Cache a Predator (9 page)

Brett said, “If I had called CPS to report what happened this morning, how quickly would you have been able to respond?”

Peggy’s face lit up. “What are you implying?”

“You can’t deny that you’re overworked.” Brett squirmed in his seat.

Peggy exchanged a glance with Sarah. “Let’s continue.”

Brett hugged himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. It’s just that I’ve spent the last six months trying to work with a system that betrayed me.” He cleared his throat and locked his eyes on Sarah, wearing the most sincere expression, as if pleading for her to believe him. “The last thing I wanted was for Quinn’s safety to be in jeopardy, but it’s been marginal for a long time, and no one would listen to me.”

Sarah could tell he was frustrated. In her years of practice, she’d seen it in women. Rarely had she seen it in a man.

Peggy set her papers on a clipboard, clicked her pen, and stood, exchanging a quick glance with Sarah. “Well, maybe we can get to the bottom of all this, but as professionals we need to stay neutral and let the judge decide what’s best. Part of my job is to assess the home for safety.” She walked to the refrigerator and opened it, then pulled out corked wine bottles, seeming to count beer cans, and made notes. “I’ll need to do the same at your home if we’re to consider placing Quinn there.”

“By all means. We can go there from here. I’ll take you right over.” Brett stood and followed Peggy.

Sarah reached into her briefcase for her clipboard and followed them.

Peggy opened cupboards, finding one with a bottle of vodka, then scribbled a note. Next, she went into the living room, Quinn’s bedroom, and Ali’s room. She opened the medicine chest in her bathroom, observing dozens of pill bottles and taking more notes.

While Peggy documented findings, Brett turned to Sarah. “Can you tell me anything about what Quinn told you? I have no clue what happened here this morning.”

Sarah bit her lip and answered, again feeling sorry for him. “I read her a story, and she played with dolls. We got acquainted.” She smiled. “She said only good things about you.”

Brett’s eyes watered, and he took a deep breath, looking like he’d waited all day to hear those words. “Thank you.” He plopped down into a chair and exhaled again. He looked away, but Sarah noticed how the corners of his mouth turned down like he was fighting tears. He pressed his fingertips into his eyes. She sat in the chair across from him.

Peggy, who approached them from Ali’s bedroom, said, “When do you think Ali will return?”

He looked up at her. “I have no idea. She wouldn’t tell me where she was going, and she popped a pill before she left.”

Sarah placed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You said Ali hasn’t been well. Is she struggling with anything else right now? Any other medical concerns that you know about?”

Brett held his head in his hands. “It’s not like she has cancer or high blood pressure. But she’s been
sick
for a long time. She’s depressed, but she won’t do anything about it. She denies it, tries to hide it, and won’t take her meds. Some days when we were married she’d stay up all night and sleep during the day.” He told them about Ali’s lack of self-esteem, how sometimes he couldn’t wake her. “Some people have a lower tolerance for stress—that’s Ali.”

Peggy pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Quinn’s kindergarten records from this past school year were faxed over. They indicate she was tardy eighty percent of the time. Why’s that?”

Brett shifted in his seat. “That was Ali’s job. Before the summer break, she took Quinn to school on her way to work. My shift started earlier than hers. But she was always late. She couldn’t wake up, so she was late getting Quinn to school. I didn’t know she’d been late until I got a call from the principal a few weeks before school let out for the summer.” Brett met Sarah’s eyes. “Ali can’t keep a schedule. If I pushed her about it, she would tell me I was a control freak. I couldn’t win.”

Sarah set her clipboard on her lap. “Are you controlling?”

Brett’s face turned red again, and he squirmed in his seat. He looked out the window as if trying to compose himself. “No. Look, Ali didn’t have the best upbringing.”

Sarah crossed her arms. “What do you mean?”

Brett sighed and stared at Sarah with such intensity it made her look away. Her face flushed. “Her mother wasn’t home very often, but when she was, men would come and go. Ali was sexually abused for more than five years before anyone believed her.”

Peggy’s brows creased. “I’m so sorry.” She scribbled something on her chart.

Brett continued. “Yeah, but her mother made it worse. She wouldn’t acknowledge it. She said it was nothing, just Ali’s imagination.”

Sarah tightened her arms around her chest, working at keeping her emotion in check. “Does she have any siblings?”

“Yes, a brother, Mark.”

Sarah straightened her spine and jutted her jaw forward, trying to keep a blank face and her posture composed.

“Why?” Brett leaned forward in his chair toward Sarah. “Did Quinn mention him? Was he here this morning?”

Brett watched her, as if waiting for a clue. Was he holding his breath? She couldn’t think of a reason not to tell him, so finally she met his eyes. “Yes, Quinn mentioned he had been here. Does he live nearby?”

“He lives a few miles from here, works at the bank. Did Mark hurt her?”

“Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “I don’t trust the guy. Never have. There’s something about the way he looks at Quinn that makes my skin crawl. What was he doing here?”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t know. Quinn wasn’t able to tell me much about him.”

He sighed. “He’s very protective of Ali and says he feels responsible for not helping her during the abuse. He’s four years older than her. When their mother was carousing, he had a job and was rarely home. But there’s something shady about him. He better not have harmed Quinn! Do you think he knows something?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah said.

Peggy sat on the sofa, her head bent toward the clipboard. She looked at Brett. “What did Ali do for a living?”

“She was a cashier at Gale’s Mini Mart.”

Peggy scribbled on her clipboard again. “I think I have everything I need from here. Like I said, the state’s job is to keep your child safe. My responsibility is to assess whether or not she is. At first glance it looks as though she’s at risk here.” She waved her hand around the room. “If what you’re saying is true, your wife is unable to care for her, but we have to assess your background and your residence for the courts to consider changing her custody, even if it’s temporary. Five-year-olds don’t roam the streets looking for their dogs.” She paused to get something from her briefcase. “But we haven’t interviewed Ali. We’d like to talk to her once she returns. Do you think you could get her to come to Sarah’s office tomorrow?”

Brett nodded. “I’ll try, but I can’t make promises. What time?”

Sarah took out an iPad to check her schedule. “How’s ten?”

Brett said, “I’m not working until this is resolved, so my schedule is open. But Ali might not want me to come.” He turned to Peggy. “By the way, talk to Chief Dunson when you check my assessment. He’ll vouch that I’m a stand-up guy.”

Sarah thought he was going to smile, but he didn’t.

But Peggy smiled. “We will.”

He turned to Sarah. “Do you think it’s possible I’ll be able to bring Quinn home today?”

Sarah glanced at her watch. She hated Brett’s pleading eyes.

Peggy said, “Don’t count on it. Unfortunately, when these things happen, investigations can take at least three to four days, but I’m sure you understand.”

He guffawed and clenched his hands into fists. “No, unfortunately I don’t understand any of this. All I want is for my daughter to live with me. The
system
is what worries me.”

Sarah saw Brett’s jaw twitch. Was he ready to show his temper’s ugly face?

Peggy put her clipboard in her briefcase and stood. “I’m sorry. We’re doing the best we can. I have a half hour to inspect your place. If you’re ready, we can follow you there, and then Sarah can perform the psych assessment tomorrow.”

Brett’s eyebrows creased as he turned to Sarah. “So, if you assess that I’m a good parent, is it likely I could get custody of Quinn?”

Sarah nodded to Peggy, who answered, “It’s possible you could get temporary custody, but it won’t happen today. I’ve already asked my office assistant, Robin, to see if your parents can take Quinn. If not, Robin will find her a temporary foster home.”

“What?” Brett leaned forward in his chair. “My father has never even met Quinn.”

Peggy held up her hand. “We try to find a family member to take the child first. Your father is a reputable man. It’ll only be for less than a week—until we can get this report to the judge.”

“How long will that take?”

Peggy glanced at the ceiling. “Maybe by Tuesday?”

“Five days?”

“The judge only schedules these hearings twice a week. Tuesdays and Thursdays. We missed today’s, so we’ll have to wait until Tuesday. I’m sorry.”

Sarah watched Brett’s ears turn red. He had to be totally frustrated with Peggy, but unfortunately there wasn’t anything either Peggy or she could do.

Peggy said, “We need the judge to decide permanency, and that takes time. We just submit the facts. The fact that the judge limited you to only visitation rights until you complete the anger management classes says we need to ask permission for a change. We’ll ask and recommend you, but we still need to talk to your ex-wife too.”

“For crying out loud, isn’t being a cop good for something?”

Peggy didn’t crack a smile. “In the court’s eyes, child neglect doesn’t discriminate. It can be found among the most esteemed professional families.”

“But I haven’t neglected my child!” Brett ran his fingers through his hair.

“I understand.” Peggy turned to go.

Brett shook his head. “No, I don’t think you do.”

Sarah followed Peggy out the door, once again feeling sorry for Brett, knowing sometimes the system didn’t make sense and definitely took longer than expected. She hoped Brett’s hearing with the judge would go quicker than the last case she’d handled.

Chapter Nine

The cloud-filled night obscured the moon’s light, making the night as dark as Terry Bull’s mood. He sat in his living room watching television. He’d grown up with the nickname Terrible and had lived up to the name. His quick temper had often gotten him into trouble as a child, and by the time he reached high school many teachers feared him. He hadn’t cared. He still didn’t. His mother was the only one who could tolerate him, but she was the one he hated the most—because she’d given him his name.

His mother interrupted his television show. “You need to get off your fat ass and fix the front door you busted. And when you’re done, leave it unlocked so I can get in after work.”

“What time you working till?” Terry ran his fingers along the nubs of his coarse dark beard.

She stopped to primp in the mirror. “What does it matter? You’ll be drunk on the couch anyway.”

“Shut up, woman.”

She slammed the door, leaving a trail of cheap perfume.

After her car lights faded down the street, Terry scoured the kitchen cupboards for the whiskey. “Where the hell did she put it?” He opened the pantry, the dishwasher, and the microwave, and still didn’t find it. He glanced out the front window one last time before he went into her bedroom, where he opened her drawers and the boxes in her closet.

He found the bottle of Johnny Walker hidden in a boot box on the floor in the corner. The old lady had won it in a poker game from a bartender. “Woo-hoot.”

He smacked his lips and smiled, salivating and anticipating the buzz. He unscrewed the top, then threw back a swig. Might as well get started. He needed to finish it all and pitch the bottle so the old lady might forget she ever had it.

No reason to get a glass dirty. He carried the bottle and swaggered back to the living room to watch TV, slipping in his favorite porn DVD. He sat on the sofa, using pillows to support his head. He downed a shot of the scotch whiskey and licked his lips. It tasted better than the cheap stuff he was used to drinking. Johnnie Walker sure made some fine shit. It was sweeter. Better. Smoother.

He turned to the TV, his eyes devouring the flesh on the screen. Man, them women were hot! He took his pants off and held himself.

#

I recognized the sounds of a snoring drunk and David Letterman’s voice on the television when I cracked open the unlocked door, doubtful my next victim would hear me. He was in the other room, and his TV was too loud.

I set the backpack on the floor just inside, before clearing the kitchen table. What a mess. Filthy mess. After lining the dirty dishes, forks, glasses, and bowls next to the sink, I grabbed the backpack, unzipped the large compartment, and took out the towel, unrolling it to expose my supplies—the rag, the bottle of chloroform, the ketamine, syringes, and the needles.

Next, I opened the side pocket, took out the retractable scalpel, and set it next to the needles. I opened the bottle of chloroform and sprinkled enough of the solvent on the rag for the job, reached for the syringe, and moved to the living room.

Terry Bull sat on the sofa, his head tilted back, his mouth wide open. Good. He’d made it easy for me. There was no hurry either. His mother would be gone until morning as she worked the late shift. I’d watched them long enough to know their patterns.

And his pants were already off too.

I attacked from behind, wrapping my left arm under his neck and using my right hand to cover his mouth with the rag. He only jerked a little before he succumbed to the chloroform. Afterward, he never flinched. I injected his arm with the anesthetic and retrieved both the towel and the backpack from the kitchen and set them on the floor in front of me. I opened the towel, displaying my tools and wrapped the rubber strip around the end of his penis. In one fluid motion I severed the end that had gone limp in his hand. Wet blood dribbled out, staining his groin and thigh, but not too much. The tourniquet took care of that. He wouldn’t feel the mutilation, smell his blood, or feel the way it grew sticky around the rubber band.