The Angel of Knowlton Park (15 page)

The weariness he felt wasn't just from a long day, though it certainly had been that. It came from such intimate knowledge of the details of this terrible crime and awareness of how much the resolution depended on him. In a case like this, he walked a peculiar emotional tightrope. To understand the crime, he had to understand the victim. Learn about him, imagine him, recreate him so that his personality, his habits, his relationships became clear. At the same time, he had to keep his distance in order to see clearly and objectively. He was supposed to avoid becoming emotionally involved.

A cop's job really was to keep people safe. With that went a particular duty to protect society's most helpless and vulnerable that made it hard to be objective and distant with children. Having stood there on the crisp grass, in the simmering heat of the park, and looked down at Timmy Watts, clasped in the certainty and stillness of death, how could he not feel it? Now, sealed in the icy quiet of his car, rolling mechanically toward the station and the next phase of interviewing and evaluation, he had a surreal moment, like the pause at the top of the roller coaster. It seemed like the spirit of the dead boy screamed once, somewhere deep in his brain, a cry for justice or resolution that reverberated like an echo.

He didn't want this case getting its claws into him. This morning, he'd given in and engaged. He'd begun to work the case, to pile up the facts and details in his brain so he could play the adult version of that card game where you flipped cards, trying to remember where the other cards were so you could make a match. But even this deeply in, and despite the promise he'd made to Timmy this morning in the park, he wished he could declare that it wasn't his problem, that he could simply write his reports and hand it off.

He pulled into the garage, backed into his space, and sat a moment before turning off the engine. Why didn't he walk away? Because it was bullshit to think the case didn't already have its claws into him. Because Timmy Watts, given so little, had tried so hard to be a survivor. Struggled to make a normal child's life of pleasure and adventure and play in the midst of overwhelming squalor and disinterest. He had been a rather heroic little boy. Didn't he deserve a heroic response, one that didn't include driving off into the sunset with a canoe atop the car?

Burgess snapped off the motor and got out of the car. He couldn't help seeing the irony of it—if half this effort had gone into Timmy while the boy was alive, this might not have happened. He'd been joking when he spoke to Andrea Dwyer about retirement, but sometimes lately he really felt his age, when his spirit and intention moved forward and his body came behind like an afterthought. That was how he felt now, moving through the sluggish air. His mind was rushing upstairs, ready to check on Stan, interview Dwayne Martin, make some phone calls, and skim the early reports, while his body was still plodding across the parking lot.

Eventually, all his constituent parts arrived upstairs. He walked out of the elevator into a less-than-friendly conversation between Melia and Paul Cote. Cops read faces. He didn't need to hear the words.

"Where the hell have you been?" Cote demanded. "Right in the middle of investigating a child's murder, suddenly no one knows where you are."

Burgess shrugged. "You told me to get rid of the canoe." To Melia, he said, "How's Stan doing?"

"Eight stitches and a bad headache. They're probably still taking pictures of his head, just to be sure nothing's broken. When the doc suggested he go home and rest, I thought I'd have to arrest him. He wanted to skip the stitches, leave right then. Guess you trained him well."

Melia, whose skin was the color of putty, was the one who needed to go home and rest. Stan Perry could still take a licking and keep on kicking. He was a kid. "He going home?" Burgess asked.

Melia shrugged. "I told him he should."

That left Perry the option of coming in, since he hadn't been
ordered
to go home. "Dwayne Martin," he said. "You take him or save him for me?"

Melia made an expansive gesture. "I've been at the hospital with Stan. He's all yours. I did have a run at the sister, though."

"And?"

"Nice tits," Melia said. Cote made a gagging sound and got redder. "Turns out she was in a hurry to get to work 'cuz that sexy look's spoiled once she starts leaking milk."

"Yeah," Burgess agreed. "Hard for a guy who said he was going for cigarettes and actually got a quick blow job to explain to his wife how he got those two big milky spots on the front of his pants. She say anything useful?"

Before Melia could answer, Cote hauled up his sleeve and made a show of checking his watch. "I want all your preliminary reports on my desk first thing tomorrow," he said. "Anything breaks between now and then, I expect a phone call. At home. Not to my voice mail. And Burgess..." He cleared his throat, as though saying the name choked him. "The minute you get back from the autopsy, I want a full briefing." He turned on his impeccably polished heel and left.

"Anything useful?" Melia said. "She said everyone, including the parents, considered the boy a real nuisance. That his habit of being absent was one of his only good qualities. She said he was incredibly irritating, that he used to sing, and dash around, getting underfoot, and that he chattered like a magpie when other people were trying to watch TV. That he used to take things. When I asked if she knew of anyone who might have hurt him to get back at the family, she snapped her gum and said the list was too long to bother with. I tried to get her to be more specific but she couldn't. Or wouldn't."

"You ask her about the blue car?"

"Yeah. She said maybe it belonged to the witch."

"You get a name or address for this witch?"

"Nope. She just said, 'You know. The witch. The witch.' Like we all knew about the witch."

"Any description?"

Melia rolled his eyes. "Witchy. You can watch it yourself. Whole thing's on tape. How's Terry?"

"Sick. Heart sick, soul sick, gut sick. Chris is looking after him."

"That's good news."

"She's supposed to be on vacation, too."

"Every cloud..." Melia muttered.

"Don't," Burgess said. "There's nothing good about this wrecking
her
vacation. Look, go home, Vince. Get a little rest before you fall on your face or blow lunch all over Cote's shiny shoes. You can only push things so far, you know."

"This from the guy who should have taken his knee to x-ray twelve hours ago."

"Not my fault," he said. "Mrs. Burgess raised her boy to be tough." In truth, Mrs. Burgess had raised her boy to be compassionate and observant. Dealing with his violent, drunken father had made him tough.

"You should go over there now."

"And have 'em tell me what? Stay off it? Keep it elevated and use lots of ice? How the hell I'm gonna do those things in the middle of a murder? Huh? Go home, Vince. I've got enough worries without losing you as a buffer between me and that asshole. One of these days, he'll push, I'll push back, and I'll be a retired policeman."

"I hope not." Melia put a hand on his shoulder, jerked his chin toward the conference room. "Let's sit. Talk a minute, go double team Dwayne Martin. Then I'll go home. Deal?"

"You're the boss."

"Right, Joe. I'm the boss. That's why
you're
telling
me
to go home."

"Bad habit," he said, dropping into a chair. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "So, sir. What was it you wanted to talk about?"

"Hold on." Melia gave instructions to move Dwayne Martin to an interview room. "Timmy Watts. Your impressions. What are we looking at here, Joe? Should the mothers of Portland be locking up their kids?"

"The parents of Portland," he emphasized "parents," "should be paying more attention to their kids, that's for damn sure." He rubbed his forehead with one hand, his knee with the other. It reminded him of the old thing where you tried to pat your head and rub your belly. He felt about that coordinated. The rubbing that satisfying. "Do I think we've got a child killer on our hands who might repeat the act? Too early to tell, Vince."

But Melia wasn't letting him off that easily. "What's your gut tell you?"

"My gut tells me whoever stabbed that kid would do it again. That whatever Lee finds in the morning, we're dealing with something perverted here. Then again, my gut tells me the person who wrapped that child in a clean, soft blanket and carried him to a park where he loved to play was trying to make things right and restore order. So my brain tells me this won't be simple, and to wait a while before drawing conclusions. Talk to the families who knew him best. Talk to his sister, Iris. See what the autopsy tells me. I'd lay odds the kid was sodomized."

Melia winced and looked away, probably thinking about his twins. Cops are tough. They can take it. But most of the cops Burgess knew—the good cops—had a mission. They really did want to make the world a safe place. They might put their own spin on it, sometimes make their own rules, but they were serious about being there to serve and protect. And occasionally bust a few heads that needed busting.

He pulled out his notebook, flipped through some pages, and studied something he'd written. "Ask me again tomorrow. I don't think this was done by some witch, and I don't think we've got a Satanic cult, and I don't think this kid was killed by a woman. But I could be wrong. It's happened."

Melia changed the subject. "Kyle gonna be able to work tomorrow?"

"He'll come in," Burgess said, "even if he shouldn't. Maybe he can drive a desk. Work with Rocky. Review the canvass paperwork, see where we need to follow up, but he's in bad shape. He's got to stay out of the heat or he'll go down for the count. While we had our heads up our asses, enjoying the view, Kyle's lost ten or fifteen pounds he really couldn't spare, and pushed himself right over the edge. What's up with that? We're supposed to be observant."

"I'm
supposed to be observant. Life's too goddamned busy." Melia got to his feet.

Burgess heaved himself up and followed Melia out of the room. Slinging Kyle around hadn't done his knee any good. He felt like tearing into something, and Dwayne Martin was a good place to start. He found Rocky, sitting in the dark, his face illuminated by the bluish light of a monitor. "Do something for me?" he asked.

Rocky turned, startled, coming slowly back into the world of people, away from the world on-line. "Sure thing. What do you need?"

Burgess scribbled a name and address. "Call these people and ask whether, even though it's late, I can come by in a while and talk to them?"

Time in the cooler hadn't improved Martin's disposition. He was restless and agitated, sweating despite the air-conditioning. Also a professional. His first words when they entered the room were, "I got nothing to say to you assholes. I want my lawyer."

Burgess knew the drill. Suspect lawyers up on you, you can't ask him anything. But everyone pushed the envelope a little, made sure the suspect understood he was passing on a chance to tell his side of the story, make a deal, the whole malarkey. And he wasn't here to ask Martin about a crime, at least, not the crime Martin expected them to ask about—assault on a police officer. He didn't need to. He was an eyewitness.

He identified himself and Melia for the tape, gave the necessary information, then said, "Before the unfortunate incident with your truck, I was coming to ask you some questions about your youngest brother, Timmy Watts, whose body was discovered this morning in Knowlton Park. That's what I'm here for. So let's just be clear, okay. Are you refusing to talk about Timmy?"

Dwayne Martin stared, pursed his lips, said, "Huh?"

"Timmy Watts," Burgess repeated. "Your little brother. Murdered this morning. I wanted to ask you some questions about him. Are you saying you won't talk about Timmy without a lawyer?"

Martin blinked, shook himself, blinked again, the hand that was cuffed to the table shifting restlessly. When Burgess was a boy, there had been a wrestler on TV called Haystack Calhoon, weighed about 600 pounds. What had impressed him was not how well the man wrestled, but that he could move at all. Dwayne Martin wasn't that big, but he was damned big, and clearly had been bigger. He filled his side of the table, stinking up the room with the fug of sweat, unwashed skin, and the stench of the house he lived in. He wore cut-offs and a sleeveless tee shirt, his tattooed arms like jiggling pink hams, his hairy white thighs spreading over the chair like melting Crisco. He looked a lot older than 26.

He stared at them, puzzled, then said, in a voice surprisingly light and high for such a massive man, "I'm here because you wanted to talk about that little fairy?"

"Fairy?" Burgess repeated.

"Fairy. Artsy-fartsy little thing, skippin' and prancin' around like a faggot. Faggots had their eyes on him, too."

"Mr. Martin," Melia interrupted. "Earlier you asked for a lawyer. Are you willing to talk to us about your brother Timmy without a lawyer present?"

"Why the fuck not?"

Given Martin's experience with the criminal justice system, Burgess decided that constituted a knowing waiver. He looked at Melia to see if he agreed. Melia nodded. "If, at any time, you do decide you want that lawyer, you let us know, okay?" Martin grunted what Burgess took to be an affirmation. "Tell us about your brother and the faggots."