The Angel of Knowlton Park (11 page)

He stopped. "Delinsky should be here. He knew the kid. Knows the neighborhood."

Shaheen rose. "I'll have him here in ten." He left the room, stopping to hold the door for a patrol officer who deposited a big bag of ice in the middle of the table.

Burgess stared at the wet bag and down at his aching knee. It might be cooler, but even in this heat, he wasn't going back out there with wet pants. He might not be the fashion plate Melia was, but he had a few standards. "Stan," he said. "You suppose you could fetch me the liner from that wastebasket?"

They ate their sandwiches while they waited for Delinsky, who came through the door exactly ten minutes later. Melia told him to eat something, then nodded at Burgess.

Burgess reported on his interview with Grace Johnston and held up her sketch again, pointing to the cattails. "So far, we haven't found what the dog took. We'll keep the park sealed off and search again tomorrow. I interviewed Osborne after I spoke with Grace Johnston. He insisted he hadn't approached the body. That his dog hadn't taken anything. And that he had never heard of Timothy Watts."

"He's lying," Delinsky said. "His dog bit Timmy once. I spoke with him about it. Told him I was reporting the incident and the next time his dog bit somebody, the dog officer would be taking it away."

"He's lying about a lot of things," Burgess said. "Boy's mother, Dawn Watts, says she's sure Osborne's the one who killed her son. She says she knows he's a pedophile. He's had Timmy at his house for pizza and made the boy look at dirty pictures. She says her son, Dwayne, spoke with Osborne and told him to leave Timmy alone."

"That's Dwayne Martin," Rocky Jordan said. "He's the second son. Dawn Watts's second son. Age 26. Minor drug stuff. Home repair scams. I haven't had a chance to run a check on Osborne yet." He hunched defensively and looked at Burgess.

Jordan was their budding cybercop, methodical, careful, and good with computers. But Jordan was slow, and Burgess was impatient. He wanted information quickly, before new things intervened, memories faded, evidence got lost, or crime scenes got messed up. "Osborne's dirty," Burgess said. "Even if he's not involved in this, he's dirty. We toss his place, we'll find something."

"Can't toss it without a warrant," Melia said. "In the good old days, or bad old days, depending on which side you're on, a cop's instinct and a few manufactured facts were enough for any judge. These days, an affidavit from God isn't always enough. Delinsky, you got anything concrete we can use?"

Melia was getting cynical. They all were. Staying on top of the Fourth Amendment was enough to make any cop crazy. "He's got coffee table books with pictures of naked children," Burgess said. "His dining room's wall-to-wall with oversized photos of prepubescent boys." He pulled out the envelopes. "I've got hair from the man and hair from his dog. All right out there in plain sight. Let's see what hair and fibers turn up from the body and the blanket. So far, we have no idea where the boy was yesterday."

"I'm with Burgess, sir," Delinsky said. "Osborne's dirty. He's also smart. When he first moved in, I noticed young boys going in and out of there, so I started watching. Since I've been watching, I've seen nothing I could use. Not even as an excuse to ring the bell and peek inside. Other than the time with the dog, and then he never let me in the door. Maybe he moved his operation elsewhere."

He looked hungrily at the remaining sandwich. "Anyone mind if I eat this?"

"Go ahead," Melia said. "Joe, fill this out a little. You and Stan went to the Watts's house. Did you talk with Dwayne Watts?"

Burgess shook his head. "I interviewed the mother, father, and sister. Mother couldn't recall when she'd last seen her son. She could barely recall how old he was. The sister, Shauna, had nothing to say. She wanted to watch cartoons. Dwayne was there briefly but left before we could talk to him. Our exchange was limited to an instruction to do the anatomically impossible. Pap Watts's son Lloyd was there, asleep, but Stan couldn't wake him. Stan, you talked with Pap Watts. You get anything more?"

Perry shook his head. "Pap Watts had trouble remembering the boy's name, let alone the last time he'd seen his son. Sometime in the last week, he thought. He had no idea who the boy's friends were. That boy lived in a pigsty with a pack of indifferent morons. I did get this." He pulled out a small school picture of Timmy Watts, which Melia seized and sent off to be copied. Burgess was pleased. Perry was getting good at pulling rabbits out of hats.

Melia shuffled his papers. "All the people in that house, no one could help?"

"It's not a normal family," Burgess said. "Darlene Packer, Lloyd Watts's girlfriend, was at work. Dawn Watts says she took an interest in the boy. I'll go by later, see if she's back. There's a deaf sister, Iris. You find out how to reach her, Stan?"

"Best Pap could do was school for the deaf. He didn't have a number."

"The others?"

"Pap says the other two brothers, Ricky and Jason, are living in a trailer somewhere. He wasn't too clear where."

Not being clear was a skill the Watts had perfected. Burgess looked at Delinsky, feeling mean and bitter on Timmy Watts's behalf. "That social worker you told me about? I'm going to take her there, make her crawl through the dog crap on her hands and knees. There are two babies in that house, and it's the filthiest place I've seen in all my years as a cop."

Delinsky looked like he wanted to disappear through the floor. Burgess knew Delinsky couldn't be everywhere and do everything, but the guy definitely needed a heads-up on this one. If DHS had done their job, Timmy Watts might still be alive. Even a bad foster family had to be better than what Timmy had had. And if Delinsky couldn't make them take notice, he should have kicked it up the food chain. The Chief was no fan of Human Services.

"We also looked through the boy's room," Burgess said. "With permission."

"Room!" Perry interrupted. "Kid had a fuckin' mattress on the floor in a corner of the attic. Hot as Hades. Windows nailed shut. Not even a fan."

Melia gave Perry a cool look. He'd told Perry repeatedly to rein in his language. "Permission from whom?" Melia asked.

"Mother Watts." Melia nodded, satisfied. "We found a couple rather interesting things," Burgess continued. "A rock with the word 'love' carved into it, under his pillow. A pocket knife. And this..."

The last thing they'd found at the Watts house had the potential to put the case in a whole new light. It looked like a sex crime. Stabbing, particularly the kind of overkill stabbing present here, was usually sexual. And they'd learn tomorrow whether the child had been molested. But bringing drugs into the picture muddied everything. There were drug dealers clever enough to make a warning crime look like something else. Vengeful drug dealers and users, and druggies so depraved, strung out, or high they might do anything. "Inside the backpack the kid used for a pillow, we found a plastic bag with a substance that resembles dirty rock candy." Everyone around the table sat up straighter. "And smells like rotten eggs and cat piss."

"Holy shit!" Rocky Jordan rolled his eyes. "Methamphetamine in a child's pillow. Knowing the Watts, they're probably cooking it themselves. Just what we need to cap off this rotten summer. Turn the city into a bunch of jazzed up, hyper-sexed, go-go-go tweakers until a lab blows up and sends a bunch of our citizens, innocent and guilty, to kingdom come."

"Jazzed up, hyper-sexed, go-go-go tweakers," Perry intoned, nodding thoughtfully. "Rocky, you are a veritable poet of the mean streets, you know that?"

"Which reminds me," Burgess turned to Delinsky as he flipped through his notebook. "Matty McBride. You know him?"

"Scrawny kid, looks a little geeky?" Burgess nodded. "Yeah, I know him. He's a computer jock, lives up near the Eastern Prom, spends a lot of time playing computer games. During the school year, he runs an after-school program at the elementary school for kids who are interested in computers. Teaches them some basic programming stuff. Mother's kinda strange. Cold. Controlling. Treats Matty like he's about twelve. Before Ricky Watts went away for his brief stint with corrections, he and Matty used to hang around together. Matty was one of the big kids who looked after Timmy, taking him to the park and stuff."

Burgess told McBride's story about the argument between Dwayne Watts and a customer about a late delivery. About the customer's threat.

"You want me to follow up with Matty?" Delinsky asked.

"With him and with any of the other kids who used to hang around with Timmy. Ask if anybody remembers seeing him on Friday. And everyone you talk to? I want names. Addresses. Phone numbers. I want it in writing, on my desk, soon as you can."

"Yes, sir," Delinsky said wearily.

"Got anything else for us?" Burgess said.

Delinsky's uniform was limp and sweat-soaked and his shoulders drooped. An athletic man who normally moved with a brisk and powerful stride, today he was moving in slow motion. Burgess knew how that felt. He'd done a canvass in heat like this, in an area where cops were as welcome as five-day-old fish. Just a baby cop back then, fresh from Vietnam, trying to police an America angry at cops and vets, trying to hold his head up and do his job in a world that was often confusing. He knew what if felt like to trudge down hostile streets, soaked with sweat, meeting an endless succession of blank or hostile stares.

He also knew Delinsky had been looking forward to finishing this day, going home, and getting some sleep. Having breakfast with the wife and kids. He might as well learn. Homicides didn't work like that.

"Besides sore feet?" Delinsky consulted his notebook. "Grace Johnston's neighbor, that's a Miss Tina Beaton, age 85, says she saw Timmy on Johnston's porch yesterday around five, five-thirty. Said he was wearing shorts and a blue tee shirt and carrying a backpack. She said when he left the porch, he was heading down toward the park. She saw a blue car stop and Timmy heading over to it. She doesn't know whether it was a friend, or someone asking directions, or what. Her phone rang and she left the window."

"That's it? Small car? Large? Old, new? Light blue? Dark blue? One she recognized? One she'd seen before?"

"We were lucky to get that. She doesn't see very well."

"Talk to her again," Burgess said. "So, things we want to know are: What was Timmy's schedule yesterday? When was his last known meal? Where are his clothes? His backpack? Who was driving that blue car? Got anything else for us, Gabe?"

Delinsky shook his head. "It was hot yesterday. People went to the beach or the mall, or stayed in with their shades drawn and the fan on, watching TV. Nobody saw a goddamned thing. Spaceship could have landed and taken the boy, for all they noticed."

"Who's doing Timmy's street?"

"Gabriel Delinsky, I think. We're still doing the houses near the park. Next, I'll do the Watts's neighbors. There's one place up there should've been a gold mine. Old lady who lives there, Anna Pederson, sits on her porch all day, or in her window. But she went to the hospital this morning."

"So visit the hospital."

"You bet I will," Delinsky said. "Soon as I—" He broke off. Burgess's reputation for being the meanest cop in Portland was passed like the myth of Santa Claus from one class of recruits to the next. "Just shuffling along in your footsteps, Sarge."

"As long as you don't burn yourself out. We need you on this."

Delinsky managed a tired smile. "Thank you, sir."

"Those boys he played with—Sam and Davey? What's their parents' name?"

"Gordon. Alan and Julie," Delinsky said.

"I want to talk with them."

"So where do we go from here?" Melia asked.

Burgess had forgotten how the heat took it out of you, how much harder it was to push on when your brain had been cooked and your head was pounding. He remembered Nam as one big headache. He looked at Melia, who'd had a worse day than the rest of them. The lieutenant looked drained, and he would be standing before TV cameras in twenty minutes.

"Stan and I'll go back to the Watts place, see if we can locate Darlene Packer. Then we'll do the immediate neighbors." Delinsky's face fell. He'd planned that for himself. "Okay. After the Watts, we'll split up. Delinsky can go with Stan and follow up with any kids who hung out with Timmy Watts. Rocky's going to work on that list of sex offenders, topped by our friend Osborne. I'll see the Gordons. And Wink?"

Devlin looked up warily from his contemplation of the oils on his coffee. "Don't look at me with assignments in mind. I'm going to be logging in evidence for the next six hours," he said. "Every bottle, bag, can, and candy wrapper in that whole damned park."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Burgess said. "I'll be seeing you soon enough. At what ungodly hour did Lee say he was cutting?"

"Seven. Wants to get out early for golf. Before it gets hot."

"It's always hot these days. Seven. That means six for us, leaving here around five? I'll meet you there, okay?"

The Medical Examiner's office was in Augusta, the state capital, 45 minutes north. Despite the valuable information it gave them, autopsies were always grim. Tomorrow's would be grimmer. Even with all those horrific wounds, Timmy Watts had been beautiful and touchingly small and helpless. Like Kristin Marks, the child who haunted him.

Melia conferred with Shaheen. Then Shaheen left the room. The rest of them sat in silence, gathering themselves to go back to trudging down hot streets and ringing doorbells, back to logging in cans and bottles. Back to being alone with their visions of Timmy Watts. Pushing themselves to go hard because time mattered.