The Need to Know

By Dan Lerch

"The Need to Know" is a dark, fast paced, crime fiction story with twists and turns.

The Devil's Demons, a third-generation criminal motorcycle gang, is driving down home values by having club members and associates move into older neighborhoods. The paid off and blackmailed town council members ignore citizen complaints of loud motorcycles and trashed properties as the homeowners sell out before prices sink lower. An ensemble of law enforcement and citizens, working unknown to each other, learn the dark secret of how the Devil's Demons are financing their real estate venture through murder and the woman who devised it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350922462

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The Need to Know

Dan Lerch

ISBN: 979-8-35092-246-2

© 2023. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidences are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form. It may not be transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise without prior written permission of the author.

No particular state, city, town or county are named in the telling of this story. Reasons.

– DL

Contents

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Epilogue

1

The Collector of Lost Souls

The homeless community living under the overpass that runs along the river was transient. It was rare to see the same faces more than two years in a row, as the police routinely dispersed them with stern warnings not to come back. Most took the threats seriously, and those who didn’t would be joined by a new crop of young men surrendering to alcohol and drugs, the lost souls disowned by parents, siblings, and society.

The only exception was Big Mike. He was there every spring and fall in between the summer and winter clear-outs demanded by the city to hide the plight of the homeless from the media and the community. Standing only five and a half feet tall, Big Mike presented no threat to the newcomers and offered them advice on how best to survive among the detritus of society. He was knowledgeable of the best places to panhandle, wash up, and score drugs. Being also fluent in Spanish, he served as translator for the Hispanic homeless who shared the concreted, covered camp and was often credited for not letting any disagreements draw the attention of the police.

Flush with cash and drugs at the beginning of every month, Big Mike would share with his newfound friends. The only price he subtly extracted was their stories. Who they were, where they came from, and how they ended up as homeless. Stories willingly offered as backdrops to the injustices suffered from a world that cast them aside.

Without fail, three or four candidates would be found worthy of redemption and offered menial jobs and places to live. In time, they would establish themselves as contributing members of society, paying taxes, bills, and rent. All things necessary to get a foothold back into the American dream with a decent credit rating. The only thing they had to do first was to die.

2

Gary’s Guns and Sporting Goods Store

Gary’s Guns and Sporting Goods Store sits at the end of a strip mall just outside the town limits, a quarter mile from the first traffic light. Besides selling firearms and fishing and hunting gear, Gary provides a five-lane indoor shooting range at the back of the store for customers to sample handguns for purchase. It is also available by the hour to anyone provided that they bought targets and ammunition from him.

At a little before two in the afternoon on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Gary put several paper targets on the counter with two boxes of handgun ammunition. One box of nine millimeter and one box of .38 caliber. A short time later, his regular came in carrying a gun bag. Pleasantries were exchanged as he paid Gary and signed in on the range logbook. In the background, the subdued pop-pop, pause, pop-pop was heard from the back of the store. Always two rounds shot quickly together.

The regular looked up at Gary. Badass wannabees?

Not wannabees. Gary tilted his head gravely toward the window and the two Harley-Davidson motorcycles parked outside. He was not happy that the two men in the back were practicing double-taps, two quick shots to center mass.

No upside to refuse them, I take it.

None whatsoever. Every year when it gets cold, they come indoors to practice. Not too cold to ride motorcycles and make themselves heard. Ignorant bunch of assholes.

How you mean?

They make their motorcycles sound as loud as possible. Gary held up his hands as if he were riding a motorcycle and swayed back and forth. Vroom! Vroom! Look at me! Look at me! he mocked. Lowering his hands, he added, Bad enough I hear them all day running in and out of town out front, but they like to go through my neighborhood at least once a week even when it’s freezing, just to get attention.

Sorry to hear that. I don’t hear them much out my way; didn’t know it was that bad in town, lied the regular. He actually lived in town and knew how bad the noise was. He also knew the sinister purpose other than feeding egos suspended in the adolescent need for attention. Some neighborhoods were targeted for ride-throughs when others only heard a low rumble at a great distance.

If I could get my wife to leave town, I would be out there in the sticks with you, but she puts up with it to stay near her mother. Gary let the subject drop. Anyway, they should be done soon. Do you want to wait until they leave?

Nah, no reason. They shouldn’t bother me. I’ll go back now.

He went back to the anteroom and put on shooting glasses and inserted earplugs. On entering the shooting range, he saw two men at the far lane putting away their pistols into a black padded gun bag. Glock 19s, he noted. Both were dressed in leather motorcycle jackets. The larger man, with long black hair and beard, sported the club name on his back above a stylized demon in red with a forked tongue and white fangs. The younger and smaller man’s jacket had a single patch that read Prospect. His face and ears were scarred and torn as if he had run headlong into a ball of barbed wire. When he grabbed the broom and dustpan to sweep up the shells that their guns had ejected to the floor, he was roughly grabbed by the shoulder.

Fuck that, let the maids clean up. You got things to do. Now let’s get the fuck outta here.

As the two men passed the regular, the large man saw him looking at the floor and sneered, You want the brass? You pick it up.

There were a hundred shell casings littering the area. I think I will, he breathed quietly to himself, I think I will.

Gary tuned out the mixed cadence of shooting in the back and went back to watching hog hunting from helicopters on a video pad. He didn’t notice the random pop-pop, pause, pop-pop.

3

Deputy U.S. Marshal Anton Reeves

Deputy U.S. Marshal Anton Reeves was on his honeymoon at an all-inclusive resort in Punta Cana on the north coast of the Dominican Republic when the laughter and splashing in the pool made him look up from his book. Two couples in their early twenties were having a chicken fight, the young women on the shoulders of their respective boyfriends trying to pull each other off while holding on to plastic cups of tropical drinks laced with rum. He smiled when one couple rushed toward the other, grappled, and pulled all four underwater. When the one man surfaced, his hair was swept back and his sunglasses were missing. He saw Anton smiling at them and smiled back before he dove to retrieve his pair of overpriced Italian eyewear.

Bingo, Anton said softly and reached for his tablet.

You got to be kidding me, on our honeymoon? his new bride lamented without moving in the chaise lounge next to him. It wasn’t the first time she had heard him recognize a wanted felon over the past four years of courtship that often involved going to concerts, sporting events, and any other venues where people gathered. What she would call going out, he called fishing trips.

I don’t think you’ll mind when you see who it is. After several quick motions on the touch screen, he held it out toward her.

She sat up and grabbed the tablet from him, raised her sunglasses, and looked at the device in her lap. Keeping her head down to hide the anger on her face, she asked in a calm voice, What can I do?

It’s only Monday, so it’s likely they are here all week like us. Be sociable. Just enough so I can get the name he is using.

So what do you want to tell them we do for a living this time if they ask? She too worked in law enforcement and, most times in social situations with strangers, they found it better not to say.

Anton watched the two couples as they moved back to the pool bar to replace their drinks. The two men looked and acted like the entitled rich that they were, and the two women obviously spent a lot of time and effort to be physically fit and attractive. Tinsel Talent he called them.

People like that usually don’t ask. Don’t care about anything but themselves. If they do, go with the usual: teacher and social worker. That will kill any curiosity.

Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like? she teased as she handed back the tablet.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Busted, she admitted as she lay back down and wondered if she would ever tire of his gift for spotting fugitives from justice.

After graduating from Howard University, Anton Reeves applied to the U.S. Marshals Service, inspired by the legacy of Bass Reeves, the first black Deputy U.S. Marshal, born a slave, who had a long and distinguished career hunting fugitives in the Arkansas and the Oklahoma Territories in the latter half of the nineteenth century.

Shortly after being accepted, Anton was given the Glasgow Face Matching Test, which determined that he was a super-recognizer, a savant in facial recognition that exceeded the abilities of computer recognition software. He was immediately assigned to the U.S. Marshals Fugitive Program, where they discovered that he also never forgot a face.

4

Lydia

The young man parked the Harley-Davidson motorcycle across from Building 3 of the Crest View Apartments, dismounted, and hurried up the center stairway to the second-floor landing. He stood in front of the door on the left that had the letter C crudely marked on it. The door opposite had a shiny brass D that was recently attached by the tenant. He didn’t hear it open as he tapped in the code to the deadbolt lock that had been installed for added security to Apartment C.

You my neighbor?

Surprised, he turned around abruptly and saw a young woman with blonde hair and blue eyes dressed in a robe. She looked familiar.

Nah, just collecting the mail for a buddy. He’s working outta state for a while, giving the standard lie as he retrieved the mail that had collected on the floor inside the apartment through the door’s mail slot.

Well, I’m Lydia. Just moved in. Was wondering if I had a neighbor. Lydia ignored his scarred face and shamelessly eyed the physique accented in the tight leather jacket. You got a name?

You can call me TB. Did you say Lydia?

Yes. Her smile widened.

I know you! I’m one of your subscribers. TB438, he exclaimed. Lydia earned a living running an online video chat room that catered to a special clientele of lonely young men.

Well TB438, you’re the only customer I have ever met. In fact, you’re the only person I have met since I moved here.

TB closed and locked the apartment without going in and stuffed the mail inside his jacket. He stood there returning Lydia’s hungry look and had an idea. Hey, could I sit in on one of your sessions?

I was just going to suggest that, leered Lydia.

5

James M. O’Hara

It was the Friday before Easter when the tall man with long dark hair and beard and carrying a sports bag over his left shoulder entered the lobby of one of the city’s older and less imaginative office buildings located several blocks from the taller and more prestigious structures that crowded around city hall. He was wearing a nondescript tan overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat suitable for the rainy weather. It could be assumed he was coming back to work after a lunch hour at the gym. The bulk in the shoulders suggested as much. He was politely ignored by passersby looking down at their phones.

Stopping across from the elevators and looking down at his own phone, he waited until the last of the lunchtime returnees were gone before he walked over and pushed the up button with the second knuckle of his right index finger. The elevator on the left arrived first. Before anyone else could impose sharing, he quickly entered the elevator, knuckling the close-door and top-floor buttons at the same time. No one joined him on the way up.

He stepped unseen from the elevator. The top floor had only one office suite occupied and it was out of view. It was Good Friday, and all but one person had taken the rest of the day off.

When the doors closed behind him, the man put on a pair of black nitrile gloves and pulled a pair of white Tyvek booties out of the right-hand overcoat pocket. He put them on standing on each leg in turn, without leaning against the wall. Like an impatient flamingo, he imagined to himself. He took two laminated signs and a roll of yellow plastic tape from the bag and affixed them across both sets of elevator doors. Satisfied with his work, he walked down the hall to the stairwell.

It was almost two hours before he heard a voice cursing from the hallway and footsteps approaching. The yellow hazard tape and the Out of order, please use the stairs signs had been accepted without question or suspicion.

Standing behind the stairwell door as it opened, he was not noticed by his victim until it closed behind him.

What the fuck? were the last words of James M. O’Hara, attorney at law, as he faced the man lying in wait.

The man’s right arm shot up, pointing a length of two-inch white PVC pipe at the lawyer’s chest. It protruded from a dark-blue hand towel wrapped around the hand, secured with several wraps of duct tape. Underneath the towel and behind the plastic pipe was a .38 caliber Smith &Wesson Model 640 hammerless revolver.

The first shot hit the sternum. The frangible bullet disintegrated against the bone, imparting all its energy into the chest cavity. Before the lawyer’s body could react, a second bullet shattered against his forehead. He dropped backward like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut.

The subdued explosions echoed down and back up the stairwell. The man waited patiently for any reaction to the sounds as he unwrapped the towel from his hand and swaddled it around the gun and plastic pipe. He placed the bundle carefully into the sports bag. There was no response from the noises, which could have been mistaken as doors slamming.

He pulled a small manila envelope out of his breast pocket and opened it with the flick of his thumb. With a quick motion of the wrist, two 9mm shell casings went down the stairwell from the landing as if they had been ejected from a semi-automatic pistol. The brass hitting the steps and bouncing sounded like a small wind chime caught in a sudden breeze. The difference between the remains of a 9mm and a .38 caliber frangible bullet would be indiscernible.

Sports bag in hand, he stepped around the body and proceeded down the stairwell to the parking garage five floors below, careful not to step on the evidence he left behind.

When the assassin reached the bottom, he removed the booties and opened the door to the garage enough to stick his left foot in between it and the jamb. He removed the sweat-soaked gloves, which joined the booties in his right coat pocket. He looked and listened for a ten count before he moved.

The only witness of him exiting the garage was the surveillance camera at the corner by the bank.

Two hours later, he was home washing the water-soluble mascara out of his beard. The black wig and hat on the floor would join the sports bag and padded overcoat for disposal. The reflection in the bathroom mirror was of an older man with thinning white hair and beard—a beard that was recently allowed to grow long and shaggy. Yes, he needed killing, he told the reflection.

The reflection looked back at him with a grim smile, thinking about the time and trouble it took to sort through the hundred brass shell casings, looking at each under a magnifying glass until he had two that would complete a large thumbprint. Yes, it was well worth the effort.

Later that evening, his wife placed his dinner in front of him. Arthur, you missed a spot. She wetted a corner of a napkin with her tongue and wiped a black fleck from the recently trimmed beard.

6

The Mullen Twins

Brian and Eileen Mullen, fraternal