Lethal Savage

by Dave Edlund

  Striking out with the map, he turned to the spreadsheet. As before, he initially scanned the entries, looking for obvious commonality. There wasn’t any. But then again, many of the cells were empty, especially regarding what the patients had consumed—food and drink—over the days prior to becoming ill. Five had consumed salmon, but did they all? Hopefully the answers would come from further questioning. And there was no data regarding the use of tobacco products, alcohol, or illegal drugs. Could meth or some other drug be contaminated, and that’s the cause? As quickly as the thought came to mind, Peter began to discount it since two of the patients were school-aged boys. Although it was possible they were drug users, their young age made it less plausible.

  One potentially important factor missing from the spreadsheet was who each patient had been in contact with. Maybe they all contracted the illness from a common carrier? Peter made a note to raise that question with Lee Moses and ask that this be included with the questions asked of the patients and their immediate family and close friends.

  Peter’s education in science had taught him that coincidence was rare, being simply a product of statistical probability. Almost always an event predictably followed a cause. In this case, he just needed to identify what the cause was. The medical treatment and cure—if a cure was known—would come from the medical community.

  After a frustrating hour of pouring over the spreadsheet and digital map, Peter concluded he had gleaned all he could from the meager data. Shifting gears, he opened his browser and started searching orchitis, focusing on the symptoms and cause. As he researched, he took notes—painful inflammation of the testes… usually caused by a viral infection… although rare, most commonly occurs in post-pubescent males who have contracted mumps… not life-threatening… no cure… patients typically recover in one to two weeks.

  Peter rubbed his temples. “I feel like a pre-med student cramming for a final,” he mumbled. He decided that a walk and fresh air might help clear his thoughts. Pushing away from his desk, he called his canine companion. “Diesel.” Startled from his slumber, the red pit bull rose to his feet and trotted to Peter’s side. One ear was torn from a fight with another dog some time ago. It had healed well, but with half the ear missing it gave the pit bull a very distinctive appearance, not comical but certainly unusual. Years earlier, Peter had adopted the eight-month-old dog from the Central Oregon Humane Society. The puppy had been confiscated from a dog fighting ring. As Peter nursed the dog back to health, a deep trust and bond had developed between the two, to the point where they had become inseparable companions.

  Since Peter’s children were both grown and following their own lives, Diesel was a welcome companion. He passed a photo hanging on the wall in the entry. The image was of a young woman, her smile radiant. It was Maggie, his wife and mother of their children. When she died in a car accident years earlier, Peter felt his heart had died, too. Only recently had he been ready to date another woman. There was still distance between Peter and Kate, and she seemed to understand that his wounds had to heal before their relationship could have a chance to grow. At least for the moment, she was content with that.

  “Let’s get you leashed up,” he said. Minutes later they were enjoying the pine-scented air as they walked along the sidewalk in the Old Mill District. They strolled past store windows displaying a range of upscale merchandise from apparel to lingerie to fine art. Amongst the retailers were many popular restaurants, including Anthony’s, a favorite of Peter’s.

  Diesel kept his nose low to the ground for the most part, drawing in an unimaginable range of scents. Occasionally, he’d greet a passerby, wagging his tail in a steady beat as the visitor petted his blocky head.

  After they’d completed the circuit around the shops, Peter led the way back to his condo. The sun was low, nearly touching the snow-crested Cascade Mountains to the west. And as the sun settled lower, so did the air temperature. In tandem, man and dog climbed the steps to the massive, solid-wood front door.

  Across the street, wearing a black windbreaker and sunglasses, a stocky man with shaved head watched patiently.

  Chapter 11

  Bend, Oregon

  March 14

  He was still angry over missing the opportunity on the highway. The shot was easy—a textbook example of a quick and certain kill. Even if by some miracle the buckshot didn’t do the job, the resulting high-speed crash would have finished him.

  He ran a hand across his smooth pate, the cool air becoming noticeable. He’d missed twice now. First, it was the poison. If the server at the coffee shop had been minding her own business, she would not have warned Peter Savage that his cappuccino was laced with something. He’d taken his time to study the mark and formulate a plan, considering the variables and refining his strategy to ensure success. It should have been a success, only it wasn’t.

  The shooting on the highway should have worked, too. All the conditions were right. If it wasn’t for the sudden reaction of the mark, the shot would not have been blown. That was twice he’d failed—he wouldn’t fail again. This was highly uncharacteristic. He was good at his profession.

  At one time, he’d been a soldier in the U.S. Army. He’d completed two tours in Iraq and had grown tired of killing for a meager monthly salary. Recognizing he had a skill—one somewhat rare in the civilian sector—he left the military with an honorable discharge. After working in a paramilitary private security firm, and then for a year as a bodyguard, he stumbled upon an Internet chatroom that introduced the profession of hired killer. Sounds exactly like what I was doing for the army, he thought. After months of digging deeper and making anonymous connections through the dark web, he decided to apply his skills in the public sector.

  The mark, or target, was most often a gang banger or small-time thug. When someone in a competing gang had reached the decision that the mark had to go, a contract was issued. The reason why was never disclosed, nor did it matter. What did matter was the payment. Ten thousand dollars seemed to be the going rate for the average murder-for-hire. Naturally, payment was always in cash. And with no taxes being withheld, and no taxable income reported, completing a few contracts a year was sufficient to pay for a rather comfortable lifestyle.

  So when this contract popped up—five million dollars for proof of death—it immediately caught his attention. It was the kind of job he’d dreamed about, a payday big enough he could retire to somewhere with warm, sandy beaches, cold beer, and no extradition treaty with the U.S.

  There was still time to salvage the operation and collect on the contract. But he had to act before someone else did. With the bounty so high, there would surely be others trying to beat him to the prize and collect the reward. And as he watched Peter Savage return to his home, a new plan was taking form.

  The dog, that was the key. A quick surveillance of the condo showed it had no yard, which meant that Savage must walk his dog several times daily. It was still early evening, so he’d certainly take the dog out again before retiring for the night. That’s when he’d strike—under cover of darkness and with the element of surprise. Death would come swiftly.

  He was already imagining the possibilities he could realize with five million in cold, hard cash. He could buy a small, beach-front shack and fall into anonymity. Or maybe he’d buy a sailboat. That would offer greater freedom, and without a permanent address, and the ability to move easily from one tiny island to another, it would be impossible for anyone to track him down. That’s assuming the authorities could successfully identify him as the killer. Unlikely, given that he had no connection to the mark, and would leave almost no evidence at the scene.

  He’d killed before and was confident he would continue to escape scrutiny. The key was the lack of any connection to the mark. Law enforcement always looked first to friends, family, and acquaintances of the murder victim. This is where they usually found the killer. Without that connection, and with a dearth of physical evidence, the police just didn’t have anything to work with.
He’d murdered eleven people in different cities over two years, a respectable tally, and not even once had he been questioned by police.

  With urgency in his step, he returned to his pickup parked nearby with a hundred other cars. He placed a brimmed black-felt hat on his head and then retrieved a semi-auto pistol from under the seat. With practiced moves, he threaded a suppressor onto the barrel. It would not truly silence a shot, but it attenuated the sound greatly. Most people would not recognize the report as a gunshot when he fired the weapon.

  He also slipped on a knee-length duster, meticulously fabricated in waxed canvas and dyed black. The loose fit of the duster easily concealed the pistol stuck in his waistband at the center of his back. Properly equipped, he returned to the shadows between stores, but always maintained a clear view of the condominium.

  The hours passed slowly, and he meandered from one vantage point to the next, never staying in one location long enough to attract attention. The sun had long set, revealing a beautiful, clear sky dotted with countless stars. The foot traffic thinned as the retail stores closed, leaving only a few restaurants open. Before long they would close too. He glanced at his watch—almost ten p.m. Come on. You’ve gotta take the pooch out one more time before going to bed. No sooner had he completed the thought when a crack of light shone around the front door.

  Peter descended the steps to the sidewalk with Diesel by his side. In a matter of minutes, the contract would be fulfilled.

  He watched as the two walked casually down the sidewalk on the far side of the street. He silently stepped from the shadows, matching Peter’s pace but keeping a discrete distance. Now was not the time to become impatient. He reached to his back and clasped the pistol, stuffing it into a generous pocket in the duster.

  They were alone. Far behind he heard the distant voices of people punctuated by laughter, probably a small group having enjoyed a fine dinner and plenty to drink. He picked up his pace.

  Diesel was intently sniffing a particular spot on a small patch of grass. Beyond the grass was a parking lot, and off to the left more grass and then a belt of thick bushes that lined the edge of the Deschutes River. He walked closer, able to see the outline of Peter Savage, but the details of his face were obscured in the darkness. The conditions were perfect.

  Peter was peering off in the distance, looking away from the approaching man. He was within ten yards when Diesel suddenly raised his head. “What is it boy?” Peter asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. Peter turned his head, attempting to see whatever had distracted his dog.

  The bald man continued to advance, his pace perfectly normal, faster than a meandering gait but not at all rushed or threatening—just another person returning to the parking lot to drive home after an evening of shopping and dining.

  At five yards, he removed the pistol, clutching it tight against his side. Although Peter saw the movement, he could not distinguish what the man was holding.

  A deep, menacing growl rumbled from Diesel, whose eyes were locked on the approaching stranger. “Easy boy,” Peter said, glancing first toward the pit bull and then at the man.

  Suddenly, the figure stumbled and lurched forward. He seemed to be struggling to stay on his feet, when his torso contorted spasmodically as if he’d been slugged by a steel bar. He fell face-first to the concrete, the pistol pitching from his hand.

  It all happened within two seconds, and it took Peter that long to realize the object that spilled from the man’s grip was likely a gun. Still firmly holding Diesel’s leash, Peter rushed to the fallen man. Even in the dim light he could see two glistening patches on his back, and a growing pool of black liquid spreading on the sidewalk from beneath his chest. He pressed a finger against the man’s neck but could not find a pulse.

  Diesel was growing increasingly distraught, whining and growling. Up close it was clear that a pistol with a silencer was resting next to the body. Peter knew well enough not to touch anything, and for the second time that day, he called 9-1-1.

  s

  It was only 110 yards from the edge of the river to the dead body of the would-be assassin—an easy shot for a trained marksman using a scoped rifle. The sniper was diligent and retrieved both cartridge cases so there would be no physical evidence for the police. Wearing a black neoprene dry suit to protect from the cold, snow-fed waters of the Deschutes River, the shooter quickly disassembled the rifle and packed the pieces into a case. She waded through the flowing water in a crouch to reduce her profile to nothing taller than the surrounding bushes and reeds, moving slowly to avoid splashing sounds. The sound of flowing water further helped to obscure her movements. After covering a little more than two hundred yards, she exited the water and returned to her pickup truck.

  Chapter 12

  Bend, Oregon

  March 15

  Peter was cleaning the dishes after cooking a hearty breakfast of sausage patties, country skillet potatoes, and scrambled eggs, when there was a knock at the door. He opened the door and was greeted by a middle-aged woman dressed in jeans, knit sweater, and neon green Oregon Duck sneakers. Her gray hair was cut short, exposing both ears. She was about four inches shy of Peter’s height.

  “Mr. Savage,” she said. “Detective Ruth Colson. We’ve met before.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “How could I forget?”

  “May I come in? I have a few questions for you.”

  “Look, Detective. I told everything I know to another detective last night. A guy named…”

  “MacRostie. You spoke with Detective MacRostie. He’s a good cop, but he’s never handled a murder investigation.”

  Peter opened the door and motioned with his hand for her to enter.

  From the great room, the pit bull raised his head and issued a guttural growl at Colson. “Diesel, enough,” Peter said, and his companion lowered his head again but kept his eyes locked on the suspicious visitor.

  “Your dog still doesn’t like me.”

  “Well, what can I say? He’s a pretty good judge of character.”

  Colson faced Peter. “That investigation was eighteen months ago. I was only doing my job, following the trail of evidence wherever it led. I’m sorry for the trouble the department put you through.”

  “You mean for the trouble you put me through.”

  “Like I said, I was only doing my job. Besides, it all worked out. And in the end, you were exonerated.”

  “Yeah.” Peter entered the kitchen and Colson followed. He poured a cup of coffee and offered one to the detective, which she declined. “So, what do you want to know that wasn’t already covered late last night?”

  “I understand you had an encounter with a crazy guy on the highway yesterday. The report filed by the sheriff department called it road rage. You think that driver could also be the one who was murdered last night?”

  “Maybe. I only got a brief glimpse of the guy driving the black pickup. But he was bald, like the dead guy. Still, there are a lot of men with shaved heads.”

  “We impounded a black Dodge Ram pickup from the parking lot not far from the crime scene. Pulled a bunch of good prints from the truck, and we’re running them now but expect a match with the victim. The vehicle is registered to a Darren Block. That name mean anything to you?”

  Peter shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

  “Well, we also found a sawed-off shotgun under the seat.”

  “So, it is the same guy.”

  “Any idea why he was trying to kill you?”

  “No. None at all. I don’t know anyone named Darren Block. But…” Peter hesitated.

  “Don’t hold back on me. Any information could be of importance, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

  “Okay. You’ll probably think I’m paranoid, but someone apparently put some powdery substance in my cappuccino a little over a week ago. The barista called my attention to it, and I didn’t drink it. The guy dashed out of the coffee shop, and I didn’t really notice his face. But he was bald and about the sa
me height as this guy, Darren Block.”

  “We won’t get any evidence now. You should have reported it at the time.”

  “Wouldn’t have mattered. The drink was poured out.”

  “Well, assuming that it was Block who laced your drink, and assuming it was meant to kill you, any idea why he had it in for you?”

  Peter shook his head.

  Colson moved on. “Right. For now, we’ll shelve that. Has anyone new entered your life in the past six months or so? Girlfriend, business associates, long lost high school or college buddies?”

  “No. I’m still seeing Kate. My kids are both adults and living their own lives. Nothing significant on the business front. Still working with the same people in the defense department.”

  “So your personal life is just chugging along on autopilot.”

  “You make it sound so banal.”

  “I’m not judging.” Colson folded her arms and sighed. “The Oregon State Police will examine the 9mm pistol Block was carrying. But I doubt they’ll find any records of value. If you ask me, he was about to put some hollow points in you when he was shot dead.”

  Peter sipped his coffee. “This whole thing just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I agree. I’m struggling with it, too. That’s why I wanted to talk with you myself.”

  “I’ve told you all I know.”

  “I probably shouldn’t share this information with you,” Colson said. She looked at Peter, considering her options. “Oh, what the hell. Keep this confidential. Block was killed from two gunshot wounds. Looks like a small caliber round, and probably high velocity. The exit wounds were massive. Once the autopsy is completed and the crime lab techs have finished their analysis, we’ll be certain. But assuming he was shot by a rifle—it must have been suppressed.”

  “I didn’t hear anything that sounded like a normal rifle report,” Peter said.

  “MacRostie said you thought you heard what could be a muffled shot.”