Shattered Lives (7 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Chicago, Illinois

             
He hid in plain sight because no one knew about him, so no one looked for him.  But in order to remain hidden, he’d have to tie up three loose ends.  Two would be tricky, but not impossible, while the other one would be fairly easy. 

The planning had begun the morning of the raids when he had found out that two of the loose ends, Bosch and Rawson, had been arrested.  The spineless Thatcher Davis had stabbed his own throat, leaving him out of the equation, but it still left two powerful men who could potentially ruin everything for him.  Two powerful and dangerous men, and one not as much powerful as he was dangerous. Dangerous because he was a cop on the second floor of the hospital. 

No one as of yet had claimed responsibility for the nightstick that had been shoved up the cop’s ass or responsibility for the cop’s fried dick due to the tazer clamps that had been attached to it.  He had his suspicions, but there was no confirmation because no one volunteered information. 

However, it was fortunate that somebody had done this because the cop was close by and incapacitated and not going anywhere for a while. 

The man knew the cop was headed to the morgue.

He’d have to be careful.  He was almost home free.  No suspicions so far. 

He had to keep it that way in order for him to be able to live his life as he pleased.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Chicago, Illinois

             
No one had ever accused him of being patient.  Tim had given him a hug before he left to visit Johnny, and Stephen and Mike had told him they’d be just outside the door.

Before they had left the room, Mike turned around, came back, put his hand on Brett’s good shoulder and said, “It’s g-g-gonna b-be al-r-right, B-Brett.”

Brett couldn’t even respond, not even with a nod, certainly not a smile.  He licked his lips and stared at the door. It was no more than a minute or two later when Monique ushered Thomas and Victoria into Brett’s room, and at first, the three of them stood just inside the doorway.  Brett sat on the edge of his bed, but sat up straighter.  Monique began to tear up, then turned and left the room.

              “Brett?” Thomas asked.

              “Mom?  Dad?”

              His parents rushed forward, and Brett got off of the bed and hugged them fiercely, refusing to let go with his good arm and even though his father put too much pressure on his bad shoulder, Brett didn’t care.  And there were tears.

              Victoria took Brett’s face in both hands and looked at him closely, scrutinizing him as only a mother would.  Then she kissed his forehead and his cheek and embraced him again.

              Brett buried his face into his mother’s chest. 

              Thomas stood behind them with one arm wrapped around his stomach while the other hand was pressed against his forehead as he wept silently.  Not a particularly religious man, he thanked God his son was alive.

              “Dad, it’s okay,” Brett said quietly.

              “Brett, I’m so sorry . . . so sorry,” was all Thomas could answer over and over as he stepped forward and embraced his son, burying his face in his son’s hair, holding him gently.

              After his parents regained composure, they stepped back and took stock of their son.  Both noticed how much smaller he was, skinnier than before he was taken, and suspected that their younger son, Bobby might be as big and the same height as Brett.  Even though Brett was only twelve years old when he was taken, he had had a football player’s set of shoulders, and his chest, leg and arm muscles were defined.  He had had a chiseled look with a six pack. 

The definition was now missing.  His arms were skinny, and instead of a six pack, his parents felt his ribs through his polo shirt.  His face was thin and gaunt, hollow and sunken.  His eyes held a haunted look. 

              Brett looked past his parents towards the door and asked, “Where’s Bobby?” after wiping his eyes with his good hand.

              “He’s with Grandma Dominico,” Thomas answered.  “You’ll see him after we get home.”

              Brett recalled that neither Tim’s nor Stephen’s sisters had come with their parents, and Mike’s brother nor sister hadn’t come with his parents.

              “I . . . we . . . didn’t think we’d ever see you again,” Thomas said with a sob, shaking his head.  “I can’t tell you how happy I am right now.”

              And that started everyone’s tears again.

              “Me too, Dad.  I didn’t know if I’d ever get out of there,” Brett said quietly. “There were so many guys taken away.  We never saw them again.”

              “I can’t imagine what you went through.”  Thomas paused and then added, “Are you okay?  I mean . . . I know you were shot, but are you okay?”

              Brett nodded and said, “I’m okay, Dad.”

              “How did you get shot?” Victoria asked as she dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex from the box on the table by the bed. “They never told us.”

              Brett told them things about the siege that CNN didn’t and couldn’t report, because they weren’t in the building as he and the other boys were.  He told them about the two men who had come through the door holding Pete Kelliher hostage and about the plan that wasn’t executed as it should have been.

“I screwed up,” Brett said apologetically.

              “You shouldn’t even have had a gun,” Victoria answered. She turned to Thomas and said, “I think we should talk to a lawyer about negligence.”

              “It was my fault, Mom,” Brett said.  “I took the gun and wouldn’t give it back.  Skip and I had a plan, and I didn’t listen to him.  It was my fault.”

              “You’re a boy, Brett,” his mother answered patiently. “They were the adults, and they almost got you killed.”

              “
I
screwed up, and I
didn’t
get killed,” Brett said a bit more forcefully than he should have. Stephen and Mike appeared in the doorway.  “We’re not suing
any
body, except maybe my fuckin’ Uncle Tony!”

              “Don’t talk about your uncle like that!” Victoria said.  “He spent his weekends looking for you!”

              “Looking for me? 
Really?
” He laughed bitterly. “Well he found me almost every weekend.”

              “Don’t!”

              Stephen and Mike stepped fully into the room and stood next to Brett, Stephen on his left and Mike on his right.

“Don’t
what
? Didn’t they tell you what he
did
to me?”

“There has to be a mistake,” Victoria answered quietly. “A misunderstanding.”

“
Really? A
misunder
standing
?”

“Victoria, stop please,” Thomas said quietly, placing a hand on her arm.

“No mistakin’ his dick up my ass or in my mouth . . . not much to misunderstand about that!”

“Stop it!”

“Why? You don’t believe me do you?”

“Brett, we do believe you,” Thomas answered.

“She doesn’t,” Brett said, almost spitting it out, pointing at her.

“I think you’re mistaken, that’s all,” Victoria answered.

“
Mistaken
?  He’s the reason I was taken.  He knew where I was all along,” Brett said, stepping up to his mother.

“Don’t talk to me like that!”

“I’ll talk to you any way I want!  You didn’t think I was alive anyway!  Good ol’ Uncle Tony told me that!  He said you turned my bedroom into a guest room and packed all my stuff away!”  He saw the shock register on his mother’s face. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said bitterly. “You didn’t even know I was alive, and the whole time, that fucking pervert-“

He didn’t get to finish.  Before Stephen or Mike could react, Victoria reached out and slapped Brett hard across the face, snapping his head back.

Three things happened.  Thomas stood in front of Victoria and roughly grabbed her by the upper arms.

Stephen caught Brett who was rocked backwards by the blow and then stood in front of him so as to shield him, while Mike stood in front of both Stephen and Brett and pointed a finger at her and in a clear voice without any stutter at all, yelled, “Don’t you ever fucking touch him again!”

Thomas turned around without letting go of Victoria and stared at the three boys. 

Mike stood statue stiff, eyes blazing, face contorted in a snarl.

“Brett, she didn’t mean that,” Thomas said, pleading.

Ignoring his father, Brett placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder and said, “No big deal, Mike.  You and I’ve been hit harder than that, right?”

He laughed when he said it, but there was no laughter in his voice or eyes.

“I’m done here,” he said, pulling Mike towards the door.

“Brett, please,” Victoria said. “I didn’t mean to.” She added with a sob, “I’m sorry.”

Stephen backed out of the room after Brett and Mike left and said, “Don’t you ever hit him again.  Not ever!”

Then he turned around and left.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Waukesha, Wisconsin

The hotel room seemed cramped.  He was bored.  A half-day cooped up waiting for a knock on the door by the police with pointed guns and an arrest warrant in hand will do that. CNN covered the story over and over with no additional information.  His cell hadn’t gone off since the receptionist had called, and it appeared no one was looking for him. 

              Yet he was anxious and worried, and his sugar high fueled by Peanut M&Ms and Diet Dew was long gone. 

              He paced the room during commercials, and from time to time, switched from the national networks to local Milwaukee channels.  The local stations no longer covered the story, instead broadcasting regularly scheduled programs.

              He went back to the window, stood to the side, and moved the curtain with his index finger and peered out.  The parking lot was empty.

              He pulled out his cell and speed-dialed Bonnie, who answered after two rings.

              “Hey, Bonnie, I’m not feeling well, so I won’t be in.  Thanks for your phone call though.”

              “Oh, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.  Then breathlessly she asked, “Isn’t it great news about Stephen and Michael and those other boys?  It’s a miracle none of them were killed.”

              He took a deep breath and said, “Yes, it’s certainly fortunate for them.”

              “We’ve been glued to CNN.  It seems unbelievable that something like that could happen.”

              “Yes, unbelievable.” Then adding a bit of puzzlement to his voice asked, “Has there been any news on the people arrested or the ones the FBI are looking for?”

              “No.  The only thing CNN is saying is that warrants have been issued, and a number of arrests have been made.  Fred has a friend in the police department who said that almost all of the arrests have been made in our area.”

              “Most of the arrests?  There still might be more?”

              “Well, all he said was that most of the arrests have been made.  I don’t know if there will be any more.”

              “Well listen, I think I’m going back to bed.  I’ll try to be in tomorrow, okay?”

              “Don’t rush it if you’re feeling crummy.  You’ll get the rest of us sick.”

              “Okay, Bonnie.  Thanks.”

              He hung up and stood in the middle of the room thinking.  If as she said
most
of the arrests were made, maybe they weren’t looking for him any longer.  The only way to be sure would be to drive by his house to see if anyone was there.  Maybe they’d stake out his house and wait, so he’d have to be careful.

              He’d have to think about that.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Indianapolis, Indiana

             
Luke Pressman sat in his navy blue ’09 Charger that was parked in the driveway of his modest two bedroom one story ranch.  The motor purred quietly like a tiger ready to pounce on its prey.  He gripped the wheel with both hands. 

Pressman replayed the ass-kicking he had received, first from his unit chief, then his precinct captain, and finally by the chief, who led him into a room to be hammered by IAB, who first interrogated him, and then chewed his ass just before he was placed on administrative leave by his precinct captain and the chief, who had tag-teamed him in yet another ass chewing.

              He had made the grand, grave and God-awful mistake of contacting his partner, Detective Anthony Dominico to ask him about the two US Marshalls who were waiting for him with an arrest warrant.  Then, he had to defend himself against the accusation by IAB that he was one of the perverts who had molested, abducted, and perhaps murdered boys across the country.  He allowed his personal cell phone to be examined and downloaded in search of any of the perverts on the FBI and US Marshall’s list.  Only when it came back clean did he get it back.  He also allowed his laptop and his personal e-mail account to be searched by the cyber-crime guys in the unit and then he consented to sit for a lie detector that he had passed, which was the only reason he wasn’t booked as an accessory and behind bars.

              He turned off the engine, took his hands off the wheel and lowered them to his lap momentarily, then he grabbed a handful of his sandy-blond and curly hair with both hands and sighed audibly, wondering how he could have been duped for so long by his partner- a partner he obviously hadn’t known in the three years he had worked side by side with him. 
How was that possible?

             
He slammed the steering wheel with both hands, once, twice, and then three times, before he pulled the keys from the ignition.  He was angry with himself, but also humiliated. 
How could I have been so stupid?
He opened the door and unfolded his slender, six foot body out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Pressman leaned against the front fender. 
How was it possible that Dominico duped him and everyone else for so long?

He was angry, baffled and stunned. No answers came to him, and for a detective that wasn’t acceptable.  He ran his hands through his hair and then folded his arms, still leaning against the front fender. 

He had been on the force for six years, the last three partnered with Dominico working narcotics.  In those three years, there was nothing that Pressman had noticed that would give any indication, any hint, of the hidden life Dominico had lived.  Yes, Dominico was controlling and bossy, but Luke had passed that off as the fact that Dominico had been on the force longer and had more experience than he had.  He knew that on teams, one partner was generally in charge, so that had never bothered him.  He had noticed intolerance in Dominico for anyone other than Caucasian or male, but Pressman passed that off as a personality quirk.  The two of them had gotten along as most partners do, but they weren’t close, nor were they confidants.  Even ordinary friendliness like catching a movie or grabbing a beer and a game of pool had always been rebuffed by Dominico. 

Pressman had grown up on a farm in western Indiana, two miles out of Attica, which was a black dot on the Indiana map that highway 41 ran through, giving it at least one four-way stoplight.  It was a small, conservative and very Republican community made up of other farmers, some of whom had given up the farm to live in the small city, but who had never given up their farmer mentality.  There was an earthy stubbornness about them.  A little awkward.  A little backward.  Simple.  Perhaps unsophisticated, but not dumb.  And Pressman was certainly one of them.

He walked up to his front door, inserted the key and entered his small foyer, shutting the door behind him.

Luke sensed that he wasn’t alone.  It was more than a feeling and more than the tell-tale smell of cologne, faint, but there.  And recognizable. He reached into his right front pocket where his cell was. 

While on stake out, he would practice dialing first with his right hand, then his left.  He could text with very few mistakes.  Besides crossword puzzles and sports magazines, cheap, stale sandwiches and watered down crappy coffee, what else was there to do?  So he had sat, waited and watched, and during that time, had practiced texting and dialing his cell.

With his left hand he placed his badge on the little table, but kept his gun under his arm in his holster.  With his right hand slightly in his front pocket, he dialed 9-1-1 and then took his hand out of the pocket, while keeping the phone in it.

A faint voice spoke, “9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

Luke ignored it but kept the phone on, knowing that 9-1-1 always recorded their conversations and traced the location of the caller.

He moved to the living room and slouched down into his recliner and said loudly, “So, you didn’t go into work today.  How come?”

Luke heard movement from the back of the house where the bedrooms were.  Dominico appeared holding a heavy revolver with a metal suppresser pointed in Pressman’s general direction.

“Well, well, well.  Detective Anthony Dominico!  Welcome to Detective Luke Pressman’s home.  I think this is the first time in three years you’ve been here other than to pick me up.”

“Shut the fuck up, Hayseed!”

“That’s rude, considering you’ve broken into my home, and you’re pointing a gun at me, with a suppresser no less.  Are the news reports true?  Are you really a pervert responsible for kidnapping, raping and murdering young boys?”

Dominico smiled coldly and lowered the gun just a hair while he sat down on the couch opposite him.

“So it is true.  You’re responsible for raping and executing eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen-year old boys.  How sick are you, Dominico?”

“You know absolutely nothing, and you call yourself a detective.”

Pressman nodded and said, “Yeah, you had us fooled.”  He paused, looked at the gun that was again pointed directly at him and said, “But where are you going to go?  They’re hunting you down, Man!”

“Got it covered, Asshole.  They won’t find me because as far as anyone knows, Anthony Dominico is dead . . . he’s gone . . . he’s disappeared and off the grid.”

“Oh I see.  So, who are you now?” Pressman had to keep up a running commentary to cover the 9-1-1 operator from trying to speak. “A fake, made up identity?”

“Something like that,” Dominico answered with a laugh.

“I suppose the name is going to match the strawberry blond hair you have now.  Hell, you even dyed your eyebrows.  You have to admit though, you look sort of gay, but then again, you must be if you’re raping young boys, right?”

Dominico snarled and put a bullet into Pressman’s left knee.  Luke leaned forward and grabbed it.  The pain was intense, and blood ran freely down his leg and onto his beige carpet.

“Jesus!  What the fuck, Dominico . . . why?”

In the distance, there were sirens.

“Why?” Dominico repeated.  “Why? Because I think the world would be better off without a hick like you.  I have a list of assholes just like you that need to be erased.  You’re the first one on that list.”

Pressman had to keep him talking until the cops arrived, but the pain was overwhelming.

“Are you that fucked up that-“

The gun spit again, this time in his right knee cap.

“Jesus!” Pressman yelled. “Fuck!”

“Oo . . . taking the Lord’s name in vain,” Dominico said mocking him.

Knowing Dominico was running out of non-lethal body parts to shoot, Pressman asked through clenched teeth, “A list?  Who else is on that list?”

Dominico laughed coldly and seemed to be picturing the faces that went along with the names.

“We made a list of those we need to dispose of.  Some are personal just to each of us.  Some are common to each of us . . . those who ruined our lives.”

Pressman stared at him, and as the sirens got closer, there were several things that went through his mind.

The first was that he was never going to get married or have children.  He had wanted one boy and one girl and a wife to come home to each night.  He knew that facing Dominico with a gun, that wasn’t going to happen.  The second thing that went through his mind was the question of who was going to find him.  He didn’t know, but he also didn’t want anyone to mess up his house.  He knew that thought was silly because he’d be dead.   But it was a worry nonetheless. 

The last thing that went through his head was a speeding hollow-point bullet that rocketed out of the barrel of the gun held in Dominico’s hand. 

After that, there were no more thoughts whatsoever.  Just . . . nothing.