by Rick Reed
“I’ll look into it, Mayor,” Chief Dick said, sounding more confident than he felt.
Hensley leaned forward in his chair, both hands flat on top of the desk. “You’ll look into it?” He leaned farther forward, and spittle was gathering at the corners of his mouth. “You’ll look into it!” He got up and stood in front of the bank of glass windows that looked out over Main Street, his arms straight at his sides, his fists clinching and relaxing.
“I’m doing everything I can, Thatcher,” Dick said, and cringed at the apologetic tone in his own voice.
Hensley spun around, facing the chief. “You’ll do better than that!” Hensley said through clenched teeth. “You’ll catch this bastard, or you’ll find another job.” With that decree, Hensley turned back to the windows and was quiet.
Dick kept his eyes cast down. He’d seen these tantrums before and knew that it was best to let the mayor blow off steam.
In a few moments Hensley turned around and went back to his seat. “Well,” he said, “we’d better decide how we’re going to handle this demand.”
“Before we do anything, perhaps I should have my people verify the note is authentic,” Dick suggested.
“What?” Hensley said, “You think it might be from someone besides the killer?”
“Mayor, we suspended Detective Murphy a week ago. There have been no murders since then. Why would this guy be demanding Murphy’s return now?”
Hensley stood up and paced in front of the desk. “Are you suggesting that Detective Murphy wrote the note himself, Chief Dick?”
That’s exactly what Dick believed, but he couldn’t afford to be wrong. He couldn’t afford another murder to prove the point. “I’m merely suggesting that we take a few hours to have this note checked out by my forensic people. Then we can decide.”
Hensley stood in front of the chief, looking down into his face keenly. “You’d better do something quick, Richard. He’s promised to kill one child for each day we keep Murphy off the job. If the killer strikes again and the public finds out that we sat on this note, it will mean the end of both of us.”
Dick understood completely. But he couldn’t put Murphy back on the job. Better to be fired than let Murphy gloat over him. “I’ll oversee the processing of the note myself, Mayor,” Chief Dick promised.
“Get Murphy back, Dick,” Hensley said flatly.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The responding uniformed sergeant set up an inner perimeter and closed down traffic on Riverside Drive between Walnut and Cherry Streets. Evansville traffic had become familiar with portions of Riverside Drive being blocked by police cars because of the frequent events, such as 5K runs, the Freedom Festival, Frog Follies, and arts and crafts fairs. Because of that, it was strange just how little attention was paid to the police activity by the locals. It looked like just another day in Evansville when Liddell and Jack arrived at the scene, followed closely by a Channel Six news van.
A uniform officer held the yellow caution tape up as Liddell drove under, but stopped the news van from entering.
Outside the tape, Maddy Brooks jumped from the still-moving van, alternately trying to get Jack’s attention and giving nine kinds of hell to the uniformed officer who had blocked their entrance.
“Do you think we should let her in?” Liddell asked.
Jack looked back and noticed that the uniformed officer was the rookie, Kuhlenschmidt.
“Fuck her,” Jack said, but he felt sorry for the rookie.
“That’s why you should be the lead detective on this case, Jack. You’re so good with words.”
The uniformed sergeant was a wizard at managing things and had already set up a gathering point for the news media at the Four Freedoms Monument several hundred yards distant from the crime scene. A white tent had been erected around the body, properly concealing the victim from the curious and the thrill-seekers that get off on death. All that was missing now were the vendors and kiddy rides.
Jack spotted the mobile command center lumbering up the boat ramp toward the back of the museum. Behind it were two crime scene SUVs, and several officers were busy securing the scene. One of these looked up and said to the other, “Uh oh. We’ve just been Dick’d.”
Liddell and Jack looked in the direction the officer was gazing and saw a black sedan pull up to the crime scene tape across from the Four Freedoms Monument. The news media that had been yelling toward Jack and Liddell now descended on the chief’s car like paparazzi on Paris Hilton.
Jack was surprised to see Captain Franklin get out of the driver’s side and open the back door for Double Dick. “Where’s Dewey?” Jack asked Liddell. He was referring to Captain Dewey Duncan, Double Dick’s trusty court jester.
“Hemorrhoid surgery,” Liddell commented, and then said, “He’s delivering twins.”
A uniform officer standing close by said, “I heard he’s having Double Dick’s love child.”
“Children,” Liddell corrected him, holding up two fingers. “Twins. Both butt ugly.”
“You can quit any time now,” Jack said as Captain Franklin spotted them.
Double Dick stood smiling in front of the bank of microphones being thrust in his face, and Liddell said, “You think he’ll smoke afterward?”
“Nah, I don’t think he knows what postcoital languor is,” Jack answered.
The captain walked up to the crime scene tent and stopped to sign in with the officer keeping the crime scene log. Liddell said, “How are your hemorrhoids, Captain?”
Franklin either didn’t think it was funny, or had something else on his mind. He said, “Jack. I’m glad you’re here. It saves me the trouble of calling.”
Franklin turned toward the river, so his face couldn’t be seen by the reporters in the news media staging area. Jack and Liddell followed suit and gathered close around. The news media had employed lip readers in the past, and with their long-range cameras they could have any film viewed later to try to discover what the detectives were saying to each other.
Jack had the greatest respect for Captain Franklin, both as a man and as a supervisor. But, Jack thought it was a bad day for the police department when Franklin had been promoted from detective sergeant up through the ranks to captain, because, like most policemen, Jack believed that promotions were bad things, except for the eight percent pay raise. He further believed that for every eight percent in pay that a promotion brought, that eight percent of the promotee’s brain was removed. So if his beliefs were accurate, Double Dick was working at about one-quarter mental capacity. Jack wasn’t sure how Captain Franklin had managed to avoid the lobotomy and keep his sense of right and wrong.
Franklin kept his voice low. “Chief Dick is considering reinstating you to full duty, Jack,” he said.
“No kidding?” Liddell said loudly. Captain Franklin shot him a cautioning look, and Liddell quieted down.
“I saw the note that Maddy got, but I didn’t think the chief had seen it yet. Did he?” Jack asked.
Franklin didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The killer wanted Jack. He would keep killing until they gave him what he wanted. It was political suicide to not allow Jack back on the case merely because the chief had a gripe with him.
“When?” Jack asked.
Franklin shrugged. Chief Dick had asked Franklin to drive him to the murder scene, and had mentioned that he was “thinking about” putting Murphy back on the case. After that, Dick had said nothing.
“I’m sure the chief is going to want to see inside there,” Franklin said, motioning to the tent.
“It’s not pretty, Captain,” Liddell said.
“Well,” Franklin said with a sigh, “we might as well get this over with.”
The three men slipped protective booties over their street shoes and then entered the tent one by one, but stayed well back from the two crime scene techs, who were clothed in white protective gear.
“There’s nothing on his person to identify him, Captain,” one of the techs said. The oth
er tech was on his knees examining the ground around the body, looking for trace evidence.
“Little Boy Blue,” Franklin said softly, and looked at the body of what looked to be a ten-to twelve-year-old boy. The body was dressed in well-worn jeans, no shirt, and one dirty sneaker on a sockless right foot, the left foot bare. Blue paint had been poured over the body from head to foot.
Jack looked closely at the boy’s wounds. He had been slashed across his face, neck, and chest with something so sharp that the head was almost severed from the neck. The body had then been tied clumsily to the butterfly sculpture with nylon rope and left in a sitting position. There was no sign of struggle or defensive wounds, although an autopsy might give more detail.
“He wasn’t killed here,” Jack said. There wasn’t enough blood.
“He may not have even died from these wounds,” one of the techs pointed out.
“If he didn’t die from those cuts or whatever, what killed him?” Franklin asked.
The crime scene tech shook his head. “Have to wait for the post, Captain. It’s hard to tell what’s under all that paint.”
The men stepped back outside, leaving the crime scene techs to their work. Franklin sighed, and looked up to see the gangly figure of Chief Dick climbing the grassy hill toward them with a scowl spread across his pinched features.
“This fits the staging of the other victims,” Jack said, and Liddell nodded agreement. “‘Tommy Tittlemouse’ found facedown in a ditch. ‘Little Nanny Etticoat’ was dressed in a nightgown, or petticoat.”
“You can have as many people as you need,” Captain Franklin said to Liddell; then, to Jack, “Don’t wander off.” He headed for Chief Dick, who had just made it to the top of the hill.
The conversation between the detective captain and the chief of police was so animated that several of the television cameramen had hurriedly turned their cameras on the spectacle. Nothing upped the ratings like a little violence on film. But soon it was evident that the conversation was cooling, and the disappointment on the faces of the cameramen was obvious.
When Captain Franklin walked over to Liddell and Jack his face and neck were still red. Chief Dick stood like a graceful flamingo, his back to the men, nose tilted into the air.
“Jack, come by my office and pick up your gun and badge,” Franklin said, causing several of the gathered officers to smile.
“It’s about fucking time,” Liddell muttered under his breath.
“Liddell and I will be pretty busy, Captain,” Jack said. “Can you get some detectives to check paint outlets as soon as we identify the brand of paint? Maybe the state police lab can speed things up with the paint?”
“I’ll get it done, Jack.”
“You’ll get what done, Captain?” Chief Dick said. He had come up behind them soundlessly.
Franklin looked humorlessly at the chief. “We need the cooperation of the state police lab, Chief. Can you help us out there?”
“We need their cooperation for what, exactly?” Dick said.
Franklin pulled a flap back on the tent, giving Dick a view of the splayed and tortured body of the young boy. Dick’s expression seemed to freeze on his face, and he made gagging sounds.
“Not a problem, Captain,” Chief Dick said, and excused himself on the pretense of going to call the state police superintendant. He almost ran down the hill toward the gathered media and his luxury sedan.
“Good thing he didn’t barf on the body,” Liddell said, and this time Franklin did chuckle.
“Be respectful, Detective Blanchard,” Franklin cautioned. “Chief Dick can be very helpful in clearing the political path for you.”
Yeah, if he gets something for himself out of it, Jack thought.
Just then, Liddell’s cell phone rang and he answered. A minute later he said, “We’ve got an ID on the kid.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Angelina Garcia had just moved the last of the equipment from the War Room at Two-Jakes to her van. She was about to leave when Chief Deputy Mark Crowley drove into the parking lot.
“Need some help?” he asked.
“All finished,” she said, and shut the back hatch. “You have perfect timing, Deputy.”
Mark grinned, his face turning red, and said, “I was checking with my boss to see if I could stick around here a while. Maybe help out if I can.”
“Is that the reason you came by?”
“Well, not exactly,” he stammered, “I just thought—”
Garcia cut him off. “You came by to ask me out.”
“Well, I, uh,” he said and looked at the ground.
“I’d love to go out with you,” she said, and his face showed obvious surprise.
“Would that be okay with your boss?” she asked.
“Hell yeah!” he said.
“You’re so cute,” she said, and touched his arm.
Mark looked serious and said, “That chief of yours doesn’t seem to think so.”
“You’ve talked to the chief?” Garcia said.
“Yeah,” Mark explained. “I had to see if he would let me work with y’all.”
“Mark,” Garcia said, earnestly. “His nickname is Double Dick. What’s that tell you?”
“Well, I’m sorry to say this, but the nickname doesn’t do him justice,” Mark said and rubbed the back of his neck.
Garcia smiled at him. He was country all the way to the bone, and that was what she liked about him. He was a welcome relief from the guys around Evansville, with their toys and attitudes, and their inability to commit to anything more than cable television. Most of them couldn’t even stick with a toothpaste brand. But about Mark, her mom would have said, “He’s a keeper, Angel.” Garcia had to admit, she was interested.
“How about following me downtown?” she said.
Mark smiled and opened the van door for her, and held it until she was seated. “Can’t wait,” he said, and shut the door carefully.
Garcia rolled the window down and said, “When we get to headquarters, don’t hold the door for me, okay? The guys down there take that as a sign of weakness.”
“Then someone should teach ’em some manners,” Mark said, and grinned.
Just then Angelina’s cell phone rang. She looked shocked when she answered, then closed the phone slowly.
“What’s the matter?” Mark asked.
“That was Jack,” she said, and stared straight ahead. “They found another one.”
“Another victim. Who?”
“He didn’t say. He told me to go to headquarters and meet Captain Franklin. Now that Jack’s not suspended, we’re getting a new war room.”
“So what do I do?” Crowley asked, hoping he wasn’t going to be sent back to Dubois County.
Garcia smiled, and said, “He wants you to wait at police headquarters with me and make some calls to your county. Try to see if someone will check all the motels for someone matching Eddie’s description.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Crowley said, pleased that he would be able to justify his hanging around Angelina.
Jack had arranged with Captain Franklin to have Garcia reassigned to them. He called her and told her about the new murder and asked her to move everything back downtown. Captain Franklin would meet her and show her where to set up shop. After he hung up with Garcia, he and Liddell drove to Harwood Middle School. The victim’s name was Charlie Toon, and he was a seventh grader. Jack wondered if Katie had known him, but he didn’t want to ask her at the school. He’d call her later.
When they arrived at the school, they saw a young blond girl and a red-haired boy sitting on a bench along the hallway near the principal’s office. Whatever the boy was in trouble for, or was required to see the school principal about, he seemed to think it was funny and was smirking. The girl looked both embarrassed and scared. A few feet down the hallway, School Liaison Officer Jeff Townsend pried himself away from a whispered conversation with a cute female teacher who wasn’t much older than the students.
&
nbsp; “Want me to throw some cold water on him, Jack?” Liddell offered.
Officer Townsend had the physique of a young Arnold Schwarzenegger, along with good looks and an insatiable sex drive. If he had been a woman he would have been labeled a slut, a whore, and a nymphomaniac. But since he was a man, he was well respected by his peers for his ability to get laid.
“Only if he starts humping my leg,” Jack answered.
A short and extremely bald man came out of a doorway down the hall and walked in their direction. His brown suit was heavily wrinkled around the waist and tail of the coat, which meant he did a lot of sitting. He was middle aged, but already had heavy worry lines in his brow. When he reached the detectives he stuck his hand out.
“Principal John Spanner,” he said.
Jack and Liddell introduced themselves. Spanner’s handshake was wet and brief before he crammed his hands into his pants pockets. When he spoke there was a noticeable nervous tic at the corner of his mouth.
“Let’s take this to my office, gentlemen,” he said, and Liddell and Jack followed after him.
The inside of the principal’s office was small and cramped, but clean and carefully decorated. He noticed Liddell looking at the floral prints hanging around the room.
“I’ve only been here since the beginning of the term. I haven’t had time to do anything to Mrs. Gleason’s office. She was the last principal. She took a faculty position in Colorado,” he said, somewhat enviously. “But you’re not here about that.”
Liddell said, “Mr. Spanner, what can you tell us about Charlie Toon?”
Spanner opened a thick file on his desk, and Jack guessed that Charlie Toon had quite a history to have generated so much paper for a seventh grader.
“You may not know this, but Harwood School has somewhat of a reputation for being a tough school,” Spanner started. “We get the castoffs from the other schools. The troubled kids, and I don’t mean just special education students.” He said this with raised eyebrows as if making a point.
“My ex-wife teaches for you, Mr. Spanner,” Jack said, and nodded for him to continue.