Sandusky reckoning, p.7
Sandusky Reckoning, page 7
I decided to risk a short walk. Would cops be stationed at the campground all day again? If they left, then they most certainly would be returning soon if they pulled four bodies out of the Taj. I put my laptop in the camper and took a walk toward the office.
I slowed about fifty feet in front of the office, scanning for squad cars. I saw none. I continued forward, looping past the pool being listlessly cleaned by the big, bald black man. He looked up at me, and our eyes met. I walked over to the fence.
“Hey, I’m Brady, a seasonal from site 31,” I called to him.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, dragging a pool skimmer through the water.
“You have a name?” I asked.
He couldn’t have appeared more irritated, putting a hand on his hip and glaring at me. “Vaughn.”
“Nice to meet you, Vaughn. Is Data ... Henry in today?”
“Yeah, in at eleven,” he mumbled. I paused and watched him as he swept the net through the water, pulling it out and tapping it on the cement to release the debris.
He looked back up at me with a why are you still here? glare.
“What do you think of all these weird things going on? With the RV missing, the trailer burning ... Chris dying?”
He stopped cleaning the pool, looking up and squinting as he assessed me. “I think Randy and his crew ran up against the wrong people. Maybe burned the wrong guy’s RV down. Maybe caught the wrong guy with his pants down at one of them cabins back there,” he said, nodding towards the cabins along the eastern fence line.
I gulped and felt my face redden. Why did I think it was a good idea to ask a question like that?
“As a matter of fact, you walked out of one of those cabins the other day. You looked like you were straight out of an episode of The Walking Dead, dazed and staggerin’ back to your place. You got your own RV right on site. What do you need a cabin for?”
I managed a smile, nodded, and continued my walk.
Mitch 1
9:15 a.m.
I rolled up to the campground, scanning the terrain as I did. This place had kids on bikes and golf carts popping up everywhere; the last thing I needed was to hit some kid and cause myself some unnecessary paperwork.
I had just returned from Toledo. Minelli sent me out there to a Northern Ohio Terminal Railway company station to retrieve the chains and hooks that had been removed from the caboose of the train that had likely dragged Randy Gorey’s RV halfway across Sandusky the other night.
My mind struggled to comprehend that. Someone hooked an RV to a moving train, which dragged it for miles, finally launching it into the lake. With people inside. Three people were dead. What kind of psycho does that?
I took the hooks and chains back to the precinct evidence room and took photos of them. I needed to talk to Travis Barrett as well as Candace Malone, the girlfriend of the dude who got T-boned by a train yesterday morning. I also had grainy photos of the man who accompanied Randolph while he stole the hooks and other equipment from the construction site. The mystery guy wore a baseball cap, and there were no clear shots of his face.
I figured I’d check with Barrett first. From what I understood, Randolph’s chick was unemployed and just hung out in the RV all day. I parked and walked into the office building carrying a folder.
I found Barrett in his office. The door was open, and I gave a courtesy knock as I walked in.
He was on the desk phone and gave me the one-minute signal with his finger. He pointed to the chair in front of his desk, and I sat down.
I remembered Barrett from high school. He was a good athlete, an all-state wrestler and football player at Sandusky High School. He had a lot more muscle and a lot less fat back then. He still had that long hair so many years later. I was surprised he never went on to college and wound up managing this dump.
Travis ended the phone call. He exhaled heavily. “Hey, Mitch, what’s new?” he asked.
“Busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest,” I said. “This campground seems to be the epicenter for all this shit. It is a hell of an operation you have running here.”
Travis furrowed his brow and sighed. He looked tired. “Tell me about it. This isn’t the kind of operation I want to run. I didn’t want to hire guys like Chuck here. That was all Randy. The biggest problems I thought I would deal with were people driving golf carts too fast or kids relieving themselves in the pool. Any word about the bodies found in the stolen RV? Was one of them Randy?”
“Off the record, Randy and Sam Crenshaw were inside the RV. There is a third guy who no one recognized that washed up on the beach. Minelli will bring a picture by later and see if he is one of your residents.”
Travis rubbed his face. “So, Randy drowned ... in his own RV? How the fuck did his RV end up out in the lake?”
“That’s what we’re hoping you can shed some light on.”
“I am more than happy to shed any light I can,” he said.
I opened the folder, removing a picture. It was of a crane hook connected to a chain. Travis picked it up and studied it.
“Yeah, that looks like my chain. A bunch of them were stolen the other night. I don’t own any hooks, though.”
I nodded. I took out a notepad and made some notes. “How many feet are you missing?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s say two sixty-yard lengths.”
“Where were they stored?”
“I had them on a trailer over near the shore on the east side. Somebody moved the trailer; it ended up near the dumpster by the fishing pond. Some of the chains had been pushed off into the grass.”
The killers were either told about them by someone at the campground or just happened to notice them. Then they figured out how much length they needed and moved them over to the west side of the campsite. Apparently, no one witnessed this. It was raining and after dark, so that wasn’t surprising. The trailer that hauled the chains would have to be examined for evidence.
“So, reading between the lines, someone stole my chains, put hooks on them, connected them to a train, and the train pulled the RV until at some point it was flung into the lake? Seriously?”
“You know I can’t verify that, but it is plausible,” I said.
He made a sharp whistling noise. “Are we thinking someone from this campground is responsible?” Travis asked.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, intrigued.
“How else would somebody know I had those chains on site?” he asked.
“Any clue who did it?”
Travis smiled. “Isn’t Mike Clemmons currently in the hospital, having been found next to a burning trailer with a body inside?”
“Yeah, he is.”
“Somebody burned Clemmons’s RV down. Later that day, the guys he blamed end up dead. There is an obvious connection there,” he said.
“But there is a million miles between suspecting that someone burned your RV and hooking up the arsonist to a train and dragging him to death. Especially with a few other guys inside the RV. That is not exactly a surgical strike.”
“True. Unless they were all in on it? Or those guys were blackmailing Clemmons ... or friends of Clemmons.”
“Did Clemmons have friends here?”
“He seemed to keep to himself. I’m not sure if he had any actual friends.”
Candy 2
9:50 a.m.
Someone knocked on my door. I had been in the trailer since I returned from the interview with the sheriff. I had barely eaten anything, just scrounging together random stuff I found in the cupboards.
I had to snap out of it. I was already too skinny. I couldn’t afford to lose any more weight; I was in danger of losing what boobs I still had.
The first few hours in the RV were tough. Really tough. I cried when I went into our bedroom. The dress clothes Chris was wearing to his pilot training wadded up on the floor, his airport pass on a lanyard discarded in the pile. Boxing up his belongings would be heart wrenching; I wasn’t quite ready yet.
Chris’s parents were coming into the area soon. The last thing I wanted to do was deal with them. I never met them; I was just a name. I wasn’t sure what I owed them.
I leaned over and pulled the curtain open slightly. A police officer peered in the window, giving a courtesy wave. Shit.
I was only wearing one of Chris’s T-shirts, a black White Zombie concert tee, and panties. I slipped on a pair of gym shorts, pulled my hair back, and went to the door.
“Good morning, ma’am. Sergeant Mitch Kovach, Sandusky PD. Do you have a minute?” he asked politely. He was a short man with a Slavic look to him. Dark hair with gray coming in at the temples, a gaunt face, a little paunchy. Probably in his late thirties. He was carrying a folder.
“My place is a little messy at the moment. Can we sit outside?” I asked.
He surveyed my dumpy campsite.
“Sure, although this is confidential. If it gets busy out here, we need to move it inside.”
I walked out and closed the camper door behind me. I gestured toward one of the dilapidated lawn chairs and sat down in the other. He swept off the dirt and cobwebs from the chair and sat down as well.
He opened the folder and took out a picture, handing it to me. It was a picture of a metal hook connected to a chain.
“Does this look familiar?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. Should it?”
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. Did Chris ever have any hooks that he took home from the construction site?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“A number of these hooks were taken from Chris’s work, along with a bunch of other supplies. Hammers, nails, crowbars, and lumber.”
I didn’t react. He reached into his folder and took out another picture.
“Here is a security camera shot of Chris at his construction site on Monday night, stealing the items I mentioned.”
I studied the picture. It was black and white and a little blurry, but it certainly could have been Chris. The fact that he was standing in front of the open trunk of my car made it difficult to deny that it was him.
The cop took out another picture. “Do you recognize this man?” he asked.
I examined the picture. It was the same setting as Chris’s picture but of a different man. A white guy wearing dark clothes and a baseball hat.
“No.”
“Take a closer look. Could it be someone from around here?” he asked, motioning in a circle at our surroundings.
I took another look. It could have been any number of people at the campground. There was something about him that did look familiar. I glanced over at the camper at 31, Brady’s. The cop followed my gaze.
“The person who lives here?” he asked sweeping his hand over. I instantly regretted looking over there.
“I don’t know. This picture is of a white guy with a medium build. Brady over there fits that. But so do a lot of other people around here, right? The resolution on this picture sucks, I can’t say for sure.”
The cop nodded, took out a notebook, and jotted something. I cleared my throat.
“So, Chris supposedly stole this equipment Monday night. What time?”
“About 10:40 p.m.”
What the fuck was Chris stealing this kind of shit for? While he crept around committing larceny, I packed my shit and left. I assumed he was out getting high, but he was robbing his own worksite? If the other guy was Brady, why would he be involved with this?
“I’m assuming these hooks had something to do with that RV getting stolen?”
The cop smiled and winked. “I can’t talk about it. You can make your own inferences.”
Brady 6
10:15 a.m.
I decided to take the rest of the day off. My mind continued to race relentlessly, making it impossible to concentrate.
I refreshed the Sandusky Register website for more updates, obsessively, over and over. I needed to get out. More importantly, I needed to talk to Henry.
I put on my running shoes and stepped out of the camper. As I did, a police van pulled up and parked next to Sam’s SUV. I paused to stretch, watching as two guys wearing khaki pants and windbreakers got out.
The older one, with thinning brown hair and glasses, walked to the driver’s side and peered into the window. He went back to the van and returned with a small plastic case. The other one, with dark hair and a mustache, approached with a camera and began taking pictures of the SUV.
The older one put on blue plastic gloves. He opened the plastic case, pulled out some small black device, and began working the door lock. A moment later, I heard the pop of the vehicle unlocking.
The older guy opened the door. The mustache guy with the camera began taking pictures.
I slowly walked out to the street. I resisted the urge to engage with the investigators and began my jog, heading toward the office.
Exiting the campground, I headed north into the trailer park. As I did, I glanced behind me to see if anyone was watching or following me. I didn’t think anyone was.
I passed the remains of Trailer Alpha, which had been reduced to a charred skeleton with police tape draping the small trees in front of it. I resisted the temptation to approach it and take a closer look.
I wondered what went so horribly wrong at the trailer that Mike ended up receiving life-threatening injuries there. He had described it as an easy mission; drive the van into the building, douse it with some gas, and let it burn. He had just pulled off the insanity of hitching the Taj to a train, so burning down Trailer Alpha seemed comparatively simple. But things went sideways.
Since the trailer was completely destroyed, I figured that law enforcement would have a difficult time determining its true purpose. That it was actually the IT headquarters for a crew of local criminals. Or that I was inside of it for a brief period, destroying evidence.
I continued running, glancing at the trailers as I did. Henry’s grandma’s trailer was coming up on the right. With another glance around to confirm I didn’t have any company, I ran up into his yard and around toward the side door.
I heard crunching sounds as I walked briskly up the dirt driveway. A section of the driveway was covered in broken glass. Bending down, I picked up a few pieces and examined them. They were in small square shapes with a bluish tint, it was likely from the window of a vehicle.
Data’s grandma’s car, an old blue Buick, was pulled up close to the shed. I approached it and noted the driver’s window had a piece of cardboard taped over it. I was briefly a passenger in the car the night we attacked Randy, and the windows were all intact.
The double-wide trailer was practically falling apart, with peeling paint on every surface and moss growing along the north side of the roof. The yard needed mowing. I approached the door and knocked softly.
No one answered. I checked the time: 1025 hours. If Data’s shift began at 1100 hours, he should be leaving soon. I knocked a little louder. I heard someone moving behind the door. A moment later, Henry opened it, dressed in his work uniform with a backpack slung across his shoulder.
The bruise on his face and black eye didn’t look any better. He frowned.
“We need to talk,” I said.
He shook his head. “No time, I have to be at work,” he said softly.
I glanced at my watch again. “You have a half hour; it is a five-minute bike ride. You need to give me ten minutes.”
He looked around nervously, which caused me to look around. No one was about.
Henry stepped out, closing and locking the door behind him. I followed him to the back yard, where we walked to a sagging deck with three rusty chairs and a table.
“Grandma is napping, so we can’t go inside,” he said softly. I sat down in one of the chairs. Henry sat in the other, which creaked loudly under his weight.
“Did you read the news?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah, the Taj washed ashore. And Chris ...”
“Forensics people were over at the Taj lot, looking at Sam’s vehicle. So, I’m thinking they ID’d the bodies. They likely investigated Viktor’s RV next.”
“Sure,” he said, looking down at his feet.
“What happened at the bowling alley?” I asked.
He frowned. “I ... I wasn’t able to ... nothing really,” he mumbled. He absentmindedly ran his hand along the bruise on his face.
“I need to know what happened. You are aware that Mike is in a coma in the hospital right now, right?”
He nodded, looking at his watch. I decided not to keep pressing him, hoping a moment of awkward silence would inspire him to talk. “Listen, I’m done with all this. I helped you out and you told me I was off the hook. I need to get my life together, get out of Sandusky.”
“What happened to your face?” I asked.
“Nothing, I fell off my bike again.”
“Did you fall off your bike and smash your grandma’s car window? What happened there?” I asked, gesturing toward the car.
Henry didn’t respond, just sighing loudly. “We can talk later. I have to get to work.”
“You need to start being straight with me. If something else is going on with this whole ... thing, I need to know. Right now. I can’t keep chasing you around, trying to get intel. Is there still blackmail material in the bowling alley?”
Data sighed heavily again. “Your mission to take down Randy’s crew ... it wasn’t exactly a total success. There are some loose ends ... one major loose end ...”
Sandusky Register – Online Edition 7
11:15 a.m.
Three Dead at Stolen RV Recovered at Gravity Junction Beach
As the Sandusky Register reported earlier this morning, a park model RV washed ashore at Gravity Junction Beach. However, the Sandusky Police Department has confirmed this incident was more serious than just a bizarre act of vandalism, as two dead bodies were found inside, with a third washing ashore nearby. The identities of the victims are being withheld pending family notification.
