You Can’t Stop Me (20 page)

The sheriff’s office was a reconverted downtown storefront, as the deputy explained, letting in Harrow, Laurene Chase, Maury Hathaway, and Nancy Hughes (the latter two with camera and audio gear at the ready).

“Real sheriff’s office is in the county seat of Smith’s Center,” Wilson was saying, “but because of the tourist traffic? We need this auxiliary office here now, too.”

“Tourist traffic?” Billy Choi asked. “In Lebanon, Kansas?”

The deputy was taller than he was wide, but not by much, and might have played football without a helmet as a kid or been a bad boxer, his nose like a glob of flesh-colored Play-Doh haphazardly stuck onto his face.

To Choi, the deputy said, “Friend, you’re standing at the geographic center of the forty-eight contiguous United States. People come here for that.”

This throwaway information, these casual words, hit Harrow like an arrow—an arrow sent by a Robin Hood–like marksman into the dead center of a target.

Laurene and Choi had stunned expressions that said they got it too.

Some people went to Hot Springs for the springs, some visited Turin to see the shroud. Others, it seemed, came to Lebanon to say that they’d been to the center of the United States.

Harrow excused himself and gathered the little group back out on the sidewalk. The host of
Crime Seen!
allowed Hathaway and Hughes to record the brief discussion between himself and two of his forensic stars.

“So we’re
here
,” Choi said, pointing downward. “We’re at the center of target, right where he led us.”

Laurene said, “I’d say he must’ve grown up here—heard this ‘center of the United States’ routine his whole life, and worked backward from there, making the map into a big, round target.”

“Could be another red herring,” Harrow said. “Could be too easy….”

“Oh yeah,” Choi said archly, “it’s been way too damn easy. Especially for those fifty-some murder victims. J.C., we’re here. We’re at ground zero on the nutzoid map.”

Harrow had no argument.

“But how,” Laurene asked, “does this knowledge change anything?”

“It doesn’t,” Harrow said. “We proceed as before. It’s just…Billy’s right. We’re here. This is the end of the journey. So we make sure it’s the end of
his
journey, not Carmen’s.”

Choi and Laurene nodded gravely.

Sheriff Gibbons’s office reminded Harrow of his own back at Story County—a few framed citations and awards on one wall, bookshelves lining another, the third consumed by a large window overlooking the downtown, where traffic was sparse in the orange glow of the setting sun. The wall behind Gibbons’s desk was given over to a large Smith County Sheriff’s Department logo.

The deputy had brought in a third chair to join the two facing the sheriff’s large dark wooden desk. A combination phone-intercom rested on one desk corner, a computer on a separate table. Two photos in a double-frame faced the sheriff’s side, wife and kids probably.

Maybe, just maybe, the next target was Gibbons and not Brown.

Harrow shook his head. Some balls on this bastard, stealing the plates off both the retired and current sheriffs.

Laurene, Choi, and Harrow took the visitor chairs, while Hathaway and Hughes camped in a corner, prepping to shoot the meeting. They’d been waiting nearly ten minutes when Sheriff Gibbons strode in.

After the sheriff sat, Harrow laid out what they knew, what they thought, including the target on the map of the United States where they were all sitting dead-center.

For his part, Gibbons took it all in, not commenting till Harrow had finished. Then he moved his head to one side, widened his eyes, and said, “Hell of a story.”

“I wish it were just a story,” Harrow said.

Laurene sat forward. “We’re looking for a man with issues with authority. He’s going to be a person who isolates himself from the community, a loner. He’s probably going to have a record.”

Harrow almost smiled at the way Laurene had come to embrace Michael Pall’s profiling of their unsub.

“My guess,” she was saying, “is he’s had scrapes with the law where he’s been belligerent, combative—disorderly conduct, maybe even resisting arrest. He’ll be resistive to change. If he has a family, they’ll kowtow to him. In that type of situation, he’d be orderly, regimented. To the community, he’d appear a strict disciplinarian.”

Choi picked up: “The BTK killer, Dennis Rader, was a Cub Scout leader and supervisor in the Compliance Department of Park City.”

“We know about that son of a bitch,” Gibbons said, nodding. “Maniac was right here in Kansas.”

“So you know the drill,” Harrow said. “Can you think of anyone locally who fits that profile?”

The sheriff gave up a darkly amused smile. “Do I know somebody who fits the profile of a
serial
killer? You just saw me herding
sheep
, J.C. We’ve had maybe four homicides in Lebanon in as many decades. Why would my mind work along those lines?”

The sheriff’s frustration indicated a temper getting frayed, and Harrow was almost relieved when his cell vibrated. He excused himself, and took the call.

“Me, boss,” Jenny Blake said. “We’ve got something.”

“So do we—Lebanon is the center-point city of the United States.”

“Interesting. But I have something else—remember the fingerprint on the snow globe?”

“Sure,” he said, recalling with a pang that Carmen was the one who’d noticed the object was out of place in the dead child’s room.

“Finally got a hit on the print,” Jenny said. “We went through enough databases, and finally found it. U.S. Army. I had to—”

“Don’t tell me how,” Harrow cut in. “Tell me who.”

“The man’s name is Gabriel Shelton.”

“What do you have on him?”

“His service record lists his hometown as Lebanon, Kansas.”

“Just earned your paycheck, Jenny,” Harrow said, and could almost hear her smiling over the phone.

“One more thing,” she said. “I’ve sent his service photo to your cell phone.”

“Good. While I’ve got you, tell everybody, saddle up. I want you guys up here.”

“I’ll make it happen, boss.”

They signed off, and Harrow returned his attention to Gibbons, saying, “Sorry for the interruption—information from one of our team.”

Gibbons, his expression thoughtful, nodded.

“You’ve had time to mull it,” Harrow said. “Come up with anybody in town your department’s dealt with, who might fit our subject’s profile?”

The sheriff rocked back, sighed deeply. “J.C., I’ve known most of these people my entire life. Some are oddballs I suppose, some are peculiar or maybe set in their ways, some may be just plain crazy…but none stand out as crazy in the way
you’re
talking.”

“How about I throw out a name?”

“All right.”

“And you just tell me if you think it’s even remotely possible.”

“I said all right.”

“Gabriel Shelton.”

Gibbons’s eyes widened, then tightened. He sat forward. “You think
Gabe
is your man?”

“Gabe,” Laurene said. “So you know him.”

Rocking back again, the sheriff shrugged and said, “Like I told you, I know most everyone in town. There’s only three hundred people in Lebanon, and not even five thousand in the county. Met more than my fair share of ’em, some while I was out campaigning, others after I won the job.”

Harrow asked, “Where does Gabe Shelton fall?”

“Straddles both stools,” Gibbons said. “And since you’re pressing me…some of those things you listed? Disorderly conduct, problems with authority? Both
are
on Gabe’s record.”

Choi said, “May we see that record?”

Harrow almost smiled. The kid had never been so polite. Maybe he was catching on to the world beyond New York.

“Normally,” Gibbons said, “I’d say no—I’d insist on a court order. But I understand this is different. You have a kidnapping on your hands, one of your own…and you’re looking for a suspect who may be a serial killer.”

This little recitation had apparently been for the sheriff’s own benefit as much as Harrow and company’s. Gibbons turned and typed something into his computer.

Moments later, he said, “Come around here, and see for yourself.”

Gabriel Shelton’s mug shot showed an unlikely candidate for the serial killer pantheon. Shelton needed a shave and a haircut, but otherwise looked nothing like a threat—curly dark hair, big blue eyes, a firm-jawed face and the general demeanor (even in a mug shot) of someone you could trust—someone who might be your next-door neighbor.

The only thing disturbing to Harrow about the face was that he’d seen it somewhere before….

Harrow asked, “When was the mug shot taken?”

“Nine years ago,” Gibbons said. “We haven’t had much trouble from him since.”

Something about the face, the eyes….

Shelton’s police record showed nothing until a battery charge ten years back, and another two years later. Between were three disorderly conducts and several misdemeanors, chiefly unpaid parking tickets.

For about three years, Gabe Shelton went from anonymous citizen to minor-league asshole, then became barely a blip on the cop radar…just a speeding ticket (thirty-seven in a twenty-five mile-per-hour school zone), a few more parking tickets, but no subsequent arrests.

After three years of terminal bad attitude disease, Gabe Shelton had gone into sudden remission.

While Laurene went over the file in detail with the sheriff, Harrow called Jenny and got her to forward Shelton’s military record. Then he got Choi to show him how to bring it up on his phone.

Harrow wasn’t terrible with technology, but cell phones seemed to morph on him every six months or so, and the network kept giving him complimentary new ones. When Choi got Shelton’s record up, Harrow read it fast.

Born in 1957, Shelton had graduated high school in ’75, gone into the service on July 14 of that year; served four years, missing Vietnam by mere months, and was granted an honorable discharge upon his separation.

Everything seemed fine in Shelton’s life through his time in the Army. Which was no help. Harrow banished the phone to his pocket again.

He turned to Choi and asked, “Anything?”

Choi said, “Nothing you didn’t already know.”

Laurene said, “I’ve got Shelton’s address.”

This was good, if not surprising, news, and they would spring to action; but Harrow was troubled.

“There’s got to be more to it,” Harrow said. “This guy was living a normal life, then got pissed about something, and started turning up in a few police reports. Finally one morning he wakes up and decides to become one of the worst serial killers in American history? What made a good soldier and average citizen go so goddamn far off the rails?”

Gibbons said, “I can tell you.”

They looked at the sheriff. Harrow returned to his chair. Laurene was already back in hers, as was Choi. The sheriff’s expression seemed almost sheepish. He’d known something since Shelton’s name had first come up, and hadn’t shared it yet.

Now, softly, with the embarrassed tone of a kid caught stealing from a sibling’s piggy bank, he said, “About ten years ago, Gabe’s wife and kid…they were murdered.”

The investigators traded sharp looks.

“The thing is,” Gibbons said, shifting in his chair, “he always blamed my predecessor for it. Sheriff Brown?”

Harrow frowned. “He thought the
sheriff
killed his family?”

“Not that Sheriff Brown did it himself. But Gabe believed Dan was behind it, or anyway covering up…but he wasn’t. The state police came in and looked into the murders, and said our investigation was thorough, and by the book. And they came up empty, just like us.”

“It happens,” Harrow said.

“Shelton couldn’t accept that. That’s when the trouble with the authorities started. The disorderly conducts, the battery, all that crap. Then, fast as he lost it, Gabe stopped being a pain in our ass. Just straightened up and flew right—keeps to himself, and he’s been an okay citizen, far as it goes. So we stay out of his way, and he sort of seems to stay out of ours.”

Laurene said to Harrow and Choi, “So he’s recreating the crime done to him, and letting other public servants, sheriffs in particular, suffer like he did.”

Choi said, “I have nothing to add to that.”

Neither did Harrow.

“All right, Sheriff,” Harrow said, getting up. “Let’s visit Mr. Shelton, and see if he’s holding my team member.”

Rising, Gibbons said, “Sounds like probable cause to me.”

Harrow didn’t point it out, but the truth was, he wasn’t law enforcement anymore and didn’t give a good goddamn about probable cause.

All he cared about was getting Carmen back in one breathing piece.

Outside the police station, Harrow handed the rental keys off to Laurene, telling her, “Everybody into Kevlar. I’ll be on the front line. You and Billy arm yourselves, but stay back unless you’re needed.”

“J.C., we—”

“
You
will obey orders. And one of them is to keep Hathaway and Hughes back. Tell them if they get killed we don’t have a show. Understood?”

“Understood.”

In the rider’s seat of the Tahoe, Harrow made a quick call to Pall and told him to get directions from Laurene. They were on the move.

“How far?” Harrow asked.

Gibbons said, “Five minutes—Shelton’s got a place over on the south side. It’s not much.”

The sheriff radioed for backup. Wilson and the deputy in the auxiliary office both said they were on their way, and two more deputies would be sent from Smith Center, ten miles to the west.

Night crept in, turning the houses of the quiet neighborhood into dark hulks with occasional glowing windows, set in yards that were shadowy voids that could hold just about anything.

Harrow recalled something an older officer had told him when he was a rookie:
Kid, this job is ninety-five percent boredom and five percent piss-your-pants fear.

Harrow had laughed, but a look from the older officer had silenced him before adding,
It’s okay to be so scared you piss yourself, long as you get the job done.

As they slowed to park, Harrow tugged from his waistband a nine-millimeter Browning he’d gotten from Choi. He checked the clip and made sure one was in the pipe.

“Got a permit for that puppy?” Gibbons asked, looking over in the dark SUV.

“Backup’s not here yet, and I’m going in,” Harrow said. “You really want to see my California carry permit?”

“No,” Gibbons said. “I just want my ass covered if something goes wrong.”

“Covered by me having a gun, or covered by me having a permit?”

“Yes.”

Even though he was tensing for action, Harrow couldn’t help but grin. “You’re some politician, Herm. I bet you’re one hell of a sheriff.”

“Second term, gettin’ ready to run for a third next year. I don’t mind havin’ the brownie points this could earn me, if it goes right…but I’m gonna make damn sure those points aren’t on sharp suckers getting jammed up my nethers, if it goes south.”

Harrow nodded. “This goes right and we get Carmen back, Herm, you’re the hero. Goes south, I’m the goat.”

“We are on the same damn wavelength,” Gibbons said with a cheerfully nasty smile.

The sheriff pulled to the curb and killed the lights, shut off the Tahoe, and they climbed down.

“Across the street,” Gibbons whispered. “Second house from the corner.”

Following the sheriff’s gaze, Harrow made out a white crackerbox, the F-150 sitting in a gravel driveway on this side. House dark, truck empty.

They stayed on this side of the street and walked quietly, two guys out for an evening stroll. Each held their pistols down against a leg, out of view from the house. As they drew closer, Harrow could see a one-car garage at the end of the drive, nearly behind the house. They crossed the street, keeping the F-150 between them and the crackerbox.

At the other end of the block, a deputy from the office was approaching at a walk, his arm stiff at his side as well. Just behind him were Laurene and Choi, the camera crew on their heels. Obviously, they had followed the deputy to the scene.

Gibbons gave them a small wave to hang back.

Deputy Wilson’s voice growled over Gibbons’s radio. “I’m in the back with my AR-fifteen. He’s not coming out this way unless he’s in a bag.”

His voice a hoarse whisper, Gibbons said, “Sit tight, Colby, and for Christ’s sake remember he’s probably got a hostage.”

“Ten-four,” Wilson said.

As they got to the pickup, both men ducked, Gibbons staying at the rear, using it for cover as he trained his pistol on the house. Moving up the driver’s side, Harrow stayed in a low crouch, and hesitated when he was even with the front tire.

He glanced toward the garage and saw nothing to indicate any life back there. Slowly scanning the yard between garage and house, Harrow tried to spot Wilson; but in the darkness, that was impossible.

Harrow reached up and touched the hood of the truck—cold. This vehicle hadn’t moved for some time. He crept forward, and peeked around the front—nothing.

He looked back at Gibbons, who gave him a nod.

They’d never worked together, but both had sheriffed for years, and each had a good idea what the other was thinking.

With Harrow’s nod, they rushed together, Gibbons from the rear of the truck, Harrow from the front. They met on the postage stamp front stoop of the dark, silent house.

Gibbons quietly opened the screen door, and the two stood for a long second listening, poised to make rude entry.

No sound from inside, no TV, no radio, and most important—and disturbing to Harrow…

…no sounds of life.