The Redemption: Jack Beckett Adventures

By D.G. Baxter

Police Chief Mike Burdick had a problem. Two out-of-town visitors were shot dead sitting in their pickups on back to back nights. The only clue was the same passage from the Bible tucked into each dead man's pocket. When two of his detectives were shot in a downtown hotel just hours later, Burdick figured he wasn't going to get much sleep for a while. He was relieved when the FBI offered to lend a hand. Riley O'Connor and Jack Beckett showed up ready to help. Before they could make headway, someone tried to kill O'Connor. With time running out, they took a quick charter to Reno to pick up an important clue; it wasn't one serial killer at work, it was two. As Beckett and O'Connor get set to put the hammer down, a bloody shootout takes place in the hills above Santa Cruz. Will Beckett be able to save O'Connor one last time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.G. Baxter
• Release date: Dec 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393546085

Book preview

Prologue

Female serial killers are rare, but not unheard of. As late as 1998, an FBI profiler said, There are no female serial killers. He was wrong. Sexual or sadistic motives are rare among females who kill. Many times it’s for money or revenge. Dorothea Puente, a Sacramento boarding house matron, robbed and murdered her elderly guests purely for gain.

Aileen Wuornos was an outlier, contradicting the stereotypical female killer. She did not kill men she knew, nor did she kill for money. She killed strangers. It was believed that she killed for personal gratification, perhaps for vengeance. She didn’t use poison, or other quiet means, as many women did. She killed seven men with a gun in a violent fashion during a Florida killing spree in 1989 and 1990. She was later sentenced to death and executed in Florida in 2002.

In 2019 another serial killer began a killing spree in a small coastal town. It wasn’t initially clear what the killer’s motivation was. Or why the victims were chosen. It wasn’t until the second killing that the police even suspected it was one killer at work. But the links between the first two murders was too strong to ignore. It was obvious that a new killer was on the loose, and men from far away were being drawn to Santa Cruz and murdered in public places. That was just the tip of the iceberg as events unfolded. The case became much more complicated when a second killer emerged with an entirely different modus operandi.

When it was discovered that the victims of the first killer crossed state lines, and were solicited by the US mail, it quickly became a federal case. This is how events unfolded in the small seaside community of Santa Cruz over a fateful week.

1

H ow old are you? she asked.

How old do you want me to be? The man sat in the driver’s seat of a five-year-old F-150 Ford pickup. The man thought his age was irrelevant, but he wanted to keep the woman sitting next to him with a Glock pointed at his chest happy.

What do you do when you’re not fucking little girls? the woman asked. She was not old, but not young. The man figured she was early 40s, but he could be off a few years one way or the other. His concentration on anything other than the gun a few feet away prevented serious thoughts. Only the gun mattered. More to the point, only what the women did with the gun mattered.

I’ve told you that you are mistaken, he said. He resisted smirking, for that was his natural reaction when confronted by a woman who thought she had the upper hand. This was different. This was deadly serious. I have not molested little girls. Never have, I swear.

The man remained calm. He answered in an even manner. He didn’t want to stir anything up, only to buy some time. He didn’t want to give the woman a reason to pull the trigger. The Glock she was holding would be fatal at the distance of a few feet.

She asked, Do you want to know why I asked your age?

He sensed that his answer would be the wrong answer regardless of what he said.

Well, do you? she asked again, growing impatient.

Ok, why? the man asked, this time not able to hold back a smirk.

Because that is the oldest you will ever be.

She pulled the trigger, and a 9mm parabellum exploded from the Glock at 1500 feet per second, tearing into his torso ahead of the sound that followed a fraction of a second later. The man slumped over, and moments later, blood began to pool on his clothes and onto the seat. He died a few seconds later with a faint gasp.

The woman pulled a rag from her purse and wiped the truck clean, looked for the spent casing and picked it up, then put the gun in her purse and pulled out a piece of paper. Before she got out of the truck and walked away, she stuck the rolled-up slip of paper in the man's shirt pocket where it would be found.

The dead man was found a short time later by a security guard as he made his rounds in the Front Street Parking garage in Santa Cruz, a coastal city 60 miles south of San Francisco. It was 11:30 pm on Saturday night. The white Ford pickup was parked nose-in facing a retaining wall on the top floor of the three-story garage. Other cars had left the garage, and so the Ford sat alone with its engine still running. The driver of the patrol vehicle pulled up, noticed the truck's engine was running and got out to investigate. The driver was a twenty-two-year-old college student who worked part-time for the security company. He had never seen a dead man before, but he suspected the driver of the Ford was deceased due to the excessive amount of blood on and around him. He didn’t see a gun, so he figured it was a homicide, not a suicide.

His training kicked in. He didn’t touch anything. He called 911 instead, told the operator who he was and where he was, and what he found, then he waited for the SCPD to arrive. He was grateful that the lot was well lit and that he could see any movement within 100 yards. He wondered how long the man had been dead, and if the killer was still inside the garage. He hoped the regular police showed up soon. The night was chilly, and he fought off the urge to shake from a combination of nerves and what seemed like a sudden drop in the night time temperature.

A city police patrol car came up the ramp to the top floor in just under two minutes. Its light bar was flashing, but the siren was off. It approached the guard's location at a fast clip, then came to a sudden stop. Two officers quickly got out, their guns drawn. The details of the 911 call were relayed to them as a possible homicide; a man found dead in a pickup in the Front Street garage. The dispatcher neglected to mention a security guard would be standing by.

Hands up where I can see them, the first officer shouted.

The security guard complied, although he was momentarily confused about being treated like a suspect.

I called this in, he blurted out.

We didn’t have that info, the officer said. Who are you?

Bobby Moody. I work for Hawk Security.

The officer relaxed. He saw the security patrol car nearby and seemed to notice that Moody was wearing a uniform consistent with private security.

Ok, what happened here? he asked as he lowered his gun.

Moody relaxed as well. I was doing my rounds and noticed this truck parked and still running. I looked inside the cab and saw the driver slumped over and covered in blood.

Check it out, Bill, the first officer said to his partner. The second officer walked over to the truck’s driver side window and peeked in. He saw the man slumped over and decided to check for a pulse.

He's dead, the second officer said after reaching inside the cab and checking the dead man for a pulse. Looks like a gunshot wound.

Homicide Detective Olivia Richey showed up seven minutes later. The Front Street garage was only five blocks from the police station on Center Street. Richey was about to go home when the call came in, and so she responded right away. Had she gone home, the request would have gone there as well as to three other homicide detectives who were off duty. One of them would have their night disrupted; she figured it was her turn.

While she waited for the medical examiner, Richey decided to ask Moody some questions.

Tell me what you noticed when you approached the truck, Mr. Moody.

I make my rounds from the ground level up, so I end up here on the roof last. It's usually empty this time of night. So I noticed the white F-150 right away. As I drove closer, I noticed the engine was still running; then I noticed the driver was slumped over. Honestly, I thought he might be drunk and passed out. I see that more than you might think.

Go on.

I stopped and got out of the patrol car and walked up to the driver's window. When I peeked in, I saw the blood. That's when I realized this was going to be really bad.

Did you attempt to provide CPR or see if the man still had a pulse?

No, ma’am. We are taught not to tamper with a crime scene.

Richey made a mental note. The security company should update their training. If the man wasn’t dead, he might have been saved. Checking for a pulse should be routine.

Ok, Mr. Moody, just one more question for now. Did you notice anyone besides yourself and the victim on the roof level?

No, ma’am.

Phil Medford, the medical examiner, showed up next. Richey briefed him, then let him examine the body in the truck. He took a few quick photos, then motioned for Richey to come over next to him.

I took this note out of his top shirt pocket, Medford said as he handed Richey the note. Medford was wearing latex gloves as was Olivia Richey.

She opened it and read it, then pulled out an evidence bag and placed the note inside.

This is going to be interesting, she said to Medford.

He looked at her, waiting for the rest of her thought.

The note said, "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord." Romans 12:19

2

Ateam of crime scene investigators showed up next. CSI went over the truck thoroughly. They pulled as many prints as they could find. Picked up every hair and fiber, and found a letter inside the glove box, which they gave to Detective Richey. The message was in an envelope, which had been opened.

Richey still had on latex gloves, and she pulled the letter from the envelope to read it.

It read, Dear Robert, I am an attorney representing your uncle, Henry Wilcox. I understand he’s your great uncle on your mother’s side. I regret to inform you that your uncle died a week ago. Before he passed, he appointed me the executor of his estate. This letter is to inform you that you are your uncle’s only beneficiary. His estate is sizable, and he has left the majority of it to you. Please be in my office on September 12 th at 3 pm. My office in Santa Cruz is listed on the top of this letter. Please do not call. Your uncle left explicit instructions to review his estate in person, and not by any other means.

Jeremy Powell, Esquire signed the letter. The address on the letter matched the return address on the envelope. It was on Pacific Avenue in the downtown business district. It would be easy to follow up in the morning.

Richey had dispatched several uniformed officers to canvass the area around the garage, looking for anyone who had noticed anything unusual. She stayed on scene until the body was removed, then went home. It was now 1:20 am on Sunday. She planned to get four or five hours sleep, then hit the investigation hard.

On her way home, she called Buzz Coley, her partner. She wanted him to come in early, so she might as well break the news to him now. He answered on the third ring.

Let me guess, he said with a voice that was half asleep. It’s 1:30 in the morning. You must be at a homicide.

Just left a few minutes ago. Some guy got whacked sitting in his truck on the roof of the Front Street garage.

What time did this happen?

Security guard found him a little past 11:30.

Any leads?

Yes and no. Someone, most likely the killer, left a note in the victim’s pocket. It was a passage from the Bible.

Well, that narrows it down.

Richey laughed.

I can always count on you for some deep insight, Buzz.

What do you expect? It’s 1:30 in the morning. I suppose you’re calling to invite me to come in early?

Meet me at 7 for coffee. I’ll fill you in.

How about the Roasting Company on Pacific?

"That’s perfect. We’re going to need to check out an address that looks like it’s in the

Palomar Hotel, which is right next door."

What are we hoping to find in the hotel?

An attorney’s office.

Coley laughed.

That’s a stretch, but you never know. Maybe one of those monthly renters at the hotel is practicing a little law on the side.

The only law practiced at that hotel is probably the jailhouse variety, Richey said.

See you at 7. I’m going back to bed.

Detectives Richey and Coley had been partners for three years. No one in the department got along with Coley except Olivia Richey, so they were a good team. She kept Coley from getting booted from the force. Coley tended to rub most people the wrong way, so Richey always did most of the talking.

They met at the Pacific Roasting Company at seven just as planned. Coley’s long brown hair was still wet from a shower. He wore a dark blue shirt open at the collar, and a gray sports coat and blue jeans. He was about 40 and in good shape. He had surfed since he was a kid and still did when he had time. Olivia Richey was 37 and wore her black hair short. She was a runner and tried to get in five miles a day. She was wearing a black pullover sweater and black slacks. She had on high-top black boots favored by many of her fellow officers.

She gave Coley the rundown of last night's events. The victim was a forty-two-year-old man with a Nevada license. The truck was also registered to him at an address in Reno. The letter found in the glove box was also addressed to him at the same Reno address. Richey had a copy of the letter and read it to Coley. The name Jeremy Powell, attorney at law, was printed at the top of the letter along with the Pacific Avenue address. It listed Suite 217 as part of the address. The Palomar Hotel had a restaurant on the lower level and a taco bar, and the upper four floors were rooms rented by the month. It was an old hotel and had stayed in business by catering to people who could afford a modest priced monthly room but not a house or apartment. In other words, it was low-income housing, but not office space. Unless some attorney was on the down and out and practicing from a rented room.

Coley finished his coffee first.

Let’s check out room 217 and verify that it was just a random pick for the address.

Richey picked up her coffee and drained the cup. She stood and checked the time.

It’s 7:15. Early for a business call, but we both know that’s not what we will find.

They entered the Palomar lobby. There was no longer a reception desk, just a large open space with a high ceiling covering half the room. The other half was a wide stairway leading to the second floor. The elevator was permanently closed from the look of it. At the far end of