And So it Began (Delaney Book 1)

by Owen Mullen

  Men like Julian Boutte were cut from a different bale. In his diseased mind, I’d murdered his brother; taking me down was a duty – his version of squaring the circle and not so far from my own. It didn’t matter that it had been two against one, and I was defending myself. Boutte knew what he knew and that was enough.

  At ten-thirty, the phone on my desk burst into life, and Danny Fitzpatrick said something I hadn’t expected to hear ever again.

  ‘Captain wants to talk to you.’

  I felt myself tense. ‘’Bout what?’

  ‘He’ll tell you himself. How soon can you get here?’

  Working for Anthony Delaup had been an experience, all right. It wouldn’t be fair to say he was the only reason I had left the force, but he certainly was one of them. And now, after seven years, he was asking to speak to me. I should have been curious and maybe I was a little bit, though not enough to put a run on.

  ‘Caught me at a bad time. Busy day. A lot on.’

  Fitzpatrick’s tone gave him away, and I realised he wasn’t alone. ‘So, when?’

  ‘Tomorrow do?’

  ‘No, it won’t.’

  ‘All right. Five o’clock this afternoon.’

  The tension in Fitzy voice came down the line. ‘I think you should come earlier, Delaney. I really think you should.’

  It wasn’t happening. Not for Delaup.

  ‘Five’s the best I’ve got. See you.’ I hung up.

  Harry Love would have approved.

  Lowell wasn’t pleased to be left at the house. I’d live with his disapproval because where I was going wasn’t for him. He sulked his way into his basket, closed his eyes and pretended to be tired. I’d told him my history with the department and how it ended; he hadn’t been impressed and wanted to be with me. Appreciated.

  ‘Doing you a favour, boy, believe me.’

  The elevator stopped on the third floor. I knocked on the office door and went inside. Nobody rushed to greet me. Delaup was behind his big desk, chewing on one of those antacid tablets that tasted like chalk and left white residue at the corners of his mouth. His hair was greyer; at a guess, he’d gained twenty-five pounds. Sweat marks on his blue shirt told me he was faking relaxed for somebody. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he was doing it for my benefit.

  He struggled to his feet and stuck a handful of pudgy fingers out for me to shake. ‘Delaney. We’ve missed you around here.’

  Convincing, if you didn’t know him like I did.

  Two men standing against the wall turned expressionless faces towards me; their haircuts and suits gave them away: FBI. The people the Captain was trying to impress.

  Fitzy was by the window, eyes fixed on something in the street. I took the chair he had probably been in when he called. Unlike Delaup, he hadn’t changed much from the dark-haired, sharp-eyed young black guy in his twenties who had nodded to me across a cold gymnasium one February morning.

  Delaup said, ‘How’re things? Still playing your guitar?’ He pronounced it “gee-tar” and spoke to the room. ‘The music business lost a talent when Delaney became a cop.’

  Bullshit. His speciality. He hadn’t heard me. And he wouldn’t know the difference even if he had.

  ‘Can make that thing talk.’

  Embarrassing. I blanched. Was he gonna pretend we were friends?

  ‘Hear you’re an uncle now, how’s that working out?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Let me introduce you. These gentlemen are from the Bureau, Agents Rutherford and McLaren. Vince Delaney.’ He explained me to them. ‘Delaney got tired of the system and decided to try life as a civilian.’

  Not exactly the truth.

  They kept their admiration under control; they already knew who I was.

  ‘Yes sir, best detective I ever worked with.’

  For some reason, Delaup was trying awful hard to be nice. I wished he wouldn’t.

  ‘Ok. Agent Rutherford, would you bring everyone up to speed?’

  Rutherford cleared his throat and read from an invisible script. Public speaking was never going to be his thing. ‘Attacks on children are growing faster than any other crime in the USA. The Internet has brought perverts out from the rocks they’ve been hiding under. Porn sites exist in their thousands.’

  Everyone in the room knew where this was going, except me. I’d been expecting something to do with Boutte.

  ‘Paedophilia is king of vice. The people involved are prepared and planned and very careful. Today, we dismantle one of these organisations, tomorrow, another takes its place. It’s a battle we aren’t going to win. Doesn’t stop us trying. Now and again, we discover something that forces us to think and act differently. That’s why we’re here.’

  He was talking to me, I just didn’t know why.

  ‘The fastest-expanding business sector in America is pageantry, and in there, growing with the rest, are pageants for children.’

  Agent Rutherford could have survived the Titanic and made it sound dull. But he had my attention.

  ‘In the main, they pass without incident, and, whether you agree with them or not, they’re really just a day out for the family, cheering on little Tania or Bobby Junior or whomever.’ He paused. ‘Until recently.’

  Across the room, Danny seemed ill at ease and wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  ‘About seventeen months back, a child was abducted from a pageant in Panama City Beach, Florida. The body of seven-year-old Lucy Gilmour was never found. Last time anyone saw her alive, she was talking to an unidentified man. Then, they both disappeared. Best guess is Lucy’s out in the mangroves, Lord help her. Twelve months ago, in Birmingham, Alabama, Dorothy Dulles went missing shortly after a pageant she was entered in ended. Her body was left in a parking lot a block from the venue. She was five. Four months later, Billy Cunningham turned up. Billy had just become the Supreme Mini National King in his age division. They lost track of him between the staging area and the dressing rooms.’

  Fitzy spoke for the first time. ‘Where was that, again?’

  ‘Little Rock, Arkansas.’

  Delaup said, ‘We’ve got a serial.’

  Rutherford walked to a water cooler in the corner and poured himself a cup. ‘For a while, it went quiet, until March when Pamela White was found behind a movie house next to the hall where a local pageant was taking place in Fort Worth. She wasn’t a contestant; her sister Donna was. Pamela was nine. We believe she was taken when her mother went to collect Donna after her performance.’

  He sipped the water.

  ‘Three weeks ago, in Baton Rouge, five-year-old Timmy Donald was murdered while competing in the Little Louisiana pageant. As Captain Delaup rightly says, we’ve got ourselves a serial killer.’

  The agent sat down to let McLaren take over. Like everybody, I was shocked. Rutherford had given few details; the reports would make painful reading. I knew about Timmy from the news and had forced myself not to think about it too much.

  McLaren said, ‘Before we continue, any questions?’

  I had a couple. ‘When did you realise this was a serial killer? And how come no media frenzy?’

  His reply was frank and unflattering to the Bureau. ‘After Timmy – too long, I know. Billy Cunningham threw us off track: a boy. First two victims were girls. Nobody realised it was the same guy.’

  He searched for the words to make us understand.

  ‘Bear the facts in mind. The first killing was committed in Florida, the second in Alabama, then Arkansas, Texas, and lastly in Louisiana. The victims were from both genders. Harder than you think to find a pattern, unless you know you’re looking for one. But when we connected the dots, it all fit. Exactly the same MO for each kid. Strangulation. As for the media, they missed it. Plain and simple. Now, they’re baying for blood. Our blood. They’re blaming us, although they weren’t so cute at spotting the link themselves. Too busy with politics.’

  McLaren was blowing off steam, and I understood why.

  ‘The first chil
d was never found. The second didn’t suggest a link. The third one was Billy, a male. The next was another female. Same MO, sure, but hundreds of miles apart …’

  He made a what-you-gonna-do face.

  ‘Fourth was an older kid out with her sister and mother. It was only when Timmy Donald was dumped in a cupboard at the venue that some bright spark asked the right question. Forget age. Forget gender. What were these kids doing? Answer: attending a pageant. From there, we started to make connections, and all of a sudden, we were staring at a madman. Roaming across the southern states undetected, in spite of the overt nature of the crimes. It’s impossible to imagine the terror these children must have felt. No sign of drugs, yet no one heard any of them scream. We guess they must have trusted him.’

  Agent McLaren allowed what he’d told us to sink in.

  ‘For all we know, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. It’s what we have so far. And catching this bastard won’t be easy.’

  He counted on his fingers. ‘One: the crimes straddle five states. An awful big killing field. Two: all the victims have some kind of involvement in pageants. Great, until you realise how many take place every year in this country. Three: both sexes seem to be legitimate targets for him. So far, we know about two boys and three girls. Again, the waters are muddy. Four – and this is hard to believe – forensics has given up nothing.’

  The atmosphere in the office had changed. I said, ‘This is a horror show for the families of those kids, but why tell me? I left the NOPD years ago.’

  A train was coming towards me and was going to hit, unless I could get out of the way. Rutherford knew what he was doing. He looked me in the eye and left nowhere for me to go.

  ‘That’s just it, Mr Delaney. You’re in a unique position. We want you with us.’

  6

  I rated Danny Fitzpatrick higher than most people on the planet. We had joined the force on the same intake, did our training together, partied and paid our dues; for years, he was my partner, someone I would trust with my life and had done plenty of times.

  But we were different. He could see the road ahead. After the whole Boutte fiasco with the PIB, I couldn’t, so I quit. Fitzpatrick stayed, and he was still a believer. No matter how many dead-ends he came up against, corrupt officials, red tape or senile judges who let criminals back out on the street, Fitzy stayed completely committed to catching the bad guys. The case he was working, whatever it was, was the only thing that mattered.

  That attitude had cost him two marriages. Fitzpatrick was a top cop and a first-class human being, yet a couple of broken-hearted women would tell you he wasn’t a great husband. But he was my best friend. Today wasn’t the best day that friendship had ever had.

  Once they’d sprung their little surprise, they waited for my reaction. They were disappointed. I didn’t have a reaction, unless you counted staring.

  Agent McLaren gave way to Delaup. ‘Not full-time. Not card-punching. The rules allow me to create special officers in situations of specific need. Where someone is able to bring a particular talent to the party, they’re sworn in and remain active for as long as the need lasts.’

  McLaren explained. ‘The Bureau sees it like this. We have two choices. Follow up on leads, if we can find any, interview people ‘til the cows come home, hoping somebody saw something, anything, and wait for the killer to make a mistake. Meantime, children are likely to die while we chase after our tail. Or …’

  His eyes willed me to understand.

  ‘… admit we could use some help. That’s what we’re asking you for, Delaney, your help in nailing this bastard.’

  Delaup pushed me to say yes. ‘When it’s over, you can stay with the department or go back to your life, up to you.’

  I was everybody’s favourite guy. I still didn’t get it.

  Over by the window, Danny’s face gave me nothing.

  McLaren said, ‘You’re not the only one we’ve talked to. We’ve already been to Arkansas and Alabama. This morning, it was Baton Rouge; tomorrow, it’ll be Miami. Already there are twenty people on board in Texas.’

  He almost smiled.

  ‘It’s a big place. If we’re lucky, we’ll have a dozen just like you in Louisiana by the end of next week.’

  ‘Just like me doing what? Can somebody spell it out what’re you asking, exactly?’

  McLaren answered. ‘Go undercover.’

  ‘Undercover?’

  Rutherford leaned his elbows on his knees. ‘There are too many shows over too big an area to do anything beyond sticking a pin in the map. And whoever is there for us has to be able to move around. Mingle without being noticed. Twenty, even a dozen, may sound a lot, but in Texas? What we are setting up is the longest of long shots, we get that, but it’s a try. The chances of our psycho showing up at a pageant where we have an officer in position are somewhere between slim to non-existent. Probably a giant waste of time. The alternative is to plod on, playing out the usual moves, until we get a break. If we get a break. That could be years. Or never.’

  Delaup jumped in. ‘We’re stretched real tight with this Julian Boutte thing.’ He looked at me like it was my fault. ‘You were a great detective. If anybody can help, you can.’

  The Captain was reaching out to me. Maybe because his officers were being invited to what would otherwise be an FBI party, or maybe he was as fired up as the rest to bring an end to a run of horrific crimes. Pressure from above was getting me the kind of appreciation I’d never had when I worked for him, even though my cases solved percentage was usually the highest in the department. Suddenly, I realised what my “unique position” had to be, and Danny Fitzpatrick’s behaviour began to make sense.

  ‘Hold on. You say undercover, you mean, you want me to go to these events?’

  ‘Right. Your niece competes. Molly, isn’t it? Great little singer from what I hear. A guy on his own would stand out.’

  I fought to keep my voice even. ‘Who fed you this crap?’

  But I knew, didn’t I? Now the truth was on the table, Fitzpatrick didn’t avoid looking at me. ‘We were kicking round ideas. Then, I bumped into Catherine. She told me Molly won a pageant, and the whole thing came together.’

  My sister hadn’t told me. I wasn’t sure how to react. Rutherford opened his briefcase and took out a handful of ten-by-eight black-and-white photographs. I knew what they would show. I’d seen enough of them to keep me in nightmares for the rest of my life.

  ‘So, everybody involved – the twenty in Texas and the rest – have kids entered in these gigs. Am I understanding it right?’

  Rutherford said, ‘I can show you what he did to the little boy in Baton Rouge, but I’d rather not.’

  ‘Don’t bother. Answer the question. Are you saying officers are putting their own children on the line to catch this guy? Is that how it is?’

  He met me full on without evasion. ‘No. That isn’t how it is.’

  ‘But you want me to run a stake-out with my family as bait?’

  The agent rolled his tongue over dry lips. ‘We don’t see them as bait, and it’s the best scenario we can come up with.’

  ‘Forget it. Absolutely no.’ I pushed myself out of the chair. ‘Good luck with finding somebody. I’m not your man.’

  Rutherford held up his hands. ‘We appreciate it isn’t easy to say yes to what we’re asking, though, in reality, you probably won’t come within a hundred miles of this monster. Then again, we might get lucky. He might be sitting next to you, third row from the front.’

  ‘Look, I quit for a reason. Deceiving my sister and her husband isn’t in the plan.’

  ‘Try it like this: you just being there means their little girl will be safer.’

  I shook my head. ‘It won’t work. I’m against everything about that scene. Hate it. My sister knows how I feel. Molly or no Molly, she wouldn’t buy me just tagging along.’

  Agent Rutherford shuffled the images in his hand and picked one of them out. ‘Sure you don’t want to see this?’
>
  He didn’t push it. We both knew he was right. McLaren summed up the meeting in one question. ‘In or out, Mr Delaney?’

  I gave them my answer and left before I changed my mind. Halfway down the corridor, Fitzpatrick caught up with me. I turned to face him, already sure what he was going to say, and just as sure how I would respond.

  ‘Delaney, listen.’ He put a hand on his heart. ‘Mea culpa. Sorry for springing that on you.’

  ‘Is that what just happened? I was wondering.’

  He stood in front of me. ‘Look, I can imagine what’s in your head right now.’

  ‘Can you? I doubt it.’

  ‘Nobody planned it. Nobody said, why don’t we drag Delaney back in? That wasn’t how it was. The Bureau’s never keen to let anybody put a foot on their territory; they’d rather fail than give ground. This is different. Rutherford and McLaren are desperate. They haven’t got a clue. Literally. They’re not even sure how long this thing’s been going on. They’re drowning. Hell, we’re all drowning. You remember how that feels, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember. But you’ve known about this since the kid in Baton Rouge. I’m asking myself how you could think it was okay to stick my face in the frame without a word to me.’

  Fitzpatrick took a step away.

  ‘And not just me. Catherine. Ray. Molly. You’ve been to their house, sat round the table with them. You were there when Molly was baptised.’

  ‘Delaney …’

  ‘If they were strangers, maybe I could understand, but they are special. They trust you, for Christ’s sake.’

  He held up his hands. ‘All right. I should have spoken to you about it first. My bad.’ Danny spread his arms to convince me I had it wrong. ‘Catherine and Ray don’t have a problem with this pageant stuff; they’re fine about it.’

  So fine, my sister hadn’t told me.

  ‘Well, good for them. Putting their six-year-old daughter in danger might change their minds.’