Wolfman is Back Page 3

  Brad stared at the face of the vicious and sadistic killer he hoped he’d never see again. Certainly not outside of prison. His pulse increased and his jaw clenched as the hatred returned.

  The next photo showed Wolfe in the prison gym. “As you can see, Wolfe is huge. A year ago, the prison guards tried to hold him down so they could shear his hair and beard. Wolfe put three of them in hospital. After that, they left him alone. He hasn’t cut his hair or beard for more than two years. His nickname, Wolfman, is fitting. The prison guards said Wolfe didn’t miss a workout—every minute of his exercise time went to weights. How many of you can make that claim?” Devlin flexed a bicep and glanced around the room.

  “At first, Edmonton Max and the provincial government downplayed the escape because of recent budget cuts to prisons. The night Wolfe escaped they were short- staffed. So, they dragged their feet on releasing information about the escape. Probably hoped they’d catch Wolfe quickly and no one would be the wiser. But then a cellmate of Wolfe’s made a deal with the crown prosecutor in Edmonton. He said Wolfe obsessed over crown prosecutor Jenni Blighe and was pretty specific on what he’d do to her after he escaped. That’s when the Edmonton cops got a brainwave and notified us. Coulter, you got anything to add?”

  Brad stepped to the front of the room. “We think Wolfe killed at least six people during the biker war. We could only prove three murders. Of course, none of the bikers talked. Wolfe is violent, manipulative, and too smart to be easily caught. Wolfe should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Don’t try to take him alone. In fact, don’t try to take him with fewer than about six guys, two dogs, a tank, and the Tactical Support Unit. He’ll do anything, I mean anything, to stay out of prison. When the Jokers and Soldiers fell apart and came under the Hells Angels, most bikers distanced themselves from Wolfe. He’s had very few visitors in prison. He has a few contacts in Calgary, so it’s possible he’ll reach out to them.”

  “It would be crazy for Wolfe to go the Hells Angels’ Clubhouse,” Briscoe said. “He knows that’s the first place we’d search.”

  “You’re right,” Brad said. “But we need to cover every possibility. Devlin has a team from Guns and Gangs watching the Hells Angels’ Clubhouse. We’re going to up the pressure on them tonight.”

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday Evening

  Jeter Wolfe felt good. The freedom was exhilarating, and he was horny—he needed to take care of that. After almost a year in remand awaiting trial, then a year in that hell hole in Edmonton, he was free, and he wasn’t going to waste a moment. Escaping prison hadn’t been hard—he kicked himself for not figuring it out sooner. He’d gained the trust of the prison guards—model prisoner, they’d said. Well, except for the beard fiasco. The key was getting a job in the laundry. After finding the weakest of the delivery guys, the rest was easy. A threat or two to the delivery guy and a visit from one of Wolfe’s former cellmates to the delivery guy’s cute wife and all was set. The biggest challenge was concealing his bulk in the laundry bin. The little runt had almost given it away struggling with the heavy bin. The lazy guards at the gate didn’t even get out of their chairs to check the truck.

  The car came from the University of Alberta student parking. A beater, to be sure, but it was covered with dust. The owner wouldn’t miss it anytime soon. The cash came from a couple of his cellmates who were out on parole. Not a lot of cash—he’d need to find another source. So, he came to Calgary. His old pal Jeremy Pickens, president of the Calgary Hells Angels, might part with some money.

  Wolfe drove to the new clubhouse in Ogden. As he turned the corner, he saw the police vehicles—everywhere. The street had a red-and-blue glow. He slowed. His eyes drifted to two guys dressed in casual clothes walking his way—a tall guy with broad shoulders and a shorter, stocky guy. Coulter and Devlin. The cops that hunted and destroyed his club and put him away for fifteen years. He fought the urge to drive the car into them.

  Another day, another time. He eased his foot down on the gas and despite his inner rage, he calmly turned at the next street corner heading north, just like a law-abiding citizen. A few blocks farther he merged into traffic and headed east.

  The farther he drove the more the rage burned. He pounded the steering wheel. He thought of turning around and heading to her house. Not now, not today, not when he was angry. That had to be done carefully. It had to fulfill the fantasy he created. She would have to wait. Not too long, but not tonight.

  He cruised the hooker stroll on Seventeenth Avenue. Despite the cool night, the hookers were numerous. Several glanced in his direction and a couple flashed their boobs—nice, but not what he wanted. Then at the corner of Seventeenth and Thirty-Third, he saw her—young, slender, with long blond ehair. She stood back from the others, like she was scared. He pulled up to the curb. The closest three hookers ambled to the passenger window. He reached across and rolled down the window.

  One leaned into the car, her heavy breasts resting on the window ledge. “What’ll you have, doll?” She was chewing gum and blowing bubbles. “You’re a big man. I’ll bet everything else is big. You got something in mind?”

  Wolfe reached across and roughly pawed her breasts, then slapped her face. “Not you, cow. Her.” He pointed to the young blonde.

  “She’s a baby. She won’t be able to handle a real man like you. I know what you need and you won’t be disappointed.”

  “No. Her.”

  “Fine. See you later when you find out she can’t get you off.” She turned to the girl. “He wants you.”

  The girl trudged to the car.

  Wolfe opened the door. “Get in.”

  The girl looked back. The older hooker nodded toward the car. “Get in. Get the cash first.”

  Brad and Devlin stood outside the Hells Angels’ Clubhouse in the southeast. Two years ago, the Angels had renovated the Satan’s Soldiers’ former clubhouse. They’d increased its size to accommodate all the members. The most significant change was the fortifications. An eight-foot concrete wall surrounded the building. A massive iron gate was the only way in, and it was guarded 24/7. The stink from the meat-packing plant nearby saturated the air. An odor Brad remembered too well.

  With the area secured, K9 and the Tactical Support Unit searched the clubhouse and gathered the bikers. They escorted the bikers outside to uniformed cops, who searched the bikers again and shoved them into cruisers or wagons.

  Brad recognized one of the handcuffed bikers. He tapped Devlin on the shoulder, and they headed toward the biker.

  “Slim Pickens. Well, isn’t this a surprise. Just like old times.”

  “What do you think you’re doing, Coulter. This is bullshit. You don’t have any right to raid our clubhouse.”

  “After you screwed us last time, you think you get special treatment? Well you are absolutely right. How are you enjoying the special treatment so far?”

  “You’re funnier now than you were before. What the hell is this about?”

  “Your buddy, Jeter Wolfe, escaped from prison.”

  “He was in prison in Edmonton. Why the hell are you looking here?”

  “We figure he’s not going to stay in Edmonton very long,” Brad said. “There’s nothing there for him. He’ll head here, and when he does, what will he do? Look up his old buddies. Don’t you think?”

  “Wolfe and I were never buddies,” Pickens said. “He’s crazy. All you had to do was ask, Coulter. I would’ve told you if I’d seen him. If he came here, I’d kill him myself.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it. You screwed us over two years ago—that’s going to follow you. We’re not gonna take a chance this time. So, talk. When was the last time you saw Wolfe?”

  “I haven’t seen him or talked to him for a year or more,” Pickens said. “I visited him a couple of times the first year he was in jail. He knew stuff about our old club, the Gypsy Jokers, that I didn’t know. He wouldn’t tell me anything, so I stopped going. I think the head injury from the beatin
g affected him. All he talks about is sex, torture, and revenge. He’d describe in detail his fantasies about what he’d do to that prosecutor Jenni Blighe, Annie, and that lady cop. It was vile stuff. One thing for sure, he was definitely set on revenge. Oh, yeah, Coulter. He wants to cut off your nuts and feed them to you or your paramedic chick.”

  “I’ll take pleasure sending him to the great biker gang in Hell,” Brad said. “I get it. During his trial he threatened lots of people. That’s why he was locked away for fifteen years.”

  “You two better take this seriously,” Pickens said. “I’m telling you, he’s worse than ever. If he’s out on the street, you guys better be worried. Nobody who was involved in his trial is safe, especially not the women.”

  “Call us the second you see Wolfe or he contacts you,” Brad said. “If you don’t, and I find out you’ve been holding back on us, get used to having all these cops here.”

  “I don’t want him anywhere near my club or me. He’s bad news for everybody. If I see him, I’ll let you know.”

  Brad glared at Pickens. Two years ago, he had played them. A lot of people got hurt in Picken’s push for control of the biker gangs in Calgary. In the end, Pickens became the president of the Hells Angels. For the last year and a half, biker gangs had kept a low profile. But Brad wasn’t under the illusion that they had stopped the criminal activities. There were drugs on the streets, prostitution, and extortion. Pickens was the mastermind.

  Brad pulled out his handcuff key, turned Pickens around, and took off the handcuffs.

  “Letting you go is probably the stupidest thing I’ve done in a while. But I don’t have anything to charge you with. Just remember our deal.”

  Pickens rubbed his wrists as he walked away.

  Brad and Devlin headed back to their car.

  “You really think that asshole will let us know if he hears from Wolfe?” Devlin asked.

  “I don’t believe him for a second,” Brad said. “He’s a lying prick—always was and always will be. We’ll keep guys on this place. We should put a tail on Pickens. If Wolfman is in Calgary, he’ll contact Pickens.”

  “I’ll ask, but we’re already using a bunch of cops on this. I don’t think I’m gonna be able to get any more.”

  “Pickens is right about one thing,” Brad said. “Wolfe is a sexual predator. If he has sex on his mind, he won’t wait long.”

  Chapter Five

  Tuesday Evening

  Maggie Gray pulled the ambulance out of Station 12 and drove toward downtown. Her rookie partner, Rick Fola, gingerly held a coffee cup.

  “No bumps,” he said. “I don’t want to wear this coffee.”

  “We could get coffee when we get to Station 1,” Maggie said.

  “This coffee is likely the only nourishment I’m going to get for hours,” Fola said. “If dispatch is moving us downtown, we can expect a busy night.”

  “Maybe the firefighters at Station 1 will let us in on dinner.”

  “Fat chance of that,” Fola said.

  “They like me, though.” Maggie turned off Memorial Drive and headed down Fifth Avenue. “I’ll vouch for you.”

  He snorted. “When did that happen? They made your life hell when you first got there.”

  “You’d be surprised what banana bread and cookies will do.”

  Fola laughed. “How’s Brad’s new job?”

  “He had a busy day.”

  “What unit is he in?”

  “The Serious High-Risk Offender Program. They call it SHOP.”

  “That’s not the catchiest name I’ve heard.”

  “Brad thinks it should be MFOTL.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What does that mean?”

  “Motherfuckers on the Loose.”

  “Not too catchy, but fits better. Was he excited about getting back on the street?”

  “I think it was a bit of a struggle going in to work today. Then, on the way to work he ends up in a car chase.” Maggie told Fola the details. “So, he had two arrests before his shift started.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Not unusual for him. He could be on a deserted island and I swear somehow crime would find him.”

  Three beeps sounded from the radio. “Medic 12.”

  “Medic 12, go.”

  “What’s your location?”

  “First Street and Tenth Avenue southwest.”

  “Respond to the sixth floor, 626 Twelfth Avenue Southwest. Meet fire on the scene. One patient with burns.”

  Fola grabbed the mic. “Roger, dispatch, 12 responding.”

  “That call came in ten minutes ago.” Maggie activated the lights and siren.

  She parked behind a line of fire trucks. They got out of the ambulance, piled their kits on the stretcher and rolled it to the apartment building. They lifted the stretcher over a few hoses crossing the sidewalk and snaking into the building.

  A firefighter met them at the door. “I’ll take you up to the sixth floor.”

  They followed the firefighter into the elevator. When the elevator doors opened on the sixth floor, the smell of burned chemical was strong. Firefighters were setting up exhaust fans in the hallway and at the apartment door.

  They were led past the firefighters, into the apartment, and through the living room. Maggie saw a beautiful ebony baby grand piano in one corner. The apartment was immaculately furnished. She didn’t see any fire damage in this room.

  “Where was the fire?” Maggie asked.

  “The bedroom,” the firefighter said. “She was smoking in bed and fell asleep. The cigarette ignited the sheets and bedspread. She woke up, saw the fire, and tried to put it out herself.”

  “What did she use?”

  “She had a glass of water by the bed. Then she hit it with a pillow. The pillow caught fire, too. Finally, she got it out, but burned her hands pretty bad.”

  They entered the bedroom. The smell of burned plastic and flesh was overwhelming. Maggie walked over to a woman in her mid-fifties who was wearing a dressing gown and sitting in a chair. Her face was screwed up in pain, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “My name is Maggie, this is Rick. We’re paramedics. What’s your name?”

  “Rose.”

  “Rose, where does it hurt?”

  “My hands.”

  “Let me look at your hands.”

  Rose held out her trembling hands. Her wrists were red, with big blisters near her hands. Her fingers were black and charred with what looked to be skin hanging off in strips.

  “On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being the worst pain you’ve ever had, how would you rate it?” Maggie asked.

  “Nine,” Rose said. “Maybe a ten.”

  “We’ll be able to help you with the pain.” Maggie looked closer—it didn’t look like skin. It was brittle and covered her hands.

  “What’s that?” Fola asked.

  “Plastic,” Maggie said. “The pillow had a plastic cover. When it caught fire, the plastic melted onto her hands.” The plastic had cooled and now both hands looked like they were webbed with plastic connecting the fingers.

  “Fola, start an IV, normal saline,” Maggie said. “I’ll give oxygen and get the morphine ready.”

  “Sure can,” Fola said.

  Once the IV was in place, Maggie administered 5.0 mg of morphine. “Rose. This will help your pain. If this doesn’t work, I can give you more morphine.”

  Fola slipped on surgical gloves and gently placed sterile gauze bandages over the hands.

  Firefighters helped Fola lift Rose to the stretcher, then maneuvered the stretcher out of the apartment and into the elevator. Maggie gathered their kits and equipment and joined them. On the main level, firefighters rolled the stretcher to the ambulance.

  Wednesday Morning

  Brad ran out of Bowness Park heading for home. Lobo, his German shepherd, ran at his side. Four years ago, Brad’s partner Curtis Young was training Lobo for K9. When Curtis was killed in the line of duty and Brad w
as wounded, Brad adopted Lobo. Now he was Brad’s companion on jogs and had been vital in Brad’s healing from the death of his partner.

  They slowed to a walk for the last block. Brad loved everything about his house. Built in the mid-1920s, the two-story stood out from the newer homes on the block. Surrounded by tall pines and overlooking Bowness Park, it was everything he could hope for.

  A car pulled up to the curb in front of them. Maggie slid out and grabbed her gym bag from the back seat. Lobo raced ahead and ran circles around Maggie. Brad walked over and kissed Maggie.

  “Yuck.” She stepped back. “You’re soaked and you stink.”

  “Thank you, dear. I missed you, too. It was a long run. Both of us needed it.”

  Lobo raced ahead onto the porch and waited at the front door.

  Inside, Lobo sped through the dining room to the kitchen. Maggie stuffed her kit into the entrance closet, then headed for the kitchen. Lobo stood over his food bowl and barked twice.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Brad said. “After I get some water.” He grabbed a glass off the counter, filled it with water, and drank thirstily. He filled the glass a second time, then fed Lobo. “How was your night?”

  “Quiet for the most part. We had one disturbing call.” She recounted the call of the lady with the burned hands.

  “That’s awful,” Brad said. “Will she be able to play again?”

  Maggie shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  They sat at the old oak kitchen table while Lobo gobbled his food.

  “How’s your rookie working out?” Brad leaned back in his chair and sipped more water.

  “He’s doing fine. Like most, he’s book smart and street dumb. But he’s keen to learn. He’s still a little uncomfortable working with me. Not sure if it’s because I’m a woman, I’m a woman bossing him around, or just the usual nerves when you first hit the street.”

  “I know the feeling,” Brad said. “When I finished recruit classes and started my first shift, I realized I didn’t know shit. The second night, my partner got in a fight with a couple of druggies. I didn’t know if I was supposed to help him or let him pound on them. He was doing great, they didn’t stand a chance and in less than a minute, he had them on the ground. He looked up. I was frozen to the spot. He said, ‘I could use a second set of handcuffs.’ I felt like an idiot. Within a few weeks I was the one getting in scraps.”