Chapter 26
Chapter 26
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 26
Chapter Title: Officer Johnson (2)
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Officer Johnson hesitated for a moment before nodding.
"Really? I'd appreciate that. I did call for someone, but it's Sunday morning..."
He pulled on a pair of gloves and peered under the hood.
A Crown Victoria police cruiser. Ford's full-size sedan, practically the symbol of American cops.
"I'll start by checking the battery terminals."
Shining his flashlight, he inspected it and found the battery terminals corroded.
Looked like a bad connection.
"Ah, here's the problem. The battery terminals are corroded, so it's not making proper contact."
Luckily, this was something I could handle.
I grabbed my toolbox from the truck and pulled out sandpaper, a wrench, and the almighty WD-40.
"Just need to clean this up a bit, and it should be good."
I carefully sanded off the white corrosion from the terminals.
Sprayed on some WD-40 and wiped it clean. That did it.
"Alright, reconnect it... and give it a try."
Johnson slid into the driver's seat and turned the key.
Vroom!
The engine roared to life smoothly.
"Wow! It's working!"
He stepped out and approached me, smiling for the first time.
"Thank you so much. Can't believe it was something so simple."
"Haha, no big deal. You should check the battery terminals regularly, though. They corrode easily in humid weather."
The joy was short-lived, and an awkward silence settled between us.
Officer Johnson broke it first, hesitating.
"Um... I'm sorry about that inspection a few days ago."
It was an unexpected apology.
I looked up from packing my tools.
"Martinez got a little rough, huh. He's not usually like that, but everyone's on edge with this serial killer case..."
"I understand, Officer. It's a big case."
I meant it.
It had pissed me off at the time, but I got it.
It was serious, and still ongoing.
"Still, he shouldn't have been so rude... Most truckers are good, honest folks."
Johnson shook his head, his voice sincere.
"And honestly... my dad was a trucker too."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Drove long-haul for over thirty years. Only came home once or twice a week, but he worked tirelessly for the family."
His voice carried a hint of longing.
"It's been five years since he passed. Lung cancer... probably from all that diesel exhaust. No protective gear back then."
"That's rough. I'm sorry."
"That's why I feel even worse. I know how tough trucking is, and yet that day..."
A breeze blew through.
The scent of grass from the field tickled my nose.
"Hey, want some coffee?"
Johnson pulled a thermos from his cruiser.
"I brewed it fresh this morning. Pretty good stuff."
"Sounds great."
He poured two paper cups.
The rich aroma of coffee filled the air. High-end beans, by the smell of it.
"No sugar or cream..."
"It's fine. I drink it black anyway."
We leaned against the guardrail by the road and sipped our coffee.
The eastern sky was starting to lighten.
"Heading to Houston for a delivery?"
"Yeah, Pasadena chemical plant. Emergency run."
"You go there a lot, huh. I was heading to Houston HQ myself. Meeting on a weekend..."
"Weekends are the worst."
"Truckers have it worse. No weekends or weekdays—just hard work."
"Gotta eat, right? We all do."
Johnson took a sip and sighed.
"Anyway... how bad is this case?"
I asked cautiously.
He frowned.
"Very serious. Four victims already. All young women in their early twenties, bodies found near truck stops."
"Damn... any pattern?"
"Yeah. They were all heading home after late-night or early-morning shifts. Three were prostitutes; the last was a waitress."
He took another sip and added quietly.
"And... this hasn't hit the news yet, but they were all killed the same way. Strangulation marks, clear signs of a struggle."
"What about evidence? DNA?"
"We got skin tissue from under one victim's nails. It's being analyzed—no match in the database. No priors."
"Hm. Not much to go on, then."
"That's what makes it so frustrating, damn it. FBI profilers think it's a white male, 30s or 40s, someone who frequents truck stops. Could be a trucker or someone in a related business."
Johnson paused, then added.
"Oh, and there's a reward."
"Reward?"
"Yeah, $20,000. FBI and Texas state combined. For the tip that leads to an arrest."
"Wow, $20,000... that's no small change."
"We're desperate. Four young women dead, and no telling when the next one hits. The whole area's terrified."
Birds began to chirp.
Dawn was giving way to morning.
"Winch, ever notice anything suspicious at truck stops? Even small stuff."
Johnson's eyes were pleading.
I thought back, recalling the people I'd seen.
"Not really... Just tired truckers and travelers."
"I see..."
He looked disappointed.
"I'll keep a sharper eye from now on. If I spot anything, I'll call."
"Really? Thank you."
He handed me his card.
"My direct line. Call anytime, no matter how minor."
"Of course."
"I'm Daniel Johnson. Call me Daniel."
"Jake for me, Daniel."
We shook hands.
Short greeting, but it felt like we'd gotten closer.
"And Jake, you use CB radio, right?"
"Every day."
"Ever talk about the case with other truckers?"
"Sometimes. Everyone's on edge. Sucks getting suspected."
Daniel nodded.
"I get it. But trucker cooperation is key. You're the eyes and ears of the road. You see and hear way more than civilians."
"True. We're out there at dawn."
"So please... if you hear weird chatter on CB or get tips about suspicious behavior, let me know."
"You got it. We want this solved too."
The sun rose brighter.
Time to hit the road.
"One more thing, Jake..."
Daniel asked.
"Which truck stops do truckers hit most at this early hour?"
"Several along I-10... The one near the east Houston exit is popular. 24-hour diner, good showers."
"Damn. That's where Jessica Molton worked."
"No kidding? I go there sometimes."
"Be extra careful, then. And check the area when you do."
"Will do."
"Thanks for today. Fixing the car, listening to me."
"No problem. Cops have it rough too."
"Our jobs don't always mix well, but helping each other like this? Huge difference. Count on you, Jake."
Daniel smiled.
I chuckled and nodded.
"Yeah. We all want safe roads."
"Drive safe. And call."
"You too, Daniel."
We shook hands again and parted.
I climbed into the truck and fired it up.
In the rearview, Daniel was getting into his cruiser.
We waved goodbye.
Heading to Houston, our talk lingered in my mind.
I flipped on the radio. News was on.
Guess I need to pay more attention now.
Something I see could be a lead.
I pulled out my phone and saved Daniel's number.
[Daniel Johnson]
You never know. Might spot something—or get in trouble.
At least now I had someone to call.
That eased my mind a bit.
The chemical plant gate came into view ahead.
Focus on the delivery first.
Right at 6 a.m., I pulled into the Austin south chemical plant warehouse.
The night guard opened the gate.
"Jake Winch? Emergency plant parts delivery."
"That's me."
A forklift carefully unloaded the parts.
"Sign here, please."
On the way back, I stopped at a truck stop for breakfast.
Scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast. Classic American breakfast—filling.
Local news played on the diner TV.
'Already on the news.'
Two truckers at the next table were talking.
"William Harrison's units... could be a goldmine."
"Big dealers are swarming. Even from Dallas."
Competition would be fierce.
I took 290 toward Austin.
Passing Manor, I called Bill.
"Bill, heading back from Houston. Should be there by noon."
"Good. Come to the shop. Marcus is coming too."
"Marcus?"
"Yeah. More intel on the units."
11:50 a.m., Austin.
Quick shower and fresh clothes at home. First impressions matter at auctions.
Noon-ish, Bill's shop.
"Jake! Delivery go smooth?"
"Yep. $3 million in plant equipment."
"Whoa, nice work. Come in."
Marcus was already inside.
"Jake! Long time."
"Marcus, how've you been?"
"Good, thanks to you. Appreciate the help last time."
He meant the $1 unit.
"Sit. Got info."
Marcus pulled out a notebook.
"Checked the units again last night. Final look before auction."
Bill poured coffee.
"Find anything?"
"Unit 2: papers and books, mostly junk. But leather-bound books in the corner—could be first editions."
"Those have value."
"Unit 5 is the real eye-catcher... piles of luxury boxes."
Marcus paused.
"Weird part: boxes are spotless. No dust."
"Why's that weird?"
"Harrison got dementia three years ago, went to a home. Units sat empty, but luxury boxes look brand new?"
Bill stroked his chin.
"Family must've added them recently."
"Yeah. Took the real stuff, left boxes."
"Trap."
"Looks tempting, though."
Marcus flipped pages.
"Unit 9: the gem... but issues."
"What?"
"Furniture all covered in thick gray tarps. Serious mold smell—even from five meters out."
Bill winced.
"Mold... furniture might be ruined."
"Peeked under a corner tarp. Bottom furniture's fine. Especially the back dresser: dark walnut, intricate rose carvings, brass handles... Victorian, 1880s British."
"Why the tarps?"
"Dust protection, probably. But moisture made the tarps moldy. Furniture's good; tarps are the problem."
Bill tapped his calculator.
"Authentic Victorian in good shape? Easily $30K total."
"Worth going for?"
Bill sighed deeply.
"Problem's Victor Hamilton's coming."
"Ah, him..."
Marcus nodded.
"Houston's biggest antique chain boss."
Bill elaborated.
"Victor's ex-Wall Street fund manager. Jumped into antiques ten years ago, crushed the market with cash. Vets with 20 years can't touch him."
"That good?"
"Master of mind games. Sniffs money like a bloodhound. Reads your limit from a glance. Never lets go once he wants it—bids double market if needed."
I asked worriedly.
"No way to win?"
"Normally, no. Everyone skips his targets. Starts at 20-30K. We small-timers can't match."
Marcus chimed in.
"Unit 5 first. If he blows cash there, maybe cautious on 9?"
Bill shook his head.
"Doubt it. He drops 100K easy. Would he on 5?"
"Damn... no shot then."
"He's a pro hunter. Won't fall for small-timer tricks. Lower expectations."
We replanned strategy.
Do what we can.
"Mold smell in 9 could be our edge. Victor hates risk, especially blind bids."
"True. Tarps make it a gamble."
An hour later, auction site.
U-Store-It, south Austin branch.
Huge facility. Parking lot packed.
"Wow, crowded."
"Look there."
Bill pointed: three black Cadillac Escalades lined up.
People emerged. I was stunned.
Mid-50s white guy with staff: Victor Hamilton.
Silver hair slicked back, bespoke suit worth $5K+, Patek Philippe glinting.
But what stole the show: the woman on his arm.
Blonde beauty, mid-20s. Red tight dress, heels, Chanel bag...
"Victor brought a woman?"
Bill looked flustered.
"15 years on the circuit, first time. Always solo or with crew."
Victor whispered in her ear; she giggled.
No cold poker face—excited, even.
"That's Tiffany Bellakez. Instagram model."
Nearby dealers whispered.
"Been with him a month. He's smitten. Last auction, dropped 5K on a jewel case he didn't need—just to gift her."
"...Victor, of all people, whipped."
Bill shook his head.
"Women cloud judgment. Dangerous..."
But I saw opportunity.
Exactly what we needed.