Gapp’s Generation

By Wade Powers

John Gapp lives in Seattle, Washington as a retired and decorated police officer. A series of personal tragedies has left the man as a frightened soul and an agoraphobic. One highlight of Gapp’s life is his radio show, which is broadcast from a studio that is adjacent to his apartment. Crime on Ice, is a hit and has just been syndicated. While working through his demons of the present, an old one comes calling. A serial killer of children that Gapp had almost apprehended in Vietnam in 1968 is up to his old game again. In 2008, he attempts to draw John Gapp out of hiding for one last showdown. At age sixty-two, the former detective must make the choice if he is to face the world and attempt to bring down this dark angel of death. Can Gapp stand on the sidelines while more young lives are destroyed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728330181

Wade Powers

Wade grew up in Lancaster, California with a love for the written word. What started out as simple poems and predictable short stories has evolved into novels about struggles, conquest, love and death. Wade has published two other novels, "Specter of an Accident" and "Skinware" and has completed the writer's version of the hat trick with the completion of "The Resurrection Factor." Wade has also written "The Covenant Divorce Recovery Leader's Handbook" which is a tutorial for starting divorce support groups for Christians. "The Covenant Divorce Recovery Student Workbook" was written as an aid for the members of said groups and allows a measure of accountability for the students as they follow along the fifteen week course. Wade has written two books of poetry, "To My Annie" and "To My Annie Book 2" and all of his works are available at online bookstores. His website is www.yellowriter.com and he lives in Port Angeles, Washington with his wife, Annie.

Book preview

GAPP’S

GENERATION

Wade Powers

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

©

2019 Wade Powers. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/15/2022

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3020-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3019-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3018-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019915512

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Back to Vietnam

The Monster Hunter

A Murderer of Children

The Polar Bear

Destroyer Gets His Way

Time for Payback

The Thaw had Begun

Cowinkie-dink

Underestimating One’s Opponent

The Demon was Winning

Blown

There’s no Time Like the Present

A Better Man

See Again

This book is

dedicated to my father, Marvin Powers. He possesses more drive and mental toughness than anyone I know. He showed me that a person can achieve almost anything if quitting is not an option. Thanks Dad. You’re the greatest example of success a son could ask for.

Special thanks to Janice K. Hooker, my senior editor

Back to Vietnam

H E WATCHED UNTIL the tail lights disappeared. He could hear Alice sobbing softly behind him. The rain was cold and came down straight with no wind to bend its progress to the Seattle pavement. He wondered how it had come this, how he had been such a terrible father. Maybe the boy was just a bad seed or maybe it was simply history repeating itself. A generational sin his father had called it, his father the Baptist pastor. It wasn’t raining in Oklahoma City that day. All he remembered was his mother crying, the same way his wife, Alice, was crying now.

John Barrister Gapp was born on November 11th, 1945 and it turned out to be an omen. Military service for a man born on Veteran’s Day was almost a given to John Gapp. So much of his life had been omens up to that point, including that March evening in 1988. That was the day that he told his son to leave and never come back. The young man was only twenty years old, but had already caused enough grief and remorse to last the Gapps a lifetime. Of course, Alice could not ever admit to that. To her, the fleeing youth was simply her baby boy, Barrister Jonathan Gapp. Barrister was the maiden name of the boy’s grandmother, a woman that he had never met. She and her exiled husband had died in a car wreck outside of Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1971. John Gapp had never made things right with his parents and they had perished before the metaphorical fence could be mended. Now he had banished his own son just as he had been dismissed himself. He would curse at God, had he believed in him.

Barrister was known as Barry and he was strong-willed and defiant, just like his father. When he was fifteen, he asked John what had caused the rift between you and your old man. Gapp decided to tell him.

Your grandfather being the fine Christian that he was would not accept my relationship with your mother. He called her ‘white trash’ but his favorite term was ‘gutter slut,’ I think. I was just about to get my commission with the Air Force and he told me that if I planned on marrying your mom that I could consider myself disowned. ‘Disowned’ is what he said.

So you chose mom over your parents?

I had to. Mom was three months pregnant with you.

Did they know? About the pregnancy? I mean, how did they react?

React, Barry? I don’t exactly know. I told them as I walked away and I didn’t look back to see their judgmental faces.

And you never saw them again?

No, but I called my mom on her birthday for two years.

Sounds cold. Think I could ever do that to you? Barry asked with a laugh.

In a New York minute, son. A New York minute.

Five years after the conversation with Barry brought the Gapps to another rift in the road of time. It was March 15, 1988. He always would remember that day because of Shakespeare’s warning about the ides of March. It was John Gapp’s turn to be Brutus and the knife he stuck into his son sank in so very deep. He never dreamed that, like his farewell with his own parents, that this dagger plunge would be permanent as well. In the end Barry had gone and although he was sorry for Alice, he was surprisingly relieved when it was all over. At 42 John Gapp was still in good shape so when Barry took a swing at him, the master of the house simply had to knock some sense into him. Barry’s last glance at his mother showed her his swollen left eye and his bloody split lip. His last words were, Mom, I’ll call you someday. I love you. Tell your piece of shit husband I’m through with him and he can rot in hell just like grandpa said he would!

The rain started to ease up. He moved to comfort Alice, but she pulled away. He knew that it was going to be like this. All of the trouble in school, the fights, the partying and the drug use had been overlooked by her. In her eyes the fruit of her womb could do no wrong. Even after he failed to graduate high school, she refused to turn on him. But this was the last straw. He had been arrested for selling marijuana near a local middle school. John had had enough. His reputation as a police detective, the most decorated detective on the Seattle Police Force, was not going to take any more abuse. He told Barry he had to leave and then the altercation broke out. He would never admit it, but it had felt good, and right, as he pummeled his son. The boy took his punches well, but the time for compliments had passed.

John rubbed his knuckles as he heard the car door slam. It was going to be at least one night on the couch for him. Alice could hold grudges and this could turn into a long and painful standoff. He was thankful that he had his work. He would simply take on additional duties and stakeouts thus avoiding the need to be home. He thought about the tail lights fading in the mist. He wondered if he would ever see his son again. Would the lean six-foot man of one hundred and seventy pounds fill out and come back to challenge his old man? He hoped so.

Yeah. Yeah, I’m up. What time is it? he asked groggily.

It’s almost nine. Your show starts in just over an hour. I made you some ham and eggs. They’re getting cold so get up.

On my way, Oby, Gapp croaked.

This was the Monday through Friday routine. Gapp would be in bed by six P.M. on those nights. He wanted to be fresh for his show, his radio talk show. He was due to celebrate his 63rd birthday this year and John Gapp was a local celebrity. His influence had expanded on New Year’s Day with his two-hour radio show being syndicated and broadcast to 22 U.S. and Canadian markets. The name of his program was Crime on Ice and the reviews and ratings were the stuff of dreams. Gapp had retired from the Seattle Police Department five years previously after a stray bullet from his service weapon ricocheted and killed a four-year-old girl in a mall just north of the Emerald City. Gapp had been off duty at the time and had witnessed a jewelry store robbery in progress. He only fired after the assailant turned and let loose a volley of six bullets. One of the shots took off Gapp’s right earlobe, but so intent was he in the chase that he didn’t even feel the pain, not until he saw the dead child. Two shots Gapp fired ripped through the chest of the thief, but the third shot, the unnecessary one, had skipped off a security gate and pierced the heart of Darcy Dellacott. The blood from Gapp’s ear dripped from his shirt and onto the face of the doll held tightly still by the one who would play no more.

It was a short process to clear Gapp of all wrongdoing. It had been deemed an accident, but it was clear that the Seattle higher-ups wanted John Gapp to retire. His wife Alice had died of Leukemia three months after the Darcy Dellacott debacle and Gapp shrugged off the suggestions of giving up the life of a cop for a life of supposed leisure because he not only wanted to work, he needed to work. To him it was therapy and it was his element. He had worked for the Office of Special Investigation, or the O.S.I. as it was abbreviated in the Air Force, and that dovetailed nicely into a career with the force. It seemed that law enforcement and investigation was in his blood and he simply would be lost without it.

But retirement would not come on his terms. As fate would have it, he was forced to retire four months to the day of Alice’s funeral. He did get a gold watch and a golden box of donuts. He made speeches, shook hands and accepted bottles of dry red wines. It looked like everyone was in agreement, but on the inside was a rage. He loathed retirement at first, but then it became a necessity. It was starting to become a chore to venture outside the house. At first, he thought it was just merely memories so he put his place up for sale two days after retirement and it took only six days to sell. He decided to take a small place, an apartment near the Space Needle, and put off the decision of where to hang his hat for the long haul.

He dreamed of little Darcy most nights and with each passing day, his anxiety grew. He would awaken in a sweat and stare out the window at the local NBC television station. He had planned to live in this rental for only six months, but that was five years ago. Gapp suffered from acute agoraphobia and his once cavalier and easygoing demeanor had vanished. The doctor had told him that high stress careers sometimes triggered agoraphobia in older patients. He actually used the word, mature, which Gapp thought odd. The ex-detective’s main fear was new places and for years he had not been in a car or ridden on a train. He was a prisoner on North Broad Street. His only movements would be to a local sports bar, a nearby donut shop and the radio station in the NBC building.

At the kitchen table the two men sat in silence, John Gapp, a sixty-two-year-old Seattle retired police officer and Obadiah Washington, a thirty-four-year old ex-con. This twosome could certainly put the Odd Couple to shame. Obadiah was a black, clean-shaven man with a pronounced forehead and a tall space between his upper lip and nose, where a mustache would serve to fill in the blank. His eyes were wide and alert and he often pursed his ample lips when dissatisfied. He was only five-foot-seven and trim, a mere one hundred and fifty pounds. Gapp had felt sorry for the young man from the moment they had met twelve years earlier.

It was a bank heist gone horribly wrong, leaving a security guard dead and another, a woman teller of 41 years, injured with a shot to the stomach. The employee lived, but the casualty of the guard made this crime a priority for Detective Jonathan Gapp. The role of the then 18-year-old Obadiah Ellis Washington had been to drive the getaway car and the three assailants did manage to get away. Obadiah showed off some fine driving skills, but in the end, Gapp arrested all of them. The shooter got life with a possibility of parole. Assailant number two got fourteen years and Obadiah, aged nineteen when the term began, had received ten long years for his part in the crime. Gapp knew the smallish youth would not fare well in the joint so he made sure to be there when prisoner 45982 (A.K.A. Obadiah Washington) was settled into the Clallam Bay Prison in Washington. Gapp never told Washington why he was there, but many of the cons who saw the detective got the message. Gapp was responsible for eleven percent of the inmates in that facility and they all hated and feared John Gapp.

Prison life had been hard on Obadiah, but he made the entire ten years without being beaten or raped. Obadiah had got religion according to his fellow inmates, becoming a Christian in his first three months of incarceration. Charles Colson had spoken at the prison and when the altar call came, the teenager was the first to respond. Obadiah attributed his protection to the Lord and it wasn’t until a week before his release that he learned who his protector was.

It was Gapp all along, the man said. The man was Ferringer, Marcus Purgatory Ferringer. He earned the nickname, Purgatory because of the number of souls he had sent to that horrible place. Marcus didn’t care outwardly for the name, but inwardly, he relished it. The convicted killer would comment, There’s no stopover point for me, no purgatory; do not pass go, no damn two hundrid’ dollas’ - I’m going straight to hell. He was a huge, angry looking black man with three life sentences. His six-foot-five-inch frame was squared off by the 320 pounds he carried on it. He wore a curly black beard with specks of gray and his enormous head was shaved daily by one of his minions. The prison, like most, was divided by race and the black inmates were led exclusively by Purgatory Ferringer. His eyes were deep set and intelligent and he could have had the face of a college professor or a doctor if it had not been for his appetite for cold blooded murder. His skin was caramel colored and he cracked his knuckles routinely every three minutes or so. The popping sound it made reminded one of cheap firecrackers exploding. He actually sneered as he spoke and the hatred in his countenance was menacing. Obadiah had only spoken to the man once in nearly a decade, but this night Ferringer wanted to talk. When he sat down at dinner across from the man soon to be released, the rest of the table scattered. Obadiah thought to flee as well and stood to leave. He motioned for the younger man to sit and the twenty-nine-year-old obeyed.

Gapp? You mean the dude that arrested me?

Yeah man. He was here the day you came in.

I saw him. I thought he was gloating.

Naw, dumb shit, he was putting out the word and Gapp never has put out a word on nobody.

The word?

How you gonna survive out there, pretty boy? Ferringer sneered. Look, Gapp met with me that day and told me to make sure the word got out you was to be watched over.

Watched over? You mean Gapp set it up so I wouldn’t get hurt?

You catch on fast, man. Gapp did me some solids for making sure you didn’t get your young ass gang raped in the shower. I heard he also made sure you got high profile duty so you weren’t accessible to the sisters. He worked that out with the warden. All this Jesus bullshit you been spoutin’ makes me laugh. Your real guardian angel was Detective Gapp.

What did Gapp do for you?

Little things. My old lady got behind on the rent and the utilities. I made a call and everything got paid. Yes sir, Gapp came through on his end. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a cop and I hate cops, especially self-righteous sons of bitches like him, but I do respect the man.

Marcus, why are you telling me this?

Haven’t heard that name in a while. Made me think of my momma, Purgatory sighed, seemingly lost in thoughts of yesteryear for a moment. He continued, Maybe, I see myself in you, a little. Take some advice and go straight. If you hit a rough spot, call Gapp. That white bread turd tries to act like a bad ass, but he’s soft inside.

And that’s a bad thing? Obadiah asked in perfect honesty. Marcus Purgatory Ferringer actually smiled.

In here, yeah. Being soft gets a brother killed, but out there… it works sometimes.

So what’s your plan tonight, Oby? Gapp asked as he scooped scrambled eggs in his mouth.

A little Bible study. I read while I listen to your show. It’s a little slow at first.

Slow? You mean boring?

Yeah. I put the Word aside when you start taking calls. The syndication really helps. Takes it way beyond some of the local kooks. That’s some whacked out stuff.

The real weirdos are calling in from the East Coast. I mean it’s after two in the morning back there and they want to call in and talk about unsolved murders.

The murders are the most interesting. All part of our fallen world.

Preach it, Oby. Can I get a witness? What I really want is more ham. Any left?

I saved you a slab. Hurry it up. You need a shower.

What? I have B.O?

You don’t have body odor, but I noticed your voice seems more alert on nights when you shower right beforehand. I guess it wakes you up.

You’re going to make someone a great husband someday.

Not while I’m hanging out with you. My social life ain’t exactly smokin’ these days, Obadiah quipped as he moved toward the kitchen for the reinforcements.

Your day will come. I’m sure of it.

Gapp showed up at the studio at 9:40. That would give him twenty minutes of preparation. He eyed his reflection in the panes of glass that housed the NBC studios. He liked the lighting because it hid his age. He knew that he was almost 63, but in many ways he still felt young. Losing Alice had aged him plenty and he was thankful that he had his work. With John Gapp, it had always been his work. His first nine months after retirement had left him bored and cantankerous. He had just been diagnosed with agoraphobia and was hateful of life on a monumental scale. On one of his therapy outings, prescribed by his doctor, which was to walk from his apartment to the NBC building and back, he ran into the son of his old partner, Leonard Dietz. Leonard Junior was the President of KZIZ Radio and over coffee he told Gapp of his plans for a late-night talk show about local crime.

I thought it could be about local headlines, you know, current trends and events, Dietz proposed.

That’s good for filler, but what about cold cases, you know, the unsolved ones. Call it, I don’t know, ‘Crime on Ice’. Gapp replied.

That is brilliant! When can you start? Leonard asked. Gapp laughed, but the rest is history.

He was met in the lobby by a thin, Asian woman who looked to be all of 45. In truth, she was 61, but her radiant skin and slender figure easily saved her more than a decade. Her name was Christina Muto and she was in love with John Gapp.

The romance had begun a year after Gapp had started broadcasting his late-night radio show. Christina was his program director and they sparked an instant chemistry. The relationship startled Gapp to a certain degree for two reasons. The first was that he had not even been attracted to another woman since Alice had passed away and the second was that he had never been attracted to Asian women. When he told Christina this on their second date over coffee at the neighborhood donut store, she laughed.

My problem is that I haven’t been attracted to Asian men.

What do you mean? I assumed at least one of your two ex-husbands were Japanese, Gapp retorted in a direct fashion that she had found irresistible.

No, you assume wrong. My parents, God rest their souls, isn’t that what we’re supposed to say? she giggled. They were always after me to be more Japanese, but I just never plugged into my roots. I was born in Chicago in 1946 and they gave me as Anglo a name as they could.

That was because of the internment camps, I’m assuming.

You don’t miss much detective. They were living in California when the war following the war to end all wars broke out and the discrimination was pretty harsh. My folks were first generation so when they and my older brother were tossed into a camp, it was no surprise.

But they got out by promising to move to the Midwest and become more American?

Bingo John. My oldest brother was born in 41 and name is Hachi, but my second brother was born in the windy city in 44 and his name is Roger. Not too Japanese, is it? I came along much much later.

Of course, you did. It sure makes a great story. Tell me about your exes.

You cops are morbid freaks, but okay. Larry was an Illinois farm boy who sold insurance after he left the homestead. He was decent, but boring. He wanted kids and I couldn’t have them so we agreed to end it as friends.

Seems kind of a shallow reason.

There’s those powers of deduction, Gapp. He was a Midwesterner and one thing to learn about most Midwesterners is that they don’t like to discuss unpleasant subjects. The real reason for the divorce was the pressure he was getting for marrying outside of his race.

Were his friends and relatives unkind?

Hell no, John, I told you, they’re Midwesterners. They’re always polite to your face. His close friends and one of his uncles didn’t care for me. Called me ‘Tokyo Rose’ behind my back. They were bigoted morons. But the inner circle of family was very nice, she said, softening. I missed his parents more than I did him. They just loved me for who I am. Anyway, the second guy was Raymond and he was a complete shit. Drunk all the time and womanizing. It only lasted eight months.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be. It made me the person I am today. Besides, it means I can explore a workplace romance with a stud who recently became eligible for Social Security, she laughed. He smiled.

Even though said stud is a weirdo who can’t ever take you on a car date or a cruise? She reached across the table and touched his hands.

John, we all have our crosses to bear. You’ll work out all of this agoraphobia. You just need to tackle it on your own terms. It’s really not that big of an issue; we both practically live at the station anyway and I do like you.

I like you too, Christina. You’re smart, beautiful and funny and I love the way that you say exactly what’s on your mind.

I have to. Remember I’m the classic anti-Midwesterner!

Christina met him in the lobby, as she did most nights and he kissed her gently on her tiny mouth. He wiped away the red lipstick. She wore a white sweater with a red skirt and black boots. Her hair was pulled back tight into a bun and was held in place with a porcelain peg that matched her sweater to a tee. Her high cheekbones and almond eyes of chocolate brown framed her pretty, petite face. In moments like this Gapp always wondered why she had decided to stake her claim to a washed-up detective who happened to have a powerful voice on the airwaves. And that was his dilemma. He felt as though he were two persons. One was the radio personality, strong, confident and in the know about all things pertaining to law enforcement. And then there was the scared little boy that lived in the shell of a sixty-two-year-old man, a man who was terrified of the real world.

The show started with a review of the local headlines specific to Seattle. That was Leonard’s agenda for the show. No matter how huge it became, the show would always have the Emerald City’s trademark. This segment had to be edited and shortened, much to the manager’s chagrin, because the call-in time was filled with people from all over the continent wanting to speak to John Gapp.

Christina called over the intercom, Line three is Ramon calling from Nevada. He waved at her through the glass window that separated their booths and flipped a toggle as he leaned into the huge microphone that hung suspended from the ceiling.

Hello Ramon from Nevada. Welcome to Crime on Ice.

Hello Mr. Gapp. Thanks for having me on.

My pleasure. What’s on your mind?

I want to know your feelings on how the Italians are handling the Amanda Knox murder trial.

I knew that would come up quick. Way to go Christina, he said as he flashed her a grin. It’s clear to me that the issue is really the botched manner in which forensic evidence was tallied.

The show ebbed and flowed and it was soon time to sign off. It had been a night filled with spirited debate and one caller even wanted to drift back to 1963 for the John F. Kennedy assassination. After making a joke about being the second radio talk show host on the grassy knoll, it was time to sign off.

Christina had brought an Italian picnic in honor of Amanda Knox and they feasted on lasagna and breadsticks at Gapp’s desk. The merlot was a nice touch and even though it was against NBC policy to have alcohol in the building, it was overlooked at one in the morning. They held up a silent toast and looked deep in to one another’s eyes.

John, I don’t mean to pressure you, but it’s been almost four years now.

I know. I have been giving our situation a lot of thought. I know you wanted me to go to that therapist friend of yours and every time I pick up the phone to call him, I can’t. I want him to maybe meet me in the sports bar or possibly my apartment.

He doesn’t do that, John. He wants agoraphobics to take what he calls ‘the heroic first step.’ That’s always been his policy. He contends that only a significant emotional event can break these types of patients out of their fears.

So what is a significant emotional event?

Something life threatening or changing. I don’t know. It varies by patient.

I walked to the Space Needle parking lot the other day.

At the base of the needle?

No, the one across the street past the hot dog stand.

John, that’s wonderful. And there was no anxiety?

I said I walked there. I couldn’t make it back. I had to call Oby and he came with a wheelchair and rolled me home. Some significant event, huh? She kissed him on his downcast forehead.

John, the important thing is that you tried. I’m proud of you. What do you want to do this weekend?

Oby’s going to a Greg Laurie evangelistic thing. It’s in Olympia and he’s going to be gone Friday afternoon until Sunday afternoon. He’s staying with a church friend down there.

Wanna have a slumber party?

"Yeah, I do. I got some