by Ray Garton
2
When they entered the police station, they were greeted by chaos.
Three officers were struggling to pull apart two men who were trying to get their angry hands on each other. One was a very large black man — he required two officers — and the other, an Hispanic man, was smaller, thinner, and bleeding badly from a wound to the side of his head. They were shouting guttural obscenities at each other as the officers shouted threats at them, trying to pull them farther and farther apart.
To the side of each man was a woman, and each of them was screaming at the other even more viciously than the men, spittle shooting from their mouths as they moved closer and closer while the men were pulled farther apart, until the women pounced. They clashed with hands slicing through the air like claws, teeth bared as if they were animals, scratching flesh, pulling hair, punching, and kicking frantically.
"Oh, shit!” one of the officers shouted. "Somebody get over here, quick, right now!”
Sergeant Douglas was at his desk and on the phone, but at the officer's call, he hung up immediately and rushed to the two women, pulling them apart and shouting, "Hey, hey, that's enough! Knock this shit off right now! You're in a fuckin' police station, understand?"
Douglas was quickly joined by a female officer who was even rougher with the two women than he was being. Right behind her was Chief Cotchell.
"What in the hell is goin' on here?" Cotchell bellowed.
The thunder in his voice startled them into a moment of silence, long enough for the officers to pull the two women apart so that both angry couples could not reach each other.
"Now I don't care if these people were in here selling fuckin' Girl Scout cookies!" Cotchell barked. "They are all under arrest, am I clear? All of 'em!"
The officers responded affirmatively and led the two couples out of the waiting area and through a doorway in the back. Douglas went back to his desk. He noticed Bent an instant before Cotchell did, and his eyes narrowed.
Cotchell started to turn, then stopped and gave Bent a double take. He got that bulldog look on his face again, lifted a hand slowly, and stabbed his forefinger through the air as he shouted, "And what the hell are you doin' here, Mr. Muckraker?"
Ethan stepped in front of Bent and said firmly, but quietly, "He's with me, Chief Cotchell. And he's not raking muck."
Cotchell's hand fell to his side and he closed his lips, tilting his head back. "Pastor. I'm sorry. I didn't know — "
"Don't apologize. Just let's go into your office and talk."
"He's with you?" Cotchell asked, waving a hand at Bent.
"Yes, he is."
Cotchell looked down at his feet and shook his head as he chuckled coldly, then looked at Bent over Ethan's shoulder. "You got him to believe it, didn't you? Whatever little story it was, you got him to believe it."
Ethan's lips were beginning to tremble again and his entire body was tense. "The only thing I had trouble believing, Chief Cotchell, was that you wouldn't even listen to his information. But why don't we talk about that upstairs, because I don't think I can keep my voice down much longer ... and I don't care to have all these folks out here see me get angry."
Cotchell frowned at Ethan for a moment, then they went to his office, taking the stairs without saying a word. Once they were inside, Cotchell slammed the door and settled behind his desk as the others seated themselves. Cotchell leaned forward, seeming to brace himself for whatever was coming. He folded his big hands and rested his jutting chin on the knuckles, smiling, leveling his eyes with Ethan's. "What can I do for you, Pastor Walker?"
"You can listen. You can pay attention."
"Listen to ... who?"
"To Mr. Noble, here. And to his friend, Mr. Colloway. And if you don't, I can promise you ... I will be on the news tonight telling everyone in the Bay Area that you ... didn't care." Ethan leaned forward, too, and put his arms on the desk, folding his hands together. "Do you understand, Chief Cotchell?"
"I understand," Cotchell said quietly, almost gently. "I only ask one thing of you, Pastor. When your friends are done telling their story, I ask that you listen very carefully to what I have to say. Is that agreed?"
Ethan nodded. "Of course."
Cotchell actually smiled as he leaned back in his chair and said, "All right, gentlemen. Let's hear it."
"Well, this is my friend — " Bent began, but Cotchell interrupted, turning to Coll.
"I know who he is. Every cop in the country knows who he is. You've painted some pretty ugly pictures of law enforcement officers in your books, you know."
Coll smiled and shrugged. "They're not all bad. Maybe you're just not reading the right books."
"I don't read any of 'em."
As Coll and Cotchell made their chilly small talk, Bent took the opportunity to remove the map from his bag and begin unfolding it. "Mind if I borrow your desk?" Bent asked Cotchell.
The chief cocked a brow at him and leaned back in his chair, locking his hands behind his head. "Oh, sure, go right ahead," he sighed grumblingly.
As Bent spread the map open, he told Cotchell what he and Coll had done, what the dots signified, and then asked him to look at them carefully.
Without leaning forward, Cotchell's eyes scanned the map. "Uh-huh. And what exactly made you decide to cover the disappearances in the last year, in particular?"
"No reason, really. I just chose it arbitrarily."
“Uh-huh. And you want me to notice that upside-down cross there, huh?"
"Well, yes. That was the idea."
Cotchell leaned forward, laughing loudly, and buried his face in both hands. He laughed for a long time, then lifted his face from his hands and looked at them with watery, squinty eyes. "You're not serious. I mean ... well, you're just not serious! You can't be!" He laughed some more as he looked at the three of them. "Just think about what you're saying! What if you'd chosen to cover the disappearances of children over, say, the last six months. Or the last three months. Or two months? Or the last two years? Do you think that would have changed your, um — " He laughed again, " — your findings? I mean, do you think that cross would be there then?"
Bent and Coll exchanged a glance.
"Well, do you?"
"I don't know," Bent said. "I just know I'd have to choose a period of time that would — "
"Of course the damned cross wouldn't be there!" Cotchell barked, smacking his hand down on the map and shooting to his feet. "If you'd added an extra week you wouldn't be able to see that thing! Those dots're nothing more than a kind of — of ... Rorschach ink blot, for cryin' out loud! That cross doesn't mean shit! If you'd covered another month or two, maybe you'd see a smiley face in there somewhere, or the McDonald's arches, so what would that mean? That a conspiracy of happy people are kidnapping children? That the Hamburglar has become the Kiddie-burglar? Hell no! It'd just mean that you're dyin' to find something to hang your damned story on is all!"
Bent stabbed a thumb toward Coll, getting angry. "What about his dog?"
Cotchell craned his head forward and squinted at Bent. "What?"
"Someone got into his apartment last night, killed his dog, cut it open, and tacked its heart to the bedroom wall."
Cotchell looked at Coll a moment, then turned away from them and rubbed a hand down hard over his mouth. To Bent, he said, "Look, I'm sorry to hear that, don't get me wrong. But do you know how many people there must be out there who don't like your friend here? Huh? What he does isn't a whole lot different from what you do, Mr. Noble, except he uses more pages, better pictures, and has a nice classy cover with his picture on the back to put on the bookstore shelves." He turned to Coll. "I think you'll agree, Mr. Colloway, when I say that you piss somebody off every time you write a paragraph. Surely you don't agree with your tabloid friend, here? Surely you don't think somebody killed your dog because of this!” he barked, pointing at the map. Cotchell leveled a steely gaze at Bent, then Coll, then seated himself behind the desk again, waiting for them to conti
nue.
But they didn't. After a quick glance at each other, they said nothing more.
"Listen, Pastor Walker," Cotchell said quietly, turning to Ethan, "I'm very sorry for losing my temper and — " He backed away from the desk and waved at the map, growling through clenched teeth, "Get this damned thing outta my way!"
Bent pulled the map off the desk and carefully folded it up before replacing it in the bag.
Cotchell leaned forward, folding his arms on the desktop and looking at Ethan with grave concern. "I'm very sorry for getting so upset, Pastor Walker, but I can't help it. What's happening here has happened before. I've seen it many times, and it eats up my guts. It happened just a couple months ago. You remember Raoul Fuentes, don't you?"
Ethan nodded.
Cotchell's quiet voice, almost a whisper, filled the office with a certain solemnity. "He was responsible for six drive-by shootings, and he was only eleven years old. But none of the people he shot were killed, and he was doing it as part of an initiation to a gang. The gang wasn't happy, so they hog-tied him and shot him in the back of the head right by the railroad tracks at the edge of town, I don't have to tell you how devastated his parents were. They were torn apart. I talked with them personally, as I've talked with you and your wife. We caught the boy's killers, but that was a pretty easy one. We had a good idea who they were. But I'm getting off the subject. The day that boy was murdered — the very day — someone came in asking to see the police photographs of the body. It was a young man, college age, kinda nerdy. Said he wanted to see them because he was interested in becoming a police photographer. He even brought in a portfolio of work to complete the lie. It took a while to learn the truth, but it turned out he worked for Hard Copy, one of those tabloid TV shows. He wanted the pictures, whether he had to steal them or photograph them. They were for television, Pastor Walker, for television! The horrible pictures of that little boy's corpse."
Ethan rubbed his forehead hard with four fingertips and asked, "What does that have to do with this, Chief Cotchell?"
"Everything. Everything in the world! These people will tell you anything to get what they want, and what they want is always something sick, something that has nothing to do with journalism. I've listened to your friends, Pastor, and I don't believe them, because I've heard it all before. They're all alike, every single one of them. I'm telling you all this because ... well, because I want to beg you not to fall for their story. They want to twist this into some kind of ... I don't know, a Satanic conspiracy! Something that will sell papers and sell books! I'm begging you not to buy into it, Pastor Walker! You have enough on your plate already!" His voice remained very quiet, but terribly urgent.
Both Bent and Coll kept their mouths shut, though they wanted very much to speak up.
Cotchell went on: "I promise you, Pastor — I can't stress it enough — we are doing everything possible to find your son! I've got people on this day and night. Just because it's not in the paper anymore doesn't mean we aren't still working hard on it, that just means the reporters have found something uglier that will sell more papers. These guys — "He gestured toward Bent and Coll. " — are perfectly willing to beef up your story so they can sell lots of theirs, of course. And if they can get you on their side, the story looks even more credible. Now, I don't know if it's any consolation, but children are disappearing in the Bay Area every day! Some are never found again. But our department has found nine in the past year. Maybe that doesn't sound like a lot, but I assure you, it is. And we found those children with the same methods we're using right now to find your son. If anything, Pastor Walker — after all, you're a very admired man in this community — if anything, this case is getting more attention than others might."
"How many of those children you found were still alive, Chief Cotchell?" Ethan asked quietly.
Cotchell froze with his mouth still open, then very slowly leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his big chest. "Well, Pastor, I'd have to say that, uh ... we, uh ...”
"I think you've said enough," Ethan said, smiling as he stood. "Thank you very much for your time. We won't take up any more of it." He nodded at Bent and Coll, and the three of them left the office.
Downstairs, they were heading for the door when Bent glanced at Sergeant Douglas. He was doing it again: staring coldly at Bent, following his every move, holding the receiver tightly to his ear, lips moving frantically, head nodding, then shaking, then nod-ding again. Bent frowned at the man a moment, then headed out the door.
"I'm very sorry about that," Ethan said as he held the door open for the other two men. "You've both been kind to me, nothing but considerate, and I appreciate that. Why he refuses to at least listen to your information, I'll never know. But I hope his description of the two of you — " He glanced at Coll in the backseat. " — is incorrect, because if it isn't, then I'm afraid I am a fool. At the moment I feel I have no choice but to accept whatever help you're willing to give me. And I must admit ... your story sounds perfectly believable to me."
"He is incorrect, Ethan," Bent said. "Money has nothing to do with this. I'm not after a sensational story, and neither is Coll."
"Good." Ethan started the car and drove out of the police station's parking lot.
Once they were on the road, Bent turned to him and said, "And thank you, Ethan. For your trust, I mean."
Ethan simply gave him a silent smile.
3
Cotchell was sitting at his desk minutes after his speech to Pastor Walker, his brow etched with deep frown lines, when his telephone rang. "Cotchell."
It was Sergeant Douglas. "You want me to give those guys the boot from now on, Chief?"
"If you ever keep Pastor Walker from seeing me, I'll kick your ass so far into the future, you'll die of old age before you get there!"
There was a long pause, then: "What about the other two?"
Cotchell sighed. "Yeah. I never wanna see those two guys again. And, uh ... sorry, Douglas, for snapping like that."
"No problem, Chief."
"It's just that ... hell, if that bastard wasn't working for the journalistic equivalent of a used tampon, I just might look into his story. It's just weird enough that maybe ... well, who knows?"
Douglas said nothing.
"Gotta go," Cotchell said.
"Later, Chief."
At his desk, Sergeant Douglas looked around to make sure all was well. To make sure no one was paying him any attention. Then he left his desk and went to one of the two pay phones near the entrance. He was going to make a long-distance call — this was too important for anyone around here — and he didn't want to use the station's line.
He punched in the number, charged the call to his credit card, then waited. When someone finally answered at the other end, he glanced around as he spoke in a whisper, making sure no one was within earshot even though his carefully chosen words would sound perfectly innocent and conversational to anyone who might overhear them ...
4
The ride back to Ethan's house was silent; not one of them spoke.
When they arrived, they went inside where Anice was helping her mother in the kitchen with dinner. They sat in the living room, Bent and Coll on the sofa and Ethan in his chair. Ethan looked from one to the other silently for a long time, his lips tight, then said, "I want to tell you that I'm willing to go along with whatever you think we should do next. But I also want to tell you that, uh ... that I need to be involved in whatever it is you think should be done. I can't just stand by and watch, do you understand?"
They nodded.
"I want very much to help. You seem to be on to something. I want to help you follow it up." His fists clenched on the armrests of his chair. "I have to."
Bent began to nod slowly. "I'm glad to hear it."
Ethan gave them a strained smile as his wife and daughter laughed in the kitchen. They sat in the living room, in a silent, almost prayerful stillness, as the aroma of beef and vegetable stew filled the house ...
Detective Andy Roberts found an empty desk in the station and seated himself behind it with a long, weary exhalation of butter-toffee-scented breath. It had been a long day, filled with the usual unpleasantness and patches of boredom, all of which he had to share with his disagreeable partner. But one thing remained in the back of his mind, nibbling at him now and then, never quite going away, never quite letting him forget about it.
Ever since he'd seen that dog's heart nailed to the wall of that apartment bedroom, he hadn't been able to get it out of his mind. Sure, it was disturbing, a horrible thing for someone to do. But it wasn't just that.
Colloway and Noble had kept something from him. He'd seen it in that look they'd given one another — even that idiot Campbell had seen it — and Roberts kept wondering if it had something to do with Colloway's ex-girlfriend, Deanna Brooks. He'd been wondering that a lot.
He took a small address book from his coat pocket and turned to the phone on the desk. Once he'd found the number he wanted, he placed his call.
Leonard Shockley sounded groggy when he answered.
"Shockley?" Roberts asked with a smile. "Hope I didn't wake you."
"No, I'm up, I'm just not ... up. And I gotta be to work in forty-five minutes."
"How's it going down there in la-la land? Excuse me," he said, chuckling, "I mean L.A."
"Well, you were right, I'm afraid. It's a sunny, blue-skied cesspool of traffic, street gangs, limos, religious cults ... but it's full of gorgeous young women with tits outta your dreams and not a brain in sight."
"At least you're having a good time."
"How about you?"