Action-Reaction: An Archer Meade Novel

By Robert L. Scarry

Archer Meade, a seasoned detective who continues to idealize his ex-partner and mentor discovers crime fighting hasn’t changed much over the years. But the technological developments have left him an old school cop solving a series of abductions that lead to discoveries of political corruption, dysfunctional families and intriguing learning experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert L. Scarry
• Release date: Mar 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370208951

Robert L. Scarry

Robert L. Scarry is a modern Renaiscence Man. While working as a construction employee he earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Biology and became an educator at every level ranging from fifth grade through college students. He obtained a Ph.D. in Microbiology and was a medical Laboratory Director before founding and serving as CEO of an Indoor Environmental Consulting Company. He is currently retired in Texas and enjoys family gatherings with his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren

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Prologue

Wearing only silk pajamas, a mid-length smoking jacket and shower shoes he stepped off the porch and trudged aimlessly toward the newspaper in the middle of the driveway. Since his wife’s death the paper was no longer at his breakfast place on the back veranda. He wondered how many times she had retrieved the paper, prepared his breakfast and readied the children for school while he slept an additional fifteen minutes, showered, and ate a solitary breakfast. Years I guess. He wondered if he missed the company or the servitude.

This was a great day. Depending on the outcome of today’s election he might own a major City Administrator. His advisor had suggested the donation. A sizable campaign donation given to the right person would be a prudent decision, he had said. Like several other recommendations this proved the value of his friend. They had discussed many issues; each had positively affected his financial status. In some instances he had sidestepped poor investments; in other instances he had profited substantially through risky acts. This was one of the riskiest but a funds transfer from one off-shore account to another completed the transaction and guaranteed anonymity.

The car coming toward him up the long driveway roused his curiosity not his concern. Since his wife’s recent death several visitors had arrived at virtually all hours to check on his well being and offer their condolences. However, this vehicle was different. The ugly mustard color, low-rider shock absorbers, and the ultra-dark windows meant the vehicle did not belong to any of his high brow acquaintances.

The car pulled up beside him and stopped but the doors remained closed. He stared at the car as the passenger-side window lowered and the gun was extended to within his reach. Thirteen of the seventeen 9mm rounds from the Glock 19 Magazine whose brass casings were discovered in the driveway were removed from his chest during autopsy.

Chapter 1

The eastern horizon was just beginning to glow as Bridget Joyce struggled to exit the comforts of her bed. She had promised herself this was to be the first day of a new life style. She donned the shorts, sweatshirt, ankle-length socks and her new running shoes. She smiled as she recalled the young clerk who helped her select the super supported arch runners and how he had skillfully sneaked a peak up her skirt as he assisted her putting them on. It must be the age, she mused as she recalled how she had seen her young brother’s curiosity lead him to venture peeks at her in the shower.

She grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her neck, tucked the ends into the sweatshirt and charged into a muggy dawn to begin a life-changing jog through the sparsely inhabited countryside of her father’s summer home. A neighborhood dog barked at the intrusion but settled to its porch as she jogged away.

The pavement glistened in the stubborn moonlight surviving the early glow of a rising sun. The surface, though aglow from the early morning wetness did not reduce the traction of the new shoes.

She had barely gone beyond the end of the tree lined driveway when she began to regret that she had failed to follow Mitchell’s advice. Stretch and warm up before heading off, he had said. Mitchell Caustley was one of the most intelligent men she had ever known.

She remembered her dad used to think the same about Mitchell. He had told her before his death to listen to Mitchell and follow his advice. Indeed, Mitchell always seemed to be right. He had advised her about everything from selection of classes during college to ways she should invest her money. It seemed every time she listened and complied she succeeded; interestingly the reverse was also true.

OK, I’ll do it your way, she said aloud..She stopped, took her right foot and pulled it up behind her to touch her buttock. She held the leg until her thigh began to burn. God that hurts, she admitted reaching for the other ankle. I’ll get in at least a mile, she muttered to herself.

The crashing pain shot through her head; bright lights were followed by total darkness.

Chapter 2

Archer Meade was jolted to his day’s beginning by the telephone. A.M., Sorry to wake you. This is Dannighan; we just got a call, In response to the silence he said, You awake?

I am now, what happened? a tired but attentive Meade asked?

A young kid delivering newspapers told his father he saw a woman dragged into a SUV. The dad called us, Dannighan replied.

When, where? He was fully awake and his mind was in overdrive. This was the fourth such event in a three-week period. The paper work for all of them had crossed his desk, but he was not certain which officers had been assigned to the cases. Each instance had involved an early morning abduction of a young female.

The first victim, Patricia Wright, was reported in by a homeless woman. The witness claimed the abductor had tried to force her into a vehicle, but she reacted too strongly and he settled for the less aggressive younger woman. Ms. Wright’s identity was made following a missing person’s report by her employer who seemed more upset the One Day Cleaner did not open as scheduled.

Meade, trying to determine a link between the abductions recalled that Candice Williams and Megan Hiliart were neighbors who disappeared from their homes just twenty-four hours apart. Ms. Hiliart, wearing pajamas, a housecoat, slippers and her hair in rollers went out the front door to get the newspaper and smoke her early morning cigarette while her husband ate breakfast at the kitchen table. She didn’t come back in! When the husband called police and explained that her car remained in the garage, and she never left without a goodbye kiss, and certainly not in a housecoat her disappearance became an official missing person report

Later, on the day of Hiliart’s disappearance, a call from a Neighborhood Watch Commander alerted police that a dog was barking incessantly inside one of the homes on his watch. He had knocked on the door but there was no answer. No one had seen the owner, a young military widow, for two days; she always walked the dog every afternoon between 3:00 and 5:00.

When the police forced their entrance into the home there was substantial evidence that the owner, Candice Williams, had not been home for at least two days. Dog feces were on the carpet and there were at least six places where the dog had urinated. There was neither food nor water available, and the door was badly damaged where the dog had attempted to exit the residence.

When questioned neighbors all reported a vehicle, that didn’t belong there had been seen parked on the cul-de-sac. One neighbor said the vehicle was a Ford SUV, another said it was a Chevy Tahoe, and yet a third neighbor reported it as a dark Escalade. One thing seems certain, Archer Meade thought. They agree it was an SUV.

Realizing Dannighan was still on the phone he said, Give me time to grab a quick shower and I’ll meet you at the crime scene. Text me the location.

Yeah, sure, Dannighan grumbled. It’s not like anyone is going anywhere.

Chapter 3

Archer Meade slowly lowered his legs from the bed and stood. He thought about how the job was once exciting and full of challenges. He had loved being a lead detective. But now he dreaded every time the phone rang or someone came to his desk with a question. Having a piece of titanium in a pelvis, thanks to a wild eyed punk on PCP was justification for resistance to field work. It was once a pride issue when he drew the lead on a major case, or a fellow officer asked him for assistance. It was those times when he would dive full body into his work. Now he just wanted to offer some advice, help with the paper work and reach pension time; working a crime quite literally could be a pain in the ass. I don’t want to be a hero, he thought as he stepped into the shower. He remembered having doubts about ever being able to walk or do much of anything following the injury. He often wondered if he was afraid of his job, something he vehemently denied to others. But his slight limp was reason enough to keep him from the front lines Thank God.

The call from Dannighan did not signal any concern. He knew others were working the abductions, but he would never have guessed Dannighan was one of them. Dannighan was a good cop. He just had a bad attitude. His superiors often assigned him to lousy cases making the situation worse. He should take poker lessons, Meade thought. Maybe he would learn to hide his feelings and not stir up so much anger.

Meade finished dressing and put the 9mm Glock into the belt clip holster in the small of his back. Just in case. He was slipping a second arm into a herring bone sports jacket as he walked out his door.

Chapter 4

The news of Bridget’s abduction reached Mitchell Caustley when the local TV announced it as a Breaking News Item. The television above the counter was just loud enough for him to hear the names of three recent abductees and now a suspected fourth. He wasn’t seriously interested as he sipped his coffee and relished the bear’s claw roll. When the name, Bridget Joyce was introduced as the most recent victim he nearly choked. God dammit, why her?

The telephone rang four times before the familiar voice answered. It’s Bridget. Can’t come to the phone, what I’m doing is elsewhere, leave a message, I’ll call you back. He hung up the phone without leaving a message. Her voice conjured up their last conversation. She was going to begin a regimented exercise program. I’m getting out of shape, she had said. "Yeah, sure," he had thought picturing her sinewy, muscular physique. Brie was in great shape. She may appear petite, but he had seen her flip the mattress on a Queen-size bed with ease. She never seemed to tire and there wasn’t an inkling of excess fat. He had teased her saying even her breasts lacked enough adipose to fill a B cup.

Mitchell tried the phone again but when the message began he hung up. "Could it be true? Had she been abducted? Not her," he thought.

When he turned his attention back to the television a blonde meteorologist was pointing at a map and reading temperatures of surrounding locations. What had the other reporter said? He mentally kicked himself for not paying attention.

Damn, what if it was her, he murmured aloud.

Chapter 5

Stay relaxed, she thought. But her head was pounding. The thud…thud ….thud of the heavy bass beat and the loud music combined to cause her head to throb. She couldn’t reach the back of her head where she was certain a huge goose egg must be developing. Her arms were free but her wrists were joined across each other. She could move them to her face and realized they were bound with duct tape. If the tape across her mouth wasn’t there she knew she could free herself. Well, da, she thought, get rid of it!

Rolling the tape from her mouth with the wrist bindings hurt, but success was a satisfying painkiller. Once the gag was gone she began chewing at the wrist bindings. It did not take much chewing and twisting of her wrists to be free of the tape. Now what, she wondered.

The heavy thump terrified her. Had she been dropped into a grave? Was she about to be buried alive? Suddenly she sensed she was being moved. She steadied herself against the jolting movement as she again came to an abrupt stop. Then she was moving again. Something was different, the music and the thump of the bass had stopped.

She knew from the bouncing and smells she was in the back of a vehicle, not in the confines of a trunk, yet it was dark. She couldn’t stand because her legs were bound at the knees and ankles, but when she raised her arms she couldn’t feel anything above her.

Suddenly she was blinded by lights. She turned her head to the side and realized the lights were due to several floods above her. As she became accustomed to the light she could see the plywood walls and floor. It was as though she was in a large wooden box being tossed about by some mechanical monster.

Then the lights went out. Blinding darkness! She could feel the panic begin to develop. Get rid of the bindings on my legs, she thought. As she sat up to reach for the bindings the lights once again came on. Once she became accustomed to the harsh illumination she had a frightening thought. Someone is watching me! Night vision goggles, she reasoned. But there had to be an opening or camera into the Box to permit a voyeur. Wait, she thought, if there was light intensifying night vision equipment, the harsh lights would blind such a system and the voyeur. Thermal imaging with infrared would not be so badly impaired but she knew from experience the images would not be as revealing as with a light intensifying system. If someone was so intent on spying he would certainly know that…wouldn’t he? she asked herself.

OK, think! She lay back down and tried to relax. The lights went out. Suddenly it made sense. She sat up and the lights went on. Motion detector, she thought, and then she saw it in the corner at the wall and ceiling interface.

Now that I’ve solved that important puzzle, she smirked, how do I get out of here?

Chapter 6

When he arrived at the site of the abduction Meade realized Dannighan was neither happy with the delay, nor ambitious enough to begin a serious investigation. There were three cigarette butts at Dannighan’s feet suggesting he had not ventured far since the earlier telephone call. Learn anything new since you called, he asked. The look on Dannighan’s face confirmed the earlier assessment of dissatisfaction.

Hell no, I got my ass in a crack the last time I begun a investigation by myself. I ain’t gonna’ make that mistake again, he grumbled as he ground out a fourth cigarette. Only thing I can tell you is the Press sure got here quick. WBTK got their antenna hoisted and a cute brunette is going around asking questions."

Great, thought Meade. Now we get to sift through the bullshit that bystanders conjure up for attention and the rarely obtained relevant facts. Have you overheard any of the Q and A’s, he asked the detective. Dannighan just stared blankly and nodded.

O.K., then Meade said. Take me through the whole scene, then we can start with the quote…witnesses…unquote, emphasizing the quotes with a two-handed first two fingers motion.

Dannighan took a deep breath, the familiar sign of his dissatisfaction and was about to express his disgust when Meade interjected, I really appreciated your call this morning. It is good to be working a scene where the on-duty officer so willingly requests assistance.

Dannighan slowly exhaled. This was the first time in eight years on the force that a senior detective had given him any praise. Maybe he was right about Archer Meade. He had heard Meade was a Vietnam Vet with two tours In country. He had managed to get three wounded comrades to safety during a skirmish that prevented loss of valuable high ground. Twice during the fire fight he had pulled wounded soldiers from the line of fire into a protected location and once without regard for personal safety he rushed a vc about to bayonet a wounded buddy. Dannighan thought Meade deserved a medal but for some reason never received one. Same was true for stuff he heard about the man as a cop; even took a round in a drug bust that caused his limp

Thanks A.M.; I asked Chief Snyder if I should call you; he said yeah…call you. He said we was working on three other cases that sounded like this and you might know some answers. Meade smiled to himself. The psychology of a simple compliment to counter the dissatisfaction had certainly worked. As I said, take me through the facts, as we have them

This morning a guy called in; possible snatch. He said his son saw a white guy put a body in a SUV. He said the kid saw the guy pretty good and could i.d. him if he seen him again. He said he couldn’t see the body very good but the guy was carrying it; arms and legs were hanging. You think maybe the vic was dead?

I don’t know the answer to that, but I have a question, said Meade. This morning when you called you said the dad told the story of his son seeing a woman dragged into a SUV. Now you are telling me the kid doesn’t know if it was a man or woman and the abductor was carrying and not dragging the person. Why the change?"

Dannighan took on a sheepish appearance, agh I kinda’ cleaned up the guy’s report. You know I put it in everyday language, he explained. Just so’s you’ld get the main idea, ok?"

No it wasn’t ok, but Meade refrained from the urge to scream it to the detective. What other embellishments had Dannighan so self righteously inserted into criminal investigations? It was bad enough his grammar left a lot to desire; literal changes to facts were intolerable.

Tell me then, what led to the identification of Bridget Joyce, Meade asked. He mentally wondered if Dannighan had redesigned a reply so as to meet his interpretation of the events. And how certain are we that this was Bridget Joyce? In fact how certain are we that abduction actually occurred?

Dannighan was suddenly speechless. Maybe Archer Meade was no different than all those other cops. Why was he being such an ass? I guess I should answer the last question first, Dannighan volunteered. The kid who……allegedly…., he used the same two fingers of each hand gesture Meade had used earlier, saw the grab is a honor student at Wilson High, a 4Her, and a Eagle Scout, so I guess he don’t make up too many stories. And Bridget Joyce’s dad has a place near where the snatch happened. No one was home when we canvassed the neighborhood following the report.

Wait a minute. What are you talking about, Meade asked. I thought you said you had not started an investigation. Who canvassed the neighborhood and when?

It wasn’t a investigation. And we wasn’t really canvassing. The guy that called it in said a woman lived near the end of a long drive where the grab…allegedly……, he emphatically used the same motion, occurred. We went to the house and knocked. Nobody answered so we figured it must be her was nabbed.

Damn it, Meade’s mind was racing. All this Press for a hypothetical crime. Meade knew this was a lose-lose situation. If there had been an abduction precious time was being lost chasing illusions. If there was no abduction precious time was being lost chasing illusions. I guess the only winner is illusion, said Meade.

What? Dannighan asked with a quizzical frown.

Nothing, Meade responded with a sigh. Meet me at HQ I’ll be there shortly behind you, Meade commanded. He turned and walked to the Department-issued car.

Chapter 7

The desk clerk looked up as Meade walked into the station. There’s a guy waiting for you, the clerk said. I think he went into the head.

Did he say what he wanted? Meade was in no mood for visitors. Dannighan had upset him with half-truths and mishandling of the investigation. Why had he suggested no investigation had occurred when in fact the primary witness had been interrogated? And God only knows how many neighbors had been questioned, he thought. Meade knew that once a possible witness had been questioned their stories began to change. They would begin questioning their statements, and often would embellish them with I shoulda’ said, clarifications. He also knew the I shoulda’ saids were exaggerations or imagination derived images.

There’s the guy, the desk clerk said interrupting Meade’s angry thoughts. Says his name is Caustley, Mitchell Caustley; The desk clerk motioned to the wall across the lobby where a well dressed, middle-aged male was adjusting himself to an uncomfortable wooden folding chair.

What does he want? Meade had enough on his plate at this time. His expression as he questioned the desk clerk made the young officer wish the visitor had not chosen to arrive during his shift. He says he knew the latest abductee, Bridget Joyce. He wanted to talk with the detective working the case.

I am NOT working this case, Meade thought he should straighten that out in a hurry. He held back from the temptation

As he approached the visitor Meade’s deep frown illustrated his thoughts; I wonder how many of these weirdoes will show up before we end this investigation? Meade had worked enough of cases to know there were individuals who craved attention and often elevated themselves to participants in a well publicized investigation. Was this another Blind alley, Red Herring, call it what you will waste of time," he thought.

Mitchell Caustley would prove to be something far different than a Blind alley, or a Red Herring.

Chapter 8

The causeway seemed to sing under the Ford Expedition. The driver smiled to himself, This one had been almost too easy. She never saw me coming as she reached for an ankle. I just hope I didn’t hurt her too badly and ruined everything. With her shorts and sweat shirt he had seen she was a perfect specimen for his new found hobby. She was obviously in great condition and good health. She was the participant he was looking for. Like the others she seemed capable of being a part of his new found hobby. And she was special.

He chuckled as he hummed the melody to I’ll Be Seeing You in All the Old Familiar Places. He was far outside the Liberace era, but he had heard the theme song and thought it appropriate. He laughed and loudly sang, I’ll see you in the morning sun and when the night is new.

The red LED on the dash caught his attention, and then it went out. Bet that was a shock, sweetheart, he sang through a sadistic smile. He wondered how long it would be before she figured it out. The LED went on and then off again. When it quickly went on a third time he seemed to relax.

OK, so now you know, he smirked.

Game on!

Chapter 9

So, what is your relationship to Bridget Joyce? Archer carefully watched the reaction of Mitchell Caustley. Though apparently calm and collected, the frown and strained expression suggested otherwise. Mitchell Caustley was a big man, easily six-feet four. He had the look of a retired athlete. His dark hair and brown eyes accentuated a suntan that marked him as an outside person. Archer recalled the earlier handshake and the power of the man’s grip.

I’ve known Brie for a long time. Meade quickly made a note that Caustley had a nickname for the missing girl. Her father and I were classmates in college. He and his wife lived in private housing off campus and I would spend one or two nights a week there for suppers and study sessions. Their two kids, Bridget and Timothy Jr. were always underfoot.

Where are the parents now? Meade was taken back with the response. Father was killed in a drive by about eight years ago. Meade suddenly put the girl and father together. He remembered the shooting and at that time thought Timothy Joyce was a random victim. I seem to recall his death, Archer said. Didn’t the wife die about the same time?

Caustley was obviously shaken with images of the past. Yes, suicide

Really! Did you keep up with the kids? Archer asked.

Just with Brie, Caustley responded. She was five years older than Timothy Jr. With no other living relatives Timothy Jr. became a thirteen year old foster child. Last I heard he was a run-a-way.

What about Bridget, Archer asked? Did she hear from the brother, and what did she do after her parents died? Do I really want; no do I really need to know all of this trivia, thought Meade. When he first started talking with Mitchell Caustley he had not anticipated this type of conversation.

She never mentioned Timothy Jr. I have no idea whether or not she communicated with her brother. He continued, As for what she did, she attended a small college in Illinois and graduated three years ago.

When was the last time you spoke with her, Meade inquired.

Wednesday, two days ago, Caustley seemed to be mentally rehearsing his conversation with the missing girl. She said she had just finished reading an obituary of a thirty six year old that died of a heart attack. Seems the guy was playing tennis and dropped dead on the court. With her athletic background she identified with the guy and decided she needed a regimented exercise program. She was going to start early morning runs and afternoon workouts at a local gym, he paused seeming to react to his response.

You OK. Meade asked sensing the distress Caustley was feeling?

I’m fine, I just feel guilty about her abduction, Caustley replied. I kidded with her saying she was in great shape, then I goaded her saying the best intentions were not enough. If she was serious, then she needed to be serious. I told her to splurge, buy a new outfit, shoes and all and start the next morning. That would have been today!

Meade sighed, So much for guilt; you couldn’t have foreseen today’s events. But you can certainly help with her rescue. Tell me everything you can about Bridget Joyce.

Chapter 10

Bridget was developing a strong sense of urgency. Think! Remember what Mitchell told me. Life is no different than Physics, he had said. For every action there is a reaction, but unlike Physics the action and reaction would most likely not be equal. What ever I do, I must consider the consequences, she whispered to herself. If I begin kicking the walls or ceiling he will know I am awake and loose. If I don’t