Head Shot (A Thriller): A Crime and Suspense Thriller (11 page)

Thirty-Four

The sign blinked off and Mike Sharpe unbuckled his seat belt, stood, opened the overhead compartment and brought down the pillows and blankets that were stored there.

Laurie was in the window seat, and he put one of the pillows between her head and the window, then ducked back into his own seat, bringing the blanket over both of them.  Their hands immediately sought each other out as the plane rocketed its way toward Chicago.

The flight would stop in the Windy City, then continue on to Milwaukee.

"How long a drive is it from Milwaukee to Lost Lake Lodge?" Laurie asked.

"It depends on traffic, which can be shitty when you get up North," Mike answered, "especially when you get stuck behind Farmer Ned on his John Deere tractor doing twelve miles an hour."

He looked toward the front of the cabin for a flight attendant.

"If everything goes okay, though, it should only take a few hours."

"So we'll get there late tonight?"

Mike nodded.

He looked out the window and saw the dark brown hills of California passing underneath him.  They looked so dry and parched, not like the lush green of Wisconsin.  In his mind, he heard the call of the loon from Lost Lake, and glanced at Laurie in the seat next to him, her eyes closed, light from the window reflecting the shapes of the clouds across her face.

His hand reached down and touched the small case in his pocket, the case containing the engagement ring he had been too nervous to leave in his luggage.  Mike had seen videotape on one of the television news magazine shows of airline workers rifling through passenger's luggage before loading it onto the plane, and he just had to keep the ring on him. 

The whole process had been a bit tricky, especially at the metal detectors, he'd sent Laurie through first, then crossed the aisle to go through the next one, in case he set it off and had to empty his pockets, he hadn't wanted her to see the case.  Luckily, he'd passed through fine and that danger had been averted.

Their itinerary was pretty straightforward.  Fly into Milwaukee, get a rental car, then make the drive up north in one shot, getting to Lake Lodge well into the night.  Mike knew the old man would have left the fire going in the pit outside the cabin, and a bottle of whiskey on the kitchen table.  Mike would unload the car, then he and Laurie would sit out by the fire and get pleasantly sloshed listening to the loon and watching the stars.

He still hadn't decided when exactly he'd pop the question, he would have to wait for just the right time.  He hoped he'd know it when the time came.

"What are you smiling about?"  Mike snapped out of his reverie and saw Laurie looking at him intently, a half-smile on her face.

"What I'm going to say to my parents when I take you for a ride on the pontoon boat."

"Which is?"

"Don't come knockin' if the pontoon's rockin'."

She laughed and her hand released his, then dropped down between his legs.

"I take it you've heard of the Mile High Club?"

Now it was his turn to laugh.

"What exactly do you have in mind, little Miss Horndoggy?"

"Oh, I think you have a pretty good idea, mister."

He laughed, then slid his hand to the top of her blue jeans.  Laurie's hand met his and she held the belt of her jeans still while he unsnapped the button.

She shifted in her seat slightly and Mike slipped his hand between her legs.

Laurie's hand was also busy, as she zipped down Mike's jeans and freed his excitement.

"Is this a hint of what vacation's going to be like?" she asked, her head reclining in pleasure.

"We're on vacation, honey."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I'd call that a big yes."

Mike also laid his head back and closed his eyes, the rumble of jet engines matching the hum that was beginning to run through both his body and Laurie's.

They were interrupted briefly by a flight attendant who brought around some pretzels and offered drinks, both of which the couple declined.  They sunk back beneath the blanket and looked into each other's eyes.

"Now that's what I call the friendly skies," he said a few minutes later to Laurie and they both laughed, then tried as covertly as possible to re-button their jeans and get themselves adjusted.

She leaned over and put her head on his shoulder and he softly stroked her hair, running his fingers down the side of her smooth face, breathing in her scent.

"Something tells me this is going to be the best vacation of my life," she said.

He looked out the window idly before answering.

"God, I hope so," he said softly.

Laurie snuggled closer to his shoulder and Mike leaned his head back again, closing his eyes.

Sleep came quickly to both of them.

Thirty-Five

Ray pulled into the driveway of the late Jimmy Tomczak, and unleashed more expletives in one sentence than he had in the last year.

The Channel 6 news van sat in the middle of the drive, surrounded by police cruisers and unmarked detective cars.

As he approached, Nancy Bishop and her cameraman descended upon him.

"Do you know where Ferkovich is?" she asked.

Ray continued walking toward the house.

"No comment."

"Do you think he's headed for Rodgers Bay?" she persisted.

He kept walking without responding.

As the cameraman lowered his camera, she fired one last question, a smirk on her face.

"What took you so long to get here, Mitchell?"

He stopped and turned back to look at her.  She answered with a sweet smile.

Ray felt the heat under his collar and with great restraint, made no comment, then ducked under the police tape and went inside the house.

A local cop met him in the kitchen and showed him the way to the basement.

The dead man lay as he had apparently fallen, his arms behind his back, his feet resting on the bottom step.

The smell of death and decay was powerful and by the looks of the victim, soon to get much stronger.  Ray heard a scurry behind a stand of gray metal shelving and guessed that the rats were disappointed in the home's most recent arrivals.

Mitchell looked around the small basement.  Typical junk, boxes, a small but tidy workbench, rags, a couple of sawhorses and some scrap lumber.  Except for the corpse, the room reminded him of his own basement back in Milwaukee.

A shadow fell on the steps leading down into the basement, and Ray looked up in time to see the crime scene technician walking gingerly down the rickety steps.

Paul Casey nodded at Ray, who returned the gesture.

"Find me as soon as you're done here, Paul," Ray said as he headed for the stairs.

"You got it, Ray."

Mitchell walked back through the kitchen and found Detective Krahn standing just outside the back door.  The two walked into the backyard, out of earshot of the local cops.

"Did anyone talk to her?" he asked with a nod toward Nancy Bishop.

Krahn grunted.  "I think she got a few questions in, but these local guys didn't know much, mostly grandstanded for her by what I can tell."

Ray kicked some loose dirt with his shoe.

"How did she get here so fast?  I'm tempted to arrest her."

"On what charges?"

Ray thought about that one.

"Let's take a walk," he said, and headed for the abandoned truck in the woods.

The smell of pine needles and thick grass wafted in the air, a testament to the area's increased foot traffic and the fact that pollen was flying at this time of the year.

Ray felt a tickle in his nose and hoped that his allergies didn't kick up.  Sometimes ragweed caused his nose to run for days and gave him some nasty sinus headaches. 

He and Krahn walked past the metal shed and the abandoned tractor behind the house.

"He had a nice little place here," commented Krahn.

"Yeah, nice and peaceful until now," Ray said. 

They reached the small knoll and the clearing, then found themselves looking down the ravine at the abandoned truck, which was being photographed and the interior dusted for fingerprints.

"What do you make of all this, Ray?"

Mitchell opened his notebook before speaking.

"Ferkovich is in this ridiculous getaway vehicle, a fucking giant cookie truck for Christ's sake, sticking out like a sore thumb."

Krahn nodded and Ray began pacing.

"He knows he's gotta get the hell out of Milwaukee and he's got to do it during the night because come daylight, he'll be in custody by noon if he's driving that thing."

He flipped another page in his notebook.

"So he drives all night and comes to see his old fishing buddy, Jimmy Tomczak.  Maybe he tells the guy what's going on, but I'm guessing he doesn't.  Guys like Tomczak are good old boys, but they're survivalists, they know when danger's around, so Ferkovich keeps his mouth shut and makes some bullshit excuse."

Ray gestured toward the truck.

"So he asks Tomczak to help him hide the truck, then goes back, they have a couple of beers, and then Ferkovich eliminates the witness."

Ray looked at the sky and felt a cool breeze blow off the top of the small bluff shading the ravine.

"He takes the time to write a 'Gone Fishin' sign and posts it on the door to buy himself a little time," said Mitchell.

Krahn nodded and said nothing.

"So where does he go about his merry way?  Does he go downstate?  There's no shortage of crazy rednecks that would hide him out."

Ray stopped pacing before he spoke again.

"He's gotta be smart enough to know we're watching his sister, so he can't go there..."

"So he's driving another stolen vehicle, he's got no place to hide, everyone's looking for him, and he's going to have to kill again."

The two detectives stood quietly for several moments.

"Maybe he goes back to Milwaukee, now that he's got us all pulled up here, a little misdirection, then he goes back to his old stomping grounds."

Ray shook his head.

"I don't see it.  Too risky, and although he clearly doesn't want to get caught, his urges are stronger than his urge for self-preservation."

Krahn tried again.

"OK, then maybe he heads for the nearest big city.  Minneapolis is what, four hours away?  Or maybe he goes over the Mackinaw bridge, then down to Detroit.  He's lived there, he's somewhat familiar with it.  A great city to get lost in."

"I don't think he wants to run anymore," said Ray.  "I think he wants to kill, I think he wants to find another victim.  I think he's going to take the easiest way out.  The question is, which way does he consider to be the easiest?"

Ray caught Krahn's eye, and the detective shrugged his shoulder.

"What he considers the easy way, we might think is the hard way."

Ray began walking back to the house.

"Well, I can think of one place priests, saints, sinners and killers, people everywhere turn to when they need help."

Krahn bit.

"Where would that be?"

"Family."    

Thirty-Six

The Cape Cod's pleasant facade welcomed Ray Mitchell as he pulled the sedan up in front of the house located at 628 Cherry Street in Rodgers Bay.  A neatly manicured lawn with a border of multi-colored blossoms surrounded the house and lined the old-fashioned brick path leading to the front door.

Ray got out of the car and stretched his muscles, his lower back ached from too much time in the car.

A window curtain was tugged gently aside then released, falling back into place with a whisper of movement that, although slight, did not escape the eye of Ray Mitchell.

Nor did the sight of the police cruiser parked just down the street.

He rang the doorbell and waited, knowing full well that the person was already standing behind the door, waiting for the requisite time to appear casual in answering the caller.  The interior door swung open and Ray faced a short, stocky, balding man dressed in a sweatshirt, khakis and boat shoes.  The screen door remain closed.

"What can I do for you?" the man asked.

Ray held up his badge and the man squinted, making a bit of a show of checking the metal closely for inspection.

"Mitchell, Milwaukee homicide," Ray said.  "Is Mary Ferkovich home?"

The man gave Ray a stern look, as if to let the cop know he was letting him in against his wishes, then stepped aside without answering.

"Mary!" he called.  “More cops!”

Ray stepped inside and let his eyes adjust to the darker light.  It was a quaint, neat home.  A small living room with a bay window opened up into an eat-in kitchen, with a door at the back of the room that looked to spill into separate bedrooms.

The furniture was simple yet elegant, and the artwork on the walls was contemporary, almost too modern for the older, small town.  The room was bordered by a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.  An entire row of the classics sat on the middle shelf, bound in rich leather.  It was a teacher's bookcase, Ray noted, no trashy paperbacks allowed in this home.

Mary Ferkovich entered the room from the kitchen, and Ray took her in.  She was somewhat tall, maybe five ten, and looked like an athlete.  A slim body was topped off by a slightly lean face devoid of any makeup.  She wore her hair short, and her clear gaze bored into Ray's eyes.

She looks a lot like her brother, Mitchell noted to himself, hopefully she's a lot more sane than he is.

"Hi, I'm Mary," she said simply.

"Ma'am, my name's Ray Mitchell and I'm a senior homicide detective with the Milwaukee Criminal Investigations Bureau."

She nodded.

"I'm here to ask you some questions about your brother."

"Have a seat, Mr. Mitchell," she said, gesturing Ray to the couch in front of the bay window.  "Would you like Hal to get you something to drink?  Coffee, tea perhaps?"

"No thank you, ma'am."

Mary turned and sat in an armchair, and then nodded to her husband who sat on the other end of the couch, positioning himself between Ray and Mary.

Ray knew that the man's wife had already been victimized once savagely, and understood the reason's behind his protective nature, but he wasn't about to let that interfere with his investigation.

"When's the last time you spoke with your brother Joe?" he asked, launching right in.

Hal was the first to speak.

"We’ve already covered this with the local cops," he said to Ray.

“I’m sure you have, I just want to go over everything myself.”

He turned back to Mary Ferkovich.

"Two years ago,” she said.

"What was the occasion?"

"It was Thanksgiving and I wanted to see if he would join Hal and me for a turkey dinner.  He wasn't interested."

"And you haven't heard from him since?"

She shook her head.

Ray paused and let the silence hang, but the woman didn't bat an eye, although her husband shifted uncomfortably.

"Is there anything you can tell us that would help us find out where you brother is?” Ray asked.

Mary Ferkovich stood and paced the living room.

"Mr. Mitchell, there are thirty sets of parents in this town who, five days a week, turn the care of their children, children who mean everything in the world to these people, over to me."

She stopped and looked intently at Ray.

"For me to allow a suspected murderer to be within ten, a hundred, a thousand square miles of those children is inconceivable to me.  That's not how God made me.  If my brother calls me, comes here, whatever, I will do everything I can to get him to turn himself in.  And if he doesn't, I will pick up the phone and call you.  That's a promise."

Ray ran the information through his head.  Krahn would be here soon to help keep the house under surveillance, and he was trying to get some string pulled to check Mary Ferkovich's phone records at the school.

Mitchell thought back to Joe Ferkovich's rap sheet.  He was a violent man, but he was also cunning.  He had to know the police would find the van and be watching Mary's house.

He stood, and idly glanced at the pictures on the far wall, then handed Mary his card.  He was about to say something when her husband interrupted him.

"Anything else we can do for you, Mr. Mitchell?" asked Hal, whose helpful tone was anything but.

Ray looked at Mary.

"I don't know if you are aware, but the victims, before they were brutally murdered, were also sexually assaulted and their bodies mutilated."

Neither Mary nor her husband responded.

"If your brother did kill those people, then I hope you both realize it can only mean one thing."

"What?" asked Mary.

"If he wasn't insane when you were with him, he's definitely insane now."

With that, he opened the door and left.  Ray normally didn't resort to theatrics, to pushing innocent people, but something wasn't right with those two.  Something nagged at his mind, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Mitchell climbed back into the sedan and headed back into Rodgers Bay.  Even though he was far from home, he couldn't shake his old habits and his old addictions.

He needed to find a strong cup of coffee.