Stress Fracture: Book One in the Dub Walker Series Read online

  Cell tracking can also show the general area where the call was made. Which tower routed the call. If the caller is moving, he’ll switch towers along his route and that, too, can be tracked. I’d seen many cases cracked on just such evidence. A killer’s protest that he was nowhere near the crime scene goes up in smoke when it’s discovered his cell phone pinged a nearby tower around the time of the murder.

  None of this gives you the name of who actually made the calls, and that little bit of information is critical to solving the case. The phone is, of course, registered, and the first person the police will visit is the guy who pays the bill. He’ll have some explaining to do. Was it you? Who had access to the phone at the time of the calls? That kind of thing.

  Prepaid cell phones are a different story. Tracing the owner is a bitch. Actually impossible. Anyone can simply walk in, pay cash, and walk out with a phone. Activation’s a snap. A single call to the company with a false name and address will do. Leaves no way to trace it back to the user. The phone will work until the purchased minutes run out. The owner can then buy more time or simply toss the phone and get a new one. Drug dealers use them all the time.

  “We have the cell carrier in the loop, so we’ll know immediately when and where the phone is used again,” Scotty said.

  “Where did last night’s call come from?” I asked.

  “A tower out near the Cummings Research Park. Caller was stationary, or at least didn’t jump towers.”

  “Any other calls on it?”

  Scotty shook his head. “First one.”

  “So it’s a new phone.”

  “Not exactly,” T-Tommy said. “We traced the codes. This was one of forty or so phones clipped from a warehouse a few months ago.”

  “Which means, unless we find who stole them, there’s no way to trace them,” I said.

  “We might have a line on that,” T-Tommy said.

  “How?”

  “Not how, who. Shaniqua Waters. Head of Satan’s Sisters. The Sisters have been in the phone and credit card racket for years. Anything on the street she probably had a hand in, and if not, she’ll know who did.”

  “Anything new on the victims?” I asked.

  Scotty shook his head. “Nothing. It’s as if they lived on different planets.”

  “They didn’t.” I finished my coffee and tossed the empty cup into the trash. “The killer knew them, and according to what he said last night, knows his future victims. The question is … why did these victims attract his attention?”

  Luther walked into the room. No pleasantries, he just jumped right in. “Yesterday, when I heard your interview with Claire McBride, I thought you might’ve pushed too hard, pressed the wrong buttons. Maybe set him off. But after I heard he’d called … maybe … just maybe … pushing him is the right thing to do.”

  “That’s what I hoped,” I said. “I didn’t expect he’d call me, but I felt that this guy has something to say. A message to deliver. By challenging him, I hoped he would have to respond. Couldn’t just let it lie there.”

  Luther nodded. “You think we can smoke him out?”

  “He’s watching the news and he’s communicating. That’s something.”

  “Downside?”

  “Could be big,” I said. “He could decompensate. Go off on a real spree.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “You’re not making me happy here.”

  “This guy’s pissed. At somebody. Some organization. Something. That’s how these spree types work. The natural course is to accelerate. The killings become more frequent and more violent.”

  “Don’t see how they could be worse,” Scotty said.

  “They can,” I said. “And they will.”

  Concern crept across Luther’s face. “Won’t challenging him make him even more dangerous?”

  “It might also distract him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He knows his victims. On some level. Something about them angers him.” Luther started to say something, but I pressed on. “A murder has two participants … the killer and the victim. There is a dance between the two. A danse macabre, but a dance nonetheless. Maybe they had a relationship of some type. Maybe they simply communicated. Maybe it was a certain look, or a location, or an availability. But something about the killer and something about the victim put them in the same place at the same time and set the stage for what followed. Our problem is uncovering what brought each of them to the dance.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Or change the dance.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s picked out his partners. Maybe we can offer him new ones. If I … or we … can draw his attention away from them and toward the police … or me … he might make a mistake.”

  “You think having him go after cops is a good thing?” Luther asked.

  “Many of these guys kill themselves when cornered or commit suicide by cop. That seems better than murdering sleeping citizens.”

  Silence settled over the room as everyone absorbed this.

  Luther sighed and massaged his neck. “I hear what you’re saying, but there’s a lot there I don’t like. Unpredictable comes to mind.”

  “I wish I could reassure you, but unpredictable is exactly what this guy is. Can’t say I’ve ever run across anyone like him. Last night I tried to piss him off. Nothing. Kept his cool. It’s as if he lets out his demons only in very controlled circumstances. I don’t think a meltdown is likely.”

  “But you can’t be sure?”

  “Mostly.”

  “I don’t like mostly.”

  I leaned against the window frame. “The call last night proves he’s following the news. If we can work him, he might say the wrong thing, give himself away.” I captured Luther’s gaze. “I think I should do another TV spot. Push harder. Up the ante a bit.”

  Deep furrows wrinkled his brow. I knew he was considering the angles, the fallout if things went south. “I can’t say I’m entirely convinced, but it’s the best thing we’ve got. Let’s run with it.” He started toward the door but stopped and looked back at me. “If this goes to shit, we’ll have a ton of explaining to do.” Then he was gone.

  “And guess which way shit flows,” T-Tommy said.

  Scotty pointed to the files he had tossed on the table earlier. “The boys went through over twelve hundred files yesterday. Covered the last four years. Pulled out the extremely violent ones. Ones where the perpetrator wasn’t in jail or dead at the time of these murders. Thirty-four in all. I’ve been through them, and I think only half a dozen are possibles. I have guys following up on all of them, but wanted your thoughts on these.”

  “Will do,” I said. “First I want to call Claire. See if I can get on her six o’clock report.”

  “I’ve got to head back over to the Wheeler office and hook up with some of the patrol guys,” Scotty said. “Catch you guys later.”

  “I’m off to harass the Sisters,” T-Tommy said.

  “Mind if I go with you?” I asked.

  “Sure. Make your call. I need to chat with Luther for a minute. Back in a few.”

  I called Claire. “How’s it going?”

  “What can I do for you?” So much for sweet talk. Claire was back in work mode.

  “Another interview. Tonight. Think you can swing it?”

  “Will tomorrow work?”

  “Not tonight?”

  “Maybe. What is it? Something big?”

  “Just need a vehicle to talk to the killer.”

  “So you want to use me?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I heard her cover the phone and say something to someone. Then she was back. “Sorry. You think this guy’ll be watching?”

  “He did last night. Guys like him always do. It’s a pride-in-workmanship deal.”

  “Let me see what I can work out.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Yes, you do.” She laughed and hung up.

  I shuf
fled through the six files Scotty had left. Robert Swenson. Beat his girlfriend to death with a tire iron. Two months ago. Long record of assaults. Out on parole at the time of this attack. Warrant out on him. Whereabouts not known. Possible. I put that one on the table to my right.

  The next two were spousal abusers. Repeaters, but no arrests for anything else. Looks like money sparked one of them and an affair the other. Neither was our guy. The focus of their anger was right there, in the house. Someone should abuse them, though. I moved them to my left.

  Next was Brian Kurtz. Put a mugger in the ICU. Two days ago. History of arrests. Mostly for assaults and fighting. Sees a shrink. Another possible.

  Next guy, Frankie Alvarez, fired a gun through a neighbor’s house and then attacked him with bricks when he came outside. Two other arrests for assault. One at work and one involving a road rage incident. Possible.

  Last guy attacked his mailman. Two years ago. With a chain saw. Mailman used his bag for defense. Chain shredded it, but the carrier got away unscathed. Dude avoided a Federal beef for mail destruction by pleading guilty, doing sixty days in County, two hundred hours of community service, and completing an anger management course. Nothing since then. His file went on the left-hand stack.

  Our guy wasn’t likely a first timer. Or a wife beater. He had a more dangerous-looking record. Like Swenson, Kurtz, and Alvarez.

  CHAPTER 37

  WEDNESDAY 11:12 A.M.

  THE ER WAS QUIET. EARLIER, A STEADY STREAM OF PATIENTS HAD kept Dr. Charlie Beck and the crew busy, but now only a fretful, colicky infant, cradled in his mother’s arms, remained.

  Marcy Clark plopped a new chart in front of Charlie. “Our favorite patient is back.”

  He looked at the name: Brian Kurtz.

  “Didn’t you go meet with his doc the other day?” Marcy asked. “At that research institute?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s that place like?” “Plush to the extreme.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.” She tapped the chart. “What’d he say about our bad boy?”

  “Has PTSD, according to Dr. Hublein. Got him on some new drug.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be working.”

  Charlie collected the chart and stood. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Brian sat on an exam table, his arm resting on a metal surgical stand. He seemed calmer than Charlie remembered. Could he have been wrong about Brian? Maybe over-read the situation? After all, he came in right after a fight with an armed attacker. That could explain his agitation. He surely appeared relaxed now.

  “Let’s see how that wound’s doing,” Charlie said.

  Marcy removed the dressing. “Looks good.”

  Brian opened and closed his fist. “It’s not sore or anything. Can’t even tell it’s there most the time.”

  Marcy cleaned the area with Betadine-soaked gauze, patted it dry, and redressed the wound.

  “Keep it clean and covered,” Charlie said. “Come back in five days and we’ll get those sutures out.”

  “Okay.”

  “How’s everything else going?”

  “Like what?” Brian’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them.

  “You went through a traumatic ordeal the other day. It would be natural to experience some residual anxiety.”

  “Not really. It’s over.”

  “Good.”

  Brian cocked his head and looked at Charlie. “I got a call from Dr. Hublein. He wants to see me tomorrow. Any idea why?”

  “I spoke with him after you were here.”

  “Actually, you went to see him.” Agitation crept into his voice. “Why?”

  “He’s your doctor. I wanted to keep him in the loop. That’s just good medicine. We do that routinely.”

  Brian gripped the table, blanching his knuckles. “Do you personally visit the doctors of every person you treat?”

  Charlie glanced at Marcy, noticing the door behind her had drifted closed. “No.”

  Brian gave a smirking grunt. “Just me, I guess.”

  Charlie offered what he hoped was a benevolent smile. “You’ve got to admit that what happened the other day was a little unusual.”

  “Really? In what way?”

  “You beat that man severely.”

  “I could have done worse.”

  Charlie involuntarily took a half step back. Hoping to defuse the situation, he said, “The mugger’s recovering very well.”

  “Too bad.” Brian’s eyes were as cold and blue as packed ice.

  “Why don’t you talk this over with Dr. Hublein?”

  “Thanks to you, I have to.” He raised his arm, balled and released his fist a couple of times, and then twisted his forearm one way and then the other. His gaze came back to Charlie. “You do-gooders stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, stir up trouble, and then walk away. Why don’t you just do your job and leave me alone?”

  “That wasn’t my intention. Dr. Hublein seemed grateful I spoke with him and assured me you’re okay.”

  “Okay? What the hell does that mean?” His jaw muscles hardened and his neck veins became thick ropes.

  “He said you had some problems, but were doing very well with treatment.”

  “My problems, real or imagined, are not your concern.”

  Marcy opened the door slightly.

  “Go ahead,” Brian said. “Open it all the way if that makes you feel safer.”

  “It’s not that,” Marcy said. “We have other patients I need to tend to.”

  “Doesn’t look very busy around here to me.” Brian slid off the table and walked through the door, bumping Marcy with his shoulder in the process. She caught the wall to maintain balance. At the end of the corridor, the automatic doors hissed open and Brian disappeared into the parking lot.

  “Jesus,” Marcy said. “That kid’s a time bomb.” She elbowed Charlie. “You’re walking me to my car after my shift.”

  CHAPTER 38

  WEDNESDAY 11:53 A.M.

  T-TOMMY AND I PILED INTO MY PORSCHE. TIME TO SEE THE Sisters. On the way, T-Tommy gave me a thumbnail of the Sisters’ history.

  Satan’s Sisters was a black girl gang that held sway over a twelve-block section of West Huntsville. Only female gang in town. Didn’t make them any less dangerous. Shaniqua Waters took over a year earlier when their previous leader, Lynette Baldwin, gunned down Ron Dog Jefferson, head of the Black Pythons, in a drive-by. Rumor was that Shaniqua had been behind the wheel. The Pythons had moved in on the Sisters’ crystal meth trade. Lynette took exception. Ron Dog and two of his pals went down. Lynette did, too. Two days later, in a motel parking lot. She managed to wound one officer, but three others pumped eighteen rounds into her. End of story.

  The Sisters not only dealt meth but also GHB, marijuana, and sometimes weapons. This meant they were always armed and high. Dangerous combination. The reason we were dropping by was that they also had a big stake in the stolen property trade, particularly credit cards and electronics. The stolen phones, if not actually lifted by the Sisters, would have passed through Shaniqua’s hands.

  T-Tommy laid out Shaniqua’s story, too. Unwed fifteen-year-old mother brought her into the world. Her father bailed long before Shaniqua took her first breath. Molested at eight by a neighbor who was still doing time down at Holman. Hooked up with the Sisters at ten. Did a juve stretch for armed robbery at thirteen. Out at eighteen. Couple of tags for assault since then but no major stuff. None that would stick anyway. Besides being the wheelman in the Ron Dog job, she was suspected in three other murders. “How’re you going to play this?” I asked. T-Tommy shrugged. “Straight up. The Sisters don’t take shit from anyone, including someone with a badge. But an implied threat might work. They like to stay off the radar.”

  “Would a little cash help?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Maybe a couple of Benjamins?” I asked.

  “Sounds good.”

  I turned off Governor’s Drive onto Semin
ole and then, at the now derelict and abandoned, red-brick Dallas Mill, swung onto Ninth Avenue, a four-lane street famous for halfway houses, shelters, and hookers. It was also the home of Satan’s Sisters. The white clapboard structure, sort of a criminal sorority house, appeared empty. I parked in the driveway. T-Tommy led the way around back, where we found the Sisters.

  They had turned the backyard garage into a gym of sorts. Barbells, benches, stacks of weights. The garage door stood open. One Sister doing bench presses. Another spotting her. Three others looked up as we approached. The lifter settled the bar back on the cradle. One of the girls tapped her shoulder and nodded toward us. The girl rolled up to a sitting position, stood, and walked out into the sunlight. The others followed, spreading out behind her. Not a smile among them.

  T-Tommy introduced me to Shaniqua. Six feet and in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds. Buff. Arms and shoulders most men would envy. She wore shorts and a wife-beater T-shirt, cropped enough to reveal washboard abs. Her deeply black skin glistened with sweat and reflected the sunlight. She propped her fists against her hips and cocked her head to one side.

  “What the fuck you want?” she asked.

  “Good to see you again, too,” T-Tommy said.

  She looked at me. “I know this white-meat motherfucker. You the book guy. The one on the news.”

  I smiled, hoping to look nonthreatening. Who was I kidding? Shaniqua didn’t look as if anything threatened her.

  She aimed her chin at me. “Why don’t you get the fuck away from here before something bad happens?”

  “Why don’t you hear what the man’s got to say?” I said. “Might be good for you.”

  She cut her gaze to T-Tommy. “That right?”

  “You still peddling jacked phones?” he asked.

  Her blank expression didn’t waver. “Who wants to know?”

  “I do.”

  “Why should I tell the man anything?”

  T-Tommy said nothing. Just stood there, staring at her.

  “‘Bout that ex-sheriff getting popped?” she asked.

  “Maybe.”