"What do you want to talk to him about?"
"The same thing as last time."
"Yeah. He was really pissed off, you know? Driving crazy and swearing all the time. I guess he doesn't want to talk to you about her." Alarms started ringing in the back of his head. Don't push it, he cautioned himself. "You got a name, cop?" she asked.
"Killian, Bob Killian."
The girl nodded. "You got a card?"
The detective removed one from his shirt pocket and handed it over. I wonder what she wants that for? he thought. "Who's the girl he doesn’t want to talk about?" he tried.
Chris smiled speculatively and shrugged. "Ask the stud." She turned on her heel showing him her trim bottom, slamming the screen door behind her once again as she went inside. Killian waited a full five minutes before Bud came out still a little sleepy eyed.
"You got a warrant?" he began, mildly belligerent. Killian wasn't fooled.
"Do I need one?"
Bud didn't know so he answered the question with a question. "What do you want?"
Killian paused before replying. "She's a pretty girl."
"Who?" Bud said looking a little nervous.
"Chris."
"Oh. Yeah."
"She looks, oh what, about fifteen maybe sixteen on the outside?" Bud remained silent. "I was thinking," Killian continued, "that maybe you remember something now that you've had a few days to think."
"I already told you all I know." The flower vendor shoved his hands into his jeans and made two fists.
Killian waited, nodded his head briefly in understanding. When he resumed talking, he sat on the rail. It was time to take control. "Let me tell you how it is, Bud – in the real world. Cops are civil servants first, law enforcement officers second. If we weren't cops we'd be on the government payroll somewhere; firemen, servicemen. We like security, that stable check and most of us don't go out of our way to make trouble. There's enough on its own.
"Like Chris. She's underage. Maybe if I asked she'd tell me what you two do. Then I'd have a statutory rape charge on you." Bud's eyes shifted. "Nothing serious. Maybe probation, a fine, a little jail sentence, some coverage in the newspaper," Killian paused.
"Ask her," Bud said hoarsely. "We're not doing nothing."
"Maybe I will. But that's not my point. Basically cops don't make work. But here comes the part I want to be certain you hear. We could. If I wanted I could make some work, dig around. I already did a little of it." Bud swallowed loudly. "You have a license due for renewal in December. The City Council three years ago restricted flower vendors to twenty-three street corners. I know how it goes. All businesses take advantage to expand, increase profits. Nobody's looking so there isn't all that much risk. I don't know anything about your business but I imagine Mother's Day, Christmas, Valentine's Day must all be pretty busy for you – and profitable. Maybe you push it and if the girls are available add some to extra corners, more corners than you have the legal right to. I could check on it now and then. Next December, who knows, you might not have a license."
Killian paused before going on. "I don't care about that but I will if you make me. I just want some answers. Now. Tell me about the girl."
"What girl?" Bud asked reflexively.
Killian sighed, rose to his feet and headed off the porch. "O.K. Play dumb."
Panic rose in Bud's throat. "No wait! I wasn't thinking. What do you want?"
"Tell me about the girl." It was a guess. This could well be a dead end, playing games with the little man, but if he were right, this approach would get the most results. People always told you more if they thought you already knew something.
"There's nothing to tell. She just took off."
"When?"
"I don't know. Two, maybe three weeks ago."
"Think. When for certain?"
Bud's forehead furrowed in thought. "I think, early in the week, two weeks ago."
"What was her name?"
The vendor thought a moment. "Huh, Tracy. Yeah, Tracy."
There was no use in asking a last name. The kids never used them but just in case Killian said, "Her last name?"
"How the hell would I know?"
"Where was she from?"
"I don't know that either. Back east somewhere."
"Think."
"Just a second, you got me all rattled. Huh, St. Louis. I'm pretty sure."
"How long was she here?"
Bud shrugged. "A couple of days is all. I was just helping out then she up and took off."
"Where are her things?"
"Lost. Somebody ripped them before I found her."
"Which street corner was she working?" Bud didn't want to answer. "Look, if it’s one you're not supposed to use I won't tell anyone. You're talking and that's what I wanted. I need to know which one."
"McDowell and Seventh Avenue." Killian's heart raced but nothing showed in his face or in his voice. Bud thought he saw accusation in the detective's eye and said, "Don't blame me! How was I to know some crazy would get her?"
"What makes you think some crazy got her?"
"Why else would you be here? You don't give a shit about her being a runaway. Hell, Chris is a runaway. What do you care?" Bud was getting pretty worked up. "You'd only go to this much trouble if she was dead."
Killian sighed inwardly. Bud was right, unfortunately. "Why didn't you contact the police?"
"What for? A hassle? You found me anyway."
“Yeah. I found you.”
~
Driving towards the city Killian stopped for a coke at the same grocer who had given him directions earlier. He stood in the shade and thought about what he had. Not much really. A girl's first name. A city. Only the location was a real help. It was in the same three block area where Pratt had accosted the other girls. And the timing. It was right.
Nothing tied Pratt to the crime nor for that matter Bud's girl to the body. But Killian felt it, deep inside. The gears meshed and it all ran in sync – smooth and complete. That was enough for now.
He knew the murderer.
Now he had to prove it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jared rose from his nightmare at one-sixteen that Friday afternoon, the images and sounds gone from his consciousness the moment he awoke.
He lay in bed sweaty and uncomfortable, wishing to return to the bliss of slumber but afraid to resurrect the frightening visions that had haunted him. The boy-man climbed from his bed and squinted out the window into the blazing desert sunlight towards the house. His father's Blazer was gone and Jared could go up to the house whenever he liked. Instead, he reached under his bed and pulled out a small cardboard box which was meticulously bound in red ribbon stolen from his mother's bedroom dresser.
Jared unwrapped the ribbon, slowly lifted the lid and removed the contents. He placed them one by one before him like mementos or precious heirlooms. He reached under his pillow and removed the dead girl's panties and added them to the collection, situating them precisely in their proper place along with the rest. Jared sat trance-like before his treasure still perspiring slightly and allowed his ample imagination full rein.
~
Killian stopped for a hamburger at a locally owned west side drive-in before heading back to his office following the meeting with Bud at the Ranch. The place had changed hands since his days as a uniformed patrolman but the food as still immeasurably better than that sold at national chains. It was not quite two when he reached the police department. He asked Missing Persons to check on Tracy’s from St. Louis. It was nearly four before the detective called. "I didn't have anything on file locally so I messaged St. Louis."
"Did you turn anything?"
"With a name like Tracy? You've got to be kidding. That's like Smith or Jones to kids today. There was no question if St. Louis would have a Tracy, only if they had the right one. I've got three."
"O.K. Shoot."
"Tracy Collins, age twelve, Caucasian, five even, eighty-five pounds, brown eyes, brown
hair, missing one year."
"No, too young."
"Number two. Tracy Ann Washington, age seventeen, black, five feet four inches, one hundred eighty pounds, brown and black."
"No, not her either."
"O.K. Last one. Tracy Lee Fremont, age seventeen, five feet five, one hundred twelve pounds, blue eyes, blond hair."
Killian felt a chill on the back of his neck. "What else have you got on her?"
"Let's see. No scars or distinguishing features listed here. Missing since late June."
"Exactly when?"
"It doesn't say. This is just teletype information. I'll have to send back Monday for a complete flyer."
"O.K. Do me a favor? Get it off tonight and mark it Urgent. Have them send the flyer, a photo if they have one."
"Alright. I'll get on it."
"One other thing, have them follow up with dental charts."
Silence.
"So it’s like that is it."
"Yeah, it sure looks that way."
~
Worthington sat quietly, forcing himself to listen to the young woman in front of him. It gets harder every year, he said inwardly. Harder and harder to listen to the same stories from the same desperate people searching for just one more break after a lifetime of them. The trouble with not listening to the same stories was that actually no two were truly the same. People were as different as they were alike and if Worthington failed to listen he missed the differences and fell into the unforgivable sin of treating everyone exactly the same.
Maria Sanchez was twenty-two, Worthington estimated. He wished he could have seen her at sixteen or eighteen. She would have been breathtaking. Worthington pulled his thoughts back to what she was saying.
"You gotta give him a chance, Mr. Worthington. Tony's a good boy. It's that Chado. He's the one that caused all the trouble. I told Tony to stay away from him but Chado, he'd come around and talk and talk and pretty soon Tony would go off with him and get into trouble. It's Chado that got him into trouble. Tony wasn't even using until Chado started coming around."
"Maria, I understand how you feel but you have to look at it from the court's viewpoint. Tony had just received probation when he promptly turns around, stops going to his drug program, gets strung out again and gets busted in the company of a convicted felon after pulling three burglaries all observed by the police and in possession of the stolen merchandise. Take all of that along with his prior record and there is no way the court is going to put him on probation again. It just isn't going to happen."
Tony's sister looked at him imploringly. "But sending him to prison isn't going to help him. It's the drugs. When Tony doesn't use drugs he's the nicest guy in the world and wouldn't steal from anybody. My kids just love their uncle. You should see him with kids. They just love him."
"I understand what you're saying, Maria, but it isn't going to make any difference in the end. Tony's just gone too far this time and there isn't any way I can see of keeping him from going to prison."
"It's not fair, Mr. Worthington. Other people get off. I know they do, the rich ones, the white ones. I read it in the papers even. But Tony makes some mistakes and he gets sent to prison. It just isn't fair." The woman had raised her voice a little but now calmed down and lowered it. "It's his friends. They're the ones who cause him all the trouble."
"He picks them."
"I know but... well, he's just never been too good at picking friends and he won't listen to me. Then when he gets strung out he just goes wide open until he gets caught. You said that drug program. Have you ever been down to that drug program? It's got junkies for counsellors. Tony's counsellor was some guy he used to run the streets with. How can they expect him to listen to a guy like that? He's no better than Tony."
It was true that most of the drug programs hired former addicts as counsellors, working under the dubious assumption that only someone who had been there could cure another junky. Actually, none of the programs did very well even the ones that hired professionally trained and educated counsellors. Nothing seemed to work with any predictable success.
"We only have so many drug programs and Tony's was no worse than any of the others. When it's all you've got that's all we can send him to."
The phone rang and Worthington excused himself before answering it.
"Chad? This is Bob Killian."
"How are you? I'm just now talking to Tony's sister."
"Oh yeah? Anything happening with his case right now?"
“Not really. He's been arraigned. The preliminary hearing's coming up next week. I imagine he'll cop a plea if they give him some kind of a deal. His probation violation hearing comes up the end of next week. The rules of evidence are quite a bit looser in that hearing so I don't see any chance of his beating the case. Once the judge finds him in violation of his probation and he knows he's going to prison there won't be much point in fighting the new charges. He'll just try to get the best deal he can and have the two cases consolidated at sentencing,"
"Keep me posted. But actually I wasn't calling about Tony. I wanted to get some more information on that name you gave me, Jared Pratt."
Jesus, Worthington thought. Something's up. "O.K. Look, Maria Sanchez is sitting here and I don't want to keep her any longer than necessary. Would it be alright if I called you back in a little while? Will you be in?"
"Yeah. I'll wait if you're certain you'll call."
"I'll talk to you a little later than." Worthington hung up and turned to face Tony's sister. The least I can do, he thought, is hear her out.
~
"Asleep?" Killian asked soft enough so that if Rachel were he would not awaken her.
"No, just dreamy and happy," came the reply.
Killian pulled the sheet down somewhat to reveal her lovely back to him. As he spoke he idly traced his fingertips across her smooth, finely textured skin. "I'm certainly grateful you're not a sun worshiper. The longer I live here the more I appreciate clear, untanned skin." His mind returned to his main concern.
Earlier that afternoon Worthington had told him all that he needed to know. Pratt no longer lived in his parent's house. He had moved in back, into an alley cottage. Worthington had not known the make of Pratt’s car but he did know that it was an old model. Earlier that evening Killian had told Rachel what he had learned.
"Now what?" she had asked.
"That's what I like about dating a cop. At least you don't want to know why I don't go out and arrest the guy." He sat down, wine glass in hand. "God, I wish I could."
"So now what are you going to do?" she asked again. He hadn't answered her earlier that evening but now as he lay beside her he did when she asked, "What are you going to do about Pratt?"
"I don't know. I wish I did. In a few days the dental charts will be in and we'll have a positive I.D. It looks like she was a flower vendor and she was working on one of the blocks on the same street where all of the other incidents with Pratt occurred. But there is not one shred of evidence to tie him to the murder and I don't know for certain even now that the dead girl is the same one who worked for Bud."
"So why not wait?"
"Because he'll do it again once he gets away with it. He's an animal, not even human in terms of his drives and his willingness to go to any length to gratify them. I've got to do something."
"Why not go the Sergeant Bustamante since you won't go to Graff?"
"Can't, not won't. Graff is incompetent and would screw this up and probably get my ass in a sling for fooling around with this case like I have. Sergeant Bustamante’s a good man and a good cop. But he also goes by the book. He wouldn't be pissed about the work I've done but he'd assign it to someone in homicide. I'd be off it. In the final analysis, I don't have anything and there is no way, by the book, of getting anything."
Rachel heard the tone in his voice and raised herself up on her elbows. "What do you mean 'by the book’? This is the United States, not Russia for God's sake. There isn't any other way to go but by the bo
ok."
Killian kissed her on the back of her neck. "You know, you're really an idealist for a cop."
"What does that mean?" She sounded genuinely angry.
"It means I don't know what the hell I'm going to do. Go to sleep." Killian got out of the bed and went into Rachel's kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk. He stood sipping it so long the compressor kicked on. He shut the door and rinsed out the glass. I need facts. Absolute proof, he thought. If I knew beyond any doubt than I could figure something out, some way to deal with
this... person.
Earlier that evening he had gone to Sex Crimes and scanned the text books there. After an hour he found something he had heard once. Many sexual deviants had fetishes and the fetishes served an important part of their sex lives.
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