Read Eye of Vengeance Online

Authors: Jonathon King

Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Political, #Psychological, #Journalists, #Mystery fiction, #Murder - Investigation, #Florida, #Single fathers

Eye of Vengeance (5 page)

BOOK: Eye of Vengeance
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He refocused on the screen and called up the next mention of Ferris. But with continued delays of the hearing dates, each story got smaller and was placed deeper on inside pages until they were barely noticeable.

Nick knew that information about court hearings and calendar calls wouldn’t make the paper. He switched out of the stories and called up a website from his favorites list on the Internet: Florida Department of Corrections. From here, he could enter Ferris’s name and date of birth and find out where he had been held in the prison system. While he was waiting, his phone rang.

“Nick Mullins,” he answered.

“Hey, Nick. It’s Lori. I’ve got some court docket stuff on Ferris that I got online. The last entry was a request by defense to show cause for a change of sentence that looks like it had been delayed a couple of times.”

“Let me guess,” Nick said. “Rescheduled for today.”

“Two in the afternoon in Judge Grossman’s courtroom,” she said.

Nick could hear the tinge of disappointment in her voice that she hadn’t been ahead of him.

“Was that in the clips?” she asked.

“Nope. Hell, the guy was off our radar for almost a year,” Nick said, as much to himself as Lori. “Can you print that stuff and send it over?”

Nick knew that to get into the court’s docket database you had to have a subscription. Most attorneys did. Most large newspapers did. It was expensive. But Nick also knew you could still do it the old-fashioned way. The case notes are public record and anyone with an interest in Ferris could have walked into the court records office and checked out the file. From there you could get the date of his next appearance and set up your own appointment for a morning shooting.

Nick thanked Lori and went back to his DOC search and in five minutes had an electronic sheet on Ferris. His most recent home had been the South Florida Reception Center. Before that he’d been up in Tomoka Correctional, a maximum security prison near Daytona Beach.

Nick sat back and took another long sip of coffee. He was gathering string. Piecing stuff together. Speculating? Yes. But not out loud. Hell, even though he trusted his source at dispatch, confirmation that the dead inmate was Ferris was still in the wind. And at this point Nick didn’t even know if the shooter was targeting anyone specific. Maybe the sniper was just some whack job out to pop a bad guy, any bad guy, and knew the sally port was where prisoners were off-loaded. But the picture was still in Nick’s head, the roofline looking down into the fenced yard, the distance, the single blood spatter. No way, he decided. There were probably half a dozen prisoners down there. All this guy wanted was one shot. One preselected victim.

Nick called up an old file on his computer, a huge list of telephone numbers he’d collected over the years. He was the kind of reporter who recorded nearly every substantial contact number he’d gathered over the years. Each time he finished a story, he’d copy the numbers from his notebooks or cut and paste them from his computer notes and put them on the bottom of this list. There were hundreds. He knew he’d never use eighty percent of them ever again, but times like these kept him at the habit.

Using a search function for Ferris’s name on the computer, he found what he was looking for in seconds—Ferris’s father’s and brother’s names and their telephone numbers. The father had been in West Virginia three years ago and hadn’t been much help. But the brother lived here. The cops would have the same numbers and at some point they would call to inform next of kin. Nick knew if he got some family member on the line, he’d have a good chance of confirming it was Ferris who was now lying in the morgue. He picked up the phone and started to punch in the number for the brother, then stopped. David Ferris’s address, in a mobile home park only twenty minutes away in Wilton Manors, was typed in next to the number. Nick checked his watch: eleven o’clock. He was not pressed for time. No other stories were breaking. He’d made a dozen of these calls before. After the ones in which he was the first person to tell a relative that a son or wife or brother was dead, it always left a soured lump of guilt in his gut. He hung up the phone and logged off his computer.

“We’re still waiting on the identification of that shooting victim at the jail,” he said to the assistant city editor as he walked by. “I’m going out. But I’m on my cell.”

Nick made sure the editor had heard him and waved the phone and got a nod from the guy.

You tell somebody his brother is dead face to face if you can, Nick thought as he rode the elevator down.

Chapter 4

D
on’t hesitate, he told himself, sitting in his car outside David Ferris’s double-wide, watching the curtains in the window just to the right of the louvered front door. Nick had driven up Federal Highway, practicing the words he’d use when the brother of the dead man answered the door:
Excuse me, Mr. Ferris, I hate to bother you. I don’t know if you remember me, Nick Mullins from the
Daily News.
I did some stories about your brother a few years back?

Liar, Nick thought. You don’t hate to bother him when there’s a good chance that his brother has just been shot dead. You’re after a story. You need a comment.

Hello, Mr. Ferris. Nick Mullins from the
Daily News.
I’d like to verify if you’ve heard from the Sheriff’s Office concerning your brother.

The straight-out-in-their-face technique was at least honest.

Oh, and by the way, if you have heard, could you please spill your guts to me on how you feel about this news for two hundred thousand strangers to read in tomorrow’s editions?

When he’d arrived in the correct block, Nick pulled into the entrance of the Palms Mobile Park and checked the address on his pad. But after the first left turn, his memory served him. He eased down the narrow street past Flamingo Trail, Ponce de Leon Court and Anhinga Way. Speed bumps between each block jounced him, and palm trees, all with too-thin trunks and browned fronds, leaned precariously at each corner. Nick once noted that trees did not like to thrive in trailer parks. Maybe it was the cramped space that wouldn’t let the roots spread. Maybe the cheap owner associations refused the expense of fertilizers and care. Maybe, as with the natural instincts of animals, they somehow knew better than to grow in places that always seemed to be magnets for tornadoes and hurricanes.

Nick had turned onto Bougainvillea Drive, gone all the way to the end and parked in front of the dusty turquoise-and-white trailer. He then turned off the ignition and made the mistake of letting the quiet form around his ears. When he was a rookie reporter in Trenton, two weeks on the job, the Marine barracks in Beirut had been bombed. Every reporter on the metro desk was given a list of six names, families who had lost sons and husbands and daughters. All had to be interviewed within two days. He had done the same thing years later after 9/11. And he still hadn’t learned to avoid hesitating.

He finally picked up the pad from the passenger seat and opened the door. Before stepping out, he took off his sunglasses. You don’t ask a man if he knows his brother is dead and not have the balls to show your eyes. He put the pad in his back pocket.

There were no other cars in the drive. The carport, little more than a sheet of tin supported by poles and tacked to the roof of the trailer, was filled with a full-sized washer and dryer, rusted at their edges. A chaise lounge was missing two plastic straps. And water-stained cardboard boxes containing God knows what were stacked alongside the front of a sheet-metal utility shack. Nick kept checking the curtains, waiting for a movement that would tell him someone was inside who didn’t want to talk to him.

A woman opened the door just a crack before he could step up onto the metal grated stairway. Nick lowered his eyes, just for a moment, and then looked into the light-colored eyes that peered out.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m looking for David Ferris. Is he home, please?”

The eyes continued to look out and the crack widened, letting sunlight give blueness to their irises.

“My name is Nick Mullins, ma’am, I’m a reporter for the
Daily News.

“I know who you are,” the woman said. Her voice was neither accusatory nor contemptuous. Nick took it as a good sign.

“Have I met you before, ma’am?” Nick said.

“You interviewed my husband about four years ago, right here on these steps,” she said, opening the door wider, her hand high on the edge of the jamb. The sun glinted off thin strands of blond hair that dangled in front of her face like a spider’s web catching light. She was a small, thin woman dressed in a flower-patterned smock and loose matching pants, the kind of outfit a nurse would wear.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry,” Nick said. “I, uh, I don’t recall your name.”

She just nodded, offering nothing.

“David isn’t in, then?”

“He just called, Mr. Mullins. They got ahold of him on his cell phone at work. He’s on his way home.”

Nick looked down again, as though he understood.

“He’s still at the Motorola plant, then?” he said, recalling the reporting he’d done on the earlier Ferris stories.

“We’re both still working, Mr. Mullins, trying to pay off the lawyer’s bills,” she said, only now letting an edge into her voice.

Nick shifted his weight. He was still standing below her, looking up now into her face. He thought he’d remembered her being in her mid-twenties on the documents he’d dug up on the Ferris family. But the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and the pull of skin from her cheekbones did not fit that age. He felt somehow responsible, but could not leave it alone.

“Was the phone call about Steven?” he finally asked and she simply nodded in the positive and looked off into the distance behind him. Again Nick let silence surround them, second-guessing whether she was relieved or saddened. He finally took a step back.

“May I wait for David to get here?” he said.

She fixed her dry blue eyes on his. “He doesn’t want to talk with you, Mr. Mullins. Enough has been said,” she said. “I know that people can’t understand it, why he stood up for his brother after what he did to those children. I don’t know that I even understand it.”

She looked down for the first time, a crack in her show of defiance.

“But David still loved his brother, sir. And now we have a funeral to plan.” Nick nodded his head again, this time in deference, and continued stepping backward.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ferris,” he said and then closed his lips around the air that had started behind his teeth before he could say,
Thank you.

By the time he opened his car door, she was gone. He climbed in and the spiral wire of his notebook caught the fabric of the seat. He had not taken it from his back pocket.

Chapter 5

O
n the way back to his desk Nick made his obligatory stop at the assistant city editor’s pod.

“I have an I.D. confirmation on the dead guy at the jail,” he said.

The editor rolled back his chair while his fingers were still on his keyboard, reluctant to leave unfinished a sentence for a budget line item that would have to be presented in yet another news meeting at noon.

“OK, great, Nick. Anybody we know?” he said, finally bringing his head and a grin around with the final word.

“Yeah. It’s a guy they put away a few years ago on a double homicide and rape of two elementary school sisters.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah,” Nick said, knowing he’d finally gotten the guy’s attention. “He was coming back into court for a hearing on a change of sentencing and it looks like somebody from the outside popped him.”

The editor’s name was John Rhodes. He’d only been at the
Daily News
for a year and had been told early that Mullins had an attitude, most of it coming after a car wreck that involved his family some time ago. He was told to walk lightly with him. But he’d also learned quickly that when Mullins brought something to the editors’ desk, the guy would have nailed it down.

“No shit,” he repeated and looked around to see if anyone else was within earshot and sharing the news of the minute. “How long ago did this guy do the … uh, murder the kids?”

“Four years,” Nick said. “Only the sentencing was in litigation.”

“So people are gonna remember, right?”

“Yeah, John. People will remember.”

“OK, yeah, sure. Whadda you think, Nick. Page one?”

“That’s your call, man. I got some more people to talk to,” Nick said and then nodded his head toward Deirdre’s office. “Tell her it’s Steven Ferris. I already got the clips from the library.”

Rhodes got up as Nick started to walk away. “Hey, does anyone else have this?” he said.

Nick turned around but didn’t say anything.

“I mean, you know, do we have an exclusive here?” Rhodes said.

“They’re just sources, John. I don’t know who else they talk to,” Nick said and went on to his desk. He wanted to ask what the hell difference it made if some other news outlet knew Ferris’s was the body now being shipped to the morgue. He wanted to ask when “exclusive” had become the value of a story. But he’d said those things before. Maybe he was learning to keep his big mouth shut.

Morgue, Nick thought when he sat down and logged into his computer. While the machine booted up, he called the medical examiner’s office, bypassing the switchboard by using an inside extension to one of the M.E.’s assistants.

“McGregor,” the deep baritone announced after eight rings.

“Hey, Mac. Nick Mullins. Sorry if I pulled you away from something disgusting and violated.”

“Nick? Nick?” said McGregor, making his voice sound like he was perplexed. “Nick, ahhhh. Sorry, I’m having a hard time coming up with the last name. Do I know you?”

Nick smiled into the phone.

“OK, Mac. So you must be working on this dead inmate with the head wound, right?”

“Did I say that, Mr. Nick? I’m not sure I said that. You know this call may be monitored for quality assurance purposes.”

“Jesus, Mac. Did they come down on you guys again for leaking stuff to the press?”

“Come down on us? Christ, Nicky, we even had to do a goddamn hour-long seminar with the county attorney on right to privacy and HIPPA laws and then sign a fucking waiver sheet saying we attended and understood ‘all materials presented,’ ” McGregor said, his legendary sarcasm back in his voice. “I can see ’em waving that damn thing in court and pointing at us: ‘We told them, they didn’t listen, sue them, not the state.’ ”

“OK, well, I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble, Mac,” Nick said and then waited for what he knew would come.

“Up their arse,” the baritone growled. “It’s a free country. I’ll say what I want, when I want. What do they think they are? British occupiers?”

Nick always listened to McGregor’s Scottish rants. The guy was three generations removed from Edinburgh, but wore it like an honor.

“Yeah, Nicky. We got your white male, six feet, two-twenty if he’s an ounce, dressed in tailored prison orange and a single bullet just missed his bloody ear hole by an inch.”

“Who’s doing the autopsy?” Nick said.

“We’re a bit in the weeds over here, lad. So the old man himself is going to take this one, but he won’t get to it till late tonight. Why don’t you come on over about midnight? Bring a snack. You two can swap stories like old times, eh?”

“Thanks, Mac. I might take you up on that,” Nick said.

“No thanks needed from you, Nicky. I haven’t said a word.” Nick heard the chuckle in the voice before the connection clicked off.

So the old man, Broward M.E. Dr. Nasir Petish himself, would be doing the autopsy in one of his peculiar “dead-of-the-night” sessions, as the seventy-three-year-old pathologist called them. Nick thought of the last such session he’d attended, snuffed the memory out of his nose and put off making any plans for his own evening. Now he had a story to write. He still had calls to make to the Department of Corrections and at least get their “No comment.” He’d get the prosecutor who had won Ferris’s conviction. He’d get a line on a couple of jurors in the murder trial from the court reporter who covered it four years ago. And he’d have to try to find the mother of the little girls, though he knew it would be difficult tracking someone who had been essentially homeless. He’d start with the prosecutor, who might know a way to contact her. He picked up the phone. The always-present deadline was creeping past midday.

BOOK: Eye of Vengeance
11.36Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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