Head Shot (A Thriller): A Crime and Suspense Thriller (21 page)

Seventy-Seven

Ray Mitchell's stomach felt like a bubbling volcano about to blow.  It had been a long night.  He'd been on the phone until four in the morning with everyone from Chief Trimble who was shocked by news of Soergel's death and betrayal, the FBI, agents tracking down leads from
Nation’s Most Wanted
, the local police, Chief Lenzen, and of course, Michelle.

When he heard his wife's voice this morning, he badly wanted to be home with her, listening to his daughter's chirps and giggles.

But duty called, and that meant hitting the Hardee's next to the hotel and drinking three large coffees to jump start the brain cells.  It was a breakfast that made his stomach want to abandon ship, but Ray was mentally and physically exhausted from the night's mayhem.

Worst of all, though, no one had any idea where Ferkovich was.

The night had been a hellish one.  It was pure chaos, the reporters, all of the cops and the phone calls.

Ray still couldn't believe Soergel was dead.  For all the bullshit Soergel had caused him, Ray was angered by his death.  He was a cop, damn it.

That Bishop woman had been a nut case, too.  The paramedics had given her drugs to calm her down, then after one ambulance had taken Soergel away, they called another one for her.  It had been the second shock of the evening for Ray.

Soergel had been the department leak.  In retrospect, it made perfect sense.  By leaking vital information to the press, Soergel had been able to manipulate the political climate of every big police investigation in which he was involved.  Even better, he knew what was going to happen before it happened, making it easy for him to put himself in the best position possible.  Politically, it was a great little scam.

When Ray got on the phone with Chief Trimble, he'd had to hold the phone away from his ear, he'd never heard old man curse with such vigor and creativity.  Ray guessed the sense of betrayal was more than Trimble could take.

Ray went up to the counter, got another coffee, and a small order of hash rounds.  The potatoes were salty and greasy, but he needed something to help soak up the caffeine or he'd be doubled over all day with stomach cramps.

When he got back to his booth, he pulled out his notebook.  He was determined to catch Ferkovich sooner than later.

He had been given use of a police chopper that was fueled and would begin flying over the area as soon as possible.

The strategy was simple:  find Soergel's car, which Ferkovich had most likely stolen for his getaway. Roadblocks had been set up all over the county, calculated by how far Ferkovich could get from the time of the murder to the time Ray arrived on the scene and ordered the first roadblocks.

Ray's cell phone rang.

"Mitchell."

The voice on the other end of the line was Detective Krahn.  Ray had put him in charge of coordinating with Chief Lenzen the teams that were actively pursuing Ferkovich sightings in the area, as well as helping to organize the blanket coverage Ray had set up.

He listened as Krahn filled him on the lack of developments, then they agreed to meet just before lunch to go over anymore details that might come up.  If anything happened before then, they would keep in constant communication.

Ray snapped his phone shut and walked out to the car.  He placed the coffee in the cup holder and headed for the marina. 

It was a beautiful, sunny fall day, the kind that you see on calendars featuring photos from the Great Lakes.  The leaves were in full color and along the lakeshore, the effect was striking.

The marina had calmed down considerably compared to the confusion of the early morning hours.  Now, several cop cars were stationed outside the small marina office, and there was crime scene tape around the
Teacher's Pet
.

Ray ducked under the police tape and climbed on board.  The boat was a mess, fingerprint dust covered everything, and there were tagged baggies on the floor everywhere Ray stepped.

He quickly tracked down Paul Casey.

"What do we have, Paul?"

"Well, this guy's just a considerate little psycho isn't he?"

Ray eyed the bags of garbage that were neatly stowed in a row along the far wall of the cabin.

"Beer cans, potato chip bags, he cleaned it all up and set them there," Casey said, "presumably for garbage pick up."

"I guess he didn't want to piss off his big sister."

"Yeah, I guess he thought maybe she wouldn't mind him leaving a dead body, as long as it wasn't surrounded by candy bar wrappers."

Ray winced at the humor that was just a little too black for this early in the morning.

"Other than that," Ray said, "anything else catch your eye?"

"A couple things.”  Casey retrieved a baggie with a newspaper clipping and held it up for Ray to see.

Ray peered closely and could see the grainy, smudged picture of Lisa Young.

He wasn't surprised.  Lots of serial killers returned, both physically and mentally, to scenes of previous crimes.

"You said a couple things, Paul."

"Apparently he's interested in his image, too."

"Why do you say that?"

Casey gestured for Mitchell to follow, and the crime scene technician walked across the cabin to a small, recessed shelving unit installed next to the dining table.

The bottom rack held a thick collection of magazines.  Everything from People to Sports Afield.

"His prints were all over here," Casey said, gesturing to the shelf, "but not on any of the magazines."

Casey, wearing plastic gloves, slowly pulled a newspaper out from behind the magazines.

"All of the magazines are dated no later than July.  But see the date on the newspaper?"

Ray looked.

"Yesterday, the afternoon edition."

Casey nodded.

"Do you know what page it was open to?"

"Take a wild guess."

Casey handed Ray a pair of plastic gloves and then the paper.  Mitchell's eye was immediately drawn to the headline detailing the chase involving Hank Campbell and Mike Sharpe.

"It seems what he's doing isn't exciting enough for him, he's got to read about himself, too," the technician said.

Casey looked at Ray, but the senior homicide detective was studying the newspaper article.

Casey shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

Ray continued reading, then flipped back to the front page, then back to the end of the article.  A wild thought occurred to him that he quickly dismissed.  But it came back again.

"No way," he said.  “No way he’s crazy enough to do that.”

Seventy-Eight

As the sun slowly made its way across the morning sky, shadows fell across the small window, reaching the face of Joe Ferkovich.

He looked through the window at the branches outside, the sounds of birds in the trees and rustling of leaves in the soft breeze greeted his ears, signaling the start of a new day.  He stretched, the muscles in his shoulders and arms still stiff from the night's work.

Working from a vague memory of the area, as well as the address listed in the newspaper, it had taken him longer than he would have liked to find it.  And then it was a quick search of a nearby property for sale, tucked back deeply into the woods. 

There was a large woodpile, rows and rows of wood separated by a thick tarp.  He had pushed the wood off, then carried the large tarp and placed it over the stolen cop car.  He then methodically reassembled the woodpile around the car. 

As well as the logs for the fireplace, there was an enormous pile of twigs and branches gathered into a huge pile for kindling.  These too he had transferred, piling them on top of the car, disguising the car's shape from above, just in case the cops managed to break out a helicopter.

He then broke into the small, one room shack, and fell dead asleep on an Army cot that had been tucked away in the closet off the kitchen.

Now, as morning made its presence felt, Ferkovich swung his legs off the cot and stood.

A quick search of the kitchen cabinets revealed empty shelves containing nothing a but a thick layer of dust disturbed only by the tracks of mice.

The stillness was disturbing to him.  At least on the boat he had felt the gentle rocking of the waves beneath him, the sound of water lapping against the side of the boat.  The noises had helped drown out the sound of the voices, easing the magnitude of the headaches.

Thankfully, he wouldn't be here long.

Ferkovich reached his hand down to his pants and caressed the butt of the Glock 10mm he'd taken from the cop.  He snatched it out from beneath his waistband and the pistol's heaviness felt good to him, like a wicked punch waiting to be thrown.

He released the clip into his hands and checked its load.  It was full.

Tucking it back into his waistband, he thought about his plan for the day.

The cop car was way too hot, he couldn't use it anymore.  But that didn't matter, because he would soon have access to another car, maybe he'd even have his choice between vehicles.  He began pacing, thinking his plan through.

When he had seen the
Nation’s Most Wanted
show, his initial reaction was pure delight.  He thought it was extremely funny that some guy was mistakenly being hunted down.  It would've been hilarious if the guy had actually been killed by people who thought they were putting a bullet into Joe Ferkovich.

But after a while, it started to piss him off.

And soon, he'd come up with a way to steal back the spotlight he deserved, have more than a little fun, and get another car.

From there, he'd make his way down I-75 to Detroit, a city he was more than a little familiar with, and where he could resume his activities.

He clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms briskly.

Ferkovich stepped out of the back door of the small shack.  He walked into the woods to the left of the shack, headed directly north, and in several minutes, he would come out on Lost Lake Road.

Seventy-Nine

The spoonful of yogurt froze in the air, where it stopped tantalizingly close to the waiting red lips of Beta Giancarlo.

With her recent promotion, Beta was not just the most powerful agent at ICM, she was now in the upper echelon of agents in all of Hollywood.  Her name was now regularly being mentioned at power lunches in trendy restaurants across the valley.

But this morning, the normally unflappable Beta Giancarlo was shocked.

Before her, in today's newspaper, was the story of struggling actor Mike Sharpe,
her
Mike Sharpe, and his near death at the hands of a well-intentioned but apparently idiotic man in the mountains of Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

Beta scanned the story.  Shortly after the broadcast of
Nation’s Most Wanted
, in which the actor portrayed a serial killer, a man mistook the actor for the real killer, ran his car off the road, chased him through the woods, and then shot him.

She shook her head in disbelief.

Mike had talked to her before leaving for vacation, and now it sounded like he almost died.

Beta thought fast.

"Susan," she said through the speakerphone to secretary, "could you please come in here?"

The hardbodied, svelte woman who appeared quickly in Beta's doorway looked less like a secretary than the sexy actress she desired to be.

"Did you call Mike Sharpe?"

Susan thought for a brief moment.

"Yes, I tried him several times but always got his machine, so I left a message for him to call."

That was good news to Beta.

"Did you tell him why I wanted to talk to him?"

"No."

"Good.  If he does call, put him right through to me, please."

The secretary left Beta's office and she swiveled in her chair, the sight outside her windows was an impressive one.  Her new office was double the size of her last one, and these window views were breathtaking, not as dramatic as Marcus Levenson's, but extraordinary nonetheless.

She picked up the paper again and glanced through the story, making sure she hadn't missed anything.

This was too good to be true.

She almost laughed in spite of herself, thinking of Mike pounding the pavement out here only to have his big break come in Michigan at the hands of a stupid redneck.

Well, opportunities come from strange places sometimes, she thought.

Since her promotion, she'd been trying to put together a couple of big deals, but they had both stalled out.  This town was all about publicity, and right now, Beta knew she needed something to cement her new position of power and the reputation that came along with it.

This would be it.

She would broker Mike Sharpe's story for film, or possibly a made-for-television special.  She would even consider having him star in it.  She would point him to a good literary agent as there would definitely be a book deal.

She polished off the yogurt and took a long drink of mineral water.  Beta could taste the beginnings of a victory and was exhilarated by the prospect of making a killing.

Beta would show everyone that Marcus Levenson had made the right decision.

Yes, she thought, opportunities do come from strange places.

She smiled.

Thank God Mike Sharpe had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.