The Mile Marker Murders

by C. W. Saari

  Finally, Hines signed the form and Mercedes witnessed his signature.

  “So, you going to tell me why we’re sitting here?” Hines asked.

  “It’s about the five million dollars extorted from Global Waters,” Bannister said, looking him straight in the eye.

  “You should know I went on vacation a day before the payoff was supposed to be made.” Hines gave a smart-ass grin. “I haven’t been in touch with the office, so I’m completely in the dark about what’s happened.”

  “Aren’t you Global’s international business rep?”

  “That’s right, but I have a co-worker who was supposed to cover everything while I was gone.”

  “And did he?”

  “How do I know?” Hines put both of his hands in the air like he was going to catch a giant beach ball.

  “Did you call anyone at Global, or send any e-mails while you were on vacation?”

  “No. I haven’t had a real vacation in a long time, and I wanted to totally forget about work for a week. You can’t blame a guy for that, can you?”

  Bannister ignored his comment. “Do you know what happened?”

  “No, as I said earlier, I haven’t had any contact with Global, and I didn’t read any newspapers or watch any TV the entire time I was gone. It was total relaxation.” Hines’s voice was growing louder and more defiant.

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious about what went down?” Bannister asked, moving his chair closer to the desk.

  “I’m assuming one of two things—either you caught the bad guy and the case is solved, or you didn’t catch him and think maybe I can help.”

  “What I know is that your vacation time started after close of business on a Wednesday. The five million dollar payoff took place on Thursday. On Friday you boarded the Sunset Princess at Fort Lauderdale for a nine-day cruise. Am I right so far?”

  “So far.”

  “Who has access to your apartment?”

  “Nobody. Just me. What’s my apartment got to do with anything?” Hines’s voice rose again.

  “How do you explain this?” Bannister asked, sliding an eight-by-ten photo across the table. It was a close-up of the hamper in Hines’s closet showing Global’s millions.

  Hines lowered his head, and his mouth hung open. He stared at the photo, his shoulders sagging. Without picking his head back up he said, “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Here,” Bannister said, quickly turning and picking up the trash can. He passed it across the desk to Hines. Hines grabbed it with both hands and threw up into the can. Some of the vomit splashed off the back side. Neither Mercedes nor Bannister said anything. She put her notebook down on the desk and glanced at her shoes, which now had yellow splotches on both toes. Bannister stood up and grabbed a couple of paper towels from the fingerprint shelf and handed them to Hines. Mercedes took one to clean her shoes.

  “Wipe your face,” Bannister said. Hines looked stunned.

  “We have the money except for what you took with you on the trip. We’ve searched your apartment and examined your computer. Please don’t insult our intelligence by telling us you weren’t involved.” Hines stared at Bannister. His smirk had been replaced with a blank look, like someone who couldn’t remember where he’d parked his car.

  “Terry, you’re in a position now where you can help yourself. We want to know who else was involved.”

  Bannister had gone over the details of this case a hundred times in the last week. It was possible Hines had carried out the entire scheme himself, but Bannister wasn’t sure. No one spoke for a minute. Bannister and Mercedes continued to stare at him, trying not to let the smell of the vomit in the warm closed room distract them.

  “Terry, this might be your last chance to give us your side of the story.”

  Hines remained silent, his eyes fixed on a blank wall.

  Sensing he was now at his low point, Bannister said, “This whole operation was pretty damned impressive. Our experts think it took the work of at least three or four intelligent people to pull it off.” He kept his eyes on Hines, trying to read his body language. Hines went through the motion of picking imaginary lint off his jacket, one indicator of a deceptive person.

  After two minutes, which seemed like an hour, Hines grinned and said in a calm voice, “I want to speak to a lawyer. I’m not saying anything else to you assholes.”

  Mercedes bristled, but remained silent.

  Hines looked at Bannister, then Mercedes, then back again to Bannister. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, changing his tone and nodding his head in the direction of the trash can. “I need to wash my face.”

  “In a minute,” Bannister said.

  “If my lawyer says to talk to you, what would it get me?” Hines asked.

  “That’s not our decision. What we will do is let the United States Attorney know you cooperated with us. He’ll have to take that into consideration.”

  “Well, I’m not saying anything more.” Hines glared at both of his interrogators.

  Whether someone was a master criminal, an opportunist, or a fugitive, they shared something in common. They refused to think about being caught. When they were caught, they responded in different ways. Hines’s entire world had just crashed in on him. He’d fancied himself a successful thief returning from a cruise. A millionaire with the world for the taking. Now the only taking was being done by the FBI.

  Bannister opened the door and set the trash can outside next to the concourse wall. He asked the task force agent to bring them three Cokes, and told him to make sure the airport sent someone over to clean the room as soon as they left. When the agent returned with the sodas, Bannister asked Mercedes to include in the log that they’d given Hines a soft drink.

  Bannister told Hines, “Terry, you’re under arrest for extortion and violation of the Patriot Act. We’re taking you downtown. You’ll be processed at Fulton County. We’ll return in the morning when you’ll have an initial appearance before a magistrate.”

  “What about a lawyer?”

  “They’ll assign you a public defender, or you can call your own lawyer when you get there. Now stand up and press your chest into the wall with your hands straight out to the sides.”

  While Mercedes finished writing up the interview log, Bannister handcuffed Hines’s hands behind his back and searched him. Mercedes put her paperwork away, then searched Hines’s leather carryall, removing the Atlanta Braves warm-up jacket the Florida agent said Hines had been wearing. As they prepared to leave the office, Bannister gave the task force agent the keys to Hines’s car. It was probably in a long-term parking lot and would have to be located and towed to the FBI’s impound lot. Mercedes draped the Braves jacket over Hines’s shoulders as he was escorted through the airport. They walked directly out the exit, near the Marta subway, where the Bureau car was parked in a reserved spot.

  Forty minutes later, Hines was in a clean orange jumpsuit with plenty of time to think about his future.

  Bannister called Witt after they got back to the car.

  “How’d it go?” He heard Witt’s voice against the sound of glasses clinking in the background.

  “He lawyered up,” Bannister said. “We arrested him and booked him into Fulton County for the night. A magistrate’s hearing is scheduled for ten tomorrow. How’s it going with the inspection guys?”

  “Fine. We’re at Bones over on Piedmont. Fantastic meal. Did you know they’re rated as one of the top ten steak restaurants in the United States?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Bannister wasn’t in the mood to listen to Witt’s bullshit. “Well, enjoy your cigars. We need to get going.”

  “Good work, Ty. I told my colleagues we’d probably have a significant arrest tonight, and we’d give them details tomorrow. I’ll call the boss at home. He’ll appreciate the news.”

  After hanging up, Bannister asked Mercedes, “Guess what Witt was doing while Hines was puking on your shoes?”

  “No clue.”

  “Kiss
ing butt with the inspection team and enjoying a steak dinner at Bones.”

  “That’s not as good as feeling an adrenaline rush working a good case,” she said, grinning.

  “I like your attitude, Mercedes. I’m thinking we’ll go out for a really good meal when this case is over. How’s pizza and beer sound?”

  “Fantastic. If you’re buying, it’ll be even better.”

  Virginia state trooper Jake Roberts had been with the Virginia State Police for eighteen months and had a good record. He also believed in premonitions. He didn’t want people to think he was crazy, so he didn’t share his hunches with anyone, especially fellow troopers. At the start of his graveyard shift that night, he suddenly felt certain something unusual was about to happen.

  Roberts glanced at the clock on the dash of his patrol car. It was 3:01 a.m. There was a sliver of moon and no cloud cover. Tonight was particularly black. Since Thanksgiving, the temperature hadn’t risen above freezing. Roberts liked it when he stepped out of the car and could see his breath. It left him feeling invigorated. He was heading north on I-95 to the patrol’s post near the Potomac Mills Outlet Mall. He was halfway through his shift, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He wanted to check in at the post, replenish his supply of road flares, and make an urgent “head call.”

  The speed limit for most of the interstate section he patrolled was seventy miles per hour. As his own general rule, he didn’t pull anyone over doing under ninety unless there was some other reason to stop them. Normally there was no shortage of cars and eighteen-wheelers screaming down the east coast’s main north-south artery. Any officer could spend the entire shift writing speeding tickets. He’d just passed mile marker 148 when the post’s dispatcher came to life.

  “Station to one-one-seven.”

  “One-one-seven. Go ahead,” Roberts said, recognizing his call sign.

  “A citizen just called 9-1-1 saying she saw an SUV run off the southbound lanes of I-95 and flip over. When the operator asked for her location, the witness said she’d just seen mile marker 142, and the accident happened maybe a mile ahead of that.”

  “Ten-four,” Roberts said. “I’m responding. I’ll be on location in three minutes. Make a standby call to the paramedics.”

  Roberts flipped on his lights, snatched his gray Smokey the Bear hat from the passenger seat, and floored the Crown Vic. He loved the deep, throaty growl as the 429-cubic inch engine equipped with a “police package” roared to life. As he sailed up I-95, he was hoping the accident site was south of an “official vehicles only” turn-out in the median after mile marker 141.

  Traffic was light, and the road conditions excellent. He was willing to bet whoever was driving had done one of three things: hit a deer, lost control after drinking too much, or fell asleep at the wheel.

  Roberts braked as his lights reflected off mile marker 141. He saw the gravel access road and eased the patrol car into a U-turn back into the fast lane of I-95. Forty yards ahead, his lights spotted an upside-down vehicle facing southward in the median. Its red tail lights were still glowing.

  Roberts hit his spotlight, illuminating the vehicle, a black Jeep Cherokee. He called Dispatch, telling them he was approaching the vehicle on foot. He grabbed a large, black flashlight from its holder under his seat and jogged across the slick grass and frozen churned-up sod, trying not to slip. When he got to the Jeep, he shined his light into both the front and rear seats. He saw no occupants. Assuming one or more persons may have been thrown free before the Jeep had reached its final resting place, he walked back along the median and spotted a prone figure lying in a depression about ten feet from the highway.

  Out of habit, Roberts yelled, “Police officer. Can you hear me?” The only sound was a tractor trailer roaring past. A white male was lying on his stomach, his head turned at an awkward angle from his torso. As Roberts knelt down to feel for a pulse at the man’s carotid, he already knew what he’d detect. Nothing. No pulse. Unofficially, the man was dead. Officially, pronunciation of death was up to the medical examiner.

  It looked like the victim had broken his neck. The man’s head had one long laceration near the hairline, and the left side of his face was abraded. Roberts didn’t smell alcohol. The victim appeared to be in his early twenties. He was wearing a dark blue sweatshirt, blue jeans, and one white Nike tennis shoe. The other shoe was missing. Roberts patted the victim’s rear pockets to see if he had a wallet on him but found nothing. He glanced around but didn’t see the other shoe. It could be anywhere.

  Using his shoulder-mounted radio, Roberts called Dispatch. “We have a possible ten-fifty foxtrot (vehicle accident with fatality),” he said. “Send an ambulance. I only found one person, who was ejected from the vehicle. I couldn’t detect a pulse and believe he’s dead. Call the Medical Examiner and send two backup units for traffic and crime scene. I’m going to look for passengers and mark off the area.”

  “Ten-four, one-one-seven,” the dispatcher said.

  “Two other things. Make sure one of the backup units has enough flares. And call E-Z Towing in Stafford and ask them to send a wrecker.”

  Roberts walked back to the Jeep and looked for signs it had skidded or braked but saw none. There was no vehicle debris on the road, which was common when a deer had been hit. As he crouched alongside the blown-out driver’s door, he reached upward and turned off the ignition. He could smell oil and brake fluid, which had splashed on the hot manifold. He didn’t think a fire truck was needed, but he knew one was responding to flush a possible fuel spill.

  Roberts went to his unit, popped the trunk, and grabbed his last four flares. He heard radio traffic from two responding units. He walked back along the shoulder until he saw the victim’s body, ignited the first flare, and placed it on the road. He then continued north in the grass median, lit the other flares and placed them in the fast lane of the interstate about fifty feet apart. As the last flare spewed its flame and pink smoke, two cruisers arrived.

  Unit seventy-nine took the rear position for traffic control and began setting out more flares and cones. Unit thirteen, driven by Corporal Dwayne Higgins, pulled in at an angle behind Robert’s car.

  Roberts returned to the crash to do a quick inspection of the Jeep. There were no beer cans, bottles, or any other evidence the driver had been drinking. He didn’t know the young man’s identification. He assumed the driver’s wallet was somewhere inside the vehicle but decided to wait for the wrecker. He figured if he reached in and opened the console, he’d have a shower of CDs and other items falling out. Roberts called in the Jeep’s Florida license plate and vehicle identification numbers to Dispatch to get the registration and check for any warrants.

  Corporal Higgins walked up to Roberts. Higgins had five years seniority on Roberts. He also carried twenty pounds more, not from equipment but from his midsection pushing against his Sam Browne belt.

  “So, how do you read it?”

  “My guess is this guy nodded off and lost control. It only takes a second at eighty miles per hour. It looks like he hit the berm head first when he was thrown out, snapped his neck.”

  “Looks that way,” Higgins agreed. “Chalk up one more stat for those who couldn’t be bothered with a seat belt.”

  “Yeah, it’s a shame,” Roberts said. He had just noticed the shield-shaped orange and blue UVA parking decal on the rear window of the Jeep. The driver was probably a student heading back to the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.

  “Well, we’re going to be here for a while,” Higgins said, tapping a Marlboro out of his pack. “At least this wreck’s in the southbound lane. Two more hours and the northbound’s going to be a crawling parking lot to DC.”

  Dispatch called with the Jeep’s registration and advised there were no wants or warrants.

  “As soon as we get an ID, I’ll phone it in,” Roberts said to Higgins.

  “I’ll take pictures and measurements before the wrecker uprights the Jeep.”

  The flashing
yellow lights of an approaching tow truck reflected off the pine trees.

  “Did you have the car-cam running?” Higgins asked.

  “Yeah. It’s recorded.”

  “Hey guys,” said the E-Z Towing operator as he oozed his enormous body down from his rig. He wore overalls and carried a 7-11 Big Gulp in one hand and was shoving the last of a sausage biscuit into his mouth with the other. He mumbled with his mouth full, “Stafford Fire and Rescue is behind me with a truck and ambulance. You want me to right this thing?”

  “As soon as I finish a few measurements you can put it on all fours,” Higgins said.

  “Dwayne, if you’ve got things under control for a couple of minutes, I’ve really got to drain the lizard,” Roberts said.

  “Go ahead. I think we’re good here.” Higgins gave instructions to the E-Z tow operator as Roberts, using the beam from his flashlight, walked back to the gravel turn-around. He saw an opening in the brush and parted some small branches and briars, walking a few paces into the woods where he could take a piss. The last thing he wanted was a motorist observing his activity and reporting him. However, this call of nature couldn’t wait. Roberts tucked the flashlight under his left arm. The odor from a dead animal hung in the air. He reached down to the zipper on his trousers. What his flashlight suddenly illuminated made him freeze.

  “Sonofabitch,” Roberts said aloud. “Sonofabitch,” he repeated.

  His flashlight was shining on a nude female body about a yard beyond where he was standing. He had almost pissed on her.

  He grabbed his radio. “One-three from one-one-seven,” he called to Higgins.

  “One-one-seven, go ahead,” Higgins said.

  “Step back here to the gravel turnout. You need to see this.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Follow me,” Roberts said, retracing his steps into the brush when Higgins appeared. He pointed his light down to the ground for Higgins to see what he’d discovered.