by Sean Lynch
The doctor finished the final stitch and stood up, nodding to Evers and leaving the room. Evers followed him to the door and closed it. He went back to where Kearns lay flat on the gurney and helped the bandaged deputy sit up. He handed Kearns a cup of water.
Kearns gulped the water and looked up, meeting his tall, lanky boss’s gaze. Finishing the drink, he threw the cup on the floor.
“The old lady’s dead?” he asked, wincing.
The sergeant nodded. “She took one right between the eyes. You think it was gonna be a flesh wound?”
“I had to ask.”
“Didn’t mean to snap at you; I’m a little edgy, that’s all. We rolled up and found thirty hysterical kids in every stage of blind panic. One teacher was stone-dead, and the other teacher, a young thing, was in catatonic shock. I got a daughter no older than her.”
Kearns said nothing.
“And to top it off, I find you in a puddle in the street like goddamned roadkill, blood leaking out every which way. I thought you’d taken a bullet in the head yourself.”
“By all rights I should have,” said Kearns, remembering the .45’s muzzle pointing at his face.
“It took some time before we could find anybody coherent to tell us what happened. The school janitor, a Korean War vet, heard the shot and the screams and called it in, but he didn’t see anything. All the kids could tell me was that a man ‘grabbed Tiffany,’ and you tried to stop him.”
Kearns winced, memories of the schoolyard tightening his stomach. The waves of pain cascading through his head suddenly magnified. He remembered the little girl. Her name is Tiffany, he thought.
“Sarge, we’ve got to get a broadcast out. He’s probably still got her. We’ve got to–”
“Take it easy,” interrupted Evers. “We’re on it. I got enough of a description from some of the kids and the surviving teacher when she finally snapped out of shock. We’ve already put out a statewide BOLO for the guy, and the car, as well as a photo and description of the little girl.”
“How’d you get the little girl’s picture so quick?”
Evers paused before replying, suddenly very interested in the scuffed toes of his wellington boots. “I sent a deputy out to the girl’s house. I got the address from the school.”
“So the kid’s parents know?”
“They had to find out sometime. Besides, I needed a picture of the kid pronto.”
There was a long silence. Evers broke it.
“Kevin, do you know how big this is?”
Kearns’ puzzled look was his answer. Evers grimaced, shaking his head.
“It’s big. And messy. And it’s going to get bigger and messier.”
“I don’t care how big or messy it is. We’ve got to find that kid.”
Evers grunted. “You don’t say? Now there’s an original idea. Hadn’t thought of that. Good thing you’re here, deputy. You’ve been a cop what, six, eight months? Catching the bad guy and getting that kid home safe to her folks should be easy for an experienced law enforcement officer like yourself. Probably have her home by supper.”
Kearns felt his face redden. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. You didn’t deserve that. I’m just cranky. This is as foul a crime as I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been a cop over three decades. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”
“Forget it. I know I’m a rookie, and don’t know shit. I just want to get the son-of-a-bitch, that’s all.”
“You ain’t alone. But be careful what you say. Folks are listening.”
“Huh?”
“Look around you. You wonder why you’re not in the ER?”
For the first time Kearns noticed he wasn’t in the emergency room. He was in a private room. He looked quizzically up at Evers for an answer.
“There are thirty, grade-school aged, psych-trauma cases in the ER right now. There’s also a lobby full of panicked parents, a pair of grief-stricken parents, and a DOA under a sheet who was once a sixty-one year-old schoolteacher and grandmother. There’s ten or twenty city and county cops, a posse of reporters, and plenty more cops and reporters burning pavement to get here. There’s also FBI guys from Des Moines en route, as well as forensics people. It’s only been an hour, for Christ’s sake, and it’s already a three-ring circus.”
Kearns felt a sinking feeling overtake him.
Evers went on. “We both know that kid is gonna be dead and buried before sundown. That ain’t something I like, but I’ve been a cop too long to think otherwise. Everybody wearing a badge is going to want to bag this guy, and it’s going to get political. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Especially when the federal boys arrive; they can’t take a piss without calling a press conference.”
“Sarge,” said Kearns, standing up on shaky feet. “I don’t give a shit if they call the ghost of Elvis Presley in from Graceland. I want that kid back and I want the fucker who snatched her.”
Evers’ brow furrowed, not unkindly. “What you want doesn’t matter, Kevin. You’re out of it, now. You’d better heed my advice and mind your tongue. You’re under a microscope.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, when shit like this happens, it spells trouble. Political trouble. People looking to make careers over it. Blame gets laid. People get hurt. You’d best keep your yap shut and your head down. You’re a little fish. Little fish that ain’t careful get chopped up for bait.”
“I don’t know what you’re driving at, but I think I can guess. I really don’t care who catches the bastard, and gets the credit, as long as he’s caught. And as far as taking the blame, I did all I could do. The bastard damn near killed me. I tried to–”
“Take it easy, kid. You don’t have to convince me. I’m the guy that scraped you off the sidewalk, remember? But others might not see it that way. You’re too new to police work to know this yet, but I’ll clue you in on a universal truth of law enforcement: cops always get the blame. Always.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe so, but it’s true just the same. That’s what cops are; a place for the buck to stop.”
Kearns wasn’t convinced. “I’d like to see my critics take that guy on. He was like the goddamned Terminator. Anyone who witnessed the fight would know I did all I could do. All anyone could do.”
“Who are you trying to convince? Me, or yourself?”
“That’s a cheap shot.”
“Agreed. But you’d better get used to it. It ain’t gonna be the last shot fired at you. You’d best be ready.”
“I did all I could to save that kid,” Kearns insisted again. “The best I could.”
CHAPTER 6
Trooper Dale MacKenzie pressed his foot further on the accelerator, nudging the Chrysler past the eighty mile-per-hour mark. He rolled up the window, the siren too loud for the police radio with the window down. It was past noon and traffic on Interstate 80, though not heavy by metropolitan standards, was heavy enough to warrant extra caution.
The feminine voice of the dispatcher asked for any unit in the vicinity to respond to the report of an injured child along the westbound section of the interstate east of De Soto, near the rest stop. The dispatcher said the report was phoned in by an anonymous caller from a phone booth there.
MacKenzie heard the “Be on the Lookout” advisory, or BOLO, two hours before over the radio. The broadcast announced missing/presumed kidnapped Tiffany Meade, a white female, aged seven, last seen wearing a brown corduroy skirt and plaid scarf. The suspect was described as a white male, approximately forty years old, over six-foot, large build, last seen wearing a green army jacket. The suspect vehicle was described as an older, full-sized, American-manufactured station wagon, white or cream in color.
The dispatcher’s voice cautioned that the suspect was considered armed and dangerous, and presumably still in possession of a handgun used in the commission of the offenses of murder and kidnapping. There was no known direction of flight.
; Trooper MacKenzie had over fifteen years of service, and was experienced enough to know the seriousness of the bulletin. He was also the father of two little girls. He spent the past two hours searching the highway for the suspect vehicle.
So when the report of the injured child came in, MacKenzie dropped the Styrofoam cup of coffee he’d purchased at the minimart and headed for his car at a trot. The two incidents were too rare to be unconnected, and even if they weren’t, MacKenzie wasn’t going to take the chance.
He cut a quick U-turn in the truck-stop parking lot and headed for the onramp, switching on the lights and siren. MacKenzie’s 1986 Ford LTD Crown Victoria purred, and he was on the interstate in less than a minute.
MacKenzie was less than ten minutes from the reported locale of the injured child, making him the closest unit by far. He blurted his call sign into the radio’s mike, signifying he was en route. He barely heard the dispatcher’s acknowledgment over the roar of his engine and the shriek of the siren.
MacKenzie’s heart raced as he passed first one motorist, then another. He grabbed the mike again and asked the location of his nearest cover unit. Through the static came the voice of another trooper, giving his position as north of Winterset on Highway 169, with an ETA of twenty minutes. MacKenzie clicked the mike button in response, not surprised. Unlike city cops, highway patrolmen and rural deputies were accustomed to having their back-up a long way off, often in another part of the county entirely.
MacKenzie saw the outline of the rest area in the distance and began pumping his brake in quick bursts to control his deceleration. He saw a lone eighteen-wheeler parked in the rest area’s lot, its engine running. He grabbed the mike from its dashboard mount a final time, telling dispatch he was on-scene. The cruiser skidded to a halt.
He scanned the vicinity of the semi-truck for its driver. MacKenzie ran over to the truck’s cab and jumped up on the step, peering into the cab. There was no one inside.
The trooper went around the far side of the rig and headed towards the small brick building which housed the public restrooms. The rest area consisted of the restroom building and a series of picnic tables in a grass courtyard nearby. At the edge of the grass he found the truck’s driver.
He approached a tall, heavy-set man in a blue nylon windbreaker and cowboy boots. The driver was bent over, his hands on his knees. He appeared to be out of breath, taking in thick gulps of air, which he let out in wheezing rasps. MacKenzie approached him, crinkling his nose at the smell of fresh vomit.
“What happened? Where’s the injured kid?” He could see a puddle of puke at the driver’s feet, some of which had splashed onto his trousers and cowboy boots. The truck-driver didn’t respond to the trooper’s questions.
“Talk to me; I need some answers.” MacKenzie put his hand on the driver’s shoulder. The driver looked up, his eyes wide.
MacKenzie asked again, “What happened? Are you alright?”
The driver finally nodded, spittle dripping from his chin. He wiped his mouth and stood up.
“Did you call in a report of an injured child?” The truck-driver nodded again, and MacKenzie realized the man was experiencing dry heaves and couldn’t speak.
“OK, take it easy,” he said soothingly. “You’re going to be alright. Where’s the kid? I need to know where the kid is.”
Tears began to form in the big trucker’s eyes, and a sob escaped his lips between dry heaves.
MacKenzie was losing patience. “Damn it, you called in an injured kid. Where’s the kid?”
In answer, the truck-driver turned and pointed to a clump of elm trees framing the picnic area. MacKenzie followed the man’s fingers.
Hanging from one of the tree’s branches was a little girl. She was upside down and her throat had been cut, a thick pool of blood staining the brown grass and autumn leaves below her. She was hung by her ankles, and what looked like a fishing gaff was threaded through each Achilles tendon, the connecting chain draped over one of the elm’s thick branches. Her lifeless eyes were open and staring directly at Iowa State Trooper Dale MacKenzie.
Trooper MacKenzie felt his own stomach lurch, and he grabbed at the portable transceiver on his belt. He began to speak, working to suppress the tremor in his voice and the shaking of his hands as he keyed the mike. He almost gagged, but caught himself. He tried, several times, to look away from the staring eyes of the dead child. Even when he closed his eyelids he could feel her eyes burning into him.
CHAPTER 7
It was late in the afternoon when Sergeant Evers and Deputy Kevin Kearns discreetly left the hospital through a side door to avoid the throng of reporters. Kearns was still in his blood-spattered work-out clothes and was chilled to the bone. Evers drove them to Kearns’ apartment for a change of clothes. Kearns asked to stay home and clean up, but Evers only shook his head. “We’ve got to get your statement,” was all he’d say.
Once at the sheriff’s station, Kearns was allowed the comfort of a shower. He let the steaming water wash over him. The ER doctor told him not to get the stitches over his left eye wet, but he ignored the warning. The water not only cleaned him up, but cleared away the remaining fog from his recent concussion. Feeling better, he dressed in jeans and boots and topped them with a fresh T-shirt and a sweater. He wished he’d remembered to bring a coat; the thermometer was falling rapidly.
He’d finished dressing and was combing his short, bristly hair when Evers walked into the locker room. The physician had shaved a portion of Kearns’ hairline on the left side to sew the stitches, and it gave him a somewhat ghoulish appearance.
“C’mon,” the sergeant said. Kearns followed his boss up the stairs from the locker room, grabbing his revolver and badge as he closed his locker.
Once upstairs, Evers led him to the Inspectors’ Division. All investigative functions of the sheriff’s department were handled from that section of the substation. As a rookie deputy assigned to patrol duty, Kearns had only been up there a handful of times.
He was greeted by the stares of several men in the area. Some of them he recognized: district attorney’s inspectors and sheriff’s investigators. Others he didn’t know.
Evers nodded to a seat at one of the tables and Kearns sat down, feeling the eyes on him. Evers accepted a cup of coffee from one of the DA’s men standing nearby. Nobody offered any to Kearns.
One of the men moved forward. He was of medium height and wearing an expensive-looking three-piece suit on a bony frame. He had a receding hairline he tried to conceal with a perm and dye job. His tie tack was a Phi Beta Kappa key.
“Deputy Kearns, I’m Steve Scanlon, Special Agent in Charge of the Des Moines Bureau. This is Special Agent Tatters, and Special Agent Lefferty.” Scanlon nodded his head at two nondescript men lounging on the far wall. “We’ll be overseeing the investigation into today’s happenings.”
Kearns looked to his sergeant for any sign of how to respond. Evers silently mouthed the words, “Watch out,” and turned his attention back to his coffee.
Scanlon continued. “As you know, a young child was kidnapped and murdered today. Also murdered was the teacher in charge of that child.”
“Wait a minute; I didn’t see the child get murdered. I only saw–”
“Apparently you haven’t heard. The child’s body was found hanging from a tree on the interstate earlier this afternoon.”
Kearns felt the room begin to spin. He put his face in his hands. Through his fingers he asked, “Why wasn’t I told?”
Evers cut in. “I had instructions not to inform him, direct from the sheriff.”
Scanlon put his hands on his hips, an exasperated look on his face.
“Tell me,” blurted Kearns, looking up. “I want to know.”
“You might as well know, Deputy,” Scanlon said, no attempt to disguise his disdain at being interrupted. “Tiffany Meade was found with her throat cut out on I-80 twenty miles west of Des Moines. We suspect she was sexually assaulted as well. She was hanging from a tree like
a slab of meat. A passing trucker spotted her.”
“Jesus Christ,” Kearns said under his breath.
“We’re going to need a full statement from you,” said Scanlon.
“I already gave one, at the hospital,” replied Kearns, with no inflection. He was thinking of how a seven year-old girl spent her last moments on Earth. He was replaying images of his fight with the girl’s abductor, and remembering the screams of the other children. He closed his eyes, and a vision flashed of an elderly woman falling to the ground with a .45 slug in her brain. He began to tremble.
“You’ll give another statement, Deputy. And another after that, if I think it’s necessary. Until I find out how your negligence resulted in two deaths.”
Kearns stood up and hit Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Steve Scanlon a stunning left hook to the center of his face. He followed it with a right, the knuckles already skinned from the fight in the schoolyard. He crossed his wrist expertly and leaned into it, driving from his hips. The agent’s head rocked back. He slumped to the floor unconscious, blood spurting from his shattered nose.
The two remaining agents lunged at Kearns, who stood his ground. Several of the sheriff’s detectives and DA’s inspectors intervened and grabbed them, and Evers swiftly moved to a position between Kearns and the fuming feds.
“You motherfucker!” Agent Tatters howled, fighting the restraining hands. “I’ll kick your ass!”
Evers faced the agents. “That’s enough. Calm your butts down.”
The two feds shrugged off the men restraining them and instantly began straightening their ties. Evers hid a grin. The detectives and DA’s men looked away, grinning also. Sergeant Evers bent over the unconscious Scanlon and held his chin.
“He’s out cold. His nose is busted, too.” Evers motioned to the red-faced feds. “Get him to a doctor, and when you get back you can resume your little taskforce. I think we can manage without the illustrious FBI for an hour or so.”