by Todd Travis
“What are we going to do about the Iceman?” Kane asked. “You haven’t said much of anything about him, when are you going to profile him?”
“When I’m ready. Timing is everything, Kane.”
“What if he snatches another girl?”
“He has to drop Frederickson before he grabs someone else. I’m tired of talking so leave me alone.”
“He doesn't always drop them, sometimes he …”
“He’ll drop this one, now will you shut up? I have to piss like a foaming racehorse and you’re making me crazy.”
Thorne walked away from Kane. He stopped a few steps away and turned back.
“Pulled your hand right through a handcuff, did you?”
“Yes.”
“That explains the scars,” Thorne said.
“Yeah,” Kane said, looking at her right hand, “I still have the scars.”
20
“I should get hazard pay, Pete,” Thorne said into the telephone. “You didn’t tell me this was a two-fer. Do I get extra credit for it? I’d fucking better. Yeah. Girl Friday will be emailing you the report as soon as she’s done. What?
“How’s the local PD treating us? They’re a bunch of backward-ass country fucks, how do you think they’re treating us? I’ve seen better heads on a glass of beer.”
Various uniformed personnel from nearby desks stared in Thorne’s direction sourly after this last remark, but decided to let it pass. Kane looked up from her desk, where she was typing a report on a computer.
“I can handle ’em, don’t worry about it. Well, there isn’t much to do at the moment, the Task Force commander here has some black guy he likes that he wants to charge and he’s going to shit a brick when DNA comes back negative. Hell yeah, I’m sure, why does everyone keep asking me that, would I say so if I weren’t?
“Yeah. Well, I’m thinking about that right now as we speak. I’ll crack it, no worries, and then I want yours. What’s the latest? What? No shit? I hope you’re sleeping with your Glock under your pillow, Pete. Okay. All right. Talk to you,” Thorne hung up the phone and stared at his chessboard. He felt Kane’s gaze on the back of his neck.
“Kevorkian hit in New York City while you were there with Pete to pick me up. They just found the body this morning,” Thorne said without looking at her.
“What? Who?”
“Cab driver, time of death was sometime on the day we left, according to the coroner. They just found him and his cab. Neck broken. No tongue. Pete knows for sure he’s being shadowed by the guy now.”
Thorne made a move on the chessboard and turned the board around to play from the other side. Gilday and Scroggins, arm in a sling, walked over to Kane and Thorne.
“I thought you two were taking the day off?” Kane asked.
“No way, not while the Iceman’s out and about,” Gilday replied. “We're pumped now. We want his ass next.”
“Hey, Thorne,” Scroggins said. “You should have seen Forsythe’s face when he found out you cracked up the van. Turned purple and blue.”
“Yeah? Where is that big turd, anyway? He’s got some serious crow coming his way, big time.”
“He’s sweating Robertson in the box. I don’t think they told you, Robertson was wearing a vest,” Gilday said.
“A bulletproof vest? Somebody remind me to go for the head shot next time.”
“He had all sorts of fun toys down in his little playpen,” Gilday said.
“Anything good?” Kane asked.
“We got a lot of physical evidence, some knives which help, and a shotgun in addition to his pistol. A confession would be good, though, that’s why Forsythe’s sweating him.”
“And?” Thorne looked up.
“He’s talking but not admitting anything. Hasn’t asked for a lawyer, claims he’s innocent and that us cops are trying to frame him,” Gilday replied.
“He really is going OJ on us,” Thorne said. “They going to crack him?”
“I don’t know,” Scroggins admitted. “Hard to tell, he’s a nut. Once he lawyers up, he’ll probably go insanity and that’ll be that.”
“No fucking way,” Thorne stood. “Get me a shot at him.”
“Right, the captain would love that. Forget it.”
“I can crack that nut, get me in there.”
“You shot the guy,” Gilday said. “How are you going to crack him?”
“Easy as pie, trust me. I can do it. I want this cupcake going all the way to the chair for all five murders; he’s not doing easy mental time on my shift. Call your buddy the gov, throw some weight around. Get me in that room and I’ll get it, I’m telling you.”
Gilday looked at Scroggins and shrugged. “Well, Captain’s already unhappy with us, why not go all the way and totally piss him off?”
“What the hell, it’s only a career.”
“I’ll get on the horn now,” Gilday picked up the phone.
“Hey, Gerry, I have a question,” Kane asked. “How does a mental patient who can’t even get a driver’s license somehow obtain a bulletproof vest, a shotgun and a nine-millimeter Glock?”
“Welcome to Nebraska,” Scroggins replied.
“It’s worse in Texas,” Gilday said.
21
An hour later, Thorne and Kane entered the anteroom to interrogation, where Gilday and Scroggins watched Forsythe and Hairston question Robertson through a one-way mirrored window. A video camera was placed right up against the mirror-window of the anteroom to record everything inside interrogation.
Robertson, handcuffed to a chair inside the stark room and very angry, screamed at Forsythe. Kane wondered about a briefcase Thorne held in one hand. She’d asked him about it but he avoided answering.
“So your pal the governor came through,” Thorne said.
“He did,” Gilday said. “But you should have heard the screaming from this end.”
“How they doing?” Thorne gestured to Forysthe.
“Not good.”
“He still says he’s innocent and being framed,” Gilday replied. “Blames the government for everything.”
“Me too,” Thorne said.
“Hey, Emma,” Scroggins smiled.
“Hey, Emma,” Gilday followed suit.
“Jeff, Gerry. How’s the arm doing?”
“Still attached,” Scroggins wriggled his fingers at her.
“Everybody back at HQ is avoiding us like we have anthrax. And they weren’t all that friendly to begin with. What’s going on?” Kane asked.
“Welcome to the Captain’s Permanent Shit List,” Gilday replied. “He’s spread the word on you two, he’s very displeased with the latest turn of events.”
“Displeased? He wouldn’t even have this guy if we weren’t here!”
“And that’s why he’s pissed off,” Gilday replied. “His people are supposed to make the collars, not you.”
“He’s not too happy with the two of us, either,” Scroggins said. “If we didn’t have friends in high places, we’d be completely out of the loop.”
“What kind of bullshit is this? We’re only here to help, how are we supposed to help if nobody gives us any information?” Kane demanded.
“Typical jurisdictional dispute. Forsythe wants the headlines. State case until the Iceman crosses state lines,” Gilday said.
“Notice how he’s been careful not to do that,” Thorne said without turning.
“I mean, officially he welcomes federal support, he has to. But unofficially the policy is ‘fuck you’ without any ifs, ands or buts. We get shit like this on a local level all the time,” Scroggins said. “Forsythe hands it over to you feds, it looks like he can’t handle the case. He lets you crack it, same difference. Notice in the papers that you’re always referred to as advisors.”
“Now we can’t even do that,” Kane said, looking at Thorne’s back. “Anything on Wendy Frederickson turn up yet?”
“Nothing,” Scroggins replied. “We’ve got search teams scouring the state, using bloodh
ounds and satellites, there are posters everywhere. They’ve turned up exactly zip.”
“It’s like she disappeared into thin air,” Gilday said.
“She’s close by. Within fifty miles,” Thorne said.
“How do you know?” Kane asked.
“She’s close by because the Iceman is close by. He’s in the area. Wait, what’s this guy doing now?”
Thorne pointed at Robertson through the window. Robertson spat violently at Forsythe and banged his head against the table repeatedly.
“He does that when he’s angry. He can do it for hours,” Scroggins said.
“Captain’s trying to make it difficult for you,” Gilday said. “How do you know that the Iceman’s in the area?”
“I looked at the map.”
Forsythe and Hairston exited interrogation and entered the anteroom.
“He’s all yours, Agent Thorne,” Hairston said.
“And I want to go on record that I’m against you meddling in this. We have the situation in hand,” Forsythe fumed.
“You wouldn’t have anything but your dick in your hand if it wasn’t for his meddling,” Kane said.
“Don’t get smart, Missy, tits and ass only take you so far,” Forsythe turned to Thorne. “He hasn’t asked for a lawyer yet. We don’t want him to ask for a lawyer. You fuck this up and I will make it my mission to ruin your life in whatever way that I can.”
Thorne looked at Forsythe for a long moment.
“One of these days you and I are going to have a serious disagreement,” Thorne said calmly.
Thorne picked up his briefcase and entered the interrogation room.
22
Robertson stopped banging his head against the table when Thorne entered interrogation and sat down across the table from him. Thorne took out some gum and popped a stick into his mouth.
“Hey, Ryan, how are ya?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Robertson yelled.
“I know.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“I know. Gum?” Thorne offered the pack to Robertson.
“You shot me!”
“I know, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“You did?”
“I did, I’m sorry. Case of mistaken identity, I thought you were somebody else.”
“Who?”
“I thought you were Mr. FunnyPants. Gum?” Thorne offered the pack again.
“Okay,” Robertson said after a moment. Thorne took out a piece, unwrapped it and put it into Robertson’s mouth for him.
“If I had known who you really were, I never would have shot you. You’re okay, right? They told me you were wearing a vest, so no permanent damage, right?”
“My chest hurts, it’s black and blue all over,” Robertson pouted.
“I’m really sorry about that, I shouldn’t have shot you, my mistake. You want to see a lawyer?” Thorne asked.
“A lawyer?”
“A lawyer, I can get you a lawyer if you want one, you want a court-appointed lawyer?” Thorne could almost hear Forsythe have a heart attack on the other side of the glass. Robertson thought about it for a minute.
“I don’t trust lawyers,” he said finally.
“You know what? Me neither,” Thorne said.
“’Sides, I didn’t do anything that I need a lawyer for, anyhow,” Robertson said.
“Hey, if you say so, who am I to argue?”
“If I’m not the guy you’re looking for, what’s his name?”
“Mr. FunnyPants.”
“If I’m not him, then what am I doing here?” Robertson asked.
“Well, I was hoping that you could help me with something. See, Ryan, somebody’s been doing some killing.”
“So?”
“You know what?” Thorne said. “I feel the same exact way you do, most of the time. I mean, let’s face it, there are some very disagreeable people out there, right?”
“Right.”
“There are some real miserable fucks out in the world that deserve to die, that’s what I think. Nasty assholes that should be killed. Fuck ’em, right?”
“Yeah, fuck ’em,” Robertson liked the turn this conversation has taken.
“You met the captain, right?” Thorne asked, putting a stick of gum into his own mouth.
“Who?”
“Big fat guy, shouts a lot. He was just in here.”
“Oh yeah. I don’t like him.”
Thorne opened his briefcase and took pictures out of it, framed school pictures of the little girls Robertson had killed. Thorne propped them up on the table, just out of Robertson’s reach. Robertson appeared somewhat uncomfortable.
“Me neither. He’s a case in point,” Thorne said. ”A real gaping asshole, the captain. But the deal is, nobody’s killing big mean bastards like him. At least not yet. But somebody HAS been killing these little girls.”
“It’s that guy, the guy in the papers.”
“What guy?”
“The guy, the guy in the papers, they call him the Iceman. He’s killing little girls,” Robertson was definitely uncomfortable now.
“You’re right, he is,” Thorne said. “But not these girls. These girls, right here, were killed by somebody else. And I need to find whoever it is.”
“Why? Can you put those away?”
“I was hoping you could look at these pictures and help me find this guy, Ryan.”
“Why, what do you care? You said yourself, some people deserve to die.”
“Yeah, some do. But not these girls. These are kids.”
“So?” Robertson sneered.
“So it’s innocent blood,” Thorne said. “Innocent blood is being spilled and we have to act when that happens.”
“Can you put those pictures away?”
“I need you to look at them for me.”
“I don’t want to look at them.”
“Somebody’s got innocent blood on his hands and we have to find him.”
“What makes you so sure they’re innocent?”
“They’re just little kids, too young to be mean, miserable and nasty. Innocent.”
“Shit,” Robertson spit out his gum. “You don’t know anything, do you?”
“What don’t I know?”
“Put those away.”
“What don’t I know? It’s innocent blood, Ryan.”
“STOP FUCKING LOOKING AT ME!” Robertson lunged for the pictures but was halted by the bolted chair he was handcuffed to. He glared at Thorne.
“Innocent blood, my ass! Little kids are meaner and more miserable than anybody. ANYBODY! ESPECIALLY LITTLE FUCKING GIRLS! Don’t you remember being a kid? Don’t you remember how fucking cruel kids are? The things they’d say and do?”
“How they stared at you?” Thorne asked.
“Looking and laughing and pointing! Making fun. Little girls have no innocent blood in them. Especially the popular pretty ones. They’re the worst!” Robertson rattled his chair, furious. “Put those away. PUT ’EM AWAY!”
“That’s why you killed these girls? They wouldn’t stop looking?” Thorne asked.
“I killed them because they deserved it. They deserved to be sliced up. They deserved what they got.”
“You’re not crazy, you knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you?”
“I did, I killed every one of these girls here and I’d do it again. I will. Just watch, I’ll get ’em. I’ll get ’em all back. Fuck ’em!” Robertson yelled, spittle spraying.
“I see.”
“Now put those fucking things away!” Robertson demanded.
“I don’t think so, Ryan,” Thorne stood. “I think I’ll let them watch you for a little while.”
“NO!” Robertson screamed and rattled against his chair and handcuffs. Thorne winked and walked away.
Robertson continued to scream after Thorne exited and shut the door to the interrogation room carefully and quietly.
“Turn the camera off,” Thorne said to Hairs
ton. “Let him get stared at for awhile.”
Everyone in the room was quiet as they watched Robertson rage on the other side of the glass.
“I’m hungry again, I’m going for some pizza,” Thorne grabbed his coat. “Don’t bother me unless it’s real fucking important.”
23
Barb Mullens lifted her daughter Darcy up and set her on the kitchen counter to put the young girl’s snow boots on. Darcy was seven and so cute that sometimes Barb was amazed, absolutely amazed, that this little girl had emerged from her.
Not that Barb had been a bad-looking kid herself, but nothing like Darcy. Lord knows Darcy didn’t get her looks from her father. Chad looked good now but when he was young he was homely as all get out. If somebody had told Barb back in fourth grade that she would someday grow up and marry Chad Mullens, she would have been horrified. Chad really grew into his looks.
But Darcy, with her corn-silk blonde hair and bright blue eyes, she was a stunner from day one. And so good, a good kid too. Sometimes kids weren’t good, no matter what the parents did, sometimes kids were just rotten. Not Darcy, she was sweet beyond compare. Barb tightened Darcy’s left boot.
“All ready to go?” Barb asked.
“Ready to go!” Darcy said happily, further breaking Barb’s heart. How many kids were happy to go to school?
“Remember the rules,” Barb said, starting a now familiar routine. “After school’s out, you wait INSIDE with Mrs. Goodwin until?”
“Until you pick me up!”
“Until you SEE me and I pick you up. Me or Dad, nobody else. What’s next?”
“Don't ever talk to strangers!”
“And if anyone, ANYBODY, ever touches you in your private place, what do you do?”
“Tell you.”
“Who else?”
“Tell Daddy.”
“Who else?”
“Mrs. Goodwin, my teacher.”
“Who else?” Barb looked at Darcy, who had to think about it for a minute. “There’s one more person you can tell if someone does a bad thing. Who do you tell when somebody does something bad?”