by Andrew Grant
With the chair in place and Johnson’s offer of refreshments refused, Irvin launched straight into her explanation of the plan. She ran through the theory behind it just as she had at the Tribune’s office, but changed tack when it came to the logistics. “That’s the what, the how, and the when, Mr. Johnson. We have those things covered. But we still need help with the where. That’s where you come in.”
“Wow.” Johnson pushed his glasses a little higher on the bridge of his nose. “You guys actually listened. When you pulled me in after the Jones Valley fire, I was expecting the usual police strong-arm bullshit. But what I tried to explain is, I care about this stuff. I’ve worked this job my whole career. I’ve literally poured my life and soul into the fabric of the city’s schools. It kills me to see someone harming them. So I said to the woman who interviewed me that I’d be happy to help, any way I could. I never thought you’d take me up on it, though.”
“So what do you think?” Irvin shuffled closer to the edge of her chair. “Looking across the Board’s entire estate, where would be the best place? Does anywhere stand out?”
“Yes.” Johnson nodded. “Absolutely. One place does. Roundwood school. It’s in Zone Two, out past the airport. Only half the property’s in use right now due to ongoing refurbishment. But best of all is its layout. I’ll print you out a map in a second, but it’s on a self-contained, triangular site. The school’s in one single, rectangular building in the middle. And it’s set back from the road on all sides by a wraparound parking lot. There’s no way anyone could cross it and enter the school without you spotting them. Not unless they dug a tunnel!”
WHITE FLAG? OR CALL FOR REINFORCEMENTS?
Has the Birmingham Police Department conceded defeat?
That would be a reasonable expectation for the people of the city to harbor. After all, the genius is clearly way too hot for them to handle alone. However, in a startling new development, this reporter can reveal that an expert from the FBI has been brought in to assist the struggling detectives and breathe new life into an investigation that was dangerously close to flat-lining.
The addition of a specialist player to the team is a sure sign that the authorities are finally starting to take the genius more seriously. This can only be a good thing for Birmingham. But what the desperate and terrified public is clamoring to know is, will this measure be sufficient to stop the fires? Or are there more to come?
Only time will tell…
Chapter Forty-five
Tuesday. Late morning.
There was to be no visit to Sneaky Pete’s for Devereaux that day. He hadn’t even set foot out of the Education building when his phone buzzed with an incoming text from Lieutenant Hale:
You + TG. My office. Bring Irvin.
Devereaux cut down 20th Street North and turned right onto First Avenue, arriving moments after a grocery truck had broken down, blocking the street. It only took a minute or two to work around it, but the delay was enough to leave Hale seething with impatience by the time they reached headquarters.
She gestured for Irvin and the detectives to sit, then pulled a piece of paper from the heap on her desk. What stopped the whole lot from sliding off? Devereaux wondered. Or the desk from collapsing? He’d heard that Julia Child’s kitchen had been reconstructed at the Smithsonian after her death. Maybe the museum would claim Hale’s office, as evidence of a scientific miracle? Or maybe Stephen Hawking would want it to help with his work on how black holes are formed.
“This,” Hale brandished the page, “is from Crime Scene. They removed the skeletons from Jones Valley last night, and here’s what they found when they got them to the lab. The victims were male. Three were early- to mid-twenties. One was significantly older. Possibly in his forties or fifties. That goes for the bones, anyway. The one skull that was left, they had problems aging because—get this—it had been seriously damaged by heat-treatment. Plus it, and the bones, had been in contact with acid.”
“So they weren’t the remains of students?” Devereaux took the page from Hale and scanned the information. “That pretty much takes Principal Oliver out of the frame, with victims that age.”
“It could still be him.” Garretty shrugged. “Your buddy said Oliver let other adults watch, sometimes. Maybe these ones threatened to tell tales out of school.”
“Maybe the older one was Oliver.” Hale took the paper back. “That’d be hard to confirm, though. They weren’t able to retrieve any DNA.”
“I could possibly buy Oliver as one of the victims.” Irvin shuffled her chair a few inches forward, dislodging a loose carpet tile as she moved her feet. “But not as the killer. Using the school as the dump site would make absolutely no sense for him. Especially when you factor in this new detail about the acid treatment. Oliver lived alone when he was principal. I checked. So the lowest risk option for him would be to dispose of the bodies at his house. How would he hide an acid bath at the school? How would he lift the gym floor? At all, let alone without being seen.”
“Good point.” Hale set the paper down. “How would anyone do that?”
“Here’s what I’m thinking.” Irvin brushed her hair behind her ears. “We know the school was rebuilt in 2011. The perp must have had access to it during the construction. He could have worked there. Could have delivered stuff regularly. Or could have just lived nearby. That’s a real possibility, because his living arrangements are key. Like I said, the school was a high-risk dump site. There must have been a strong reason he couldn’t use his home, or yard, or whatever. I think it’s because he was living with someone. A wife. A girlfriend. A parent. A grandparent. It doesn’t really matter which. We don’t have any reports of similar crimes post 2011, so I think that after he finished at Jones Valley he either got locked up for something unconnected, died, or moved away.”
“That makes sense.” Hale nodded. “We’ll need to start pulling sentencing records and mortuary lists. See if we can put a name on this guy.” Hale checked the time on her little robot-shaped desk clock. “OK. Hold that thought. We’ve got the go/no-go call for the school arson op. It’s time to dial in.”
Hale keyed in her access code, spoke her name, then put the phone on Speaker and hit the Mute key. Captain Emrich was the next—and last—to join, before Agent McMahan of the Bureau Field Office took up the reins. He kept things brief and to the point, asking each delegate to state their field of responsibility and confirm their readiness. They heard from the team leaders assigned to watching Roundwood school. The shift commanders tasked with covering the other schools in the city. Chief Young from Fire and Rescue. Representatives from Airborne Surveillance. CCTV. Traffic division. And finally, SWAT. Each voice sounded calm and confident. No one dissented.
“So we know what we’ll all be doing later on, I guess.” Hale hung up the phone. “Now, back to the guy who put those bones under the floor at Jones Valley. Sentencing records. And mortuary lists. We need them.”
“Could you guys handle that?” Irvin stood and pushed her chair back. “I need to go and square the circle with that journalist.”
“No problem.” Garretty nodded.
“Most importantly, check the release dates.” Irvin paused in the doorway. “With a profile like his—particularly the head removal, which indicates an extreme degree of psychosis—he won’t just stop killing on his own. Something compelled him to do it. If he’s alive and out of jail, he’ll do it again. You can bank on it.”
Chapter Forty-six
Tuesday. Early afternoon.
“Here’s another thought.” Devereaux watched as Garretty filled out the online requests for the records they needed. “This guy. What if he didn’t go to jail, or die? What if it was his parents or wife or whoever who died? He could have inherited their place. And gotten real good at picking victims who won’t be missed.”
“I’m hoping he died.” Garretty continued to type.
“Or what if he moved away? Went to BFE and started picking off hobos? Who’d ever know?”
/> “Let’s just make sure he’s not doing that here.” Garretty didn’t look away from the screen. “And that he never gets the chance to, if the asshole’s not already in the ground.”
“Amen to—”
The chorus from “Paradise City” started to blare from Devereaux’s pocket. He pulled out his phone, checked the screen in case it was Chris Lambert, then answered.
“Detective Devereaux? It’s Diane McKinzie. I’m just calling to let you know the article is up and live.”
“It is? That’s great.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. I did try Agent Irvin after I uploaded her file, but I couldn’t reach her.”
“No problem. I’ll make sure she finds out.”
“Thanks.” Diane coughed. “I tried her a couple of times. And then I got hauled off to write a post for the dumbest-ass blog you ever heard of. Big City Nights, it’s called. Don’t ever read it, please. It’s mortifying. Today’s inanity? A bunch of total nonsense about a possibly missing college professor with a weird name who may or may not be secretly gay. It’s like I was dragged back in time to the 1950s. Anyway, you don’t need to hear about my problems. I just wanted to confirm that we’re all set.”
“Well, we appreciate your help. You had no issues with your editor?”
“My editor. Yeah. She’s quite the operator. She pushed back a little more than I’d expected, actually. I had to kind of promise her that we’d get first bite at the cherry, once the case breaks. I hope that’s OK…”
“I don’t see a problem.”
“Excellent. Actually, there’s nothing you could give me right now, is there? Just to keep her off my back? A little snippet no one else knows?”
“When there’s news, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.”
“Oh, come on, Detective! I know how you cops work. There are always things you hold back. I’m not asking for anything super sensitive. Nothing that could derail the case. Just a little you scratch my back, you know?”
“Ms. McKinzie—”
“Come on. Diane. Please.”
“OK, Diane. I don’t have anything for you. But thinking about it, here’s an idea. Roundwood school’s going to be staked out around the clock for the foreseeable future, but we’re expecting the arsonist to make his move this afternoon. This evening at the latest. Do you want to head down there with me? Ride along? Maybe be there when we collar the guy?”
There was silence on the line for twenty, maybe twenty-five seconds.
“Detective, thank you. I’d love to. But I don’t think I can. I have a previous commitment with my son. It means I actually need to be at my house this evening. So how about this? Meet me for breakfast in the morning, instead. As early as you like. Give me what you can then.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Tuesday. Early afternoon.
The space under the Virgin Mary bridge was no more pleasant in daylight than it was at night. It might even be worse, Devereaux thought. You could see what you were stepping in. But it did make sense to meet there. It was neutral ground. You could see the other person coming from a good long distance. It would be impossible for anyone to eavesdrop without being spotted. And it was too close to the airport for surveillance helicopters to fly overhead.
The navy Tesla arrived two minutes after Devereaux parked the Ferrari and Dzerko—aka Frank—climbed out and offered his hand.
“Sorry, Devereaux.” Dzerko leaned back against his car. “It’s a no.”
“What do you mean, a no? What’s the deal? Is your guy angling for more money?”
“That’s not it. The target’s the problem.”
“Why? Does he discriminate based on old age? Because that’s against the law.”
Dzerko smiled weakly. “You don’t understand. You see, my guy said he’d been hired to stop this particular clock once before, in the past.”
“So Joseph Oliver’s already dead?”
“No. Which is part of the problem. The way you wanted to structure the deal—a quarter for finding Oliver, the rest for the other part—it made him uneasy. The other time with this target, my guy had the hit all lined up, but the clients aborted. Now, those guys paid up front, and he kept their money, obviously. But it still pissed him off. He takes pride in his work. When he says he’s going to do something, he likes to do it. It really bugged him, quitting partway.”
“So here’s his chance to go back and put it right.”
“No. He has a strict policy. Do it once. Do it right. Or don’t do it at all. And he’s the best. It’s not like he has a shortage of work. He can afford to pick and choose.”
“You’re sure he didn’t pass because of me? What I do? Because if it’s a trust issue…”
“It’s not that. He did say one weird thing about you, but it had nothing to do with his decision. He’d already said no by then. And anyway, he’s worked for cops before. Cop dollars spend the same as civilian dollars, right?”
“What weird thing did he say about me?”
“It was nothing. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Frank…”
“OK. It was after he started to balk. I said you were a stand-up guy, thinking this might just be a case of first-date nerves between you. But he said, no, period. And then asked if you were one of those school guys. There was one in particular he seemed to have a dislike for. And he said assholes, not guys, but you get the picture.”
“I do.”
“So, look. This doesn’t have to be the end of the road for this thing. I could try someone else. The number two guy on my list is still pretty good. Maybe better, in some situations. Want me to hook you up?”
“No, Frank. It’s OK. You’ve given me an idea. About another way to get what I need.”
Chapter Forty-eight
Tuesday. Afternoon.
A quotation was fluttering somewhere around the edge of Alexandra’s conscious memory, but she couldn’t quite pin it down. Something she’d read somewhere? Or that someone had told her? It was to do with finishing a book. Yes. The idea that if you finish a book, the book’s different from when you started it. Or words to that effect.
Alexandra’s pedantic, lawyer’s brain had objected to the idea when she’d first come across it. How could the book change, unless you were talking about something superficial like the spine getting bent? Surely it should be the other way around. If it was a good book, then the person who finished it would be changed. The book would just be the catalyst. But whichever way it was, Alexandra was wondering if there could be something similar with people and houses. Once a person had finished living in a house, could the house be changed? Take her place as an example. Devereaux had gone. And it felt like he’d taken part of the house with him. It seemed smaller now. Less welcoming. Less like a home.
A wave of raw emotion surged inside her as she thought about Devereaux, but Alexandra realized it wasn’t anger, like when she’d confronted him over the photographs. Or fear, like when she’d discovered she was carrying his child. It was sadness. She didn’t want him to be gone. She wanted him back. She just didn’t know if there was room for him. Or his family secrets.
Chapter Forty-nine
Tuesday. Afternoon.
The Hi-Fi store manager said he’d fired Dave Bateman first thing that morning. And he made a point of stressing that he’d done it personally.
He didn’t have to sound so damn gleeful about it, Devereaux thought. People lose their jobs. It happens. But it shouldn’t be something you gloat about. Unless you’re a complete asshole. Devereaux took a long look at the guy, memorizing every detail of his face in case he ever spotted him running a red light or rolling through a stop sign. Then he went back to his car and called Dispatch to get Bateman’s home address.
Devereaux was still in the Ferrari, which was terrible on slow city streets, so he nursed it northeast on Third Avenue, temporarily heading in the wrong direction for Bateman’s home, then swung north for a half mile on Stevens before getting on I-20/
59 and burying the accelerator for the eight minutes it took him to reach the Hueytown intersection.
Bateman’s miserable little house was isolated next to a vacant, weed-filled lot at the end of a street of run-down bungalows that put Devereaux in mind of terminal patients on a geriatric ward. Pushing aside a flutter of guilt as he realized that the Ferrari he’d carelessly left at the curb would be worth more than two, maybe three of the properties, Devereaux trudged up the crumbling pathway and knocked on the door.
Devereaux had to knock three times—hard, insistent, ignore-me-at-your-peril knocks—before he heard a sound from inside the house. Eventually the door was dragged open, binding on the scuffed wooden hallway floor, and Bateman peered out, blinking weakly against the afternoon sun.
“Cooper?” It took Bateman a moment to focus. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you, Dave.” Devereaux attempted to smile. “How about you let me in? It would be good to chat for a while. See how things are going.”
“Things are going terribly.” Bateman hauled the door open the rest of the way and stepped back. His hair was messed up, like he’d been wearing a hat. He had on a wrinkled blue Oxford shirt with an embroidered logo of a smiling CD player on the pocket, thick blue socks, but no pants. “Come in if you want. I got no beer or anything, though.”
Devereaux stepped inside, and tried to breathe through his mouth. “Do you have cats, Dave?”
“No.” Bateman led the way down the short narrow hallway and turned left into a square living room. There was a patch of threadbare Turkish carpet in the center, with a jade green velvet couch on one side and a pair of eggplant-colored vinyl armchairs on the other. In the far corner a TV from before the days of flat screens was balanced on an ancient sewing-machine table. “My mom did. This used to be her place. I took it over when she passed, a few years back. Why? Do you like cats?”