Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  Majoqui was breathing hard now and the room was spinning. Nausea rolled in his stomach and sweat ran down his face.

  He went to the police officer and took his gun and extra magazines. He also found a Taser, some pepper spray and an Asp — a small collapsible baton — and the officer’s radio. There was a wallet with thirty dollars and a cell phone, all of which he took. Blood soaked the man’s shirt, but Majoqui stripped it off so he could get to the bullet proof vest beneath. Majoqui made a quick search of the room but could not find his own clothes. He put on the officer’s pants, which were too short; his shoes which were too big, and the nurses shirt, which was just right, to cover the vest. He took the nurses cell phone too.

  Majoqui called a cab from the dead officer’s phone and took the elevator to the lobby. The taxi arrived a few minutes later and Majoqui got in.

  He still had a job to do.

  4

  The scene at the hospital was grisly. The dead cop was a Denver Sheriff’s Deputy I didn’t know. His head had been bashed in and there was a lot of blood. The nurse was worse. Her neck had been pulped. There was discoloration and terrible swelling, but the angle was what made it really bad. That and the look on her face.

  We were all there; my lieutenant, both detectives and a boatload of Denver cops. It was their jurisdiction and they were hopping mad about losing one of their own.

  Couldn’t blame them.

  Denver’s a little different than other jurisdictions in Colorado. It’s both a city and a county, so it has both a police department and a sheriff’s department. But unlike most counties, there is no actual sheriff. Sheriff’s are elected officials, where as police chiefs are appointed either by the mayor or a city counsel. In Denver, the Sheriff’s Department is responsible for the city jail system and the police take care of the streets. Cherokee County goes more the traditional rout. Our Sheriff is elected and we have jurisdiction over the entire county, including the cities that have incorporated within our boundaries. The Sheriff’s Department takes care of both the county jail and the streets. The cities themselves may have their own police force, but they have arrest powers only in their individual cities.

  My father-in-law once said that our Justice System is ‘just — a — system, and it’s broken.’ Brother, was he right! Case in point: my shooting with the MS 13 banger happened in Cherokee County; the killing of the Denver Sheriff’s Deputy and the nurse happened in Denver; and it’s anybody’s guess where the woman in the trunk was murdered. It was highly possible that, once found, the killer might have to be tried in three different jurisdictions, and that’s not even taking into account the possibility that he might not be a U.S. citizen. Sheesh!

  The Denver detectives let Jim and Randy take a look at the bodies and seemed to be filling them in on everything they knew.

  Randy came over to me and Mike. “It looks like he went straight to the elevator and down to the lobby. A couple of nurses saw what they thought was an orderly up here and downstairs, and a security guard saw him walk out the front doors. The tats didn’t give him away, not with how everyone gets inked today. But the bandages struck everyone as a little odd. He got the deputy’s gun, night stick, Taser, pepper spray, vest and shoes.”

  “So he’s on foot?” asked Mike.

  “Far as we know. Denver’s got a twenty block perimeter set up and all their K9s out looking for him.”

  “Was any of his personal property in the room with him?” I asked.

  Randy shook his head. “Nope. We took every stitch into evidence.”

  “No cell phone?”

  He shook his head again. “Nada.”

  “What about the dead sheriff’s deputy and the nurse? Any cell phones?”

  He started to shake his head again, but stopped. “I don’t know. Let me check.” He went back into the room and came out a minute later. “None on them and the cop’s wallet is missing too.”

  “We should start pinging,” I said.

  Randy jabbed his head back toward the room. “They’re on it.”

  Cell phone carriers have the ability to ‘ping’ cell phones and get a GPS location on them. Once we found out who the providers were and the cell phone numbers, there was a good chance we could get a bearing on our murder suspect.

  “How about the picture with the address?” I asked.

  “I’ve got Billy Mack there now and Denver’s sending a squad car. According to Billy, they don’t know anything about anything.”

  A Denver detective walked over and acknowledged us with a nod. He spoke to Randy. “We have a master list of all our officer’s cell phones. The provider’s pinging Craig’s now. We should know something any…” he broke off, listening the earpiece that was hooked to his radio. His eyes got big and he held up a finger. “He’s right out front, must be hiding in the bushes or under a car. K9 and SWAT are all converging.” He touched a finger to his ear, concentrating on what he was hearing. “The ping shows him right by the front doors, near the lobby.”

  “Let’s go,” said Mike.

  We all rushed for the elevator.

  By the time we made it down to ground floor, the place was crawling with cops. Three K9 officers were checking the front outside area with their dogs. Uniformed and plain clothes detectives were swarming the lobby, checking bathrooms, closets, storage and electrical rooms, even under the couches.

  I turned to the Denver detective that was with us. “Do you have the dead officer’s phone number?”

  “Sure,” he read the number to me from a small steno pad.

  I dialed it. “Everyone quiet, please.” Everyone went quiet, looking our way.

  The song was muffled but distinct. It was the theme song from the TV show ‘Cops’. It came from the trashcan by the lobby doors. A uniformed officer pulled off the lid and dug through some stuff before coming up with it. I hit ‘end’ on my phone and the ‘bad-boys whach-ya gonna do when they come for you,’ stopped abruptly.

  I looked back at Mike. “Like I said, an OG. This guy isn’t stupid.” I pointed at the trashcan. “There should be another one in there; the nurse’s.”

  The cop pulled out the plastic bag and tore through it. No phone.

  The detective said, “We don’t have the nurses number yet, but it shouldn’t be long.”

  “Have you tried the cab companies and RTD?” I asked.

  He went back to his radio and told dispatch to give them a call.

  “Mike, do we have a picture of this guy we can get sent out?”

  “No pictures. They rushed him straight to surgery.”

  I thought for a minute, looked around. “They took him through the ER. There are cameras everywhere. Maybe the security video caught a shot of his face. If that doesn’t work, I can give Denver’s artist a description.”

  “Good idea,” said Mike. “Then again, how many guys have their eyelid sewn shut? It’s a pretty good identifier.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “Oh, and another thing, Mike.”

  He raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

  “I’m going to need my gun back.”

  5

  Tamera looked at the clock; five till two. Good, she was tired and her feet hurt. She’d worked a twelve hour shift at the diner today — tonight — whatever, and she was ready to go home and snuggle her kitty, Miranda. She had found the little thing in the alley behind her apartment building, digging in the dumpster for scraps of food. It was nearly starved and had a nasty gash in its side that was scabbed over. She’d taken it in, given it a bath, and cleaned its wound. She fed it with a bottle she bought at the drugstore. That was three weeks ago and now it was fine and she loved it like crazy.

  She picked up the coffee pot and went around the counter, checking her tables. There were only three; a small group of teenagers with bibles, a hooker taking a break, and a doctor or nurse with a bandage over his eye and tattoos running up and down both arms.

  The bible thumpers all thanked her and the hooker held up a hand
saying she’d had enough. The doctor — or whatever — looked pretty rough. His face was badly swollen and he was about as pale as the yellowed cream on the table.

  “You okay?” she asked, as she filled his cup.

  He looked up at her, his one eye a gentle brown. “Yes.”

  “You sure? You look like you’re going to puke.”

  He smiled, and it was a very nice smile, even with the swollen face and the bandage. “I had some surgery today.” He touched the bandage.

  “Wow, a doctor having surgery. Did you do it yourself?” He looked puzzled, so she touched the purple medical shirt he was wearing. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No,” he said, smiling again. His voice was quiet and smooth and tainted with a Spanish accent. “It’s just comfortable.”

  She laughed. “It does look comfortable. Sometimes I stay in my PJ’s all day.” She turned her head from side to side, preparing to tell a secret. “Once I even went to the store in them and you know what, no one noticed.”

  “Yes, America is funny that way.”

  She sat across from him in the booth. “You have a lot of tattoos. Did they hurt?”

  He nodded. “Yes, some of them.”

  “I have a tattoo,” she said, holding out her arm and turning up her wrist. On the inside was a bright butterfly about the size of a penny. “It hurt so bad I almost peed my pants,” she said. She looked at his arms again. “I don’t know how you could stand it. You must be very brave.”

  He pointed at her tattoo. “Why a butterfly?”

  She smiled. “They’re pretty.”

  “Yes,” he said, “yes they are.”

  She looked up at the clock. “I’m getting off now. Maybe we could… you know… go somewhere. I’ve got some pot at my place.”

  “I have something I have to do.”

  “Oh,” she said, “that’s okay. I understand. I mean, it is after one in the morning.” She took out her order pad and wrote down her phone number and handed it to him. “In case you want to call me sometime.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He put the number in his shirt pocket and took a last sip of his coffee before pushing himself to his feet. He looked tired.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? I just live a couple of blocks away.”

  “Again, thank you,” he said, “but I will be fine.” He turned and started for the door.

  “My name’s Tamera,” she said. “Tamera Sun.”

  He stopped, turned so that he could see her with his un-bandaged eye. “A pretty name. It suits you.” He left the diner.

  Tamera stood up. She felt as tired as the man looked. She brushed off the table with a rag and took his cup behind the counter. She was ready for home.

  Miranda was waiting for her.

  Majoqui caught the last bus. He was leery of cabs. He’d left the nurse’s phone in the one he took from the hospital, hoping to throw the police off his trail for a while. Once he was far enough away, and after he changed his appearance, cabs would be safe again, but for now he would stick to busses and walking.

  The gun was in his waistband beneath the shirt, the rest of the weapons were in a plastic bag he’d found by the bathroom in his hospital room. The bulletproof vest was big for him, but the baggy shirt hid it well.

  He no longer had the picture with the address, but he’d memorized it long ago. He couldn’t know if the police would realize that he was heading there, but he always assumed the worse.

  It was almost three in the morning when he arrived at the house. He’d found an unlocked bicycle on a front lawn several miles back and made good time with it. He saw the police cars in the driveway and stayed behind bushes on the other side of the street.

  There were two of them; a marked Denver Police car and a black SUV with red and blue lights in the front grill and back window.

  Majoqui’s face ached, as did his neck, hip, thigh, chest and shoulder. Whatever pain medication he’d been given was fast wearing off.

  Staying to the shadows and dark, he made his way across the street and up to the side of the house. The moon was only a sliver and the yards were huge, with streetlights spaced far apart. He peeked into a window and through a break in the curtains. He saw a police officer in uniform and another man dressed in a business suit seated at a table with a man and woman, drinking coffee. The man was his main target and the woman, his wife. The two children were not in the room.

  Majoqui, although he could be the most patient of men when necessary, was not one for elaborate plans. He liked to do what he had to do and leave as quickly as possible. But he was hurt. He felt weak and fuzzy and slow. His depth perception was ruined and worst of all, he did not have his machete or his amulet.

  Still, there was the job to do.

  Sighing, he went to the back door that led to the kitchen and quietly tried the knob. It was locked. He set the plastic bag down, reached inside and retrieved the Taser, then took the pistol from his waistband. He winced as he raised his leg, the stitches from the bullet’s entry and exit tearing with the strain, and kicked the door just beside the knob. The wood molding splintered and the door crashed open. He stepped inside, seeing all four stunned faces gaping wide-eyed at him. He shot the detective wearing the business suit twice in the chest with the pistol and then fired the Taser at the uniformed police officer. One of the harpoon shaped prongs hit the cop in the throat while the other struck about mid-chest. He was in the act of drawing his gun when the electricity hit. His body went rigid and he fell to his knees. Majoqui dropped the Taser while it was still sending its electric power into the police officer’s body, and shot him in the forehead with the pistol. The man’s brains speckled the wall behind him in high velocity splatter and he crumpled — the five second charge of electricity still causing his limbs to twitch and jitter.

  Majoqui turned to the man and woman. “Don’t move,” he said, and they didn’t.

  He scanned the counters with his one eye. Time was of the essence now. Still, the message must be sent. His machete was gone, but kitchens always held knives.

  6

  “Cute,” said Lieutenant Mike Braden as he held up the nurse’s cell phone he’d dug out from behind the cushion of the taxi’s backseat.

  They were in the city of Gunwood near a strip club called Elephant Guns.

  “Dead end,” said Detective Randy Nolan.

  “What now?” asked Braden.

  “Now,” said Jim Black, “we get busy trying to figure out who this scumbag is.”

  “Mike,” I said, “I’d like to head over to the house from the picture and see what Billy’s come up with.”

  Mike nodded. “Sure, go ahead. I’ll liaison with Denver and see if they’ve come up with anything from the security feed at the hospital.”

  I went back to my car, hopped in and felt Pilgrim nuzzle my shoulder with his nose. “Hey there, buddy. Thanks for saving my bacon back there.” I rubbed his nose and scratched under his chin. He’s a big Shepherd from Czechoslovakia with teeth like a crocodile and the sweetest disposition in the Universe — unless you make him mad—then he’s like Bill Bixby when he played the Hulk on the old TV show — “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

  Pilgrim rides in the back of my patrol car. There’s no backseat, instead there’s a platform with a cage across the windows and back windshield and a slider between the front seats so I can let him see what’s going on while I’m driving.

  I looked at my watch, ten minutes after three, and started driving toward downtown Denver. The man in the picture, Gerald Meyer, was the president of Denver Community Bank. He was fifty-seven years old, with a thirty-one year old wife and two kids; a boy seven and a girl ten. The house was East of Colorado Boulevard on Eighth Avenue, not too far from the Governor’s Mansion.

  I radioed dispatch my destination and tried to bring the suspect’s face back to mind. His license said his name was Juan Martinez, but I was sure that was bologna. This guy was too good to give out his real name.

  I’ve bee
n a cop for six years and a K9 handler for five, plus four years working dogs in the Marine Corps before that. I did two tours in Iraq and another two in Afghanistan. We lost a lot of good men and good dogs to IEDs and snipers, but we took out a lot of bad guys and sniffed out a lot of bombs that saved troops lives too.

  Pilgrim’s my second dog since joining the Sheriff’s Office. My first dog, Sampson, died in the line of duty, saving me and a bunch of middle school kids.

  I’m married, with a three year old daughter. My wife, Jolene, is the best thing that ever happened to me. And then she did one better by giving me a daughter, Marla.

  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket; it was my lieutenant, Mike.

  “Got a couple of pictures from the security cameras,” he said. “They aren’t great, but they’re something. I’m having them sent out to every agency in a four state radius. Should be on your computer in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Hey, what’s Billy Mack’s number; he’s at the house right?”

  “Yeah, him and a Denver cop.” He gave me the number. “If you get there and think he might show up, let me know and I’ll send a few uniforms over to help.”

  “Will do,” I said and hung up. I punched in Billy’s number. He’s a good guy, made detective about a year ago and solved some tough cases right off the bat. His phone went straight to voice mail. Oh well, I was only a few minutes out.

  Majoqui had finished with the pepper spray and the Taser and graduated to the knife. He’d cut out both their tongues and the woman’s eyes — after the pepper spray of course. He left the old man his eyes so that he would have to watch what Majoqui did to his wife and children.