ADX Praxis (The Red Lake Series Book 3) Read online

*

  The fat man listened to his police scanner. The old ten codes were gone, plain language was used by dispatch. They droned past, two-car accident at Route 12 and Clover, an APB for Willard Stangl, plates check on a speeder and then, the theft of laundry off a clothesline.

  If Kurt, as he knew his name, escaped from the hospital it was without clothing. Despite the fact that was twenty-four hours ago, it seemed a possible lead. Fat Man figured no one would roll; they would simply treat it as a ‘be on the look out for a suspicious persons’ call. It was a long shot but he drove to the address.

  The house was a few doors up from the lake. The woman who answered was about thirty and petite. Having called in, the she easily assumed this fat man on her front porch was the police.

  “You reported a laundry theft?”

  “Yes. Someone stole my husbands clothing.”

  “Could you describe them?”

  “Two pair of blue jeans. And I think three or four shirts.”

  “And what size does your husband wear, short, tall, what?”

  “Or he is fairly tall but I’m afraid he is heavy set.”

  The fat man played his part for a bit, then bade the woman good-day and set out to find a man wearing clothing too baggy for his build.

  At the top of the lane he passed a house with a faded “For Sale”. The front lawn was a gangly mass of tall grass and weeds. The blinds were drawn. The peeling paint made the house less than welcoming.

  He rolled around the corner and found a shady spot to pull into.

  Fat Man hoisted his mass out of the front seat of the sedan. He plodded heavily along the shoulder of the highway. Near the corner he edged into the backyard. It was the proximity to the stolen clothes that gave him the motivation to take a look.

  The back screen door hung ajar, sagging on an angle, the top hinge having pulled out. The rear door did not quite close and the jamb at the deadbolt was splintered. The Fat Man drew his gun.

  If Kurt was hiding in the house it seemed likely he was upstairs. The basement stairs led to a trap with no exit. The second floor permitted time to choose a window for escape if a realtor happened to stop by.

  He had never shot a man. Particularly one who worked for the Agency. However, what the fat man lacked in perspicuous thought he compensated for with blind allegiance to authority.

  Cautiously, he worked through the downstairs rooms and found no one. He paused to listen for movement, but heard nothing. He mounted the stairs one step at a time. At each tread that creaked he paused to listen. Again on the landing he stopped, clutching his gun so tightly his knuckles were white.

  The bedroom to the rear of the house was empty. Warily he tried the front bedroom, it was empty, too.

  Fat Man relaxed as he turned back toward the stairs. The bathroom door flew open and someone careened into him as they charged out. He fell back, slamming to the floor. His trigger finger flinched and the gun roared. The sound sufficiently unnerved him that he pulled the trigger two more times. All three shots tore into Willard Stangl. He bounced into the wall then crumpled in a heap on the landing. The first bullet went into the gut, the next entered through the thorax and the third left a perfectly centered hole in Stangl’s forehead.

  Once the shock and fear passed, the Fat Man felt proud of himself, having accomplished half of his assigned mission. He let himself out the back door and hurried through the yard to the highway. Hiding behind a large fir tree, he waited until there was no traffic, then he went to his car, pulled a U-turn and drove toward town.

  *

  The Fat Man called in. “This is Bernie. I have eliminated Agent Clemson.”

  Claus was surprised by the rapidity of the Fat Man’s success. “What about Dirk and Grim?”

  “I’m in town looking for them now, sir.”

  “Where is Stangl?”

  “In an abandoned house.”

  “I need the address.”

  “I’ll need to check, the house is on Spruce Lane and listed by Lanski Real Estate.

  “I’ll get the address. Find a pay phone as near as possible to the house. Then call me.”

  “One other thing sir. There are wanted posters on Kurt all over town.”

  Claus hung up, both irritated and satisfied. The posters were either the work of the locals or the FBI was into the game. At least the Bureau would not catch Clemson and embarrass the Agency.

  A few strokes on his keyboard brought up the web page for Lanski Real Estate. The house for sale was 722 Spruce. Next he web searched for the television station closest to Red Lake. On Channel 13 streaming live he watched Special Agent Hoover of the FBI describe their manhunt.

  Claus, was like a spider in the center of his web, he was tugging strings in his snare.

  He wrote out a brief statement. Setting it aside as he called out,

  “Miss Whelks, please come in for dictation.”

  She entered and sat primly in a straight back chair awaiting her boss’s pleasure, her pen poised.

  Van de Meer dictated quickly and flawlessly.

  Willard Stangl who was wanted on a murder warrant issued by Canaan County, was shot dead by Special Agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation this morning.

  Mr. Stangl was a low level analyst for the Central Intelligence Agency until he was put on medical leave for depression one week ago. A spokesperson at the CIA’s information office indicated that the murder victim, Samantha Quilling, was a co-worker of Mr. Stangl’s. Sources that demanded anonymity indicated it was suspected she and Stangl had developed a romantic liaison. Miss Quilling had not been in to work since Mr. Stangl was put on medical leave. The spokesperson expressed the Agency’s regret at this tragedy.

  Mr. Stangl was unarmed at the time he was shot. Local authorities are looking into why deadly force was used. So far the FBI has refused to comment.

  Miss Whelks, put that out to the media through our contact in Calgary. In a few minutes I will want you to read a statement into the phone. She nodded her assent.

  A half hour later, Van de Meer’s fiction was on the Internet and being picked up by the television networks. In the meantime, he was busy.

  The Fat Man phoned from his cell phone ten minutes later. He was at a gas station pay phone a quarter mile from the empty house.

  “When I tell you, dial 911 on the pay phone. Say nothing, but put your cell phone beside the pay phone’s speaker. As soon as the talking stops on this end, hang up and leave. Then resume your search for Dirk and Grim.” As an afterthought he added, “Good work Bernie.”

  “Yes, sir and thank you, sir.”

  Claus was peevish at the plethora of “sirs”, but would have been equally annoyed without them. He buzzed for Miss Whelks.

  “I want you to read this exactly, nothing more or less.”

  Into the phone he said, call 911, Bernie.”

  The phone rang three times.

  “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

  Miss Whelks read from the paper, “I heard gunshots on Spruce Lane. Then I saw two crew cut men in dark suits run away from an empty house. It was number 722.”

  “What is your name and phone number?”

  Claus cut the connection. Fat Man did the same.

  Chapter 65

  Everyone looking for Kurt heard the radio call on the police radio channel.

  “Gunshots reported at 722 Spruce. Two suspects in dark suits were reported fleeing the area.”

  Radio chatter ensued as several deputies responded.

  Channel 13 sent a news van to the location. Fortunately the team was already on the Canaan side of the mountains covering a ‘human interest’ story. They arrived only moments behind the police. Consequently, the police’s entry of the house and their recovery of the wanted man’s body were recorded for the news.

  Gaines felt things were running out of control. It was obvious this all led back to Eddie Ames’ supposed accident. Since then Gaines had a crime scene with no body, two men dead in a plane, a young woman beate
n to death, and now a dead man who claimed to be FBI but was actually CIA. Despite his penchant for justice, the sheriff wished Harry never touched the case.

  The Canaan County’s crime scene team was working the site when he walked into the house on Spruce. A photographer recorded where Clemson’s dash for freedom came to an end.

  The Sheriff trudged up the stairs. Despite regular workouts, stairs were an increasing challenge. Vince Tartelli the county’s coroner and pathologist greeted him.

  “Morning Vince, what do we have?” Gaines asked.

  “Three shots. The first entered straight in. The second two were shot upward into him. The bullet holes are high in the wall.”

  “From the bottom of the stairs?”

  “Perhaps, but that would mean a second assailant. It could be the shooter was down on the floor?”

  Gaines studied the body slowly. Clemson was bare foot. The jeans he wore were loose. The blood on his shirt was turning dark.

  “What do you make of the marks on his wrists?”

  The skin was raw and bruised. “Same thing here,” said Tartelli as he pulled up the pants cuff. “The guy was tied up.”

  This news was not surprising. Whoever Clemson did business with was most likely not a gentle lamb.

  “Looks like he got away and was shot,” opined Tartelli.

  “Let me jump to the conclusions,” Gaines said amiably.

  Pat Egan came up the stairs two at a time.

  “Morning boss.”

  “Pat.” Gaines nodded. “How do you read it?”

  “The guy was tied up but not here, no rope and nothing to cut it with unless he broke a window, which is not the case. Secondly, a woman down the street reported her husband’s clothes were taken from the clothesline. I found a small bundle of clothes in the bathroom. She identified them.”

  “So he arrived here naked?”

  “My guess? He was on a boat. Either he escaped or was dropped overboard tied up and was lucky enough to slip the knots before he drowned. At some point his captors found him and finished the job.”

  “A working hypothesis. But I have hunch we may find it is more obtuse than that. Send me the report Vince.”

  Gaines and Pat walked down the stairs. He looked out the front window. Beyond the weeds a small crowd lined the streets, curious neighbors, reporters and a few people who seemed out of place. Gavin recognized the CIA man who approached him in the restaurant; he blended in wearing jeans and baggy cotton shirt.

  Agents Cracken and Delaney of Homeland Security stood on the far side of the street. They attempted to observe discretely but their business dress in Red Lake stood out.

  “How did the cameras get here so fast?”

  “They listen to our calls on a scanner.”

  “Dull work for someone.” Gaines spotted Lou Harding in the crowd. He wrote the articles on Praxis. It seemed possible he knew something. “Pat, bring Harding in here. I want to talk to him.”

  Egan went out the front door, cutting through the weeds to where the Clarion reporter stood at the fence.

  From the living room window Gaines noticed a dark sedan pull in and park behind a police cruiser. Raines and Reynolds of the Secret Service climbed out. Harding and Egan came up the walk. By the front gate, Special Agent Hoover and his partner were obviously arguing with the deputy at the police line.

  The front door opened.

  “Good morning, Mr. Harding.”

  “Sheriff.” Lou smiled with a nod. “Why do I get this special tour of the crime scene?”

  “I want to talk.”

  “No thumb screws? No rack?”

  Gaines chuckled. “A friendly talk. How did word get out about this so quickly?”

  Lou appeared surprised. “It was on the web!”

  Gaines and Egan traded looks. “Exactly what was posted?”

  “That the FBI shot and killed Stangl when he was unarmed. The story claimed Stangl worked for the CIA. The Agency confirmed it. That makes this a hot story for inter-agency conflict.”

  “Why did you write those stories about Praxis?”

  “Local interest.”

  “Harry Grim have anything to do with it?”

  Harding’s pause was slight but Gaines noticed.

  “I can think up my own angle without any help.”

  “Then you can go.”

  “Come on Sheriff, I played ball, let me catch a glimpse of the crime scene.”

  “I doubt the truth of that statement, Mr. Harding. I think you know more than you are willing to share.”

  Gaines pointed to the door. As the door opened the Sheriff could see that the escalating heated exchange between his deputy and the FBI men. From the front door he called, “Gonzales! Let those two in.”

  The two agents gave Gonzales an officious sneer and ducked under the yellow police line tape.

  “We are taking charge of this in investigation Sheriff. This is a federal matter,” Special Agent Hoover announced.

  “According to the news you already took care of the matter. Supposedly you popped him while he was unarmed!” Gaines paused to stroke his mustache.

  “That’s a lie!” Hoover almost shouted as color rose in his cheeks.

  “Well I can’t very well turn a crime scene over to the alleged shooters. You have anything to say?”

  “We demand to see the body!”

  “Denied.”

  “We’ll go over your head.”

  “Suit yourself, Hoover. Meanwhile I have to ask you to not leave town.”

  Hoover was on the verge of loosing control. His face was livid.

  “You have no idea of what is going on, Sheriff.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please show me your weapon, sir?”

  “Not without a warrant,” Hoover bristled.

  “Then I will take you into custody. We had a report of two men fleeing the house. For reasons unknown to me, the Internet identified them as FBI agents. So my guess is that would be you. Cuff them Egan.”

  Hoover actually reached for the gun on his hip but Egan was ahead of him. Hoover found himself looking down a .38’s barrel.

  Gaines reached over and gently lifted Hoover’s gun from his belt. He sniffed it then handed it back. He turned to Mills, who hesitated, but after a nod from Hoover, he surrendered his piece. Again Gaines sniffed it and handed it back.”

  Gaines pointed to the door. “Get out of here!”

  Hoover blustered and protested, but finally he turned and stalked out. Probationary Agent Mills meekly followed.

  “Pat, I want to talk to that man over by the elm tree. Bring him around to the backdoor, quietly.”

  Egan slipped out via the rear mudroom. Gaines saw him go wide around the crowd and approach the man from behind. A noise coming from the upstairs distracted him. When he looked back they were gone.

  “We’re done up here, Sheriff. Can my guys move the body.”

  “In a minute.”

  Egan entered with the CIA man following.

  “Come here.” He nodded toward the stairs.

  Together they went up.

  “Is that your man?”

  “Yeah. He worked for the agency.”

  “Doing what or am I about to hear National Security again.”

  “I don’t know what he was doing. Whatever it was has my boss nervous. But he sure wasn’t a low level analyst.”

  “You didn’t take him out?”

  “Sorry Sheriff, not a chance. I’m the equivalent of Internal Affairs. I investigate, I’m not a shooter.”

  “Is it possible your people took him out?”

  “Off the record?”

  Gaines nodded.

  “Someone is scared. It’s possible.”

  They came downstairs. “If you are done with me Sheriff I’m out of here. Stangl has been identified so my job here is over. Whatever the ramifications of his actions are will probably be played out behind closed doors in Washington.”

/>   “Thanks for helping.” Gaines put out his hand, something he did for few feds.

  The man shook it and went out the back. Gaines never saw him again.

  “Bring him down. Vince.” Gaines called up the stairs. The sheriff opened the front door.

  “Gonzales!”

  His deputy hurried up to the porch.

  “Bring that couple wearing the blue suits in here.”

  While Gonzales was gone Egan asked, “Who are they?”

  “Agents Cracken and Delaney of Homeland Security.”

  ”What the hell is going on? This is like a federal law enforcement convention?”

  “I don’t know, Pat. But if you don’t know who the sucker in the poker game is, you’re the sucker.”

  “Agent Cracken. Anything I can do to satisfy your curiosity? Or are the two of you out for a drive in the country?”

  “We are not accountable to you Sheriff.” Her air was haughty attempting to sound superior but it failed.

  “Well since when does Homeland Security investigate small town murders? Do you have reason to believe that Mr. Stangl was a terrorist?”

  “I’m not free to comment.”

  Gaines shrugged.

  “I will want a complete copy of your report, Sheriff,” she commanded.

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you bring us in here?”

  “Thought you might want to help. But if not I still wanted to document your presences at the crime scene. This is obviously stirring inter-agency friction in Washington, I want to list all the players.”

  “It might be best for you if you leave our names out of it,” Cracken threatened.

  “Everyone is full of advice and yet nobody has any useful information,” Gaines sighed falsely.

  As they left Gaines called after them, “Would you mind passing a message to the two men on the corner? Tell them to come over. They’re Secret Service, or perhaps you already know that?”

  Gaines watched from the window. Cracken passed the word and the two men crossed the street. Behind him, the coroner’s men came down the stairs carrying gurney. As the Secret Service entered, Willard Stangl was wheeled across the room. Gaines held up his hand, “Hold on a minute Vince.”

  “Agent Raines, Sgt. Reynolds.”

  “Sheriff, how can we help you?”