Creatures of Appetite (19 page)

L
ater that night
Thorne contemplated his chessboard while Thelonious Monk played softly on the CD player next to him. Not far from him, Gilday sat at a desk and tapped away on a computer while talking into a phone cradled on his neck. A television with the volume muted nearby broadcast the news, which featured photos of Darcy Mullens. Kane approached Thorne from the other side of the room.

“Found the car, ten miles outside of town, dumped. Clean so far, no prints, nothing,” she said. “It was reported stolen from Cedar City yesterday.”

Thorne glanced up and then looked past her. Kane followed his gaze. Scroggins stood behind her, watching the television screen. Barb and Chad Mullens pleaded silently onscreen into microphones. Both were crying. Scroggins walked over and took a seat next to Thorne.

“It’s probably too late for Darcy, isn’t it?” Scroggins asked him.

“Probably. Not positively, but probably.”

“Thorne,” Scroggins said after a moment, “I want this pig-fucking Iceman, I want him like I’ve never wanted anything in my entire life, are you listening to me? No easy mental time, no jail time, I want him screaming and dead. Now, I’m going to ask you a question and I don’t want one of your smart-ass federal bullshit answers. I want to know, can you catch this cocksucker or not?”

“I can catch him. I will catch him.”

“I got your word on that?”

“You got my word.”

Scroggins looked at Thorne for a moment and then held out his hand to shake. Thorne reluctantly surrendered to another bone-crusher. Scroggins stood and walked over to Gilday, who still had the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Jeff?” Scroggins said quietly.

“Yeah?” Gilday put his hand over the receiver.

“About, you know, earlier …”

“Gerry, it’s nothing, forget about it.”

“I just wanna say …”

“We’re best friends. You don’t have to say anything.”

“I’m sorry, that’s all,” Scroggins held out his hand.

Gilday gripped his partner’s fist until the knuckles went white. Thorne shook his head at this display and went back to his game.

Forsythe and Hairston joined the group. Hairston handed a report to Thorne. Kane noticed that Forsythe never looked directly at Thorne anymore, preferring to watch him from the corner of his eyes now whenever possible.

“Report on the note left on the body,” Hairston said. “No prints, but it’s been determined that it was printed by an Epson Stylus 700, a pretty common computer printer. If we can find the printer, we’ll be able to match it.”

“In other words, not much help at all,” Thorne said.

“Basically,” Hairston said, glancing at his silent boss. “So Agent Thorne, what do you recommend we do next?”

Thorne thought about that for a moment.

“Well,” he began.

“What!” Gilday interrupted, shouting into the telephone. “Are you positive? Hell yeah, run it! Run it right now, I’ll network with you!” Gilday slammed the phone down and looked at everyone.

“What is it?” Kane asked.

“We got a partial, we got a fucking partial!”

Gilday turned his computer screen toward everyone so they could see the large picture of a fingerprint on it. The program ran quickly, comparing the print with other prints in its memory.

“You got a print?” Forsythe bulled his way over to the desk.

“Off of the Frederickson’s girl left eyeball; it’s only a partial thumb print, but it’s a good one we can run. He touched her eyes, just like Thorne said, with his bare fingers. It’s going through VICAP and CODIS now, if he’s ever been arrested or printed for anything for any reason, we’ll know it in seconds!” Gilday hunched over the computer, excited, as everyone except Thorne crowded him.

“Run it through the state and federal database as well. If he’s employed as we are, it’ll flag,” Thorne said. This possibility quieted the group.

Thorne stared at his chessboard, concentrating for a moment, and then looked up at the map of Nebraska on the wall. The computer beeped.

“Oh my God. We got a hit. We got him!” Gilday said. “Bart McNeil.”

“Bart fucking McNeil?” Scroggins asked. “I know him, I once arrested him for beating the shit out of his wife!”

“I know him too, I busted him for DUI once. Bart McNeil, forty-five, ex-marine, divorced now, big drinking problem,” Gilday read information on the screen. “Lives in Crete, that’s only ten miles away from Denton. Get this, he’s taken the cop test three times and failed, he’s a volunteer on the neighborhood watch and he drives a Schwann’s Ice Cream delivery truck; his route covers half the state of Nebraska.”

“Ice cream. Iceman,” Kane said.

Everyone turned to look at Thorne, who stared at the map on the wall. Thorne, feeling everyone’s gaze, finally stirred from his funk.

“How soon can you get a warrant?” Thorne asked Forsythe.

“I can get one five minutes ago.”

After a moment, Thorne sighed. “All right, Captain. Go get him.”

Forsythe jolted into action, Hairston close behind as usual. “Norm, call the judge and wake his ass up! Bill, get the SWAT boys geared up, we’re moving and we’re moving right now! Let’s go!”

Men and women in uniform all over headquarters were galvanized into movement. Scroggins and Gilday checked their weapons and grabbed their jackets. Thorne stood and stopped them with a gesture.

“You two going in with them?” he asked.

“Hell yes!” Scroggins replied.

“Then do me a favor.”

“What’s that?” Gilday asked.

“Take him alive. I want him to get the needle, so take him alive, all right?”

Gilday nodded after a moment. Scroggins looked hard at Thorne, not saying anything. The two men hurried off. Kane grabbed her jacket, watching Thorne, who sat down at Gilday’s computer and calmly printed out the file on Bart McNeil.

“Are you coming?” Kane asked.

“I am definitely coming,” he replied.

L
ess than an hour later
, SWAT policemen in riot gear quietly surrounded the house of Bart McNeil. Crete was, if anything, an even smaller town than Denton. The house was dark and rundown, with untrimmed hedges and a driveway covered in snow that hadn’t been shoveled at all, only driven over. A Schwann’s Ice Cream truck sat in the drive. A light was on somewhere deep in the house.

Hairston drove an unmarked police van with its lights off down the street and parked a half a block away. Forsythe turned to Gilday and Scroggins, geared up and heavily armed, sitting behind him. Kane and Thorne sat in the back behind everyone.

“He hasn’t been to work in a couple days, called in sick,” Forsythe said. “His machine is picking up, but he’s probably screening calls. His truck is in the driveway. Unless he’s walking, he’s in there. Which one of you knows him better?”

“Shit, I don’t know. He’s about to wish he didn’t know me at all. Jeff?” Scroggins said, adjusting his headset mike.

“I’ve run into him enough he knows my name.”

“Are we going in?” Kane asked.

“Not a chance,” Forsythe said, “this scumfucker is OUR bust.”

“Cops first, fibbies second,” Scroggins said.

“But the girl might still be alive in there …”

“Cops take the door, Kane, we’ve been shot at enough,” Thorne said.

“It’s our job, Emma. You all pointed us at him, we go get him,” Gilday added.

Forsythe spoke into the radio on his shoulder. “Command One to all teams, secure perimeter, key headset twice when in position. Wait for my go, repeat, wait for my go.”

“Scroggins,” Thorne put his hand on Scroggins’s shoulder, leaned forward and spoke into his ear. Gilday listened in.

“What?”

“If you run in there now and shoot him right in the face, he won’t ever know that you caught him, he won’t know you won, he won’t even know that he’s dead,” Thorne said. “That’s not what you want, you get me?

“You want to hear dead and screaming, you should see these fuckers once we get them strapped on the gurney and shove the needle into their arm. They scream, they beg, they piss their pants like a baby. I’ve seen it, more than once, and it’s very fulfilling. It’s much more satisfying than just blowing him away, you hear me?”

“Takes too long, though, don’t it?” Scroggins said quietly.

“Takes awhile but it’s totally worth it. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t start lying to spare your feelings at this point, would I?”

Scroggins and Gilday glanced at each other.

“Hell, Thorne, we all know what a tactful bastard you are,” Gilday said.

“No easy mental time, right?” Scroggins asked Thorne.

“No easy mental time. He’ll get the needle, quicker than you can say Timothy McVeigh. No judge or jury has patience for a killer of children. They’ll put him on the gurney. Just bring him back alive, gentlemen, if you can, alive.”

“Okay,” Forsythe turned back to them. “Let’s do this.”

“Ready?” Gilday asked Scroggins.

“Can’t fucking wait,” the two men bumped fists with each other, slid open the side door of the van and jumped out.

G
ilday and Scroggins
cautiously made their way up the sidewalk to McNeil’s house. Armed policemen flanked them from the shadows surrounding the house. Gilday stepped up to the front door and pressed the buzzer. Scroggins stood to the side, weapon drawn. Gilday pressed the buzzer again and banged on the door with his fist.

“Bart? Hey Bart, it’s Jeff Gilday! Open up, man!” Gilday banged on the door harder.

“He’s not answering, boss,” Scroggins whispered into his headset.

“Crack it. This is a Go signal, repeat, this is a Go signal.”

Scroggins nodded to another policeman, who stepped forward with a battering ram. The officer smashed the front door in and Gilday and Scroggins bolted through it. Simultaneously, other officers broke through the back door and the bedroom windows.

“Police! Don’t move!” Scroggins screamed.

Both men ran down the front hallway, which was cluttered with trash and old newspapers. Gilday and Scroggins fanned out, other officers following behind them. One group went down a hall into the kitchen, the other cut through the dining room. The noise of a television set could be heard from somewhere in the house.

“Bart? Bart, if you’re here, speak up, man!” Gilday shouts.

“I got him! I got him!”

Scroggins stood at one end of the living room. A television, tuned to the Discovery Channel, played a program on lions. A man sat in front of the television in an easy chair with his back to Scroggins.

Scroggins aimed his weapon at the back of the man’s head. Gilday appeared at the other side of the living room. The man didn’t move and his arms sat comfortably on the armrests of the easy chair. The two men approached the chair cautiously.

“Bart! Bart, show me your hands!” Gilday yelled.

“PUT YOUR FUCKING HANDS UP, MCNEIL!” Scroggins screamed.

More officers joined Scroggins and Gilday in the living room, their weapons trained on McNeil. Everyone saw what was in McNeil’s hand and it cranked the ass-pucker factor right up.

“Gun, he’s got a gun!”

“Right hand!”

“Drop it! Drop it!”

“MCNEIL, I am going to FUCKING SHOOT you in the face if you don’t drop the weapon and show me your hands RIGHT FUCKING NOW! MCNEIL!” Scroggins screamed.

Gilday and Scroggins took three slow steps and moved quickly around the front of McNeil on either side of the chair with weapons raised, ready to open fire.

They managed to hold their fire, but they didn’t lower their weapons at their first sight of Bart McNeil. Gilday did, however, gag in spite of himself.