Infraction--Getting Even

By Ken Lord

Here are two serial killers, each wishing to settle a score. Meet Wilberforce Duggie Hansen, at odds with a mother who is a domineering drunk and has a bias against the gay friends her son wishes to bring home. She arranges never to have to confront the question again. And there's Marty Syrzinski, a Navy Seal dropout with a temper, who goes on a murder spree just because he can.

There are eight victims, with nothing unique about them except that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are also two bank robbers, freshly released from an Oregon prison, on their way to Reno, who resolve Syrzinki's killing spree.

A zip gun, a poison snake, a firebombing, stolen dynamite, an explosion, and three funerals—all within two weeks.

In this, the second adventure of Chainville Chief of Police Quentin Price, the Chief has the help of the California Highway Patrol, the Oregon State Police, the Klamath Falls (OR) Police Department, the Federal Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms; and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

In the two years since the Chainville Theater murder, Chief Price has build the force of the Chainville Police Department to include a top-notch detective group and a crime scene unit, headed by an expert. Introducing an up-and-coming crime scene novice, the Chief's son, Quentin Price, Jr., or "QP2."

Come with us as we share the Chief's second mystery. Visit the Chief and his new love, banter with the City's gadfly, Doris Odland; listen to the City's Mayor McCheese (tm of McDonald's Corporation); and watch the antics of the Reverend Amos Wilson as he puts on a Northwesterner's version of a New Orleans funeral.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Lord
• Release date: Jun 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476369143

Ken Lord

Author of more than 60 works of nonfiction, fiction, biography, historical fiction, and YA. Senior citizen living in suburban Syracuse, NY. 40 plus years of computer experience and a comparable amount of adult education. ABA and BSBA from University of Massachusetts Lowell, EdM from Oregon State University, and doctoral credits from the University of Arizona. And, are you ready for this? An Avon representative for nearly 18 years, a top seller, well awarded, and "the cutest Avon Lady" in Tucson, Arizona.

Book preview

Chapter 1

This morning, like every morning, now that school was out for the summer, the kids began to gather on the vacant lot up near the avenue. As usual, the girls took to the swings and the slide. As usual, a few of the boys began to kick a soccer ball around. One or two of the boys were using the makeshift ramps and slides of the homebuilt motocross track. The noise was of the children having fun, punctuated by the roar of the bypassing traffic on Adelaide Avenue, just north of Wilkerson Boulevard, where the four-way traffic lights were located.

This morning, six boys—all middle school age—were kicking the ball, attempting to score on the goalie that defended the one net they had. The parents had been careful to orient the goal away from the traffic to prevent the ball from going into the street. If the ball did manage to get away from them, it would go either into Mrs. Henderson’s yard or into the tall grass on the other side of the lot. Grandmotherly Alicia Henderson understood the risks and always allowed the children to come around the fence to retrieve the ball.

Finding a soccer ball in the tall grass wasn’t nearly the problem as finding the old dirty baseball they normally used. So when Brandon Kelly’s kick bounced off the side of his foot and bounded into the tall grass, none of the children was concerned but what the ball would be quickly found.

I’ll get it! shouted Brandon.

The rest of the boys took the available rest time to sit, do a few pushups, or take practice kicks at a nonexistent ball aimed at the goal, while raising arms into the air and shouting, Score!

Brandon began to work his way into the waist high grass, swinging his leg from side to side, hoping to connect a shoe with the ball he might not see. Nearly ten feet inside the grass, his right foot connected with something that was solid, yet soft. Where the grass was matted, Brandon looked down to find himself face to face with a corpse, and he let out a scream.

Hey guys, there’s a dead man here!

Quickly the kids gathered where he was standing, each expressing some form of alarm. There on the ground was a man, perhaps thirty years old, dressed in leather pants and a leather vest that covered a red western shirt. His feet and lower legs were covered with cowboy boots. He was lying on his back and his head was at a downward angle.

Another boy tentatively extended his foot and prodded the body. Maybe he’s just sleeping, he said.

Brandon dropped to his knees and shouted, Hey, mister, wake up. The body did not stir. With the knowledge gained from earning his Boy Scout First Aid merit badge, Brandon placed his fingers against the man’s jugular vein. No pulse, he said. The guy’s dead, all right.

With the maturity one expects from a 14-year-old, Brandon took charge of the scene. Now keep cool, guys. We don’t know what happened here. There’s no blood that I can see, so we don’t know if somebody killed him, whether he wandered in here to die, or just got drunk and laid down here to sleep it off.

He turned to two of the other boys, and said, Stinky and Billy, you go tell Mrs. Henderson that there’s a man up here in the grass and she’d better call the police and an ambulance.

In fewer than five minutes’ time, an ambulance with two technicians, a backup fire engine, and two squad cars arrived. Those neighbors who were not away from home this morning began to gather at the side of the field. Trained in crime scene control, the patrolmen from the black and whites erected a periphery and ran the traditional crime scene yellow tape around it.

Once the technicians determined that the man was indeed dead, a radio call went in to police headquarters for homicide detectives. Soon two unmarked cars appeared. Detectives Brent Collins and Marsha Randall had arrived. Randall, the senior detective, now took control of the scene. She directed that the Modoc County Coroner be called.

Any idea who the guy is? she asked the ranking patrolman, Sergeant Billings.

The license in his wallet says ‘Charles Creehall,’ responded Billings. Lives up on Marchand Avenue, according to the license.

Marchand, said Randall. Not much up there now that they’ve pulled out all the old tenements so they can build condos.

I dunno. License says three-eleven Marchand.

We may find that he’s moved. She paused, and added, What else?

There’s a tattoo on one arm and it looks like he belonged to the Knights.

The KKK?

No, the California Knights. It’s a motorcycle gang.

I know the California Knights, Sergeant. That group of men could hardly be called a ‘gang.’ They’re more a ‘club’. They ride for fundraisers, Harleys mostly. They do motorcycle rodeos and teach kids how to ride safely.

There was no motorcycle here.

I can’t picture him on foot, said Randall. Is there a car that belongs to him?

None.

The conversation now shifted to Detective Brent Collins, who had joined the pair.

Coroner says that he took a small slug in the chest and bled to death from the exit wound. He’ll be able to tell us more after he’s examined the body. He’ll take it back to the morgue.

You can tell the firemen and EMT’s they can go, said Randall. I want the photographer to get Polaroids of the vic that the beat cops can show around, then the Coroner can do his work.

She now turned to the Sergeant. When the photog gets the pictures, I want your people to scour the neighborhood to see if anybody recognizes our victim and if they might have seen him before this morning.

The Sergeant acknowledged his orders and said, We’ll be back at the station in a couple of hours. I’ll have whatever I can get then. He then left to join the photographer.

Randall now turned to Collins. Did the Coroner give you any idea how long the man laid here bleeding to death?

At least ten hours, he said. All the blood from the victim’s upper torso is gone, and most of what was in the lower extremities.

Well, that will at least make embalming him easy, said Randall. Sorry if that sounds too callous, but you get that way after awhile. She sighed and lit a cigarette. How did he get here? Where did he come from? Didn’t you say there were no signs of a struggle or bruises on the body?

Nothing apparent, at least not on the exposed skin, said Collins. If he was in a fight, he would have had the upper hand.

And why is that? she asked.

He was carrying. The Concealed Weapons Permit was in his wallet, and he had a shoulder holster under his left arm. His leather vest covered it. We found a 9mm Glock in the grass. Looks as if he tried to pull it on his killer and was disarmed somehow.

Detective Randall received a copy of the victim’s Polaroid from the photographer, as the team from the Coroner’s office loaded the body into its utility truck. The patrol force then fanned out into the neighborhood, carrying note pads and pictures.

We’ll wait for the Medical Examiner’s (ME’s) report before we make any judgments, said Randall. You and I have some legwork to do.

Chapter 2

It’s the bottom of the fifth inning, and the Chainville Links are at bat. Two boys are on base, Tim Bradley is at first, and Sammy Tyndall is at third. Two runs will tie it up. A home run will win it. There is just one problem: there are two outs and the Chief’s son is up to bat. Quent Junior is not the athlete his father was, but at sixteen, he’s as bright and perceptive as his dad. He knows what is riding on this, and as his father ignores the angry parents calling for a substitute batter, so, too does young Quent.

The opposing team is the Yreka Screetchers. That isn’t their name, of course. It’s something more animalistic, like the bobcats, the cougars, the bears, the…whatever. One kid even wanted to call them the Yreka Yo-Yos. To the kids on the Chainville team, the opposing team is the loudest, most obnoxious and unsportsmanlike bunch of teens in the Northern California Little League. They tabbed the team with the moniker Screetchers, and the word got around. The Yreka team doesn’t like it one bit, and now in the last at-bat of the last inning (little league games run five innings) they are about to carry the game, with a score of 2-0.

The chatter grows louder now as obscene words fill the air and obscene gestures meant to intimidate the young man try to catch his notice. Young Quent concentrates on just one person—the pitcher, Carroll Deming. With a victory against the hated Links nearly his, the pitcher focuses intently on the skinny kid in the batter’s box. He throws a change-up. Ball one. Then a curve. Fouled into the bleachers. Strike one. Another curve, outside and away. Ball two. By now the kids in the field are beginning to razz the pitcher, and the parents of the Yreka team shout encouragement.

Fastball, low and inside. Ball three. Chainville is in danger of loading the bases, and Aaron McGinty, the top of the order, is on deck. McGinty is all beef, stocky and strong for fifteen. His one-season record is six home runs last year; he’s already at six this year and itching to break the record. The Yreka pitcher must get the final out with young Quent—by strike out, fly ball, infield ground ball, or whatever. This out is important!

Three balls and one strike. Curve ball, foul. Full count. Deming’s eyes now sparkle. Put one over, get that strike, and the game belongs to Yreka.

Young Quent’s eye’s sparkle, too. He knows that Deming has to pitch to him. No funny stuff. This time the ball has to come to him. If he walks, and McGinty doesn’t hit long, at least the game continues. If he connects, one run will still not be enough. Two will put it into overtime. Three will win the game, and Quent has to get on base. He just has to.

Deming winds up, looks at the boy on first, looks at the boy on third, and swings his arm overhand. Fastball. Right down the middle. Young Quent closes his eyes and swings. He connects with as hard a swing as he’s ever made. The ball is a line drive off the right shoulder of the pitcher and dribbles into foul territory, more than ten feet behind third base. The third base coach holds the runner, as the left fielder is gaining on the ball, grabs it, and turns toward first. The first base coach shouts to Timmy Bradley to run, and the boy knows that he must make it to second. Young Quent runs as fast as his legs can take him to first and arrives safely just as the Yreka first baseman digs the ball out of the dirt, four feet away from the bag. Bases loaded. Aaron McGinty walks to the batter’s box.

As McGinty got into position, Chief Price’s pager went off. He had turned down the radio’s volume to avoid interruption, but he always kept his pager active should it be necessary to contact him. He excused himself from the bench, turned the management of the team over to his assistant, and walked out into the parking lot, turning up the volume on his handheld radio as he walked.

Chief Price, go ahead, he said.

Chief, it’s Marsha Randall. We need you back at station.

What’s up, Detective?

We have a homicide, Chief. Something’s strange, and we could use your help.

I’m on my way, said Price.

He turned back toward the ballpark and moved back to the playing field, just as McGinty connected and the Chainville parents began to roar.

To his wife, and to his assistant, separately, he said, Duty calls. We’ve had a homicide. To his wife, he said, I’ll see you at home.

Chapter 3

In about ten minutes, Chief Quentin Price climbed out of his cruiser at the Chainville police station. The afternoon sun had begun its descent into the Pacific Ocean.

Chainville had been a quiet little town, both before and after the murders of Steve Gossman and Ben Tilden, now nearly three years before. Gossman’s murderer, Arnie Taylor, had died in the theater explosion. Ben’s wife Karla had done the honors and now resided in Chino, awaiting the automatic appeal on her first-degree murder conviction and death by lethal injection judgment.

It is a quiet little city—no longer a town of any designation—of about a hundred thousand people, nestled in the desert, east of the Cascade Mountains, south of the Oregon line, in northern California. With its growth to big city status came also the problems of a big city. Land is a big problem, as older residents weren’t amenable to development. Water isn’t a problem, unless there isn’t much snowcap in the Cascades.

Sunshine isn’t a problem, either. The Chamber of Commerce claims that it appears 300 days a year, about 84% of the time. They love that number, and it appears prominently in their literature. No mind that on fifty or more of those days, the sun pokes its way out of the clouds at breakfast and hides for the rest of the day.

It’s desert, but it isn’t hot desert, like one would find in Arizona. It’s high desert, where the temperature may be unbearable in the afternoon then call for long-john underwear at night. No cactus here. It’s too wet. The desert vegetation is largely the aromatic sage, a plant that titillates the nostrils and dies, separating from its roots and becoming tumbling tumbleweeds, to quote a Sons of the Pioneers song. Sand abounds, of course, but there is enough water for pleasant vegetation, so the distance between the Pacific coast and Winnemucca holds beautiful sights and smells.

There are other distinctive smells in the area. The extensive sun produces large doses of algae in the lakes of the area; health advocates package it for human consumption. Chainville is on the north/south flyway, and it isn’t uncommon to see the flights of pelicans and other long-range birds, including Canada geese, with their abundant doses of excrement.

Dominant among the smells is the odor of horse manure. While farmers have some cattle, the grasses of the area lack the mineral selenium. Thus, animal feed grown in the area needs to be supplemented with the mineral, and that raises the price of beef grown here. The same is true about horses, of course, but somehow the breeding of horses, and often the capture of wild horses, fills a different purpose. Well-to-do ranchers solve much of the feed problem by buying alfalfa grown in Nevada. The cost of a bale of Nevada alfalfa is extreme, but equal to local alfalfa, supplemented with selenium.

There are native crops in the area, of course. Alfalfa, hay, cotton, and horseradish are the foremost ones, but there are other agricultural activities as well. The fertile soil permits truck gardening, augmented liberally by the available horse manure. In the spring and early summer, the quiet mornings are disrupted by the noise of crop dusting airplanes spreading fertilizer or insecticide. As disruptive as that is, it’s nothing compared to the sound of jets from the Air National Guard base just to the north of Chainville.

With growth comes crime, and while these two murders had now aged by three years, the City of Chainville continued to enjoy, if that is the word, a murder rate that averaged two dozen per year. For the size of the population, that was a low rate—about two hundredths of one percent.

Despite that, the force had grown. Not only had the Traffic Division become busy, the city had its share of breaking and entering, robbery, burglary, fraud, and domestic abuse. It was this last category that gave Price the most pause. If somebody got killed in the act of a robbery or a B&E, that was predictable, and the solution for that had to be better education for the community. Training classes had been conducted on self-protection and property protection, and it looked as if the numbers in those areas were also dropping. Domestic abuse was always a problem. Since more often it was male on female violence, Price had begun seminars for local mental health practitioners and owners of bars and other drinking places. Drugs were a problem here just as much as anywhere. Illegal immigration was also a problem, and the I-5 corridor carried Canadians going south and Central Americans and Mexicans going north.

Price had increased the number of beat patrols. The City Council had told him there was no money to do that, but his friend Alton Douglas of the California Highway Patrol (CHP) had seen to it that some California State law-enforcement grant money had found its way to Chainville. In the three years since the theater murders, Price and Douglas had again become close, reconnected as they had operated together on the battlefield.

As he drove to the station, Price smiled to himself. Douglas’ desk job had caused him to put on a few pounds. Price, on the other hand, had trimmed to what he called fighting weight. He marveled that he was now merely twenty pounds above what he had weighed when they first met. At 5’10", Price’s spine hadn’t settled with age. He still worked out, and joked with the gym trainers that they must have put him on the rack, which maintained his height. His muscle tone was outstanding, and when he performed his marital duties, Marion Price would smile and remember when it was twice a day instead of twice a week.

I’m not as good as I once was, he’d say, but I’m as good once as I ever was.

But Marian was now gone. It certainly didn’t seem as if it had been a year.

He’d gained a few marks in the process. There was the gimpy shoulder, the one that taken the bullet in combat, and for which he had added a Purple Heart to his row of medals. His back ached nowadays, and he realized there were some exercises he’d be wise to avoid. Moreover, there was the bullet crease across his forehead, just above the bushy eyebrows and beneath the salt-and-pepper shade his brown hair had become. That one had happened in Portland when he got into the middle of a gang fight. Both he and Marion had been happy to take the job in the more quiet and sedentary Chainville.

It wasn’t quiet and sedentary anymore, and this had caused Quentin to consider retirement. He thought about it, but recognized that he needed at least another five years. Quent, Junior, had his sights on the criminology program at Oregon State, and he’d need out-of-state tuition.

With a long sigh, he climbed out of the cruiser, removing his uniform from its hangar in the backseat. He’d change in the—what did they call it today? Head? Latrine? — Men’s room.

Because the days were now longer, the streetlights wouldn’t come on for another hour. Saturday night was always a busy night for his force. The traffic people would be out looking to keep the drunken drivers off the street. People who got a late start to the attractions outside the area would bottleneck the two-lane roads that led in and out of the city. Superhighways had not yet arrived in Chainville.

Detectives Collins and Randall were waiting in his office when he arrived.

Chapter 4

Charlie Creehall had spent the late afternoon of the previous day, Friday, at a bar called Banditos. Charlie, or C. C., as his friends called him, wasn’t much of a drinker. Two light beers in an evening were his limit. He didn’t like it enough to be a sop, and his last drink of the evening was often a stiff cup of coffee anyway, his one for the road. That one would be drunk with a double cheeseburger.

Tonight, Charlie had an executive duty to perform. As a representative of the California Knights, he tonight was going to give a safety lecture at the Chainville High School. It was a monthly gig for him, as he had become the mentor for the CHS Knights. He knew where the lights were, and he and the boys would ride around the football field. Safety was a primary concern for his pledges, teenaged boys faced with more power between their legs than they had ever known. He recognized that the difference between a motorcycle and sex just wasn’t obvious to this crew, and while he probably couldn’t do much to educate about sex, he knew about motorcycles. He’d agreed to take on the mentor job on a single condition—no boy was