Negligent Operation: A Sam Travis Novel: Sam Travis, #2

By Mike Riegel

The apparent victim of a random hit and run turns out to be anything but as Sam Travis is assigned his toughest case yet. 

Book 2 of the Sam Travis Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Riegel
• Release date: Feb 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524208547

Book preview

Chapter 1

Monday. 12:24 PM

Silhouette, Cobalt, Altima, Escape.

Nothing.

Stephen Knutson loved all things automotive. His affinity began when he was a child, able to identify any vehicle on the road without looking at the manufacturer's badging on the trunk.  

That would be cheating.

Some called him obsessed, and they were welcome to their opinion, but he considered himself an enthusiast and nothing more.  He was not married to any particular style or make of car, each auto on the road intrigued him in one form or another.

Some, however, were more interesting than others.

He was in the final leg of his daily walk, a 1.9-mile loop around his current employer.  A full two miles would have been better, but finishing his constitutional with several laps of the parking lot might seem...obsessive.

He already knew all of his coworkers' cars. Only one of which passed for interesting.

His walks provided him benefits: the exercise necessary for a career cubicle commando, the chance to listen to his podcasts, and his field research.

Stephen was a car hunter: finding rare species in the wild was one of his great pleasures.

A car he would classify as interesting was not, necessarily, the most expensive or exotic ever built. A brand-new Honda Accord would not have held Stephen's attention, but the 1982 Accord hatchback he found at the grocery the week before, immaculate but with over three hundred thousand miles - that was interesting.

The pack of middle-class, cookie cutter iron that had just loped past him was definitely not.

He stepped on, through the drizzle that occasionally formed cohesive drops of water.  This weather was what his mother referred to as piddling.

Stephen could barely hear said piddling for the voices in his headphones. They were sturdy, high-quality cans that canceled most, but not all of the noise around him.  The hosts of the automotive podcast had just finished their take on the latest industry news and moved onto email questions from listeners.

The current question revolved around upgrading the radio in a 2001 GMC Suburban, a mistake that brought a slight smile to his face.

Stephen knew what the listener did not: There was no GMC Suburban in 2001. That year, the truck had been renamed the Yukon XL. The Chevrolet version retained the name, but was not the same truck.

While Stephen liked cars of all kinds, he often took issue with their owners.  So many took for granted the engineering masterpieces they owned. They dismissed them as simple appliances, failing to see the mixture of art and science that made each one unique.

Some cared so little that they could not be bothered to know the proper names.  He mulled over their ignorance as another group of cars topped the hill in front of him.

Impala, Outback, Sebring, Mustang.

The Mustang might have been interesting. However, the front fender did not bear the GT from the 2010 model year refresh, or 5.0 from the next year onward. This lack of badging made it the V6 powered model.  As the red coupe passed, Stephen turned to regard the rear bumper.

A single exhaust pipe

It was the 2010 V6...before the EcoBoost engine.  They should have waited another year to get the car and 95 additional horsepower. The 2011 V6 had more power than the V8 of the previous year.

The passing pony car was interesting for the sake of being terrible, in the same way a Pinto or Vega would be.

Not worth his attention.

Time was what made a car interesting. When a new model rolled out, no one knew how well it would sell, if there would be a defect that might enhance or hinder the car into the future. The 1957 Chevy Bel Air, a classic that even the average person had heard of, never sold well when it was new.

You never knew how a new car would turn out, and for that reason, Stephen only purchased cars used. His current auto would turn no heads among the masses, but the right people would know, and that was all that mattered.

As the cars roared past, they blasted up rooster tails of water that wafted across Stephen, mixing with the rain.  He trudged on, facing oncoming traffic like a good pedestrian, musing that this walk may well be a bust - nothing found in the wild today.

In another ten minutes, he would be back at his desk, returning to work.  He enjoyed his job, which was marginally associated with the automotive industry, and therefore interesting. Afternoons, however, always improved with a good sighting at lunch.

Stephen was aware that his time was growing short in his current assignment. His well-intentioned, but shortsighted employers simply did not understand the real scope of their work - now, and into the future. His own morality demanded others share his awareness of the situation. Not to place blame, but to ensure the best product. There would be blowback from his actions...there always had been.

Soon, he would be in another state, perhaps in another time zone.

It was all for the best, few enough cars survived long in the harsh Ohio winters. Maybe the southwest? Rust was less of a problem out there.

Another group rose over the crest.

Bravada, Camry, Mazda6.

Stephen lingered a moment on the last car. Something was different about the front fascia and hood.  This was not an ordinary mid-size Mazda sedan.

It was a Mazdaspeed6.

The turbocharged, all-wheel drive car, available for only three years, never sold well despite its impressive performance.  The special edition did not return after the 2009 redesign of the base sedan.

This car was interesting.

He quickly withdrew his phone; the headphones still connected through a port in his waterproof case, and snapped a picture of the car as it passed.

Maybe the day was shaping up, despite the weather.

He began uploading the picture when an additional vehicle came into view, trailing behind the rest.

X5.

The BMW was the second generation of the SUV that had been all but required to maintain profitability for the German company; such a mission statement rarely resulted in an interesting car.

He ignored the oncoming SUV, turning his attention back to the phone, when he noticed that the BMW was drifting from the center of the lane.

The stretch of Union Road where Stephen found himself did not have a sidewalk.  Six inches of gravel separated the asphalt from a steep drainage ditch that ran parallel to the road surface.

The BMW's front tire transitioned to the gravel and the SUV seemed to accelerate.

Stephen sidestepped and slid sideways into the ditch, the SUV missing him by a foot.  A river of muddy water dipped into his shoes, soaking through his socks. He turned to see the black truck blast off down the road.

Stephen's feet sloshed up the muddy embankment and returned to the gravel shoulder. His mind replayed the close call - far from his first in years of walking public roads.  Anger rose in him, but he knew no satisfaction would come from it.  He had placed calls to the police for near misses before and they had led nowhere.

Apparently, it was not considered a crime to almost strike a pedestrian.

Feet cold and damp, Stephen continued his trek back towards the office. He had just remembered the change of socks in his trunk when a noise, heard over the podcast, caused him to pause and listen.

It was the sound of an engine, one that he had heard very recently.

He caught a fleeting glimpse of the vehicle that hit him as he took to the air.  There was no sense of an impact; the sensation was as if his right foot flew into the air, like tripping a cartoon snare trap.

He hung in flight, twirling in a beautiful slow-motion cartwheel for what seemed like long seconds.

Time then righted itself and Stephen fast-forwarded into the ditch chest first, his body instantly numb.

Mud filled his mouth, coating his tongue. Stephen fought to remove the sludge, but he no longer had the ability to spit.  Breathing was difficult; he could neither take in nor expel air in a way that felt natural.

Detaching himself from the situation, Stephen ran a diagnostic, as though he were one of the automobiles he loved so dearly. He was able to breathe, but the effort was difficult; like pushing air through a drinking straw. Stephen's neck would not respond, but he could see his left arm splayed before him.

The fingers complied with his commands, though sluggishly, but that was a sign of hope. He was not certain whether he would survive, Stephen assessed in the same detached manner. For the moment, he had some options available to him, and he would use them.

The phone, his most obvious source of aid, was nowhere in sight. One headphone rested on his check, dislodged by its flight. A tug of the cord with his marginal left hand indicated the device was missing.

Moving was not an option. He had some control of one hand, but not much else.

He could hear a new set of passing cars, hissing by several feet above his prone form. One had a bad wheel bearing, another rubbed badly on a fallen fender liner.

None of them stopped.

Stephen flattened the hand before him, placing his fingers together, and then pressed the tips into the wet earth.

Chapter 2

Monday, 3:28 PM

Detective Sam Travis rapped his knuckles against the doorframe of 2932 Sparks Circle. In response, the storm door popped open an inch with each knock, rattling on its hinges.

He waited for the homeowner, standing in the unsure, April rains oscillating from sprinkles to full-fledged thunderstorms over the past several days.

The Nance residence was one of many colossal houses that made up Huron Woods, a subdivision of large lots and large home at value prices.

Sam guessed the residence before him was topping 3500 square feet, but lacked any cover over the front door.

Waiting ten seconds, he knocked again. This time, he was rewarded with the faint sound of particleboard flooring groaning under footsteps.

The front door opened to reveal a man. He was nearing fifty with thinning hair, a goatee that had gone mostly gray, and a comfortable paunch that hung over blue jeans.

You the police? he asked, a mild Midwestern drawl accenting his vowels and condensing the last word into a single syllable.

Yes sir, Sam replied, allowing a similar inflection into his own speech, Detective Sam Travis.

He offered his hand.

Al Nance, the man replied, returning a lethargic, sweaty shake.

You reported a theft?

Nance pushed the storm door wide and beckoned Sam inside.

Took you guys long enough, Nance grumbled.

I've had a lot of calls today, he explained.

I know, I'm sorry, the man said, waddling towards the rear of the home. I took time off work; I thought I'd be back by now.

I'll be as fast as I can, sir.

You want some coffee?

If it's ready, sure.

I'm a twenty-four hour a day coffee drinker, he smiled. It's always ready.

Nance placed a NASCAR themed mug on the laminate counter and filled it from a nearby Bunn.

Cream? he asked.

Take a Splenda, Sam said, If you got it.

Uhh, Nance looked around the large but neat kitchen, as if to summon artificial sweetener from the air.

Black is fine.

Sam gingerly raised the heavy mug and took a tentative sip. It was hot and strong, but not terribly good.

You guys busy today? Nance asked.

Mondays are our busiest day of the week.

Really, I would've thought Saturday nights would be the worst. The drunks.

That's not so bad, actually.

Why Monday?

Well, Sam said, drinking a bit more, A lot of crimes happen over the weekend, but don't get reported to us until Monday.

Hell, I guess I'm one of them. I found my stuff missing from the shed yesterday morning. Didn't call until today.

Why not report it then?

I didn't want to bother you guys on your Sunday.

And that's why we get really busy Mondays. Calls start coming in right about lunch time.

I'm sorry.

It's no problem. You call - we come. Some folks around here wait because they think we're closed over the weekend.

Nance's face lit up in a big grin. The statement had not been a joke.

So, Sam said, returning the mug to the counter and pulling an iPhone from the hip pocket of his cargo pants, What happened?

Well, Sunday morning I figured this shit winter was finally over, so I took the snow blower out to the shed to swap it out for my mower.

He paused, expecting a question. Sam tapped out a few words in a note application and nodded for Nance to continue.

I had already done it once, then we got hit with another damn blizzard, and I had to drag it all through eight inches of snow. So, this time, I figure I'd wait until we hit spring proper. I got the blower back there and saw someone stole my mower, weed whacker, and my damn canoe.

Was the shed locked?

Well, Nance glancing around a second time. The old padlock rusted shut about a year ago, and I had to use a pry bar to rip the whole hasp off. I never got around to, you know.

No forced entry, Sam said, his thumbs keeping up on the iPhone.

I swear that stuff is gone, Nance said, standing up in defiance, And I have a pretty good idea who did it.

Who do you think stole your property?

The guy right there, Nance pointed past the sliding glass door, towards the rear of a similar home two lots over.

I bought that weed whacker offa' him two years ago. He did some lawn care on the side, and it didn't work out, he sold it to me for two hundred. It was a Husky, went for almost five brand new.

Husqvarna? Sam asked, pronouncing it husk-var-nuh. Even without a yard to care for, Sam had learned more than he ever cared to about lawn equipment in his 16 months as a Detective.

Yeah, I just call it a Husky. Last year, he got started up again, and wanted to buy it back. I told him 'no' - it's a hell of a nice machine. He already went tits up once; I figured I was doing him a favor.

Any other reason why he might take it, the mower, or the canoe?

Well, we ain't talked much since then. We both got a little red neck about the whole deal, I'll admit it.

You used to be friends?

Yeah, he helped me build that shed.

Sam collected model details of the Honda Mower and Old Towne Canoe.

Is the canoe registered?

Yes.

Do you have the number?

Nance made another visual sweep the room, as though the registration might be framed over the cheap, wooden mantle.

Take any pictures? Sam asked, Maybe out on the river?

I think so, he replied.

You might have a picture of the number.

I'll have to check.

What about serial number for the mower or trimmer?

I'll have to check that, too.

Was anything else stolen?

That's it.

Sam produced a card from his wallet, Can you email me any information when you find it?

Yeah, Nance said, taking the card, I'll get it.

Can I see the shed? Sam asked.

Right here, Nance replied, sliding the glass door open.

Sam settled the NASCAR mug into the counter and followed him out.

Once they were off the concrete patio, their steps produced splashes from a water-sodden back yard. Despite the rains, the grass remained brown from the long winter.

Nance complained about his drainage situation as they made their way to the small shed at the back corner of the property. The plain structure shared proportions and siding color with most of the homes in sight.

Sam estimated a hundred feet to the home of Nance's prime suspect. The neighbor's back yard lacked a similar shed.

The doors stood open, allowing Sam an easy view inside. The raised floor was dry and littered with several boxes of Christmas lights and a half a dozen oversize candy canes. A shabby extension ladder and the aforementioned snow blower rounded out the contents.

Sam noted several small holes where the previous hasp once rested, the wood around them mottled with age and stained by rust.

When was the last time you saw the missing items.

Like I told you, that last real snow we had.

That was three weeks ago, Sam said.

Yup.

The items could have been stolen any time in the last three weeks?

I guess so, Nance agreed.

Sam fought the urge to sigh. He knew what was coming.

I'll get a stolen items report to you by the end of the week at the latest, probably by Wednesday. You can submit that to your insurance company.

Aren't you going to take some fingerprints? DNA?

There it was.

Sir, we find it best to track the stolen items. If they are pawned or listed for sale, we can find them and get them back to you.

But I told you who stole my stuff, he complained, Don't you guys do that CSI shit...uh stuff.

This time, Sam could not stop the sigh.

Your neighbor, your former friend? Sam said, pointing towards the nearby house. I guarantee I'd find fingerprints in here if I looked hard enough.

Then go ahead, Nance encouraged, Bust him.

I'd find his fingerprints because you already told me that he assisted you in building it.

Sam did not add that, despite a pending request for training, he lacked the certification to collect forensic evidence, but Mr. Nance had no need for that piece of information.

Oh, the complainant replied, his shoulders slumping in defeat. I'll get you anything I can find on the email.

Sir, Sam assured him, I will do everything I can to find your items, but it might take some time. I have to ask you to be patient.

All right, Nance said, perking up a bit.

I've gotta head to my next call. You think of anything that might help, or remember something else missing, you call or email me.

Thank you, he said, offering his hand.

In the meantime, you might want to get a new lock for that shed, Sam said as they shook hands.

Nance nodded and Sam headed through the side yard back to the unmarked black Charger, feet kicking up water all the way.

Ducking behind the wheel, Sam started the engine with a button and grabbed the radio microphone.

David Six, secured at 2932 Sparks.

Dispatch Check, a male voice responded. Was Bendel or Kelsey on this afternoon?

Sam pulled away from the Nance house and started around the block.

David Six, what's my next?

Reported theft of an ATM from Arena Sports.

David Six, check.

Sam returned the microphone to the console, among the controls for lights and sirens.

Another ATM theft.

A group of three or four unidentified suspects had been stealing ATMs in the middle of the night. The strange part of the thefts was that they always occurred on the opposite side of town from a priority call, while all active units of the Tompkins Police were responding.

Sam put thoughts of the ATM bandits temporarily from his mind as he cruised past the home of Nance's neighbor. A minivan rested in the driveway with the garage door open. Inside rested an old muscle car Sam could not identify and a motorcycle with ample room to breathe.

No canoe, no Honda mower - it was worth a try.

Sam accelerated into the afternoon rain, setting course for the indoor soccer area, bar, and former home to a freestanding ATM.

Chapter 3

Tuesday, 12:04 AM

Three figures entered the 24/7 convenience store.

First was a Latino man wearing a striped tracksuit with the hood up, the second a Caucasian male in a conservative coat and tie, and last in the door was an Asian woman with a spiked Mohawk and short leather skirt.

Nothing about the trio matched.

How do you steal an ATM? Dante asked as his hooded form appeared to check over magazines for sale.

You just grab it, Sam said as the man in the business suit. They're heavy, but not impossible to lift - these guys bring a dolly with them.

Not ones mounted to the drive-thru, Aim added for Dante's benefit, her character checking the street through glass storefront. The little ones you see in the convenience store.

They have them a strip clubs, too, Dante said.

Always the classy one, Aim replied.

But don't they bolt them down or something?

Nope, Sam said, They're just heavy.

But how do they get all the cops across town, set up a fake accident? Blow up a mailbox?

Nothing that sinister, Sam explained, They're probably just listening on a scanner, waiting for an opportunity.

You guys don't use scramblers, some ultra-high frequency shit that only dogs can hear?

No, Sam said, You can actually hear our dispatch on a bunch of phone apps.

Knock over a liquor store? There's an app for that, Dante said. You gonna get 'em?

Of course, Sam said, It's just gonna take a while. It's not like they hit every time we have a priority call.

You should set up a sting, Dante suggested, Fake some bad domestic or something on the radio, then stake out all the ATMs on the other side of town.

Thanks for the advice, Sam replied, We'll get right on it.

Can we forget about all the IRL crime, Aim suggested, And get back to our own job right here?

Good point, Dante said as his character approached the counter and the employee working there. We good?

Ready, Sam replied.

I'll get the car started, Aim said as her avatar exited the store.

Rock and Roll! Dante shouted in their ears as the man in the hoody produced a sawed-off shotgun from under his shirt and leveled it at the dark-complected clerk.

We've got one star, Aim said.

Without verbal instruction, the clerk began slowly loading money into a plastic bag. The computer-generated employee begged the man with the shotgun not to kill him.

The man in the business suit produced a submachine gun, standing watch by the door.

Hurry it up! Dante snarled.

Police are responding Aim reported.

I should just blow his slow-ass head off, Dante suggested.

They we won't get the money and the heat gets turned up, Sam said, And we want to keep this to one star.

It's not about the money, Aim replied, He'll get to it, Dante.

The clerk finally handed over the sack,