Head Shot (A Thriller): A Crime and Suspense Thriller (7 page)

Twenty

The coroner, Herb Kellen, called Ray on his cell.

"Herb, what have you got for me?"

"Nothing you weren't expecting.  Same cause of death, asphyxiation, and similar evidence of assault as the previous victim."

Ray scribbled on his notepad, thanked Kellen, and disconnected.

Patrick Krahn stopped by Ray’s desk.  “Hey Ray, got something for you."

Ray had asked his team for details of any similar murders that could be found in the national violent offenders database.

“I think I've got two matches.  Two years ago, a woman was found in Detroit, Michigan.  She'd been strangled to death, and all her teeth were pulled."

Ray forced himself to exhale.

"Her body was dumped in the Detroit River."

Ray scribbled down some notes on his notepad.

"You said two matches."

"A year later, the body of an 8-year old girl was found in Huntington Woods, a suburb of Detroit.  Same thing.  Teeth knocked out, asphyxiated."

"And I'm guessing the cases remain unsolved," said Ray.

"I'm having more information sent, but, yes, I would assume that's the case.  I’m on it, Ray."

"All right."

Krahn left and Ray’s cell phone began to vibrate.

"Mitchell."

"Ray, how ya' doin'?"  It was Paul Casey, the crime scene technician.

"I'd be doing a lot better if I had some matches, my friend."

"You got 'em."

"Both scenes?" asked Ray.

"We got a latent off the girl's face, and quite a few from the lawyer's house, all matches with Ferkovich's prints."

"Thanks, Paul."

"How's it goin'?"

"Making some progress.  If I can find him, he'll be going away for a long time."

"Let me know if there's anything else I can do."

"Thanks, I will."

Ray hung up the phone, picked up his notebook, and headed to the conference room down the hall.  He had set up a war room specifically to track down Joseph P. Ferkovich.  Several computers had been brought in, as well as a printer, fax, and the chalkboard at the head of the room featured some of Ray's chicken scratchings.

Ray was even able to get additional detectives pulled from vice to do some of the legwork.

More people began filing into the small room and Ray got everyone's attention.

"All right, Tony, what'd you find out?"

Tony Halaska had been working vice for the last two years.  He was a small, unkempt man with slate gray eyes. 

"I talked to Ferkovich’s boss at the Capitol Cookie Company.  He didn't like Ferkovich, said he was competent at best, but that lately he'd been coming to work late, sluffing off, said he would've fired him but he was so hard up for workers he couldn't afford to."

The detective closed his notebook.

"I talked to a couple other people who worked with him and they said pretty much the thing.  One guy, who said he was probably the closest thing to a friend Ferkovich had, said he had a crude sense of humor and that the only thing they had in common was fishing, apparently this guy had a cabin up north and he used to talk to Ferkovich about fishing.  That's all I got."

Ray nodded toward a detective with an enormous pot belly who was seated at the far end of the table.

"Adams."

The detective spoke with a baritone voice, sounding like his vocal cords had seen too much whiskey and too many cigarettes.

"All of the names were cleared but one," he said.  "A James Tomczak, of Iron Mountain, Michigan, which is right across from Wisconsin in the U.P."

The detective looked up from his notes.

"I talked to him and he said he knew Ferkovich when they were kids, and they used to fish together off and on but that he hadn't seen him in years."

"Do you believe him?" Ray asked.

"That's hard to tell over the phone, but yeah, he seemed like a straight shooter, no hesitation in his answers."

Mitchell nodded, picking up his own notebook.

"OK, here's what I found out.   Joseph Paul Ferkovich was born November 20, 1967, in Florence, Wisconsin to Oneida and Ed Ferkovich.  He has an older sister named Mary.  Oneida worked as a waitress and Ed was mostly unemployed, apparently he worked hard at drinking and not much else.  In 1971, when Joe was four, Ed stabbed Oneida, non-fatally, took the kids to an abandoned mine, beat them and raped them, then fled.  He was caught and sentenced to thirty years in prison, but before he could finish doing his time, he was murdered by another inmate."

Ray paused and took a long drink of lukewarm coffee.

"Mary had internal bleeding and Joe was diagnosed with severe head trauma and severe damage to his left eye.  They both survived, though and what was left of the family moved to Detroit, Michigan where the kids lived with their mother until her death ten years later.  She died of heart failure and complications brought on by prolonged alcohol abuse."

He set down his notepad and picked up a computer printout."  It appears that Joe was on his own from then on out and, not coincidentally, that's when his rap sheet starts."

Ray took a pencil and went down the list.

"Breaking and entering, criminal trespassing, assault, disorderly conduct."

Mitchell put down the rap sheet and went back to his notes.

"He then spent time in Michigan's juvenile detention facilities for the next few years, then wound up back in minimum security prison.  He got out and came to Wisconsin where it looks like he kept his nose clean for a long time, but he may have just been a bit smarter at this point.  According to the prison psychologist he has a fairly high I.Q."

He set down his notes and placed his hands on the back of the chair in front of him.

"From there, he was relatively quiet until the indecent exposure charge, for which Harriet Bednarski defended him.  However, he may be responsible for two other unsolved murders in Michigan, but that's all confidential until we know more."

Ray looked around the room.

"His sister Mary is an elementary school teacher in Rodgers Bay, Michigan.  She said she hadn't heard from Joe in almost five years and seemed totally oblivious to what was going on.  However, I checked with the minimum security prison Ferkovich was sent to and according to their records, he did receive some letters from her over the course of the three years he was there."

Everyone in the room seemed to step up their focus.

"We checked his phone records for the last year and he didn't make any calls that we know of to her."

Ray straightened up.

"Comments?" he asked.

A patrol cop in street clothes spoke up.

"We've sent Ferkovich's picture to just about every police station in the state, but we've heard nothing so far."

"Hunches?" Ray asked.

Adams clasped his hands across his enormous pot belly and looked at the ceiling.

"Unless he's got a place to hole up here," he said, "and it doesn't sound like that's the case, he's got to get the hell out of Dodge.  His picture is in all the papers and on the news, and unless he wears sunglasses constantly, that fucking lazy eye of his sticks out like a sore thumb, not to mix metaphors or body parts."

The ad hoc committee let out a collective chuckle, but one that failed to mask the tension everyone was feeling.

"He's got to ditch that cookie truck, it's a dead giveaway," said the cop in street clothes, referencing the tip they’d gotten from Ferkovich’s employer.

"Do you think he'll run to Chicago?" asked Shirley Teeters, a thirteen-year burglary veteran.

"He should," said Ray, "but he won't.  He knows northern Wisconsin and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan a whole lot better than Chicago, and it will be a helluva lot easier for him to hide up there than down in the big city." 

Ray paced at the front of the room.

"Besides, some parts of the U.P. are so remote it'd take the National Guard to find him, especially if he knows his way around the woods.  And there are a lot of people in the U.P. who hate anything to do with the cops and the government."

Ray checked his watch.

"Well, we know this, he'll kill again, and the time between his killings is getting shorter.  We've got to get him, and get him soon."

"When will he be featured on
Nation’s Most Wanted
?" asked Shirley.

"This week's episode," answered Ray.  "Hopefully we'll have caught him by then but if not, it will certainly put the pressure on him."

He scooped up his papers and started for the door.

"All right, I'm going to talk to the Chief, let me know the minute we get something."

Twenty-One

Joe Ferkovich stood on the small dirt mound next to the dried out ravine in which the stolen truck now sat. 

He dragged the last scrap of the tin siding material over the top of the truck, which was now completely covered from above, and would look like nothing more than a low-roofed metal storage shed to a helicopter flying overhead. 

Joe had driven from Milwaukee to the U.P. in less than three hours, thanks in no small part to the truck's dual fuel tanks and the fact that Joe hadn't stopped once, opting to piss on the truck's floor rather than risking a stop.

Under the cover of night, he knew there'd be little chance anyone would spot him, but he knew that come daylight driving around in the cookie truck would be a dead giveaway.

He'd remembered the way to Jimmy Tomczak's with remarkable clarity considering that it had been years since his last visit.

Joe stepped off the mound and walked partially up the ravine's bank, taking one last look at the truck.

If someone actually walked into the ravine, they would be able to see the truck, but the two men were confident no one would be coming here anytime soon.

"It's Miller Time, baby," said Jimmy Tomczak, standing at the top of the ravine's bank and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve.

The two friends trudged back up the hill then down the narrow dirt road that ran between an abandoned tractor and a tiller before it swung by the back of the one-story house marked by peeling paint and overgrown weeds.

Jimmy Tomczak had purchased the house some fifteen years earlier for a song, even though it came with fifteen acres and was located at the foot of the Porcupine Mountains, about a half hour from Rodgers Bay and the shores of Lake Superior.

It was the perfect place for Jimmy Tomczak, who liked everything about hunting and fishing and absolutely nothing about people.  There were two decent trout streams within walking distance of the house, and a large spring-fed lake full of pike and walleye about two miles away.  Jimmy also killed plenty of deer, rabbit and squirrels, whenever the hell he wanted to, adding them to the pot and taking a load off his grocery bills.

He worked part-time at Tucker's Plumbing Supply where he put together water pumps.  His quota was sixty a day, a feat that was easily attainable by Jimmy Tomczak, who had always been good with his hands.

Occasionally, maybe once or twice a year when he was feeling horny, he would drive over to Osceola, the small town near the Army base, and find a hooker at one of the little bars that catered to the servicemen who had weekend passes and nowhere to go.  The Army bases in the U.P. were closing fast due to budget cuts and the towns, as well as the real estate prices, were suffering. 

Jimmy hoped the whores would stay, even if the jobs were leaving.

"I appreciate you lettin' me dump the truck, Jimmy" said Joe Ferkovich, tipping back in the vinyl chair in the kitchen.  He thought he saw the tail of a rat as it scurried behind the refrigerator.

"Don't worry, when we catch the bass that should be spawning right about now over at Mud Lake, you can do all the cleaning."

Joe laughed. 

Jimmy studied the label on the side of his beer.  When Joe had arrived in the middle of the night, he hadn't asked any questions, and when Joe said they had to hide the truck, he still hadn't stuck his nose in his friend's business.  But now he was curious.

"Am I going to get a visit from the cops anytime soon, Joe?"  Joe's smile faded.

"Probably.  But I'll be out of here soon, Jimmy, so don't worry about it."

There was an awkward silence, broken at last by Joe.

"Why don't you give me the grand tour?" he asked.

Jimmy grabbed another longneck from the fridge and said, "Sure, but don't blink or you'll miss it."

He led Joe from the kitchen into the living room which featured thick orange carpeting and moldy wood paneling, a rotten couch and a radio propped along a window ledge.  A small bedroom was off to the left of the living room and Joe glimpsed a single, twin mattress pushed against the far wall.

Jimmy walked over to the only piece of furniture in the living room, the gun cabinet.

He opened the glass door and began pulling out shotguns, handing them one at a time to Joe, who commented favorably on each weapon before handing it back to Jimmy, who then replaced each one in the cabinet.  Jimmy had quite a collection, Joe was impressed.  There were over-and-unders, side-by-sides, pumps, single shots, combinations shotgun rifles, and he even had a black powder rifle.

Jimmy leaned down and opened a drawer.  Inside were handguns, neatly arranged in rows by caliber.  He first handed Joe a .44 Colt Anaconda with a six-inch barrel, then a Ruger GP-100 .357 magnum, and then a Ruger .41 Magnum.  Joe liked the heft of the Ruger.

"Let's shoot something," Joe said.

"I've got some empty bottles in the kitchen," his friend answered.

As Jimmy rummaged around the kitchen gathering empty bottles, Joe reached into the drawer and found the .41 Magnum cartridges.  He popped the cylinder and fed six shells into their respective chambers, and then quietly snapped the cylinder shut.  Now the balance on the Ruger was perfect, it felt stronger in Joe's hand.  His head started to hurt as he approached the kitchen.

"Let's go out back," said Jimmy, turning to Joe, and then he froze, seeing the expression on his friend's face."  You fucker," he said and then Joe Ferkovich shot him in the forehead, splattering brain matter on the front of the refrigerator.

Jimmy Tomczak sunk to the floor of the kitchen and Joe looked down at him, his friend's face was peaceful, his mouth slightly parted.

The headache was going away.

He lifted his dead friend over his shoulder and carried him over to the basement stairwell where he unceremoniously dumped him down the stairs.

"You know what Jimmy?" he cackled, "I don't want to clean any fish, you asshole!"

Blood had dripped onto Joe's shirt, so he went into the bedroom and got a clean one from Jimmy's closet.

He dug up a baseball cap and put it on, then walked outside, around the house, to where Jimmy's truck was parked.  The keys were in the ignition.

Joe went around to the small garage next to the house and quickly found Jimmy's fishing poles, tackle boxes and waders, which he carried back to the truck.  He opened the camper topper and set the fishing gear inside, then went back and got the plastic bait bucket as well as the metal minnow pail with the mesh screen.

He went back into the house, found a pen and a pad of paper, and wrote a sign:  "Fishing - Back in a few days."  He taped the note to the inside of the front door, locked both the front and back doors, then climbed into the pickup truck and left.

The sun would be up soon and he needed to get to Rodgers Bay as quickly as possible.

Twenty-Two

After everyone from the meeting dispersed, the door to an adjoining room opened and a man entered the room.  He went to the coffee machine and poured the last of the pot into his Styrofoam cup.

He added cream and sugar, then stepped outside the room to make sure no one was hanging just outside the door, discussing the revelations learned in the meeting.

He walked to the stairwell, went down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, where he lit up a cigarette and took out his cell phone.

"Give me Nancy Bishop," he said.

There was a pause, and then he heard her voice.

He looked around to make sure no one was nearby and then he smiled.

"You are going to love this..."