Vengeance Road (4 page)

G
annon turned around to see the receptionist's puzzled face.

“Aren't you going to go in?” she asked, holding a stack of files she appeared to be delivering.

“No, I was just leaving.” He kept his voice down as he walked to the door. “I have to go.”

“Well, I forgot to have you sign in,” she said. “But if you're done I guess it doesn't matter.”

Gannon waved his thanks, headed to his car, hurrying when he got to the lot. He pulled away, a thousand concerns shotgunning through his mind as he struggled to concentrate on what he'd heard.

A detective was the prime suspect in Bernice Hogan's murder
.

This was big. Huge
.

He wouldn't alert the desk yet, not until he nailed it. He had to keep this to himself until he had it in the bag.

Never oversell a story.

First things first.

He had to confirm the name behind K.S. and the police department the suspect worked for. He had an idea and drove downtown to the headquarters of the Buffalo and Erie County Public Library system. The building took up two city blocks in Lafayette Square.

He went to the public computer terminals and logged into the databases for the city of Buffalo employee listings by department. The Buffalo Police Department was the area's largest police force.

Let's start here, he thought as he began searching the BPD's directory for all officers whose surname started with an S.

Damn.

They were not ordered alphabetically but rather by seniority. With more than eight hundred officers to check, this would take time. Page after page of names blurred before he found a K.S.

Ken Smith. Then another. Kim Sailor. Then another. Kent Sanders. And another. Kevin Sydowski.

By the time he was done, he'd mined nine possibilities from the Buffalo Police Department. He moved on to the database for officers with the Erie County Sheriff's Office. After searching some four hundred names there, he had three more candidates: Kal Seroudie, Kyle Sawchuk, and Keen Sanchez.

But there were numerous police departments that served greater Buffalo, like the Cheektowaga Police Department, the Amherst Police Department, Hamburg, North Tonawanda, West Seneca, and Ascension Park, to name a few.

He continued scouring the databases.

As time passed he realized that he would never get through them all. He stopped to think. So far, he had some sixteen possibilities, but this was turning out to be a needle-in-a-haystack search.

He needed help confirming the name.

He'd use another option.

He abandoned the computer, went to a public telephone and called the private number of the person he'd seen at
the meeting. He hadn't talked to his source for some time and was reluctant to push, but the stakes were high.

No one answered.

He left a message then returned to the newsroom, which was in full midday mode with reporters talking on phones, or typing at keyboards, or huddled with editors discussing stories. Gannon had grabbed a BLT in the cafeteria and was threading his way to his desk.

“Hey, Jack, what've you got?” Tim Derrick held up his clipboard listing the stories for tomorrow's paper. “I'm heading into the meeting. I've got you skedded for a follow-up on the investigation into Hogan.”

“I'm expecting more information. I'll let you know if it falls through.”

“Remember, Nate's counting on you for a scoop.”

As Gannon settled in at his desk and prepared to eat his late lunch, his phone rang. He answered after getting two quick bites down.

“Jack Gannon,
Buffalo Sentinel
.”

“I got your message.”

The caller's number was blocked but he knew the voice.

“Thanks. It's been a while,” he said. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know me. Same old same old. And you?”

“I'm a bit under the gun. I need a favour,” he said.

“Something to do with Hogan?”

“I understand they're looking at a cop for it?”

Silence hissed in his ear.

“Why ask me?” the caller asked.

“I figured you might know something. I'm poking around everywhere.”

Another stretch of silence passed.

“Listen,” Gannon said, “I need to confirm what I've learned. I think the suspect's initial's are K.S. and I need to clarify some details.”

After considering the situation, the caller said, “Jack, you have to guarantee that you will protect the source of this information.”

“You have my word.”

“You don't give my name to anyone.”

“That's right.”

“It's true. Your information is solid.”

He stared at nothing. His breathing quickened.

“And this is from inside the investigation?” Gannon asked.

“Absolutely. I was at a case meeting today.”

“Who's the cop?”

“A detective with the Ascension Park Police Department.”

“Got a name for me?”

“Karl Styebeck.”

Gannon thumbed the cap off of his pen, found a fresh page in his notebook and started writing, oblivious to the newsroom activity.

Styebeck.

“I've heard his name before,” Gannon said.

“Check your archives, he's some kind of hero.”

“You're absolutely sure we can go with this in the paper?”

“Dead certain.”

“Thank you.”

Pen clamped between his teeth, Gannon launched into a search of the
Sentinel'
s news databases, the archives of every community newspaper in the region, the Web site of the Ascension Park Police Department and various community sites online.

Soon, he had enough from community papers for a short biography.

Karl Styebeck was a decorated twelve-year veteran who
coached children's sports teams, volunteered for charity runs and gave stranger-awareness talks in Ascension Park schools. On Sundays, he went to church with his wife, Alice, and their son, Taylor. Occasionally, he sang in the choir.

This guy's a saint.

Several years back Styebeck was off duty, returning from a Bills game, when he came upon a house fire. He'd rushed into the burning building and rescued four children. They'd been left alone by their parents who'd gone to a casino at the Falls. For his bravery, Styebeck was awarded a Chief's Citation.

Now he's suspected of murdering a nursing student.

Gannon had to confirm his information with the state police.

He called Clarence Barracks and asked them to convey an urgent message to Michael Brent, the lead investigator.

“What does this concern?” the duty trooper asked.

“Information about the Hogan homicide.”

“I'll pass your message to him.”

Five minutes later, Gannon's line rang.

“This is Mike Brent, New York State Police.”

“Thanks for getting back to me. Sir, I'm seeking your reaction for a story we're preparing for tomorrow's
Sentinel
that will report that Detective Karl Styebeck, of the Ascension Park Police Department, is the suspect in the murder of Bernice Hogan.”

Brent let several moments of icy silence pass.

“I cannot confirm your information,” Brent said.

“Is my information wrong?”

Silence.

“I would hold off writing anything like that and save yourself a lot of grief.”

“What? I'm sorry, I don't understand.”

“I can't confirm your information.”

“But you don't deny it?”

“I think we're done here.”

“Sir, you have not denied the information that Styebeck is a suspect.”

Brent hung up.

Gannon circled the few notes he'd taken from Brent and weighed matters. Brent wouldn't have warned him to hold off if his information was wrong. Because if it was wrong Brent wouldn't have cared, which told Gannon that his information had to be dead on the money.

No way was he going to sit on a story this big and risk letting the
Buffalo News
scoop him.

There was only one more person to confront with the story.

Karl Styebeck.

K
arl Styebeck's address and phone number were not listed, a step most cops took to protect their families.

Gannon had a hunch.

After he finished eating his sandwich, he picked up his phone and punched an internal extension.

“Circulation, Ashley speaking.”

“Hi, Ash. It's Jack in news.”

“Jack Gannon?”

He'd dated Ashley Rowe a few times after meeting her at the paper's Christmas party. They got along but they didn't think it would go anywhere. They'd parted as friends, or so he thought.

“Hello, are you there, Ashley?”

“I'm here, Jack. What is it?”

“Can you check a name for me? See if they're a subscriber? Styebeck, Karl Styebeck. Karl with a K and last name spelled S-t-y-e-b-e-c-k.”

“You know it's against policy for us to share the paper's subscriber list.”

“I completely understand. But it's for a story.”

Gannon heard an annoyed sigh then typing on her keyboard.

“I cannot tell you that yes, we do have a subscriber by that name and the number and address are as follows.”

Gannon wrote the information down.

“I appreciate this,” he said.

“I'm sure you do.”

Gannon called Karl Styebeck's home. The phone was answered by a woman.

“No, I'm sorry, Karl's not here at the moment.” She was pleasant. “He's coaching the game at the Franklin Diamond. May I take a message?”

“No, no message, thanks.”

Gannon did not identify himself.

He made a copy of Styebeck's photo from a recent profile of him in one of the community newspapers then drove to Ascension Park.

It was an established middle-class neighbourhood of streets lined with mature trees that arched over well-kept homes. Franklin Diamond encompassed a playground, basketball and tennis courts that were busy with activity. The bleachers at the ball diamond were sprinkled with parents cheering the players of a game in progress.

He neared the benches, getting close enough to scrutinize the coaches until he was satisfied he'd locked onto Styebeck. The cop was leaning against a chest-high chain-link fence, drinking from a can of soda, watching his players in the field.

“Let's go, Bobbie!” he shouted to his pitcher. “Big swinger!”

Gannon sidled up to him then waited for a lull in the game. Styebeck pulled a rolled roster from his rear pocket when Gannon interrupted.

“Excuse me, Detective Styebeck?”

Deep-set intelligent eyes turned on Gannon from a face as cold and still as a frozen lake. The man was in his early forties, stood an inch or so over six feet. He had a medium build with firm, large upper chest and arms. He wore a ball cap, baseball shirt and jeans.

“Detective Karl Styebeck?”

Styebeck nodded.

“Jack Gannon from the
Buffalo Sentinel
.”

“The
Sentinel?
You guys never cover our games.”

“I'm not here for that, sir.”

Gannon nodded to an empty picnic table by a tree, thirty yards away from the first-base line.

“Can we go over there for a moment?” Gannon asked.

“I'm kind of busy. What's this about?”

“Bernice Hogan.”

“You better show me some ID.”

Gannon produced his press ID. Styebeck examined it, gave it back, then went to the picnic table with Gannon.

“What do you want?” Styebeck folded his arms across his chest.

“I need to ask you a few questions for the record.”

Gannon extended his small recorder.

Styebeck looked at it but didn't move.

“Sir, I'd like your response to a story we're running tomorrow that will name you as a suspect in the murder of Bernice Hogan.”

Styebeck's eyes narrowed.

“What? Is this some kind of joke?”

“I understand that you are a suspect in the murder of Bernice Hogan, the nursing student whose body—”

“I know who she is. I'm working the case with the state police. I don't know where this is coming from, but your information is unmitigated bullshit.”

“I'm going to quote you, sir.”

Styebeck crushed his soda can in his fist just as two boys wearing jerseys emblazoned with
Kowalski's Towing
, ran to them.

“Coach!” one boy said. “We're up! Who bats?”

Styebeck glared at Gannon.

“T.J. is up, Dallas is on deck.”

“Coach, you're bleeding!”

The twisted metal had cut into Styebeck's fingers. Blood dripped from them, dampening the earth. Gannon looked at it, then at Styebeck, catching something cold threading across his eyes.

“I'm fine, fellas. Let's get back to the game.”

Styebeck held back, leaned into Gannon and dropped his voice. “You better watch yourself, asshole.”

Styebeck returned to the game. Gannon stood alone, puffed his cheeks and exhaled slowly.

Then he checked his recording and walked to his car.

 

When he'd returned to the
Sentinel
, Tim Derrick was collecting his briefcase and throwing off to Ward Wallace, the night editor.

Gannon went to them and told them what he had.

“The prime suspect in Bernice Hogan's murder is a detective working on the investigation.”

Wallace and Derrick exchanged glances.

“Christ, that's a helluva goddamn story.” Wallace waved over Ed Sikes, the front-page editor. They used the empty city editor's office for an impromptu conference.

Wallace removed his glasses, tapped them on his chin as other deputy and night editors joined them.

“This is dynamite,” Derrick said. “How'd you get it?”

“I picked it up when I went out to Clarence Barracks. Then I went to a good source who confirmed it.”

“Who's your source?” Sikes said.

“They're inside the investigation. I can't name them.”

“Why not?”

“That was the deal.”

“Policy requires you give us a name, Jack. Even if we don't use it,” Sikes said.

“I know, but this is deep inside. Come on. I gave my word and this is exactly how we broke the jetliner story. We were tipped by an unnamed source.”

“You also got the document that nailed it,” Sikes said. “Got any paper on this tip? A warrant? A police report? A memo?”

“No, not quite.”

“What do you mean,
‘not quite'
?”

“My information is solid.”

“Jack, is your source on this information a cop?” Wallace asked.

“Yes.”

“With the New York State Police?”

“My source is a cop inside the investigation. That's as far as I want to go. I gave my word.”

“This story's huge,” Derrick said. “Who else did you call?”

Gannon told them.

“Christ.” Wallace ran his hand through his hair. “We need a story like this.
He's got the investigator on the record, and the suspect.”

“Alleged suspect,” Sikes said. His eyes were like black ball bearings as they bored into Gannon. “You trust your source with everything, Jack? Because with this kind of story, if you're wrong, we could all pay dearly.”

Gannon took stock of the faces staring at him. Beyond the office, a few reporters raised their heads to look at the sombre group, curious about what was happening.

“I stand by my story.”

Sikes kept Gannon in his gaze for a long time.

“We're taking a risk here.”

“I trust my source completely.”

“Write it up,” Sikes said. “I'll take it for front. Better find a picture of Karl Styebeck.” Then he pointed his finger at Gannon. “You'd better be right about this.”