A Bleak Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  “Listen, Teddy, I’m keeping you from your dinner. And my wife will think I’ve run away from home. Say goodbye to Maggie for me, and thanks for the beer.” I stood.

  “You’re welcome. And don’t worry about me.” Then he repeated, “I won’t say nothin’ ta nobody.”

  He stuck out a hand for me to shake. The only thing missing was for us to spit into our palms and swear oaths to each other.

  We walked to the front door. “Hey, Ted, I was thinking of making one of our auxiliaries a sergeant. That crew needs a supervisor. Interested?”

  “You wanna make me a sergeant?” He showed me a big smile. “Sure, I’m interested. I was a sergeant in the Army. I could handle that.”

  “Good. Since you guys are all volunteers and there’s no money involved, I don’t have to check with the mayor or council. I’ll buy you the stripes if you can get Maggie to sew them on.”

  At 8:30 the next morning, I had just finished breakfast when I received back-to-back phone calls from John Gallagher and Stan Rose telling me that Cal Pitts was on the move, driving himself toward the Justice Center.

  Not wanting to miss out on the action, I called Bettye to tell her I’d be late, but earning my salary out of the office.

  I buried my unmarked Ford among the many vehicles in the visitor’s lot of the Justice Center where I found Stanley’s white Cadillac parked in a spot where he could watch the front of the building and much of the employee parking area in the rear. I tapped the front fender of the Caddy. Both Stan and an FBI agent I’d never met were awake. I slid into the back seat.

  “Starsky and Hutch, I presume?”

  “I look like either of those Hollywood cops to you?” Stan asked.

  “Maybe a little like David Soul if he was black.”

  He grunted. “Meet Agent Mike Butler. He used to work up in your neck of the woods.”

  “Good to meet you, Mike.” We shook hands.

  “Yeah, howz it goin’?” He spoke with an unmistakable New York accent. “Stan’s been tellin’ me about you. Kept me up all night.”

  “Sorry to hear that. I slept like a log.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  “Mike says he was on the real job up there before getting involved with the FBI.”

  “Yeah? Where’d you work?”

  “Garden City PD for six years. After I got my law degree, I went into the Bureau. My last assignment was with the Joint Terrorist Task Force out o’ Manhattan.”

  “Good duty?”

  “If ya like followin’ Middle Eastern assholes all over creation.”

  “More scenic than tailing our district attorney.”

  “Yeah. The bastard’s probably inside planning who he’ll kill next.”

  “If Heidi Piper gets a judge to sign her warrants quickly, we’ll prevent little Calvin from pursuing those dreams.”

  “Hell, I’m awake now. Wouldn’t mind finishing this job by takin’ this guy off.”

  “Good. And Stanley is almost twice as big as Pitts and acts cranky when he doesn’t get his beauty rest. Maybe he’ll scare the little guy to death and save the government the cost of a trial.”

  “I’d rather see him go to jail,” Stan said, “and then get someone to drop a dime on a few selected members of the general population. Ex-DA like him would have a long life sentence.”

  “Or a very short one,” I said. “Deviants tend to get shanked in the shower at an alarming rate.”

  “That, too.”

  “You hear from Gallagher and his partner much?”

  “Couple times. They’re parked over in the bank lot watching the other end of employee parking.”

  “I’ll mosey over and see if I can catch them sleeping. Good to meet you, Mike.”

  I walked through the parked cars and away from the building to blend into the landscape. In case Calvin Pitts was looking out his window, I didn’t want him to see me skulking around. At the First Tennessee Bank on the opposite end of the lot, I crossed their blacktop and hit the sidewalk that paralleled US 321 and headed back toward the Justice Center and the US Bank where John had parked his Saturn.

  He and his new partner were awake and alert. I opened the back door and took a seat.

  “Jesus, John, look at all the crap you’ve got back here.”

  “You know, Boss, if you gave me an unmarked police car to drive, you wouldn’t have to sit back there with all my necessities.”

  “Keep dreaming, John.” I looked at the young agent sitting in the front passenger’s seat. “Hi, I’m Sam Jenkins. Sorry to say, the long suffering chief responsible for Detective Gallagher’s conduct.”

  “Howdy. Nick Colquitt.” He turned further to the rear and extended a hand.”

  “New to Knoxville?”

  “Been in the office six months, but I grew up just up north a little in Rutledge. Spent my first six years with the Bureau in Memphis.” He shook his head. “Like bein’ stationed in Hell. Memphis is hot and sticky. Only savin’ feature is they make good barbeque. But I did qualify for these surveillance details by workin’ bank robberies out there. Spent plenty o’ time tailin’ the boogers who think they can make a quick buck.”

  I looked at my watch. 9:30.

  “I expect to hear from Heidi Piper soon. When she gives us the signal that the warrants are signed, a crew from Knoxville should be heading this way. But I figure with us five and a little help from the DA’s investigators, we can take Cal Pitts into custody and turn him over to Carl and his merry men when they get here. You two good to make a few more hours OT?”

  “Sure thing,” Nick said. “I’d love ta hang out for the grand finale.”

  “You know me, Boss,” John said. “I’ll stay for the duration. And I’m all ready to chase this little guy if necessary.”

  “How’s that, John? I’ve never known you to be a runner.”

  “I got new shoes. See?” He picked up his left foot and twisted in the car seat to show me.

  “Yeah, black sneakers,” I said. “You look like a high school coach.”

  “Walking shoes, Boss. Look at these soles. Plenty of gripshun.”

  Colquitt stared at John with a quizzical expression.

  “Good, John. A street cop without gripshun is like a day without sunshine.”

  “Right you are, Boss.”

  I wanted to change the subject before Gallagher taught Colquitt another new word. Most people can only handle one a day, and Nick hadn’t gotten much sleep. “Hey guys, while we’re waiting, you want coffee? I’ll walk over to Sonic and get you something.”

  “Okay, Boss,” John said. “Since you’re buyin’, how about a regular and whatever breakfast special they’ve got?”

  “Just a black with two sugars for me,” Nick said.

  I called Stanley’s cell phone, asked the same question and took their orders.

  “Okay, gents. Be right back.”

  I didn’t get twenty feet from the car when my phone sounded off. I checked my watch again. 9:49.

  “Sam,” Carl Harmon said, “She’s got the warrants, and we’re on the way.”

  “Good. We’ll move in and secure him.”

  I stepped back to John’s car and signaled for him to roll down the window. “Breakfast must wait, fellers. We’re goin’ inside.”

  I called Stanley who drove to the back door. I jumped into the back of the Saturn, and John pulled out of the bank lot and drove on the shoulder of 321 until he could make a right and stop at the front doors of the Justice Center. We jogged inside and after a quick stop at the security desk, took the elevator to the third floor and the DA’s office.

  I showed my badge to Pitts’ secretary. “We need to see your boss immediately.”

  She smiled, and I admired her honey blond hair streaked with platinum highlights.

  “I’m sorry. He just left.” She looked at her watch. “Not five minutes ago.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  She frowned and looked at me as if I might cause trouble. “I’m
sorry, I’m not. Did you have an appointment?”

  “Not that he knew about. Where did he go?”

  “He only said he’d be out for a while. Can I help you with something?”

  “God damn it.”

  She frowned again and moved back a few inches. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Which way did he go?”

  “I’m not sure. He left by his back door and into the investigator’s room.”

  “Thanks.”

  We did the same, and I found Clete Dunn at his desk. Two other investigators were also in the room.

  “Clete, did Cal Pitts come through here?”

  “Yeah. Couple minutes ago. He borrowed O.L.’s car.”

  “He what?” I shook my head. “Son-of-a-bitch!”

  The other investigators looked at me.

  I pointed at one of them. “You’re O.L., right?”

  “I am.”

  “Pitts borrowed your car?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “For what?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “We have an arrest warrant for him—which I guess he just heard about. What kind of car did you give him?”

  O.L. looked confused. “Gray Grand Cherokee.”

  “Hang on a minute.”

  I called Stan Rose. “Did you see a gray Cherokee leave the lot?”

  “A gray SUV was pulling out as we got around back.”

  “Shit. That was Pitts. He’s on the run. Stay there, and I’ll call you back.”

  I looked at the three investigators. “Anyone know where he was headed?”

  The man called O.L. and the other shook their heads.

  Clete said, “We don’t usually question the boss when he leaves, Sam.”

  “Was he carrying anything?”

  “A briefcase,” Clete said.

  “Does he carry a gun?”

  “He owns a Sig nine millimeter.”

  “Why me?”

  I called Stan. “Get over to Pitts’ house pronto. Look for that Grand Cherokee. And be careful, he may be armed. I’ll put out an alarm.”

  “Can I assume you’re not a happy police chief?”

  “The master of understatement.”

  I looked at O.L.” Call the dispatcher and give her your plate number. I want everyone on the road looking for that car. Whoever finds it should take the DA into custody.”

  “Lord have mercy.”

  As O.L. spoke to the dispatcher, I jotted down the plate number.

  “Alright, guys, let’s get out of here. We’ll head to his house, too.”

  Clete Dunn asked, “What can we do?”

  “Hit the road. Look for that Jeep. Pitts is the Riverside Strangler.”

  Clete isn’t an emotional guy, but his jaw dropped. “Oh, sweet Jesus. Okay, we’re on it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  We ran out of the building, tossing our visitor’s badges at the deputy sitting behind the security desk.

  As we hit the steps outside, I said, “We’ll use my car, John. Last row, half way to the bank.”

  We left the lot with my grill lights flashing and the siren blaring as I made a left turn onto US 321 heading toward Pitts’ home in Maryville.

  I grabbed the microphone from the dashboard as I hit the gas and gunned the engine. “Prospect-one, headquarters. Switch me over to county dispatch. This is an emergency.”

  “Ten-four, Prospect-one,” Bettye said, as calmly as if I had told her I just dropped a paper clip. “Stand by.”

  A second later: “Go ahead, Prospect-one, your traffic.”

  “County dispatch, this is Prospect-one. Did you put out an alarm for an oh-nine Jeep Cherokee?”

  “Affirmative, Prospect-one.”

  “Good. Repeat that transmission every two minutes. If you get a confirmed sighting, send all available units as backup.” I paused to take a breath. “And add that the subject may be armed.”

  “Uh, Prospect-one, I’ll have to get permission to do that.”

  “Dispatch, this order comes with the authority of the homicide task force commander and the AUSA. Tell your duty officer and do it.”

  “Uh, Prospect-one, stand by.”

  Quickly, I said, “Negative on the standby, dispatch. Do it now. You do not want to be the one to be responsible for this going south.”

  There was a long pause. “Ten-four, Prospect-one.” A second later she repeated the alarm with amendments.”

  I racked up the microphone when my cell phone rang. I pulled it from my jacket pocket and handed it to John.

  “Answer that.”

  He did and listened for a long moment.

  “Okay,” John said into the phone. “We’re on the way.”

  John snapped my phone shut and held it.

  “That was Stanley. They’re at Pitts’ house. The Jeep is in the driveway.”

  “Good.” I leaned on the siren, stomped down on the accelerator and passed an old man driving a twenty-year-old white Buick.

  As we pulled up to Calvin Pitts’ home, my cell phone once again rang. I spoke to an exasperated Carl Harmon.

  “Sam, what the hell happened? Mike Butler advised me that Pitts is in the wind.”

  “Afraid so. Five of us are at his house now. We’re going to attempt to enter.”

  “How did this happen? How did he get word?”

  “Good question. I told my mayor about Leary’s arrest and instructed him not to put out a press release or discuss it with anyone. I know nothing went out to the media, but whether he complied about the other, it’s anyone’s guess. I never named Pitts as the second subject.”

  “God damn it! If he spread the word, I’ll nail his balls to a tree.”

  “I don’t know if he did, but why don’t you do that anyway? It might keep him from playing political Russian roulette in the future.”

  “You don’t know how much this pisses me off.”

  “I do. But I’m also wondering if someone in the Federal court might have spilled the beans. Who knows? We’d have an easier time learning who kidnapped the Lindberg baby.”

  Carl let out a large volume of air. “I know. We’re almost at the Justice Center. Call me as soon as you have him in custody.”

  “The borrowed Jeep is in the driveway. I’m optimistic.”

  Stan Rose was standing at the front right corner of the house. He told me that Mike Butler was covering the opposite rear spot. I sent Nick Colquitt to join Butler and took John Gallagher with me to beat on the front door.

  The place was a large two-story, traditionally-styled home with an attached garage. It looked way too big for a couple, much less the unmarried long-time DA.

  I rang the bell. Synthesized chimes sounded off inside the house. After ninety seconds with no reply, I pounded on the door hard enough to cause a seismic blip at the closest monitoring station.

  “Jeez, Boss, any harder and you’ll take the door down,” John said.

  “If this bastard doesn’t open up, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  I pulled a pocketful of paperwork out of my jacket to find Calvin Pitts’ home phone number. I called and let it ring until voice mail kicked in.

  “You miserable bastard,” I said and slammed my fist against the door another half dozen times.

  “You wanna kick it in, Boss?” John asked.

  “Yeah. We’re getting nowhere. That’s next. Hang on.”

  I called the county duty officer’s line, and a Lieutenant McPhee answered. I identified myself and brought him up to speed on our attempt to execute the arrest and search warrants at Pitts’ home.

  “Lieutenant, you need to cancel the alarm for that gray Cherokee, but send me whoever you can spare—at least two people from patrol. We should divert traffic from the street until this is resolved. A couple detectives would help us covering the outside of the house when we go inside. And have a crime scene unit respond. One way or another we’re going in, and I’ll need a thorough sear
ch of the premises.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Chief.”

  “How about a battering ram? Do you keep one in a supervisor’s car?”

  “I’ll have the road sergeant respond. He’s got one in his ve-hickle.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Five minutes later, a marked sheriff’s patrol unit drove onto the block with blue lights flashing. He switched them off and coasted into a spot one house away from Pitts’ home. An all black traffic unit and a patrol supervisor in a marked SUV were only moments behind. Those three men walked over. The sergeant was carrying a metal, two-man battering ram.

  “We gonna need this?” he asked.

  “Afraid so,” I said. “Our subject won’t answer the door or the phone. We’ve got arrest and search warrants.”

  “Sounds okay ta me. Did I hear right? You’re after the DA?”

  I nodded. “Correct.”

  “Well then, ya ready ta go?”

  “Before we do this, let’s get your guys to hit three houses on both sides and everyone across the street and order them to stay inside until we give them an all clear.”

  The sergeant, a man named Shane Hacker, looked at the two deputies. “You heard the man.”

  One ran right and the other left.

  “One more minute,” I said. “These are FBI warrants. I’ll call the SAC and tell him what we’re doing. He’s either at the Justice Center or already on the way here.”

  Hacker shrugged. “This here’s your rodeo.”

  I called and found Carl Harmon still at the Justice Center with several agents. We had eight men at the scene and possibly more detectives on the way to help execute the warrants. I couldn’t see that additional personnel were needed. Carl agreed.

  When the pair of uniformed deputies returned, I sent them to cover the back of the house. The sergeant and John Gallagher would remain outside in front and deploy any plainclothes detectives who arrived after we entered the house. The two FBI agents, Stanley and I would be the entry team.

  Sergeant Shane Hacker stood about six-two or more with plenty of solid beef behind him. Stan Rose is six-four and has probably weighed two-thirty-five since he was in high school.

  “Will you two big gentlemen break down the door?”