The Chase (Isaac Bell 1)

Bell smiled. “No, he’s human, but a damned smart human.” He paused and fanned out the files on the conference table. He selected one and opened it, the report on the robbery in Rhyolite, Nevada. “Our man has a very rigid modus operandi that he sticks with on every bank job. We believe he hangs around for a few days studying the town and its people before robbing the bank.”

“He’s either a gambler or a risk taker,” said Curtis.

“Wrong on both counts,” Bell corrected him. “Our man is bold and he’s shrewd. We can assume he does his dirty work using disguises, since the people of all the towns he’s struck never agree on the appearance of suspicious-looking strangers.”

Irvine began pacing the conference room, occasionally examining a flag pinned on the map. “Citizens of the towns recall seeing a drunken bum, a uniformed soldier, a well-to-do merchant, and a small-time freight hauler. But none could tie them to the murders.”

Curtis looked at the carpeted floor and shrugged. “How odd there are no witnesses who can give a credible identification.”

“Nothing odd about it,” said Irvine. “He murders them all. The dead can’t speak.”

Bell seemed to ignore the conversation as if he was lost in thought. Then his eyes focused on the map and he said slowly, “The big question in my mind is why he always kills everyone in the bank during the theft. Even women and children. What does he gain by the slaughter? It can’t be that he simply doesn’t want to leave witnesses to the robberies, not when he’s already been seen around town in disguise…unless…” He paused. “There is a new definition created by psychologists for murderers who kill as easily as they brush their teeth. They call them sociopaths. Our man can kill without remorse. He has no emotions, does not know how to laugh or love, and has a heart that is as cold as an iceberg. To him, shooting down a small child holds the same sensitivity as shooting a pigeon.”

“Hard to believe there are people that cruel and ruthless,” muttered Irvine in revulsion.

“Many of the bandits and gunfighters of the past were sociopaths,” said Bell. “They shot other men as easily as if they sneezed. John Wesley Hardin, the famous Texas badman, once shot and killed a man for snoring.”

Curtis looked steadily at Bell. “Do you really think he murders everyone in a bank because he enjoys it?”

“I do,” Bell said quietly. “The bandit gets a weird satisfaction from committing his blood crimes. Another peculiar factor. He makes his escape before the people of the town, including the town sheriff, realized what happened.”

“So where does that leave us?” asked Irvine. “What avenues do we search?”

Bell looked at him. “Another of his routine habits is to ignore any gold and take only currency. Glenn, your job is to check out the banks that were robbed and study their records of the serial numbers on the stolen bills. Start in Bozeman, Montana.”

“Banks in mining towns aren’t in the habit of recording the identifying number of every bill that passes through their hands.”

“You might get lucky and find a bank that recorded the numbers of the currency sent from large city banks to make the miners’ payroll. If you do, we can trace them. The robber had to either spend the money or exchange the currency through bank deposits and withdrawals. A trail he can’t cover up.”

“He could have exchanged through foreign financial institutions.”

“Maybe, but he would have to spend it overseas. The risk would be too great for him to bring it back into the U.S. I’m betting he kept his loot in the country.”

Then Bell turned to Curtis. “Art, you check out all stagecoach and train schedules for any that departed the towns on the same day the robberies took place. If our man couldn’t be tracked by a posse, he might easily have taken a train or stage for his getaway. You can begin in Placerville, California.”

“Consider it done,” said Curtis firmly.

“Are you going to remain here and act as a command post?” asked Irvine.

Bell shook his head and grinned. “No, I’m going out in the field, beginning with Rhyolite, and retrace the robberies. No matter how good the murderer is or how well he planned his crimes, there has to be a stone he left unturned. There must be evidence that’s been overlooked. I’m going to question the mining town citizens who might have seen something, however insignificant, and failed to report it to the local sheriff or marshal.”

“You’ll give us your schedule so we can get in touch by telegraph if we come onto something?” said Curtis.

“I’ll have it for you tomorrow,” replied Bell. “I’m also going to travel through the mining towns that have large payrolls our man has yet to rob. Maybe, just maybe I can second-guess our butcher, set up a trap, and entice him to strike another bank on our turf.” Then he pulled open a drawer and passed out two envelopes. “Here’s enough cash to cover your travel expenses.”

Both Curtis and Irvine looked surprised. “Before now, we always had to travel third class, use our own money, and turn in bills and receipts,” said Curtis. “Alexander always demanded we stay in sleazy hotels and eat cheap meals.”

“This case is too important to cut corners. Trust me, Mr. Van Dorn will okay any monies I request, but only if we show results. The bandit may have everyone believing he’s invincible and can’t be caught, but he’s not faultless. He has flaws just like the rest of us. He will be trapped by a small insignificant mistake he neglected. And that, gentlemen, is our job, to find that insignificant mistake.”

“We’ll do our best,” Irvine assured him.

Curtis nodded in agreement. “Speaking for both of us, permit me to say that it is a real privilege to be working with you again.”

“The privi

lege is mine,” said Bell sincerely. He felt lucky to work with such intelligent and experienced operatives who knew the people and country of the West.

THE SUN was falling over the Rockies to the west when Bell left the conference room. Always cautious, he closed and locked the door. As he passed through the outer office, he ran into Nicholas Alexander, who looked like he’d just stepped out of an expensive tailor’s shop. The usual shabby suit was gone and replaced by an elegant tuxedo. It was a new image of respectability that he didn’t quite pull off. The inner polish simply was not there.