Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) (3 page)

That was the last thing Franklin Dugan saw before Junior flipped his switch.

* * *

She popped him right in the side of his head from about a foot and a half with a silenced twenty-two caliber semi-auto. Dugan dropped on the spot, dead before he hit the ground, his brains scrambled like a morning omelet. She put two into his chest just to be sure, then bent over to grab her brass. They were hot, but not overly so. Still, when she picked up the third casing—the last one fired—it burned her finger and thumb and she lost her grasp. It hit the pavement just right, did a little flip and a half moon roll then tinkled down the storm drain between the curb and the street.

The van was rolling up close. She swore silently, took a quick peek into the drain, didn’t see anything, swore again, then jumped into the van. She pulled the door shut and Senior drove them away going no faster than the posted limit, like maybe they were going to church or something. He zigzagged through a few side streets just to be safe and a few minutes later they were on the loop, lost to the world.

CHAPTER TWO

Outside of the two years I served in Iraq One, I have worked in law enforcement my entire adult life. My father, Mason Jones had been the Marion County sheriff until he retired a few years ago, but I chose the state route and ended up as an Indiana State Trooper. Over the years I worked my way up the state ladder, putting in the time, getting the job done, and when the Governor of Indiana appointed a black female cop by the name of Cora LaRue as administrator of his newly formed Major Crimes Unit, she hired me as her lead cop. End result? From a political perspective, Cora LaRue was one of the most powerful women in the state and I, Virgil F. Jones wound up as her go-to cop.

I like Cora. Not only that, I respect her, as both an administrator and a cop. And, as a political appointee, I technically even outrank the superintendant of the state police. In theory, I can go anywhere in the state, anytime I need, to investigate and arrest criminals who fall under the state’s loosely defined rules of Cora’s Major Crimes Unit. In other words, there is scant little oversight, and for a guy like me, well, that was just about perfect. As long as I produced and made a reasonable effort to stay between the lines—blurry that they may be—no one gets in my way.

Usually.

The morning was clear, the sun was out, the temperature was warm and I was just about to turn into my parking spot at the State Police building behind the courthouse when my cell phone started to buzz from the cup holder in the center console. The caller I.D. showed the cell phone number of one of my team members, Sandy Small. I grabbed the phone, fumbled it, then caught it in the tips of my fingers, upside down, but almost clipped a parked car in the process. I stopped in the middle of the street, threw the truck in park, turned the phone over—which by now was on its last ring before it kicked to voice mail—hit the little green talk button and said “This is Jonesy.”

 I thought for a moment I missed it. It didn’t sound like Sandy was there. Just the empty background noise you get over a bad connection. But then, just like that, she was there. I could hear her in the background, and then there was a noise so sharp I winced and pulled the phone away from my ear. She wasn’t talking to me though. I could just barely hear her. It sounded like she was panting, breathing hard, and swearing all at the same time. She kept counting, one through five, over and over.

As a new team member, I had assigned Sandy to the Governor’s protection detail for the past week. My thinking was, it was a way to get to know the Governor on a more personal level. A better understanding of who you’re working for and all that. Today was Sandy’s last day with the Governor before she started catching cases.

I got that pit of your stomach feeling that something was really, really wrong. I dropped my truck into gear, hit the lights and burped the siren through the intersection. It was just past seven in the morning. She’d still be at the Governor’s mansion. I put the phone on speaker so I could have both hands on the wheel. “Sandy? Sandy, can you hear me?” I shouted into the phone but Sandy didn’t, or couldn’t answer me. I heard her grunt with effort, heard her swear again. I couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded like she was swearing. Saying ‘shit’, over and over.

A few seconds later as I screeched through a corner and turned north on Meridian Avenue I heard her loud and clear. Her voice was coming through on the Motorola police radio under the dash of my truck. “Officer down. Shots fired. Officer needs assistance. Governor’s Mansion. Repeat…….Officer…….Down. Officer……needs……” Then that was all.

I dropped the hammer on the truck and blew the intersection. Didn’t think about, just went and went hard. I figured I was eight minutes out if I didn’t kill myself on the way there.

* * *

Sandy Small had a Bachelor’s degree in education, a Master’s degree in psychology, and was ranked as an expert in marksmanship on the shooting range. Translation: She could out think and out shoot just about every cop in the state
and
could also teach anyone how to do it if they wanted to put their bullshit on the back burner. Most didn’t, but that wasn’t on her.

She was on the last day of her protection rotation, covering the overnights at the Governor’s mansion. Her new boss, Virgil, had told her that they’d all had to do it, part of some getting to know the big guy routine, or something. As far as Sandy was concerned, protection was protection, simple as that. Getting to know someone in the process was neither a pro or a con. It was more of an inconvenience than anything. But no matter….this was the last day and she was almost done.

At seven in the morning Sandy stepped outside from the back door of the Governor’s mansion, walked across the deck, down the steps and headed out. Monday morning, last time of the last day to walk the wall. The Governor’s mansion was situated on a full acre of property at the northern edge of the city of Indianapolis. An entire acre, Sandy had discovered, covered
43,650 square feet, and in this case, said acre was surrounded by a nine foot high brick wall on all four sides. At about three feet per walking step around the perimeter, it was safe to say that doing one circuit per hour every eight hours over the last week had been a lot of walking. Good for the thighs.

Not to mention the ass.

She varied her routine—sometimes clockwise, sometimes counter-clockwise. She always paused at the gate at the front of the drive though, stepped out and waved to whomever had the uniformed duty street-side and then continued on back to the house. This last trip was no different. Barney Burns, that old coot, whistled at her every time she went by.

Sandy was about fifteen steps from the front entrance—in the middle of pulling her long blond hair into a pony tail—when she heard the sounds, three in all. Or was it four?. First a loud pop, like a car backfiring. She stopped and listened. Heard another noise, then a short pause, before two more. The sound was distinct, especially if you knew what you were listening for—a ratcheting sound almost like the cycling action of a semi-auto. Then she thought,
no, exactly like the cycling action of a semi-auto
. Muffled pops after the ratcheting sound. It took her a few seconds to process, but when she did, Sandy took off full tilt toward the gate.

* * *

By the time she got there it was over. She tried to push the gate open, then remembered she had to input a code into the box, which she did, then waited as the gate swung open with a slowness that made her blood boil. She ran to the street and tried to process what she saw: A white panel van as it turned the corner a half block away. Couldn’t get the plate. No more than a glimpse of the vehicle itself. A man across the street on his back, his limbs jutted outward at difficult angles, his paisley robe askew, a leather slipper missing from his foot, a pool of blood that seemed to grow darker the closer she got, glassy eyes staring at nothing. Gone.

A banker, she thought? Where did that come from? She let it go.

A look to her left. The squad car. Windows down. Engine off. Seat empty. Reddish tint on the front windshield.

She ran to the car. Pulled her cell out along the way, and hit Virgil’s number from the speed dial. At the first ring she was almost there. At the second ring she looked inside the squad. At the third ring she had the phone pinched between her shoulder and her ear. At the fourth ring she had the door open and pulled the trooper out of his vehicle, her hands wrapped under his armpits. She lost the phone then as it clattered to the ground, but she thought she heard Virgil answer.

Sandy pulled hard until she got Barney clear of the vehicle and flat on his back. No pulse. Not breathing. She began CPR, counting with each chest compression, then pausing to breathe her air into his lungs. Her hair hung in a pony tail over the front of her shoulder and every time she bent forward to give Burns mouth-to-mouth the ends of her hair landed in the pool of blood next to Barney’s head, like a paint brush. Eventually she gave up on the counting and began to swear as she compressed his chest….“shit shit shit.” Five shits then a breath. Every time she compressed his chest a few drops of blood seeped out of the hole in the side of his head.

When that didn’t work, she crawled to the cruiser and grabbed the microphone and started transmitting. “Officer down. Shots fired. Officer needs assistance. Governor’s Mansion. Repeat…….Officer…….Down. Officer……needs……” Out of breath. She dropped the microphone and started back in on Barney. She tried to remember something personal about him. Wife? Kids? She didn’t know. Couldn’t think. The microphone she’d just used dangled from Barney’s squad car, hung out over the edge of the bottom of the door jamb, smeared with blood. Sandy watched it sway back and forth as she worked on Barney. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered as one of the saddest things she’d ever seen—Barney’s microphone hanging upside down from the door of his car.

He was gone—she knew it—but she kept at it anyway. Didn’t know what else to do. Heard the sirens. They sounded far away. The blood from her hair painted her chest as she worked on Barney.

CHAPTER THREE

I am not a believer in God. Except, well, that isn’t quite right. I am not an atheist, not by any stretch. I do believe in something bigger than life…something bigger than myself, I just can’t quite define it. As a child, I was raised catholic, but it didn’t stick, and by the time I’d turned eighteen—a full twenty-two years ago—I’d never gone back to church at all except for weddings and funerals.
And
, I am hitting the age where I have begun to notice there are fewer of the former and more of the latter. Well….life. Can’t live without it.

It seemed almost everyone wanted to believe that all they had to do was talk to God, ask for their prayers to be answered—which really, I think, amounts to nothing more than asking for
stuff
—and then God, in His wisdom, will either grant your request or not. The whole concept seems kind of selfish. A little too…..feel good. Like comfort food. The idea that a group of people get together once or twice a week and listen while someone stands on the stage and waves a book at them and tells them how to live their lives seems all very…..republican. Like it doesn’t matter if you wave the book or wave the flag, in the end it is all very much the same.
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.

So. I am a believer of something. What that something might be is just a little hard to pin down. But truth be told, believer or not, over the last eight minutes since I’d heard Sandy on the radio, I was talking to someone, asking…okay,
praying,
that she wasn’t hurt.

When I finally rolled up to the scene and saw her working on Barney Burns, saw her physically okay, I felt like my prayers had been answered.

And isn’t that, I thought, just a kick in the nut sack of belief.

* * *

I slid my truck to a stop at the south intersection, almost a half block away. It was as close as I could get. It looked like every cop car in the city had converged on the Governor’s mansion. I flashed my ID to the city cop and ran through. Sandy had moved over and sat down on the curb across the street from the trooper, her head down, her hands in her hair. I didn’t know who had the overnight duty so I didn’t know who the trooper was, but even as I ran, I could tell it wasn’t good. I detoured around the other cops already on scene and walked over to victim who lay at the end of the driveway. There was a pool of blood under the man’s head, and two entry wounds to his chest. Gone. I looked up and saw two news helicopters circling overhead, and when I crossed the street I saw the fallen Trooper was Barney Burns. That made something click in my chest with an instant heaviness. Barney had been my training officer when I joined the State Police.

I walked over to Sandy and squatted in front of her and saw the blood on her shirt and in her hair. “Jesus, Sandy, are you hurt? Are you hit?”

Sandy shook her head, then leaned into me, her arms around my neck. I felt her shake and sob into my chest. “I’m…I’m all right. Not hit.” She pulled back and rubbed her eyes, then started to try to wipe the blood out of her hair. “It’s Barney’s blood. It’s in my hair. I was trying…I was trying to do CPR.”