by Thomas Scott
“And how, exactly, do we know this?”
“Becky told me, how else?”
They turned out into the street and began driving north. “She just, what? Figured it out?”
“Uh huh.”
Virgil shook his head.
“What?” Murton said. “She mapped it out. If you look at the dates, times and locations of the fires, you’ll see there’s a little bit of a pattern there.”
“A pattern, or a little bit of a pattern?”
“Quit splitting hairs, will you? According to the computer program she wrote—some C++ bullshit that I don’t understand—the next fire is going to be at the address where we’re headed. And if you don’t stop driving like a little old lady, we might actually get there in time to catch whoever is getting his jollies by burning empty buildings to the ground.”
“I see. What’s in the bag?”
“Supplies.”
A half hour later they turned into one of Hendricks County’s many abandoned industrial parks. The recession had hit the area hard and every single warehouse in the complex was empty. Murton pointed to the left. “There you go, up ahead and just past the intersection. That’s the one. Drive on past and let’s come around from the back side.”
They rolled past and then turned left at the end of the service road and wound their way around to the front of another building one street over from the address on the nav system. “You sure about this?”
“What’s not to be sure about? It’s billable hours. If she’s wrong, we’ll keep investigating. If she’s right, we earned ten grand the easy way.”
“What ten grand?”
“Jerry sent a check over yesterday.”
“So we’re up twenty grand in two days and we haven’t actually done anything yet? We should have done this a long time ago.” Virgil opened the door. “Come on, let’s go have a look.”
“Hold on,” Murton said. “Are you carrying?”
“No. I had to turn in my service weapon. I haven’t replaced it yet.”
He reached into the bag at his feet and pulled out two Smith and Wesson 1911 model .45’s. “Remember these?”
Virgil did. They were the same thumb-busters Murton had used to kill Collins and Hicks, the men who’d kidnapped and tortured him.
“Would you prefer Mr. Smith, or Mr. Wesson?” Murton asked. “Wait, never mind. I almost forgot…you’re left-handed. You’ll want Mr. Smith.” He handed one of the guns over, along with a clip-on holster. Virgil pulled the gun from the holster and noticed that its safety, slide release, ejection port and mag release were designed for left-handed shooters.
“Be careful with that,” he said. “It’s loaded.”
“What else have you got in there?”
“Jesus, Jonesy, when was the last time you were on a stakeout?” He rooted around in the bag and listed the contents. “I’ve got about a half-dozen energy bars, four bottles of water, binoculars, a camera, and four extra mags loaded with Federal hollow-points.”
“Isn’t that a little excessive?”
“Only if you don’t need it. Boy, I thought the feds were dull. You state guys are like a safe substitute for sleeping pills. Come on. Let’s book.” He grabbed the bag and hopped out of the truck.
Virgil pulled back the slide, checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber and set the safety. They crept along the side of the warehouse toward the building their part-time researcher and Murton’s full-time girlfriend said was going to be the next one to burn. Virgil had a loaded gun tucked into his waistband, his best friend as a partner and suddenly realized for the first time in a long time…he was having fun.
21
The industrial park was laid out in the shape of a horseshoe with buildings spaced evenly around the inner and outer parts of the shoe. They took up a position between two buildings on the outer edge near a drainage culvert facing the suspect building. Most of the structures were similar in design and appearance. They all had tan or white corrugated steel sides, no windows, a single door in the front and loading docks for semi trailers in the rear. If Becky was correct—Virgil had his doubts—they had about fifteen minutes to spare. They crawled down next to the culvert, dug into the weeds and waited.
“This is dumb,” Virgil said. “There’s no way she could predict this.”
“She didn’t predict this exact building. It’s just the one that’s in the center of the complex. It could be any of them, really.”
“Still, even to pick the right industrial park is a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”
“Who am I to say? It’s intel. What’s the harm in checking it out?”
Virgil slapped a mosquito at the back of his neck. He thought he felt something crawl up his pant leg. “The harm is I’m getting eaten alive and we’ve only been here a few minutes.”
“Speaking of eating, hand me that bag, will you?”
Virgil tossed the duffle to Murton then slapped another bug off his neck. “Did you bring any bug spray?”
“Nope. I put some on before we left.”
Great. “Give me one of those candy bars,” Virgil said. “And don’t give me any grief about juicing. I’m starving.”
“They’re energy bars.”
Virgil was starting to get annoyed. “Whatever, Murt, just give me one, will you?”
“Okay, okay. Don’t get yourself in a bunch.” He pulled two bars out of the bag. “You want the Snickers or the Three Musketeers?”
They passed the time discussing their other case. “I’ve seen the crime scene photos,” Murton said. “That was a lot of blood.”
“It was a lot, that’s for sure.”
“I’ll tell you something you probably already know…when it comes to murder, I’m a little out of my element. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you with me. Most of my job with the Feds was pretty basic, either straight-up investigative work—fraud or fugitive tracking, and for me a ton of UC—but since murder isn’t a federal crime…at least not yet, I’m not quite sure what to do about Nicholas Pope.”
“You know what? I hadn’t thought of that,” Virgil said. Then he barked out a little laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing…Boot. I guess I didn’t realize until just now that I’d be working with a rookie. Maybe we should reevaluate our partnership agreement.”
“We don’t have a partnership agreement.”
“Not yet.”
Murton refused to take the bait. “So teach me about murder. What are the details of Pope’s murder that we should focus on?”
“Well, we’ve got Becky looking into that coded clue and the hope is that she might be able to figure it out. No one else has been able to. Pope obviously had some sort of information that someone wanted. Whether they got it or not is unknown. Clearly he was tortured in an attempt to extract that information.”
“So Pope—who worked for the lottery—gets tortured and killed over information he possessed. You think he was trying to scam the lottery?”
“It feels right, but I’ll tell you what doesn’t feel right…if you’re the person or persons involved in the torture and Pope dies, why take the body? There was so much blood in his apartment it’s not like they were covering up a murder.”
“Maybe they took the body to create misdirection,” Murton said.
“That’s a hell of a risk and what exactly does it misdirect? Doesn’t seem like it would be worth it. You go in, you get the info you were after—or maybe you don’t—and during the course of that event, Pope winds up dead. Disposing of the body after the fact only adds unnecessary risk.”
Murton thought about that for a moment. “Without the body being present though, wouldn’t it help delay discovery? No dead body smell, right? Maybe whoever killed Pope needed time…time to do something, or wait for something to happen before his murder was discovered.”
Virgil hadn’t considered that. “That’s a possibility. Nothing else really fits, at least not yet.”
; “Here we go,” Murton said. He pulled his camera out of the bag, pointed it at the entrance of the complex and snapped off a few pictures. The vehicle was an unmarked brown and tan Hendricks County squad car. It crept along the access drive that gave way to the front of the buildings. As the car approached they lowered themselves further out of sight and when it passed, Murton rose up just enough to take a picture of the plate and car numbers. He lowered himself back in the ditch. “Hot tip?”
“Must be.”
“Unless…”
The implication was clear. Could a county cop be responsible for setting the fires? “I doubt it, Murt.”
“Stranger things, Jones-man.”
“Let’s just sit tight and see what happens. There’s only one way back out of here. I’ll bet you even money he gets to the other side, turns around and leaves.”
“And when he sees your truck?”
“What of it? We’re not breaking any laws.”
Murton shook his head at me. “That’s not what I mean. What if this is our guy and he sees your truck and bails? No fire, no crime.”
Murton had a point. If for some reason a county deputy was setting the fires, this was their chance to catch him in the act. But if he saw the truck, he would more than likely leave without committing any crime. “So what do you suggest?”
“My professional opinion is that we sit tight and see what happens.”
Hector, a half-mile away, had just pulled up. He got out of his car, leaned across the roof and looked through a pair of high-powered binoculars. The deputy was just turning into the industrial park. Right on schedule.
If anyone had bothered to ask him—and no one ever did—he’d have told them it was pure luck. He was following the cruiser with the binoculars and caught the reflection of the camera lens. He froze on that spot and watched for a few seconds before he saw them. Wheeler and Jones. He almost had to smile. They were good. Hector took out his phone and made the call. “Don’t speak, don’t say a word. This is a wrong number. You’ve got company, drainage ditch at your six o’clock, west side. Hit your lights and siren like you’ve got a call and get the hell out of there.” Then he closed the phone and slipped it back in his pocket.
A second later he saw the red and blue grill lights of the cruiser, then heard the siren. He got back in his car and drove away.
Murton raised his hand just high enough to reach the top of the culvert, kept the shutter button depressed and tried to follow the track of the squad car with the camera. When it was well past, they raised their heads and watched as the cruiser turned out of the industrial park. “What do you think of that?”
Murton was fiddling with his camera. “I think we got made, is what I think. Look at this.”
Murton’s camera was digital and had a screen on the backside that displayed the photos. He pressed one of the buttons until the proper picture came up. It showed the deputy’s face clearly looking right at the spot where they had been hiding. “Coincidence?”
“You’re running lights and siren and just happen to glance at the spot where we were? Not very likely.”
“You may be right.” Virgil took out his phone and pulled up Powell’s number. “Are you at home or your office?”
“You sound like my ex-wife. It’s Saturday, I’ve got less than two months before the election and I’m down by six points. Where do you think I am? I haven’t seen home in so long I’m not sure I’d know how to get there without a map. What’s up?”
“We’ve got a couple of pictures for you to look at.”
“Bring them over. I’ll let the front desk know you’re coming.”
“No, no. Don’t do that, Jerry. Tell you what, wait about fifteen minutes, then step outside for a smoke. We’ll meet you out in the parking lot.”
“What’s going on, Jonesy?”
“I’ll let you tell me. Fifteen minutes, Jerry.”
Hector pulled into the drive—a gravel path with weeds growing up between the tire ruts—and turned his car around, then backed up until his rear bumper was almost touching the cruiser. He left the engine running, pulled on a pair of gloves, got out and headed toward Hendricks County Deputy Frank Brackett’s house. The house had no sidewalk, just a worn-down trail through the crabgrass that led to the front door. He walked inside without knocking and Brackett was right there.
“What happened?” he asked.
Hector had his hands in his pockets—he didn’t want Brackett to see the gloves. “I am not sure. We think your Sheriff Powell has enlisted the aid of two private detectives. They were there ahead of time waiting for you.”
“How is that possible?”
“Again, I am not sure.”
“What does Pate say?”
“He says we have no room for error.”
Brackett huffed. “Damn straight. I’m about to win this thing and when I do, the county will belong to me.”
Hector tilted his head to the side and let the corners of his mouth turn downward. “Hmm. I think it will belong to the man who financed your campaign. Would you not agree?”
Brackett ignored Hector’s remark. “I think it’s time to ease off the fires. We’ve made our point. There’s too much risk. We’ve shown Powell’s incompetence. I think we can ride it out from here. The voters are not going to be pleased with a sheriff who let an arsonist get away.”
“Perhaps you are correct. I will discuss it with Mr. Pate. Do nothing until you hear back from me.”
“Hey, no problem. You want a beer?”
“It is a bit early.”
“Not if you work third shift.” Hector followed Brackett into the kitchen, next to the refrigerator. Brackett pulled the door open and bent over to pull a bottle of beer from the vegetable crisper. Hector thought the crisper probably hadn’t seen any vegetables since sometime in the mid 90’s, but it was fully stocked with beer. When Brackett stood up and started to turn around, Hector gave him a little zap right on the back of his head with a handheld stun gun and it dropped him like a bag of bird seed.
Hector looked around the kitchen. The place was a mess. The trash barrel was stuffed with a combination of pizza boxes, Chinese takeout containers and empty beer bottles. The whole house smelled a little like a high school gym locker. Hector put the stun gun back in his pocket, pulled out his phone and called Pate. “I’m at his place. We’ve got a problem. The burn didn’t go. He was discovered. I called it off.”
“How did that happen?”
“I believe Brackett was a little too, mmm, predictable with his patterns. Our two favorite private detectives managed to figure it out.”
“That will have to be addressed and soon.”
“I agree,” Hector said.
“What’s your exposure?”
“If I am quick, absolutely none.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
There was a hesitation. The decision to eliminate an inside source was not something to be taken lightly. “I hate to lose an associate on the inside.”
Hector didn’t want to overstep, but he knew Pate valued his opinions on these types of matters. “There are two or three others who can be bought. I have a list. Perhaps it is time we set a precedent…for future associates.”
This time there was no hesitation. “Do it.”
When Virgil and Murton turned into the back lot of the Hendricks County Law Enforcement Center they found Powell leaning against a marked cruiser, a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth and a can of Diet Coke sweating on the roof of the car. Virgil pulled up close and buzzed the window down. Powell removed his sunglasses and stuck them in the breast pocket of his uniform. He peered into the window and said, “I don’t like surprises.”
Murton leaned over from the passenger seat and smiled at him. “What’s the matter, Jerry? Aren’t you enjoying the job anymore?”
Powell shook his head. “This from a retired fed turned bartender.”
“That’s bar owner to you, you fat bastard,” Murton said w
ith a laugh. “You do know the concept of a tab, right? That’s when we give you a drink and at some apparently undetermined point in the future, you give us some money that reduces said tab.”
Powell laughed. “If you thought I was good for it, that’s on you. Besides, I just wrote you a check for ten grand. That ought to count for something. I know you two didn’t drive all the way out here to hassle me about my bar tab. What have you got?”
They got out of the truck and leaned against the cruiser, next to Powell. Virgil didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “Jerry, our researcher put a little program together that mapped out the fires, their point of origin and the timing. In doing so, she determined that the next fire would be at or near a certain location at a certain time.”
“Good for her.”
Murton had his camera in his hand and turned it on. After it powered up, he cycled through the photos, then showed them to Powell. “Any idea who that is?”
Powell looked at the pictures. “That’s Frank Brackett’s cruiser. Looks like he’s driving. So what?”
“Is he working today?” Virgil asked.
Powell looked at his watch. “Not any more. He’s third shift. Would have gotten off a couple hours ago.”
“You want to tell us about him, Jerry?”
“Yeah. Brackett’s an asshole. Consider yourself up to speed.”
“What makes him an asshole?” Murton asked.
“For starters he’s the guy running against me. He’s wanted my job for years and now he thinks he’s ready. Personally I don’t think he’s qualified for chief kennel cleaner at the pound, let alone my job, but I’m running out of time and he’s up by five points.”
“Hmm, I heard it was six,” Murton said.
Powell ignored him and looked at Virgil. “What about Brackett?”
Virgil told him about their surveillance and the brief encounter with his deputy. “Do your guys turn their squads in at end of shift, or do you have them on the take-home plan?”
