Buddies

by Kip Cassino

  The Captain slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. His medication’s too heavy. All he can do is help me load and unload―at least for right now.”

  The old trucker sat silently at his desk for a few moments. “I can set your friend up with paperwork, make it legal for him to be in your cab. Can’t pay him, though. There’s no room in my budget for anybody but drivers and mechanics.”

  “Don’t worry about the pay,” the Captain said, his face brightening with a smile. “I’ll take care of that myself. Considering the time I’ll save loading, we’ll both make more money.”

  Staley sighed. “I hope you’re right about this,” he said, staring at his new driver. “It’s Friday. Take the weekend off. I’ll have another run set up for you Monday morning. Be here at five. I’ll have your friend’s paperwork ready by then.”

  During the weekend, the Captain took Pauley to the SHF yard, and showed him the rope, chains, chocks, tarp, and tie-down straps he’d use to help secure the freight his friend’s truck would carry. The younger man was amazed how heavy and hard to handle some of the equipment was. “How did you … ever manage this stuff … yourself, Captain?” he asked.

  “It hasn’t been easy,” the Captain said with a wry smile. “Pretty much takes the wind right out of me. I’m really glad to have your help.” Later, he bought Pauley a pair of steel-tipped work boots, some heavy gloves, and some work clothes—a kind of workman’s Christmas present. His friend was pleased with his new outfit, and eagerly awaited the chance to work with his buddy. The men rose early on Monday morning, packed, and left on their first trucking run as a team.

  Chapter 18

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  December, 2017

  Philadelphia’s FBI field office sits on Arch Street, south of Franklin Square and north of the Independence Visitor Center. Every year, hundreds of thousands of tourists pass the impressive fountain in its courtyard, unaware of the business conducted in the building behind. The field office has a very large conference room, which was filled today. Besides FBI agents from both Philadelphia and Baltimore, the room was packed with contingents from the Pennsylvania State Police, the Delaware State Police, the Maryland State Police, as well as police and sheriff’s departments from several tri-state localities. Jack Prell and three members of his task-force presented their findings to a large audience.

  The focal point of Prell’s evidence was a still shot of Taws and Abbott from the Maryland store’s surveillance camera. “Take a good look at these men,” he told those sitting before him at the conclusion of a two-hour presentation. “They are responsible for at least eight brutal murders in as many jurisdictions during the past ten years. We know from their medical records that both harbor severe mental illness. Either could be the actual killer. We know all the crimes were committed with the same knife, by the same hand. The profilers’ analysis in the packets you’ve been given will provide more detail. We are certain these men are now nearby, somewhere in southeastern Pennsylvania, northern Delaware, or northeastern Maryland. With your help, we now have our best chance to get them off the streets and bring them to justice―before any more lives are lost. That’s the end of my presentation. I’ll take questions, if you have them.”

  A ranking officer from the Pennsylvania State Police stood from his seat. “All the murders you’ve told us about took place out west, a thousand miles from here,” he said. “The only real evidence you have that these men have come east is the use of a bogus credit card and that picture. That’s a pretty slim foundation for the magnitude of effort you want from all of us.”

  “Unless we catch them, these men will kill again,” Prell said. “The interval between the murders they commit is shrinking, as they encounter more stressors. We know they left Seguin, Texas, not long ago―heading east. The counterfeit credit card you mentioned was from a batch found there. Their benefactor must have given it to them. They used it less than three weeks ago, within the borders of the area we’re sitting in today. We know the men in the store video are Taws and Abbott. The merchandise they bought indicates they’re staying someplace, not on the road. Ladies and gentlemen, we really have only two choices. We can work to find these men now, using every resource available to us―or we can have another meeting in a few months, sifting through the evidence of another murder. Taws and Abbott have never left a place they’re been without killing somebody.”

  “It’s the supposition that they came this far east that’s hard to accept,” said a senior agent from the Baltimore FBI field office. “Pictures and credit cards aside, why would they move so far from their comfort zone?”

  “We believe growing awareness on the part of western authorities pushed them east, Arlene,” Prell answered. “Until we began connecting the dots, they’d been able to move freely from place to place, with little fear of apprehension. We almost caught them in Colorado. That’s when they realized we were coming for them. They moved east to get beyond our net, to outrun us, to hide.”

  “Are you saying they’ll hide? That they’ll stop killing?”

  Prell shook his head. “We don’t think they can. None of their previous murders was planned. When one of them confronts another stressor, he’ll kill. He can’t stop himself. That’s why we must find them as quickly as we can.”

  “You’ve given us a vast area to look through,” a Delaware state cop said, shaking his head. “We’re talking twenty million people or more. A big haystack.”

  Prell smiled grimly. “It is a big area,” he admitted. “Still, we know some important facts about these two. They avoid cities. They prefer small towns or suburbs. They always get jobs. Abbott likes to work in food service―kitchen work. Because of his terrible scars, he prefers the night shift, so he’s less likely to be seen. Taws is more versatile. In the past, he’s done telemarketing, auto mechanics, and counter sales. They will be hard to find. Look in places with low rents and lots of transients. They have a vehicle now, but they probably won’t use it much. For the most part, they’ll depend on public transit.”

  “Our regular snitches and street eyes won’t help us much with this one,” a Maryland State Trooper said. “Do these guys have a weakness we can use against them?”

  “They may,” Prell said. “Taws and Abbott are both disabled vets, and they still depend on the V.A. for their meds―as far as we can tell. That means they’ll have to check into a V.A. clinic or hospital to get refills. They’ll have to do it soon. The last time they had prescriptions filled was in Grand Junction, and that’s coming up on three months back. We’ve learned how to find out when they use a V.A. facility. We’ll start monitoring the ones around here. If they check in, we’ll have a much better idea where they are.”

  “They could knock over a drug store to get their meds, couldn’t they?”

  “They haven’t done that in the past,” Prell said. “I’m not even sure most drug stores would carry the meds they need. You bring up a good point, though. The drugs each man takes are listed in the packets we gave you. You’ll have to look for crimes that involve them.”

  The rest of the morning was spent determining how the planned dragnet would unfold. Evidence, descriptions, fingerprints, and DNA profiles were examined and distributed. “Be on the Lookout” alert bulletins (BOLOs) were prepared for distribution to hundreds of local police departments in the targeted area. Plans were discussed, strategies solidified. Most of the men and women in the room had experience working together.

  Too early still, to use local media to broadcast descriptions of Taws and Abbott to the general public, it was decided. Such announcements might warn the suspects prematurely, allowing them to escape before all the law’s traps for them were functioning. The area under scrutiny was relatively tight, for all its population. By the time Prell had to leave to catch his flight back to Phoenix, he felt certain that the men he’d been searching for since last year would soon be in custody.

 
*****

  Forty-five Miles Away

  The Captain’s Kenworth pulled into the southern Pennsylvania steel mill’s loading yard a little before sunrise, on a blustery, cold mid-Atlantic winter morning. This was a reprise of his very first load for SHF―twenty tons of spring steel destined for a South Carolina factory. This time, with Pauley along to help him with the chocks and steel chain, he was done in half the time. They were back on the road and on their way in less than two hours.

  Both men were elated. “Man, that’s the way to get these things done!” the Captain crowed.

  “Those chains … were heavy,” Pauley said. “It must have … been tough … doing it … by yourself.”

  “Damn near took me down,” the Captain said. “I never want to try it by myself again. Pauley, you saved us a good two hours of road time, just now. We’ll make it through the DC loop and into the Carolinas today for sure, thanks to you.”

  They stopped a little early that night, able to find a slot at a truck-stop so Pauley could have a hot meal. Their ELD would allow an earlier start in the morning, putting them ahead of schedule for their delivery. That night, the Captain inflated a mattress for Pauley who slept on it in his sleeping bag. In the morning, they were on the road by six and delivered their load early in the afternoon.

  The men returned to the truck’s cab to find a message from Staley on the cab’s monitor. Their rig was directed to pick up a load of steel forms at a precision metal fabricator in Macon, Georgia for delivery to a Baltimore manufacturer. The load would not be ready until Thursday morning. They’d have to lay over until then. A thought occurred to the Captain. They had to get meds, and Pauley needed to see a doc. Maybe this was the opportunity for both. Surely Macon had some V.A. facility. If he could make it work, any V.A. records authorities might see would show them in Georgia, hundreds of miles away from their actual bolt hole. He turned to his buddy, who was settling in the seat next to his. “We’ve got a layover,” he said, smiling. “I’m going to try to get you to a V.A. doc this week. We’ll get our meds as well.”

  The spring steel was delivered in Columbia well before noon. After adjusting his tire pressures to compensate for a reduced load, the Captain swung the big rig west and south for the relatively short drive to Macon. By midafternoon, the men were scouting for a truck stop along the northwest side of Georgia’s “central city.” Their early arrival got them a slot very near the restaurant at Kissy’s Love Your Truck Stop, convenient to their upcoming pick-up. As he backed in, the Captain noticed a small metal sign staked near his parking space. The crudely-painted placard read “Tire Iron.” He wondered briefly at its purpose, then ignored it. He turned off the truck and locked it, then he and Pauley walked into Kissy’s―hoping for showers before the place filled up.

  Kissy’s was a large brick building―holding within it two restaurants, a convenience store, banks of showers, a laundromat, a pinball arcade with pool tables, and a “wi-fi lounge” where truckers could monitor their computers and cell-phones. Refreshed from their showers, the men decided to relax over an early dinner while they decided on plans for the upcoming day. The window by their booth looked over the parking lot. The Captain noted with wry amusement how certain activity outside riveted Pauley’s attention. It was now a little after five in the afternoon. The truck stop was beginning to fill up, and the lot lizards were starting to arrive. They stayed in shadow for the most part, pacing and smoking cigarettes―looking nervously around from time to time, checking the interest level of truckers who passed them. One of these had caught Pauley’s eye. She sauntered closer to the window, trying to attract his attention further. She was a small woman, older than some of the others. Pauley’s good eye widened. The undamaged side of his face reddened.

  “Captain,” he stammered, “I … I’m … gonna need … some money.”

  The Captain quickly realized the reason behind his friend’s appeal. He was surprised. Never before in their decade together had Pauley shown any urge for female companionship. A reduced level of meds must have released some libido. He decided to accede to the request. What could it hurt? He handed Pauley five twenty-dollar bills, two tens, and two fives. “Go around the corner to the store before you go out there, Pauley,” he advised. “Get yourself some protection. Those gals carry gifts you don’t want. Put fifty bucks in your boot. She’ll probably pick your pocket while everything else is going on.”

  Pauley accepted the money, then rushed from the booth. “Thanks,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared around a corner. The Captain sighed and shook his head. He hadn’t had any desire for women himself for a long time. Not since before Afghanistan, he thought. Margie had been more than willing, but as time went by the urge had simply left him. He performed poorly, and then not at all. Since the divorce, through all his wandering with Pauley, he’d had no impulse toward sex of any kind, and seldom even thought about it. He’d fathered two children and still wore his wedding band. That was enough for him.

  When the waitress came by, the Captain ordered a farmer’s omelet and a cup of coffee for dinner. He’d just begun to eat when his meal was explosively interrupted by an astonishing apparition. “Where is he?” he heard a booming voice bellow. “Where is that cocksucker? Is that him?”

  Almost immediately, the Captain was confronted by a very strange looking man. He was short, but had the dimensions of a barrel. His worn jeans were supported by large red suspenders, over a tee-shirt bearing a lurid drawing of a truck with the label “road eater.” No neck was visible. His large bullet-shaped head seemed to erupt immediately between massive shoulders. His hair was cut in a short flattop, with the exception of a long “rat-tail” that travelled down his back almost to his waist. His teeth, now clenched in a grimace, were big and square; his eyes small and porcine. He carried a large metal rod over his left shoulder like a bat. Standing in front of the Captain, he pointed a blunt finger. “You driving that red k-whopper pulling the roller skate?” He snarled in thick Georgia patois.

  Since he was driving a red Kenworth towing a flatbed trailer, the Captain nodded slowly while he continued to chew his food.

  “Goddammit, you listen when I talk to you!” the man said. To emphasize his presence, he pulled at the Captain’s arm with his hand.

  The Captain pushed his food aside, and turned in the booth to face his interrogator. “I’m eating,” he said calmly. “You’ve disturbed my dinner. Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “Fuck your dinner!” the man yelled. His face was now as red as his suspenders. “Fuck your dinner and fuck you! Don’t you know who I am?”

  The Captain sighed. There would be trouble now, he was sure. “No, I don’t know who you are,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “If you don’t know me, you been hiding under a rock,” the man growled. “Every trucker in Georgia knows ‘Tire Iron’ Tasker … and you, mister cocksucker, you have done parked in my reserved parking space.”

  The Captain laughed. He couldn’t help himself. This man, his outlandish costume, and now this ridiculous claim―it was all too much. “Now that’s a first,” he said, still grinning. “A truck stop with reserved parking. Come to think of it, I saw your little sign when I backed in. I just didn’t think anything about it.”

  “Well now you know,” Tasker said in a loud whisper. “So go move your fucking truck.”

  As he stared at the man acting out in front of him, the Captain asked himself if the parking place was worth any more trouble. He decided it was not. He nodded slowly. “O.K.,” he said, “O.K. This isn’t worth the trouble. As soon as I finish my dinner, I’ll move my rig.” He turned back to his meal and resumed eating.

  Tasker’s eyes grew wide, as though he could not believe what he was seeing. He hefted the metal rod he carried. “You are one dumb motherfucker!” he roared. “Your dinner’s over with, right now!” With that, he smashed the plate with his tire
iron, splintering it and the glass that covered the table as well. Shards of glass, pottery, and food flew around the restaurant. Much of it struck the Captain, who now looked at his assailant with wild eyes. “I’ll see you outside, little man,” he said softly, as he began to clean the mess from his clothes.

  “I’ll be waiting, asshole!” Tire Iron bellowed as he tramped away.

  Jethro “Tire Iron” Tasker was the third and youngest of Willy B. Tasker’s sons, the only one still alive. His older brothers―Willy junior and Coy―had been killed in Iraq. Both were big, strapping young men who played high school football and believed strongly in defending their nation’s democracy. Coy had been awarded the Silver Star, while Junior earned the Bronze. Both medals were presented posthumously. Jethro did not serve, nor was he adept at sports. As a child, he became a mean bully who depended on the protection of his older brothers and lived in the shadow of their popularity. As an adolescent, he delighted at stuffing cats into mailboxes, torturing neighborhood dogs, and other malicious vandalism. Jethro’s grades in school were poor, due as much to laziness as lack of comprehension. He finally graduated from high school two years late, and was immediately given work at his father’s trucking company. The elder Tasker had seen promise in both Junior and Coy as successors to his leadership of the business, which he’d built over the years into a successful regional trucking company that covered routes throughout Georgia and Alabama. Perhaps his surviving son could fill the role.

  The father’s hopes were quickly dashed. Jethro showed little interest in or aptitude for administration. His surly manner made him unsuccessful at warehousing, sales, customer service, or human resources either. Jethro made almost no attempt to complete any tasks given him. He was as likely to miss work as show up at all. He did, however, like to drive the big trucks his father owned. Mostly out of desperation, he was assigned to a truck and given a route that took him between Macon and Atlanta. At first, things went well. Jethro liked his new job and became an adept driver. Sadly, he soon tired of the loading and unloading part of the work, and customers he serviced quickly became dissatisfied―and then angered―by his attitude and his work ethic.