Rick Mofina - Vengeance Road

“I’ll help you if I can. A crying shame about that girl,” Hatcher had said on the phone.

Gannon knew him from earlier stories he’d written on a couple of bad wrecks and had called him after the news conference.

Now, with Gannon watching him, Hatcher clicked his pen repeatedly as he gazed upon Bernice Hogan’s picture in the Sentinel, which was spread across his service counter.

“So, you really think a cop did it?”

“He’s a suspect.”

“Well, two state police investigators came in three days ago, maybe four. They asked us to help them locate a blue truck.”

“Did they say why?”

“Naw, they didn’t provide much information.”

“Did they ask you anything about this guy?” Gannon tapped the paper on Karl Styebeck’s face.

“Nope.”

“What did they say about the blue rig?”

“All they said was that the truck had unique writing and art on the doors.”

“What kind? Did they give you any more details, like a plate?”

Hatcher shrugged.

“They didn’t specify. They asked us to alert them if we saw a rig fitting that description.”

“That’s a pretty general description.”

“I know.”

Hatcher chuckled and nodded to the lot.

“We’ve got forty acres out there, partner. We run one of the largest operations in western New York. Seven or eight hundred trucks pass through here every twenty-four hours. Finding that rig is like finding a needle in a haystack. But the word’s gone out.”

“Will you call me if something breaks on this?”

“I can do that.”

Gannon left the Truck Palace and spent the rest of the day working the street for data. He went to downtown coffee shops, hotel lobbies and taxi stands and talked to waitresses, doormen and cabdrivers for anything new on Bernice Hogan’s murder.

At one point, Adell Clark sent him a text message.

FYI: Crime scene should be released by tonight.

Could be something for later, he thought as he entered Kupinski’s Diner. Stan Kupinski, a former navy cook, ran a twenty-four-hour greasy spoon off Niagara that was a favorite of blue-collar workers and street types.

The smells of frying bacon and coffee greeted Gannon as he slid into a vinyl booth. He took stock of the checkered floor, the chrome stools at the worn counter with take-out containers towering to the ceiling.

He ordered a club sandwich and in no time at all Kupinski tapped a bell with his spatula, then left a heaping plate of food at the pick-up window. Lotta, the ample waitress—regulars called her Whole Lotta—set Gannon’s food before him. He invited her to sit at his booth and talk about the murder. Since she needed to take a load off, she agreed.

“As a matter of fact, darlin', I did hear things about that little girl, Bernice,” Lotta said. “I heard she and some other girl got into a little spat the last night anyone saw her.”

Gannon’s eyebrows climbed and he got out his notebook.

“Any idea what they fought about?”

“Maybe leaving, or something,” Lotta said then stole a fry.

“Did you tell the police?”

“Police didn’t come in here asking, like you.”

“You know who the other girl is?”

Lotta’s earrings swung when she shook her head.

“I can ask around,” she said.

“Thanks—” Gannon put a five-dollar tip in Lotta’s hand “—because I’d like to find her.”

It was getting late but Gannon would try one more thing.

Experience from working on investigative stories had taught him that you should always keep tabs on your subject. It could yield a break, he thought as he headed to Ascension Park and Karl Styebeck’s street.

Styebeck’s house was a well-kept colonial with a two-car garage. It sat far back from the street, deep into the lot as if isolated within the neighborhood.

Gannon parked several doors away and watched it from his rearview mirror as he considered the story.

Why did the police consider Styebeck a suspect behind closed doors while not confirming it publicly? Where was the pressure to discredit his story coming from?

Was this the home of a monster?

Hold on.

The garage door was lifting as Karl Styebeck got into one of the two cars a dark sedan alone, then drove out.

Gannon started his Vibe’s engine and followed him from a distance.

After leaving his house, Karl Styebeck waited at a traffic light, determined to fight his way out of this crisis.

Everything was on the line.

Jack Gannon’s story in that morning’s Sentinel had exploded in his home, claiming his wife and son as collateral damage.

Alice had buried her face in her hands

“Oh my God, Karl! This can’t be happening!”

Taylor, his twelve-year-old son, was scared. “Why is Mom crying, Dad?”

Styebeck struggled to explain the story.

“It’s wrong,” he’d told them. “This guy, Gannon, screwed up. I’m helping with the investigation. His information is dead wrong. I’m going to straighten this out, okay?”

That seemed good enough for Taylor, who worshipped his dad. Still, Alice kept him home from school, and later she pulled Styebeck aside.

“Is this story true?” She glared at him. “We’ve had strange phone calls the last few weeks. You’ve been on edge and moody lately, tossing in your sleep. You tell me right now if you had anything to do with this girl’s murder! You tell me, Karl!”

What could he say?

He stood before his wife, trying not to remember what he was and what he had come from.

“I swear to you, I did not kill that woman.”

Alice’s eyes searched his for a trace of deception until she was satisfied there was none.

As the hours passed, her fears were somewhat mitigated by the steady flow of friends calling and e-mailing their support, especially the volunteers with Styebeck’s charity and outreach groups.

And the fact that the state police challenged the accuracy of Gannon’s story at a news conference that morning had helped. Styebeck’s lieutenant got behind him after calling to say, “Somebody got their wires crossed. Hang in there, Karl.”

The police union offered legal help, which he declined. It wasn’t needed. He’d booked off several days of saved vacation.

He’d take care of this himself. His way.

Night had fallen now as he cut across the city to his destination in the Delaware district. It was one of Buffalo’s most prestigious communities, an area of mansions built in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

He went to the side door of a grand Victorian home and rang the bell. The door was opened by Nate Fowler.

“Thank you for seeing me privately, Nate.”

“Certainly, please come in. Right this way.” Fowler led him to a room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a fireplace and a grandfather clock. “Can I get you a coffee or anything?”

“No, thank you, this won’t take long.”

“I want to assure you that nothing you say leaves this room.”

“As I mentioned in my call this morning, your reporter, Gannon, ambushed me. I tried to reach you before the story ran.”

“I was traveling. It was unfortunate for both of us. My apologies.”

“This story has hurt me and my family, Nate.”

“I understand, given your outstanding reputation.”

“As you know, I have confidential informants on the street. Rumors get started and make their way into investigations. Things get misconstrued, things get leaked and fiction becomes fact. The truth is, I’m assisting the state police with the Hogan homicide. I can understand how a reporter trying to find a good story could get carried away.”

“It happens, yes.”

“I want you to know I had nothing to do with the homicide. It’s ridiculous.”