Keith was still hopping mad over Ferguson’s actions. We waited for Dimon to explain to why the KBI would rush in intending to strip the Regional Crime Center of all its equipment.
“Oh, Ferguson completely misunderstood me.” Dimon’s eyes widened and he rapidly drummed his pencil on the top of his desk. “In all fairness, you need to know that Dr. Ferguson and I actually did discuss the lack of progress you were making.” His face reddened with the effort of being totally honest. “It is quite obvious, you know. And, frankly, the newspapers are having a heyday. And until we have all the funding sewed up it’s critical to appear as though we are doing everything we can.”
“No appear to it,” Keith snapped. “We are doing everything we can.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Dimon said, looking miserable. “I know how hard you are working. But as you know, Lottie, you’re a part-time historian….” He paused long enough to scan my face.
“Fulltime, sometimes.”
“And a part-time undersheriff.”
“Fulltime, sometimes.”
“And Sam is getting up there in years.”
“Is up in years. Not just getting there, and duly elected year after year over men half his age.”
“And Keith is a part-time farmer and part-time veterinarian.”
“And a part-time reserve deputy and you’re forgetting part-time musician. And Josie has a private practice and teaches too, and now she’s gone into forensic psychology. So? It’s the way things work in the western third of the state.”
“But there was a baby left to freeze to death by a…” He broke off suddenly and reached for a glass of water. “Be right back. I’m going to get you a cup of coffee and give Ferguson a ring. Do you want anything, Keith?”
Keith shook his head and Dimon hustled out of the room. Keith and I looked at each other with amazement. It was such an obvious ploy to get himself back under control. For a moment I thought I had seen tears in Dimon’s eyes. God forbid that he lose his professional persona when we were sitting right there. But his movements, his expression said his frustration over being this helpless was as hard on him as it was on the rest of us.
He returned with our coffee. “Couldn’t get him,” he said. “Went straight to voice mail.”
“Just what did you tell that man to do that he would decide to grab everything he could get his hands on?” Keith’s voice said there would be consequences if he didn’t tell the absolute truth.
Dimon looked away then took several sips of coffee before he began to tell us about his conversation with Dr. Ferguson. He was obviously determined to be as transparent as possible but he seemed quite puzzled. “He came in yesterday morning and said your team was meeting today. He wanted to know if there was anything I wanted him to talk about. I told him that we were mad as hell over the lack of progress. Nothing I didn’t tell you a few minutes ago. And that the press was keeping everyone riled up.”
Keith’s gaze was relentless. And contemptuous.
Dimon shifted in his chair. “This whole fiasco shows what a mistake it is to give information to the troops before all the facts are known. I treated Ferguson as an equal and talked about all of my concerns, without taking into account his military background. I said maybe the regional center wasn’t a good idea, after all. I was thinking through options. That’s all.”
Ironically the Regional Crime Center had been Dimon’s idea to begin with. But he had wanted the director appointed by the state.
“I said perhaps we needed a strong leader used to giving orders.”
There was no doubt my approach utilizing a collection of farmers and part-time law enforcement persons was driving Dimon nuts.
“At no time did I say he should be that strong leader and that things should be put in place that very second. He misunderstood.”
“Well, was he the ‘strong leader’ you had in mind?” Keith pushed for the truth. Dared the man to lie.
“I was thinking about him,” Dimon admitted. “He does command respect.”
“And women don’t,” my husband said flatly.
“Hey. I’m trying to be honest with you folks. Completely open. I’m just saying how it is, not how it should be. Let’s not lose sight of my point that Ferguson completely misunderstood me.”
He looked to me for help. I said nothing and considered the differences in our positions. He had agreed to inject a mediocre congressman’s nephew into a major crime investigation for a half-baked promise of more funding, and was too exhausted to follow up on his suspicions that something was fishy. I no longer needing funding. None. We had state-of-the-art equipment, privately owned, and an enthusiastic team of rural sheriffs and undersheriffs. If we had a forensic scientist we would be totally self-contained. But until then, I needed the KBI’s labs.
Dimon laced his fingers so tightly the knuckles were white and he thrust his hands onto the immaculate desk and leaned forward on his elbows. “Maybe I’m the one who didn’t understand. I honestly don’t know the man all that well and certainly didn’t expect that kind of overreaction. But all we did was talk. Under no circumstances did I give him carte blanche to dismantle your operation.”
“Frank, the man is a total narcissist. He’s a disaster.”
Dimon had thrust Ferguson on me. Representative Williams had thrust this outlier on Dimon. We had both been shafted. I had told Keith about Williams but we’d had both taken it lightly. We understand politics and compromise but won’t play the game. When all is said and done, it isn’t worth it. Sitting in the chair opposite us was a perfect example of a man who had been entrapped.
But he should have said “no” to Williams. I would have. Keith would have. And so I decided. He could just stew in his own juices.
“Maybe you didn’t know what you were getting into, but there’s something you can to do to set things right.” I checked my watch.
“What?”
“I’m going to call David Hayes and ask him to set up a conference call to all the team tomorrow morning. It’s too late tonight. Then I want you make a special apology to the whole group and make it clear just who is the A team and that I’m in charge.”
Dimon splayed his fingers across his forehead. “Will Ferguson be included in this mass communication?”
“Of course. He can hear it from you at the same time everyone else does. It’s going to be one hell of an awkward phone call. But that’s your problem, Frank,” I said sweetly.
He groaned.
“And with everyone listening, I’m going to kick Ferguson off the team.”
Chapter Eighteen
Keith drove and I stared out the window. It would be after midnight before we got home. The snowfall had been heavier here and the rays of the setting sun overlaid the bright white fields with apricot and lavender shading. Some of the areas looked like a bolt of peach silk had been flung across the prairie. The snow gleamed like it was lit from within to show off winking sparkles. Beyond, the sky blazed with glorious hues of orange, blue, and deep purple. Kansas has the most beautiful sunsets in the world, I thought, as I patted Keith’s thigh and put my seat in full recline. The hum of the tires lulled me to sleep.
I woke with a start when the OnStar equipment began to ring. Simultaneously, both of our cell phones echoed through Keith’s Suburban.
Keith answered his before I could dig mine out of my purse.
It was Dimon. “Where are you?” he asked without any preliminary greeting.
“Just past Junction City.”
“Turn around and hit fifty-seven. We’ve got another one. Head for Council Grove.”
“Another what?” Keith slowed down and began looking for a median where he could turn in the other direction.
“Another Ghost Baby. I’ll meet you there. Get a move on. Use your lights and siren if you need to.”
Dimon hung up before we could ask
any questions.
Keith made a fast U-turn through the flat median and flew down I-70 toward Highway 57, which was the fastest way to Council Grove.
“Guess we both know where we’re going,” His voice shook.
“Yes, it has to be the Madonna of the Trail.”
The historic female statue clutched an infant with one arm and a rifle with the other. A little boy clung to her leg. The sculpture was one of twelve placed by the Daughters of the American Revolution along the Old Trails Road which reached from Maryland to California. There was one in each state the wagon trains had passed through. Council Grove was also famous for being the site in 1825 where the United States negotiated a treaty with representatives of the Osage and Kaw tribes. The Indians got eight hundred dollars, and Mexicans and Americans got safe passage along the Santa Fe Trail.
I dialed David Hayes. “Tell the team to meet us in Council Grove at the corner of Union and Main Street. As many as possible and as fast as they can get there. When they arrive they are to hang back and wait until the state forensic team does its work. Just look, that’s all. It’s a four-hour drive for most of them and if they aren’t in a good position to get here don’t worry about it. Keith and I will be there in less than forty-five minutes and Dimon won’t be far behind. We’ll brief everyone later. Everyone needs to be careful not to mess up the crime scene but I want to hear everyone’s ideas. Be professional. Pay attention to details.”
David asked what they should be looking for. “A statue.” I said. “She will be holding a dead baby.”
I didn’t have to tell Keith how important it was for us to get there before anyone from the state team did, because whoever landed first would be setting the hierarchy. I expected the local law enforcement to cede the investigation to us immediately. If my regional team was first on the spot I would see to it that jurisdictional authority was handled well. But if the state boys beat us there, I couldn’t count on being given total inclusion.
I grasped the safety bars on the side of the door and hung on. Suburbans can fly like a jet when they are pushed. We didn’t slow down until we reached the outskirts of town. Then Keith turned off the light bar and slowed as we headed down main street.
It was deep twilight. Keith pulled up to the Madonna of the Trail. “Shit. Goddamn the luck. People have already heard.”
We had spectators. He slammed on the brakes and yelled orders as soon as he opened the door.
“Everyone back. This is a crime scene.”
I made a beeline for the police chief who was standing at the base of the statue and introduced myself. “I’m Lottie Albright, director of the Northwest Kansas Regional Crime Center. I’m in charge of the task force assigned to the so-called Ghost Baby crimes. I’m sure you’ve read about them.”
He looked at his hand like he had forgotten what to do with it. Then realized he should shake my outstretched one. “Alex Summers.”
His shake was lame and helpless. He was in a uniform. The population was only two thousand, and no doubt knew each officer personally. But I was willing to bet that the force needed all the authority they could muster and Chief Summers wouldn’t be caught dead in jeans. Summers had a short white beard and droopy heavy lids that shaped his eyes into the triangles of a retired clown. His mouth looked like an upended canoe.
“Keith, go get the crime scene tape and my camera. Start securing this place.”
Summers seemed relieved when I took over. He turned back to staring at the statue. His face said he was horror-struck. “We got this 911 call. And, so help me God, when I got here I was so dumbfounded all I could think of was to call Topeka. We’re not prepared,” he finished lamely. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“No one can ever prepare for something like this. You did the right thing by waiting for people who are trained instead of messing stuff up. The state team will be here in about fifteen minutes. My husband and I were closer.”
Keith returned with my camera. He started roping off the area. “Include the whole park,” I hollered. “Keep out all the resident heroes that want to stick their nose in.”
“What’s the next step?” Summers asked.
“I’m going to photograph my footprints, then make a quick walk through the grounds to check for any loose evidence and take panoramic wide-view photos as I go. Then I’ll come back and sketch off a grid and make a very thorough search.
He watched Keith. “Can’t he just make people go home?”
“No. Not as long as they stay back from the crime scene. We can order them to leave, but it won’t work. No more than ordering a news crew away. Legally they are on public property.”
I speed-walked around the perimeter taking pictures at a manic speed, then returned to the eighteen-foot-high statue and began clicking from every angle.
“Can’t you take that baby down?” Summers’ eyes were still trained on the statue. His mouth opened and closed like a guppy gasping for air.
“No. We can’t do that until the forensic team has done their job.” My phone vibrated and I glanced at the incoming text. “They are just five minutes away.”
“Thank God. There’s simply no way to explain to people why we would wait around and leave a baby here in the freezing cold. They are going to think we are totally heartless. Even if it’s dead. It seems unnatural.”
I noticed he was careful not to say he or she. He probably wanted to keep his distance but his eyes said that nothing was working. His heart was right up there with the baby’s.
Clusters of people edged down the sidewalk. Some moved uneasily as though they weren’t sure they should be there. Others were making use of their iPhone cameras. Word was getting around.
A white van raced down the street. Thank God. The KBI forensics team would set to work immediately. They had moved out of their old building in November and everyone who worked there was enjoying their spiffy new headquarters on the Washburn University campus.
Dimon jumped out the door before his driver had put the car fully into park. His face dissolved into bull dog wrinkles, then he barked orders to the team descending from the back. “Do not sacrifice one single step for the sake of speed, I don’t care if half the town is here watching. Do not miss a trick.”
Joe Nelson, the senior KBI forensic investigator crossed himself and stood silently gazing at the tiny body for a moment, as though he was struck dumb at the sheer depravity. Then he hollered at his men and got to work.
Dimon turned to me. “Is Josie coming?”
“Yes, she and Harold both. We couldn’t get ahold of Dorothy and she’s really good at seeing details in a crime scene. Either seeing things or making connections. I don’t know which, but she sure has a knack for putting two and two together. She’ll be able to tell a lot from the pictures.”
“Goddamn it, Josie and Harold should have some opinions by now.”
“They are going back to Manhattan in a couple of days. Harold says he’s been away too long now and Josie wants to take care of some business at the university. We’ve hit a wall, Frank. The regional team and your people too.”
“Anyone else coming from Western Kansas?”
“Probably not. I think the work will be finished here before they can make it. But everyone on the team knew immediately, thanks to David Hayes.”
A little green Volkswagen buzzed up, parked next to Keith’s Suburban and Dr. Ferguson stepped out. He strode over to where Summers was standing. He read the chief’s name tag, and shook his hand, then they both turned to watch the forensic team.
My blood froze. My throat tightened. Of course. Everyone on the team had been notified. As of tonight he was still on the team. The game changer would have been tomorrow morning when Dimon made the promised conference call. Tonight was business as usual.
***
In the cold freezing wind Ferguson’s face was motionless and without color. His
lips were too numb to move easily. He stared at the tiny form held in the arms of the statue, and shook his head. “I simply cannot understand why we can’t identify someone who is capable of so savage a crime.” His voice was soft and low, but Dimon and Keith and I were close enough to hear every word he said. “The bastard. Who could do such a thing?”
I turned when I head the hum of a powerful motor.
As soon as Josie parked, Harold Sider stepped out and his face was as white as if he had just stepped off a monster roller coaster. There are many cars faster than a Mercedes but with my sister behind the wheel he had probably just received the ride of his life. She had bought this fully loaded SUV especially for trips back to Western Kansas when she realized four-wheel drives were essential for navigating mud and snow. Her “real” car, a Mercedes sedan, was back in Manhattan. Both vehicles were a shiny black and the top of the line.
My sister ran to me. She squeezed my hand. There was none of her psychologist’s detachment this time. Her face was as anguished as my own.
The scene was being videotaped and cameras were flashing all around. The phone cameras from bystanders rivaled those of the forensic team. Josie and I watched as Joe Nelson carefully pulled the tiny corpse from the frozen arms of the statue. In a dramatic switch of policy from the days of J. Edgar Hoover, the bureau now encouraged public participation in solving crimes. Profiles were thrown right out there and it had proved to be an effective tool.
Carefully, carefully, Joe removed a corner of the blanket covering a tiny knitted hat and a miniature body wearing a hospital-issued bunny-printed flannel gown.
Blue.
A boy this time.
Josie and I reached for each other’s hands. Keith quickly turned his face away.
A news team from a national network arrived. Ferguson straightened his back and stepped forward into the mic a reporter eagerly thrust at him. Joyful at having found such a distinguished connection immediately, she looked at the camera.
Fractured Families Page 18