“Why’d you run?” Sarah interrupted.
“What?” Wilson confusedly asked.
“If you and your friends are such upstanding individuals. Why did you run from me?”
Wilson’s mouth moved as if he were about to answer, then he slowly closed it again, thinking better of it.
“Why don’t you tell me about Henry Glazer?” Sarah asked, crossing her arms and continuing to lean back in her chair. “You must really hate him.”
Wilson looked at her for a second, then deciding on his best option calmly responded. “Listen, I don’t know no Glazer. I only associate with members of my club, and we tend to be selective.” Making an exaggerated effort to look her over, he whispered across the table, “Although, we’d be willing to let you and your pretty little ass hang with us... if you was willing to put out in return.” He winked at her and slumped back in his chair. “I noticed you got a bike.”
Although Sarah’s first instinct was to throw a right hook, knocking out a few of this jerk’s teeth, she quickly thought better of it. Keep calm Sarah, she told herself. He’s just trying to change the subject.
She smiled painfully at Wilson and fanned three of the still photos from the casino’s security footage in front of the biker. “It’s funny because, for someone you don’t know, the two of you seem to have a lot to discuss in these pictures.”
The big man looked over the montage of the brief fight scene. “Oh, that son of a bitch. Yeah, I know him. He tried to cheat me out of my money. There’s no way I lost thirteen hands in a row. That’s just frickin’ impossible. And when I asked him about it, he told me it’s not his problem.” Wilson scoffed. “So, I made it his problem.”
He pushed the photos back at Sarah. “Is that what this is about? You must be hard up to come breaking down my door for some trumped up assault beef?”
Sarah shuffled the photos back into the file in front of her, and then pulled out a few more. “No, but I think you weren’t done when security walked you and your boys out. I think you don’t like losing. I think you waited until Glazer’s shift ended, and then when he came out, you finished him off.”
Stone-faced, Sarah threw the glossy images of the grotesque crime scene onto the table.
Wilson, caught off guard, just stared at them for a moment, as if processing what he was supposed to be looking at.”
“I have to say,” Sarah began. “Your work is messy.”
Then, all of a sudden, Wilson put the pieces together of what was being implied. “Whoa! I didn’t kill that scumbag! Yeah, he cheated me at cards, but I didn’t do that!” He pointed to the crime scene photos. “It looks like he was ripped apart by a frickin’ bear.”
He turned his head away in disgust, refusing to look back down at the photos. “Lady, get those away from me.” Wilson pushed at the pictures while staring fixedly at the ceiling. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
Still looking up, he jumped up out of his chair and the cuffs quickly pulled him back towards the table like a balloon on the end of a string.
Sarah snapped to her feet at Wilson’s sudden movement, then quickly straightened, trying to maintain a calm demeanor. “I could see where you might think that. Or where someone might want people to think that. You know, if you didn’t want suspicion on you.” She looked at him accusingly.
“I told you, lady. I don’t kill people for cheating me at cards. If I did, the Lucky Roll wouldn’t have enough staff to stay in business.”
BANG! BANG! Just as Sarah was about to start really putting the pressure on Wilson, she was interrupted by someone at the door. Refusing to take her gaze off the biker, she leaned over and cracked it open. Professor Booker was leaning on his cane, grinning. As always, he was dressed impeccably in an olive suit, with a burgundy and olive paisley patterned waistcoat. “What?” She whispered through the opening.
“Do you mind if I join your operation here?” Booker stepped through the opening before she could dispute it. “Hello there Mr. Wilson, I was hoping to jump into your conversation.” Sarah closed the door behind him and made an exaggerated welcoming sweep of her arm. Clearly irritated.
“I don’t know you, fella,” Wilson responded, looking at him cautiously. “You a lawyer? You dress too fancy for a cop.”
“Well, Mr. Wilson, I’m a friend. Trust me, you want to know me.” The professor walked over next to the chair Sarah had been in and leaned once again on the pewter headed cane. Sarah dropped back in the chair.
“You don’t want to know him. He’s annoying, and a bit of a know-it-all,” Sarah said.
Wilson looked back and forth between the two of them, as if he were a child left out of an adult conversation. At last, he said, “None of my friends dress as fancy as you mister.” He shook the cuffs again. “But I was just telling your lady here, that I didn’t kill that damn card dealer.”
“Oh yes, I know that,” Booker said matter-of-factly. “To begin with, if you were truly a cold-blooded killer, you wouldn’t still be avoiding looking at the pictures of your handiwork.” He gestured to the photos on the table, while Wilson grimaced. “To end with, Henry Glazer was making you too much money for you to kill him.”
It was hard for Booker to tell who responded quicker, Wilson, whose jaw dropped open and eyes sprung wide, or Sarah, whose head snapped around to glare at the professor.
Booker ignored both and kept talking, “Mr. Wilson, my name is August Booker, and I am doing some consulting work with the very aggressive Detective Rime.” He motioned sideways to Sarah. “While you were getting owned by my partner here at the bar, I was spending most of the morning carefully going through weeks of video. And do you know what I saw?”
Wilson slowly shook his head.
Sarah chimed in. “Was it this gentleman beating the bejesus out of our victim? Because where I come from, we call that motive.”
“Are you guys trying to do some kind of crazy good-cop/bad-cop routine, or do you need some time to get on the same page?” Wilson asked. “This is the most screwed up interview I’ve ever been in on. And I’m sure you’ve seen my rap sheet.”
Booker shook his head and ignored Wilson’s comments. “You and Henry Glazer were obviously working together.”
“Working together? Maybe you weren’t paying attention, but that cheat was scamming me. I lost thirteen hands in a row!” Wilson’s eyes darted back and forth from Booker to Sarah.
“Booker, maybe you should catch up on the case before jumping in.” Sarah was becoming more and more exasperated with his disruption.
The professor continued, unabated, “Mr. Wilson… can I call you Big Cat?”
Mouth still hanging open, the prisoner nodded.
“Thank you,” Booker said. “Big Cat, at first glance it did seem as if Henry was cheating you. I mean yes, on this day in question specifically, you made quite the spectacle of yourself showing everyone how angry you were.”
Booker slapped the end of his cane on the surveillance photos sticking out of the file. “But, as I continued to look over the footage from the casino, I noticed how you and your biker friends typically interacted with Henry and saw quite a different pattern emerge.”
Sarah was now listening intently and had stopped all efforts to interfere. Booker also noticed he had Wilson’s complete attention, and the man’s bald head had begun to bead up with sweat.
“Funny thing about patterns. If you pay close enough attention, you will find them in all sorts of situations.” He turned around and adjusted his tie in the mirror. Then making eye contact with Wilson through his reflection, he said, “I noticed that whenever you were at the casino, no matter what game you started playing, you always ended up at Henry Glazer’s table.”
“Yeah, and the son of a bitch ripped me off!” Wilson snapped defensively.
Booker just held up a finger to silence him. “Except that most of the time, you did lose. Statistically impossible at a casino where a win is rare and ‘the house always wins’ is the standard rule. Moreover, each
time you failed to win, you had a habit of making quite the commotion about losing before exiting the building. But as I looked closer, I noticed that every time you were losing, one of your buddies at the table was the one winning. The house wasn’t stealing your money; they were actually losing money as well. Every instance, one of the Chrome Horsemen was winning big, but your temper tantrums attracted the security staff’s attention enough for no one to notice. And then of course, usually the dealer is supposed to either signal the floor manager, or switch out. Henry never lifted a finger to point out the money won by your crew at the table.”
The professor turned back around to face the biker. “At first, I thought maybe Glazer was a terrible dealer, but then I looked at the footage of other times he was dealing. He was a model employee, notifying staff as soon as a player began a hot streak. Except when your group was there, when he played along with your temper tantrum drama.” Leaning down slightly, he asked, “So, how much was Glazer’s cut? Ten percent? Fifteen?”
“Twenty.” Wilson sunk into his chair, defeated. “When he wasn’t there this morning, we thought maybe he split town with his share. Then, this lady cop told me he was dead.”
Wilson shook his head. “I got no love for the guy, he really was a jerk, but he did help us make some easy money. Nearly thirty-five thousand just this past month. If he’s dead, we just lost our cash cow.”
“Shit,” Sarah muttered. Wilson had no discernable motive. And that meant she was back to square one. “Any ideas who might have killed him?” She asked, trying to at least get something useful out of the biker.
“Did you already look at his old lady? Henry could be a drinker. On more than a few nights, he’d tie one on at the Shark’s Cove. Then, when his wife showed up to get him, he’d get violent. More than once, I saw him slap her around the parking lot.”
“Nobody stopped him?” Sarah asked.
“I told you, he was making us good money. Plus, it’s not my business what goes on between him and his wife.”
“So, the whole gang of you just watched this poor lady get abused in front of the bar? Nice.” Sarah glared at him, disgusted.
She felt nauseous. Why did this sort of thing still happen in the world? She remembered an incident in New York where a woman was beaten for twenty minutes in front of a group of bystanders. No one stepped in to help, but three of them had captured the abuse on their cellphones. She had been hoping this small town would be different. Apparently, she was wrong.
Wilson looked confused once again, “You’ve got it all wrong sweetheart, she gave as good as she got. Shit, one night she didn’t even wait for him to get both feet in the car. She dragged him a quarter of a mile down the road, hanging out the door by one leg, before she stopped.” He shook his head. “No way I’d put anything past that woman.”
Sarah looked at Booker, eyebrows raised. She was almost glad to see him frowning back at her in return. For once, August Booker seemed puzzled. Maybe he doesn’t know everything, after all, Sarah thought. She wanted to feel smugly satisfied at Booker’s confusion, but she merely felt more anxious. If August Booker was at an impasse, what hope did the rest of them have?
Chapter 12- Square One
It was blistering. Booker found himself surrounded by waves of flame spreading across walls, floor, and ceiling. He was crouched, trying to stay away from the billowing smoke collecting at head level. He had learned long ago, that the smoke and super-heated air could kill you quicker than the fire.
“Where the hell is he?” August thought as he pushed through door after door. Becky had told him to leave Sam Marshall to die, but August couldn’t bring himself to do it. After all, Marshall was a serial arsonist, not a murderer. The only reason the locals had called the FBI was that Marshall made the mistake of torching a federal building. Or had he made a mistake?
Booker wondered if an innate desire to be stopped had caused the firebug to up his game. They had profiled him and followed all the tiniest clues, which they used to trail him to this building, which he had just lit up. Unfortunately, hearing the police outside, Marshall retreated and found himself trapped in an inferno of his own making.
Suddenly, he heard coughing and wheezing through the thickening haze. Using his jacket to filter the air, August pushed past a burning bookshelf on its side. He squinted hard, trying to see anything, but the more he tried to widen his eyes, the more the smoke stung them, and they began to water down his face. The tears only impeded his vision further. It wasn’t until he almost tripped over a crouching mass huddled on the floor that August finally found his man.
If there had been any doubt about Marshall’s sanity before, it was quickly dissolved by the image of the man sitting cross-legged on the floor, mesmerized by the glowing flames around him. Even through the grimy smoke stains on his face, Booker could see him sporting a wide smile. Grabbing him by the back of the collar, the agent dragged him out of the room and down the hall towards the door.
Red and blue flashing lights illuminated the exit, making it easier to find through the fire and smoke. As they approached the last few steps. Both men heard a creaking noise and then a loud CRASH! Booker pushed the man toward the safety of the only door leading outside as sheetrock and lumber fell from the ceiling.
While trying to avoid the bulk of the debris, a sharp pain fired up Booker’s left leg and hip. The agent screamed and looked down to see a four-foot-long copper pipe speared through his thigh and pinned him to the floor.
***
Booker bolted upright in bed. A long sigh and then he wiped sweat from his brow. It had been a few months since he had the dream again, but it usually came back when something was bothering him. And this case certainly was.
Sarah and Captain Harrison had not been happy after Booker forced her to release the biker she brought in. She had lost the primary suspect. Booker didn’t necessarily like it either, but he had to follow the evidence, and in Wilson’s case, the evidence said that the biker had no motive to kill the victim. In actuality, Henry Glazer’s death had put a huge damper on the Chrome Horsemen gang’s income.
August swung his left leg out of bed, massaging it with his hand as he reached out with his other to retrieve his cane. I’m too young to be hobbled like an old man. The thought seemed to cross his mind at the beginning of each day. So don’t allow it to slow you, August.
Resolved, he stood up fast and forced weight onto the weak leg. “Ahhhh!” He screamed, his knuckles white as he held his cane horizontally in the air, not allowing himself to lean on it. He took a step. His teeth clenched. His breathing was quick and shallow. As he began his second step, he squeezed the cane so hard, it would have snapped in half if it weren’t made of metal. His steps stuttered and he caught himself on the dresser. Finally, he relented and lowered the tip of the staff to the floor. He moved to the shower, defeated yet another morning.
The jets fired water at him from multiple directions, his head leaning against the tile, pictures filing through his head. Details of the case kept shuffling and re-shuffling themselves through his mind. He could hear his cellphone ringing, but he made no effort to rush out of the bathroom.
A few minutes later, he exited his closet, dressed in yet another suit and matching waistcoat. Today it was blue. He tapped the voicemail with his finger, and then put it on speaker as he poured his coffee.
“Hey August, it’s Rick. Just checking in with you. I still have an opening at the Albany field office. It’s a desk jockey gig, but we could use a good profiler down here.” There was an awkward silence, as if the caller was unsure what to say next. “Okay, well you know my number. Hope to hear from you because, you know...”
August didn’t listen to the rest. Before the message ended, he hit the delete button and slid the phone into his jacket pocket.
***
The classroom was open when Booker arrived. Entering he was bombarded by the intense aroma of pipe smoke. “Ski, you’re killing me! Open the window,” Booker choked as he waved the smell fro
m his face.
The old man cracked the window. “Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed?” He gingerly waved the smoke out the opening.
Max was already typing away on his laptop, while Kara was perched in the rocking chair in front of the professor’s desk, nursing a coffee out of her pink camouflage travel mug. When in doubt, Booker thought, re-examine everything.
“Not every investigation follows the same path,” he began. “What do you do when your first suspicions fall through?”
The group looked at him quizzically. Booker sighed and explained, “The biker from the casino was cleared. He’s not our guy.”
“You made damn sure of that,” an aggressive voice shouted from the doorway. Sarah was planted in the entrance, hands on hips, looking unpleased. “We had a suspect and you swooped in and handed him a get out of jail free card.” She stomped across the room and crossed her arms in front of the professor. “So, what the hell is your plan now?”
If Booker was shocked or impacted in any way by the detective’s tirade, he didn’t show it. Taking a deep breath, August tapped his cane against the tile floor. “You are understandably upset at losing your chief suspect—”
“I’m pissed,” she interrupted.
“But, I don’t hang charges on innocent men. And while I’m sure there are a few crimes somewhere that Mr. Wilson committed, I think you’ll agree the evidence shows he had nothing to gain from killing Glazer.” August calmly returned Sarah’s direct eye contact until she finally relaxed.
“What am I missing?” Kara asked.
“Yeah I’d like to be looped in, too,” Ski agreed.
Max decided to clear the air. “Yesterday, after everyone left, Professor Booker and I kept looking over all the details of the casino footage.”
Max brought up a few of the clips of the bikers playing at Henry Glazer’s tables from different dates. “Our professor noticed that all the hostility was staged.” Max moved some more videos up onto the screen. “The Chrome Horsemen and Henry Glazer were working together.”
Killer Curriculum Page 9
