Cutting Loose, page 23
Monckton nodded. “True.”
“And Max, where does he come into it?”
“Not being the bomber, I guess he doesn’t.”
“You’re obsessing on this bomber shit, dead man.”
“Humor me. That vehicle. It looks pretty, but . . .”
Monckton could see, over there, Touchette, with a hand on the wheel, watching them.
Wetherspoon smiled. Monckton heard the whirr of the starter.
“It never seems to work, does it?” said Monckton.
Touchette goosed it again, and the tone changed.
“It’s fine. Gimme a few minutes to settle our business, we’ll be riding in that vehicle, heading south.”
“I guess not,” said Monckton.
“How you figure?”
“When that engine catches, your bitch is toast.”
Wetherspoon’s smile held for a moment.
“I’m the bomber, dog breath.”
Wetherspoon turned toward the Chevy.
“No―”
The explosion lifted the Chevy into the air. The blast knocked Monckton back a couple of steps. Fire and smoke obscured the scene, though he thought he saw a piece of the vehicle going over his head. He felt a flick on his cheek and tasted blood.
He drew the sawn-off shotgun from under his coat. Wetherspoon, turning back to face him, said, “Fuck, no,” before Monckton fired and blew the legs from under him. A lump of metal landed on a shed roof. Wetherspoon, shot to pieces, groaned and muttered, “Not like this,” blowing spittle. He tried to drag himself backwards on his elbows but he had no traction. He sat up to look at his bloody legs, spat phlegm, drew a revolver and fired. The bullet cut through Monckton’s left cheekbone and ear. Monckton fell flat on his back; then he raised himself one last time, blinded by blood, and fired the other barrel. By chance, it caught Wetherspoon just above the heart and settled the matter.
FIFTEEN
Emmett had parked his plain-wrap Plymouth Gran Fury on a country road north of Palmyra in Montgomery County, Tennessee. Through the trees he could see a white-painted house and a pickup truck. After an hour, a red sedan turned into the driveway. A woman in her thirties with three children came out of the car. Emmett released the brake and drove on.
The next address was not far away, on Dog Hollow Road off Corbandale Road some miles west of Palmyra. A sign outside said it was to let. He parked and approached, revolver in hand. It was a handsome property with stabling and quarters for staff. It was deserted.
The third address was in Dickson County. He drove west to Cumberland City, where the road turned south. At Waverley he turned east toward McEwen. There, he turned north on a local road for three miles until he saw a sign on a stake with the number 25 painted on it. A rutted track led from the blacktop. Emmett turned and followed it for a couple of hundred yards, and parked short of the clapboard farmhouse at the end. He drew his Smith and Wesson .357 magnum and walked toward it. A twisted piece of metal lay to one side among weeds. A blue jay rose flapping from a tree and glided south. He waited for a while, listening, but could hear nothing, so he walked on. In back of the farmhouse, he saw two bodies, the remains of a vehicle, and shattered windows.
The first body he came to was Sol Monckton. He was so wasted by disease that he seemed little more than a bundle of rags. A bullet had cut a channel through one side of his face. A shotgun lay next to him. Emmett checked the pulse and felt nothing.
The next body, a few yards beyond, was Noah Wetherspoon. He had been hit twice by shotgun blasts that had cut him to pieces. There was no point in checking his vital signs.
A Chevrolet sedan lay on its side. Little more of it was left than the chassis. The lower half of a body remained inside. The shreds of suit fabric and a black loafer shoe with a tassel suggested to Emmett that it was Touchette.
The scene told its story. Emmett shook his head in disbelief. It was Monckton who had bombed the house in Delaney, and he had done the same here. The guy had gone out in style. Emmett, looking down at that shattered body, touched his hat brim in acknowledgment: Monckton had had the last word.
He checked the farmhouse and the outbuildings. They were empty, so he took police tape from the trunk of his car and tied it across the yard from the back porch of the farmhouse to a tree on the other side of the track, then went through the back door into the kitchen. He flicked through the phone directory next to the old-fashioned phone and dialed.
“KCTV here. How may I help you?”
“I’m a police officer and I need to speak to your news editor.”
“One moment, sir.”
Through the window Emmett could see a hole in a shed roof made by debris and the dying fire it had started.
“Clem Flaxman speaking. Am I right you’re a cop?”
“Yes, Clem, and I need a camera crew. You have twenty minutes tops to get here or you lose the story.”
“How big is it?”
“All the way big, Clem. And this is the address. . . .”
He went through the house and the outbuildings again, and saw that the barn had been used for the production of amphetamines. Phil Schneider must have moved his operation elsewhere but he had been sloppy about covering his tracks. Close by was the small apartment where Monckton had been detained.
After he had inspected everything, he went and sat on the back porch and tried to analyze the sequence of events that had unfolded there, until he heard a car engine. Dust rose as the vehicle came along the dirt track. He ambled out and raised a hand. Three people emerged and the one in the suit said, “Sir?”
“Uh huh?”
“You’re the cop, sir?”
“Yes, I am.”
The three of them looked at the scene around them, transfixed, and stood there silently.
“We don’t have long, gennlemen, so let’s get started.”
The sound and camera duo quickly got set up.
“Right,” said the reporter. “Uh―why don’t you start by saying who you are and what exactly we’re looking at.”
“Do I look at you or the camera?”
“Me.”
“Are we rolling?”
“Sure.”
“My name is Texas Ranger Emmett Capps. I have no jurisdiction in this state, which is why I’m in plain clothes, but I’ve been working in collaboration with the Tennessee Rangers, without whose help nothing could have been done. Behind me lay three bodies.”
He pointed. “Over there in that vehicle are the remains of Delroy Touchette. Closer by, right there, is Noah Wetherspoon. And here lays the body of Sol Monckton, one of the Delaney Three, who has been on the run for thirteen years.”
He saw the reporter’s jaw drop.
“I’ve been on Monckton’s trail for quite some time. He lived in South America, then he moved to Belize, where he got a facelift. After that he moved back to the US and settled in Nashville, where he worked as a talent agent and represented a string of country singers, using the name Simeon Appelbaum. Noah Wetherspoon and his associate, Delroy Touchette, kidnapped Monckton, hoping to get a lead to Carey Astaire, but Monckton killed them both. He used a car bomb on Touchette and a shotgun on Wetherspoon.
“Oftentimes, justice isn’t perfect. Monckton never saw the inside of a courtroom. He was guilty of murder and should have faced a jury. But he is dead. And the mystery that surrounded him for so long has finally been resolved. Now we know, in detail, the story that led him to this final scene. I’ll take questions. Please don’t cross the tape.”
“Emmett,” said the cameraman, “Whyn’t you move over a step or two. That way I got a neat angle.”
“You bet.”
The team seemed hypnotized by the scene before them but they kept doing their job. The reporter asked questions for quite a while, then did a piece to camera until Emmett, looking over their shoulders, saw a line of vehicles approaching in the distance.
“Gennlemen,” he said, pointing. “That’s the FBI coming along right there. And unless you hightail it right now, they’re gonna confiscate your film. I see you’ve got a vehicle that can cut across country, which is good, cos I’ve got a suggestion―you keep going back of here and slip back onto the road along a ways.”
He went back to the porch and sat on the rocker as they hurriedly packed up and left. Five minutes after they had gone, the lead FBI vehicle halted at the police tape and an agent stepped out. Other agents joined him and they stared at the scene of destruction.
The lead agent said, “Let’s lose this rinkydink non-regulation tape.”
Emmett, sitting at his ease, legs crossed, said nothing.
They walked around the yard, inspecting everything.
“Okay,” said the lead agent. “Let’s get set up.”
He watched as the forensic team began their work, then approached the porch and cocked his head to one side.
“Emmett, why are you fucking with our case?”
“Yours?”
“Well it sure isn’t yours. Not here in Tennessee. And I guess if Monckton here was kidnapped, it’s for sure a federal case.”
Emmett shrugged.
“Have you discharged a firearm at this scene?”
“No.”
“Okay.” The agent nodded and gave himself a moment for reflection.
”Please,” said Emmett. “Ask your questions. Don’t be shy.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“Cos you won’t be up to speed. And I’m always glad to assist my fellow law-enforcement officers.”
“You’re gonna assist by removing yourself from this crime scene.”
“Who’m I talking with here?”
“Special Agent Dale Withers.”
“Okay, listen, Dale. I’m happy to have solved your case for you, so please―knock yourselves out.”
“You, solved our case?”
“For sure, Dale. If you hadn’t been bugging my phone, you’d still have your head wedged all the way up your ass.”
“You’re dreaming, Emmett.”
He turned to an associate. “Jimmy, escort this person onto the highway.”
Emmett rose.
“You guys couldn’t find the outhouse with a guide dog.”
“Thanks for your input, Emmett. Sayonara.”
“Sir?” said Jimmy. “Right this way.”
Emmett, tired from a long day, showed his ID and turned into the lot. He parked, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and walked along a corridor to the office Mack Travis had been assigned in the Tennessee Rangers’ field office in Nashville. Travis, putting documents in a file, turned and saw him.
“Jeez, Emmett, good to see you.”
“Likewise. How’s it going, Mack?”
“Bad. It’s gone totally sideways. Gil and Marvin are both here spitting feathers.”
“How come?”
“The FBI have gatecrashed the party. How, we don’t yet know. Gil and Marvin are in Les Reeves’ office. Whatever it is may surface soon.”
Reeves’ door stood ajar and they entered. Marvin Jacks, talking with Gil Kramer, saw Emmett and said, “Emmett, hi. You certainly choose your moment. It’s not looking good. Mack’s told you?”
“Kinda. The Feebs are bigfooting us?”
“Exactly. Or so it appears. Have you got anything for us?”
Kramer said, “Emmett’s not on this part of the investigation, Marvin.”
“Okay, Gil.”
Jacks turned back to Emmett, who held his palms out in surrender. “Like Gil says . . .”
“Emmett,” said Kramer. “You have no reason to be here in Nashville.”
“Point taken, Gil. Mum’s the word.”
The TV fixed to a wall bracket was on with the sound down. The picture jumped to a studio presenter, and Jacks said, “Let’s have some sound.”
“. . . contact which suggests an announcement is coming later today from the FBI with regard to person or persons on their Ten Most Wanted List. Tim Donahue has this.”
“I spoke with an FBI representative twenty minutes ago who told me that an announcement was to be made at 8pm. It involves a major figure they have been seeking for a long time. They were unwilling to be more specific . . .”
Reeves turned off the sound.
“This,” said Kramer, pointing at the screen. “How do we even know it’s about Monckton?”
“It’s about Monckton till we know different,” said Jacks. “Let’s try other channels.”
Les Reeves worked the remote.
“What the fuck?” said Travis. “Wasn’t that a still of Monckton from Bakersfield?”
Reeves flicked back and turned the sound up. The still of Monckton from the video camera appeared and then was gone, to be replaced by a studio anchor who had that air of gravitas they put on with the suit.
“. . . a truly shocking, disturbing scene. We cannot show the full horror, so what follows is an edited version. We bring you exclusive coverage of the death of Sol Monckton of the Delaney Three who, along with Carey Astaire, has entered legend for evading capture for so long.”
“Oh shit,” said Kramer. Then he glanced at his watch and said, “But it’s not even close to 8pm. What gives?”
The picture jumped. A reporter was standing in front of police tape, a shocked look on his face.
“Behind me lay the bodies of three people. They died violently. Among them was Sol Monckton of the Delaney Three.”
The camera panned across two bodies and the chassis of a car on its side.
“Holy shit,” said Jacks.
“Present with me is a law–enforcement officer who explains the situation before us.”
Emmett’s face filled the screen.
“My name is Texas Ranger Emmett Capps. I have no jurisdiction in this state, which is why I’m in plain clothes, but I’ve been working in collaboration with the Tennessee Rangers, without whose help nothing could have been done. Behind me lay three bodies.”
Marvin Jacks, there in Nashville, turned to Emmett in astonishment.
Emmett pointed. “Over there in that vehicle are the remains of Delroy Touchette. Right here is Noah Wetherspoon. And here lays the body of Sol Monckton, one of the Delaney Three, who has been on the run for thirteen years.”
“Emmett,” said Jacks, “You son of a gun.”
The four of them then watched silently as the interview unfolded.
“. . . justice isn’t perfect. Monckton never saw the inside of a courtroom. He was guilty of murder and should have faced a jury. But he is dead. And the mystery that surrounded him for so long has finally been resolved. Now we know, in detail, the story that led him to this final scene. I’ll take questions. Please don’t cross the tape.”
When it was over, Jacks said, deadpan, “Emmett―fill in the gaps for me.”
Travis burst out laughing.
“Uh, sure, Marvin. I got a lead to Wetherspoon, followed it, got there maybe two hours after the shoot-out. Then, what can I say? A TV crew arrived.”
“Arrived?” said Jacks.
“Exactly,” said Emmett.
“Okay. Keep going.”
Emmett spread his hands. “I gave them an interview. I mean, what else was I gonna do?”
“Uh huh.”
“Then―it gets complicated, but someone had been on my tail for a while and I was guessing it was the Feds. So, they crashed my party there at the crime scene and kicked me out.”
“And the TV crew?”
“I saw the Feds there on the highway, lights flashing like it was a carnival, and I advised the crew to beat it fast.”
“Who was the lead agent?”
“Dale Withers.”
“He’s gonna be mad as a wet hen. You stole it from under them, Emmett.”
“They were trying to steal it from under me.”
“You’re right. And, guys, I guess that announcement at 8pm will be interesting. How are they gonna cover their collective butt?”
“So . . . Gil,” said Emmett. “I guess I’ll be getting back to Masonville. . . .”
Kramer had nothing to say.
“No way, Emmett,” said Jacks. “The media will be here pretty soon, and we need you right here.”
An hour later, there was a scrum of media people in front baying for a response. Les Reeves, answering the phone in his office, said, “FBI? Hi, guys. Yeah, this is Les Reeves . . . Marvin? Sure. He’s right here.”
Jacks took the receiver and said his name. He listened for a while and rolled his eyes at Reeves and Emmett.
“Sure. I understand. Absolutely. No, that was never the intention. Emmett was simply following a lead. No one is trying to do that. I mean, you have it covered. You have the scene under your control, so everything has worked out fine.”
Jacks held the phone away from his ear for a moment as though a tirade was coming from the other end.
“Will, let’s take a step back and cool down. We’re colleagues. We’re all working to the same end. And it looks like we have a result. That’s a cause for celebration. No, Emmett wasn’t acting irregularly―we have an understanding with Nashville. Yes, he’s here, but you and I can do the talking. No one’s saying that. Kidnapping―that’s you guys. I’m not arguing. Listen, Will, we have to say something. There’s a mob outside here.”
Emmett glanced at his watch. It was 7.45 pm. Jacks saw it and glanced at the clock.
“Are you releasing a statement at 8, Will? Uh huh. Tomorrow? Okay.”
He listened for a while longer, making soothing comments before finally hanging up.
“Man alive. Will Garrison―you’d think his piles had ruptured. Oh boy.”
“The FBI,” said Reeves, “aren’t the story. You fellers are. They thought they owned the case.”
With startling speed, the media’s vehicles had lined the street and TV crews were setting themselves up.
“No way around it,” said Reeves. “Marvin, Gil, Emmett―let’s go toss a bone to the dogs.”
Emmett took a beer from a four-pack and lay back in his recliner. It had been a long three days, but he was back home, though he had had to shoo a crowd of reporters from his door as politely as he could. For a while he wanted to think about anything but law-enforcement.
He had ignored the phone and just watched junk on TV. The one thing he had already done, at the airport, was to send a postcard to Gus Esposito’s wife with the words, ‘Dear Jean, Thanks, Emmett.’
