RCC02 - Heroes Often Fail

by Frank Zafiro

  1422 hours

  Tower smiled at Kendra Ferguson, trying to mask his urgency. The little girl had set up a tea service for both of them and she gave his cup a long pour.

  “Why, thank you,” Tower said, picking up the tiny pink cup and pretending to sip.

  “You’re supposed to wait,” Kendra told him. “At least until Mr. Puddles has his, too.”

  “Sorry,” Tower said, putting his cup down until the shaggy stuffed poodle had a full cup. “It’s just too delicious.”

  Kendra flashed him a grin and picked up her own cup. “I know.”

  Tower picked up his cup and made another sipping sound. “Ah, good stuff.”

  Kendra sipped, too, obviously delighted that he was playing along. She seemed to give no thought to why he was there.

  Tower fake-sipped once more, looking at the little girl over the top of his miniature cup. When he put it down on the saucer, he asked her, “Kendra, I need to talk to you about Amy again.”

  A hurt look came across Kendra’s face. She put her cup down and picked up Mr. Puddles. “Okay.”

  Tower smiled at her. “You’re very brave to talk about this, you know?”

  Kendra nodded and picked at the stuffed dog’s fur.

  “What I want to talk about is when the van pulled up next to both of you. Do you remember what color it was?”

  “Uh-huh.” She paused and thought. “Brown.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. It was a brown van.”

  “Not blue?”

  “No,” she said with a shake of her head. “It was definitely brown.”

  “Okay,” Tower said. “Do you remember the man who was driving?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t see him.”

  “No?”

  “Uh-uh. I only saw the man with scary eyes.”

  “The one who took Amy?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He was tall.”

  “How tall?”

  “Taller than you.”

  Tower made a quick note on his pad. He stood an even six feet tall. Then he asked, “Do you remember what color his skin was?”

  “Yeah. It was black.”

  “Black skin?”

  “Yeah. I could see his arms.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  Kendra squinted her eyes, thinking. Then she said, “Yeah, he talked like that mouse, remember? The fast one with the hat?”

  “Speedy Gonzalez?”

  “Yeah! Speedy!”

  Tower uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. “But his skin was black?”

  Kendra nodded.

  “Do you know what a tattoo is, Kendra?” he asked.

  “Sure. It’s like a picture on someone’s skin.”

  “That’s right. Now, did this man have any tattoos?”

  Kendra squinted in thought again, then nodded happily at him. “He did. He had them.”

  “What kind of tattoos did he have?”

  “It was red spiders,” she said, pointing to her bicep. “Right here.”

  Tower sighed. Either she was unreliable or she was lying, he realized. And what he had to do next was not going to be pleasant. He was momentarily grateful that Kendra felt comfortable enough to sit alone with him while the grandmother waited downstairs.

  Then he took a deep breath and confronted the six-year-old girl.

  1436 hours

  “It’s a white male about six feet tall that grabbed her up,” Tower told him.

  Browning nodded and wrote, cupping the phone receiver between his chin and shoulder.

  “Clothing?”

  “All black, including a ski mask. No look at the driver. And the van was definitely blue. All the rest was bullshit.”

  Browning swore quietly as he wrote. “Why’d she lie?”

  “There’s a nearby vacant lot where they found some little cave in the side of a dirt mound. They called the place Fairy Castle. Both mothers knew about it and the girls weren’t allowed to be there.”

  “So she lied…”

  “She lied because she was afraid that she and Amy would get in trouble. Then she lied some more because she’d already lied. Only she forgot the first lie.”

  “Jesus,” Browning muttered.

  “Are you going to tell Patrol?”

  “Yeah,” Browning said. “Blue vans, white males.”

  “And we’re back to square one with the sicko squad,” Tower said, meaning that they would have to go back through all the registered sex offenders in River City for white males this time. “And we’ve got our work cut out for us. There’s about five times as many white RSOs in the city than black.”

  “Why don’t you head home from there?” Browning said. “I’ll pull the files and we’ll get to work on them in the morning.”

  “I’ll come and help you pull the files at least,” Tower said, and both men knew it wouldn’t stop there. Browning could almost smell the bleached odor of the pillowcases in the down room.

  “All right. See you.”

  “Be about forty minutes.”

  Browning hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh, punctuated with the foulest curse he could come up with on short notice. Almost all of their work was gone. They’d have to start nearly from scratch.

  He started to get up to head over to Tower’s office where the RSO files were stored, but stopped. Instead, he reached for the case file and flipped it open. He’d made the mistake of not reading it completely and carefully once before and it took Renee to point out something that he missed. There was no way that was going to happen again. If they were going to start over in this case, then he was going to do it right.

  He started with the computer printout of the Computer Aided Dispatch report. He noted the time the call came in to dispatch, when Giovanni arrived and when further officers were dispatched. He followed the entire course of the first two days of the investigation in the short radio codes and time stamps. Nothing jumped out at him.

  Next, he read every officer’s police report, beginning with Giovanni’s. After Giovanni’s, he read Stone’s, which consisted of three lines. Then he came to Kopriva’s report on his trip to Amy Dugger’s grandmother. The report was short, but well-written. The woman was obviously unbalanced.

  Browning sat back in his chair. A feeling of dread settled into his stomach. He’d asked Kopriva if he was sure about the grandmother not being involved. The young officer had been completely certain. Besides, at the time, they were looking for a black driver in a blue van with a Mexican sidekick, so he took the kid at his word.

  But what if he overlooked something?

  Browning re-read Kopriva’s report and stroked his goatee. The description of Fred Henderson loosely fit the description Kendra gave. Of course, so did twenty thousand other men in River City.

  Still.

  Taking the file with him, Browning went to the nearest computer terminal. He entered Fred Henderson’s name and received a quick return. No local record. His driver’s license showed an address on Swanson.

  Browning ran a Triple-I on Henderson’s name, which would show any felony convictions nationwide. The report was notoriously slow in coming back, as it had to query through several computer hubs across the country. Browning filled the time by running an All-Vehicles-Registered (AVR) check on Henderson. That came back in less than a minute. Henderson owned no vans.

  Nancy Henderson’s local record was considerably more interesting. Browning read through the four entries. One was a traffic stop, resulting in an infraction for a stop sign violation about three blocks from her home. Another was a neighborhood dispute over a tree on the fence line between her and a neighbor. The remaining two were Assist Agency calls in which Mental Health Professionals of River City had requested help from the police to get Nancy into treatment. All four reports painted a picture of a volatile, unbalanced woman.

  Just like Kopriva wrote, Browning thought.
But crazy doesn’t make her a kidnapper.

  Browning’s fingers glided over the keyboard. He requested another AVR, this time on Nancy Henderson and waited impatiently for it to return.

  He should have explored this angle more with Kathy Dugger, he realized. He should have got a better feel for it, even if it only meant that he was that much more certain there was no connection. But he’d run off after a bum lead given by a six-year-old witness. He chased a lead that should have smelled fishy to him from the very beginning. Once there was no ransom call, you had to suspect sexual motivation for the kidnapping. And how often do sexual predators stray from their own ethnic group? How often do they work in pairs? Especially pairs of mixed race?

  Browning frowned. The answer was, almost never.

  The computer beeped and he hit the display key.

  No vehicles found.

  Browning leaned back and considered. Was he overreacting to this curve ball? Kopriva was a good cop, even if he was young. He’d been there at this woman’s house. He would have run into a fair share of nuts out on patrol, so he should be able to judge them. His cop sense would have kicked in if something was wrong. Wouldn’t it? And he would have gone the extra mile to be sure, given that a little girl was missing.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Browning tapped the keys, bringing up the employee database. He jotted Kopriva’s phone number down, then picked up the telephone and dialed. The phone rang and rang. He waited for an answering machine to pick up, but after eight rings, decided that Kopriva must not have one.

  The computer dinged at him.

  He hung up the telephone and hit the display button.

  Request for III on subject: Henderson, Fred complete.

  Browning pushed the display button and read. Moments later, his jaw fell open.

  1548 hours

  Officer Jack Willow copied the call and hung the mike back on the holder. He shook his head and cursed softly. Somehow, he’d known that he would be going back someday to the address on Swanson where the crazy lady lived with her creepy husband. What he hadn’t expected was to be going there to back up a Major Crimes Detective.

  He drove to the house by memory and parked two houses away.

  “Adam-259 on scene,” he told Dispatch.

  A few moments later, Detective Ray Browning’s unmarked detective’s prowl car pulled up directly behind him. Willow got out of the car and greeted the detective.

  “Ray Browning,” the veteran detective said, holding out his hand.

  “I know,” Willow said. “Everyone knows.”

  Browning gave him a curious look, then glanced at his nametag. “Willow? Did you write that report on the Feeney homicide? Right before Christmas?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Willow answered, surprised.

  “Jack, right?”

  Willow nodded.

  “That was a good report, son.”

  “Thanks,” Willow said, blushing slightly.

  “No need to be bashful about doing good work,” Browning said with a grin. “How long you been on the job?”

  “I just made probation.”

  Browning nodded. He opened his mouth to ask another question when another detective’s car turned the corner and slid in behind Browning. Willow watched as a younger detective exited the car and approached them.

  “What’s going on, Ray?” he asked.

  “Detective Tower, Officer Jack Willow.”

  Tower gave Willow a nod and a quick handshake. Up close, Willow could see that he wasn’t as young as he thought. He figured Tower to be in his early thirties.

  “Why are we here?” Tower asked Browning, adjusting his shoulder holster absently.

  “This is the Grandmother’s house,” Browning said.

  “The crazy one?”

  “Yeah. Her name’s Nancy Henderson. She’s married to a man named Fred Henderson.”

  “So?”

  “So,” Browning said, “I ran Fred Henderson through Triple-I. He came back with a conviction in Colorado eleven years ago. They faxed me his booking photo. Guess what he was arrested for?”

  Tower looked at him for a moment, then his face fell. “No.”

  “Yes,” Browning said. “Child Molestation.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Tower muttered.

  “Could be nothing,” Browning said, “but we should probably check it out.”

  “Wasn’t this the crazy woman that Kopriva looked into?”

  Browning nodded.

  “And?”

  “He said she was just garden variety crazy. He didn’t think she was involved. Neither does Kathy Dugger, for that matter. And maybe she isn’t. But it’s the best lead we have right now.”

  Tower considered. “Did you call Stef? We could ask him—“

  “No answer at his apartment.”

  Tower frowned. “It’d be nice to know how she was the last time police were here.”

  “She was psycho,” Jack Willow said.

  Tower and Browning both turned toward the young officer.

  “I was with him,” he explained.

  Browning nodded. Tower twirled his forefinger in a “hurry-up” gesture.

  Willow cleared his throat. “Well, she was all over the place. She offered us beer, for starters. She was cooperative one minute and then screaming at us the next. No real warning, either. It was just like someone flicked a switch inside of her.”

  “Is she on meds?” Tower asked.

  “That’s what the husband said. I don’t know what kind.”

  “What’d you think, Jack?” Browning asked.

  Willow shrugged. “She’s crazy, like Officer Kopriva said.” He paused, then shrugged again. “I still think we should have done the search, though.”

  “Search?”

  “Of the house.

  “Kopriva asked to search the house?” Tower asked, looking over at Browning with raised eyebrows.

  Willow shook his head. “No. She offered. Sorta demanded it, actually.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tower said, his voice sharp. “She gave you guys permission to search her house and you didn’t do it?”

  Willow thought about blaming Kopriva, but instead, he just nodded.

  “Whose bright idea was that?” Tower asked. “Yours or Kopriva’s?”

  Willow half-shrugged. He didn’t want to beef Kopriva, but he didn’t want the detectives thinking he was a moron, either.

  “Stef was in charge,” Browning said, in a voice that signaled both of them to drop the matter. “Anyway, maybe she’ll still be in the mood to let us search the place.”

  “Maybe,” Tower replied. “The good thing is, it sounds like if she’s not in the mood now, we can probably just wait thirty seconds and try again.”

  1559 hours

  Stefan Kopriva watched Katie sleep. He’d read about people doing that in books and seen it in the movies. The truth of the matter was that he found it to be as corny as something from one of the romance paperbacks that lined the racks at the supermarket. Still, here he was, sitting in a living room chair, watching her in the dim light of the living room, a source of endless fascination for him.

  After she’d fallen asleep on the floor, he’d lain with her for several minutes before he dared to move. He considered lifting her up and carrying her to the bedroom, but he didn’t want to risk waking her. Instead, he slipped away from her, and grabbed a pillow from the couch and a light blanket from the closet to make her more comfortable.

  He watched her sleep and thought of the words he’d whispered. He wondered if she’d heard them, somewhere deep in her sleeping subconscious. He wondered if it were possible that she was dreaming about them even now, as she slept.

  Now that is even cornier than those books in the supermarket, he thought.

  But for some reason, he still liked the idea.

  1604 hours

  “Fuck you, motherfuckers!” Nancy Henderson shrieked at the three police officers in her living room. “I told that other piece of shit he could sear
ch and he didn’t want to. First one is free. Now you can go get a search warrant!”

  Browning didn’t react to her outburst. “Mrs. Henderson, if you’re not involved—”

  “I told you I’m not involved!”

  “And that is why I am here. I need to eliminate all family members from the picture.” His voice remained calm and professional. “The only way I can do that is to conduct a search of each house.”

  “You assholes had your chance last time,” Nancy said. She raised her beer can to her mouth with a shaking hand.

  “Ma’am, I have to complete this search. If you won’t consent, I will have to go apply for a search warrant. I have no choice.”

  “Don’t bluff me, sonny,” Nancy said. “You go get your search warrant and then I guess we’ll see.”

  Browning allowed himself a small sigh. “Fine.”

  “Yeah, fine,” she said triumphantly and took another drink. Fred stood against the wall, doing his best to remain invisible.

  Browning turned to Willow. “I’ll radio for another uniform to stay with you while I go get the warrant. You know about locking down a scene?”

  Willow nodded. “No one moves.”

  “Or leaves your sight.” Browning turned back to Nancy. “You’ll have to remain on the couch until I return, Mrs. Henderson.”

  “What?!”

  Browning motioned to Fred. “You, too, sir.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do in my own home,” Nancy protested.

  “He can,” Tower said. “And if you don’t cooperate, you’ll be waiting in the back of police car in handcuffs instead. You got that, or you want to try and find out if it’s a bluff?”

  Nancy shot Tower a dirty look. “What’s your badge number?”

  “212,” Tower said, “Now, sit your ass on that couch or go to jail.”

  Nancy huffed indignantly, but strode to the couch and flopped down on it. “What about him?” she asked in a petulant voice, pointing at Fred.

  Browning motioned for Fred to sit down. He chose the chair next to the couch.

  “Wait here,” Browning told Willow. He and Tower stepped out onto the porch.