by Adira August
He logged off.
“He might be right,” DiMato said.
“Snow?”
“Ferriter.”
“DiMato, do you know who Edmund Kemper is?”
“Isn’t he the one who cut his victims’ heads off and kept them to have sex with?”
“He operated at will for almost ten years. Cops couldn’t get close to identifying him. His IQ was in the 140s. Did you know Kemper turned himself in?” Hunter asked. “He did it because he thought he’d never be caught.”
“You know, Dane, it sounds like you’re saying what we do doesn’t matter as much as what he does. Like the cops are nothing.”
“We aren’t nothing to us. Or to the victims. But to Ferriter, who thinks he’s as smart as Kemper or some fictional super-villain, we’re irrelevant.”
“Guess we’ll have to change that.”
“And soon,” Hunter said. “Let me know as soon as the feed’s up. And keep the door locked. Ben Trowbridge is still in the building. I don’t want him wandering in here.”
Plans
* * *
The minute hand on the clock moved from 2:40 to 2:41. Ferriter's eyes moved from the clock to the TV to Ruth sitting across from him. Her coffee mug propped up the open cover of the red file. She sorted determinedly through the contents—almost done.
Hands over the bolt head clenched tight, he looked back to the TV. Wendy wasn’t there. A list of school closings and expected snowfall totals scrolled slowly down the screen.
Conifer: 36 to 50 inches possible.
Ferriter's eyes widened. Lips parted. One leg jiggled.
“I'll just make copies and call someone to come get you.” Ruth gathered up the file and her mug.
His eyes darted from TV to the clock. 2:43. “You must have missed something. Check it again.”
Wendy began a voice-over while they showed shots of foothills towns where snow had begun to fall.
“... the leading edge of the storm is already over the foothills. Evergreen is experiencing steady flurries …”
The screen held on the clip Garza had chosen: Snow falling on children in a playground. The camera moved slowly in on the sandy-haired boy and the snow that turned his hair and shoulders white.
Ferriter licked his lips and shifted in his chair.
The sound of Ruth’s chair scraping along the floor caught Ferriter’s attention.
She was getting up.
“I said check it again!” His gaze flitted rapidly between her and the screen.
“I've checked it, thank you.”
“I said check it again!”
Ferriter kicked out a foot in frustration and hit the metal wastebasket under the table. It clanged against a table leg. He liked that. Did it again. Deliberately. Hard. Aimed for her.
The can banged into her shins, clattered off the metal legs of her chair back toward Ferriter, who kicked it again.
Ruth leapt up. The mug flew out of her grip, shattering against the wall. When she grabbed for it, the file dropped, spilling papers across the floor.
“No!” Ruth went to her knees amongst shards of ceramic, frantically scrabbled to get everything back into the file.
“Check it again!”
Blood smeared the forms from small cuts on Ruth’s hands. “No! Nonono, no, no.”
Ferriter drove the wastebasket at her again and again. It ricocheted off metal chair legs. Her body. The wall. The cacophony was deafening.
“CHECKITAGAIN, CHECKITAGAIN, CHECKITAGAIN!”
She tried to wipe her blood from the forms, but only smeared them with more. “Stop it,” she sobbed. “Stop. Stop. Please. Oh, please, stop.”
She remained on her knees, holding up one ineffectual hand against the onslaught. The metal can bashed into her fingers.
Ruth cried out, snatched her hand back to curl it against her chest. A spurt of fresh blood seeped down her wrist and into the cuff of her sweater.
“GARZA!”
“I see it,” Garza said calmly to Hunter. “Just wait. Watch.”
Chang unplugged his headphones; the sound came up.
The basket keeps coming. Weeping, Ruth grabs the papers with her good hand, raking them to herself, creating a bloody wad against her skirt, getting them all.
The wastebasket, bent and caved in on one side, thankfully wedges itself under her chair. Silence. With a final futile kick, Ferriter subsides, chest heaving, face flushed with hate.
Ruth climbs unsteadily to her feet, clutching the red folder and the mess of bloodspattered papers to her chest.
Ferriter spies something on a blue form. "WARRANT TO SEARCH motor vehicle belonging to Harold Charl" the rest hidden by other papers.
“What are they doing to my car, Ruthie? Are they opening her up? Stripping her? Running their hands over her?”
Ruth looks wildly out the door, toward the empty squadroom.
“There is no help for you.”
She’s still crying. “I have to make copies.” She fled from him, shutting the door behind her.
Ferriter jerks one more time at his restraints. Stills.
Eyes to the clock. 2:46.
He’s drawn back to the TV that obsesses him.
THE SOUND OF panting, whining, gasping breaths—harsh, regular—filled the surveillance room.
On the monitor, Ferriter hunched over the return, face to the TV, hands still cuffed to the table. His body jerked rhythmically.
“Is he having a seizure?” Xavier asked the room.
“Masturbating,” Garza answered.
“Aw, Jesus.”
Chang made a note.
“The guy's falling apart. Is he still going to talk? Look at him,” Hunter said to Garza.
“Oh, I am. Next time he sees the mouse, he'll blow wide open”
“Are you insane? I need to pull her out of there—”
“No,” Garza insisted. “She'll be fine. You'll see.”
Ed Chang twisted around, eying Garza. “You think he'll attack her again.”
“No question. And his inability to reach her will drive him crazier than a kitten in a catnip collar.”
“But there’s nothing left to attack her with,” Xavier said. “He can’t reach anything.”
“He can talk,” Garza said. “Tell her about his kills. Assault her with a horror she's helpless to change.” He smiled dreamily. “Show her how her anguish entertains him.”
“And we’ll get it all? Including his past kills?” Hunt asked. Garza nodded. “But what’s going to make him give up Brian’s location? And being entertained by Ruth’s horror is an issue. It's her state of mind I'm worried about.”
Desperate to reach orgasm, Ferriter’s torso thrusts hard. Hands bunched into fists hanging on to the bolt as he rubs himself over his closed fists. His body rocks convulsively forward and back.
“Her state of mind is utter perfection,” Graza said. “He's completely helpless and totally convinced he's in control.”
“I’m pulling her out unless you give me a compelling reason not to.” Hunter stated. “This can have a serious effect on her.”
“It’s temporary. That’s what shrinks and sick time are for.” Garza faced Hunt. “The effect of death is permanent. This is how we save the kid. ” Garza went back to the monitor. “Once he starts, he’ll spill it all. Remember, he thinks there’s no surveillance. Just him and her. He’ll tell her. In detail. Just get your rescue teams in place.”
Hunter paced restlessly in the small room. Garza turned his black eyes on Hunt, again. “How long do you think the guilt will stay with this woman when the boy’s dead, and she finds out she might have saved him by just doing her job a little while longer?”
Hunt stopped and pointed his cell at Garza. “If she calls me and says she can’t go on, I’m telling her to shut the door and walk away.”
Garza left it alone and went back to the monitor.
Ferriter’s frantic movements shake the return, the picture on the monitor juddering along with his
thrusts.
With a final climactic spasm, he lets out a rough-throated moan and collapses over the desk return.
Ferriter is still, catching his post-orgasmic breath.
“He's ripe,” Garza said. “I'll be in video production.”
DRESSED FOR A WINTER blow, Avron Coulter stepped out of a red Ram 4500 pickup he'd parked next to Vargas’ SUV. The truck was crap on the outside, chipped and dented, but Avron kept it in peak mechanical condition.
Hans clambered down behind him and trotted off to pee on the wilderness.
IN THE CAB, the whine and moan of the wind had increased. Wearing nitrile gloves, Cam finished setting up a capture from Ferriter's laptop to his. In the corner, Vargas checked the pellet box for the pellet stove.
Pounding on the door startled them both. “Ya call me up here and lock me out?”
“Avron,” Vargas said. “Hang on!”
He opened the door a crack, holding on so the wind didn’t take it or allow Avron to enter. “It's a crime scene, Avron. So don't touch anything. And watch—”
Avron shoulder-slammed the door open.
“—where you step,” Vargas finished.
“I been to more crime scenes than you have, Lonny Vargas!” He stayed where he was. “Where is it?”
Cam waved him over to the minifridge.
Avron jerked a nod and walked a direct line to Cam. He stared at the monitor. His face hard. Controlled.
The screen showed brief glimpses of Brian's arms and legs sweeping forest debris over himself, the pile higher than his body.
“He keeps piling leaves and stuff on himself,” Vargas said.
“Smart kid.” Avron’s mouth was a thin line.
“He’s trying to keep warm?”
Cam cleared his throat. “The real problem being buried in a big snow is suffocation. Leaves trap air.”
“So the leaves can keep him alive,” Vargas said.
Cam dropped his gaze. Avron took this one.
“Prob’ly not. This’ll be a wet snow. Heavy. Gonna squeeze that pile flat. Gutsy kid, though. … Why'd you drag me up here to see this, Lon?”
“I dragged you up here to find something out there.” Vargas pointed through the window and handed Avron the binoculars.
“What am I supposed to do with these?”
“Cam?”
“Denver homicide sent us a map marking a five-mile radius from this tower.”
Cam turned the laptop and Avron frowned over a satellite image with a thin red circle outlining the area. “And?”
“The antennas that this guy set up, they’re all pointed in pretty much the same direction. We marked an arrow on the railing above them. They might be high gain, but the wave still widens.”
“The search zone is still way too big,” Vargas said. “You’re the one most familiar with the area. If you see what we’re looking for—”
—“rich people houses, big parking slabs at the edge,” Avron finished. “I got it.”
“That you’ve probably never been to,” Vargas finished. “But if you see it from here; you can find it down there.”
“If I have to stand out in the wind and get turned into a damn popsicle, you two are coming along.”
They did.
Big Hans snored on his side on the catwalk.
“It's freezing-ass cold out here, how can he be sleeping?” Cam asked.
“Swiss Mountain dogs give birth in the snow. This is just fine for Hans.” Avron found the arrow Vargas pointed to on the railing. He aligned himself with it and raised the glasses.
Cam stood next to him. “I have a shirt of Brian’s in the car. His father got it out of the boy’s laundry basket.”
“Hans don’t need it,” Avron said, slowly scanning. “He's not a bloodhound. He air scents a bit, but mostly he listens. A dog hears things four times better than you can. Now hush a minute. I gotta concentrate.”
Both men kept still. Vargas faced Avron’s side to act as a bit of a windbreak. Cam kept an eye on the position of his body so he didn’t stray from the right direction.
Very cold minutes passed. Avron stopped scanning. “Let’s get inside.”
They did. Avron shook off his gloves and fumbled out his cell with cold hands. He contacted his teams, told them to take a break and head to a meeting spot. He’d be back with particulars for a new target area.
Then he walked the other two over to the window and handed the glasses to Cam. “Hold ‘em up, I’ll point you.”
Avron put his hands on Cam’s shoulders and turned him, then pushed his arms down an inch. “What do you see?”
“A paved road with a switchback. Big houses. Can you find it?”
Cam handed the glasses to Vargas and let Avron position him, while he got on his laptop.
“I can find it, alright. That's Big Horn Estates,” Avron said. “Got a bulletin on it from the county when they issued the building permits.”
Vargas was still looking through the binoculars. “Never heard of it.” Vargas wasn’t happy with that. “The houses along the upper road look like they don't have much slope below.”
“I’m thinking he'd only have about a fifty-foot vertical drop between the properties and lower road. That lower section dead-ends at a turn-around. Below that, it’s all forest to the valley floor.”
Cam joined them, and Vargas offered him the glasses. Cam shook his head. “Look across the valley.”
They did, it looked like mist. They knew it wasn’t.
“That’s snow,” Cam said. “Coming right at us. Flurries will start here within the half-hour. We might have two hours before blizzard conditions.”
“I want to redeploy all the teams to that line of homes along the low road,” Avron said. “It cuts the search down by half. Doubles the manpower.”
“You’re head of search and rescue,” Vargas said.
“Here’s the deal, Lonny. Even with your guys and my teams we only have maybe forty people to search how many places?”
“Fifty-seven properties.” Cam had his cell in his hand, as always. “I checked lots and houses for sale and addresses with vacation forwarding of their mail. Eliminate those, it’s only twenty-six.”
The three men looked at each other—guessing, extrapolating, assuming.
“We’re running out of search time,” Avron said. He called his team leaders and gave them their assignments, reading addresses off Cam’s cell. When he tapped off, he handed Cam the cell. “You know what you’re doing on a mountain in winter, or did you just ride a gondola up and slide down?”
“I’m comfortable enough,” Cam said.
“Guess we’ll see. Pair up with Lonny. Should have four to a search team, so we’re stretched thin. Stay together. Hans and I can do one by ourselves.”
WATER SWIRLED INTO a white sink’s drain. A thin ribbon of red crept in. Expanded. Stained the pool around the drain pink.
Ruth washed the blood from her hands. She shut off the water and leaned on the counter. Head down. Avoiding the mirror. On the cuff of her cardigan, a blood stain.
Ruth took several deep breaths. She had to go back.
But it was almost done.
AT THE INFORMATION desk, several bandaids on one hand, Ruth hung up the desk phone. She walked the red file back to McCauley’s office and left it in the center drawer of the desk. She closed the door carefully, jiggling the knob to be sure it locked.
Back at her desk, Ruth contemplated the last three forms. She straightened her dachshund pin, smoothed her cardigan, and faced Interrogation One.
FERRITER SAT BACK in his chair, hands folded neatly over the bolt head. His face was blotchy, hair fallen over his forehead, suit dank and wrinkled.
But his eyes were bright—watching the weather with a little smirk. On the last paroxysm of his body, the bolt had come free.
And the clock read 3:15.
It was too late and it was all good. He didn’t care that he couldn’t hear the TV with the door closed. His view through the surve
illance window and open door beyond was clear. Three fifteen. He imagined the look on some cop’s face when he had to unlock the handcuffs.
He so wanted it to be that lieutenant. He’d hold out his hands—up away from the table—showing he could have walked away whenever he wanted. What future jury could possibly doubt he was innocent? Or that cops were dolts.
The chyron with the Amber Alert and Brian's picture blinked out.
Ferriter sat up.
The chyron restarted. No Amber Alert. No Brian.
Wendy was back, hip-sprung in front of a weather map. He couldn’t hear her, but as she pointed and postured, her message ran along the bottom of the screen.
... National Weather Service cancels blizzard watch … high pressure from the gulf shifts jetstream north … flurries predicted for the front range ending before midnight … snowfall accumulation one to two inches …
Ferriter gaped in horror at the TV.
RUTH OPENED THE door. The dented wastebasket was still stuck under her chair. The remains of the shattered coffee mug littered the floor. She did not step inside.
She delivered a short speech—tonelessly—by rote. “Dispatch is sending someone to take you to the jail. I will give your paperwork to that officer. The sheriffs will see you get the appropriate copies. They said about twenty minutes.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait. WAIT! What happened to the boy?”
She kept going.
“The boy from the Amber Alert,” he shouted after her. “It went off the TV. What happened?”
She came back, shook her head, and shut the door.
“I WANT IT OPEN! I GET TO HAVE IT OPEN! THAT LIEUTENANT SAID SO!”
A moment. She reopened the door and spoke to him, not shouting. “But he's not here. I’m just here. Like you said. So I'll decide.” A little smile.
Ferriter changed gears. “I'm sorry, okay? Please. I just want to know how that boy is. He go back home or what?”
Her lips pressed.
“Oh come on Ruthie, you said you talked to your dispatcher. I know you know. Where'd they find him?”
“I don’t know.” Ruth’s face crumpled. “Something about Conifer.”