Looking Into Darkness Page 3

  *****

  Captain Luke Stanley had everyone assembled in the room where they held each shift’s roll call. There were two shifts present, the outgoing day shift and the oncoming afternoon shift. The chief and the mayor were also present. Garrett Moseby had no use for either of them, because they were politicians, not cops. But he kept his contempt for the pair to himself as the captain walked to the podium at the front of the room.

  “I know you’ve all heard what happened both last night and today. Two of our own were brutally murdered from ambush. Moseby, French, and FBI Special Agent Casey Rawlings will be working those cases. What I am more concerned with is how people are going to view this department after what happened in Ybor City just a few hours ago?”

  “Tonight, more than any time in recent history, when you hit those streetsyou will have a target on your back. One thing that you cannot forget is that everybody with a cellphone is watching you waiting for a chance to video anyone of you stepping over the line. We all know what is coming to our town after the shooting of Corey Jones this afternoon.”

  “Corey Jones wasn’t carrying anything more than drugs. But Patrolman Tom Jefferson shot him because he had to make a split-second judgment call. I’d have probably made the same decision, with the same outcome. Don’t second guess yourselves out there but be careful. That’s all,” Stanley said, taking the time to look each and every officer and detective in the eye. Rawlings acknowledged.

  “Good talk.” Rawlings said to him.

  “It was,” Moseby agreed. He was still very uncomfortable around her and he just wasn’t sure why. She was an attractive young woman, maybe ten years his junior, but she was affecting him.

  “Let’s go take another look at that murder book since we got interrupted earlier,” Casey told him.

  “Sure thing,” Moseby told her, following her out of roll call and heading back to the conference room that had become task force headquarters. Lucy French followed them down the hall.

  *****

  “Okay, I can see from the diagrams why you feel this was a military strike, based on the fire zones. I’m a bit surprised by the use of Molotov cocktails. I would rather they would have used grenades,” Rawlings said, as she looked at the pictures taped to the wall.

  “We wondered about that too but felt that they wanted to send a more personalized message to the police department with the homemade explosives,” Lucy added.

  “Sounds like a sound theory. But what do you think their end game is?” Roberts asked.

  “No idea, at least not yet,” Moseby told her.

  “Okay, let me write this up and send it to the Behavioral Services Unit at Quantico and see what they can come up with. I’ll see you both, tomorrow,” Rawlings told them. Moseby and French nodded and headed out the door.

  “You ready to drop this for the night?” Lucy asked, as they headed down the hall.

  “What do you think?” Moseby asked her.

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” Lucy smiled at him.

  They stopped at the elevator and waited for it to reach their floor and then they boarded it and rode it down to the ground floor. “So, where do we go first?” Lucy asked, as they stepped out into the sweltering afternoon heat. Thunder rumbled above them.

  “Let’s head back to that McDonald's. I think somebody there may have seen more than they realize,” Moseby told her.

  “You might be right, but would they still be around after this long?” Lucy asked.

  “Maybe. Crooks aren’t the only ones that return to the scene of the crime.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I am.”

  “So, you think a witness may come back?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Why?” Lucy asked.

  “Human nature. Any real witness is going to want to tell their story to up their street creds with their co-workers. If you saw a murder, wouldn’t you want to talk about it? Especially if you felt safe?” Moseby asked her.

  “I don’t know,” Lucy replied, honestly.

  The rain hit as they were driving, coming down in almost solid sheets. The sheer volume of water instantly turned the streets into rivers and made the going slow. They didn’t talk as Moseby drove them back to the McDonald’s where the second attack had happened.

  *****

  Lucas Franklin was a community activist in Tampa’s black community and was a bit of a media darling due to his flamboyant nature. Some members of the community looked at him as if he were a black PT Barnum, the man who coined the phrase, ‘There’s a sucker born every minute’. Others considered him far worse. One thing that both sides agreed on was that he was a power in the black community.

  Lucas had been on the telephone ever since the first news reports about the shooting of Corey Jones had broken. He had no love of Police Chief Clyde De Leon, even though the man was black. He considered De Leon a sell out because he had become a cop, no matter what the chief’s view might be.

  Now, several BLM activists were headed to the city and would be arriving from all over the country and they would make a stand against the trigger-happy cops on the Tampa Police Department. He smiled, as he thought of the headlines around the country. The fact that cops were already being gunned down was just an added bonus, as far as he was concerned. More fuel for the fire.

  Chapter Five

  He was glad that Cristo had sent him out on this phase of the job. Already, the city was a powder keg awaiting a match. He hoped to provide the match. There was a can of spray paint in the duffle as well. He was supposed to tag the scene with a label that could not be ignored this time. Especially after the cop had shot the brother earlier in the afternoon.

  The tension growing in the city was palpable. Cristo’s plan was working. Soon, the cops would be jumping at shadows. They almost were already. But after this, their effectiveness would be reduced to near nothing.

  A car entered the park, cruising slowly down the paved surfaces, spotlight shining out to probe the deeper shadows. Patrolman Mike McKenzie had been on the job going on five years. He was a good cop, honest and fair. Most of the people in his patrol district knew it, too. If Officer Mike was on patrol, things stayed quiet. The gang bangers respected him because he gave them respect and they even felt a grudging admiration for how fair he was.

  McKenzie was a tall redhead with blue eyes and a smattering of freckles on his cheeks. He was built like a lumberjack with wide shoulders and hugely muscled arms. He was a popular guy with not only his fellow officers but with the ladies as well. He spotted movement in the shadows ahead and keyed his radio mike as the spotlight flared to life, cutting a blazing swath through the darkness to catch a young black man with a military bearing sitting on the park bench. McKenzie called for backup as he slowed the car to a stop. He grabbed his Maglite and opened the door, clicking the flash on in his left hand as his right dropped to the butt of his service weapon. The young man reached into his duffle and before McKenzie could draw his weapon, automatic weapons fire ripped the night, cutting McKenzie’s legs out from under him and dropping his unprotected head into the line of fire.

  Deke Wilson smiled as he walked up to the cop’s body and used the red paint to spray BLM across his back. He did the same to the squad car and tossed the paint inside. He then took a flare out of the bag, ignited it and tossed it into the police car. Carrying his duffle, he disappeared into the night. Moments later, the police car was a blazing inferno that finally exploded as the flames ignited the fumes from the gas tank.

  *****

  Moseby and French had been on the street talking to informants, trying to find out more about the attacks when word came over the radio that another cop was dead, and this time a black man dressed in camo was seen fleeing the scene. Also, BLM had been spray painted on the dead cop and on the police car before it had been set on fire. Moseby broke several speeding laws rushing to the scene. They even beat Captain Stanley and Special Agent Roberts there.

  The news tru
cks were already there with their bright lights and talking heads carrying on about how the oppressed black citizens of were rising up to take their city back from the fascist white police force. The sad part about it was that some of the reporters were white and acting like they were victims too.

  It infuriated Garrett Moseby. He started towards one of the porters, but Lucy grabbed his arm and squeezed, stopping him from doing something really foolish like confronting a reporter. He knew that it wouldn’t do any good, but he felt like somebody needed to take a stand for the brotherhood in blue that stood between the peaceful citizens and anarchy. “Let’s go do our job, Garrett,” Lucy told him.

  “Yeah, let’s do it,” Moseby replied.

  The mood of the officers and detectives around the body and the car wasn’t good. They could hear the chants from the growing crowd near where the camera crews were. Most of the cop faces were angry ones, and Moseby and French both saw a lot of clenched fists with white knuckles. There was a lot of rage present. Something needed to be done to diffuse it.

  “Listen, guys and gals, is this what Mike would have wanted? Moseby called out loud enough for the group of cops to hear.

  “Officer Mike ain’t got no more say, they done killed him,” one of the uniforms, a black kid named Rudy Stevens replied.

  “Officer Mike. You know how he got that name?” Moseby asked, pushing to the middle of the crowd of cops.

  “I know. Mike treated everybody fair,” another uniform called.

  “That’s right,” Moseby said. “You think he’d want you all to turn vigilante to bring his killer to justice? Hell no! Mike would want him brought in the right way, so that he could pay for his crimes.”

  “We all have a job to do. I suggest we get to doing it, so we can nail this bastard the right way and do Mike proud!” Moseby told him. The anger was still there, but it was more subdued. The men were starting to think and remember who they were. That was what Moseby wanted. He wanted them to focus on doing what they were supposed to do, on being who they were supposed to be.

  “Good speech, Moseby,” Casey Rawlings said, as she walked up beside him.

  “When did you get here?” he asked.

  “Right before you started talking. You just prevented a riot, Detective Moseby.”

  “I hope so. That’s the last thing this city needs right now.”

  “I agree. What can I do to help?”

  “Can you get us access to an FBI forensic team? I’d really like them to work this scene.”

  “Let me make a phone call,” Casey said, pulling out her phone and walking a few steps away.

  “You did good there, partner,” Lucy told him, as she walked up beside him.

  “I hope so,” he told her morosely.

  “This is hard on all of us, Garrett.”

  “I know that, Lucy. It would be easier if I knew why it were happening, but right now, we don’t even have a clue,” Moseby shrugged his shoulders.

  “I know that as well as you do. But my gut is telling me this is about more than killing cops and starting riots in Tampa. It just doesn’t feel right,” Lucy told him.

  “I know what you mean. Doesn’t feel right to me either. There is something more going on here, Lucy. Something we don’t know about. We need to find out what it is,” Moseby sighed,

  “I agree,” Lucy told him. Moseby pulled out his digital recorder and walked over to Mike’s body. He knelt down and began speaking to the machine, recording his first impressions of the body, as Lucy made her way to the perimeter and began walking it, looking for anything that might have been missed.

  *****

  Casey Rawlings watched the two cops as they settled into their normal routines. She had been amazed at how well they had worked together. She hadn’t told them the real reason that she was here, and she didn’t intend to. Not until the time was right. Until then, she would help them in every way that she could.

  *****

  Deke Wilson had ditched the duffle and changed clothes before joining the crowd gathering around the park. He was still following Cristo’s orders to help incite a riot, anything that would distract the cops and the news media. A full-blown riot would do that. He had several Molotov cocktails around his waist under the light windbreaker that he wore. He got close to one of the news vans, out of camera range, pulled one out and lit the fuse.

  He tossed the flaming glass bottle against the side of a news van where it shattered and sprayed the homemade napalm around the side of it. The van went up in flames. Deke moved on, lighting another firebomb and tossing it out into the crowd. Screams filled the air as it erupted in a ball of flame. He lit and tossed another one at a police car, setting it aflame as well before vanishing into the crowd. Deke lit a final bomb and threw it into a store window. Flames erupted inside, and the fire quickly spread.

  Cops in riot gear were trying to contain the running mass of anti-police protestors. It didn’t help that a couple of shots were fired at the cops, causing them to take out their own frustrations on the protestors. Parts of the city were in flames and it was all the police and firefighters could do to keep it contained to Ybor City.

  A call from the mayor to the governor in Tallahassee soon had the National Guard rolling in by midnight. With the show of superior force, the protestors scattered and faded into the night.

  Scores of tired and worn out policemen and women returned to their precincts. The nightshift was being augmented by National Guard patrols. Day and afternoon shifts were sent home to get rest, so they could return to duty at their regular times. Moseby and French were checking out for the night.

  “I hope tomorrow is better,” Moseby sighed as they headed out of the station.

  “Me too,” Lucy agreed. They had lost track of Casey Roberts when they had been called away to deal with the full-blown riot that had exploded in Ybor City. All the available men and women of the Tampa Police Department had been sent.

  “Do you still think the killings are a diversion?” Moseby asked.

  “I think they are only the start,” Lucy replied.

  “I hate to admit it, but I think you’re right.”

  “Any thoughts on what the endgame might be?”

  “I wish I knew,” Moseby shook his head. They were parked side by side and got into their cars. When they pulled out onto the street, they went their separate ways.

  *****

  Lucy French was glad to get home. She unlocked the door and stepped inside and flipping on the lights. She turned and locked the door before kicking off her shoes and she tossed her purse on the couch and was taking her jacket off when Binx came running up to wrap himself around her legs and meow a greeting.

  Lucy knelt down to scratch behind the black cat’s ears. She had ended up adopting the cat after his previous owner had fallen victim of the Tampa Slasher. Binx purred loudly in appreciation, as she stood and padded into the kitchen to pour herself a drink.

  The bourbon went down smoothly. She walked back to the couch and sat down, curling her long legs underneath her. Binx jumped up beside her and she rubbed his head with her free hand. She put down the glass and picked up the remote and turned on her stereo system. Pepper Adams began playing ‘It’s you or no one’. Lucy took another drink and relaxed as she felt the music wash over her. Binx curled up beside her. Soon, Lucy French was asleep.

  *****

  Garrett Moseby poured whiskey into the six-ounce tumbler. He was tired, his face drawn and worn. He took the first drink, feeling it slide down his throat to explode in his stomach and felt the warmth spreading through his body. He put the glass down and looked at his service pistol on the coffee table next to it. It had been a long goddam day.

  Charlie Mendez. Bob Dugan. Mike McKenzie. He had known them all. Worked beside each of them at one time or another. Now, they were dead. Murdered by persons unknown. All of them killed with military precision, a BLM tag left at the scene of each murder. And then while BLM protestors converged on Tampa to march, gunshots and firebombs
had disrupted their march and turned it into a full-blown riot.

  Now, martial law had been declared and the National Guard was in town to help keep the peace. Was that part of the plan? It was something to wonder about. The military weapons and style of attack bothered him, especially now that the National Guard had been called out. It had to be more than just a coincidence.

  Moseby tossed back his drink and then poured himself another one. He sipped this one, letting the two shrinking cubes slide around inside the glass. He wanted the shooters. Wanted them in the worst possible way.

  Chapter Six

  The alarm clock seemed excessively loud as Moseby shut it off and rolled to a sitting position. He reached for the bottle of water on his night stand and twisted off the lid. He drained half of it before putting the cap back on. Moseby headed for the bathroom to save and shower and take care of morning business. He turned on the water in the shower as he wet his face down and applied shaving cream. In three minutes he was done shaving and, in the shower, starting to finally feel human as the hot water washed away the after effects of the whiskey he had consumed the night before.

  Moseby toweled himself dry and cinched the towel around his waist as he padded into the kitchen to start coffee. He didn’t want to take time to cook, so he would grab food on the drive in. He headed back to the bedroom to get dressed.

  Moseby selected a light gray suit over a white shirt and a silver-gray tie. He quickly dressed and clipped his badge and gun to his belt after tying his shoes and returned to the kitchen. He got a travel mug out of the cabinet and filled it from the coffee pot, adding sweetener and stirring it all together. Moseby shut off the coffee maker, grabbed the travel mug and headed for the door.

  Outside, he looked calm. But inside, he was seething with anger over his dead brother officers, as well as those that had been injured in the riot the night before. Somebody was going to pay for those dead cops. One way or another.

  *****