Judge and Jury: Trunk, #4

By Steve Marshall

Someone murdered FBI agent Morrie Rabinowitz.

Morrie was working to stop a serial killer targeting leaders of American Nazi groups.

The killer now has a much more dangerous problem.

TRUNK!
He's coming for revenge.

Psychopaths don't have many friends.
Killing one is never the healthy option.

Dennis Trunk gives up his life in the Caribbean to find a killer and take his own justice.

Follow Trunk down into the underbelly of American culture, the mean ugly side filled with hate and intolerance, the parts you don't see on television.

How was Morrie's death related to the assasination of Jonah Castillo, the head of a crime syndicate in the Deep South?

Why did Morrie visit Jonah days before he died?

Can Trunk solve his hardest case yet?
Can he survive what he finds?
Can we trust law enforcement?

Judge and Jury is a story of today's America.

You'll need to remind yourself it's fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foxtail Media
• Release date: Oct 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393541417

Book preview

JUDGE AND JURY

TRUNK #4

By steve marshall

Yeah, I wrote this. Blame no one else.

Florida 2020

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

READER’S GROUP

Steve Who?

All of my books:

Chapter One

A patient is in intensive care at a hospital in Memphis, Tennessee. Clear plastic tubes deliver medicines to the needles in his arm. A machine monitors his vital signs and relays the results to the nursing station. An armed cop is sitting outside his hospital room reading a book on his phone. Down the hall a little way are two men from an organized crime syndicate. They have guns too. They are arguing about fiberglass versus aluminum fishing boats. The man in the bed came out of surgery a few hours ago and doctors aren't sure if he will live. It's the in-between time when nobody is willing to bet on him and hope refuses to answer her phone. Doctors have put him in a medically induced coma to give him a fighting chance. If he regains consciousness the doctors will tell the cops, who will tell the FBI, who will come with a list of questions.

Until then, he's just another victim of gun violence in America, a statistic.

The man in the coma is me, Dennis Trunk.

Hope I survive...but I'm okay if I don't. As for the afterlife, I believe in one but hope to hell I'm wrong. There's too much I need to pay for.

This isn't where you expected to find me. Nope. I was supposed to be down in the islands with the girl and the money. All Hollywood happy ever after. It didn't work out the way I intended.

Let me tell you what happened.

It started when we sailed back to Florida.

I went surfing a few minutes before dawn, when the sun was near the horizon and the blackness of night faded to a pre-morning gray. I took my surfboard and dove off the deck of our sailboat in St. Augustine, Florida. Attached to my waist was a small water-tight bag. Inside was identification for my new life as Rod Matthews and my old life as Dennis Trunk, plus two thousand dollars.

Holly, Archie and Claire still had several miles before they would set the anchor and clear back into the United States of America.

When I was stable on the board I touched the diving knife strapped to my ankle and felt the comforting touch of a weapon.

Paddle, paddle, and paddle some more. Took me ten minutes before I got help from some three-foot waves. They pushed me towards the shore and I stayed with the wave long after a surfer would drop out. I continued until the water was knee-deep.

On the shore waiting for me was Wheels. You remember Patrick, don't you?

We've got to stop meeting like this, he said with a smile.

Morning, Patrick, I said and returned his smile.

Patrick handed me a towel and took the board from me while I dried off.

Comfortable trip? he asked.

Mostly, I said.

I was only seasick once.

Hey, I'm going down to Mexico for a week, Patrick said.

What part? I asked.

Mexico City. Been to Cancun and most of the resort cities. I want to go hang out in the capitol. You should come with me, he said.

I might take you up on your offer, I replied.

Drink Tequila and dance with women, Patrick said.

Trouble and romance go hand in hand.

So where we are going, boss? he asked.

Did you go to Wal-Mart? I asked.

Sure did.

Patrick handed me a pre-paid phone.

Got the clothes in the car for you.

Thanks, I replied.

We walked through the sand dunes. My bare feet regretted the transition from the soft sand to the rough surface of the parking lot.

New car? I asked Patrick when I saw the red Dodge Challenger.

Almost new, he replied. The owner had to sell when he lost his license. He's a bus rider now.

With a car like this I'm not surprised, I replied.

No shit. I remind myself to hold back.

What's your top speed?

129. Still had plenty to give. I got all chicken shit and backed off, he said with a disappointed tone.

Where are we going boss? he asked.

I gave him the address of my Poindexter.

Gay tech, he said.

Yeah, I replied.

He set me up with my phones and laptops and shit. I'm secure as fuck now. Glad you introduced me to him, Trunk.

No problem, I replied.

Patrick is my taxi. When I need to go from A to B quietly he gets me there discreetly. He is familiar with the directions to Kevin's office. He went there with me several times, once with me in the trunk of his car.

His husband is a fucking piece of work though, Patrick said.

He's bi-polar and his condition makes life hard.

No shit, like running your car off the road over and over, into the ditch...on purpose! Little son of a bitch was so annoying I wanted to smack him.

I shook my head in agreement. I hit Chandler once.

Patrick opened the trunk and removed a set of soft spongy surfboard straps to tie my board to the roof. He put them on the car tossing the straps from one side to the other for me to hook them to the clips and tighten them.

You didn't specify what size underwear. 32 pants, so I got them the same size, said Patrick.

Thanks, I said but really didn't care. Underwear is an aftermarket option for me these days. If they are within reach, I put them on, but I won't walk across the room to pull a pair out of the drawer. Island life.

I dressed.

Blue jeans, gray t-shirt, and thin black leather jacket. I put on a new pair of gray Converse all-star sneakers. Was Tommy right about these shoes? The socks were Patrick's idea of a joke. They were all sparkly with different colored stars all over them. I don't like to wear memorable clothing when I work, unless the angle requires a disguise and I need to attract attention. This wasn't one of those times.

'Yeah officer, the guy with sparkly socks, I remember him now".

You can call me paranoid if you want. I call it a safe practice.

I left the socks in the bag.

God it was comfortable to be Trunk again. While Rod Matthews is a decent guy, a faithful husband, a good friend, and all the other normal shit I pretend to be, and I really do appreciate being him, I must admit, he's a pussy. When you haven't punched someone in a long time or held a gun in your hand you miss it. Well I do.

Patrick did one last check of the straps and the surfboard.

We got into the high-powered coupe.

Before we go, is this car stolen? I asked.

No boss. I'm shocked you ask, he said with a fake frown.

Just ticking the boxes. I mean nothing personal, I replied.

I know you don't. I'm just fucking with you because I can and you probably won't hit me, he said with a smile.

Like the socks? I asked.

Like the socks, he confirmed.

Smart ass.

Hey, where is the beautiful Holly? he asked.

Dealing with Customs, Immigration, and the Port Captain.

I miss seeing her. Please give her my regards, he said in a very polite tone.

I will.

Yes, Patrick is aware that Holly used to work in the adult online business. I'm sure he's watched her perform. But he learned respect via a painful slap to the back of his head when he finally met her. Asking someone what color panties they are wearing when you meet them is not a smart idea. Patrick needs a steady girlfriend, one that doesn't get paid. For a handsome guy he's unexpectedly unattached. Just goes to show...but I'm not sure what.

I got the wig and a fake beard from the back seat.

My old friends, I said as I put them on.

Wow, you look so different, Patrick said looking at the new me.

Now tell me about that bust at Atlantic Storage, I said.

I read Jacksonville local news while I'm sitting in paradise.

Some of us were storing liberated cars at Atlantic Storage. Dremel got busted with a hot Jag and gave us up to walk away.

Dremel has a real name, Anthony Joyner. I met him once. Excellent car thief but too nervous for my liking. Reading a person is hard if they are a nervous, all I see is that they are nervous and therefore untrustworthy. I avoid them when I can. In Dremel's case avoiding him was a smart move.

How many did they bust?

Cars or people? Patrick asked.

Both, I replied.

17 cars and four liberators, said Patrick with a smart ass smile. Liberators indeed.

That's a lot.

They got Fat Momma, Patrick said.

Fat Momma is not fat.

In fact, if I introduced you to her you would never call her fat. Julie Simpson is an attractive red head about thirty and is one of the best car liberators in Florida. She got the name Fat Momma because a local chop shop owner started calling her that because that's how he described her to his overly jealous wife. Julie thought Fat Momma was funny and a misdirect for the cops, so she encouraged others to use it.

Fat Momma is the thief that stole the entire showroom collection of cars from a local BMW dealership. Straight off the showroom floors. There was a 50,000 dollar bet between her and Smidge O'Neil. Smidge said the robbery was impossible. Fat Momma disagreed. Took her five months to set up. I know all about the job and the wager because Smidge tried to stiff Fat Momma on paying the fifty grand and I got a call. Turned out fine in the end. I convinced Smidge to pay.

Best of all? Nobody got hurt.

All three of us sat down for a discussion. I began with a fortune-telling session where I laid out the final outcome of the meeting in clear terms. In the end Smidge apologized and produced the cash from his safe. Having a gun pointed at him provided an incentive to cooperate. We agreed that no one outside of the three of us would have knowledge of our meeting and Smidge's refusal to pay. Smidge kept his reputation which was vital in his line of work, Fat Momma got paid, and I didn't have to kill Smidge and dispose of his body.

Now that's a win-win-win, right?

Smidge is no idiot. As soon as he handed the money to Julie he pretended none of it ever happened and everything went back to normal. He congratulated her for winning the bet. He even invited Fat Momma to his 40th birthday bash.

I can be a force for good...sometimes.

She bailed out for fifty thousand and nobody has seen her since, Patrick added.

Smart move, I said.

Yeah, I don't think we will ever see her again. Gone in the wind.

No forwarding address, I said.

No forwarding address, Patrick confirmed.

The time had come for close observation. I turned and looked at Patrick as he moved the car from the parking lot to the street. I examined him in detail for almost ten seconds before I spoke. I noticed his breathing pattern, the height of his shoulders, and his grip on the steering wheel.

Why didn't the cops arrest you? I asked.

I called Gordo to ask if I could borrow one of his storage units. He didn't answer. Gordo always answers his phone. Always. Sort of his thing, says it's best for business. He's got that 'Gordo Knows' routine he does. Thinks he's a criminal business genius.

Takes all types, I replied.

Well done man Wheels. No delay in response. His cadence was normal. No fidgeting. None of the usual indicators.

So I drove past to take a look and there must have been 20 cop cars scattered all over the storage lot. They even arrested the manager of the facility, but they had to turn him loose when the corporate attorneys showed up. He didn't know shit anyway.

How much did you lose?

Thirty thousand in total. I lost one sweet antique Corvette. 1963 I think. Pop-up headlights. Mint condition. Liberated from a golf course garage down in Ponte Vedra.

That sucks.

You're telling me, there was a buyer from Oregon ready with cash.

Where's Dremel? I asked.

No clue. But there are about fifty people who will phone in as soon as he shows up. I kicked in two grand to the disposal fund. You want some work? He's gonna need undertaking at some point.

No thanks, take care of this one case then I'm back to the islands again. Forever I hope.

Forever sounds long enough to me. Leave this crap once and for all. Take the money and run.

Happily ever after, I said.

No forwarding address, Patrick said.

No forwarding address, I confirmed using our short hand for a successful criminal that retires with their fat stacks.

Indeed. So whatcha working on? Patrick asked.

A friend's murder, I said.

Sorry to hear about your friend. Anybody I know?

No.

Tell me what I can do to help. You've been good to me. Always fair, always pay without complaints. Shit you're one of my no hassle customers. Some of them...well I just wish they were nicer, he said.

Patrick handed me a Smitty 9 mm handgun.

I was complete at last.

Legal? I asked.

Not in this lifetime, he replied with a smile. Dark web bitcoin purchase, as requested, he added.

Wheels is one of the most dependable people I know. If I had a little brother, I'd want him to be like Patrick.

Chapter Two

Holy shit, you're dead, Kevin yelled when I walked into the main computer room to find my Poindexter updating a template for writing fake Amazon product reviews.

Heard about my untimely demise. Remember Patrick?

Glad to see you again. How is your phone working out?

Slow to start up, but then she is cool.

Let me do an update. Gimme yours too, Kevin said.

Kevin took our phones, spun his chair around, and duck walked over to another table where he plugged in both which switched off immediately and restarted.

Everybody was talking about you, Trunk. Died in a shoot-out with Mexican police. Said you killed the mayor of La Paz. Yet here you are.

Yeah, all the facts got jumbled with the fiction. Let them believe I'm dead, OK?

Sure thing, I'm glad you're above ground. Word is they used you to close a bunch of stales. Kevin turned around in the chair and smiled at me.

Stales are old cases, mostly homicide, where there ain't a snowball's chance in hell of catching the guilty party.

Local statistics for homicides are terrible, they solve less than fifty percent in Jacksonville. When a criminal dies, the deceased makes the stats better by cops attributing crimes to them. The police have been known to stack a few of the dusty files onto the resume of the dearly departed. The requirement is a couple of paragraphs from paid informants, and they can declare the dead to be their prime suspect in the crime. Now the case is moved to the closed status and the statistics are improved. 'Died before warrant was issued'. The sentence which transforms the report into gold.

Hey, help yourself to a drink. Kevin pointed to the new bar in the corner.

Wow, a must-have at all jobs. Patrick smiled. Booze, foosball, and air hockey.

Can I retrieve a refreshing beverage for you? I walked over to the bar.

Diet Coke, came the response from Kevin. No booze during working hours, unless Chandler is on the war path.

Same for me too, Patrick requested.

Offering to get someone something is one of those micro manipulations. The little act establishes a minor state of indebtedness and if cultivated carefully can lead to major owing. I also do it because I appear more like them, a regular guy. So I got them both Diet Cokes and got one for myself. Politeness for me is always calculated, never instinctive.

Hey, somebody finally killed Jason Heidegger, Kevin ran his index finger across his throat.

Positive news, Patrick confirmed.

Took years. By my reckoning he was four or five years overdue for paying.

Jason was a serial pedophile with protection. The protection of Heidegger, Wilson, and Ketchman, Attorneys at Law. Yep, daddy's firm kept him safe from harm longer than I anticipated.

Police got any suspects? Case details don't get published in the newspapers unless there is an arrest, so I was curious what was being said out in the streets.

No, but they went ape shit trying to find the killer. Wounded one of the victim's father. Arrested two others, Kevin said.

Waste of taxpayer money, Patrick shook his head from side to side in disgust.

Agree with you, was my two cents.

I don't understand pedophilia.

Yes, I comprehend the meaning of the word but I could never understand the why. Youth, innocence, and beauty are wonderful. Admire them for what they are...don't stick your dick in them. You'll ruin them.

You ruin me and I'll kill you.

Pedophiles are like those zombies in the games, you can outrun them easily if you want to, but you're better off dispatching them with two to the head. To be honest though I've made money facilitating reunions between pedos and victims, so I might be a little biased towards the side paying me. Still, it's my messiest disposal work.

Please if you remember nothing else, remember this: you should always stop after the third swing and check your progress. You might be done.

Pedo victims won't stop until they run out of breath which is at least fifty or sixty blows with say a medium level destructive device like an aluminum baseball bat appearing at the right moment. After that many swings we're talking acid cleaning, repainting, and complete site recreation. I take pics before the magic happens because I have to recreate the site and it has to be perfect.

So it's not my best work and not my most profitable. Takes a hell of a lot longer, and I am not paid any more for the job.

However, there is a reward I don't ever see on other type of cases. It's the deep look of bliss in the eyes of my customer when they hand me back a bat now covered in the blood and bits of their abuser. From anger and rage to karma quenching satisfaction.

The circle of life...has ended.

Customer bliss makes me feel happy about what I do and who I am.

Bet you wish you had bliss on your job.

Jason's father golfs with some city counselors, and they put pressure on the Sheriff. That's how they work up here in North East Florida, you can't kill the 'haves' even when they deserve a funeral, Kevin said.

Yeah, it's a shame. They should give the shooter a medal. No mistaking Patrick's opinion.

Got some balls though. Hit him coming out of the cinema with a crowd.

A hero, said Patrick.

You hire gang members to take your revenge you can't complain about a high risk shooting, I said.

High risk? Kevin wrinkled his brow with his question.

Yeah. Catch him at his car, less witnesses. Shooting him in a crowd from a motorcycle is showing off. Show offs are caught, I said.

Funny you mention gangs. Cops have been dragging in our Latino brothers by the carload for questioning. So far, no luck, said Kevin.

Must admit I admire the courage, I said. Stupid but courageous. They go hand in hand sometimes.

Kevin raised his Diet Coke. Here's to the man who did the deed. May he remain at large forever.

Here, here, Patrick held his up.

I raised mine but didn't join in their stupidity.

Hope the shooter was well-paid.

OK, I need a deep dive on every Nazi organization in the country and the people who hate them.

Gimme a second.

He began to type fast on his keyboard. After a minute he stopped typing and looked up.

Are you sure?

Yeah, why?

There are a hell of a lot of them, Kevin replied.

How many? Patrick asked eagerly.

At least ninety Nazi organizations. No telling the count of groups who oppose them. They aren't counted as precisely.

Ninety?

Kevin spun his screen around to show us the list from the Southern Poverty Law Center, folks who identify, count and classify hate groups.

You still want a deep dive on all of them? Kevin asked.

Yes.

Why?

Remember the FBI agent I was working with when they were killing the online performers?

Yeah, Rabinowitz, right? replied Kevin.

Yes. Somebody murdered him.

I'm sorry.

Me too, said Patrick.

He was trying to stop a serial killer targeting American Nazi leaders.

No shit, said Kevin. He's Jewish.

I'll be damned, said Patrick.

How much?

For what? Kevin asked.

Ninety deep dives.

Well let me tell you Trunk, since you've been gone I've had a lot of time to think. I'm a millionaire now because of you. So let me make you my best, lowest offer right at the start, OK? Kevin said with a smile. He leaned back in his chair and tried to pose like he deep in contemplation.

Go ahead, how much? May as well hear the big number early.

Nothing,

For free? You're gonna do the work for nothing? asked Patrick and I wanted to slap the back of his head again. Shut up, ain't your money!

Absolutely nothing.

Why? I dropped into observation mode.

First and foremost, I owe you. Or rather I owe Holly for getting you to pay me. So I'm repaying her through you. Second and almost as important but not quite, I finished a new bot a couple of weeks ago. My little minion does high speed multiple IDs searches and data extractions and I've been needing a use case. All my test data was well, test data. Ran it on me, my sister, my mom and dad. Member of Congress. Celebrities. Every cast member from every Star Trek movie. Your request fits exactly what I made the bot for, a wide net, thousands of IDs, over a million data points and the search for patterns tied to an objective. Every test I've run so far had no practical use. I've only established data retrieval routines work. What I need to test is whether they can be used and how? This is what you're giving me.

OK, when can you start?

Tomorrow morning. I need to finish a couple of things first. A New York company is curious about a sealed settlement against one of their CFO candidates. He may have been a little loose with the facts.

Tomorrow sounds fine, I confirmed.

Hey how is your husband? asked Patrick.

Doing better. Thanks for asking, Kevin replied.

No new episodes I hope, I said.

His life is one continuous episode. We went to New Orleans for our anniversary.

Love New Orleans, Patrick replied.

I like New Orleans too and eat too much food whenever I'm there.

So do I. Great food, excellent music, and an asshole husband I found giving blow jobs at a glory hole in one of the gay bars. Told me he had to go pee and would be right back. Forty-five minutes later I find him on his knees testing his gag reflex.

Damn, is he off his medicine? asked Patrick.

He wasn't, replied Kevin angrily.

Shit, a malfunction Patrick seemed concerned.

I don't know what to do. Sometimes I wish he were dead.

Nobody said anything for a long time. Happens sometime when death comes up and it's personal. After a few seconds I was bored.

So what have we got for total numbers of assholes? I asked.

Kevin was typing fast on his keyboard again. He stopped and spun his screen around.

See right here? We're talking 8 to 10 thousand without the KKK, add them in, and we're talking 13 to 18 thousand, Kevin said.

Pity you can't kill them all, Trunk, Kevin said.

Would be nice, I said.

Make the world a better place, Patrick said.

I'm not usually much of a day dreamer. I've got shit to do. How to kill 10,000 people spread across 90 groups in separate locations? Seemed like an interesting challenge, a brain-teaser. Within a second or two I was thinking of the best methods. I'd need bombs. Not a chance of successfully shooting 10,000 people. Would take forever. Yeah, bombs at their meetings would be the best way to kill the largest number in the shortest time. A single method of killing is a needless self-limitation. So a multiple method approach would be best. Bombs are not going to kill everyone, every time. There will be survivors. There will be the people who couldn't attend the meeting because momma was bitching or a kid was sick or maybe they didn't have gas money.

This would work best in waves. And after the first couple of bombings the remaining 88 groups would tighten their security and make this so much more fun. It will take a lot longer. Yeah, this would require a multi-year effort. Could be someone's life work.

Don't worry, I'm not interested in causing widespread mayhem and death among Nazis in America. I want Morrie's killer. While killing a bunch of Nazis will make the world a better place, I've got other plans for my life.

I enjoyed thinking about the many challenges, so many opportunities to learn so much. And the rush of excitement would be better than any drug ever. I've felt it often while I've been on a job. Deep shit, desperate, and armed...hell yeah! Brain and reflexes working together at optimal levels to avoid death. Being all I can be...like the old Army slogan.

Kevin, I need an online profile. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, I said.

What about the Dungeon? Patrick chuckled and blew me a kiss.

Very funny.

I was kidding, boss. Jeez, don't be so sensitive.

Needs to be a nasty nut case full of hate. Blacks, Asians, Latinos. Gotta hate everyone non-white. Register him in their chat rooms. I need to be a potential recruit.

Oh Dennis, I'm gonna make you so nasty you'll want to disown yourself, Kevin said with a smile.

Make it so, I replied with a chuckle.

Disown myself, yeah right. Only way I can disown myself involves the taste of gun oil.

I also need another one. Exact opposite. An antifa type looking for a cause.

Gotcha. Leave it to me. This is Chandler's specialty.

Trunk, there's gonna be a shit load of data coming in. Data will require analysis, the banking data and credit agencies, although I bet most of these clowns have shitty credit.

Makes sense, I replied.

This Nazi shit appeals to those near the bottom and afraid of falling farther behind, Kevin replied.

At least I'm better off than the Negroes, Patrick said with a chuckle.

Motherfucker do you want me to hit you?

No, boss.

Don't say racist shit and racist justifications, I said.

I got it, boss.

And quit calling me boss, Patrick. New rule, I slap you every time you call me boss. Starting now.

I'm sorry, Patrick took one exaggerated step away from me, his way of protesting and calling attention to my violent promise.

What about me, boss? Kevin asked.

You too, smart ass.

Sometimes simple solutions work best.

We're going to be sifting through a shitload of data, said Kevin. He took another sip from the can. Do you understand personal financial statements? Credit Reports? I wouldn't recognize funny business if it were standing in front of me wearing a name tag. I can steal the data and find unexpected big numbers, new payers or payees, that's all. Beyond that I am don't know shit.

But I know someone who does.

Chapter Three

I really missed Whataburger while I was away. I was so happy to finally go there again, I didn't go back for the fries they shorted me.

You would expect if they were going to short you on something then sometimes they would give you too much, right? Never happens and I wonder why. It's a math problem and a process problem I don't understand. Shortages were the reason I stopped going to Wendy's when I was a teenager. Always shorted me something in the drive through. Plus whoever designed their French fries should give back their paycheck. Or give the money to the person who came up with