Head Shot (A Thriller): A Crime and Suspense Thriller (20 page)

Seventy-Two

Ray Mitchell's cell phone rang.

"Mitchell."

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"This is Detective Mitchell is anyone there?" he asked into the silence.

"I, I, your voice sounds different,” a woman responded.

"Who is this?"

"Paula, at dispatch, Rodgers Bay Police Department."

"Paula, have we spoken before?"

"Well, I thought we did just a few minutes ago,” she said, her voice tentative.

Ray felt his blood start to boil

Fucking Soergel.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, sometimes in our department, detectives have to share the same phone, budget cutbacks, you know, and things get confused."

"Oh," said Paula, not sounding entirely convinced.

"Why don't you repeat the conversation you had with the other detective."

She relayed the information to Ray and he nearly exploded.

"And, the reason I called again was to say that I forgot to tell you the name of Sarah Ross' boat.  It's called
Fish Food
."

"What's the fastest way to the marina from here, Paula?" he said, trying to keep his voice calm as he got into his car.

Seventy-Three

Benjamin Soergel had always been an intellectual snob.  He scoffed at the trivial pursuits common men rejoiced in, and came to prefer a book by Francis Bacon, or the striking beauty of a Mozart score.  And although he kept his body rock hard through weight training and the required karate self-defense programs, he had never been one for the outdoors.

Because of this, he had never been on a boat smaller than a yacht, and he had no idea just how hard it was to sneak on board without rocking the vessel.

With his gun drawn, he stepped from the pier onto the boat's rear deck, and it moved.  Not a great deal, but it moved nonetheless.  Suddenly, Benjamin Soergel wondered just how important nabbing Ferkovich by himself really was.

Couldn’t he be assured of becoming Chief of Police, for just merely
aiding
in the apprehension of the serial killer?

He knew Nancy would be arriving shortly, and to be photographed with the suspect in hand was just the kind of publicity that came about once in a lifetime.  In terms of high profile cases, this one would be the granddaddy of them all.

Soergel double checked to make sure the safety was off of his Glock 10mm.

Slowly, he made his way forward.  There was a large, rectangular lid, covered in vinyl, that he attempted to lift.  It came loose, and he found himself looking down into the engine compartment as the smell of gasoline rose quickly to his nostrils.

Quietly, he replaced the lid and moved farther in, toward the cabin below decks.

His eyes looked over the captain's chair, with its gleaming chrome throttle and teak-covered instrumental panel.  Not bad, he thought to himself, not bad at all.

He now stood looking at a plastic door, held together by a strip of snaps running down the middle.  There was just no way to open this without making even more noise, and Soergel turned to look at the street that ran next to the marina, secretly hoping Nancy would arrive in case things went badly.  Not that she would be of much help, but it would be comforting to know that someone was so close.

Soergel felt a trickle of sweat slowly working its way down his forehead.

He brushed it aside with his hand.  Suddenly, his palms were clammy, and his mouth tasted metallic. 

With a sense of complete detachment, he watched as his left hand reached up and unsnapped the top button.  He winced at how loud the sound it made was, but there was still no movement inside the cabin.

His hand slid down and popped the next snap.

Now, he could get a glimpse inside.  Soergel squinted his eyes and could just make out the shape of a bench running along the right-hand side of the room, and a small table perched in front of it.

From what he could see, it looked immaculate, as if no one had been there in quite some time.

He cursed the fact that he didn't have a flashlight.  It had been some years since he worked the streets, but his overinflated ego would never let him admit that he was a little out of practice.

The third and fourth buttons came off without a hitch, and he quickly pushed his way through the plastic, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior.

He never saw it coming.

Standing just inside the door, Joe Ferkovich brought the short wooden club, used to smack salmon on the head to stun them, down on Lieutenant Benjamin Soergel's head.  The sound like a baseball bat hitting a watermelon filled the small room, and the cop staggered, tried to turn around, but Ferkovich unleashed a vicious blow to Soergel's temple, dropping him to the floor.  The Glock fell from his hand and bounced harmlessly on the marine carpet.

Seventy-Four

Mike awoke with a taste in his mouth that nearly made him gag.  He reached for the Dixie cup of water on the table next to his hospital bed and winced in pain as various parts of his body screamed out in protest.

But he got the water and drank it, and felt a little better for the effort.

He still couldn’t believe what had happened.  The chase, the fight, getting shot, and now being confined to a hospital bed.

Mike had been in and out of consciousness so many times that he wasn’t sure what had been dreams and what had been reality, but he knew that he was out of any immediate danger.  Still, that didn’t bring him much comfort.

It just was still all too much to believe.

A low IQ northwoods hick who couldn’t distinguish between an actor on a television show and a real honest-to-goodness killer?  Mike wanted to laugh but he knew it would hurt too much.

He idly wondered if the real killer would ever hear about this case of mistaken identity and get a kick out of it.

Mike ground his jaw.

He wasn’t sure who he wanted to punch more, Hank, or the actual killer.

Well, he thought, maybe one day he’d be lucky enough to run into either one of them.

If he ever did, he would gladly deliver payback.

And then some.

Seventy-Five

The Channel 6 news van rolled to a stop a block from the Rodgers Bay Marina.

Nancy Bishop sat in silence, looking for any sign of activity along the pier, among the boats, any sign that Lieutenant Soergel had been there and made the arrest of Joseph P. Ferkovich.

She was met with silence.

Nancy Bishop was uncertain as to how to proceed.  She knew Ben would get to the marina before she did, so he had to be here, she reasoned.

What if something went wrong?

Ben was a tough man, she told herself.  He could handle himself in any situation. 

At the same time, she was hesitant to rush onto the boat before the other cops arrived.  She had made a career out of pushing the limits of how close her reporting came to interfering with the cops performing their duties, but this would go beyond anything she'd done before.  This could be called tampering with evidence, violating a crime scene, etcetera. 

But this was just too good to pass up.  She would be the only reporter to cover the capture of Ferkovich, and it would be the crowning achievement in an already impressive career.  But the truth was, now she was worried about Ben.  Where was he?  Where was his car?

There was only one way to find out.

"Let's go," she said.

The cameraman went around to the back of the van and retrieved his camera, stuck an extra light on the slot provided for the attachment on top of the camera's main housing, then hoisted the unit onto his shoulder.

They crossed the street and tentatively stepped onto the east end of the horseshoe shaped pier.

"We’re looking for
Teacher's Pet,
" Nancy said.  She had grabbed the flashlight from the van's glove compartment, and was now checking the names of the boats.

They made their way down the first dock and then circled the horseshoe before they found it.

Nancy Bishop's flashlight shone on the stern of the boat, the words
Teacher's Pet,
clear in the arc of light. 

"Do you really think this is a good idea, Nancy?" Crumbaker asked, looking around the deserted marina.

She didn't respond, and slowly brought the flashlight up, over the stern, onto the rear deck.  Transfixed, the two watched as the light revealed carpeting, vinyl upholstery and the small captain's chair.  Next to the main console, a plastic door with snaps hung askew.  As Nancy lowered her flashlight, she froze.

Protruding through the bottom of the plastic were the soles of a man's shoes.

They were shoes she recognized.

"Shit," whispered Crumbaker from behind her, and then he turned his camera on, the bright lights illuminating the entire interior of the boat.

Nancy Bishop leaped aboard the
Teacher's Pet
and she tore the plastic apart, not caring whether or not the killer was still aboard.

"Ben!" she cried, dropping her flashlight and kneeling next to the dead man.

The cameraman stood behind her, capturing the scene on film. 

A distant siren reached their ears and they turned as one toward the street as Ray Mitchell pulled up.

Nancy Bishop sank to her knees as the sense of loss hit her with surprising force.  She watched as Ray Mitchell got out of his car and she  idly wondered how much trouble she’d gotten herself into this time.

Seventy-Six

As the morning sun rose steadily in the sky, the four occupants of the dark blue Chevy Suburban fell silent as they passed the area of Highway 2 that had been the site of so much activity the night before.

In the backseat, Mike Sharpe saw his father looking at him in the rearview mirror.  Mike idly ran his fingers over his bandages.  His head was still heavily wrapped, his nose was fortified by a strip of clear plastic that served to hold the mangled cartilage in place while it healed, and there were dark circles under his eyes.  Beneath his shirt, he wore a thick wrap designed to protect his ribs.

Mike Sharpe caught his father's look.

"Dad, keep your eyes on the road,” he said.  Then, after a second, he added, “there isn’t a big Bronco behind us is there?”

"Oh, Michael, that's not funny," his mother said.

"Laughter's the best medicine, Mom," Mike said.

"That's right," his Dad said.  "Lighten up, Rosie."

"Laurie, what are we going to do with these two?" Rose asked, turning in her seat to look at her son's girlfriend.

"I don't think there's a whole lot we can do, at this point, Mrs. Sharpe," Laurie answered.

"Yeah, don't mess with perfection," Ron said, and received a punch on the arm from his wife in response.

In stark contrast to the light mood in the Suburban, it had been a different reception when and Ron and Rose Sharpe arrived at the hospital the night before. When they arrived there, Rose was in tears and Ron, admittedly, was in shock that his son had been shot. 

But after talking to the doctor as well as Chief Lenzen, they felt better.  And knowing that as long as Mike stayed off his feet for a few days, things should be back to normal in no time.

So first thing in the morning, Mike had been released by the doctor, and after a quick stop at the hospital's pharmacy to pick up Mike's medications, the Sharpe clan with Laurie in tow, all piled into the gas-guzzling Suburban and set course for Lost Lake Lodge.

The big truck ate up the miles and fifteen minutes later, they pulled down a narrow dirt road, passed several driveways, and then Mike saw the familiar wooden post railing fence that marked the gate to Lost Lake Lodge.

Beyond the cabin, he saw the sun reflecting off the lake, and the forest of green that surrounded the water instantly calmed him.

Damn the circumstances, he thought, it's good to be back.

Laurie helped him out of the Suburban, and while Ron and Rose unloaded their luggage from the truck, Mike took Laurie's arm and gave her a tour of the cabin and the property on which it sat.

Mike took her through the cabin, pointing out the original section of the cabin, the hand-hewn logs and natural stone fireplace.

He purposely finished the tour on the verandah, where he pointed out the "R & R, 1981" stone his father had placed there, an example of the kind of romanticism the beauty of the place brought out in its visitors.

Seeing the stone proclaiming his parents' love for each other, he recalled the hasty search through his room at the hospital for the diamond ring.  It had still been in the pocket of his pants.  The search had made him dizzy, but it was worth it, and as far as he could tell Laurie had no clue as to the ring's existence.

And now, on the verandah, he hoped that she was feeling the effects of Lost Lake Lodge, he was in a sense setting the stage for when he would propose to her.

She turned to face him, and put her arms around his waist, careful not to brush his ribs.

"It's beautiful, Mike.  It's a beautiful place."

"Do you really like it?"

"I love it."

"I do, too."

Just then, Rose came through the patio door carrying a large tray with bagels, fresh fruit, and a pot of coffee.

"Sit, sit, you two."

She poured a cup of coffee for Laurie and a small one for Mike, per his doctor's orders.

"Okay, now, tell me how you two met.  Spare no detail."