by A. J. Thomas
Doug recognized the name of twelve-year-old Collin Smith. “My graffiti artist,” he said absently. “Has he finally come home?”
“What?” Daniels asked.
Doug pointed to the file. He explained he had arrested the kid a few times, and when his mom came in to report that he had run away, Doug was the one who had taken the report.
“The mother thinks he’s run away?” Daniels asked.
“Yeah. He has a hard time at home. He’s run away three times this year. Last time he was hiding out in a junked-out old van at a friend’s house. This time, I filed the missing persons report myself. It was only five, maybe six, weeks ago.” Doug grabbed the file before Daniels could answer and turned to the last page. The last page was a prisoner-transfer form showing that Sheriff Brubaker had released the kid to a social services worker from Cascade County, over six hours to the east. Sheriff Brubaker had arrested the boy for vandalism one week after Doug filed the missing persons report, and instead of being released to his mother had been remanded to social services. “Oh. I didn’t think he was having that much trouble at home. Must have been when I had a day off.” Even as he provided his own explanation, something in the old sergeant’s question, something in his eyes, told Doug that something was very wrong. He turned back through the file. The missing persons’ report he had filled out was gone.
The door opened and then closed fast. Belkamp, looking a lot more flustered than he had when Doug saw him in the hospital, leaned against the glass door and shut his eyes. “This is a nightmare. The press is camped out outside the building waiting for a statement on Liedes.”
“His name’s not on the roster,” Doug said casually, motioning to the dry-erase board above the desk that listed each inmate in the detention center’s fifteen cells. Six of them were filled, but Liedes's name wasn’t scrawled on the board.
“He’s being held in Missoula,” said Belkamp. “But that’s not going to stop them from camping out in front of the building. Can you move your arm enough to get me a scan of your fingerprints?”
“Yes. I had gloves on when I grabbed those discs. I never touched them without gloves on. My left forefinger touched the outside of the bag they were in, but that was all.”
Belkamp nodded. “Standard procedure with our lab is that when the prints taken from evidence bring up a police employment record, we get a new sample of prints from every officer involved in the chain of custody.”
“What?” Doug stood up so fast he jostled some of the files. Daniels scrambled to grab them and sighed when the paper settled securely in his arms. “Sorry. But the prints brought up a POST record?” The Police Officer Standards and Training office was part of the Department of Justice and ran the state police academy. They kept personnel and certification records for every police officer in the state. There should not be fingerprints linked to a police-employment record on those discs.
“Can you move your arm?” Belkamp repeated.
“Absolutely.”
“Come on, we’ll use the scanner out on the booking platform. It’ll be faster.”
It hurt, but Doug managed to straighten and twist his arm enough to get a decent scan of all of his fingerprints. Belkamp used the jail computer to e-mail them straight to the crime lab and was on the phone with his partner again before the e-mail screen reloaded.
“So what happened to my graffiti artist?” Doug asked, determined not to be put off.
Daniels looked at him seriously, but just pressed his lips tighter together. He picked up the sheet of paper he had been adding names to and shook his head. When Belkamp put away his phone, he stared at Daniels expectantly. Daniels handed him the list without a word.
Belkamp pulled out a folded sheet of notebook paper and compared the two. “This is suicides, runaways, all of them?”
Daniels shook his head. “Just the ones CPS is supposed to have, but that they say they never had.” He pulled out another sheet of paper, with what looked to be another twenty names on it. “These are the suicides and runaways I’ve found so far. The CPS list is a perfect match. There are twelve others who aren’t on the CPS list, but have never been found. Including Micah Donovan, and we know he is dead. Smith was reported as a runaway by his family and is supposed to be in Cascade County according to our records. Cascade County has no record of him at all.”
“What’s going on?”
Belkamp shook his head. “That fucker! One afternoon of chatting with people, and he gets a list of over half the victims! Don’t get too attached to your boyfriend, Heavy Runner, because I’m going to get him to apply with the bureau even if I have to bribe him.”
Doug sputtered and tried to think of something he could shout, some denial that wouldn’t make it all the more obvious that Belkamp’s casual accusation was true.
“Relax, Heavy Runner, he knows.”
“What?” Doug shrieked.
“Doug, I did your background check when you applied with us. It came up when I was talking to your captain in Florida. I don’t care what you do on your own time. Or who,” Daniels said flatly.
“As if it matters now? Are all of the signatures the same?” Belkamp asked. Daniels nodded grimly.
Doug glared at both men, and then picked up one of the files. The last page in each file, the final prisoner transfer in each record, was authorized and signed off on by Greg Brubaker. Each one listed the prisoner as being signed over to various family-services agencies. Half of each form—the half that was supposed to be filled out by the receiving agency—was blank. No one had signed for the kids. No one had taken them. A form had been filed, and so as far the sheriff’s department was concerned, they had become someone else’s problem.
Belkamp’s phone rang, and he answered it before the ring finished. “Belkamp.”
He listened for a moment and then nodded. “Right.” He covered up the microphone and whispered, “Sheriff’s prints,” then he went back to his conversation. “Get me warrants. I’ll call in the field agents who came up here with us, but we need to replace the entire agency. Ask around, figure out who to call! A single police officer got a thorough victim list after one morning of talking to people; you should consider following his example.” Belkamp covered the microphone on his cell phone again and looked at Daniels. “What is your department’s full complement of personnel?”
“Thirty-seven POST-certified officers, twelve detention officers, one receptionist,” Daniels whispered.
“Our entire department?” Doug sat down on the desk itself and stared at the lists. “They’re dead, aren’t they? All the rumors about human remains you found in Peter Hayes’s house were true. All these kids are dead.”
Belkamp removed his hand from the phone. “Thirty-seven POST-certified officers, twelve detention officers, and notify both forensics teams.” Belkamp closed his phone and rounded on Daniels. “I trusted you on this,” he said softly. “Can I trust you both to keep your mouths shut? Not just until we get him into custody, but period. We’re going to have to search everything here and, no offense, but I’m not terribly inclined to trust anyone else in this department at the moment.”
“Greg Brubaker has been a friend of my family for fifteen years,” Daniels whispered. “But Agent Belkamp, sir, I’m more worried about my wife at the moment. See, five of these are her kids. They’re all her kids. If she ever handles their cases, they’re hers. Once a month she does home checks and takes the kids on her caseload out for ice cream. She remembers their names, even when she hasn’t seen them in years. When they grow up and have kids of their own, she organizes their baby showers or brings flowers to the hospital.” Daniels shut his eyes, and Doug saw him trying not to tremble. “You find him. You sort this out. You do that. I’m going to stay here and maintain the safety and security of this facility until you find someone capable of relieving me from duty. The only thing I intend to do after that is to go take care of my wife.”
“Contact Ronan, Pablo, Kalispell, and Missoula—they’ll have special-respo
nse teams willing to volunteer,” Doug whispered.
Daniels shook his head. “Jackson’s on the duty desk up front again. I suggest you have Detective Heavy Runner relieve him of duty until your own people can empty and secure the building. I can personally vouch for Detective Heavy Runner being able to keep his head straight when things fall apart. As for Greg… he called in this morning. He said he was wiped out after working through his weekend, so he was taking a personal day. I expect he’s at home, but I can’t say for sure.”
“Good enough. Come on.” Belkamp tapped Doug on the arm to get him moving. Doug winced, but got to his feet. He led the FBI agent through the almost deserted sheriff’s office while Belkamp phoned in his own people. They were working in the building, and they hurried to the front desk to meet them. By the time Doug got there, FBI windbreakers filled the entire lobby. A woman in a suit jacket and a man holding a video camera had also made it inside. “Get them out of here, now!” Belkamp shouted, gesturing to the woman.
Doug saw a dark-haired man in a suit being jostled toward the exit by an FBI agent. “Not him!” Doug shouted. “That’s Detective… ah, you know, I can’t remember. He’s one of the San Diego officers! Let him through!”
“Is he?” Belkamp arched both eyebrows.
“He’s Hayes’s partner. What’s going on?” Doug asked him.
The irritated-looking man straightened his jacket and muttered a string of Spanish curse words. “Again, all kinds of incompetent. I was just telling this boy that I need to file a missing persons report. He seems to think that someone needs to be missing for at least forty-eight hours, even if there’s evidence that they might be in trouble, before he can do jack shit. Your department is seriously lacking in professionalism, you know that?”
“You have no idea.” Doug took a deep breath and glanced sideways at Jackson. “Kid, go outside and look official. Keep reporters and anyone without an FBI badge out. Do not come back in right now.”
“But I’m supposed to—”
“Jackson, I was not making a suggestion!”
“I’m going!”
Belkamp turned to Christopher’s partner. “Who are you?”
“Detective Raymond Delgado, San Diego PD.”
“And this missing person?”
“My partner went for a run early yesterday morning. He hasn’t come back yet.”
“Was he supposed to be back?”
“Yes. His long runs are usually around two hours unless he’s training for a race. When he didn’t come back yesterday morning, I figured he was with….” The man glared at Doug. “Well, a friend. This morning the friend told me that he hadn’t seen him, then the fucking imbecile bolted before I could say anything. I got worried, so I went looking for him. I found his car near a trail north of here. A block away, on the jogging trail, I found tire tracks, a pool of dried blood, his keys on the ground, and what appears to be blood-stained drag marks between the pool of blood and the back tire marks. It might not be two plus two, but it’s not exactly calculus.”
“He’s been missing since yesterday morning? And you suspect he’s injured?” Belkamp asked.
“Maybe I am overreacting,” the detective said, rolling his eyes. "Maybe there is an officer in this shithole who has a double-digit IQ—anything is possible. Given the preponderance of the evidence, though, I wouldn’t put money on me being wrong. Or on that little Boy Scout being literate. I recognize that you seem to have something blowing up in your face, but if it’s not a matter of life or death, I would appreciate it if you could point me toward an actual police officer.”
Belkamp’s mouth dropped open as he gaped at the detective. “How?” he sputtered, shaking his head. “Who the hell are you people? What’s so damn special about San Diego?”
Doug was amazed too. Knowing the things he knew about Christopher’s history with his partner, he had no idea how the man could look so calm and collected. He had seen Christopher do the same thing over the past week, but it still shocked him. He wondered if this man had learned the trick from Christopher or if Christopher had learned it from him.
The detective caught on fast. He shrugged and smiled the same seductive smile he had worn when Doug met him at Christopher’s hotel room. “We’re the San Diego PD,” he said smugly. “We’re ‘America’s Finest’. It’s our official logo.”
“Not ‘To Protect and Serve’?” One of the FBI agents laughed.
“No, that’s LA. It is customary to pick a logo that a department can live up to, and Lord knows they do their best.”
“So, Chris has been in an accident?” Jackson asked. All eyes in the room turned to the young man. “What? I was just wondering!”
“Seriously, Jackson?” Doug asked, embarrassment seeping through his rising panic. “Why are you still here?”
“I’m going! But he seemed upset the other night in the Hay Loft, like there was something really wrong. The sheriff spent a good hour talking to him about what that Donovan kid told him before he died, though, and he said he was just fine afterwards. Or, he said he’d be just fine in the morning.”
Doug glanced at Belkamp, his stomach twisting and tightening just like it did when he lost his grip climbing. Suddenly he felt like he was in a state of free fall.
“Micah Donovan.” Belkamp nodded to himself. “All right, Jackson, get your ass back to this desk. Every phone call you make will be recorded. If you call anyone at all until you are relieved of duty, you will face federal charges!” Belkamp shouted. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” Jackson squeaked.
“We need a full tactical response and we need it right now! Special-response teams from any neighboring town, any neighboring jurisdiction! No local officers are to be involved, and you will all use cell phones to communicate! Absolute radio silence!”
Doug watched the crowd in FBI windbreakers swarm into action, each agent moving frantically to call for reinforcements or to arrange for gear and transportation. Across the crowd, he met the calculating dark-brown eyes of Christopher’s partner, maybe Christopher’s lover, if the two of them ever got an opportunity to sort through their relationship. Looking into his eyes now, Doug saw a clear reflection of the terror seeping into every facet of his being. Whatever there may be between Christopher and his partner didn’t matter now.
Doug was glad when Delgado didn’t ask where Doug was dragging him off to. He didn’t protest, or even ask questions, when Doug unlocked his truck and shoved him toward the passenger door.
“Where is the rental car?” Doug asked, after he climbed up behind the wheel.
Delgado gave him a lopsided smirk and held up his phone. The GPS began to recite directions in an infuriatingly calm woman’s voice. “I took the liberty of logging the coordinates as a waypoint.”
“That’s handy,” Doug admitted. He started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot, following the GPS’s directions to drive north.
“It keeps me from wandering around the parking lot for an hour after Chargers games.”
“Hundreds of dollars for a phone just so you don’t have to remember what row you parked in?”
“No. I remember where I've parked. It’s just an expensive toy.”
Doug huffed. It wasn’t as if he wanted to start a fight with this guy. He didn’t know why he was so disappointed that the man didn’t take the bait.
“I just keep hoping that dipshit will keep his phone turned on, but he never listens….”
“If he’s hurt, he wouldn’t be able to use it anyway.”
“True. And irrelevant,” Delgado said in a singsong voice, pronouncing each syllable precisely. “If he had his phone turned on, I’d be able to get his location from the GPS on his phone.”
“Is that even legal?”
The man rolled his eyes. “If he clicks on the little box giving me permission to do it, it’s not illegal.”
The GPS told him to turn again. “Are you saying your phone is set up to track your partner?”
“And
friends and family. There’s an app for everything these days.”
“Yeah, yeah. Soon your phone will vibrate to remind you to take a shit.”
Delgado’s smirk grew into a full-blown smile. “My sister’s got an app that does that. She uses it for her toddler. Apparently it makes potty training a breeze.”
Doug couldn’t help chuckling, despite the gravity of their situation. He could imagine watching Christopher and this man bounce off each other. They were probably a great team. “Don’t suppose you thought to call the local hospital, see if he might have been in an accident?”
Delgado’s smile wavered slightly. “As of forty minutes ago, he was not in the hospital. I meant to call back, but that circus at your office made me forget all about it.” He made the call quickly, and Doug knew before he hung up that no one had brought Christopher to the hospital. When they found the rental car, Delgado showed him the tire tracks, the pool of blood that looked like it had only been left to dry for several hours, and the scrapes in the dirt. “I found his keys here, between these deeper tire marks.”
Doug looked at the spot. It hadn’t been marked, but Doug wasn’t going to say anything.
“I took a photo of them before I grabbed them. Leaving them on the ground with the car in sight seemed stupid.”
“This isn’t the kind of place where you need to worry about someone stealing the car.”
“Just people running down and kidnapping joggers, then? I mean, that’s a lot of blood.”
“It’s not actually as much as you’d think,” Doug tried to reassure him.
Doug looked up and down the trail. It ran between the railroad tracks and the road. On the other side of the tracks, the Flathead National Forest stretched away over the foothills and mountains. Across the road, a rumbling lumberyard was enclosed behind a chain-link fence. Doug circled around the tire tracks, scanning the ground for anything that might have been out of place. About ten feet past the puddle of blood, halfway under part of the hedge, was a familiar bottle of orange Gatorade. The cap was tight and it was about three quarters full. Over the weekend, he’d seen Christopher start each run with a bottle of Gatorade in hand. He would take six sips before beginning and finish the rest during his run. Doug thought he was joking, when he described the process, but Christopher really was that meticulous about it.