by Shawn Ryan
He blinked several times and rubbed his hands up and down his arms as the tingling dissipated.
He was just returning to normal when the office door swung open and Anson Quintard strutted in.
"Oh, fuck me with a pine cone," Badger moaned under his breath.
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Badger looked at Jason and grimaced. This was all they needed.
Quintard was a five-term county commissioner, born and raised in Gwinnett and, as Badger said, "so swelled up with himself, if he ever exploded there'd be shit from here to Tennessee."
Owner of a chain of hardware stores, Quintard normally wore nothing but blue jeans and flannel shirts. But when he had county business to handle, he wore suits and ties to dress the part.
Today he was dressed in an eight-hundred-dollar charcoal pinstripe by Armani with a pair of Italian-crafted Guccis. His paisley Geoffrey Beene tie rested comfortably on his belly, a voluminous gut that was the product of one too many fine dinners as well as a habit for bourbon and Cokes.
Despite his taste for alcohol, Quintard voted against every liquor license applied for in Gwinnett. He wanted to present the image of an upstanding, pious man, sworn against the Demon Alcohol, that is, until he got inside his own home or behind some motel door with a cheerleader from a local high school.
"Hello boys," Quintard said as he lowered himself into one of the spare chairs.
Neither acknowledged his presence. Quintard frowned at the slight, a hint of red seeping up from beneath his collar and coloring his jowls. Smoothing back his TV evangelist hair, he cleared his throat and began again.
"I said, hello, boys." His voice was a couple of notches louder.
"Hello, Anson," Jason said. Badger bent his head closer to his desk to hide his smile. Quintard hated to be called by his first name by people he considered his underlings.
Quintard ignored the insult.
"How's the investigation going?" he asked.
"Coming along," Jason answered.
"Any leads?" Quintard probed.
"A few."
"Like what?"
"Anson, you know I can't discuss an ongoing investigation with you," Jason said, looking up, a smile on his lips but flint in his eyes.
"I am here in my official capacity as a county commissioner," Quintard said haughtily. "I am a member of this county's administration and, as such, am privy to that kind of information."
"Not from where we stand," Jason said.
"I deserve to know," Quintard said, starting to fume. "People, important people mind you, have been asking me questions, questions I can't answer. I don't appreciate looking like I don't know what's going on right outside my own front door."
"Especially to the newspapers and TV stations," Badger said. "All you want to do is take whatever we give you to the reporters and become an official spokesman. Forget it. We're not here to fuel your re-election campaign."
Quintard's voice jumped a couple of octaves, his chins quivering.
"I have a duty to my constituents to tell them what the police of this county are doing to protect them—or not protect them, as the case may be."
"You tell them whatever you want, Anson," Jason said, staring directly into Quintard's face. "But until you pin on a badge and become an official member of this police department, you don't get shit."
"We'll see what Captain Silverman has to say about that," Quintard said.
"Yeah, yeah. Come back when you get his answer," Badger said. "Until then, get the fuck lost."
It was the final insult. The red in Quintard's neck erupted into his face, making him look like a beet with bulging eyes.
"By God, you had better have something on this case soon, you little pricks, or I'll be tearing chunks the size of Buicks out of your fucking asses," he howled. "You may be not soot to your bosses, Medlocke, but you're just another shitheel with a badge to me. And Franklin, you're just riding on Medlocke's coattails, your lips suckered up to his butt. I've been here my whole life and I'll be here long after your asses have been ridden out of town on a rail."
With a loud thwap, Jason slammed his pencil down on his desk and looked directly into Quintard's eyes. His voice was a quiet razor.
"Yeah, well you know what they say: Shit never falls far from the bird's asshole," he said quietly.
Without a word, Quintard turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the pane shook. His footsteps could be heard pounding down the carpeted hall toward Silverman's office. "Get out of my way, shithead!" he yelled at some poor soul in his way.
"What a scum-sucking bag of shit," Badger said. "What a douche bag. He's never forgiven you for giving him that DUI last year."
"Hey, it was just my dumb luck to be at that red light when he roared through it," Jason said. "I couldn't very well ignore it. Besides, I didn't know it was Quintard until he opened the door and fell out."
"Not that it would've mattered if you did know who it was," Badger said.
"Right."
"And it's just too bad it made the local news," Badger continued. "Don't you know it just shamed him beyond words. Checking into that rehab center was just to save his political ass. He lost a lot of friends in the deal, a lot of friends who would've translated into a lot of money. He blames you."
"Don't sweat him," Jason said.
Badger paused for a moment.
"It's that other stuff, too, you know," he said. "He's scared of what might happen if it went public."
Jason nodded. Quintard hated him and Badger for other reasons.
The "other stuff" that Badger spoke of had happened a few months after Quintard went through his much bally-hooed sobering up. The first incident took place when a twenty-one-year-old male stripper walked into police headquarters and filed a report against Quintard, claiming that the commissioner had raped him.
The young man, Brandon Spencer, said he had been hired as a private dancer for a party, but when he arrived at the hotel room where the party was supposed to be, Quintard was the only person there. After some gentle coaxing from Quintard, the teenager went ahead and performed, during which, he said, Quintard slowly stroked an erection. Afterward, and with the promise of several hundred dollars in payment, Spencer said he allowed Quintard to blow him. According to Spencer, Quintard refused to pay after he finished and shoved the stripper out the door without his clothes.
Quintard was questioned, but denied everything. A few days later, Spencer returned to headquarters and recanted his entire story, saying it was all lies. With no complainant, the charges were dropped.
It was a few days later that Jason saw Spencer at Gwinnett Place Mall, driving a sparkling new Porsche. The next time Jason saw Quintard, he casually mentioned Spencer's nice car and remarked how odd it was that a young man like him could afford it. "He must have some rich piece of old cheese sugar daddy," Jason said. Quintard's face turned red, but he simply turned and stalked off.
When Jason told him what had happened, Badger wanted to reopen the investigation, but Jason said that a new car, as suspicious as it might be, was not grounds for reopening the case. After several heated arguments between him and Jason, Badger relented. They never told Captain Silverman about the Porsche.
The second incident occurred six months later when drug dealer John "Skank" Burke was found in a dumpster behind a Pizza Hut in Lawrenceville, the county seat. He'd been shot three times in the back of the head, execution style.
On his wrist was a gaudy, nugget-gold bracelet. It didn't mean anything to any of the technicians examining the crime scene, but when Badger saw it, it struck a chord in his memory.
"Didn't Anson Quintard use to wear a bracelet like that?" he asked Jason.
Jason couldn't remember, so the next time they saw Quintard, Badger made it a point to look at the man's wrists. There was no bracelet. Brazenly, he took the direct approach. "What happened to your gold bracelet?" he asked Quintard.
Quintard was pointedly silent for a moment, looking into
Badger's eyes. Then he quietly said, "I lost it. Don't know where."
"That's usually what lost means," Badger answered.
The next day, Badger called Quintard on the phone. "I think we found your bracelet, Anson," he said. "Why don't you come down and pick it up at our office?"
Jason was out of the office picking up lunch when Quintard arrived a couple of days later. Badger noted that he didn't seem very excited about his jewelry turning up. Quintard said nothing.
"You know where we found it?" Badger said, continuing to prod.
"I have no idea," Quintard said.
"On a dead drug dealer's wrist. Any idea how it got there?"
Quintard was quiet for a moment, then he leaned forward until his face was halfway across Badger's desk. "If you've got something to say, why don't you have the balls to come out and say it, Franklin?" he growled.
"No problem," Badger said, standing up and shoving his face within inches of Quintard's. "Why does a dead junkie have your bracelet on, Anson? Was he a buddy of yours? An acquaintance? A business partner, maybe?"
Quintard's jowls jiggled with anger, but he didn't retaliate. Instead, he just smiled humorlessly.
"You're just pissing in the wind, Franklin," he said. "There's no way you can prove any connection between me and Burke."
"How'd you know it was Burke?" Badger said. "I never gave any names."
"I read the newspapers, detective," Quintard answered.
Damn, Badger thought. He squeezed out of that one.
"I suggest you keep your suspicions to yourself, Franklin," Quintard said as he straightened to leave. "If you say anything about them in public, I'll sue you for slander."
After Quintard left, Badger was so mad he punched a hole in the wall of their office.
The hole had been patched, but Quintard's Teflon coating still rankled Badger. He now sat at his desk, anger making him fume again.
"Goddammit, we ought to nail that bastard," he told Jason. "We know he's dirty all the way up to his hairline. There's got to be something we can pin on him."
"We will, sooner or later," Jason said. "He'll fuck up so badly that he can't pull his ass free, and we'll be there to watch him sink."
"You know what kind of political ambitions Quintard has," Badger said. "He knows that if we could we'd implicate him in enough stuff to kill those plans forever. Just letting that stuff leak to the media might be enough to wipe him out. He wants us out of the way so bad, I bet his asshole puckers every time he gets near us."
"He'll just have to learn to live with it," Jason said. "There's nothing he can do to us."
"I'll bet that doesn't stop him from thinking about it," Badger said.
Before that line of thinking could be pursued further, the door to their office opened and a butt was stuck in. "Is there any left?" Silverman's voice said.
"It's all there," Badger laughed.
"Well, it's not because Quintard didn't try and chew it off," Silverman said, turning around and coming through the door. "Can't you guys be a little more diplomatic? The guy is on the commission's finance committee. He can make it tough for us to get the little niceties we enjoy so much, like patrol cars and bullets."
"But he's such a scuzbag," Jason said.
"Well, I managed to calm him down—a little. I told him to call me and I'd keep him abreast of the situation," Silverman said, his voice lowering on the last phrase. "I'll feed him a line of say-nothing shit and keep him happy. But for my benefit, anything new?"
Jason filled him in on the outdoor shops, the Nikes and the typewriter. The last thing he told him about was Saunders's autopsy findings.
"We're dealing with a truly sick human being," Silverman said.
"I'm not sure the guy's really human," Jason said.
Nobody smiled.
Chapter 5
« ^ »
After Quintard's storm had subsided, the ensuing hours passed in slow frustration as Jason and Badger slammed into one dead end after another in the investigation.
Following the lead of the saw, Jason dialed the number of Aaron Outdoors, the first outdoor shop listed in the Yellow Pages. He didn't stop until he called all twenty-three shops listed. Almost all of the stores sold the type of saw Saunders described, but the managers said a lot of people bought them, from the rugged gung-ho survivalist to the weekend camper. "They're real compact," one manager said. "Real handy." None of them could remember anyone suspicious buying one.
Jason told them the saw was a suspected tool in a crime and that such a device might be used again. Each manager promised to keep a close watch on anyone buying one in the next few weeks.
It was a frustrating beginning to the grunt process of following leads, but Jason expected no less. Murderers usually don't just fall into your lap; you have to hunt them down one piece at a time.
He and Badger drove out to Trickum Middle School and talked to Amanda's friends and teachers, school administrators, and school janitors. They questioned employees at the skating rink and workers at the convenience store across the street from the rink. Hotels in the area reported no check-ins by apparent drifters or anyone else who might be considered suspicious.
The only fact they substantiated was that Bill Raimey, the father of Rachel, one of Amanda's best friends, drove and picked up the kids at the skating rink. He let Amanda out at the top of her street about six in the evening. Figuring someone on her street might have seen her get out of the car and walk to her house, the pair drove back to Amanda's neighborhood.
It was just past eleven when they finished interviewing the Campbells, who lived in the last house on Amanda's street. Not one lead materialized. At six the day before, families were inside watching TV or eating dinner. No one saw anything. They drove back to headquarters in frustrated silence.
Once there, Jason started to walk into the building, but Badger grabbed his arm.
"C'mon," Badger said. "We're too tired to do any more good tonight and I need to get home. My kids are at friends, but I need some sleep. Let's pick this up in the morning."
Jason nodded in agreement. The two were walking toward their cars when Jason stopped.
"So what do you think?" he asked.
Not needing to ask what his partner was talking about, Badger knitted his brows for a moment before he answered.
"Don't know really," he finally said. "This guy is smart, meticulous. Is he truly a religious nut or is he just using that to throw us off? Does he hate kids? If so, why? Or is he a pedophile, taking out his rage at himself on children?"
"Whatever he is, I agree with Buzz. He ain't stopping with just one. I bet the next one's already in the planning stages."
"What about you?" Badger asked. "What're you thinking?"
"Of all things, I've been thinking about what Mallory told us this morning, about how he thought he saw something in the gas station," Jason said. "For some reason that keeps sticking with me."
"How come?"
"Not sure. There's just something weird about it. Mallory wouldn't have set himself up to look like a fool unless he was dead serious. He believes he saw someone."
"So if there was someone there, how'd he get away so fast? People don't just disappear into thin air, do they?"
"It sounds impossible, I know," Jason said. "But what was it Sherlock Holmes said: 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'"
"Oh bullshit," Badger snorted. "We haven't eliminated the possible yet. Go home. Get some sleep. You're getting screwy."
Jason looked at his watch as he strode across the parking lot to his car. Eleven forty-five. Jesus, almost midnight and the humidity still makes your clothes cling to you like wet rags, he thought.
He cranked his car and instantly set the air conditioning on maxi-cool, aiming the vents directly into his face. His family warned him when he left Boston and moved to Georgia three years before. The heat is awful, they said, and it makes all those cracker-ass rednecks even meaner.
Besides, the job offer in Gwinnett was too good to pass up.
Until the late '70s, Gwinnett was mostly a rural county, home to cattle farms and horse breeding stables with a few small towns thrown in for good measure. But in the '80s, its population ballooned by three hundred percent and it now was a predominantly middle-class county with homes in the $ 100,000s and cable TV available to almost everyone. The county's rapid growth translated into equally rapid moves up the police department's ladder, so Jason left the Boston police force and joined Gwinnett's.
Although he and Sarah owned a house in Lawrenceville, the county seat, he sold it and moved into a one-bedroom apartment off Jimmy Carter Boulevard after she and Claire were killed. It was a longer drive to work, but staying in the house was simply impossible.
He was mentally and physically beat as he pulled off I-85 at the Jimmy Carter exit, turning left at the end of the ramp and driving the mile or so to Singleton Road. The light was red at Singleton and, since he was turning left, he was forced to stop.
He sat at the light for about ten seconds, when the tingling began. It wasn't the angry tingling, however. This one he recognized as the feeling he got when someone was looking at him. He slowly cut his eyes to the right and into the eyes of a beautiful blonde in a Mazda Miata.
Without thinking, he smiled and nodded. She studied him intently, and Jason realized she was sizing him up, deciding whether he was a nice guy or an ax murderer. Taking a chance, he reached into his breast pocket and drew out his badge. He showed it to her and mouthed the words "It's okay. I'm a cop."
For a second she seemed alarmed. Then she threw her head back and laughed heartily. She gave him the Okay sign.
Before anything more could be said between them, the light turned green, the blonde waved goodbye and drove off. Shit. Jason thought. Bad luck.
An inquisitive look crossed his face. Strange he would think like that. Women rarely were on his mind since he lost Sarah.