LAPP Society Murders

by Harry Gersteneker

Copyright ©2004
ISBN: 0-87714-906-2 eBook edition
ISBN: 0-87714-315-3 PB edition

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

DEDICATION

XXXX

THE AUTHOR

Harry Gersteneker has been freelance writing for national magazines and newspapers since highschool. He began writing very young during the final years of cheap pulp magazines— the hard-boiled detective type stories. Working for newspapers he wrote human interest stories, investigative reports and general news reporting. The author's field covers every genre—horror, romance, mystery, war and historical.

THE BOOK

Ex Marine Corps sniper Mark Troy's ten year old son Jamie died a horrible death—a victim of corporate greed. Then, after a sham trial, the company gets off with a slap on the wrist and Mark's wife commits suicide. So Mark, with blind vengeance seeks his own kind of justice against corporate polluters. And when Homicide Detective Scott Dodge, hot on Mark's trail tracks him to the top of the St. Louis Gateway Arch in a final showdown, only one kind of justice prevails—frontier justice.

Chapter Two

Leonard Walton, president of Walton Developers, stood in the doorway of his company's office champing on a big, black Cuban cigar as he faced a half-dozen protesters pacing up and down on the sidewalk. They were carrying boldly painted placards that read--Save Our Trees, Protect The Wetlands, Stop Retail Sprawl.

A huge bull of a man with a gravel voice, Walton jerked the cigar from his mouth and lashed out at the demonstrators. "You people are trespassing! Get the hell away from my door or I'll call the police!"

"You greedy scum-bag, Walton!" a skinny young woman with fire in her eyes shouted. "You don't give a crap about wildlife."

A bearded middle-aged man wearing a long ponytail and a red bandanna across his forehead head yelled, 'You're raping the land, Walton!"

"You lost your case in court!" Walton snarled. "You can't stop progress!"

Walton Developers was planning to develop a strip of wetland between the Mississippi and Missouri rivers in Calhoun County-- beautiful, wild area on the Illinois side of the Mississippi ten miles upstream from the city of St. Louis.

After the wetland was drained and cleared, corporate offices, retail stores and professional businesses would spring up while migrating ducks, deer, egrets, beaver, muskrat

and other species of wildlife would vanish forever.

"All you care about is money!" another woman protester screamed. "You don't worry about the environment or anything else, just your bottom line!"

"You tree huggers are all out of the mainstream," Walton shot back. "If it were up to you people the Pilgrams would still be living in huts at Plymouth Rock."

A photographer from the St. Louis Sun Times was there shooting photos of the protesters. He also got a shot of Walton standing defiantly in his doorway pointing at the protesters. Satisfied that he got the shots he wanted, he headed back to his paper.

Walton finally turned and stormed back into his office. The protesters continued to pace up and down on the sidewalk in front of the building. Then the police arrived at the scene and broke up the demonstration.

Walton stepped out of the front door of his sprawling, two story stone house in Ladue, one of the most exclusive and affluent neighborhoods in St. Louis County. Most of the residents of Ladue were upper-class professionals--doctors, lawyers, and corporate executives. Their estates all topped the million dollar range.

Walton's mansion was no exception with its great white pillars, circular drive and large, kidney-shaped pool in the back. His wife, Samantha, often entertained the neighborhood social set with cocktails, hors d'oeuvres and gossip out by the pool.

Walton's silver Mercedes was parked on the drive in front of the huge oak and brass entrance door of the big house. A bag of golf clubs was slung across his broad shoulders as he went to the rear of the Mercedes. He opened the trunk and dropped them in.

It was a warm, Saturday morning in April and Walton was anxious to get out to the Country Club and play a couple of rounds with his wealthy business friends and bankers.

The Walton mansion was located at the end of a long, black topped lane lined on both sides with ancient evergreens, blue spruce and hard-maple trees. It was very private; no other homes were visible from the estate. A vine covered stone wall six feet high surrounded the entire grounds.

This morning, Mark Troy stood waiting on a large rock behind the stone wall, his lean, muscular body tense. A warm breeze ruffled his coal-black, slightly long hair. There

was a set expression on his full lips and a sparkle in his dark eyes. He was feeling calm and confident about the job he was about to perform.

The barrel of his rifle was positioned across the top of the wall. He had brought a special weapon for the job--.22/.250 caliber bolt action Savage varmint rifle, which propelled a light hollow-point bullet at a velocity of 5000 feet per second. The deadly weapon was fitted with a Tasco 2X10 variable power telescopic sight and a silencer.

Only about 75 yards and a piece of cake, he thought, as he glassed his target through the scope.

He finally centered the crosshair slightly below and to the right of the little green alligator design on Walton's yellow golfing shirt as Walton stood behind his Mercedes.

As Mark's finger applied gentle pressure against the trigger, his eyes momentarily played a little trick on him. Instead of Walton in the crosshair, he saw someone else. It was a North Vietnamese general in a small clearing in a jungle. The general was speaking to several black-pajama clad troops.

Mark was positioned in a tree 200 yards away from his target that day. He was perspiring heavily from the oppressive heat and the tension of the moment. As Alpha Company's top sniper he was doing what he had been trained to do--take out important people called Charlie.

He was an expert at his job, having a dozen kills to his credit. And the North Vietnamese general had been his thirteenth kill in that brutal jungle war so many year ago.

Back to the business at hand. Mark's finger continued to apply pressure on the trigger. Then the rifle cracked. The small bullet hit Walton at the precise spot where the crosshair had been centered before the recoil.

Walton's huge chest exploded like a melon on a sidewalk as the hollow point bullet disintegrated in his heart area, sending a red mist into the air, spraying the rear of the Mercedes. He dropped to the driveway with a loud thud. His mouth opened and closed for a moment, spurting blood. He never heard the shot or knew what hit him.

Leaving no evidence, Mark left the spent cartridge in the rifle's chamber and beat it back to his car parked along the lane nearby. Behind him, he could hear Samantha's loud, piercing scream as she came running from the pool to see what had happened. Her morning cocktail was still clenched in her hand.

Mark cased the rifle and placed it carefully in the trunk. Then he slid behind the wheel of his 6 year old Ford. He dropped the shift into drive and drove slowly from the scene. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. "One shot, one kill," Alpha Company's motto for the sniper team, he was thinking.

Scott was in Captain Spinollia's office. It was an hour after he came on duty. Spinollia had called him in for a report on the Greenwald case.

Spinollia was a short, dumpy man who had 25 years on the force. He wore his tinted-black hair slicked back and plastered to his scalp with what appeared to be a generous layer of axle grease. His shirt was two sizes too small around the collar. His tie, neatly tied

with a small knot, seemed to be choking him. "How's the investigation on the Greenwald case coming Lieutenant?" he asked from behind his desk. "Turn up anything yet?"

"Not yet, Captain. We did question some Save The Earth demonstrators. They checked out OK. But we expect a break anytime now."

"What about his wife, family, close friends?"

"His wife was out of the country when we think the murder occurred. Perfect alibi. And nothing unusual about their marital life. Their socialite friends and neighbors all say they were the perfect couple. And no recent insurance policy on Greenwald was taken out. But like I said, something will turn up soon."

"Well it better. Pressure's starting to come down from the top. Greenwald was a powerful man in this town. He had a lot of friends in high places."

Scott was about to answer when Spinollia's phone rang. He punched the answer key.

" Spinollia."

He listened to the message for a few seconds, said, "Holy shit!" then hung up. He looked up at Scott." Lieutenant, you and Sergeant Hinze get out to 1000 Pine Lane Drive in Ladue. There's been a shooting at the Leonard Walton residence."

"You mean Leonard Walton, the big shot developer?"

"That's right. Another goddamn rich and powerful businessman killed. That puts more pressure on our asses. Get out there, now."

"On our way," Scott said and bolted out the door.

He found Buford at the water fountain popping a couple of aspirins. As usual, he'd spent too many hours with some fellow officer friends the night before at the local bar.

Scott flashed his badge to a uniformed officer and ducked under the yellow crime scene tape to inspect Walton's body. Milling around the scene were several officers, emergency ambulance people, a police photographer talking photos of the body and a reporter and photographer from the Times.

Scott knelt down to examine the body, carefully avoiding the large pool of congealed blood that had accumulated around it. "What do you have so far?" he asked one of the uniformed officers.

"From the looks of it, somebody hit him with a high-powered rifle from that stonewall," the officer said. "That's a wicked entry wound. Took out most of his chest."

"Yeah, I can see that. You question his wife or anyone else?"

"His wife. She's inside. Pretty upset."

Scott rose and told Buford, "Check out that wall while I'm in the house."

He went through the front door and stepped down into the spacious, sunken living room. He noted the expensive furniture and slate floor with oriental carpeting, the wet bar with a brass sink and granite countertop, the massive Missouri limestone fireplace.

Samantha Walton was sitting at the end of an oversized white sofa in the center of the room. She was wearing a skimpy, pink designer robe. A chesty blond and deeply tanned, she

was obviously much younger than Walton. She was sobbing softly and dabbing at her eyes while a friend tried to comfort her. In addition to her friend, several officers were present.

Scott sat down at one end of the sofa. He pulled a small notebook and pen from his coat pocket. "Mrs. Walton, I know how difficult this must be for you, but would you mind answering a few questions?"

"Of course not," she replied between sobs.

"Tell me exactly what you heard or saw while it's still fresh in your mind, Mrs. Walton."

"Well. I was out at the pool sunning when I heard this loud pop. It was almost nine o'clock. Lenny was leaving for a golf date."

"And then what?" Scott prodded as he scribbled in his notebook.

"I ran around to the drive and found Lenny lying on the ground. There was blood all over. It was horrible."

Samantha continued to sniffle.

"Did you see anybody else in the vicinity? Hear or see a car drive away? Anything?"

"No, just Lenny lying there. I was kneeling down by him. I didn't see or hear anything. I was concerned about poor Lenny."

"Mrs. Walton, do you know of anyone who might want to harm your husband? Did he have any enemies that you know of?"

"Of course he had enemies. In his business one always has enemies. But I don't know if anyone would want to kill him."

"What do you mean?"

"My husband was a developer, you know. Lately, some of those terrible people from those animal rights groups were giving him trouble, nasty phone calls and all. We didn't know who they were though."

"Go on Mrs. Walton."

Samantha gently blew her nose into a hankie then said, "Well, after getting all those annoying phone calls he decided to join this club with some of his business friends."

"Club?"

"Yes. I think they call themselves LAPP."

"LAPP. What is LAPP?"

"It's a group that sues people that cause problems for good honest businessmen like Lenny. It stands for Lawsuits Against People Participating, or something like that."

"I see," Scott said. In his notebook he printed in bold letters, LAPP. "They bring suit against demonstrators and other groups that oppose them?"

"Yes. Lenny said those little people can't afford to take their complaints to court so they usually go away."

Her statement suddenly left Scott with a bad taste in his mouth. He closed his notebook and got up. "I think I have enough for now, Mrs. Walton," he said, handing her his card. "If you recall anything else that might help in the investigation, please call me at this number."

Samantha rose and escorted him to the door. "I certainly will. I want you to catch whoever did this terrible thing to my husband. He was such a wonderful man. He contributed so much to the community."

"Yes, I'm sure he did," Scott replied.

Outside, Scott met Buford. "Find anything along that wall?"

"Nothing but a rock I think the shooter stood on to make the shot, if it did come from the wall."

"We'll know more after the autopsy," Scott replied. "If it was a rifle from a distance or a handgun up close."
As the two were driving back to headquarters, Scott said, "Wonder if John Greenwald belonged to this so-called LAPP organization?"

Buford popped a Tums antacid tablet into his mouth and chewed. "If he did, we could have some maniac crusader out to save the world running loose. Maybe he plans on killing everyone that belongs to that group."

"Yeah," Scott agreed. "That's all we need. A goddamn serial killer on our hands."

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