Chapter 41: The Trail Ices Over

The trail in their search for their escaped guest had gone cold. The promise of the possible identification of their missing man a few weeks earlier had grown cold the night of the massive gang war shootout at the hotel a few miles north of Fort Sam Houston.

Using a recreation of the escape, the Criminal Investigations Division – Special Investigations unit found a link from the exit of the base grounds out to a local Walmart. There, the main subject was seen on security footage purchasing food and clothing. A check of the receipts showed the clothes were both in large enough sizes for himself and sizes much too small for his body type. The idea of secondary help was developing.

It also helped address a few questions raised during the recreation of the escape. They could not perceive a reason for dumping the Kia Sedona for a late 90’s Mercury Grand Marquis. According to the clues they were following, it would have been too much of a risk to park anywhere on base in the stolen Sedona, let alone take the Grand Marquis. Why did he do it?

The question was tabled, and the recreation of the escape continued. The runner found himself calmly leaving out the well-used exit rather than causing a scene at an underused gate. After interrogation of the guards on gate duty that night, one remembered the series of base security vehicles driving off base at high rates of speed, like they were chasing someone only they could see. The guard remembered a brief discussion with a large, heavy-set man in a Grand Marquis who lamented the poor driving of the base security. The slow escape seemed like the correct assumption for how the escape happened.

After discovering the escapee was indeed at the Walmart, the team later deduced his stopping at a local motel and staying at least three nights there without anyone seeing him enter or leave after the first night on the run. The prisoner was never seen by either video camera or eyewitness again. The last official sighting was the owner of the hotel who visited with the man the next morning and offered a discount to stay a more extended period. The hotel usually rented a room for a few hours or perhaps an entire night but not a week as the subject requested, and the people using this particular hotel rarely look into anyone else’s business, and video cameras were primarily aimed at the cash register in the main office rather than at who comes and goes from what room.

The evening Tim checked in, an apparent gang war exploded with the members of one whole gang killed either in hand to hand fighting or by gunshot. The criminal gang claimed they never left their cars and saw no one – not even the drug dealers they were there to supply. After a few minutes of waiting and no answer to their repeated phone calls, the suppliers decided to leave and figure out how to reply to the visible sign of disrespect of luring them out into the open with large quantities of illegal drugs. Right when they tried to pull out of the parking lot, the local police arrived, en masse, because of calls of gunfire.

Getting screwed over by these new customers was terrible, but getting caught with severe amounts of cocaine and heroin was just that much worse. They were handcuffed and placed in large police vans before being taken away but, in the midst of preparing their vengeance, the first dead body was being wheeled out of the hotel.

“Hey, Joey, you see that body?”

“Yeah, holy shit! It looked like someone twisted his mother-fuckin’ head completely round to the back. I seen two others but they were just all shot up.”

“That ain’t nothing. Look up there.” The third prisoner had a perfect view of what looked like someone sleeping on the edge of the patio wall. The only sign of being out of the ordinary was the slowly thickening trail of blood worming it’s way down the wall and puddling on the hood of a patrol car parked under the overhang. The cops had not even seen that body yet, but there was a cop standing by the van guarding the arrested drug dealers. He overheard their quick conversation and was able to point out the next body to one of the detectives nearby.

Their local police departments, unfortunately, hit a wall and were unable to find any other clues as to who killed these drug dealers. No community leaders were beating down police department doors looking for answers of who killed these men; the only thing keeping it in anyone’s memory was the oddity of it all.

The only further inquiries came from the Criminal Investigations Division – Special Investigations (CID-SI) from Ft. Sam Houston. Chief Martz, of the SAPD, had taken their colonel through the crime scene and pointed out the internal story would be factually different from the reported story: that two separate drug organizations were fighting over establishing new prices and that was the cause of the deaths.

The SAPD had detailed information on Big Al and his formidable gang wishing to become bigger players in the South Texas drug arena. They had not stepped on toes big enough to warrant a total decapitation of the gang. They were feared in the community, not through actual criminal activities but by intimidation and willingness for more brutal and cruel illegal activities.

The drug suppliers were a known group actively looking toward expansion. This corridor just seemed to limit them and cost some product as well as several good soldiers. The drug deal was a win/win opportunity for two drug organizations, beginning what should have been a successful and long-lasting criminal pairing.

With no one else interested in solving the deaths in the hotel, Chief Martz was permitted to allow the FBI, DEA and a host of other alphabet organizations, including the CID-SI, access to the investigation.

“Well, Colonel, that’s all of the information the feds and our investigators could piece together. I know it’s not much more than what I told you when we walked through the scene but, if you want to take a swing at trying to solve it, that’s fine by me. If you do figure it out, let us know how the fuck it was it done,” Chief Martz joked as he shook the hands of the few men in the conference room. The only officer he saw in the room was the colonel. The rest were all NCO’s.

“Absolutely, Chief. If we need any help bringing him in, I will give you a call,” Colonel Price said while opening the door for the police chief.

“Well, that’s bullshit, but I don’t mind.”

Both men laughed while waving. It was a confident laugh of two men who knew they would probably never speak to each other but left things amicable just in case.

Colonel Price returned to the conference room to a sea of busy workers starting to comb over every inch of the file that Chief Martz brought to help in their investigation. The effort and intensity of his men made the usually straight-laced officer smile.

Tim had been out of the custody of the CID-SI for just over a month. George Johnson and his superiors in security for the laboratory systems were questioned by the CID-SI about his new house guest. Tim Murphy, with the help of a desktop computer, had created the backstory of Tim Murphy as a distant cousin who came to town in hopes of rekindling a friendship from when they both were kids. Tim Murphy was a person of interest, but a definite timeline of Tim Murphy’s life was found and investigated. George was merely confused by Tim’s knack for hacking several different places to create a backstory for himself as a cousin and childhood friend of George Johnson’s.

One adjustment to his body was to make his ordinarily dark, black hair to a nearly-platinum, blonde hair. If anyone ever looked at Tim closely, they would find the hair is natural and not from a bottle. The carpet matched the drapes, too.

“So what do you have going on this weekend, Tim?” George Johnson asked while relaxing after returning home from another day at work.

“I didn’t have any plans. You got something on your mind?”

“Dr. Jensen wants us to go visit his Uncle Justin on his ranch up north for some drinkin’ and barbecuin’, as he put it.” While George was answering the question, he was making a simple hand gesture that Tim recognized. The gesture let Tim know the conversation was a code in case there were any electronic listening devices in the home still active that they never found. Tim gave a quick thumbs-up with his answer to show he got the message. Both men stood up, went to the garage and entered the Faraday cage George had built.

Once inside, George explained further, “Jensen did invite us all to his uncle’s ranch for the weekend. We are all taking Friday off from work to drive up that morning and probably come home Sunday afternoon. His Uncle Justin gave us a lot of help when we were trying to figure out how to get you out – mainly logistics and whatnot. He is also a back up for us if the excrement hits the fan and we gotta run. We go there. He wants to meet us all.”

“Wait. You’ve never met him, but you trust him? George, are you sure about this guy?”

“Yeah, but I’ve talked to him before, and he is pretty cool. He can be a little high-strung but okay anyway. It should be a lot of fun and a great way to wind down from the stress of the week – that’s for damn sure.”

“Is his Uncle okay? I mean, did you guys tell him everything about me or did you make something up to get his help.”

“Oh no. Don’t worry about him. He’s fine. I mean, yeah, I was worried about what to tell him but, once I talked to him a while, I really trusted him. We told him everything about what was going on. He is a conspiracy theorist and chases down stories of government cover-ups all the time. He knew almost as much about the labs around the country as I do.

“He runs a few top-rated websites for conspiracy theorists and makes serious bank off of it. I mean serious bank. When he says he is set up for an attack from the government, he is ready. He has several hundred acres of land out in the Hill Country, a couple of hours north of town, and several buildings set up with supplies and hiding holes all over his land. He even bought some of the neighboring lands with a shell company to keep people off his scent if they go looking for exactly what he owns. I’m talkin’ serious bank.”

“Wow. So did he help you guys get me out?”

“Yeah. We created the plan to get you out one weekend, and he helped us figure out where to leave you the stuff and how to get it to you. Jensen said he’s been asking to meet you so, if you want, we go this weekend and hang out there. There might even be some others out there – friends of his.”

Tim noticeably stiffened at the news of possibly more people knowing about him than he previously realized, but George was able to diffuse the situation. “Oh no, we got him to agree not to tell anyone else, not even his other prepper friends. He reluctantly agreed because we told him we would not tell him any more stories about our work. He friggin’ loves stories of everyday office life. He is a little weird. Don’t worry, though. You’ll like him just fine.”

“So what is his story anyway? Why would he help us?”

“Well, I asked him that very question,” George responded. “You wanna know what he said?” Tim nodded yes.

“Family is family and, when his favorite nephew comes to him for help, then he will help. He is just a little gung-ho about stuff but, when we told him all about what was going on, he offered to help in any way he could. He even set it up for us to go there if it gets too hot back here and we need to hide. He is a prepper and spent a lot of time and his money setting up his ranch as a place to go in the event of the world going to shit.

“I always thought those kinds of people were one of the reasons to set yourself up as a prepper, but he is pretty smart and, as I have heard, he has a sweet setup. I suspect there is a lot more, and I haven’t seen it yet,” George said as he turned back toward the Faraday cage door. “I know I wanna see his place. I read up about it on the prepper’s websites, and it is a popular place. Like, every prepper in Texas wants to get an invitation to become a resident of his place when the zombie invasion comes.” George stopped from opening the door when he saw Tim had more questions.

“He is a memorable dude, but I see him as a good person to have on our side just in case we do have to run,” George said and then opened the Faraday cage door for them to leave. Once back inside the house, proper, Tim started with the usual routine again – announcing the dinner menu. It was almost like an old, married couple telling each other about their work day.

“Sir, I think the cops were right about that guy getting killed first,” Corporal Johnson said while pointing up at the corner patio ledge of the hotel next door. The spot was overlooking the parking lot of the hotel where the CID-SI believed their prisoner spent his first days and nights after his escape. “If any of us were going to do this, then we’d need to kill him first to make sure no one could notice us moving around.” Corporal Johnson was not the type of guy to offer his opinion without anyone asking for it first so, when he did speak up, the rest of the unit listened.

“Yeah, I’m leaning that way as well, Johnson.” Colonel Price said while he perused a map of the hotel from the management office.

The CID-SI had rented every available room in the hotel for the weekend as well as the room in the hotel facing the original hotel. They placed police cruisers, with their lights on, at the entrances of both hotels to ward off anyone coming there unless invited. No one else was invited. The CID-SI had decided to use the same trick they used to get to this place in the investigation by recreating what happened the night of the escape.

Asking themselves, ‘What would I do in his place?’ they recreated where the bodies were found and tried to see if it was possible for one well-trained operative to kill all these drug-dealing scum by themselves without being caught by crossfire or law enforcement.

“Go ahead and start like you think it would need to be done.” With that encouragement and a pat on the back from his superior, Corporal Johnson took the place of who they thought was Tim Murphy and replayed the setting of the night he disappeared.

The CID-SI were even using paintball guns to simulate the gunfire rather than just using their imaginations. The paintball guns added a little more realism to the recreation; if you are shooting at someone, then you aren’t just gonna whip out your finger guns and say “pew.” Three run-throughs showed the men that it was indeed possible – difficult, but not impossible. The men all squeezed into the main hotel room the evidence showed as the last place anyone had seen the “fat fuck,” their abbreviated name for him.

“Sir, I think any one of us would have been able to pull this off, but he would have needed a little bit of help. He must have gotten the radio off of either the corner lookout or one of the roaming guards,” Cpl. Johnson explained as he wiped the sweat from his body with a hotel towel.

He would take a shower when they broke up for the night. The colonel had promised the men they would break up early to let them have a little time off for themselves and a room in a seedy motel to use any way they saw fit. The majority of the men were planning a small field trip down the road to a local strip club to let loose after dealing day-in and day-out with Murphy’s escape.

“Do we even know if they were using roaming guards or did they just have guys down at that end of the complex?” one of the men asked out loud.

“Good point,” Col. Price said. “What did the cops think?”

“The internal report said they believed it was one person who killed everyone. They told the press it was a battle between two rival drug-dealing gangs, but they said it looked like one person killing everyone. I think they are right. We have just shown one person could – well, one trained and capable person could have killed all these guys,” Sgt. Thomas explained, “but it was a damn fine job if it was only one person. The film of Murphy’s escape showed he has the hand-to-hand combat expertise to carry this out. He is strong enough and, with that much strength, there had to have been a good amount of speed as well.”

The nodding heads showed the team was in agreement with Sgt. Thomas’ thoughts.

“So, as we see it, Murphy, by himself, killed nearly a dozen men. Let’s go over our notes again and if anyone has anything to add, speak up.” Each member of the CID-SI opened their notes at the beginning and, following along with the Colonel, reviewed the quiet murder of the lookout atop the other hotel.

“Yes sir, one question,” a private in the back of room asked. “Where’s the money? If this was a drug deal gone bad then where’s the money?”

The sped-up video, showing a toe regrowing from the tiny stub left behind after being severed, was running on a loop on Dr. Alan Lipscomb’s computer over and over again. With the repeated views throughout the months since the escape, Dr. Lipscomb was only becoming more enthralled with trying to figure out how this magic trick worked. He did not turn off his brain while he desperately searched for answers as to how their prisoner Tim Murphy could regrow severed appendages.

The doctor’s personal life, what little of it there was before, was coming apart at the seems. His wife of just a few months had moved out of his home and returned to her own family in California. It took nearly a full week for Dr. Lipscomb to notice she was not there. It wasn’t when he came home late and went straight away to bed, nor when he suddenly ran out of clean clothes to change into for the day’s work. The bed was of the highest quality, and the main feature of its comfort was that the user would not spill a glass of wine when someone jumped on one like a child. He would go to sleep and did not notice she was not in bed.

It was that Friday when he noticed her closet of clothes was emptied, along with her empty sections of the massive chest of drawers that mirrored their bed. He remembered staring at the unused side of the bed through the mirror reflection, and asking himself, “How long has she been gone?” He spotted a folded sheet of paper on the top of the chest of drawers where her jewelry box used to sit.

Alan,

These past few months have been terrible for me. You were never here even when you were here. I don’t know what had you so occupied. I understand that some things you were not allowed to tell me, but you never even acknowledged me when you would come home at all hours. You rarely spoke, and when you did, it was only simple greetings. I know you are not seeing another woman, but I feel like you are. When I tried to bring it up to you last night, you just kept looking off into the distance like you were on some other planet. How are we supposed to have a healthy relationship when I am trying to hold up both ends by myself? I’ll be at my sister’s in San Diego. You have the number. Call me when you are ready to talk or to let me know you are prepared to end our relationship.

Love, Diane

Dr. Lipscomb took the note in hand and moved to the kitchen. He prepped his coffee and began toasting two bagels. While both machines did their work, he removed the cream cheese from the refrigerator and placed it on the breakfast nook table he ate at every morning. He then set the folded piece of paper above the placemat featuring the Colonial Williamsburg area of Virginia. He went back to the refrigerator and, with a small glass from the dishwasher, he poured himself some orange juice to go along with his breakfast. He placed the glass of orange juice just to the side of the folded piece of paper. The toaster popped up with the now-toasted bagel halves. The coffee was finishing up as well. He placed the bagels on a plate and poured himself a cup of the newly made coffee.

Dr. Lipscomb, now seated at the breakfast nook table with his small meal, unfolded the letter and reread it. And again. And yet again. The paper was now becoming difficult to understand as it shook in his hand. The doctor closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled to try to get his brewing anger under control again. Now, though, when he looked at his wife’s note, all he could see was red.