Blue Group: A Jerry Anders Novel

By John VanderHeiden

Jerry Anders has investigated many murders, but none so far reaching as two he drew weeks before Christmas in the east coast city of Virginia Beach. A convicted police officer killer was shot with a bullet normally issued to FBI snipers. Someone is eliminating criminals who kill cops, and Anders' cases lead him to uncovering an organized effort spawned from within FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John VanderHeiden
• Release date: Sep 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311987150

John VanderHeiden

John T. VanderHeiden is a retired Police Lieutenant from the Virginia Beach Police Department. After twenty-eight years service, he now spends time writing, woodworking and traveling the country in an RV with his wife Melanie (Sissy). He is the eldest son of a Master Chief submariner, so he considers himself a Navy brat, growing up in several cities; San Diego, CA - Groton Long Point, CT - Norfolk, VA - Seattle, WA - Hayward, CA - Port Orchard, WA and Virginia Beach, VA. He holds a degree in Criminology with a minor in Psychology that he earned while working for the police department.John taught himself how to sail, and was an avid sailor in the Hampton Roads area and points north. He even raced his second of three boats when he could gather a crew. He likes to describe his third sailboat (Catalina 30’ Sloop) as a camper that floats. The only boats he has now are radio-controlled, and he thoroughly enjoys building them from scratch rather than from kits.

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BLUE GROUP

A JERRY ANDERS NOVEL

By

John T. VanderHeiden

Copyright

Copyright © 2013 - 2015

John T. VanderHeiden

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 9781311987150

Title: Blue Group - A Jerry Anders Novel

Author: John VanderHeiden

Publisher: Smashwords, Inc.

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Characters

Beginning

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Connect with Me

Dedication

To my wife (Sissy)

For her patience and support.

Characters

Al Klowansky: deputy assistant

Al Stanfield: detective sergeant

Baber Farrukh, MD: chief medical examiner

B. Frederick Greene: Becca Greene’s brother

Becca Greene: FBI associate deputy director

Betty: secretary

Bryce Brooks: cop killer

Carlson Jamaar Washington: cop killer

Cassandra (CJ) Jones: police officer

Daniel McVay: sergeant

D'ante Jackson: cop killer

Dick Ferguson: DEA agent

Dubree Knowles: accomplice

Dwight Singleton: murder victim

Ernie: funeral home worker

Harry Larvette: Blue Group member

Ike: SID surveillance detective

Isiah Smith: murder victim

James Monette: uniform police sergeant

Jeff: funeral home worker

Jermaine Henry: cop killer

Jerry Anders: homicide detective

Joe Rotini: Karla’s husband

JoMarie Charleston: former girlfriend

Karl: city wrecker driver

Karla Rotini: murder victim

Kendrick Worthington: murder victim

LaDonna Washington: sister

Lan Mares: police chief

Larome Davidson: cop killer

Lucy Rotini: child

Mac: SID surveillance detective

Marlin: chief dispatcher

Melanie Foresythe: city jail nurse

Michael (Mike) Clover: FBI senior special agent

Monica: receptionist

Officer Roberts: police officer

Patty Rotini: child

Roberta Travis: newspaper reporter

Rodney Gurling: murder victim

Roland Klowansky: prison warden

Rookie: murder victim

Russ Baxter: public information officer

Samantha Jameson: forensic technician

Sandra: secretary

Terrell Henderson: FBI special agent

Tom Brecking: Blue Group member

Tyrone Freeman: accomplice

Walter Salt, MD: medical examiner

One

The antiquated flip phone came to life lighting up the screen. It was an annoying piece of issued equipment for any police officer, vibrating and dancing on the nightstand in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, it was crucial gear when out of the office and working the street. It was Virginia Beach Homicide Detective Jerry Anders’ phone. He was getting a call at home, twelve thirteen on Tuesday, by Chief Dispatcher Marlin who was notifying him of the city’s most recent killing.

It's. Time. To. Wake. Up. In. The. Morning, Marlin sang on the phone.

There was silence. Anders did not answer.

Are you there detective?

Another pause. What’s up Marlin? Anders asked with an exasperated sigh, muttering, mumbling and yawning while trying to focus. He had been asleep for under an hour before the call, and not yet in deep rem.

Come on detective, wake up. It’s important. I’m not kidding this time.

Only one person Anders knew made a habit of singing that phrase. You busting my balls again Marlin?

No, certainly not. We have another dead one, North 44th Avenue this time. Wake up. Can you take it, or do I have to call your boss?

Marlin would not call the sergeant unless Anders refused to respond. However, Anders did have to respond to the case. He was the lone call-out detective on the list for death cases during the entire Christmas holiday. He volunteered for call-out duty every year because he had no children, whereas many others in the Bureau did. The gesture was reciprocated when he needed time off during sailing season.

I’ll take it. I’m awake now. What’s the address?

It’s in a parking lot, 200 block.

After rolling out of bed and dressing in yesterday’s clothes; khaki chino pants, a black t-shirt and deck shoes, Anders opened the door to his home and stepped onto the front porch. He buttoned up his knee length dark gray, woolen trench coat he always wore in winter, feeling the early morning cold and humid air on his face. Still not completely awake and rubbing one eye, he looked up at a low blanket of swollen clouds gently floating between the ground and black sky. Christmas had not arrived yet. Snow would probably be falling soon on this brisk early morning, crippling the coastal resort for at least a week.

Anders slid into his beige Ford Taurus and drove north. Nearly every light was green, and traffic was nonexistent on the dark, two-lane roads from his home. His unmarked car did not resemble a police detective’s vehicle, far from it. It was old with a few dents, a little rust and was tiny when compared to the larger Crown Vics driven by supervisors and the top brass. He was certain the administration was punishing him for something.

Anders preferred a car that was more substantial in power and size; a vehicle that could go at least ten miles an hour over the speed limit, one that had a siren so he could bust a red light now and then. His assigned unit was only equipped with blue lights in the grill. A magnetic and revolving blue dash light would have been more practical; a Kojak light, similar to one used by Telly Savalas on the 1970’s hit television series. The Taurus did however, have an FM radio and CD player, features Anders enjoyed.

THE CRIME SCENE was a small private parking lot, normally deserted between sunset and sunrise except for a few vehicles belonging to nearby late shift workers. Situated in the middle of a business district, its location was not far from an interstate highway leading to the city’s oceanfront. There was no perimeter fence or card activated security gate. It was a small, square and paved lot adjacent to a water-filled gravel pit, now a deep lake surrounded by chest high pampas grass bushes hiding fields of overgrown weeds. Local residents went fishing and swimming from their wooden docks along its shoreline in spring and summertime. During working hours, several employees from nearby businesses used the lot to avoid fees in the paid parking garage. One car remained in a back corner this morning, covered with early morning dew and sitting alone in manufactured daylight.

Anders was last to arrive on scene, the final few bars of Billy Joel’s River of Dreams echoing from within his unmarked unit’s interior. He stepped out onto the tarmac, popping an Atomic Fireball in his mouth. Sound waves, bouncing off two and three story glass clad buildings, interrupted a quiet stillness of the empty business park. Uniformed officers, Samantha Jameson and even the medical examiner all took notice as the senior detective crouched under flapping yellow crime scene tape stretching across the entrance to seal off the area, before purposely walking over to the lone vehicle.

Immediately, Anders noticed Samantha with her long straight blond hair, dressed in a navy blue forensic technician’s uniform and wearing latex gloves. She had already taken cursory photographs, and was awaiting further instructions, after having already set up her kliegs. Techs preferred them to flashlights and even headlights for illumination. They knew better than to continue without a detective present, especially with Anders (Iceman), assigned to the case. Samantha had witnessed his long harangues many times before at other scenes, and she was not going to trigger his rage this time by continuing prematurely.

Anders’ sobriquet described him precisely, most agreed. Some Techs considered him a cold and despotic dictator, but not Samantha. To her, he was cool, calm and all business. She realized investigators only had one opportunity to decipher scenes before they were disturbed.

The medical examiner, Dr. Walter Salt, had a patrician air about him; well dressed, business casual with shined loafers. He looked forty, but was well into the fifties. His hair was light-brown with a little gray at the temples. Normally, he was brisk, confident and fit.

Salt had his own successful medical practice during the day, only doing part time ME work at night and on weekends. He loved the thrill of murder investigations. Money was not a motivation. He was a professional who knew how to examine a body without disturbing any evidence, and he was not waiting for anyone this morning, Anders noticed. Tired, rubbing his eyes, moving slowly and having a sniffle, Salt wanted to go back home soon after completing his responsibilities.

ME’s in the Commonwealth of Virginia are almost like God Himself. They could be a detective’s best friend and provide valuable information with expedience or, when irritated, could delay an investigation for weeks holding up lab reports, misfiling autopsy results or simply not returning telephone inquiries. Anders had experience with all of these from earlier run-ins with Dr. Baber Farrukh, the Chief ME downtown.

After noticing Salt was already working the body, he politely asked, Hey Walt, what do we have here? Anders knew that Salt had also been called away from home. ME’s never worked after hours. They were paid by the body, and were not salaried employees like other normal civil servants.

Looks like a clear case of being in the wrong place at the right time, Salt uttered as he shoved the stainless steel rectal thermometer through the victim’s skin and into his liver. The tool, commonly referred to in layman’s terms as a meat thermometer, made a crunching sound that Anders was familiar with. Almost three hours ago, I would say, putting the shooting around ten thirty last night. It's now past one o’clock in the morning.

Salt did not have to explain the time. Anders had also been rousted from a restful sleep by dispatcher Marlin, not thirty minutes before.

Marlin enjoyed calling out detectives when they were off duty, asleep at home or doing something personal on their own time. In the old days, any dispatcher had permission to telephone a detective after hours, and have him or her respond to a case. With scarce overtime funds these days, only chief dispatchers had that pleasure now.

Examining a little closer, both Anders and Salt observed a single bullet lodged in the headrest on the passenger side front seat. The slug had traveled unerringly through the open driver’s side window and into the victim’s eyeball, scrambling his brains before exiting out the rear of the skull. It was closely followed by clumps of brain matter, blood and shards of bone that now adorned the interior headliner, passenger seat and headrest.

Any gun, Walt?

Samantha already looked, and I haven’t seen one either.

I guess it isn’t a suicide, huh Walt? No answer. Jerry did not know if Salt had heard him, or if he was simply ignoring the attempted humor.

A young and sharply dressed uniformed officer interrupted, Detective Anders, we found a .300 Winchester Short Magnum (also known as .300 WSM) shell casing at the other end of the parking lot.

A what?

A sniper shell the officer thoughtfully answered, eager to make a good first impression.

Anders was in a quandary, not so much by the murder itself, but because his knowledge of long barrel guns was minimal.

The rounds are issued to FBI snipers, the officer explained, sensing his bewilderment.

How do you know that?

I read a lot, sir.

A sniper rifle was not the normal weapon of choice in a murder, but this killing appeared to be different; it was either a stalking hit or random juvenile act, Anders guessed. If it was a stalking, somebody wanted this guy dead considering the lethality of the weapon. If it was random, the shooter was simply testing the weapon to see what it would do. Sure, there were other possibilities, drug deal gone bad, deranged spouse, pissed off girlfriend or even payback for something. A sniper rifle did not make much sense for any of those motives, at least for the moment anyway. The shell casing might not even be connected. Another weapon could have been used, and this casing may have been carelessly dropped long ago.

He mused for a second, then asked, Any witnesses?

None that we can find, sir.

From examination of the body and evidence in the car, it appears the victim was looking straight at the shooter when the shot was fired, Anders explained to the officer. He caught the bullet in the eyeball of all places, and there is no blowback on his face. He was shot from a distance for sure. Continue searching the area for anything else of interest! He directed.

Sure will detective, yes sir.

And, make sure Samantha recovers the shell casing and packages it for processing.

Already done, sir. She also took photos, and did a measurement from the car.

Overhearing the conversation, Salt told Anders, She sounds like a smart officer.

Yup, and pleasant to the eyes too.

I thought you’d say that.

Anders took his time examining the victim’s clothing, recovering personal items, and using his mini Maglite to illuminate shaded areas of the car for additional pieces of evidence. There were none. Even the outside was void of clues. The dew had not been disturbed. It was a used Chevrolet four door Impala with an open driver’s side window, not stolen, registered to a D'ante Jackson, presumably the victim.

Salt’s examination was complete after tagging the body. He was ready to leave and go home when Anders piped up again. Hey Walt, do you and Marlin ever go fishing in the Bay?

Samantha’s small and reserved grin became obvious.

I don’t know Jerry, why? Salt responded, mystified and confused.

Smiling now, Anders continued, Well, I thought you might since Chesapeake Bay was salty, and there were most likely marlin fishes out there.

You know Jerry, if you’re ever out on the Bay with that rag flapper of yours wanting a tow because you’re in the doldrums, I might not toss you a line and lend you a hand.

Jeez, Walt, I’m trying a little levity here. Sure is a tough crowd tonight. I already asked Marlin, but he wouldn’t answer either. Anders relented.

Jerry, it’s late and I’m not feeling well, Salt explained, Maybe next time we’ll catch one in the daytime. Take care of yourself.

You too, my friend.

IT HAD BEEN several months since Anders was on Chesapeake Bay sailing his Catalina 30’ sloop from Hampton Roads Harbor. Salt mentioning the doldrums rekindled cherished memories of warm sunshine, steady breezes, salt spray, crashing waves and the pure satisfaction of harnessing Mother Nature. He yearned for spring and summertime again when he could float over the tunnel, past Fort Monroe at Old Point Comfort; the southernmost tip of the Virginia Peninsula, and into the bay where winds blew steadily. Doldrums were not welcome in the hot and humid summer, but fresh winds of springtime were. Those relaxing days would arrive again soon enough, they always did.

Anders’ sloop was his third sailboat since taking up the sport. He was a self-taught and skillful sailor, who could handle the boat alone when necessary, but at least one other hand was preferred aboard on day outings. During races, a crew of two or three was necessary. He raced in the Performance Handicapped Racing Fleet (PHRF) non spinnaker class on weekends, and on the Wednesday night grab ass races with yacht club rich boys whenever he could break free from work. Laser engraved, dark walnut plaques with brass plates were awarded to the winners of sanctioned races, but Wednesday challenges merely provided bragging rights. Anders collected plenty of both.

BEFORE UNIFORMED OFFICERS had left the scene, they conducted a neighborhood canvass of the area, and learned the reason for victim, D'ante Jackson, to be in the lot where his body was discovered. He clearly had been waiting for the midnight shift to begin at the nearby satellite office for the local newspaper. He was an employee there, due to begin his shift at eleven last night. He never made it. Coworkers reported he was a single man, quiet and living alone in a government subsidized apartment a short distance away. He was a loner, never sharing anything personal with them. He had a sketchy current life, and a cursory past. He was an enigma.

It did not take long for Samantha to process the scene and gather the small amount of evidence, unusual for a homicide. Normally, processing murder scenes took more than eight hours. Techs usually carried away many bags and boxes of red tagged, packaged evidence. This morning she only had a few.

Jerry, if you don’t want me for anything else, I’m outa here. She waved good-bye.

Okay, thanks, he said with a grin. Anders was now alone, waiting for the funeral home folks and city wrecker to arrive.

The jet black Sanford Funeral Home van pulled up almost immediately with two overweight fellows inside. Anders recognized Ernie; a moderately plump retired cop from the Fourth Precinct. The other was a young wannabe with little to no chance of being hired unless he melted some blubber first. An academy experience could eliminate most of his fat, but he had to demonstrate a determined effort on his own first. He was already sweating despite the incredibly cold temperature and before doing any real work.

Maybe it was nervousness, Anders doubted.

Good morning Ernie. Who's your rookie?

This is Jeff. He’s new, so don’t bust on him too much. Hey Jerry, you work 24/7 or what? I thought you were a day tit.

I’m on call tonight. Normally I do.

"Are we taking this one to the morgue?

Yup, downtown, not the hospital.

Ernie explained to Jeff, Every hospital has a morgue, and each of those can accept ME cases. However, all autopsy cases go to the morgue in downtown Norfolk at the Chief ME’s office. Make sure the detective specifies an exact location for the transport or you might be making more than one trip with the same body. Understand?

Yes, sir, he responded, wiping sweat from his brow.

Ernie, can I elaborate? Anders asked.

Sure, go ahead.

Most of our investigations are natural deaths; old people simply dying at home or some other place not in a hospital, and they usually have a doctor treating them. ME’s are called to natural death cases where a doctor was not attending to the deceased person. Those bodies can be transported to any hospital morgue; usually the one the ME works from.

Got it.

Death cases that aren’t natural, those needing an autopsy, all have to be transported to the ME’s morgue in downtown Norfolk. Like Ernie says, the detective will tell you.

Okay.

Thanks Jerry.

Ernie and Jeff unrolled a dark brown body bag onto the tarmac, reached into the car and carefully placed D'ante Jackson inside, face up, zippering it shut. The bag had strap handles on either side. Lifting and sliding Jackson into the van without a gurney was not a problem, almost routine for such big men, well, one man and a fat boy.

Karl arrived a few minutes later with the wrecker. Anders gave him instructions where to take the car; the city garage. After Karl signed a chain of evidence form, he was off into the darkness.

Anders was alone now, standing on the blacktop with his hands neatly tucked into the pockets of his wool coat. The air was peaceful, but cold. Snowflakes began falling, meeting his gaze up into the night sky. The big and wet clumps were trying to cover what was once a murder scene; a parking lot with a vehicle, a dropped shell casing, and a dead body. If the shell casing was related, the killer was sloppy. There was no other evidence linking him or her to the scene that Samantha found anyway. The killer was also careful not to be seen by others, in either the lot or driving by.

Unquestionably, Anders was not a member of the liberal elite, but he did enjoy a cup of hot latté on cold mornings. Stopping at the all night coffee shop, Rick’s Place was conveniently on the route to his office. He had been on the clock since one in the morning when Marlin called his home, and he deserved a treat, indeed. Besides, the victim, D'ante Jackson, was not going anywhere. The autopsy would not be performed until at least nine, and the search for latent prints on the shell casing and D’ante’s car could not begin until the day shift people arrived.

Anders gazed at his digital watch, 05:35. Oh, what the hell, he blurted into the darkness, walking over to his car. He took one last look around, rubbing his neck and rolling his head to the right, trying to loosen the levator scapula muscle that sent an iciness running down to his left shoulder blade. It was unnaturally quiet as he sensed someone watching, maybe through a rifle scope or even binoculars. He paused briefly at the driver’s door, shrugged it off, and looked both ways again before getting inside and driving away.

Two

It had been nine years since arriving in juvenile detention and then prison. They had not been good years, but murdering a female police officer in front of her home was still fresh in Larome Davidson’s mind. He relished the vivid memory of killing her, recalling the event over and again while behind bars; the rush, exhilaration, and even the perverted sexual gratification keeping him alive and yearning for the day he would be released.

Davidson mockingly grinned at the uniformed prison guard, who was sitting behind the bulletproof enclosure. He watched him pushing the button on a security panel that electronically unlocked the cold, battleship gray painted steel exit door. The guard quizzically stared back at Larome with an