by David Archer
“I found a number of unsubstantiated reports of homeless people going missing as far back as five years ago,” Eric said. “Unfortunately, there was no actual police interest in the case at that time, so there’s no way to know whether these were victims of this killer, or if something else might’ve happened to them.”
Summer nodded. “I took a look at those, myself,” she said. “I’m with Eric, we can’t really tell whether there might be a connection between those disappearances and the ones that we can relate to this particular killer. If we had more to go on, maybe a crime scene to look at, we might be able to figure out whether a connection existed, but the way it is…”
“There’s no way to tell,” Sam finished for her. “ What we have to do is find some way to predict when and where he’s going to strike next. Anybody have any thoughts on that?”
“He’s going to strike soon,” Walter said. “It’s been almost five weeks since his last victim disappeared, and that’s how long he usually goes.”
“Walter is right,” Steve said. “The big problem is that we don’t know how he takes his victims. Without that information, it’s hard to make any kind of prediction.”
“Not necessarily,” Eric said. “He has to be able to take his victims to wherever he’s killing them, or keeping them or whatever. That would indicate some kind of vehicle must be involved. Homeless people in the city like this don’t usually have cars, but it’s possible a few of them might.” He turned to Detective Paulsen. “Has anyone looked into that angle?”
Paulsen nodded. “I thought of it,” he said. “I asked around, and there are only a very few of these folks who have cars of their own. Those that do, they usually end up acting like a taxi service for the others. They drive them to welfare appointments, to shelters when the weather is bad, that sort of thing, and everybody kind of pools what money they had together to keep gas in the cars. I checked out everyone I could find who has wheels, and none of them seem to pose any kind of risk I could determine. Most of the time, they were in a different part of town when somebody went missing.”
“Then we need to look at other vehicles that are invisible,” Eric said. “There are always invisible vehicles, like mail and delivery trucks, things like that. Most of those wouldn’t have anything to do with the homeless folks, but what about something that did? Are there any mobile soup kitchens in the city?”
Paulsen shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said. “I can’t think of anything that would fit what you’re describing. Invisible vehicles? I guess a lot of things would fit into that category, but which ones would have any connection to the homeless community?”
“It would have to be something that was seen regularly in the areas where people have gone missing,” Eric said. “Some sort of vehicle that they wouldn’t be surprised to see, they probably wouldn’t even notice it. If it was close enough to where the victim is sitting or standing, it’s possible the killer could take them suddenly and conceal them inside, or it could be that the victims climb inside voluntarily.” He turned back to the detective. “You said some of the ones who have cars offer rides. Are there any other ride services that the homeless use regularly?”
“Well, there’s the bus line,” Paulsen said. “And the big charity hospital has a shuttle van, some of the street people take it when they need to see a doctor.”
“Has anyone checked out the drivers?” Summer asked. “They would be in a unique position to get access to the homeless folks.”
“I hate to say it, but it never occurred to me. I’ll get on that, right now.”
They bounced around a few more ideas, but finally they decided to hit the streets. Each of the Windlass team took a specific area where homeless people were known to congregate, while Sam was planning to remain at the police department to coordinate. Eric would be staying with him, but Sam noticed that the boy seemed to be getting even more tired.
“Eric? You okay?”
"My drink is wearing off… and I'm kind of wishing I had taken Dexedrine instead."
Sam set his pen aside and focused his attention on Eric. "Okay. Do you know what you'd like to do?"
Eric started to say something, then shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said weakly.
Sam pursed his lips for a moment and folded his arms over his chest. "Well," he began, "we have a couple of options. You could get another drink. Based on how long this one lasted, the second one would wear off right around ten or so this evening. That's about when we would want to sleep. You could also lie down on the bench over there for now, and see if a little rest helps. If it doesn't, I can take you back to the hotel."
Eric shuffled his feet, staring at the ground, and from the way he kept reaching up to rub his nose, Sam knew he was holding something back.
"Eric?" he prodded softly.
"I…" Eric tucked his chin, somehow, tighter against his chest. "Could I just… go to the hotel now? I just really… I really want to sleep, but—but if you need me, I can make myself stay awake. I really can."
"No, you can't, and that's okay." Sam smiled warmly, trying to relay unjudging acceptance. "It is perfectly fine if you need or want to go to the hotel. Let me finish drawing this so it's here for the team, and then we can go."
Eric nodded his head a few times. "You want me to help?"
"Nope." Sam smiled at him and then reclaimed his marker.
For a few minutes, it was quiet. Eric sat on the edge of the table, waiting for Sam to be done, and Sam stood a few feet away, working as quickly and carefully as he could.
"I'm really sorry, Mr. Prichard."
Sam frowned a bit, turning toward Eric and summoning him with a few fingers.
Eric got up from his chair, still looking ashamed, and shuffled over to stand beside Sam.
Sam put his outstretched arm around Eric's shoulders and pulled him close. "Why are you sorry?"
Eric shrugged, curling in on himself and nestling his body as close to Sam's as he could. "Everything," he whispered. "I'm sorry I'm… broken." He shrugged again. "I dunno."
Sam gave him a gentle squeeze and spoke softly, right into his ear. "It's okay, Eric. It's okay to be broken." He smiled even though Eric was staring at the floor, his hand rubbing Eric's upper arm. "We're all a little broken, to be honest."
Eric only shook his head. "Not like me."
Sam shrugged. "Not today, maybe, but someday, I might be the broken one, and you might be the together one. Will you be angry with me when that time comes?"
Eric shook his head rapidly, finally looking up at Sam with tears in his eyes.
"I didn't think so." Sam raised his eyebrows, an innocent curiosity crossing his face. "Will you want me to apologize?"
Eric shook his head again, faster than before, and he leaned into Sam's side.
"Good." Sam gestured to the board in front of them. "I can handle this case. I want you to listen to your body and rest."
"But—"
"You aren't letting anyone down, Eric." Sam smiled at him and shook his head, a teasing sparkle in his eyes he hoped would relay a sense of silliness about the whole ordeal. "We managed for quite some time before you joined this team. If we think we're running out of time, or if we think you have some expertise we need, we'll come and get you, but it isn't your job to see this team through every single case."
Eric looked at him for a few moments, seeming desperate to object, but then he began to nod his head. "Okay."
"Good." Sam squeezed him again.
Eric didn't try to move away, and while Sam eventually had to remove his arm so he could write, he always kept the other hand on Eric. Shoulder, back of the neck, elbow—even holding a hand. No matter what, Sam maintained some level of physical contact.
He never let go.
* * *
"Can you please stop that?"
Sam and Eric were standing at the front desk of the hotel while Sam checked his messages, and Eric had been drumming on the counter. The girl who was working the desk seemed a l
ittle frazzled, and her outburst surprised Sam.
"Oh, geeze,” she said, “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it's—I don't know why I said that."
Eric folded his arms on top of the counter and leaned forward, tilting his head to the side. "It's okay. You seem upset. Has it been a long day?"
Laughing softly, the girl shook her head and briefly dabbed at one eye. "You have no idea."
Eric looked at her nametag and smiled a bit. "Jeannie, do you get off soon?"
Jeannie shook her head again, and when Sam took a closer look, he realized her eyes were a bit glassy and red beneath the makeup meant to conceal her recent crying.
"I, um, I actually just clocked in."
Eric only smiled again, his voice soft and comforting. "Do you handle room service, Jeannie?"
Jeannie looked at him for a moment, and Sam saw her grow a bit uncomfortable. "Oh, no. I'm not, um—I'm not really looking for anything like that."
Eric tilted his head to the side, utterly confused.
Sam leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. "Some guys would say something like that if they were hoping to sleep with Miss Jeannie."
Eric looked at Sam, then Jeannie, and then Sam again. "But why would I do that? She just seems like she might be a little upset."
Jeannie chuckled and smiled at the two of them. “That’s really nice,” she said.
Sam returned the smile, a mix of pride and agreement in his voice. "That’s just Eric. He’s a pretty nice guy."
Eric still appeared a little lost, but he simply smiled at Jeannie again. "Well, once I get settled in my room and rest a bit, I'll be coming back down to do some research for a case we're working on. I'll be using your computers over there," he indicated the area with a quick point, "and I'll be there for quite a while. If you want to talk, and if you can get away, come by. You look like you could use somebody to talk to."
Jeannie dabbed her eye again and nodded, smiling at him. "Thank you. Um… I’m sorry, what was your name again?"
"Eric," Eric replied. "But I'll answer to just about anything as long as you let me know I'm supposed to."
They shared a quick laugh, and Jeannie pushed the dish of candies on the counter a little closer to him. Eric had already grabbed a few of them and slipped them into his pocket.
"Here. Have a couple more, on me."
"Ooh." Eric grabbed a handful and grinned at her. "See, what you didn't know, is that all along, my master plan was to get more candy."
They chuckled again, and then Eric turned to Sam with a smile. "Ready to head up?"
Sam smiled and nodded, and then they began toward the elevators.
Eric trailed after him, turning to wave at Jeannie before they were out of eyesight.
Sam waited until they were in the elevator to make a comment—because, of course, a comment had to be made.
"So, Jeannie… do you like her?" he asked, a slight grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Eric gave a shrug, slouching against the wall. "I don't really know her, but she needs a friend. You can always tell when someone needs a friend, even if you don't know them."
"Oh?" Sam pressed.
"Yeah. You just… y'know, feel it. You look at them, and… and you just feel in your gut that something isn't right. There's no scientific basis for it. You just… you just know."
Sam frowned, stepping out when the elevator doors opened.
"Mr. Prichard… this isn't our floor."
Sam looked up and then stepped backwards. "Oops."
Sam quickly backtracked through the talk, but he didn't want to get into anything too deep when Eric was so tired. "You looked better in the lobby. Did you pretend so you could cheer her up?"
Eric nodded tiredly.
"How are you going to go downstairs later?"
Eric nodded. "I might rest for an hour or two, but I'll jolt back awake. I've always had really bad insomnia."
Sam frowned. "You, ah—you didn't tell Dr. Raymonds about any insomnia."
"I told you. I've always had it." Eric gave a shrug. "It didn't seem relevant."
Sam stepped off—after making sure it was the right floor—and he began toward their assigned room. "Eric, you know that's not true. You know that sleeping too much or not being able to sleep are all part of depression. You know anxiety keeps you up at night."
Eric hung his head as he followed, abashed, and he began to pick at his fingers and palms. "I know… I just… I didn't want to go on any more medication. I… I was going to tell him, but then he said he was taking me off Dexedrine, and I thought maybe without the Dexedrine I would get to sleep easier. I was…"
Sam used the card to open their door and stepped inside, holding it for Eric and listening intently.
"I was afraid if I said something… he wouldn't wait to see… he would put me on something new. Even something natural, like—like melatonin. I didn't want it. People think all-natural substances are different from prescription medication, and in some ways they are, but you're still changing the chemicals in your body with an outside substance. It still—I just didn't want anything new in my system, and I know that's not my decision to make, but I…" Eric's face twisted up a bit, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, and then he shook his head. "No. No excuses. My reasons don't matter. I was still bad, and I'm really sorry, Mr. Prichard."
Sam licked his lips and shed his coat and bag, setting them on the bed closest to him. "Eric, it's okay." He spoke slowly and carefully, wanting to place clear boundaries without beating Eric over the head with guilt. "You shouldn't have lied to me, but you can't change that now. I don't want you to do it again, but everything is still okay."
Eric looked down at his hands, picking at his skin relentlessly and then graduating to scratching. "But I…" He chewed on his lip. "So… you aren't going to do anything to me? Like, sometimes the guards would hit me with a stun gun if I did something bad. You’re not going to do anything like that?"
Sam shook his head emphatically. "No, Eric, I'm not going to do anything to punish you. If I do anything to you, it will be something like messing up your hair and bringing you food."
Eric grinned softly, and Sam's humorous attitude appeared to put a lighter atmosphere in the room. "I… I will try very hard not to do it again."
"Good. You should try hard not to lie to me, but if you do—if you make that mistake again—just tell me. Everything will be okay if you tell me." Sam smiled, tousling Eric's hair just as he said he would.
Eric leaned into the touch, and a soft smile lingered on his lips. "I… I have to stay here alone, don't I?"
"I would like you to try," was Sam's simple response. "If you need me to come back, you can call me, but I'm giving you permission to be unsupervised."
Eric frowned, nodded a few times, and then crawled onto the bed, flopping down next to Sam's jacket and bag. "Thank you for letting me come back here to sleep."
"You're welcome," Sam said softly, placing the keycard on the desk and tucking the spare into his pocket. "I'm going to put a twenty dollar bill here, and you are welcome to use it to get something from the vending machine or the café downstairs."
Eric smiled sleepily, a little giggle rising in his throat. "Thank you, Mr. Prichard." He giggled again. "It's like I'm… a little kid again. My dad sometimes thought the government was watching our house, so… we would pack our bags and travel between hotels for a week or two. I hated that it always got my mom upset, but… it was also a lot of fun. Sometimes, I would talk my mom into having fun with me… and it appeared to help her forget for a little while. Not… not very long, but… still…"
Sam smiled and patiently waited for the story to end, making a mental note to schedule some leisure time with Eric. He really should get to know the person he was putting his job on the line for.
"I'm glad you're having good memories, Eric. I have to go back to the station now, and you can call me there if you need anything." Sam picked up his jacket and slipped it on, heading toward the door. "When we g
et back to Denver, we should go for coffee or ice cream sometime. I would love to hear more stories about you and your mom."
Eric mumbled a reply, but he was quickly fading into sleep. "I can tell you about Colorado Springs… and the stories Mom used to read to me… and Mom's sneakiness… how she got me into high school without letting anyone find out how young I was, and a lot more."
Sam chuckled softly and let himself out, hoping his lack of a reply would help Eric's brain to tumble headlong into much needed sleep. He, on the other hand, was left in a silence that let him dwell on the jarring talk he had just had.
I know the guards have stun guns—all prison guards do—but they aren't intended to be used as a punishment. They're for when there’s no alternative, when the situation is so far out of hand that they have to get it back under control in a hurry.
Not that it was all that devastating, like a taser or tear gas. Everyone in law enforcement was required to get stunned at least once, so they would know exactly what they were inflicting when they used it. Sam had once done it to himself several times in a row, until he could stay standing and conscious and in control of his body. He just couldn’t imagine it being used as a punishment, especially on someone like Eric.
Sam had made it to the bottom of the steps outside the hotel when his phone rang.
"Hello?" he said as he answered.
"Hey." It was Darren. "Eric did it again. Our suspect is one of the drivers of the hospital shuttle. He was on duty every single time one of the homeless was missing, even some of those from before. His coworkers say he’s always had something nasty to say about the people he drives, and a few of the homeless people say they can remember some of the missing ones getting into that van the day they disappeared. Unfortunately, he’s in the wind. We're about to hit the streets and spread the word about this guy, try to find out who's seen him and get some information. Where are you?"