sized town in northern Maryland, just over the border from Delaware,” he said. “They love their clams out there.”

  Prell smiled. “We knew they went east,” he said. “Now we know where.”

  “It’s a big ‘where’,” Rhodes cautioned. “They could be anyplace in northern Maryland, Delaware, or southeastern Pennsylvania. Lots of hiding spots in an area that big.”

  “Yeah, but the noose is tightening,” Prell said, still smiling. “We know they like to burrow into a place, find jobs, get some kind of housing. We know they stay away from big
towns. They like smaller places or suburbs. We can winkle them out. The trick will be to find them before they know we’re looking. I don’t want them running off again.”

  “I’ll set up a conference call with the rest of the task-force,” Rhodes said. “We need to decide what we’re going to do and execute. This is a break-through, Jack.”

  “Best Christmas present I’ve had,” Prell said, “and it’s early. Yeah, Andy, let’s get everybody in on this. We have a real chance to catch these guys now, but only if we plan it well and don’t make stupid mistakes.”

  Prell hurried back to his office. He had already made plans to visit Sarah and her family over the Christmas holiday. He decided to keep that arrangement in place. There was a lot of work to do before an escape-proof trap would be set. Still, he hoped this case would close before too much more time passed. He had made up his mind to ask Sarah for her hand once Taws and Abbott were in custody.

  Chapter 17

  Bear, Delaware

  December, 2017

  As he entered the small, chilly trailer the Captain noticed two things immediately. The place had been cleaned from top to bottom―that was apparent. It had taken a lot of effort to remove years of dirt and grime from the aging box, but Pauley had been up to the task. Even more surprising, his friend was sitting on his bed, fully clothed and wrapped in a blanket, reading. He looked up from his book and smiled at his buddy. “The place looks … pretty good, huh?” he said, hardly stuttering or slurring his words at all.

  Dropping his gym bag, the Captain looked around. “You’ve done a great job, Pauley,” he said, truly surprised. “A great job. Where did you get the cleaner?”

  “Most of it was in … a little shed, out back,” Pauley said. “I found some rags there, too. As long as I was cooped up here … I figured I might as well … get some work done. This place was sure a mess. I don’t think anybody’s … ever cleaned it.”

  Nodding, the Captain smiled, then frowned. “Have you been taking your meds?” he asked bluntly.

  Pauley put down his book and sat up. “No … no I haven’t,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “At least not … not as much. I’m trying to kick them … altogether, Captain. I … I don’t think I need them … anymore. I’ve been … reducing my dosage … every day.”

  “What are you down to?” the Captain asked.

  “Three,” his buddy replied. “I took three today.”

  “Promise me you’ll keep your dosage at that level,” the Captain said. He was genuinely concerned. “I’ll get us to the V.A. as soon as I can. If the docs there say you can decrease your dosage―or stop altogether―that’s what we’ll do.”

  “I’ll do it, Captain … if that’s what … you say.” Even as he agreed, Pauley felt sad. He was feeling much better already, not so tired all the time. For the first time in years he could concentrate enough to read a book. Still, he had learned to take the Captain’s advice about these things. His friend had never let him down. The men sealed the decision with a handshake, then went out to find dinner.

  The next morning found the Captain securing a load of steel pipe in Allentown. All twenty-five tons of it was needed in Maine the next day. Securing the pipe took most of the morning. His big Kenworth didn’t hit the road until almost noon. There was almost six hundred miles of road between him and Bangor, but most of it was good divided highway. He’d hit choke points around the New York City metro and all through a Connecticut rush hour, he knew. New York traffic alone would take hours to punch through. He hoped the mild weather would hold, at least until the weekend.

  By the time the Captain got within fifty miles of the Tappan Zee Bridge, traffic was already building up. It was not yet four in the afternoon on a bleakly grey northeastern winter day, and the traffic slowdowns had begun. He looked at his watch. He’d have to pull off the road by seven―and he’d be lucky to get across the big, partially completed bridge and make White Plains by then. After that, ten hours of required off-time would inject him right back into bad Connecticut traffic the next morning. He’d have to push hard to make Bangor by day’s end tomorrow.

  As he carefully navigated his slowly moving rig through the mounting traffic, the Captain had little time to think about anything else but his driving. Cars around him were becoming more aggressive as traffic levels increased, tail-gating and cutting in front of each other as though their dangerous antics could buy them any reduced drive time. They practiced the same life-threatening silliness on the Captain’s eighteen-wheeler, oblivious to the big semi’s inability to stop or maneuver like a car. Experience had proved to him that it’s best in heavy traffic just to pick a lane and stay in it, rather than jinking from one side of the highway to another. He did his best to maintain interval and make way for the obvious crazies. His major worry was the rear of his trailer, the area he couldn’t see. A tailgating car behind him, unable to stop, would face a windshield-level guillotine at his rear bumper.

  Some of the trucks around him drove just as badly as the cars. They blocked lanes to pass each other, and ominously tail-gated cars in front of them. The nerve-wracking tension of driving a big truck in heavy traffic made the Captain’s shoulders ache. The constant need to scan all directions of the highway around him made his neck throb as well. A night in the cramped bunk in his cab wouldn’t help his sore muscles much. A hot shower and a big, warm bed would remain a dream for a few more days.

  The traffic finally opened up at the Connecticut border, and the Captain was able to recapture some badly-needed time. He made New Britain, pulled off the interstate and refueled at the first truck stop he found that wasn’t packed with other rigs. He decided to stop there for the night. The place had a restaurant, so at least he wouldn’t have to end the day with a bologna sandwich. He found a reasonably secure place to park, locked the rig and walked to the café to get dinner.

  All the booths in the place were filled, as were most of the free-standing tables, but there was an empty seat at the corner of the counter. That was all the Captain needed. He ordered a bowl of soup and a BLT, along with a cup of coffee―he’d noticed that lighter meals made for less discomfort on the road the next day. As he ate, he thought about his last conversation with Pauley. He knew the prison-like confinement of the old, isolated trailer was no good for his friend.

  Could he leave the truck with his buddy, and give him some mobility―perhaps the chance to get a job of his own? Ruefully, the Captain decided that he could not. Pauley on a full dose of his meds was unable to drive safely. Pauley on his newly-reduced dosage, who knew? His reflexes would be improved, but would his judgement be any good? There was no way to predict that. If he could get his friend to the V.A. for a thorough examination, maybe the docs could tell him.

  He and Pauley would have to register with the V.A. in Wilmington soon anyhow. They were both running low on meds. The Captain knew that their need for V.A. care was a dangerous Achille’s heel. Their new documents hid them from their hunters, but to use the V.A. they had to announce their true identities. Shrugging to himself as he walked back to his truck, the Captain decided that it couldn’t be helped. They had to have their meds. Pauley needed medical care. They’d have to take the chance.

  Getting Pauley in front of a V.A. doc would not happen quickly, the Captain knew. They’d wait weeks, once they made an appointment. In the meantime, he couldn’t leave his buddy alone any longer. As he removed his shoes and got ready for bed, he made up his mind to talk to Old Man Staley about the problem when he saw his boss next. Having made all the decisions he could for one day, the Captain settled down in his bunk to sleep the night.

  Morning at the truck stop came early. The Captain needed no alarm clock. The sounds of the big trucks starting up around him were more than sufficient to rouse him from sleep. He dressed, washed up, and walked back to the café for breakfast. That way, he decided, he wouldn’t need to stop for lunch up the line.

  The weathe
r looked promising as he regained the interstate, and traffic was bearable. He made excellent time and reached the construction site in Bangor to deliver the needed pipe by mid-afternoon. Unloading was quick, and time remained to get to the Maine Woods Company to pick up a load of hard maple boards―desperately needed by an upscale builder in central New Jersey.

  His ELD forced the Captain from the interstate just south of Portsmouth. He slept in his truck, lucky to find a spot to spend the night at a truck-stop. He was back on the road early, and made it through the Tappan Zee gauntlet long before traffic became unbearable. He delivered the wood near Princeton and was back at the SHF yard by day’s end. Old Man Staley was there―just as he always seemed to be. The Captain took the opportunity to talk with him. Knocking as he stuck his head through the door of the owner’s small shack, he asked if they could talk.

  “Come on in, Captain.” Staley said. “You made good time on that last run. Must be getting the hang of it.”

  The Captain smiled and nodded. “The key is getting by the cities before traffic builds up. Getting stuck at rush hour around New York or Philly will ruin anybody’s day, no matter how well they drive.”

  “So what’s on your mind?”

  “Tarping,” the Captain said with a grimace. “There’s just no way a man by himself can tarp a load quickly and safely at the same time. Every time I’ve tried, I’ve been at it half a day. That’s wasted hours, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “We both know tarping is a bitch,” Staley said. “What’s your answer?”

  “I have a friend,” the Captain said. “I’ve been taking care of him for a while now. He was terribly burned in a fire ten years ago, and he’s still on heavy medication. He’s strong, though―very strong. If I could take him along on my runs, we’d get loading and tie down done in half the time it takes me now. What do you say, sir?”

  “Can he learn to drive a rig? Could you teach him?” Staley asked.