His background check from Romania turned up a significant rap sheet of varying crimes. Didn’t the amusement park bother to run background checks on these people?

  Once they dug into this Dalca’s character’s history, they would likely find similar colorful shit. The dude’s corpse looked rough, with him still grasping some odd metal baton he used to crack open Russ’s skull. Gravity Junction probably had this hooligan fastening roller coaster seatbelts and serving corn dogs and tater tots to little kids.

  I was sitting in the OR waiting room. The mayor, Russ’s uncle, had made a brief appearance, asking me a few questions about the situation. He appeared very solemn, and at the same time, very stressed out.

  Little was known about what went down in Sheldon Park. What I did know was that something very corrupt was happening, and Minelli was in the middle of it.

  Although nothing about Russ seemed corrupt. He was a complete “by the book” cop, following all police procedures almost fanatically. Showing up in the middle of the night at that park alone made no sense.

  I was something less than a by-the-book cop. I colored outside the lines with Minelli here and there, but I had my limits. Losing my job and going to jail was not an option.

  “Sergeant Kovach?” a woman’s voice said from behind the desk.

  I glanced over and saw Jenna leaning against the desk. She was a very attractive girl but way out of my league. I had tried to passively hit on her a few times and struck out pretty hard.

  “Hi, Jenna. Please, call me Mitch,” I said, standing up.

  “Hi, Mitch. You got a minute?” she asked.

  For you, I sure as hell do. I grabbed my coffee cup and walked over to her. She motioned for me to come around the desk and started walking down the hall.

  The view from behind was nice; there was something about those blue scrubs.

  She turned into a conference room, and I followed. She closed the door.

  “Have a seat, Mitch,” she said, waving me to a chair at the small table. I did, leaning back and sipping my coffee.

  “I’m entrusting you with some information I came across. And a theory. I’m coming to you as a citizen engaging with a law-enforcement professional. One who has sworn an oath to protect and serve,” she said.

  I perked up. What was this shit?

  “I appreciate that. If you have something relevant to a crime, maybe we should get the sheriff involved,” I replied.

  She shook her head. “I came to you and you alone, for reasons you will soon understand. From here you’re going to need to consult with whatever non–Sandusky PD resources you have. I know there are other agencies in town to investigate. Do you have anyone you trust?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I have state and FBI liaisons,” I said.

  “Good,” she said nervously.

  She looked down at her hands and took a deep breath. “I think Sheriff Minelli is the one who attacked Deputy O’Toole,” she said. She made eye contact with me, her brown eyes holding my gaze. I raised both of my eyebrows.

  “Exactly why would the sheriff do something like that to his own deputy, Jenna?” I asked, as patiently as possible.

  She took her phone out, swiped through, and held it up. I took it and looked closely. It was some sort of X-ray.

  “This is O’Toole’s skull. You see those almost-circular fractures? Those are pistol-whip marks. Not thinner lateral baton marks from the dead guy’s weapon.”

  “Pistol whip? Maybe the perp got a hold of his pistol?”

  “I thought of that. But I spoke to one of the EMS guys, and he took Russ’s holster off when he was working on him in the ambulance. The gun was in it. The butt of his gun was not bloody.”

  “Where is the gun now?”

  “At hospital security. Minelli is coming by to retrieve O’Toole’s stuff any time now. You have to take custody of it before he does and get it to an independent forensics unit.”

  I exhaled loudly and took a gulp of coffee. “Okay, I can do that. If Deputy O’Toole wasn’t pistol-whipped with his own gun, whose gun was it?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  “The sheriff has a particular gun he is fond of; he showed it to a security guard here a few weeks ago when I was at the desk. A Colt revolver, something about a Vietnam War tunnel-rat uncle of his gifting it to him. Minelli bragged about how he carries it on the job, even though he is supposed to carry a Glock. I bet he will be carrying that gun when he comes to visit O’Toole. And I bet the butt of that gun will match O’Toole’s skull injuries. Furthermore, I bet that gun has O’Toole’s DNA on it. If not, the gun should have signs of being scrubbed. Like bleached, or something.”

  God damn stupid Minelli. Done in by his showboating and bragging about his uncle’s Colt pistol. Sloppy as shit.

  I cleaned up a few of his messes here and there, like trying to scrub the bowling alley of his blackmail evidence after Gorey died, but this was beyond my ability to stop. If she was right, he was in such deep shit that I couldn’t damage control him out of it.

  “Any thoughts, Mitch?” she said nervously.

  Brady 21

  4:35 a.m.

  Navigating the dinghy in the dark along the shore was more difficult than I had imagined. The moonlight helped, but it was being periodically obscured by cloud cover. There were a few sprinkles of rain here and there. I had been so busy that I failed to monitor the weather forecast, as I generally did almost religiously during my carefree camping days. Those days were gone forever.

  My exhaustion was real and almost crippling at this point. This had to end. I almost didn’t care how it ended anymore. I missed my kids so desperately that it hurt. Escaping this without losing the capability to see them was all that mattered.

  The yacht had several gas cans stored below deck. I dragged Alexander’s body into the cabin, which was extremely difficult. Luckily, he was soaked in lake water and his own blood, so I was able to slide him most of the way.

  I doused the cabin and the area below deck thoroughly with gas. After I lit the fire, I hustled my ass over to the dinghy, untying it and pushing off.

  It didn’t take long for the fire to take hold. Moments later, the boat was a giant inferno, illuminating the surrounding area for hundreds of feet. I opened the throttle to gain some distance from the boat before it exploded.

  I knew nothing about yacht costs, but I could have easily been watching a million-dollar vessel go up in smoke. Not that Gorey would miss it.

  I headed west, occasionally sighting the shore with the spotlight, but using it sparingly. I wouldn’t use it when I got to the more populated area past the wetlands. I maintained my bearings by shifting my focus back and forth between the south shore and the strand a few miles to the north, making sure I wasn’t running up on shore or going out too far out into the lake.

  There was a casualness to it all that disturbed me. I enjoyed the little boat ride. The cool breeze in my face. There was a sense of freedom I hadn’t enjoyed in a while.

  But I was joyriding a dead man’s boat, after burning a dead body on that same dead man’s yacht. A body that I had rendered dead. “Rendered dead,” was quite the politically correct way to describe a murder. That threw a bucket of cold water on my mood, and I shifted my focus to the next step.

  Vaughn should still be in the abandoned post office with Data. It was a long night for him to babysit him in that dump.

  I recognized the Sandusky Shores Campground coming up on the left, the streetlamps visible on the peninsula, with the train bridge passing alongside it. I carefully navigated through the bridge footers as I passed.

  About a hundred yards past the campground, I turned south toward the shore. I slowed down as I approached, then killed the engine. The momentum carried me until I nearly beached it along a marshy area, where the water was covered with a viscous film of bright-green algae. Maybe not the most ideal spot, but without better lighting, it would do.

  The water was cold and mucky. I almost lost my shoes several times before I managed to stumble onto the shore.

  I positioned the boat sideways, searching for the main boat inflation port. Looking down, I noticed dried blood on my hands and sleeves, so I rubbed my hands together in the water and splashed my face. I took my shirt off and soaked it in the water, wringing it out, and then reluctantly put it back on, shivering uncontrollably for a moment.

  I finally found the inflation port, twisting it open. The air hissed loudly as it escaped, and the dinghy began to slump with the loss of pressure.

  After most of the air emptied, I held the port under the surface and let it take on water. It sank, weighed down by the motor. I pushed it down until it was entirely below the surface.

  As I walked south toward the post office, I noticed a plume of smoke over the wood line. It appeared to originate east of the post office, maybe from somewhere within the trailer park. I detected the smell of charred wood and melting plastic, similar to the odor when Trailer Alpha burned. Another trailer had caught fire.

  I heard sirens in the distance. The flickering light of flames began to glow above the woods. I quickened my pace, struggling to lift my feet, with my shoes and socks completely soaked.

  Data 9

  4:35 a.m.

  Something was definitely burning outside. The light from the flames was visible through the dingy front window of the post office.

  I managed only a few minutes of troubled sleep. Vaughn passed out for maybe an hour. I heard him snoring softly, but I didn’t have the guts to attempt an escape. He was currently sitting in the chair, looking at his cell phone.

  “Vaughn, something is on fire out there,” I said.

  He stood and walked over to the windows. “Yeah. I can smell somethin’ burning,” he said, yawning. “You will be leavin’ soon. Brady is on his way.”

  I frowned. Something was catching on fire every day around here; for once, it wasn’t started by people I worked for. As far as I knew.

  Vaughn’s phone buzzed. He looked down at it, frowned, and put it back in his pocket. He walked over quickly to the table and picked up his long screwdriver.

  He took the screwdriver, put it between my flex-cuffed hands, and twisted it, breaking the plastic. Grabbing me beneath my armpits, he yanked me to my feet. I rubbed my wrists along the red welts the cuffs had left.

  “Your place is on fire, bro,” he said softly.

  “My place ... what?”

  My heart dropped. Oh my God, Grandma.

  “It’s on fire. No joke,” he said.

  I scrambled to the back of the building, tripping twice in the dark, and running into a hallway wall. I finally pushed through the heavy door and ran outside.

  Tony 13

  5:20 a.m.

  The Coasties finally put the fire out on Gorey’s burnt yacht. By some miracle, it didn’t explode. Randy’s pleasure ship had taken its final voyage. I had a few good times on that boat myself.

  It had to be sabotage. Did Stoica do it for some reason? That made no sense; all he had to do was return to the marina and dock it. The owner was dead, nobody missed it.

  Did Sullivan do this? Was he capable of this? I suppose, he was former military.

  Sullivan had proved to be a clever guy; he had done a pretty good job of evading me. I thought I had him earlier, but damned if everything didn’t go wrong. He couldn’t hide forever. If I figured out a way to pin the yacht fire on him and then have it lead to the dead girl at Sheldon Park, the state and federals would pull out all the stops to get him.

  But I wanted to catch him. I wanted him in my cuffs.

  I adjusted my hat as I pulled into the hospital parking lot; it was irritating my wound. Grigore. That little bastard wouldn’t be whacking anyone with that stick again.

  I drank the rest of my coffee and bourbon with a long swig as I parked in the designated law-enforcement spot at the hospital. I didn’t have time for this, but I had to make an appearance and check on Russ. The prognosis wasn’t good for him. It was possible he was a vegetable. Tragic. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what went down at the park.

  I walked through the ER entrance, popped a mint, and went over to the desk. It was empty. I leaned in and looked around.

  “Hey, anyone back there?” I asked loudly. I turned around, and Mitch was standing at the door. He looked tired, eyes glassy, his uniform rumpled.

  “Hey, Mitch, what’s good?” I asked. “How’s Russ doin’?”

  “Not good. He had those burr holes cut into his skull to drain the fluid. There may be permanent brain damage,” he said quietly.

  “Have you seen him?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Only family visitors currently.”

  “Even law enforcement?”

  “I didn’t press. Maybe,” he said.

  He seemed to be studying me. He looked at my hat, then my uniform, then down at my holster. Was it obvious I had been drinking? Not that Mitch had ever cared.

  Both of our radios crackled. The dispatcher came on and announced another fire at the trailer park. God damn. Fire and rescue services were on their way.

  “Another fire in the vicinity of the campground, Mitch? You ready to head over there?” I asked.

  Mitch looked at his watch. He looked over his shoulder at the desk, where Jenna appeared. She was lookin’ tired but still hot.

  “Actually, you got a minute? Jenna, got a room we can use to chat in?” he asked. She nodded and waved us over. I smiled and nodded at her, returning my attention to Mitch.

  “Why don’t we ride out to the fire together and we can chat along the way, Mitch?” I asked.

  He forced a smile. “Just a few minutes, buddy,” he said, walking around the desk.

  Jenna led us to a conference room and disappeared. We walked in, and Mitch closed the door. He sat down in the seat by the door; I sat across from him.

  There was a manila folder lying on the table a seat over from Mitch. He exhaled deeply.

  “So, what is the story with Russ?” he asked.

  “The story?” I asked. “Come on, Mitch, we can grab a beer later and talk it through. Let’s go take a look at that fire.”

  “The fire can wait. Having two more cops there ain’t gonna make a difference. It is early morning, and there won’t be many gawkers out, so there are no crowd-control issues.”

  All right, Mitch. Let’s talk.

  “You know the story. Me and you were together when the EMS people arrived and found Russ unconscious, remember? The Romanian guy was dead next to him, holding that baton. Russ took a bunch of hits but got off a few shots as he was being taken down.”

  “You weren’t there any earlier than that?”

  “Nope,” he said, shaking his head.

  “So, forensics will bear your theory out? Your cell phone location won’t put you there earlier? The distance of Russ’s shots will be point-blank? The wounds to Russ’s head are definitely from that baton?” he asked nervously. He sat up straighter, then slumped down in his chair, sighing loudly.

  Phone location? I am the sheriff, no judge in this county is gonna subpoena my phone records. What is going on with Mitch?

  “Forensics? This is a slam dunk. We have a lot on our plates, buddy. Let’s get to that fire,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes.

  Mitch inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly. He leaned over and picked up the folder. He pulled out what looked like an X-ray. His hand was shaking as he placed it in front of me.

  My stomach soured. All the alcohol and coffee. I popped a mint earlier, but I bet he still smelled it on me. Not that he normally cared; he would tip a few on duty every once in a while.

  I looked down at the digital image of a skull. “What is this? Russ?” I asked.

  “That is a CT scan of Russ. Before they drilled holes in his head to ease the swelling,” he said.

  There were a series of darkly shaded ovals on it, as well as a few thin fractures. I looked up. “So?” I asked, letting a little hostility creep into my voice.

  “If that little Romanian shit whacked him with a baton, what are all those circular dents? The nurse said those are the high-damage hits, the ones that caused the most caving.”

  “So, maybe search the scene, maybe he used a rock or something. The federal forensics guys have been collecting evidence all morning,” I said.

  I needed a drink. Something strong. My heart hammering, I actually felt it in my sinuses.

  “Russ shot him as he was being attacked. So, if another weapon besides that metal rod was there, it would have been found nearby. He couldn’t chuck the weapon into the woods after he was shot twice. If he was capable of doing that, he would have tossed the baton,” he said, voice shaking.

  Russ had tossed Grigore’s baton aside after he shot him. I put it back in his hands after I took Russ down. Shit, were my fingerprints on that? Wouldn’t matter, I was at the crime scene after the casualties were discovered and could claim that I touched the baton carelessly.

  “So, it sounds like you have a theory, Mitch. Do share,” I said, trying to swallow my temper. Where is this leading?

  Mitch stared down at the empty folder, arranging it sideways. and then straight again.

  “Let me have a look at your pistol, Tony. Your Colt,” he said quietly.

  I felt my face redden. Was he really doing this?

  “Why, Mitch?” I asked.

  Mitch leaned forward, stood up, and pulled his Glock, pointing it at me. “Set it down on the table, Tony. Slowly,” he said. His gun was shaking. He shifted his left hand over to steady it.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ve made my share of mistakes on the force. I’ve gone along with some of your schemes and even put together a few of my own before you got here. I’m not a choir boy. But I have lines I will not cross,” he said.

  My hands were on the table. I needed to know how to play this, but my mind was foggy. Would he really shoot me?

 

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