Their arrangement was for Killian to return to his apartment by six should he be unable to establish radio contact with Ross, a not unlikely event considering the devices limited range. There Ross would call when he was able to arrange it and provide another meeting point.
This, the second day of the tail, went as well as the first. The two detectives met down the street from Pratt’s cottage. Jared was at home.
"How'd you do?" Killian asked as he slipped into the car beside Ross.
"Hot. Too God damned hot for surveillance. Our man's done the same today as he did yesterday. He leaves between two and three in the afternoon, drives aimlessly, ending up along west McDowell by three-thirty or four. He cruises up and down it until five or so and then home."
"Anything unusual?"
"Well, besides the fact that he never goes anywhere, yeah. He girl watches. He hit the curb twice today grabbing a look at some girl he drove passed. He also slows up in front of porno shops but didn't go in today or yesterday.
"About four-thirty," Ross continued, "he stopped down the street from a flower girl at Seventh Avenue and McDowell. He watched her about ten minutes. I think he jerked off." Killian raised a brow. "That's what it seemed like from how he was acting." The two sat silently a few minutes.
"I need help tonight, Ross. Things have been speeded up."
"O.K. What do you want?"
"You can back out. Your part’s safe but you'll be taking part in an illegal entry."
Ross whistled softly. "If you get caught it's your job and probably charges as well."
"I know, but it's got to be done."
"Do you want me to tail him while you're in?"
"Right. If he heads back home, give a yell on the radio while I still have time to get out."
"You're on." Killian was mildly surprised but pleased Ross had no trouble making the decision.
"I'll go change now," Killian said. "I'll be back after dark. Pratt didn't come in last night before midnight. I'll go in at ten. If you're gone when I return a little before ten, I'll just go in and trust you have him. If you lose him, hurry back and radio me."
Ross nodded. "No problem. Easy as pie." He grinned. "You're wasting your talents in Property Crimes. You ought to be a narc."
Killian told Ross that he'd call Katherine then he went home to prepare for the entry.
~
Contrary to Killians's seeming confidence with Ross, inside the detective was in turmoil, torn not so much by his sworn oath as by his personal, moral repugnance over what he intended to do. It was a fundamental conflict of character from which he suffered for the same morality that was repelled by his plan to break the law for a greater good also drove him to the act. Killian was, if anything, a man of justice and too often in his life he had seen that frequently had no part in law.
He acted this night not as an agent of the city which employed him but rather as a moral, just person willing to live by his own personal code even though it violated the acknowledged law of society.
~
Killian was unable to eat after arriving at his apartment. Stripping to shorts he sat on the hot balcony and watched a sunset, his mind blank and unthinking. Shortly after nine he dressed in denims new enough to not yet have raggy white worn spots, dark sneakers and a long sleeved dark blue shirt. He left his gun, badge and all I.D. in the dresser. Killian took a small penlight and his seldom used pick kit along with two white envelopes folded in his right rear pocket to be used if he uncovered anything for
analysis.
Ten of ten he drove by the Pratt’s residence. The usual Blazer was gone but a new baby blue Monte Chado was in the carport. He parked where Ross had earlier, both Ross and Pratt’s car being gone. Killian tried the radio once with no success. Ross was out of range.
Killian had considered and rejected calling in Rachel as a backup. He would have used her to watch the main house and alert him if anyone approached the cottage while he was in it. He had decided to do without the added protection because he was uncertain if she would help him.
Killian walked down the alley, approaching the blackened cottage away from the main house. Jared pad locked the rear door and Killian had no difficulty picking the simple lock. He entered the cottage silently. He paused a moment once inside to orient himself.
The interior had a fetid odor, a smell of dirt and squalor. A quick flash of the penlight held low revealed the erratic placement of chairs, bed and dresser. Killian started with the dresser working bottom to top in the manner of the professional burglar. Although he intended to leave the residence as he found it if he were interrupted and had to flee he wanted it to look like a professional job.
Painstakingly Killian examined the contents of each drawer. He had decided to limit his entry to thirty minutes. The dresser proved futile. The detective turned to some cardboard boxes in a corner as they seemed the next most likely place Pratt might keep something of use to Killian. It was laborious,
time consuming work but again, no luck.
Killian was perspiring now and a quick glance at his watch gave him just six more minutes. He decided that there were only two likely locations remaining. One was the bathroom, the other the bed. He turned to the bed.
Killian would now have to run over his self-imposed time limit if he elected to search the bathroom.
He began to hurry with a renewed sense of urgency for he was pushing his time to the limit. He wanted success badly. He had no intention of taking such a risk again.
Nothing under the pillow. Nothing against the wall concealed by the blanket. On his knees now, under the bed. A quick flash of light from the penlight. Something – a stack of pornographic magazines, nothing concealed within them but a final glance at his watch told him he had already been in the cottage thirty-four minutes. Too long.
Killian sighed inwardly ready to leave when he spotted the shoe boxes, up against the wall, five of them. He reached back and pulled two towards him, each wrapped in ribbon. Shit, he thought. No time. He risked using the radio to see if Ross were cruising nearby as he followed Pratt. No answer.
This might be something, he thought. He opened the first.
Underwear. Killian counted quickly. Thirteen pairs of women's underwear. Some new with price tags still attached, some used but newly washed. Others soiled and stained. Jesus, he thought.
He examined the box and saw something he missed at first glance. Punched into the top of the shoe box, thirteen neat, precise knife punctures. He hurriedly examined the second box and discovered identical contents.
This might be it, he thought. Killian reached under the bed and pulled the remaining boxes to him. He played the light over each of them slowly trying to decide which was the most recently wrapped, selecting one finally because the ribbon was the newest.
Hastily, he pulled the bow and found again thirteen pairs of women's underwear but something different this time. Hurry, he ordered himself. The watch said ten-forty four.
The first pair, the one on top, was slit at the crotch. It was also blood stained.
Killian held his breath. That's it. It's got to be. It's the only damaged pair here. He pulled an envelope from his pocket and scraped a portion of the stain into the container. He placed it back into his hip pocket, re-wrapped the boxes and replaced them.
Killian made his way to the rear door, breathing heavily and let himself out. The detective carefully and quietly locked the door behind him just as his radio crackled in his ear plug. "Red. Red. Red." That was the code agreed upon if Pratt headed home. Killian walked briskly down the alley and had just sat in his car when the radio crackled again. "Green. Green. Green." Pratt was once again headed away from his cottage. Killian picked up the radio and pressed the broadcast button.
"Condition Blue. Blue. Blue," he said. Ross acknowledged and gave Killian his location so Killian could rendezvous and take over the tail.
The two met up about two miles away on east McDowell while Pratt was in a pornographic bookstore. They sat
in Ross’ car a few minutes.
"Any luck?" Ross asked.
"I think so. The lab will need to tell me for sure."
"You know Bob, I've been watching this guy two full days now. He's really sick. I think you're right about him."
Killian nodded his head. "Yeah. I'm right. Now I've got to get him."
"Not you, Bob. Us. We've got to get him."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ross located a new position at which to park his car on Sunday, a muggy Arizona summer morning. The new location was not as desirable as the first but it was important that he attract no attention and if he continued to stay in one place he was asking for trouble. Ross had observed Pratt’s behavior patterns enough to feel confident in his new observation point since he now sat in the direction which the man took whenever he left his place.
The schedule that day called for Ross to follow Pratt until mid-afternoon at which time Killian would take over. Killian had called Ross Saturday morning to report that Pratt had finally gone to his cottage at two in the morning following the break in.
They had agreed that Ross did not need to be back at the cottage before eleven Saturday as it was highly unlikely Pratt would venture forth before then. Ross had maintained his vigil until six Saturday evening when Killian had relieved him. Nothing significant occurred.
It was twelve-thirty when Pratt emerged, sleepy eyed, preoccupied. He drove off, Ross a safe distance behind, glad to have something to do after the endless, boring hours of sitting in the sweltering heat.
Phoenix had entered that time of year when the temperature never dropped below ninety-five degrees, day or night. What the locals termed “the monsoon season” was now upon them and each afternoon the thick clouds formed, raising the humidity sharply and often bringing violent wind storms and fitful squalls of torrential rain.
Pratt turned north, toward prime Phoenix real estate.
~
Rachel had been disappointed when Killian cancelled their date for Saturday night but she had invited him over the following day for lunch. He arrived at eleven and helped her prepare the hamburger patties and potato salad. By noon, the two of them had relocated near the pool area of her apartment and were grilling the hamburgers, Killian allowing himself one beer before the meal. He would be working later he reminded himself.
Rachel looked very good in her two pieced swim suit, he thought. She smiled back at him catching his admiring look, her attitude that of an attractive woman comfortable in her beauty. She sat beside him out of the sun. "How's your case going? The one with the sex offender."
"Alright I suppose. I I.D.'d the victim and notified her mother. Unfortunately, Monday I've got to report everything I know officially."
"Why 'unfortunately'? You've done a good job. It's time more officers were on it."
Killian looked at her skeptically. "You really are naive for a cop, you know that? There may be one or two put on this but that's all. There isn't one bit of evidence tying my man to the homicide and there is no way short of a confession or some eyewitness coming forth to make him on it. There just isn't any way to get him for her death without one of those breaks, regardless of how many officers work it."
"So what next?"' Rachel sipped tea.
"That depends. The department will try to work the case with no luck. Maybe they'll buy my suspicions about Pratt but all they can do is put a tail on him and hope to catch him at some unlawful act. Possibly they'll catch him at an 'attempted' crime since any cop tailing him would step in the minute things got out of hand. The most likely outcome though is that the department would give up the tail as a waste of manpower before Pratt did anything. If they do catch him at something, I doubt if it would be enough to put him away, not with his lawyer."
Rachel looked at him seriously. "Bob, we talk shop a lot, don't we?"
"You asked."
"I know. But if you weren't a cop I couldn't have, could I?"
Killian could think of nothing to say so he nodded his head slightly. Rachel got up. Her look was inscrutable. She plunged into the pool and Killian turned the patties over. When she returned by unspoken agreement they changed the subject.
The early afternoon went pleasantly enough but Killian suspected that a fatal flaw had been shaped in their relationship and he regretted that this woman would probably soon pass from his life. It was nearing the time for Killian to leave when the two of them returned to her apartment. As if the subject had never gone away Rachel said, "What are you going to do about him?"
"I thought we decided not to talk shop?"
"I want to know. You said something the other night that got me to thinking you were willing to take the law into your own hands to see him off the streets."
"The crooks don't play by the rules. The courts play by rules so complex and whimsical that they don't even qualify as rules. Why should cops be the only ones with rules that can't ever be bent?"
"That's the kind of thinking that led to Nazi Germany. This isn't a dictatorship. We have to obey the same laws we enforce. If we don't, we're no better than them."
"Whoever said this was a case of deciding who is better than who? But I agree with you. I'm not trying to set up a new, no holds barred game where the cops can do whatever they want. I've always done my job by the rules. It's just that this time I'm in a quandary. Pratt is pathologically sick and I know he has murdered once. He probably can't be touched for it but I certainly don't intend to stand by and wait for him to kill again. If I catch him, it will be legal, on the up and up and provable in court. But I can't justify in my mind going after him the way I intend to unless I know he's guilty."
"You already said he is. You said you know."
"I do."
"How? How can you know?" Killian said nothing. "I can't understand your kind of thinking," she continued. "You seem to think that if someone is bad enough it's O.K. to forget the rules to catch him. I just can't see it."
"I know. I used to feel the same way." Killian headed for the door. "I have to go. I'll call."
Rachel nodded her head but said nothing. She hadn't said if they would see each other again.
~
By two-thirty Ross was more than ready for Killian's relieve. Pratt had not given him a single opportunity to grab anything to eat and to make the situation worse Ross had made the crucial mistake of leaving his house that morning at the last possible moment. To make up the lost time he had neglected to use a restroom and as a consequence his need was reaching critical proportions. The pattern of Pratt’s driving, however, had become such as to cause Ross momentarily to forget his discomfort.
After driving through lush residential tract homes carved from the orange orchards that had once flourished there Pratt abruptly turned east towards Scottsdale and then south to McDowell. On the fast trip over the small, saddle backed McDowell mountains Ross had nearly lost him.
The traffic had been unusually thin and Ross had dropped back because it was a long stretch of road that provided a clear, unobstructed view for anyone taking the trouble to look. As always, Pratt drove oblivious to his surroundings and it was more from professional caution than need that caused Ross to drop back. Just as he cleared the crest he spotted Pratt’s car in the distance, much too far ahead.
Apparently the man had let his car pick up speed on the downward side of the hill. Ross sped up, fearful he would lose the Ford in the thickening traffic and just as the vehicle entered the first busy intersection Ross moved left to pass a car and when he looked ahead, Pratt was gone. He had driven on, knowing from long experience that nine times in ten the tailed car was merely temporarily obstructed from view.
This time he was wrong. He did not overtake Pratt. Panic stricken he reversed his course and retraced his steps, frantically searching along the road on the off chance Pratt had pulled over. Nothing.
Ross turned down the major intersection headed north, guessing that was the direction the car had turned. Nothing.
Ross pulled over to the roadside. He d
ecided that he had better inform Killian before returning to Pratt’s cottage to await his return. Ross went to a convenience market to use the phone and nearly struck Pratt’s car just pulling into the traffic. The man had stopped for something. His car had been blocked from view by a trailer. Ross made a quick U-turn and resumed the tail.
Now, at two-thirty that afternoon, one half hour before Killian was to relieve him, Pratt returned to his habitual cruising area along west McDowell. The humidity had risen sharply as the afternoon clouds rolled in and the Sunday traffic was diminishing as more and more people decided to stay home for the afternoon. Ross glanced skyward and decided that there would be no rain this day despite all the sky's bluff and bluster. It might be called the monsoon season but, in fact, little rain fell during its eight week life.
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