The 100th Meridian Murders

By Clark Haberman

After proving his reputation as the top sharpshooter in the world, Ivan Talcott settles in China. Here, he plans to achieve his goal of becoming a multimillionaire by the age of forty. Suddenly, and without warning, he’s told to leave China, and never return. Undaunted, he will aim for his goal in the USA.
While on a hunting trip in Nebraska, the sharpshooter agrees to a proposal that will fulfill his goal. The hunt becomes his final challenge before he begins a new life. The result of his grisly kills uncovers dark secrets long hidden in the halls of the U.S. Congress.
CJ Hand returns to Lincoln, Nebraska after surviving a brutal attack that left him a battered man. His wife, Dee, encourages him to complete a doctoral degree and form the Great Plains Consulting firm. This new challenge, they hope, will lead him away from a destructive path to a stable life.
His company gets the boost it needs when he signs a contract for work along the 100th meridian. The study leads him to the dangerous path he left years before. The discoveries, while using drones, leads his field and office crew into a threatening, dark world. The people he admires, and to whom he owes his success, return to help. They again face the evil they once thought erased.
The peaceful, rural prairie holds secrets that turn violent. The deadly hunt begins, spilling blood across the western United States.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clark Haberman
• Release date: Nov 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463012925

Clark Haberman

C. G. Haberman retired in Nebraska after teaching twenty years with twenty years of professional environmental work sandwiched in between. His science-teaching experience covered secondary, community college, and four-year liberal arts institutions. His environmental work spanned three States over twenty years and involved enforcement work.

Book preview

It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.

– Albert Einstein

The 100th Meridian Murders

A CJ Hand Novel

Table of Contents

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

>1<

FOR NEARLY TEN years, he intermittently traveled to his favorite area to escape the city holding him captive for most months. This part of the United States he found to his liking, for it had a low population and a climate that favored his work and moods. Also, the rural landowners accepted him and his passion for hunting. He left his past work behind and now concentrated on the pure enjoyment of spending money he earned as an elite, for-hire marksman.

Traveling north on Route 283, he thought about the assignments he completed on this and four other continents. Fucking beautiful, he said to the empty road ahead. I’m Ivan Talcott. I do not stand out in a crowd. I blend. My life’s a smashing success, and those who seek my services.

A sign advertising a nearby west-Kansas University reminded him of his educational goal, which he met by earning a business degree. He had another purpose: Learn how to build an empire of wealth, without government interference.

Ivan slowed the pickup camper and coasted to the 4-way stop. He glanced at the gas gauge; time to stop at the next Kansas village for gas and to stretch. The Kansas Highway map lay on the passenger seat, open and folded to Route 283. He didn’t need the reference, it just felt better, a habit from his first trip that paralleled the 100th meridian. Ivan loved the used 2004 Ford F-150 that he found on the west coast. He kept the dark-gray pickup, with a slide-in camper, in good running order. His rig would not draw attention in the rural country where deer hunters traveled the back roads. The gas station employees did not say much. They simply uttered good hunting when he took the change.

As he followed the bypass around Dodge City, he waved at oncoming travelers. A glorious fall day lifted his hopes for another successful Nebraska hunt in the coming week or two. Before clearing the stoplight, Ivan popped a stick of gum into his mouth, chewed, and enjoyed the sweet tingle. Newbraski, here I come, he spouted at the road ahead. Baby, I learned the steps to success by mingling with the rich and famous, and using them and other individuals from all walks of life.

A red pickup raced around him. The passenger threw him the bird and mouthed, fuck you. If this kid only knew. Ivan grinned at the teenage boy and waved with the lifted index finger. The flat, open horizon resurrected memories of how it all started.

Ivan started small in his chosen vocation, which began as North America game hunts. This work put him in touch with people to carry out his plan. He became known as the ace sharpshooter, and the number of quests increased as did his cash intake. When a hunt club, tour master, or the business came under scrutiny, he moved on to new clientele seeking trophies.

He did not have to argue his fee. Those who sought him knew his meticulous planning resulted in outlandish success. Before agreeing to the hunt, Ivan simply asked two questions: When? Where? Ivan accepted cash only deposited to offshore accounts. He wanted no money trails.

The next stop began in Africa, where he worked as a tour attendant. Wealthy Americans came to hunt unique trophies to adorn their walls back home. These hunters mingled with the top tour masters, never with lowly staff; they rode in comfort with the tour boss. When the hunter found the live trophy, an attendant handed the gun to him, or her, to kill the animal. The humble aides finished the crippled animal because of the arrogant shooter’s bungled miss. Then the wealthy hunter knelt by the dead animal for a photo while the aide faded away.

Ivan never liked the job, but someone had to do it; therefore, he prepared himself to be the expert tracker and marksman to finish the wounded animal. The tour bosses contacted Ivan first. They knew he always filled their coffers and demanded nothing other than cash. The safari hunters went away satisfied, paying no attention to the marksman. That benefited Ivan, for he could freely move on to other hunt tours that sought his services.

The arrogant, rich trophy-seekers arranged private contests across five different continents under the guise of Club Five. The shoots, held on private preserves, involved tracking and killing a selected trophy animal by a hired sharpshooter. Club Five administrators managed all hunts. They accepted team applications, set entry fees, and found willing sharpshooters. Rules proved simple: bag the trophy animal and win all the entry fees. The contests allowed side bets—not part of the Club rules—on the sharpshooter to first bag the trophy. The winning sharpshooter would share fifty percent of the enormous cache.

The Club Five members relied on an administrator to oversee the club’s daily works. The administrator relied on finders to fill the sharpshooter pool. A drawing from the monetary pool would take place two weeks before the contest. Club Five hunt teams drew numbers, not names, which preserved the sharpshooter’s anonymity. To further protect their identity, the winning sharpshooter’s reward flowed to an account handled by the finders.

After learning about the contests, he knew his goal of reaching multimillionaire status by the age of forty had become a reality. His sharpshooter skills had not gone unnoticed; he became the first and most sought after by the Club’s sharpshooter finders. Ivan learned he would have different identities and monetary accounts to protect him from contest losers and money-grabbing governments. The person who supplied him with varying identities and bank accounts always disappeared before Ivan’s first shot.

His reputation continued to grow; he had no trouble filling his meticulously managed and untraceable accounts. When he turned twenty-seven, Ivan had traveled to five continents, three times each, for elite hunts.

A satisfying inner quiet came from planning the stalk and beating the richest of the rich with no missteps. The last hunt in Africa opened a new world for Ivan. This work proved he could satisfy select Chinese hunters, which he did in Mongolia with a new hunt club. After winning three hunts, a Chinese man invited Ivan to join an elite club. But to be eligible for sharpshooter status, he must move to China.

He accepted and conducted business on the Club China private preserves that kept a sharpshooter pool. Ivan proved himself as the best of the best. One night after his most successful Club China hunt, a small Chinese woman came to his door with a message. A club member wanted to meet in an isolated village not far from the preserve. His curiosity got the best of him, and he accepted.

At that meeting, Ivan agreed to work for an unnamed club. A club with no administrators, no exclusive preserves, and hunts with unmatched daring and unique challenges. He felt the thrill and chill of fear for the first time. The assignment: kill the trophy animal and bring proof of his success. The kill proof would be his choice, but it must be unique evidence of the harvest.

This first stalk and kill proved the most difficult of the many that would follow. The kills did not prove difficult, but the physical evidence was the challenge. Once Ivan selected what he would use as proof, each new kill became swift and straightforward.

After his fourth successful kill, the Chinese man met him in the same village, this time with a new assignment. You must leave the country and not return.

Ivan coldly asked why.

If you do not, you will face a man of your equal or higher ability.

Ivan turned his thoughts back to his company that identified productive workers for the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex businesses. The goal of becoming a multimillionaire by the age of forty became his lingering challenge. He needed a few profitable contracts to reach that goal. Ivan felt this trip would be his last, the summit of his life. Ivan would miss south-central Nebraska.

>2<

DR. HAND, WOULD you like a refill?

CJ looked up at the smiling face highlighted by large blue eyes. I would. He slid his cup to her and smiled. Thanks, Cassie. She moved on to a table of four women engrossed in their card game.

This dark-roast coffee did not have a charred flavor like some he drank when he worked on the west coast. Cassie continued to circulate through the room. CJ positioned his backpack onto the chair next to him and searched through the largest pouch. He withdrew a document stamped DRAFT CONTRACT. Over the Thanksgiving holiday, he had spent eighteen-hour days to have the proposed study ready by December first. The plan of work came easy, for it existed as an idea he had pushed aside while finishing his dissertation and studying for his doctoral exams. He turned to the budget page that covered the expensive equipment.

His wife, Dee, had offered her help to meet the deadline. They both wanted to live in Nebraska. Dee had recently turned down Health Administrator offers from Denver and Chicago. His future to live and work in the area seemed slim until a former professor called. A company had listed a proposal for a study on the University website. That call brought a sliver of hope he could remain in Nebraska.

Dee asked her administrative assistant, Beth, to select a typist from the secretarial pool to help him. Two days before the deadline, he express-mailed his proposal to the Denver address.

On the first Monday in February, CJ received a call from the company secretary. She communicated that his proposal ranked first, and they wished to negotiate a final contract. She gave him the number to call on Wednesday afternoon at two-thirty, central time.

Wednesday began with weather that reminded him of western Washington: Gray, damp, and cold. He sat in his usual spot at the Cove Coffeehouse, a small business, in the newly renovated mini-mall near his southeast Lincoln apartment.

The moist warm air in the Cove had fogged over the big, cold windows. As the crowd thinned out, the room cooled, and the window fog coalesced into tiny water droplets. The drops sliding down the glass panes left tortuous paths. The light shining through the small channels created vein-like patterns on the windowsills and the entrance floor. The entire moment became unnerving. He must put down failure thoughts about his future.

The proposal rested beside the half-full coffee mug. CJ nudged his cell phone from his vest-pocket and, precisely at two-thirty, dialed the Denver number.

Contracts Coordination, Incorporated, the pleasant voice answered.

Hi, I am calling to visit about a contract.

She asked for the contract number. Please hold while I transfer you to Dr. Valentine.

Dr. Hand, Jeff Valentine speaking, I’m the lead contact for your proposal, and I hope it becomes a final contract. I needed to talk to you before we fly into Lincoln. We want to firm up the details by the first of March.

Jeff suggested proposal changes for the next fifteen minutes. "Some changes are negotiable should you object.

We looked hard at the equipment budget, but let it go because the company demands an end date the first week of November. I’ll send our corrected contract today, and your secretary can enter the changes, as necessary.

While Jeff reiterated his concerns, an uneasy feeling came over him. He studied the room. Three separate tables of card players appeared engrossed in their game, several people quietly visited over a desert, and an older couple talked in serious, hushed tones. He dismissed his feeling and said, You’ll look over my corrections?

Affirmative, I’ll see you get the final draft to review before March first. We’re flying by company jet. We’ll land at the private runway that adjoins the Lincoln Municipal Airport.

You want me to meet you?

We have other business in Lincoln; we’ve rented a car. Excuse me for a minute.

The connection turned into soft music.

I apologize for the interruption, but would you have a picture to go with your biography?

I do. I’ll send it with the paperwork.

Excellent, Jeff said, we’re looking forward to working with you.

Thanks. He cut the connection.

March entered like a lamb, the day dawned crisp and bright with a pale-peach sky. CJ whiled away the early morning, not complete idle, but damn near. He talked with Dee about the inkling of uneasiness. The sound of her husky morning voice made him wish he was by her side.

Is the feeling unusual, Dr. Hand?

A smile creased his fresh-shaven face. I don’t need to answer.

I have to dress, she said. There’s a big meeting about expanding our territory.

What?

Dee lightly laughed and said, I’ll fill you in when you come home … and after we’ve made love three or four times. Bye.

He stared at the silent phone. Visions of the past rose before him. A time in Hastings, Nebraska, when a woman had said Dee would boff his ears off.

CJ jerked when the smartphone vibrated in his palm.

Hi.

Hi back at you, she said. What’re you doing?

Thinking about you.

Donette said, Pleasant thoughts, I hope.

A time in Hastings when you advised me about Dee.

That’s a while back. You want to have breakfast with me?

At your place? he said.

No, silly, I’d try to seduce you. Donette could see his lean, muscular torso, which she still desired. How about we meet at my favorite place?

Sounds like a plan. How long?

Give me forty-five minutes. Oh, before I forget: Congratulations, Dr. Hand.

He finished dressing, donned a vest, and his favorite ball cap with a pintail drake embroidered on the front. The lightweight jacket, which he bought from the L.L. Bean catalog, hung above his worn and faded blue backpack. He thought about Donette, the time they first met during a tornadic storm in Sidney, Nebraska. Her actuarial business had become so successful that she did what she wanted when she wanted. CJ flicked off the lights, slipped into the jacket, and slung the bag over his shoulder.

Her usual booth sat idle, so he waved to the server and seated himself. He called the Cove to check the small corner table remained reserved for his meeting. Hi, Cassie, I still have— He chuckled. I know … never mind. Thanks. See you shortly after one.

Donette sidled up, and he slid out of the booth and hugged her. She looked up at his face healed from the beating he’d suffered three years past. The scars lend an interesting touch to your character, but they’re fading? Her thumb caressed the thin, jagged chin scar.

I’m paying. He waited until she slid in opposite his backpack.

No, you’re not, she said, and don’t you argue with me because I invited you.

Yes … dear. Her devilish smile made his heart skip a beat.

So, what do you have planned for your life, Dr. Hand?

A contract, I hope, for a company needing ecological fieldwork.

Donette held up her hand for a high five. She caught his fingers. Congrats. When and where?

Central Nebraska. Hopefully, I’ll start tomorrow.

Wow, Donette squeezed his hand, and you’ll buy me breakfast if I’m out that way. She let go of his hand and relaxed.

They visited for an hour, mutually enjoying the time together. CJ broke the light-hearted conversation with a serious question. Are you dating?

Why? You want a date with me?

Just curious if a successful, intelligent, and beautiful woman like you had attracted a guy who might have caught your fancy.

Donette inhaled deeply, sat silently, gathering her thoughts before she spoke. I have, but the man’s already deeply in love with his wife.

He looked down at his hands wrapped around the ceramic mug.

I fell for you, fell hard after we first met, and you saved my life. I’ve healed, but a special place in my heart remains for you. She reached across the booth and wrapped her long fingers around his hands. Look at me, please.

His head turned up and found her genuine smile.

I date; I enjoy a man—once in a while—but I will remain single. Unless you …

The Cove had a bright look with the sun beaming in the two large windows. He waved to Cassie and plopped his backpack on a chair at the table with the reserved sign. After removing his jacket and hanging it on the chair back, he strode to the order counter.

The usual? Cassie asked.

Please.

She slid the sizeable ceramic mug, filled with peaberry coffee, across the counter. She took CJ’s money.

Keep the change.

Thank you. The meeting must involve big money.

It does.

The room had quieted with the lunch crowd departure, but the older couple he noticed in February lingered. Their hushed voices held the same somber tone. He studied them for a few seconds; he pulled the document stamped Final Draft from the backpack. Jeff Valentine and his compatriot would go over concerns, initial any changes, and sign it as the final document at the end of the meeting.

The sun rays filled the half-empty parking lot. The reflected warmth off of the autos created atmospheric shimmers that danced skyward. After studying his staffing notes, he felt good about the in-roads made with students to come on board for the contract tasks. The last step: interview each of the four candidates he had in mind. If they had not changed since he had them in class, he would put them on the payroll starting mid-May.

He had to ensure their field sampling methods proved a high degree of accuracy. The interviews would help him understand each applicant. One of the applicants stood above the others. CJ flipped to the applicant’s last page and concentrated on the fieldwork she had with the professors he knew. Reliable best described her work.

Dr. Hand?

He looked up at the hawkish face and said, Mr. Valentine, I presume?

You’re right on. Meet my partner, Wendy Percival. She’ll be your contact until we finish all the contractual arrangements.

CJ stood and shook the thirty-something woman’s outstretched hand, a firm, dry grip, which he liked. He gestured to the chairs, and they sat, one on each side of him.

Wendy broke the moment. Call me Perci—spelled with an ‘i’—that’s how I’m known back at the office and by other contractors. I won’t mention the other names mentioned by some. Jeff chuckled at her last sentence.

I’ll do that, Perci … He stashed the applications in his backpack and placed the draft contract in front of him. Where would you like to start?

At the beginning, Jeff replied with no hint of concerns. After we go through the details, and if we agree, I’ll have a final contract ready by evening. Perci will deliver it to you. He started with a simple typo that CJ had caught. They each made notes on their copies and moved along at a rapid pace until they reached the materials and methods section, then Perci took over.

I do most of the procedural review work on our contracts and check expenses once a month with our financial gurus. She looked straight at him, waiting for any comments. With no comment on that arrangement, I want to know if you plan to bomb someone.

Say what? CJ looked first at Jeff, then to her, and smiled. You caught me off guard. We won’t use our drones to bomb anyone. We use them for site surveys, and the property physically hard to access. If the drones show something worth the time and energy, we’ll try to get area access.

Perci flipped to the financial pages. Explain why the guns and ammo? This time her voice had an edge.

With a straight face, he said, Shoot the landowners that won’t give us access. He felt them stiffen. Just kidding. Some critters have territories and might not back down.

Give us examples, Jeff said.

Okay. For example, prairie rattlers in the Sandhills, badgers, and a ranch bull that might attack. He watched for expressions that might reveal their concerns. I noted you question the miscellaneous cost. That’s a landowner payment, which I included as the price for two bulls.

You’re not giving me the … bull? Perci said with a grin.

No. Have you ever been around open-range cattle? Perci and Jeff both shook their heads. There are few trees along the 100th meridian. You can’t outrun a nasty bull, so … He grinned at Perci. She raised her eyebrows. You’ll allow that?

She nodded.

For the next hour, they went through the final contract pages. They covered procedures for data reporting and when to have face-to-face meetings. Finally, they discussed the public information release clause.

Perci asked, You have a problem with me handling the publicity for your work?

None… thank you. The press would only slow us down. You’ve got cards we can hand out if anyone wants info?

She reached into her bag and handed him a small plastic card holder with her name, phone number, and address. Jeff followed with his cards. Perci said, The Company will want documentation of your progress, both in writing and with photos. And, I would like to trail along for one week, okay?

No problem, but I do have a couple of other questions.

Shoot, Jeff said.

Who wants this information, and for what?

Jeff cleared his throat and sat straight shouldered. We can’t reveal that information until the company receives your massaged data. Is that a major problem?

No. I’ll see you tonight.

Where, Perci asked.

He slid a card to each. Call me an hour before you’re ready. I’ll name the place. A frown covered Jeff’s face. Is there a problem, Jeff?

Uh …no… I guess not. Perci, you—

Nope, she said to Jeff, remember he’s had some bad actors in his past. Good to know you have a cautious side, Dr. Hand. I’ll call when I’ve made copies of the final contract with all the corrections.

>3<

FOUR HOURS AFTER the meeting at the Cove Coffeehouse wound down, a Chinese guide on the opposite side of the globe frantically waved at the American sightseers’ leader standing on the ridge above him. Cōngmáng, Cōngmáng.

The tour leader held up his hand for the four photographers to stop. Wait here. I’ll be right back.

What the hell’s he yelling about? the elderly male asked.

Something he found, I think. Stay where you are. The tour leader slid on his backpack, picked up his walking stick, and eased downslope to the frantic guide.

The Chinese guide, known only by the name Chéng, pointed at an unnatural flat area below the tree-covered slope. A partially covered skeleton did not fit with the serene rural farms below them. Lǐngdǎo—

Chéng, you know how to speak English, so do it.

How you know this, Ling?

Because I know all, the muscular photographer said.

The name Ling his guide gave him, which translated to the English word leader.

Chéng nodded and said. You a scary man.