by Shawn Ryan
Jason was on one knee next to his partner, panting. He had explained his reaction as hyperventilating to the stricken-faced Badger hovering over him. His head still swam, but he was in control. At least momentarily.
"Has anyone been near the body except you and forensics?" he asked in a strained voice.
"Nope. No one except you and Badge when you first came up," Saunders said. "We haven't let anyone else get near it. Standard procedure. You know that."
"So how come Badger said he saw that same frog out behind the buildings just a few minutes before?" Jason asked. "How did it get from there to here? Someone must have moved it. It didn't just walk over here on its own, did it?"
"I have no idea how it got from there to here, Jazz," Bibb shrugged. "I really don't. All I know is that it was here when we took off the boy's coat. We found the frog only a minute or two before I called you."
"I've got a better question," Saunders said. "What's wrong with you? The crap about hyperventilating doesn't hold water. You're in too good shape. Besides, you look like someone has sucked the blood from your face. That's not a symptom of hyperventilating. It's the sign of someone about to faint."
Jason sat silently for a moment, collecting his thoughts. How much should he say? How much could he say? Could he tell them the truth?
Of course you can; this is Badger, Norm, and Buzz you're talking with, a voice inside said. Besides, if you don't tell them, you're withholding valuable evidence. You can't let your personal feelings overcome the fact that two children have been killed. And you're responsible for finding their killer. What exactly was going on here? Jason wondered. The note seemed like the ravings of just another nut, a madman bent on terrorizing a little portion of the world and getting his share of publicity for doing it.
So where did he get Claire's toy? Was it Claire's in the first place? If it was, how did the killer know about it? They must have met, must know each other. But how? And who?
Jason decided the more people who could be thinking on this, the better.
"I'm not sure, but I think that frog was a toy of my daughter's," he said. "It looks just like one of hers."
"Sonuvabitch!" Badger said. "How could I not have noticed? It's… it's… what was his name?… Rufus! Rufus the Frog!"
He looked at Jason, horror enveloping his eyes. "But… but you buried it with her."
"I know," Jason said. "Why do you think I look like shit?"
"Motherfucker," Badger whispered, the color beginning to drain from his face. "No wonder it seemed familiar when I saw it. Motherfucker! The killer must know you, then. Who is it? How does all this connect? What's the common ground?"
"I don't know," Jason said. "But before we start all that, I want someone to go out to Claire's grave and check it. See if it's been disturbed. I mean, I might be mistaken about this frog being hers. And there's only one way the killer could've gotten it."
"Jesus," Saunders said. "This just keeps getting worse and worse."
Dawn was two hours behind them before Jason and Badger climbed into their cars and left the Snellville Civic Complex. Jason drove to police headquarters. Badger went home to make some phone calls to be sure his kids got off to school all right. He promised to be at headquarters as soon as he was finished.
Jason was bushed. He hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. Tired grit filled his eyes and they itched with red intensity. He stuck his nose under his right arm and sniffed. Whew. He smelled like a moose. He should go home and at least get a shower, but he didn't want to. He kept telling himself he needed to be at headquarters when the information about Claire's grave came back, not to mention the autopsy and lab reports on the boy, but the truth was he didn't want to go home to an empty apartment.
Confusion burned inside him. He still couldn't fathom what it all meant, couldn't see the whole picture. It was like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle in the dark. About the only way to understand the jumbled mess was through sheer, dumb luck.
By the time he reached headquarters, the only thing he knew for sure was that he needed a cup of coffee. And then he was going to call his dad.
When he opened his car door and stepped out, he realized with despair that it was going to take longer than he thought to get his coffee. A mob of reporters—TV with cameras on shoulders, newspapers with pads in hand, radio with recorders strapped across one arm—descended on him. Questions began pummeling him from all sides and he held up his hands.
"Hold it, hold it," he said. "I'll answer a few questions if you'll be nice about it and ask them in a civil manner."
"Has there been a murder?" asked Melinda Thorpe, a reporter from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
Briefly, Jason considered giving the standard "we have found a body and are investigating it" story, then decided that was pure bullshit. Be straightforward with these people, he thought. They'll find out sooner or later and you'll look like a schmuck. He'd worry later about what his superiors would say. Still, he wasn't just going to spill his guts. They would have to ask him the right questions.
"Yes, we have a murder," he said.
"Man or woman?" someone asked.
"A small boy."
A few oohs and aahs were heard.
"Do you have his name?" asked a dark-haired man from Channel Two.
"Not at this point."
"Is it another Mercy Killing?" Melinda asked.
"We think so."
"Same method as before? Decapitation? Head reattached? Eyes gouged out? All that?" she asked.
"Yes. All that."
"So you're pretty sure it's the same person as before?" a voice from the back asked.
"It seems that way. Not too many people would go to this much trouble."
"Not even a copycat?" someone said.
"Not to this degree. They'd get a lot of the same things right from reading the papers or watching TV, but the little things, the kind of stuff we don't even tell you guys, he couldn't possibly get right."
"Little things like what?" Melinda asked.
Jason gave her a lopsided smirk.
"Little things you know I'm not going to tell you, Melinda," he said.
She grinned back. "Well, I tried," she said.
"Any suspects?" the dark-haired man asked.
"Not yet," Jason said. "But we're hopeful. A crime of this magnitude takes a lot of planning and a lot of research. Sooner or later this guy's going to slip up somewhere in the process and we'll have him."
"You think it's a guy?" Melinda asked.
She's quick, Jason thought.
"The style of the murders, the sheer amount of brute force it would take to cut a child's head off, makes us lean in that direction."
"Detective Medlocke, you say you hope to solve this crime sooner or later," the man from Channel Two asked. "Do you think it will be sooner or later?"
The station's cameraman stepped closer to get a better reaction shot. The hot, bright light on top of the camera blinded Jason and he put his right hand in front of his eyes.
"Hey, do you really need that thing?" he asked. "It's brighter than hell out here."
"Sorry, the sun keeps going in and out of the clouds," the cameraman said. "I need it."
"Okay, but try to keep it out of my eyes. They're bloodshot enough as is."
The cameraman nodded and smiled.
"Detective Medlocke, you still haven't answered my question," the reporter pressed.
"What do you expect me to say?" Jason said sharply, exhaustion taking its toll. "Of course I hope it'll be sooner."
"But will it be?" the man asked.
Irritation colored Jason's face. The camera lights were blinding him and the heat was making him sweat. His head thundered. He squinted at the man's face through the glare of the lights.
"I don't recognize you," he said. "What's your name?"
"Anthony Bradley. But I don't think that's important."
"Well, Anthony, maybe not to you, but I like to know who I'm talking to," Jason countered. "And
to answer your question: I can't tell you exactly when we will solve this case. Murders don't get solved on deadline. But believe me when I say that we've got every available police officer and forensic technician working on this. Even though this isn't their jurisdiction, we're in daily contact with the FBI and GBI. We'll crack it as soon as is humanly possible."
"There are some officials in Gwinnett who say you aren't doing enough," Bradley continued. "That you're sitting on your hands. How do you answer that?"
Understanding flooded Jason's mind. A mixture of anger, awe, and grudging respect followed it. This guy had been talking to Anson Quintard. The fat son of a bitch was using the media to get back at him and Badger. Give the bastard credit for being true to his word.
Even though he realized this reporter was just doing his job and following a tip, Jason was damned if he was going to be a scapegoat for Quintard's grandstanding. He straightened his back and looked directly at Bradley. He knew what he was about to do was foolhardy and reckless and probably would look incredibly stupid if he didn't do it right, but he decided to screw the risks.
"I don't know what you've heard, Anthony, but do these look like hands that have been sat upon?"
He held up his hands, backs to the camera. Bloody scrapes and cuts dotted the knuckles while bruises peppered the rest of his hands. Jason knew they were the by-products of his scuffle with Badger, but Bradley and the people watching this evening's newscasts—provided they used this sound bite on the air—wouldn't know that. Jason was counting on it.
Bradley looked at the hands, then back at Jason.
"No, they don't," he said, his voice steady. "But with your past history of alcoholism after the death of your wife and daughter, there is a question of how fit you may be to handle a case of this size."
A collective gasp rose above the crowd as the other reporters realized Bradley had gone too far. It's one thing to be hard and cold questioning an uncooperative person or a well-known bag of shit, but Jason was forthright and out in the open and most of the reporters liked and respected him.
Even Bradley's cameraman backed several feet away, getting out of the line of fire. He kept filming, however. Getting a cop busting a reporter in the mouth would be a coup. A small smile creased the cameraman's face. It would be fun to watch this smug, overachieving, snot-nosed kid learn the art of give-and-take reporting.
Jason didn't notice. All he could see was the clean-cut, good-looking face he now wanted to pound into the pavement. His hands clenching involuntarily, he took a step toward Bradley. The reporter moved backward, his face registering the knowledge that he had stepped over the line and now was going to pay for it.
"Hey now, wait…" he stammered. "Don't touch me."
Jason was within a foot of Bradley, bringing his hand up to grab him by the shirt collar, when he stopped. Bradley, still backpedaling, tripped over his microphone cord and crashed to the pavement. His pad flew out of his hands and landed facedown on the parking lot. A loud rip was heard as the seat of his pants gave way.
Standing above him, Jason's red-rimmed eyes glared down in fury. He felt heat infusing his face. How dare this young punk bring up Sarah and Claire? How dare he use them to question his competence? How dare he listen to Quintard as if he were some kind of truth-spouting messiah?
But looking at Bradley, who sat with his legs sprawled apart and his hands on the pavement, all Jason saw was a scared young man. He heard the giggles from the other reporters and knew the kind of humiliation Bradley was going to have to suffer. The worst of his anger flowed away. But there was another lesson this little shit needed to learn, and Jason leaned down, putting his nose within two inches of Bradley's.
"Look, I know Quintard has been feeding you this information about me. I know you're new and you want to do a good job. But hear this and hear it good. Don't ever bring up my family again. Not in the context of my job. They're gone and I have to live with that. I have to live with the fact that I'm a recovering alcoholic because they're gone. But I don't have to live with someone tossing that in my face every time something goes wrong. I don't like it, I don't want it, and I sure as hell don't need it."
Jason straightened, never taking his eyes from Bradley's.
"You got that?" he asked.
"Yeah, I understand," Bradley said, dropping his eyes. His voice was low and meek.
"Good. Here, let me help you up," Jason said, extending his hand. Bradley looked at it for a second, then at Jason. Distrust clouded his brow.
"No shit. Take my hand," Jason said. "I'm not going to drop you or anything."
Bradley reached up and locked his hand around Jason's wrist. Jason leaned back and Bradley came off the ground in a flash. Once up, he reached behind him and checked out the tear in his pants. His eyes widened as his fingers told him the size of the damage. An embarrassed glow erupted on his face.
"You'd better get back home and change pants," Jason said. "Those are shot."
Bradley nodded and turned, holding the seat of his pants closed with his left hand. "Bill, can you get my pad?" he quietly asked the cameraman, then walked as quickly and with as much dignity as he could to the Channel Two news van. Bill reached down and picked up the notepad, then looked at Jason and winked.
"They all need some comeuppance sooner or later," he said.
After a few more questions, the other reporters cleared out, some of them concerned that Jason might unleash his grizzly-bear tactics on them. They needn't have worried. He felt washed out, drained and hung on the line to dry.
The reporters gone, he turned and walked toward headquarters rear entrance. Captain Silverman was standing outside the door. Jason stopped in front of him and shrugged his shoulders, a rueful grimace on his face.
"Try to be a little more civil next time," Silverman said. "All we need on this case is a pissed-off reporter who would just love to catch you putting your foot in your mouth. We've already got Quintard with his nose planted up our butts and his teeth just begging to chomp out a bite."
"Sorry," Jason said. "I'm just real tired and that kid brought up Sarah and Claire in a way I didn't think was necessary. But to be honest, I don't think he's going to be causing me any trouble."
"I hope not," Silverman said. "I also hope he doesn't send us the bill for those pants."
Jason smiled. "Just forward it to me."
Silverman laughed as he opened the door and motioned for Jason to go inside.
"Oh by the way," he said. "Your father called."
Chapter 9
« ^ »
Jason's fingers rapidly dialed the number to his father's office at church. The phone rang several times with no answer.
"C'mon, Dad," Jason fervently whispered into the receiver.
The other end picked up.
"Hello," his father's voice said.
"Hi Dad," Jason said with relief.
"Hi Son, how's it going?"
"Not too well. We've got another child murder," Jason said, the words coming out in a rush. "I just got back from the scene. It's a boy this time. I don't think I told you this last time. As an added twist, the killer leaves a note at each scene. Mutilates the kids. Says he's doing it because the lord is commanding him to. Calls himself the Mercy Killer. Some mercy."
"It's not the same lord that I worship who's commanding him," Stephen said. "How can people like that live with themselves? What does it take for the human mind to descend to such a level?"
Stephen took a deep breath. "So how're you holding up?" he asked. "I got one of my bad feelings again in the middle of the night."
For a moment, Jason debated whether to tell his father about all that had happened in the past few hours. About the disappearing ball trick that really disappeared, about Badger's encounter with the voice and the eyes and especially about the stuffed frog. It was all a little weird even to tell his dad, in whom he confided almost everything. Maybe he wouldn't tell him everything. Not yet. Maybe the ball trick was just a figment of a tired, overworked brain
. The ball probably was lying somewhere around his bedroom. He just hadn't had time to find it. And what about Badger's story about the voice and the bad feeling he got from the stuffed animal? Well, Badger was just as tired and overworked as he was. A mind can create some amazing things when it reaches the point of exhaustion. He wouldn't talk to his dad about that until he'd talked to Badger again. His partner might change his mind, decide it was all hallucination. But it was a damned powerful one to make a big guy like Badger cower like a blubbering infant, wasn't it? a voice inside him said.
But the frog. There was no way to get around the frog.
"Uh, yeah, Dad, there has been something else," he said. "They found a toy at one of the crime scenes. A stuffed frog. It… it was just like one Claire used to have. In fact, I think it may be hers. I don't know how this killer got it. I put it in her… uh, next to her… at the funeral. If it's really hers, he would've had to… well, you know… dig her up to get it."
Stephen's voice instantly barked back over the phone.
The friendliness was gone. In its place was cold, hard seriousness. And buried deeply, almost unnoticeable, Jason heard an echo of fear.
"Has anything else unusual happened to you lately? Before or after you found the frog?" his father asked.
"That's a weird question," Jason said. "What do you mean? Unusual how?"
"As in out of the ordinary; as in unexplainable. Think, Son."
"No, no, not a thing," Jason stammered, shocked by the iron in his father's voice and forgetting the incident with the disappearing ball trick. "I mean, two kids being killed and mutilated is unusual, if that's what you mean."
"No, it's not what I mean," Stephen said. "What about bad dreams? Had any nightmares lately?"
"Nope, sleeping like a baby," Jason said. "What are you getting at?"
His father was silent for several seconds. When he spoke, much of the concern was gone from his voice. Disguised, but not totally disappeared, Jason noted.
"Nothing, nothing really," Stephen said. "At least I don't think so. I don't know. When you told me about Claire's toy, it just shocked me. Scared the goddammed hell out of me, actually."