He seemed to think about it for a moment; then he stepped aside. “Okay. But I’m only giving you permission to speak with the kid. You hear? Not to go rooting through any of my private stuff. Unless you got a warrant, the rest of the house is out of bounds.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
He made an uh-huh sound.
Maggie motioned for the deputy to follow her inside.
It was dim in the house, almost murky, and what little Maggie could see of it immediately reminded her of a junkyard. Used auto parts crammed in every available space, the cloying odors of grease and motor oil layered on top of decades of neglect. It smelled like the wrecking yard.
“Room at the end of the hall,” he said, gesturing.
“Sir, Tyler is a minor. I’ll need you present.”
“Soon as I hit the head, lady. I ain’t holding back for nobody. Go ahead. I’ll be two shakes.” He turned and disappeared in the gloom.
With the deputy in tow, Maggie felt her way along the dark hallway, easing past a tower of motorbike wheels. She came to a partly closed door with a yellow metal road sign pinned to the peeling veneer: a stick man falling over the words TRIPPING HAZARD.
She went to knock, then changed her mind, gently pushing the door open instead and reaching for the light switch. Then she stood still for a moment, taking in the sight before her.
The first thing that struck Maggie about Tyler Pruitt’s bedroom was the overpowering locker room stench. The air smelled bad, like something had crawled into a corner and died. Years of ingrained sweat and engine oil. Heaped clothes reaching for the ceiling.
The second thing that struck her was the colorful mosaic that covered every square inch of the walls and ceiling. Not an artistic collage by any means, rather a deviant’s grotto created out of hundreds of pages torn from porn magazines. A multitude of lip-licking girls in every compromising position imaginable.
Maggie put the heel of her hand on the butt of her Glock.
As for the boy himself, he was sprawled on a discolored mattress on the floor, asleep. Naked, aside from a pair of faded boxer shorts. A ring of empty beer bottles holding an AA meeting on the filthy carpet next to him.
Maggie thought about clearing a jumble of clothes off a stool and sitting down. Changed her mind.
“Tyler,” she said.
He didn’t respond.
Maggie repeated his name, this time louder.
The boy stirred, groaned.
“Tyler. Wake up.”
He rolled over to face her, eyes screwed shut. “Mom?”
“No, Tyler. It’s Detective Novak. You need to wake up. Right now.”
A bleary eye cracked open, followed by the other. For a moment he gazed up at her; then realization hit home, and he reacted as if stung, scrambling into a defensive position against the porn-papered wall.
“Your grandpa let us in,” Maggie said before he could ask, or start to scream at her to get out of his room.
Tyler drew his knees up to his chest, glancing at the deputy standing inside the doorway. “Why are you here?”
“We need to have a conversation,” Maggie said. “But only with your grandpa present. Right now he’s busy emptying his bladder.” Maggie gestured at the ceiling. “Interesting concept you’ve got going here. Very artistic. Did you come up with the idea all by yourself?” She looked back at him, noting the embarrassment glowing in his cheeks. “Must be a little disconcerting having a grown woman here in your bedroom, surrounded by all this vulgarity.”
“Grandpa!” Tyler shouted.
Heavy footfalls sounded in the hall, and a second later the grandfather hustled past the deputy and into the room. “Cool your engines,” he said.
“I don’t want them here.”
“Don’t matter one iota what you want. How many times have I told you I don’t want no cops knocking at my door?”
Tyler cowered as if struck. “I didn’t do anything.”
Maggie raised a hand. “Please, sir. Right now Tyler is just helping with my investigations. I just need you to bear witness, that’s all. Can you do that for me?”
“Suppose.” He folded his illustrated arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “So he doesn’t need a lawyer or anything?”
“Tyler isn’t under arrest. But it’s his right to have an attorney present, if that’s what he wants.” She swung her gaze back to the boy for confirmation.
“I didn’t do anything,” he repeated. “Ask me anything. I’ve nothing to hide.” A little show of bravado for his grandpa’s sake.
“In that case, you won’t mind showing me your hand.”
“What?”
“Your hand, Tyler.”
Glowering, Tyler stuck out his left hand, shook it at Maggie. “Satisfied?”
“Your right hand,” she said.
The glower deepened.
“Just get done with it,” the grandfather said.
The boy did as he was instructed, holding out his other hand in such a way that the palm faced Maggie.
“Show me your knuckles,” she said.
“I didn’t do anything,” he repeated again, this time through his teeth.
“Cut the crap,” said the grandfather. “Just do as the lady asks.”
A low growl rumbled in the back of the boy’s throat as, slowly, he turned his hand around.
In the glow from the overhead light, the dry blood smeared across his knuckles and crusted on his ring was unmistakable. It seemed, after the deputy had brought Tyler home, the boy had been too involved in drowning his sorrows in beer to wash it away.
The grandfather leaned up off the door. “You been fighting again, boy?”
The boy’s jaw clenched. “No, sir. I swear. I don’t know how it got there.”
“I do,” Maggie said. “And I’m willing to lay odds that if we analyze that blood, it comes back as being Lindy Munson’s.”
Now the boy glared at her, his body language that of a cornered animal desperate to escape.
“What’s she talking about?” the grandfather said, coming over. “You hit a girl?”
“No!”
“Tyler was with her last night,” Maggie said. “She had a cut on her chin. Your grandson has blood on his knuckles. Right now, I need to know where that blood came from.” She took from her pocket a portable DNA collector that she’d stashed there before heading out. It consisted of a cotton swab in a sealed plastic tube. “I need to collect a sample, just in case it came from some other part of the crime scene.”
“That dead body he found?”
“Yes.” She popped the lid on the collector.
All at once the grandfather didn’t look sure. “I don’t know,” he said, stroking his beard. “Maybe he needs that lawyer after all.”
Maggie turned to him, her expression deadly serious. “And like I said, that’s Tyler’s right. But you need to know, sir, I’m on a deadline here, investigating a particularly vicious homicide that took place just a few hours ago. Every bit of evidence collected while it’s still fresh can go a long way toward apprehending the killer.” She saw the indecision twist his face. “Plus,” she added, “you’ve got to know, the state attorney is a real ball-breaker. She regards the withholding of potential evidence as an obstruction of justice, prosecutable in a court of law.”
“She’d do that to a kid?”
“As God is my witness, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
The grandfather let out a frustrated breath. “So what do you expect me to do? It’s not my hand.”
“No, but Tyler is a minor and you are his legal guardian, which means you have the final say.” She held up the swab. “Give me your consent to collect the evidence I need. Otherwise, you’ll leave me with no choice but to take your grandson in. And then, well, the state attorney will get her say on what happens next.”
Tyler scooted up against the wall, tucking his hands behind his back. “Don’t let her do this, Grandpa.”
But the grandfather had already ma
de up his mind. He put one foot on the mattress, leaning down and grabbing the boy’s wrist from behind his back, yanking Tyler’s hand into plain view. The boy resisted, whimpering, but his grandfather was the stronger of the pair.
“Take your precious sample,” he said to Maggie.
Maggie rubbed the swab into the dried blood on the ring, then clipped it back in its sealed tube. “Thanks.”
He released the boy’s wrist. “We done here?”
“Almost. One last thing.” She swapped the DNA collector for her phone and opened up the picture album. “I just need Tyler to clear something up for me, real quick.” She turned the screen toward the boy. “Is this your car?”
Tyler refused to look, massaging his wrist instead.
“Let me see,” said the grandfather.
Maggie showed him the image she’d taken of the back of the Charger, the license plate lit up in the flash.
“Yep,” he said. “It’s his car all right. Tyler said you impounded it.”
“We did. It was parked at a crime scene. We needed to check it externally for trace evidence. Earlier this morning it was towed to a secure compound. I’ve just come from there.” She swiped to a picture of the storage box in the trunk, then held the phone so that both Tyler and his grandfather could see the screen.
She watched for the boy’s reaction, knowing that any second now the penny would drop, and that when it did, so too would his jaw.
As predicted, the moment Tyler’s eyes registered the nature of the image, his mouth fell wide open.
“Can you explain for me,” she said, “why you have bleach, gasoline, zip ties, and a roll of duct tape in the trunk of your car?”
He shook his head, panic rising in his face.
“Well, you should know, this kind of combination is what we loosely refer to as a kill kit.” She moved the phone into his personal space. “Take another look at these items, Tyler, and tell me, was it your intention to kill Lindy Munson in those woods last night?”
Her last question was like dropping a lit match on a keg of gunpowder. In a flash, Tyler reacted, lunging at her and whacking the phone out of her hand. It smashed into the wall as Tyler exploded to his feet, shooting for the door.
But he didn’t get past Deputy Willits. The officer grabbed the boy, slamming him up against the porn-plastered wall.
“Don’t you ever learn, boy?” the grandfather said. “Running never solves anything. Best you start talking, boy. And no bull, you hear? Either you answer the lady’s question right now, or you answer to me later.”
Tyler’s eyes were wide, feral, racked with fear.
“It was her idea,” he screeched. “She told me to bring those things. I was just following her orders.”
Chapter Eight
IN SEPIA
Maggie burst through the swinging doors leading into the Major Case offices, almost causing a passing admin clerk to spill the case files she was carrying.
“Thought you’d run out on me, Novak,” Loomis called as Maggie approached their back-to-back desks. He had on a dark-green suit, brown dress shirt, and red necktie, his feet perched on an open drawer. “Almost put out a BOLO on you,” he said with a wink. “Be on the lookout for a tardy detective.”
She shrugged out of her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. “Who dressed you this morning? A leprechaun?”
He chuckled. “I see lack of sleep hasn’t dented that world-famous charm of yours. Sunday best, Novak. Sunday best. Besides, I’m color blind, remember? It was still dark when I picked them out. I was aiming for all green.” He dropped his feet to the floor. “Where’ve you been? It’s after nine. I thought you’d be in here bright and early. I tried calling.”
She slid her phone across the desk to him.
His smile dissolved when he saw the cracked screen and the broken bezel. “What the . . . You just got this.”
“Well, now I need another.” She said it loud enough to turn one or two heads.
In her absence, the weekend shift had moseyed in—two fellow detectives drinking coffee and chin wagging at the bulletin board, and several civilian administrators taking up the slack. Morning sunshine slanted in through the blinds, and the overhead fans whirred.
“Smits?” she said.
“In his office.”
She glanced over. “We need to bring him up to speed.”
“Smits can wait.” He flapped a hand. “Sit, sit. Take the weight off your feet for a minute. Tell me what’s going on. That look you’re wearing says harassed to me.”
Maggie stayed standing. “Tyler Pruitt is in Interview One.”
“The kid with the snazzy car?” Loomis sat up, taking notice. “You brought him in, on your own?”
“No, with a deputy. Over an hour ago.”
“Okay. What’s the kid saying?”
She pointed at her face. “See the frustration? That’s just it. He’s saying nothing. He’s pleading the Fifth and asking for a lawyer.”
“Okay. And . . . ?”
“And it’s the weekend. Best case scenario, a public defender can’t be here until late afternoon at the soonest. Probably tomorrow.”
Loomis rotated a finger. “Rewind a little here for me, Novak. You’ve had the kid sitting in an interview room for the last hour?”
“In stony silence.”
“Can I ask why? Tempting as it may be, you can’t book every nasty asshole for being a pain in the ass. We’d need prisons on every corner.”
“I found gasoline in the trunk of his car.”
“Well, no real surprise there . . . it’s a car. Sometimes it’s been known for people to carry spare gas in case of an emergency.”
She made a face. “Are you deliberately being sarcastic?”
“Not deliberately. But I have been practicing more than usual lately. I’m hoping to have it perfected by the end of the week.”
She managed a smile, some of the tension easing in her neck. With the assistance of his grandfather, bringing Tyler in had been a breeze. But trying to get him to talk had been like putting out a forest fire with a squirt gun. She’d tried every persuasive trick in the book, but the boy had remained tight lipped and uncooperative. Even threats of violence from his grandfather had fallen on deaf ears.
Loomis leaned his bony elbows on the desk. “So what gives with this kid? I know you didn’t haul him in for a gasoline violation. Even on a bad day, you’re not that persnickety. What else did you find?”
“Duct tape and bleach, for starters.”
“Better. Now we’re talking. You’re thinking maybe this kid’s our killer?”
Maggie felt her brow crinkle. After spotting the blood on Tyler’s knuckles and then making the connection with the graze on Lindy’s chin, she’d been too focused on establishing that his assault on the girl had taken place to take the leap that Loomis had intuitively taken without breaking a sweat.
“You know,” she admitted, glancing over to Smits’s office again, “that wasn’t the path I was headed on.”
“You thought he had plans for Lindy alone? Not like you to miss the bigger picture, Novak.”
“No, you’re right.”
Maggie didn’t say that when she’d noticed the blood on the boy’s ring, all she had seen was red. Partly, it was an aftereffect caused by the shock of learning that Rita hadn’t died twenty years ago. Mostly, however, it had reminded her of an incident from her own childhood. Something she wasn’t proud of.
Loomis leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers. “Alternatively,” he said, “it’s coincidence, right? I mean, come on, Novak. What’re the chances of this kid planning something sinister in the exact same spot that some other killer dumped a body just a couple of hours earlier? How likely is that?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “If you ask me, I think we caught this kid right at the start of a killing spree. Nipped a serial killer in the bud. First, he torches Dana Cullen—don’t ask me why—and secondly he lures Lindy there to do the same to her.”
Loomis looked at her like she’d just told him that he’d been walking around all morning with his zipper down.
“I’m pretty sure Tyler hit Lindy. That’s the real reason I brought him in. I spotted blood on his knuckles in one of the crime scene photos. Out of curiosity, I went down to the impound to check his car.”
“And that’s when you found the incriminating evidence.”
“Only, now I don’t know what to think. I found what could be construed as a kill kit in the trunk. But when they stumbled across Dana’s body, Tyler was the one to call it in. It doesn’t add up.”
Loomis made a face. “Teenagers.” He picked up a stack of 5 x 7 color prints from his desk and handed half of them to her.
Maggie recognized them as printouts of the crime scene pictures she’d uploaded earlier.
“Ammunition,” he said. “Just in case Smits goes on the offensive and we need to defend ourselves.” He pushed to his feet and brushed himself off. “Okay. Let’s do this, I guess.”
They made their way to the small, glass-walled Duty Sergeant office situated in the corner of Major Case.
For a number of reasons, Maggie had never warmed to Lenny Smits—not least because of his frostiness. Smits was one of those people who was bad at making friends and good at making enemies. Even before they reached the door, she could see him standing at the sunlit window at one side of his office, using tweezers to select live crickets from a Tupperware container before dropping them into a soil-filled terrarium. With his imposing frame and graying hair, the sergeant had always reminded Maggie of the movie actor Alec Baldwin from his 30 Rock days.
She felt Loomis’s hand on her shoulder. “Hold up, Novak,” he said. “It’s feeding time at the zoo.”
But Maggie pushed open the door and went inside.
“Read the sign, people,” Smits said without looking up. “I’m busy with Betsy. Come back in ten.”
“We won’t be here in ten,” Maggie said. “We’ve a homicide to investigate.” She pulled out a flimsy plastic chair and sat down at the desk. Immediately, its hard back rubbed against her spine. The chairs were a control mechanism, Maggie knew. Smits had had the crappiest ones possible installed so that he could keep his visitors uncomfortable and on the edge of their seats.
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