Passions of the Dead (A Detective Jackson Mystery/Thriller) (20 page)

“We sent the armored truck up to the door with the hailer and a cell phone, but so far, silence.” Bruckner kept his expression neutral, but Jackson sensed an underlying frustration. “This is what we know,” Bruckner continued. “The neighbor saw two suspicious guys go into the backyard of the house next door owned by John and Sheila Northrup. The neighbor called the police and reported it, then called Sheila to warn her. Sheila didn’t answer.” Bruckner’s jaw tensed. “Officer Whitstone responded to the dispatch, called in the license plates of the vehicles in the driveway, and no one has seen or heard from her since.”

A bolt of fear ran through Jackson. “You think she’s the other hostage.”

Bruckner pointed to the patrol unit parked on the street in front of the hostage house. “We ran the plates and Whitstone is commanding that vehicle today. She’s here somewhere. When a second officer arrived and approached the house, he was fired on.”

“Oh shit.” Jackson knew Debby Whitstone. She’d been a first responder to a homicide victim in February and had helped him with the case. She also had two kids who expected her to come home after her shift. What had prompted her to enter the situation alone? Jackson had a dozen other questions but suspected Bruckner would not have answers. “Why did the perps choose this house? Why Sheila Northrup?”

“We’re running the Northrups through the databases now,” Brucker said. “I was hoping you could tell me something about these assholes.” The lieutenant looked around. “Detective Bohnert is supposed to be here too. We think they might be the same perps doing the carjackings. Similar descriptions.” Bruckner gestured at the gray home on the right. “This is our safe house. The neighbor who saw the men is in there. I’d like you to listen to her descriptions, ask a few questions, and see if you recognize anyone from your homicide case.”

Jackson weaved through the SWAT officers. Behind him an unfamiliar voice came though the portable PA system set up on the hood of the car. “We have a cop in here and we’ll kill her if you don’t leave.”

Jackson spun back. The lone female in the cluster of flak jackets grabbed the hailer. “This is Sergeant Miller. No one is going to die today. We can work something out.” Miller headed the crisis negotiation team, but was on her way up to management.

After a minute of no response, Jackson hurried into the safe house, anxious to complete this task. The door opened as he came up the walkway and an officer motioned him into the house. A woman in her sixties stood next to the front window, peeking through the closed curtains. A teenage girl was in the kitchen, talking on a cell phone to her mother who had not been allowed to come up the street.

He introduced himself as he approached the woman at the window. “I know you’ve already gone through this, but please describe the men you saw next door.”

“One was a little short, only about five-five.” The woman kept glancing out the window as she talked. “He wore jeans and a dark gray sweatshirt with a hood. The hood was up and I couldn’t see his hair, but his skin seemed dark so he might be Hispanic.” She finally pulled away from the window and perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair. “His nose was wide and flat and his eyes looked dark too, but it was hard to tell from here.”

The description didn’t match anyone Jackson had questioned. Certainly not Roy Engall. “What about the other man?”

“He’s taller. Maybe six feet. He had on a brown jacket and he looked strong, like somebody who lifts weights. Dirty blond hair and a pockmarked face.”

“What kind of hair? Long, short, curly?” Except for the pockmarked face, it could have been Shane. Except Shane was in jail.

“Straight hair to the collar of the jacket and slicked back from his forehead.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“The tall guy walked with a little bounce in his step.”

“Thanks, ma’am.”

Jackson nodded at the officer and went back outside. He didn’t recognize either man she’d described. A media van was now parked near the end of the street, and he wondered if the cameraman would get close enough to film the house. Jackson checked his notebook and called Noni Engall. “What does your son Tyler look like?”

“Why?”

“Just tell me. It may save his life.”

“He’s five-eleven and about a hundred and ninety pounds. He has dark blond hair, a little shaggy, and blue eyes. What’s going on?”

“Any tattoos or facial hair?”

“He has some scarring from acne.”

“Thanks.” Jackson hung up, thinking the pockmarks were more likely meth-sore scars. He jogged over to the command post and relayed the information to Bruckner.

“That’s our guy.” Bruckner raised an eyebrow. “Dispatch just told me Tyler Gorlock has only been arrested once for disorderly conduct.” They were silent while they processed the information, with everyone thinking: How did he go from disorderly conduct to home invasion without any arrests in between?

The crisis negotiator spoke into the hailer again. “Tyler, listen up. Your record is clean. If you give up the hostages and surrender now, a judge will go easy on you. Don’t make this situation worse.”

“Fuck you!” It was a different voice this time. The shorter, darker man.

Bruckner’s cell phone rang and the buzzing voices stopped. The lieutenant picked up and listened for a long moment, nodding and pressing his lips together. He clicked off. “Dispatch again. We know what they’re after.”

Nobody felt like guessing.

“Weapons,” Bruckner said, his voice tight. “John Northrup has three registered handguns and five hunting riles. The perps are well armed.” A murmur rippled through the SWAT officers. Jackson thought about the weapons they’d found in the Walkers’ house.

“What are you thinking?” Bruckner asked.

“The Walkers had a gun safe with two rifles, plus a small handgun in a cookie jar. What if it’s the same guys? And the mass homicide started as a weapons raid?”

“You’re saying the perps won’t hesitate to kill the hostages.”

“If it’s the same two intruders, they’re deadly.” Jackson came back to Roy Engall’s bloody footprints. Was Engall part of this? Possible scenarios bounced around in his head. Did the footprints belong to stepson Tyler? If he was driving his stepfather’s van, maybe he had borrowed Roy’s shoes as well. If so, this case was finally starting to make sense. Except the killers had not taken the Walkers’ guns. Had Jared refused to give them the key, inciting the violence? Maybe they had fled in a panic, leaving the guns.

“We have to let the hostage-takers walk away,” Sergeant Miller announced. “We can’t risk letting them kill an officer, a civilian, and a baby.” She sounded firm in her decision.

Bruckner grabbed the hailer microphone and took over the negotiations. “Tyler, are you listening? Send out the woman and child and we’ll stand down.”

After two long minutes, they heard the second man say, “What do you mean by stand down?”

“I mean the SWAT team will leave.” Bruckner cleared his throat. “Here’s how it will go. You send out the woman and the child. I send all the other officers away, but I stay to ensure the safety of the police officer you’ll still have as a hostage. You walk out with her and get into your van. Once you’re in the van, you let the officer go and drive away.”

“Fuck that! The cop stays with us until we’re clear. I don’t want a sharpshooter taking off the top of my head as we drive away.”

“You have a deal. Send out the woman and child.” Bruckner clicked the mic off, controlling the conversation.

“You can’t let them drive away with Whitstone,” Miller argued. “They’ll kill her.”

“I won’t let them kill a cop,” Bruckner boomed back. Despite his confidence, his eyes signaled stress. “We have four snipers in place. The perps are not leaving here alive.”

“I’d like to bring one in for questioning,” Jackson said.

“That’s not my priority.”

“Then I need to question the hostage when she comes out.”

“Of course.”

Bruckner radioed the hasty team and told them to expect a hostage to exit. All the SWAT members were on high alert now, weapons raised and no chatter. Five minutes passed in near silence. The sun drifted behind a cloud and a cool breeze gave them a little relief from the heat of the vests.

Jackson heard a creak and raised his binoculars to the hostage house. The front door swung open and a barefoot woman in her early thirties rushed out, carrying a boy of about three. She kept the boy’s face pressed tightly against hers, eyes wide with terror, as she ran down the flagstone path. As Sheila Northrup neared the sidewalk, she cut across the lawn and headed toward the command post. A SWAT officer darted out from behind the neighbor’s fence, grabbed her arm, and ran with her.

Jackson opened the back door of Bruckner’s vehicle and she climbed in, still clinging tightly to her little boy. A second later she burst into tears.

“Mommy? Don’t cry.” The boy looked up at Jackson.

“Your mommy’s fine. Sometimes people cry when they’re happy.” Jackson closed the door partway to give her some privacy. He would let her collect herself before he questioned her.

“Let’s move out,” Bruckner called to his team in a show of compliance. The thunder of heavy boots filled the air. SWAT members climbed into the back of the armored truck, then Barney and the communications van pulled away. They weren’t going far. It was a show of noise and movement for the hostage-takers, who couldn’t see down the street without exposing themselves to sniper fire.

Jackson kept his binoculars trained on the house. Sheila’s sobs began to subside, and in a moment she said, “They’re going to kill that cop. I feel so bad for her.”

“She’ll be fine. These men are highly trained.” Jackson wished he felt as confident as he sounded. He’d seen too many bodies recently.

After a few minutes movement caught his eye. The front door swung open and Whitstone stepped out. Her cherub face was a tight mask of control. Tyler Gorlock was snugged up against her, with a handgun pressed into her neck. Another movement. The second man slipped out and concealed himself behind Gorlock.

Jackson couldn’t believe they were taking the risk. What the hell was their plan? They had to know cops were waiting at the end of the street.

The trio sidestepped across the cement patio in an awkward shuffle, then eased onto the short sidewalk between the patio and the driveway. Slowly, they shuffled toward the white van fifteen feet away. Jackson searched the skyline, looking for the snipers. He spotted a rifle barrel on an adjacent rooftop. For the trained officer, it was an easy, close shot.

When the huddled group reached the van, they stopped. Time slowed to a crawl as they stood there looking around. What were the perps waiting for? Could they see the hasty team or the snipers? Did they have a plan for getting safely into the van?

The trio inched forward until they were next to the sliding door on the vehicle. Whitstone reached over and pulled on the handle. With her wrists tied together, she lacked strength and coordination and the door didn’t budge. Whitstone tugged harder. Gorlock had the weapon in his right hand and couldn’t help her. Finally he brought up his right foot and pushed. The door slammed open with a clang. Gorlock lunged sideways into the hollow of the vehicle, taking Whitstone with him.

For a nanosecond the short hostage-taker stood alone, exposed. As he started to lunge sideways, the crack of a rifle split the air. A bullet hole opened in the man’s forehead and he fell against the opening of the van.

Gorlock wasted no time. His foot came out and shoved his partner’s body to the ground, then the van door slammed closed. The neighborhood went silent again, as if all the air and noise had been sucked out. Jackson’s chest hurt and he realized he’d been holding his breath. He filled his lungs and thought,
one down
. In the car behind him, the little boy began to cry. Jackson lowered his binoculars to rest his eyes.

“What will he do now?” Sheila whispered from the car.

“I don’t know. He must be panicked.”

Jackson couldn’t see what was happening inside the van, but he heard the engine start. He yanked the binoculars back to his face. The vehicle rolled backward down the sloped driveway. As the van neared the street, its back end curved in Jackson’s direction, leaving it facing the houses at the dead end of the street. What was Gorlock thinking? Did he plan to plow through someone’s yard? It made more sense than trying to outrun the cops at the other end.

The perp never had the chance. A second shot rang out from above, shattering the windshield. The side door banged open and Officer Whitstone came running, hands still tied but otherwise unharmed. The tension in his muscles eased a little. Jackson spun back to the van, but he could no longer see Gorlock in the driver’s seat. Had he been hit? Was he dead? The engine shut down, with the van straddling the driveway and the street.

Gorlock yelled something but Jackson couldn’t hear it.

Men in blue rushed the vehicle “Throw your weapon out and surrender!”

No movement from the van.

“Throw your weapon out. Come out with your hands in the air.”

After a moment, the driver’s door opened halfway and a handgun clattered to the asphalt. It looked like a police-issue Sig Sauer. Gorlock wasn’t visible, and Jackson figured he had to be on his hands and knees.