The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 12

I took a break to get something to eat and to think of other things. Still, a real uneasiness lingered in my mind about Brian becoming more aggressive. Though I could almost feel Brian's desperation, his view of a "body" in the abstract as a bargaining chip was disconcerting. Brian's last missive continued:

"I decided my best bet was to take it to their turf, where they wouldn't expect me. I was doing drive-bys of Doc's house. One day, I saw Doc, his girlfriend, and another man leaving Doc's place. I followed the smaller guy—it was hard to tell from a distance, but his voice sounded like the 'Rickie' I heard that night. He's shorter than me, balding, maybe thirty-something—you can never really know; they look older when they lose their hair. I followed him for a while, not too close, because I didn't want to get caught. He landed in this older, kind of crummy-looking residential neighborhood.

"When Rickie pulled up to a set of railroad tracks, the crossing arms came down, and the lights began flashing. Rickie scooted around and through them, but I had to hang back so he wouldn't get suspicious that I was following him. I figured I'd lost the guy. But after the train was gone, I saw he parked his car two doors down on the right side of the street. As I passed by, I scoped out the residence. The house was a small, rundown two-bedroom on an itty-bitty lot, with no obvious security I could see. No trees, and no dogs or other animals outside; he probably rents it. There's a chain-link fence around the back and sides but nothing across the front."

Good, I thought, more information I can use to find Rickie's house. Brian's correspondence continued:

"I pulled over to the curb a few doors away and waited to see what was happening. About fifteen minutes later, Rickie left the house carrying a gym bag. He locked the deadbolt with his keys. That told me that this was Rickie's home and he'd be gone awhile. After his car left, I grabbed my lock picks and a big screwdriver. I snuck around to the back side of the house and tried the sliding door. There was a broomstick handle on the inside door panel track blocking it from opening. So, I slipped in through the unlocked kitchen window above the sink instead.

"This Rickie is a slob, lives alone—just men's clothes in the closet, men's toiletries in the bathroom—with no pets. He's into working out. There's gym equipment and sweat clothes all over the place, but I can't say that I am impressed with the results.

"I took the broomstick handle Rickie was using to block the patio door from opening. I didn't take anything else today. But I've got an idea, and I'll come back; I'm putting together a plan. When I return here, I want Rickie's computer, TV, sound bar, and his subwoofer."

I was reminded just how differently professional thieves arrange their priorities from how I order mine. But even between criminals, I could see glaring differences. A wealthy white collar con artist like Fat Leonard wouldn't do anything if it didn't result in maximal gain for minimal risk. Yet someone like Bubba, fighting daily for his very existence, would take extreme chances based on emotion alone, giving very little consideration to either the investment or the rewards. The letter carried on:

"Before I followed Rickie, I had some thoughts about killing a homeless person with some poisoned hooch. I'd hide the body in Doc's house and call the cops to implicate him. But when I tried to pick somebody, I got sick. Looking someone in the face and killing them is one thing; dragging an innocent person into all this is even worse. And without something to tie them together, the doctor might wiggle out of that one, too. But now I plan to return to that little house one night, get rid of this Rickie, and pin that on the doctor. Rickie's smaller than me, and he's a bad guy. There'll be fewer connections to me if I don't use a gun. I'll catch him on a night he's wasted. I'll do it while he's sleeping; he won't feel a thing, no guilt, no mess.