Head Shot (A Thriller): A Crime and Suspense Thriller (10 page)

Thirty

State Trooper Ken Lafferty was hopelessly lost.  He braked hard at an intersection, waited for the cloud of dust to pass, then rolled down his windows.

He checked the map and the handwritten directions again.  This fucking Tomczak place was impossible to find, these back roads seemed to change names constantly.  Pick a name and stick with it, Trooper Lafferty thought.  It would make my job a whole lot easier.

The fax had come in yesterday, and was sitting in his mailbox when he arrived at headquarters this morning.  Lafferty had spent the majority of the day finishing paperwork on an arrest he'd made two weeks ago, and then finally had the chance to get out of the office and look into the supposed friend of the Milwaukee serial killer.

If he is up here, Lafferty reasoned, he's probably driving around trying to find the place just like I am.

He read the address again, put the car back into drive, and turned right onto another dirt road that rose over a hill.  After doubling back and spending close to twenty minutes following a road he didn't know the name of, he spotted a small house at the end of a winding two-track.

Trooper Lafferty nosed the cruiser down the driveway, looking for signs of activity.

He saw none.

There were no street numbers on the outside of the house, but he spotted a small mailbox next to the front door.  He opened it, and found a letter from a credit card company.  It was addressed to one James Tomczak.

This was the place.

Lafferty knocked on the front door and put his hand on the butt of his gun, which remained in its holster.

He waited, then knocked again.

Still no answer.

Lafferty pulled his flashlight from his belt and tried to peek through the living room windows, but the curtains were drawn and were too thick to give him a glimpse inside.

He went back to the front of the house and opened the storm door.  A piece of paper slipped out and landed on his black shoes.

Gone fishing.  Back in a few days.

The state trooper taped the note back in place and closed the screen door, wondering how long ago the note had been posted.

Lafferty went back to his squad car.  He was about to climb back in when he realized that he had no idea how to get back to the main road and would probably spend another hour lost in the sticks.

And he really had to take a piss.

He looked behind the house and saw a small path leading back into the woods.

He walked to the rear of the house and peeked in the windows as he passed them.  The kitchen.  Chairs, a table, couple of bottles of beer.  The trooper continued around the house to the other side where a window, light curtains pulled across, gave him a fuzzy view of the living area of the house.

He thought he could make out a couch or something like it, and what appeared to be a gun cabinet.  Its door was open.

Lafferty went around behind the house and saw an abandoned tractor.  The woods were about fifty yards off and he headed in that direction.  As he walked, he noticed slight depressions in the long grass.  Someone had walked back here, possibly even driven a vehicle, it looked like tire tracks at times.

He walked into the woods and looked back to the house.  Not good enough.  On the odd chance someone pulled in, they could see him, and he didn't want to be the state trooper caught with his Johnson out in public.

Lafferty walked deeper in the woods and urinated against the base of a tree.  Mosquitoes buzzed around his ear.  When he finished, he shook himself, zipped up, and walked to his left where a small clearing overlooked a ravine.

A flash of white caught his eye.

He walked down a slight depression then back up a small hill.  At the top of hill, he stopped, looked down, and couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Trooper Lafferty ran all the way back to his cruiser, and grabbed the fax, scanning down to the middle paragraph which described the vehicle police in Milwaukee believed Joe Ferkovich, a serial killer, was driving.

A cookie truck.  The same truck that was now sitting in a ravine less than two hundred yards from where he was standing.

Lafferty radioed in to the dispatcher to report what he'd found.

He concentrated on trying to sound calm.

Thirty-One

The twenty-eight ounce hammer felt good in Ray Mitchell's hand.  He brought it up slowly, almost casually, then slammed it down, driving the sixteen penny nail flush with the top of the two-by-four.  He was averaging four hits with the hammer to drive each of the big nails into the attic's floor joists.  Not bad, he thought.

He straightened up and surveyed the attic, then shook his head.  He didn't know who coined the phrase "so much to do, so little time," but whoever it was, had hit the nail on the head, so to speak.

For the past half hour, Ray had been fighting the urge to rush. He had done enough carpentry projects in his time to know that to rush was to fuck everything up.  In fact, he had worked as a rough carpenter during the summers between college, and it had taken the foreman about a week to pound the idea into Ray's head.  The philosophy of steady, meticulous work had been an important lesson, it was the only way to work as a carpenter. 

And, of course, a detective.  

“Ray! Phone!” the call came from downstairs.  Time was up.

He went into the kitchen and picked up the phone from where Michelle had placed it on the kitchen table.

"Mitchell."

"Ray, Soergel."

Ray immediately went on guard.  Benjamin Soergel rarely adopted the role of hands-on manager, he preferred to remain in the background waiting until he could decide whether to rush in and steal the success or sneak around and lay blame.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked.

"They found the truck in the U.P."

"Where?"

"A Jimmy Tomczak's near Rodgers Bay.  I'd say it's time to hit the warpath, buddy."

Ray ignored the jab and did some swift calculations in his mind.  If he left in an hour, he would reach Rodgers Bay in four to five hours. 

"I'll be there first thing in the morning.  Who's in control of the crime scene?"

"The local yokels."

"I'll scramble Casey and tell him to get his ass up there."

Ray scribbled down a note to himself.

"I may join you, Ray," said Soergel.

Ray rolled his eyes and sighed inwardly.  Politics as usual.

"Keep me up to date on everything, Ray, I'll see if I can re-arrange my workload in time to lend you a hand."

What workload?
Ray wanted to ask.

Thirty-Two

Cameraman Joel Crumbaker popped the clutch on the Channel 6 news van and struggled in vain to shift the manual transmission into third gear.  The sound of gear teeth grinding reverberated inside the van as the vehicle lurched backward and forward.

“Jesus, find ‘em, don’t grind ‘em,” Nancy Bishop said.  She blew smoke out of the side of her mouth and looked out of the corner of her eye at the young cameraman in the driver’s seat.

“When’s the last time you drove a manual on the column?” he countered.

“Ten bucks says I can drive it a hell of a lot better than you.”

“Deal.”

They changed positions and the reporter smoothly engaged the clutch and shifted flawlessly into second, third and finally, fourth gear.  She maneuvered the big van onto the freeway, quickly headed for the passing lane and notched the speedometer at eighty.

Nancy leaned back and made a slight seat adjustment as she passed three cars who moved over to get out of her way.

What a pussy, she thought, glancing over at Crumbaker.  I hope he’s as good a cameraman as everyone says he is, she thought. 

Somewhere there was a killer and it could be a bigger story than Dahmer.  If she nailed this one, it might be the story of her already illustrious career.

For a brief moment, she entertained thoughts of the wild success that would soon follow a story as big as this.  Maybe she’d work for some of the national stations, or CNN. 

A road sign caught her eye.  They were approaching Green Bay.  Another couple of hours and they would be in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.  She checked her watch, there would be just enough time to get to Rodgers Bay and do a little checking around, find Ferkovich’s sister’s house and check into a hotel.

A ringing interrupted her thoughts and she reached for the cellular phone in her purse.

“Bishop.”

She listened intently, then motioned for Crumbaker to get a pen and paper.

Nancy repeated an address and directions to the cameraman, who wrote them down quickly.

“Thanks,” said Nancy, then thumbed a button on the phone.  She collapsed the mouthpiece and tucked the phone back into her bag.

Her foot tromped on the accelerator and she shot up to the car in front of her in the passing line.  She turned the headlights on and off until the car moved over, allowing her to pass.

“What’s the deal?” said Crumbaker, buckling his seatbelt with a raised eyebrow.

“They found the stolen truck and another body,” she said.  Without a word, Crumbaker unbuckled his set belt, crawled into the back of the van and began unpacking his cameras.

Thirty-Three

A small Boston Whaler crept slowly into the harbor, sending gentle waves outward, messengers that rocked the silent occupants of the Rodgers Bay Marina.  The Whaler dutifully adhered to the 5 m.p.h. no wake zone signs, and its captain guided it smoothly into its slip.

Inside
Teacher's Pet,
Joe Ferkovich opened his eyes as he felt the boat move under him, heard the water lap against the side of the hull, and he listened intently until he heard the other boat's engines shut off, then closed his eyes once again.  Just a fisherman returning from the morning hunt, he thought to himself.

Soon, he heard the sound of footsteps on the pier, then, vaguely, the telltale clink of ice cubes as a cooler full of fish was set down near the cleaning tables.  The sound of men slicing and cleaning their morning catch, rinsing the entrails off the wooden chopping blocks wafted its way back to the cabin in which Joe Ferkovich lay still.

Teacher's Pet
was a Bayliner 23, just a year old, and it was powered by a 225 h.p. inboard Merc.  On deck, it featured all the latest in electronics and sonar gear, as well as captain's chairs sporting smooth white leather and a dash board encircled by hand-rubbed teak trim.

Below, it housed a small but comfortable cabin complete with living room, bedroom, a small galley and ample storage.  Plush carpet covered the floor and there were photos of a man and a woman placed sporadically around the living quarters.  A small black-and-white television was in one corner, sitting on top of an equally sized stereo.  The interior, normally impeccably clean, was now home to empty beer cans and crumpled up potato chip bags.

Joe reached out and grabbed another Diet Coke from the twelve-pack sitting just outside the pantry door.  His sister and her husband kept the boat well-stocked for their weekend jaunts around Lake Superior.  Judging by the quality of the boat, Joe figured his brother-in-law's carpet business was doing more than all right.  

There was a small but comprehensive collection of fishing tackle including rods and reels, but Joe knew the boat was mostly used for daytrips out to the big lake, picnics and such.  His sister had always been a bit of a romantic, despite her upbringing.

He was looking forward to seeing her.  It had been years, and it would have to be a little bit longer, he knew that.  Now that the cops were onto him, Joe figured they would be watching Mary's house. 

Stupid cops, he thought to himself.  He'd hole up here and wait it out, he could enjoy his memories.

His crotch stirred at the thought and he settled back, summoning the imagery of his victims, their mouths wrapped around him, their eyes looking at him.  He felt his heartbeat accelerate, his body tense, and then just as quickly as the feeling had overtaken him, it disappeared.  Evaporated into thin air.

Goddamnit!
  Anger welled up inside Joe as the feeling evaporated too quickly.  The fury made his heart beat even faster now and he could feel his muscles strengthen like iron as the adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream.  He rode the wave, liking the power, but then he fought it down.

He walked over to the pantry and grabbed a can of beer, popping the top and draining half of the contents at once.  His appetite was stronger, he felt his brain swimming in acid.  He needed a release.

He walked across the small cabin and stood in front of a photograph of his sister, a fresh beer in his hand, and he studied the face looking back at him.  She had gained some weight since he'd last seen her, but she still looked like the same old Mary.  Joe felt himself come back under control, his sister had always had that effect on him. 

But it never lasted. 

There would be no waiting this thing out, he knew it deep down.  Joe resolved to be smarter, faster, one step ahead of the cops.  He slammed the rest of his beer and went to the pantry to get another one.  He would stay drunk until the beer ran out, then he would sober up, and then he would leave the boat.

Choosing his destination was easy.  His options were so limited.  He would need to stay close to the boat, and he could only move at night, that much he knew.

He re-traced his steps after ditching Tomczak's truck.  It was tough to do because it had still been dark, with the exception of a faint glow from the oncoming sunrise.

Joe's mind clicked over the scenes playing in his mind, snapshots of images undeveloped.

Suddenly, he remembered seeing a swing.  And then he knew that there was a playground near the marina, being a fisherman, he'd been to lots of boat landings and marinas just like this one.  Inevitably, there was always a play structure with a sandbox that looked like a ship.  Always. 

He felt another stirring in his loins.

Where there were children, there were young mothers.  He'd take either, or both.

He smiled and looked at a flash of blue sky through one of the small portal windows.

Yes, this would be a short wait.

It had to be.