The Missing Taylor Read online

  THE MISSING TAYLOR

  BY

  RC Cameron

  Copyright © 2019 by RC Cameron

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN 978-1-9995071-0-7

  RC Cameron Books

  405 N Ocean Blvd, #229

  Pompano Beach, FL 33062

  www.rccameron.com

  Table of Content

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  To my fantastic wife and dear children who encouraged me on this great adventure. And to Jérôme, Lola, Charlie, Rafael, and Louis, when you set your mind to it, anything is possible.

  Prologue

  IN TOTAL SILENCE, a dozen officers took their positions alongside a vintage garage in an industrial zone of Chicago, the sun just peeking over the horizon. We were expecting an empty garage, so we’d just break the door, seize the material, and return to the office. At least that was the plan, a run-of-the-mill FBI raid.

  Our group leader raised his arm, everyone behind him stopped, awaiting his next instructions. Another hand sign got a colossal man carrying a battering ram to break rank and run ahead, right beside the entry point. A third sign started the action. On the initial ram hit, the door resisted but then gave way and flew wide open on the second try.

  A terrifying explosion lifted the bulky man like a piece of paper and sent him crashing back into a fence. Black smoke erupted from where a door once stood, debris flying everywhere, in a sound I never heard before. The booby trap, we discovered later, would kill whoever entered unaware of the bypass method. Shrapnel flew in all directions. Several agents fell, engulfed inside the explosion’s black cloud.

  The smell was the first thing I remembered. When I opened my eyes, the smoke lifted and the horrific scene appeared. An acrid smell replaced the morning fresh air. Lying on my back, I tried to get up to no avail: I couldn’t move my legs. My head could swing right and left, but my lower body remained ignorant of orders from my brain. The first word that came in my recuperating mind was paralysis. Suddenly, I became nervous.

  A half-dozen officers lay on the ground, groaning, some motionless. That’s when I saw our leader, besides me, on his stomach, his head turned in my direction, eyes wide open. Blood oozed from a neck wound. I wanted to reach out and apply pressure but my arms wouldn’t budge and the look on his face told me it was too late. His heart was just pumping away, his carotid artery severed they would tell me later. And so, my colleague died almost instantly. I lost a close friend for the first time.

  A week ago, in the FBI situation room, the planners selected four locations linked to a gang of criminals making and distributing controlled substances in our district. These addictive drugs were often deadly for young users in city ghettos. We teamed up with the Chicago police, my former employer. The plan was to arrest the people responsible and destroy the production site. It was a major undertaking and expectations were high.

  Our main targets were a half-dozen individuals including the mastermind, Bruce Steiner. This fifty-four-year-old Caucasian had a long history in the drug business but had always avoided capture miraculously. After sightings in Los Angeles, Denver, and New Jersey, he now operated his illegal activities in Chicago, the city where I worked. Based on our data, he should be easy to identify. He wore a tattoo on his face, a tiny cat surrounded by nine small dots on his right temple, echoing the nine lives he claimed to enjoy. The other characters we sought included two couples and a few young men involved in the distribution activities around the city. They worked in the downtown area and the North side of Chicago. They all had long rap sheets of drug-related offenses. But Steiner remained the prime target, the kingpin. The raid included his residence and a garage shop concealing his true activities. It looked like a regular garage but had a sizable backroom where the manufacturing operations supposedly occurred.

  As part of our preparation, we had surveillance on all the target locations. We wanted to identify who lived in those houses: wives, girlfriends or children. We expected individuals home, naked in bed, with no intention of resisting arrest. The garage itself should be empty at the time we planned to arrive. A judge signed the warrants a day in advance, a textbook operation.

  On that crucial day, at 4:00 AM, our attack team composed of ATF, FBI plus Chicago PD officers met for one last update and final review. Half an hour later, all armored and other police vehicles left toward the targeted sites still dark outside. An ambulance followed my convoy as a precaution, the final assault scheduled for 5:30 AM.

  Once the air cleared after the explosion, officers secured the scene and medics rushed in to treat the wounded ones, honoring those who died in the operation by slipping a cover over their body. Amid the debris, the odors, the shouts, the sun still rose on the horizon, life would continue.

  Faceguards and body armors had absorbed large chunks of the blast. Arms and legs, where limited protection existed, received the rest of the brunt. Our group leader and two FBI agents died on site, including the unfortunate ram operator. Other ambulances arrived within minutes to carry away the wounded.

  When I informed the medics, I couldn’t move my legs, they put a neck brace on and carefully installed me on a stretcher. Lights and sirens led us to the University of Chicago’s trauma center.

  The other raid locations produced five arrests, but our main target, Steiner, fled before our team arrived. The cat had lived through another episode, secretly informed before the raid. Never would the FBI discover the source of the leak. But one thing was certain: I would never forget that man.

  “You lost a lot of blood Sir,” the man dressed in blue, sporting a stethoscope around his neck, told me at the hospital. “We’ll get some new blood into you, then it’s off to X-ray to look at the spinal cord for your back injury. We’ll do something for the pain also,” the doctor added.

  When the staff rolled me back to the emergency, the doctor and a colleague were looking at X-rays on their machine. I waited to try to clear my mind of negative thoughts. A few minutes later, both doctors approached me.

  “This is Doctor Ferguson, he’s a spinal cord specialist, I’m Doctor Carter. You can’t move your legs yet.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Don’t worry, we think you suffered a mild compression of the lumbar spine when the bomb blast projected you backward. What we believe is the inflammation prevents the signals from reaching your legs. By treating this condition, we believe everything will return to normal,” Doctor Carter said.

  “What’s the treatment then?” I asked, still worried about anything related to my spinal cord.

  “It’s like treating any inflammation, cold at first, heat later, steroids can help as well,” continued Dr. Ferguson.

  “Any permanent damage?” I asked.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s work on the inflammation and we’ll see after. Right now, you need rest.”

  Nurses transported my injured body to a private room. My wife Laura waited in the wings, walking back and forth, looking down at something invisible. She ran in my direction upon s
eeing the stretcher rolling down the corridor.

  “Jason Tanner, don’t you dare do this again, you understand me?” she said, her voice trembling. The love of my life, now held my hand walking by my side.

  When I woke up on my fifth morning, I could move my toes, my feet, and even my legs. All excited, I called Laura at home to tell her the good news. She cried over the phone. Mid-morning, Dr. Ferguson stood at my bedside testing my lower body nerves. He asked me to walk, which I did with difficulty. Pleased with the results, I complained about an increasing back pain. He prescribed medicine and signed my release papers, I could go home tomorrow and start my rehabilitation.

  For the next six months, I labored at the rehab clinic five days a week. The results were long in coming but after a while, I could almost walk like a normal person except with some persistent back pain which the OxyContin help ease.

  One afternoon, when I returned home, potentially bad news awaited. Laura’s doctor wanted to see us both after her “routine” examination.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SEVEN YEARS LATER, a lot had happened, not all for the best. Since my wife Laura’s death, I moved to South Florida and became a private investigator, living aboard a small but comfortable yacht.

  I was enjoying a late midweek afternoon at the marina with the sun slipping over the horizon, and the heat now becoming bearable. My five o’clock cocktail hour was in full force. Amid the area buzz, I heard footsteps on the wooden planks leading to my floating home. These ambient sounds would not distract me in normal times, but these seemed like high heels, rare for the marina crowd. On the aft deck of my yacht, in my most comfortable chair, a martini in hand, I listened to approaching steps.

  “Excuse me… Mister Tanner?”

  Dressed in my most basic clothing accessories, T-shirt, shorts and topsiders, I was not expecting anyone this afternoon, and certainly not a fine-looking lady. She had black hair pulled back in a clean looking ponytail, glasses that made her look both smart and attractive, and a red suit over a white top. Classic, but stylish.

  “Yes?”

  Not in my best attire, but still, a mere 52 years old, trim because of my marines, police and FBI background. Short black hair, for the same reasons. And a complexion moving from fair to tan because of my presence in the sunshine state.

  “Excuse me Mister Tanner, I’m Nadine Taylor and I would like to hire you.”

  “Is that so?” I replied, using my most pleasant voice.

  Dressed in a professional suit, I examined my visitor, uncertain of what to expect.

  “Won’t you come aboard?” I said, as I got up and opened the transom door to avoid my guest the uncomfortable move over it, in heels and short skirts. She seemed to appreciate the consideration and smiled at me. She wore a subtle perfume that brought back memories of Laura; nothing strong, just a delicate smell.

  I asked her to wait a minute while I stepped inside. As the lone resident living aboard, table or seating arrangements are not group-friendly. I got her a chair which I placed in front of mine, asked her to sit and reached down for my glass.

  “Can I offer you anything to drink Miss.?”

  “Mrs. Taylor, Nadine Taylor. I’ll have a glass of water if you don’t mind.”

  When I returned with a small bottle of water, she said: “That’s fine. Thank you.”

  She swallowed a small amount of water, put the bottle down, looked up and after some hesitation said: “I need your help.”

  I heard this opening line so many times…

  A lot of private investigator cases involves following a cheating husband or wife to gather proof in view of a divorce. But somewhat, my natural instincts told me she’s not looking for these kind of services.

  “How did you get my name, Mrs. Taylor?”

  “A Miami Police captain I know recommended you.”

  “And this captain is?”

  “Russell, John Russell. He sends his best.”

  “In my profession, I run across many policemen but John is special. He’s a fine man and if he sent you to me, it’s because he believes I can help. What can I do?”

  “Mark, my brother, disappeared six months ago and nobody has seen him since. Captain Russell says you have a gift to discover missing people. The police investigation has stalled and they’re only waiting for new leads, which are not coming. I need a full-time investigator to find my brother, dead or alive.”

  “Well, I have a certain ability to find lost souls, it’s a fact.”

  I devoted a lot of time to investigative work with the Marines first, the Chicago Police Department, then the FBI and now as a private detective. Missing person cases are common and all kinds of information, public or not, is available to locate a person.

  “It will be my pleasure to help Mrs. Taylor. I charge a daily fee plus expenses. There are no definite assurances I can find Mark. The police has more resources, Mrs. Taylor. But it’s your call. You understand?”

  “Yes. We can pay your fees, have no worry.”

  “We?”

  “My father is an interested party. Let me give you background information if you don’t mind.”

  “Please do,” as I sipped my drink and looked in her eyes.

  “Wayne Taylor, my father, built a chain of retail stores in the 1990s with the principle that women could buy brand name clothing for a reasonable price. With a single store at first, he soon expanded to five, fifty, a hundred and more. In 2005, he received an offer from JTX stores to take part in their growing empire and he decided it was time to let go of his dream. He’d spent enough resources building the Taylor brand, he was approaching his retirement and believed he should concentrate on other matters. With his financial security established, he now wished to teach younger entrepreneurs on how to succeed.”

  “And he is not with you today?”

  “He lives in Chicago but can contact him by phone if you wish.”

  Chicago, a place I knew well.

  (--)

  Nadine’s soft voice reminded me of my mother’s and the sensation of slow passing time during my childhood. From my early days in Illinois, playing cops and robbers with my brothers, I always played the policeman role, on the side of justice, that was me. Not surprising law and order positions attracted me later in life.

  When I played with Carl and Freddy, they were bad guys, I was a cop sent to find and arrest them. Both of my brothers now live in South Carolina. Once or twice a year we talk but are not close. If I get a call from one, something is wrong. Nothing against them; I am just different.

  Born in Springfield, Illinois, before Carl and Freddy, I wound up my high school and expected to join the local police force and the academy. Complications appeared as I lacked a college education. In its absence, combat experience would compensate. With the Vietnam war over, training by the Armed Forces while drawing a paycheck was an attractive plan. Not waiting, I joined the Marines and drove to San Diego for my boot camp basics of thirteen weeks. These were the hardest three months of my life but I graduated on Family Day when my whole family, brothers included, flew west for the ceremony. It was my proudest moment.

  Back home for ten days of leave, I continued on to Camp Pendleton for Marine combat training. After another four weeks of hard work, I needed to make choices. Marines have hundreds of jobs for enlisted men or officers from logistics to running ships to flying airplanes and many more. Where would I fit in?

  When told the Military Police (MP) were not only a bunch of guys wearing MP on their sleeves and picking up drunk sailors from Saigon bars, it got me all excited. These officers performed real investigative work which I wanted to do. As a result, I put a demand to turn into an investigator and for three years I served in various Marine bases.

  After I returned to Springfield and my family, I had gained a fine education, a good training and now had good investigating skills. I looked forward to the next chapter of my life, the Chicago Police Department (CPD).

  One may think it is difficult to become a mem
ber of the CPD, it is not. But it is challenging to stay there, at least for me. I wanted to become a full-fledged detective, but management had a different view for my career. They preferred I spend months and years as a regular patrolman. In due time, whenever that was, I could consider taking a detective exam. Too slow for me, I needed a more expedite way of reaching my goal. After a few years of walking the beat, with no sign of becoming a detective, I took an important decision: I forwarded an application to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  But a problem still remained; the FBI also requires a college education. I had skipped college to train in the Armed Forces to become a policeman. Now, I had a major obstacle and the rejection letter was disappointing. Therefore, my options were few: I could get a degree after investing four years but was unsure on how to manage the financials. Savings would not carry me to the end. By the same token, the additional education costs were not bearable by my parents either.

  After getting reference letters from my high school, the Marines and, the Chicago PD, I demanded to meet my local senator. I had nothing to lose. Experience has shown, when dealing with the government, it’s a great habit to get local representation on your case. To see a Senator in person is a rare incident. Political aides, clerks, chief of staff or other people are running interference for their leader .

  One of his aides received me and I presented my case like a pro. Prior to that day, I practiced in front of a mirror to achieve a certain level of skill. I left the aide a brochure explaining what I was looking for which included all my reference material accumulated.

  Unsure if the difference was the oral delivery or the brochure, but three weeks later an invitation arrived from the FBI local office to visit the recruitment center in Chicago. Next on my slate, sign up to turn into an FBI Special Agent in Charge (SAIC). I was on my way.