by Andrew Grant
Irvin elected to return to the FBI Field Office after leaving the morgue, so she only followed Devereaux and Garretty as far as First Avenue and then continued straight on 18th Street after the detectives peeled off to the right. Devereaux chose to stay on First rather than loop around onto Stephens, in part because that took them right past Sloss Furnaces. Sloss had been one of his favorite places to hide as a kid whenever he’d run away from a foster home, and he still felt drawn to its bold shapes and raw, uncompromising industrial character. The road is raised at the point it passes the site, and the border of trees obscures some of the maze of pipes and trusses that run at ground level. The chimneys are still visible, though, as are the tops of the rust-red silos that Devereaux used to imagine being parts of a demented giant’s chemistry set.
Devereaux continued for another mile, then jogged left on 41st Street to Messer. He cut under 20/59, skirted around Forest Hill Cemetery, then turned right into Aviation Avenue and pulled up in the small lot at the side of a bleak, soot-stained brick structure. There were no signs or notices to advertise what the building was. The only clues to its purpose were the heavy bars on its blacked-out windows, the heavy-duty vehicle and personnel doors, the plethora of security cameras, and the oversize stainless steel chimney that protruded eight feet from one corner of the roof. The department had learned the hard way that there are times when it pays to be discreet. Confiscated vehicles are often valuable. Sometimes in themselves. Sometimes due to the contraband that’s hidden inside them. And sometimes because of the evidence they contain.
Inside, Devereaux found the smell of oil and grease mixed with a hint of stale exhaust gas a welcome change after the chemically tainted atmosphere of the autopsy room. He paused for a moment, gratefully filling his lungs with air that he didn’t feel would corrode him from the inside out. Garretty had the opposite reaction, coughing and scowling unhappily at the technician who’d let them in.
“Bill Scott.” The technician shook the detectives’ hands and then turned away. “Come on. Follow me.”
Scott led the way through the receiving area, where vehicles were held when they first arrived, and continued toward a row of six work bays that had been created between the rows of vaulted pillars that ran the length of the structure, supporting the roof.
“Tell me you found something good.” Devereaux nodded toward the car in the bay nearest the entrance. It was a vintage TR6 in British Racing Green, completely dismantled, its pieces neatly laid out in functional groups on a plastic sheet on the ground as if to be photographed for an exploded view in an owner’s manual. “Look at that leather. The wood. It would be a tragedy to trash such a beauty for no result.”
“I can’t give you details.” Scott surveyed the parts with a look of quiet satisfaction on his face. “But I will say, it didn’t die in vain.”
“Is this Deborah Holt’s Mercedes?” Garretty had moved ahead to the next bay, where a gleaming red SLK was positioned over an inspection pit.
“That’s right.” Scott cast his eyes over its long, sculptured hood and nodded approvingly. “What a beautiful car.”
“I prefer the Triumph.” Devereaux glanced back over his shoulder.
“Those sure were pretty.” Scott shrugged. “But assuming you ever want to go anywhere without having to call a tow truck first, this would be a better bet.”
“I guess.” Devereaux frowned. “But leaving aesthetics aside for a moment, what else can you tell us about it?”
“Not much.” Scott scratched his forehead. “It’s got eighteen miles on the odometer, and frankly it looks like what it is—a car that’s fresh out of the showroom. Fresher, actually. There’s not a scratch on the outside. And no prints on the inside.”
“No prints at all?” Devereaux stepped past a red tool chest on wheels and peered through the driver’s window.
“None.” Scott shook his head. “The car’s been wiped totally clean. Even the tires and the inside of the wheel arches are spotless. And there were no personal possessions. Or keys. The only thing inside it was the owner’s manual. We sent that to the lab to check for prints, but I’m not holding my breath. I know a sterile vehicle when I see one. The only weird thing is that all the systems—engine management, navigation, that kind of thing—have been reset to the factory defaults. Not many people know to go to those lengths. Remember that guy, in the spring? Whose ex-wife was murdered in her sleep? He claimed he didn’t even know where she’d moved to.” Scott pointed to a computer that was fixed to a steel table at the side of the booth. “But when we hooked that baby up, we could see the last destination he’d searched for was her house.”
“That was in the paper, right?” Garretty ducked under the vacuum hose that was hanging from the ceiling and moved to the rear of the car. “Maybe our guy read about it. Or maybe he did his homework. When you go on a killing spree, the stakes are pretty high.”
“It’s a shame the same trick didn’t work this time.” Devereaux took a step back from the car. “But we could check with the dealer. See if they recorded the delivery mileage. Maybe some of the total will be unaccounted for. That could give a clue whether Deborah drove anywhere else. Maybe give us a search radius for where she crossed paths with the guy who killed her.”
“Good thinking.” Scott stepped out of the bay. “Now, is there anything else you want to see while you’re here? We still have the TV guy’s Escalade and the suspect’s Nissan.” Scott pointed to the area on the other side of the booths. “We’ll be releasing the Escalade in a couple of days—we could have done it today, but the owner called up and yelled at our civilian aide, demanding it back immediately, so unfortunately the paperwork got misplaced—and the Nissan will go to long-term storage on the next transporter.”
“What about the property from the Nissan?” Devereaux’s eyes momentarily narrowed. “Do you still have that?”
“No.” Scott shook his head. “That went to the lab. We have pictures, though.”
Scott stepped back into the booth, called up a file on the computer, and showed the detectives a series of photographs showing exactly where in his vehicle Flynn’s possessions had been found.
“Were those gloves already in a Ziploc bag?” Devereaux gestured for Scott to pause on one particular shot. “Or did you guys put them in for transport to the lab?”
“They were already in it.” Scott straightened up. “If we’d bagged them, we’d have used paper. That’s the correct procedure. It reduces the risk of the evidence deteriorating due to trapped moisture or condensation.”
“So why would Flynn bag them himself?”
“Probably because he wouldn’t always need them. Most gas stations, they have dispensers with disposable gloves next to the diesel pumps. Maybe he carried these as a backup, in case he was at a place where the dispenser was out?”
“Something here’s not quite making sense. Have you filled up diesels yourself before?”
“Sure. Not often. But a few times.”
“And the procedure’s basically the same as gas, right?”
“Right. You hit a different button and use a separate line, but otherwise it’s the same.”
“Did you wear gloves?”
“Sure. Diesel’s horrible stuff. You don’t want it on your skin.”
“Right. Now, this is important. Glove? Or gloves?”
“What do you mean?”
“You hold the nozzle with one hand, right? Just like with a gas pump?”
“Right.”
“So why would you need gloves on both hands?”
“Oh. I see. Yes. Thinking about it, I only wore one. On my right hand. Because I’m right-handed.”
“So here’s my real question. If you only need one glove to fill a van with diesel, why did Flynn have a pair?”
Scott shrugged. “No idea. Maybe they come in pairs, and he didn’t bother separating them.”
Devereaux turned back to the image on the computer screen. “Or maybe he needed the complete pair for another r
eason…”
Monday. Morning.
The opening chords of “Whole Lotta Love” began to blare from Devereaux’s pocket just as he pulled up outside Police Headquarters. He reached for his phone, willing Alexandra’s name to appear on the screen and hoping he hadn’t jinxed himself with his choice of ringtone.
The call was from Diane McKinzie.
“Sorry, Tommy.” Devereaux turned to Garretty. “I need to get this. I’ll be inside in a minute.”
Garretty slid out of the car and Devereaux hit the answer key as soon as the passenger door had slammed shut behind him.
“Devereaux?” Diane’s voice had an anxious edge to it. “Have you told anyone about…my father’s research?”
“No. Not yet. But I’m planning to.”
“Can you come over? There’s something I need you to see first. It’s important.”
“Sure.” Devereaux checked his watch. “I have one thing to take care of, then I’ll head to your place. Be there in, say, an hour?”
—
Lieutenant Hale had more questions than Devereaux had expected, and the traffic on 280 was worse than he’d hoped, so close to ninety minutes had passed by the time he knocked on Diane McKinzie’s door.
“What took you so long?” Diane ushered him inside. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You’re here now. Can I get you a drink?”
“I thought this was about your father’s work?” Devereaux stayed near the door.
“It is.” Diane gestured for him to follow her. “But I thought, you know, a drink might be a good idea.”
“You’re worrying me, Diane.” Devereaux started after her down the hallway. “What’s this about?”
“Come on.” Diane reached the entrance to her father’s study. “I’ll show you.”
The filing box Devereaux had searched through the night before was back on Frederick McKinzie’s desk. The papers that detailed the way Devereaux’s father had been framed were in a tidy pile, in front of it. Next to it was another box. It was the same size. The same color. It was in better shape, with fewer dings and scuffs. And lined up neatly beside it was a second stack of papers.
“After you left last night, I couldn’t get to sleep.” Diane started to pace back and forth in front of the desk. “Something was bothering me. I couldn’t stop thinking about what my father had discovered about your father being innocent. It was great news for you, obviously. But a problem for me. If my dad had uncovered police corruption, why hadn’t he written about it? Passing on a story—especially an exclusive—just wasn’t like him. He lived to expose scandal and injustice. I began to worry. I thought, what if someone got to him? What if he was in someone’s pocket? What if my dad isn’t the hero I thought he was? So I came back downstairs. Pulled out his files, box after box. And prayed the answer was in one, somewhere.”
“I’m guessing it was.” Devereaux glanced at the second box. “Diane? What did you find?”
“Sit.” Diane stopped moving and perched on the edge of the desk. “See for yourself. I’ve pulled out the pages you need to read.”
Devereaux had heard that Frederick McKinzie was an old-school journalist, but he hadn’t fully appreciated what that meant until he leafed through the stack of papers Diane had selected from the second box. As Devereaux began to read, it was clear that Frederick had come across a juicy story. He’d gotten wind of dirty cops breaking some very serious laws. He’d interviewed witnesses. Gathered evidence. But when he’d reached a conclusion, he hadn’t rushed straight to his typewriter. He’d cross-referenced the claims people had made with alternative accounts, to ensure no one was lying. At first everything checked out. Frederick’s early notes had been made in a steady, solid hand. But then he’d found a loose thread. He pulled on it. And found an inconsistency in something a key source had said. His writing had become hurried and untidy, and Devereaux recognized from each new scribbled entry the excitement of a fellow investigator sensing there was more to be revealed.
At the bottom of the fourth page, everything came into focus. When Diane had found it, she’d understood why her father never published the story. Now Devereaux did, too. It was because the case against Hayden Tomcik was a sham. A well-constructed sham, to give it its due. Its foundation checked out. The first few accusations held water. A less conscientious reporter might have stopped looking and gone to his editor, ready to publish and be damned. But Tomcik’s transgressions up to that point were relatively minor. The victims were vile characters who should already have been in jail, if the system had done its work. The events took place in the 1970s, when the police had a lot more latitude to take matters into their own hands. And Frederick was an experienced interviewer, with a good ear for notes that didn’t quite ring true.
Frederick kept digging. It took him months. He went down more than one blind alley. But he noticed that with each subsequent claim made against Tomcik, the quality of the proof diminished. He traced each successive accusation and found they all led back through a series of aliases and fronts to a single person. A woman. Davina Davis. The fiancée of a man named Dave Bruce, who was currently serving twenty-five to life for two brutal murders.
“Do you see?” Diane leaned forward and turned the page. “Tomcik and Jenner arrested Bruce a month after your father was killed. Jenner was dead, too, by the time the case came to court, meaning Bruce’s conviction depended on Tomcik’s testimony. So Davis set this whole thing up as a ruse to destroy Tomcik’s credibility. All the smaller incidents were to dirty him up, make him seem like the kind of cop who routinely bent the rules. And the coup de grâce was the idea that he’d already framed one guy—your father—for murder, so could plausibly have done it again. She couldn’t go to the cops herself—they’d never have believed her. So she used her contacts to drip feed the story to my father, knowing his reputation for having zero tolerance for corruption. She tried to get him to do her dirty work for her. She just didn’t count on his thoroughness.”
Devereaux leaned back and gripped the arms of the chair, fighting the sensation that the world was spinning around him. “First your father built the case, as it was revealed to him. That was the first box. Then he demolished it. That was the second.”
“Right.” Diane lifted the lid of the second box and dropped the new stack of papers inside. “That’s how he worked. He was so methodical. He always had a system for everything.”
“It’s lucky he was. This stuff’s pretty convincing.” Devereaux picked up the summary pages from in front of the first box and flicked through them. “Lucky for you, anyway. For me, not so much.”
“Cooper, I’m so sorry.” Diane reached out and touched Devereaux’s shoulder. “I feel awful for you. It nearly killed me suspecting something bad about my father for half an evening. Having to deal with that, then think it wasn’t true, then have the hope snatched away from you again? I think my head would explode. Are you OK? Seriously? You can drop the tough detective act when you’re here, you know. God knows you’ve seen me at my worst. If there’s anything I can do…”
“How about that drink I stupidly turned down?” Devereaux leaned forward and lifted the lid from the first box. “Have you got any scotch?”
“I think that can be arranged.” Diane smiled warmly, slid off the desk, and made for the door.
Devereaux waited until she was out of the room and replaced the lid on the box. Then he folded Frederick’s papers—the ones that made his father look innocent—and slipped them into his jacket pocket.
They may not be true, he thought. But if I found them convincing…
Tuesday. Morning.
This time, the sheets were pink.
Devereaux, Garretty, Isringhausen, and Ryan stood in silence. None of them moved. The technicians had taken their photographs—more than were strictly necessary, to drag the proceedings out because no one wanted the job of untying the bow. Unlike on previous mornings, the parcel lying in front of them was intact. It was laid out on the steps of the Prince of Peace church,
in the outskirts of Hoover. A lay minister named John Anderson had found it on his way to unlock the front door. Anderson kept up with the news. So he had a good idea of what would be inside. And he had no desire to see another dead body. He’d encountered more than his share as a Marine in Vietnam, and despite the passage of almost fifty years, he had no wish to come face-to-face with even one more corpse.
Another minute crawled past in silence. And another. Then Isringhausen sighed, pulled on his gloves, tightened his mask, and stepped forward. Ryan joined him, and together they loosened the wrapping. Inside, to no one’s surprise, was the body of a young woman. She looked about twenty-one. Maybe twenty-two, or twenty-three at a push. She was naked. Her short black hair was neatly combed. Her arms were positioned in the same way that Deborah Holt’s and Siobhan O’Keefe’s had been. But there were burns on the back of both this woman’s hands. Her forearms, elbows, and knees were bruised. A jagged gash had been torn in her abdomen. And there was a small, angry, purple wound on the left side of her neck.
Ryan scanned the woman’s prints and sent them to the lab, then picked up his camera and began to photograph her injuries.
“What do you think?” Isringhausen stepped back, out of the way. “A copycat? A bastard who’s even more sadistic than the dead guy was?”
“Maybe.” Devereaux frowned. “But do one thing for me. When Ryan’s done with the pictures, examine her neck. Real close. Tell me if you see anything.”
As soon as his colleague was finished with the camera, Isringhausen took a flashlight and a magnifying glass from his tool kit and crouched down next to the woman’s head. “OK. There are no deposits. Nothing transferred. No…wait a minute. Whoever did this, he was wearing gloves. I can see faint texture marks imprinted in her skin.”