The Angel of Knowlton Park (33 page)

As the fact that he was caught sank in, Osborne went crazy, whirling around, trying to kick and head-butt everyone within reach. Kyle slapped a hand on his shoulder. "Give it up, Osborne," he barked. "Calm down." Osborne tried to bite him. "Aucoin, if you've got pepper spray, for God's sake use it before this asshole hurts someone besides himself."

That prompted Osborne to attempt another escape. Unfortunately, his chosen route was right through Kyle, bringing him face to face with Kyle's wrath, Aucoin's pepper spray, Perry's eager fists and a bunch of cops who weren't too happy about a muddy trek through a salt marsh on a sweltering summer night.

Burgess stood aside, wishing he felt a greater sense of triumph. He wanted this scumbag to be the killer so they could tie this up, Cote could have his press conference, and they could all get some sleep. But he had a cold, empty feeling in his gut, a sense that the Timmy Watts case was still wide open. It was something to give Cote—busting a couple child pornographers, one of them a social worker, would give him days of material for the press—but Burgess feared their troubles were far from over.

It was a bruised and blubbering Jeffrey Osborne who was half-led, half-carried back through the marsh to the waiting police cars. Eight filthy, bloody police officers were photographed in all their muddy, bug-bitten, grass-cut glory—Melia was taking no chances on a police brutality charge. Then Osborne was put in the back of a transport van—no one wanted him and his muddy mess in a patrol car—and they all headed back to 109.

Chapter 25

Burgess showered in his clothes, including his shoes, then stripped down and washed the mud off himself. God, the stuff was tenacious. It ought to have cosmetic promise, but when he checked his skin for improvement, he saw only bruises and the ugly stitching on a shoulder that needed mending again. He was too damned tired to bother.

He dressed, put his filthy clothes in a bag, and squished upstairs in wet shoes. He found Vince looking grim and furious. "They lawyered up on us. Won't say a word. You might as well go home. Get some sleep. Maybe a night in jail will wear them down."

Burgess looked at his watch. "It is tomorrow."

"No shit."

"You going home?"

Melia's tight mouth lifted for a second. "I have a home?"

"You do. And a wife. Nice wife. And kids."

"And kids," Melia echoed. "That's why I'm here."

"I'll just write it up, while it's fresh," Burgess said. "Then ride off into the sunrise."

"That's a new one. You know you're bleeding?"

"Just a slow leak. We're running a pool on which happens first—I bleed out or I retire. Betting's fierce."

"Go home, Joe."

He called Chris, filled her in, said he'd be home soon. Then he wrote it up, clumsy fingers slipping on the keys. He collected some stuff from his desk to read over and went home consumed by a nagging sense of unfinished business.

She was waiting in the doorway in that little blue thing she wore, looking sleepy and totally desirable. "Hi, Superman," she said. "You know you're bleeding?"

"Been told."

"I can help."

"You bet," he said. He dropped his papers on the table and himself into a chair, letting her gentle fingers patch him up. She fixed him, soothed him, lit him up. He was too tired to do anything about it but appreciated the sensation of knowing he was still alive.

Just as his head hit the pillow, she said, "I was just wondering. You know how it's your job to be curious about people? Are you ever curious about me?"

"Yeah."

"I know you're beat," she said. "I'll keep it short." Her exhalation was a little like a sigh. "I was married to a doctor once. He came. He went. Did his thing and never let me in on it. He never talked about what he did or how he felt. I was just supposed to be there, smiling and supportive, with dinner ready whenever he came home. He thought he was giving me the good life. I thought he was giving me no life. So I left." That whisper of a sigh again. "Just so you'll know." Her wonderful voice in the darkness, a woman who kept stabbing him in the heart.

"Told you I was going to be bad at this," he said, "but I'm trying."

"You called tonight." She wiggled closer, fitting her body to his. "Try is all I ask."

He slept hard, woke up hurting and alone. Chris had left a note. "Might as well save my vacation for when we can be together. I'm at work. Call me."

"Call me" was underlined. In the tissue-wrapped package beside the note, he found a knee brace. Going through the painful process of dressing, he decided he'd give a lot for a day when some part of him didn't hurt. Maybe this was what growing old was like. Not hoping for pain free days, but simply for less painful ones.

Another gray day with not a breath of air stirring the tired leaves on the tree outside. The thermometer read 89. He poured coffee and scanned the papers he'd brought while he jawed his way through a bowl of granola. Chris was trying to improve his diet, but he didn't have the energy for all this chewing. Food was a means, not an end.

Breakfast. Something he got to eat. Something Timmy Watts never would again. He could picture the skinny limbs, the animated elfin face bent hungrily over a bowl of cereal, bony shoulders hunched against the possibility of a blow or a harsh word. "Goddammit," he shook the papers, his voice loud in the empty kitchen. "Give me something."

Perry and Delinsky's follow-up of sex offenders had netted them a big, fat nothing. The canvass results were only slightly better. A delivery man who left for work at 4:00 a.m. reported passing a small blue car going in the direction of the park on his way out of the neighborhood but he hadn't noticed the driver. A family living near the park might have heard a car door shut. One of Osborne's neighbors had seen a young boy come out of Osborne's house, but the description didn't fit Timmy Watts, and she couldn't be sure what day it was. A whole damned city full of people who didn't notice the world around them. Bad guys counted on that.

At 109, he found Osborne insisting on a polygraph to prove that he hadn't killed Timmy Watts. Burgess wondered if Osborne and his lawyer were unaware of the other charges, assault on a police officer and forcible rape of a minor, or whether those simply paled in the face of a murder charge. Maybe Osborne considered man-boy love part of a normal adult lifestyle, thought if you hit cops and they hit back, the hits canceled each other out.

He looked for Andrea Dwyer. Couldn't find her. Then he put the case file in order, but he was restless, so he went down to the lab. Rocky Jordan was bent over Osborne's computer, unshaven and wearing yesterday's clothes.

"Come for the picture show?" Rocky asked. "Where's the rest of your team?"

"Kyle and Perry? I'll get them."

Rocky shrugged. "Showings every hour on the hour." He fiddled with the keyboard. "This guy was a sick fuck. Knows computers, so he squirreled stuff away pretty good, but I'll find it." He nodded at a stack of photos. "You can start with those. But don't get 'em out of order or I'll kill you, Burgess. And nobody's gonna work
your
homicide. Too afraid your ghost'll show up and say they're doing it wrong."

"When's the last time you slept?" Burgess asked.

"I don't remember." Jordan rubbed his red eyes and tapped the screen. "Like I said, I don't have much yet, but it's coming. Enough to send that guy away a long time."

Burgess went to get the others. Needing to be moving today, even if he couldn't accomplish anything. Irrationally impatient with waiting for the results of Osborne's poly, which would determine where they went next. As he passed through the lab, Devlin shoved a stack of photos into his hand. "Like I said. The Annie Leibowitz of crime scenes." He shook his head sadly. "No one ever wins prizes for pictures like these. It's a pity."

"You get anything off those clothes?"

"Purplish carpet fibers."

Maybe Jim Taylor had a purple carpet. At his desk, a small blonde woman was pawing through his papers. Burgess dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder. "May I help you?"

She jumped away with a squawk, flushing to the roots of her hair. "Detective Burgess, I had some questions for you."

"I'm busy, Ms. Farrell."

"I can wait." She edged toward the chair.

"Not around here you can't."

She gave him the smile of a woman used to getting what she wanted. "I promise not to touch anything."

"You already have." He gestured toward the door. "Now, if you wouldn't mind..." He walked her to the elevator, impressed with the way she managed a full body sulk, and waited until she got on. Then he returned to his desk, threw everything in a briefcase, and went to find Kyle and Perry.

They were part of the crowd watching Osborne's polygraph on the TV monitor. He saw with satisfaction that Osborne was puffy and bruised and obviously in pain. No doubt his lawyer had had every bruise photographed and detailed and would be howling to the media about police brutality. Osborne had a good lawyer—one of the scumbags' lawyers of choice. Despite the pictures they'd taken last night, Burgess thought it might not be a bad idea to get all his bruises and stitches photographed as well. Cops learned to live defensively.

He cut Kyle and Perry out of the crowd and herded them downstairs to the lab. "How's it look?" he asked.

"Like he didn't do it," Kyle said. "Shows deception on almost every question except his name, address, and did he kill Timmy Watts." He sounded profoundly disappointed.

Burgess was disappointed but not surprised. His gut had been telling him this all along. Osborne was dirty, a pornographer and a criminal who did sick things to children, but probably hadn't killed Timmy Watts. If the killer was Osborne, it would have made their lives easier. But as Melia was quick to point out, the world wasn't organized to make a police officer's life easier.

"I want you to take some pictures of me," he told Devlin.

"Why? You joining a lonely hearts club?"

He thought of Chris's softness, curled against him in the night. Her generosity and startling honesty. Shook his head. "Wanted to catch these bruises while they're fresh like the other side's doing."

"Sounds like a plan. Take off your shirt."

Dani came in while Wink was taking the pictures and patted Burgess's undamaged shoulder. She looked tired and depressed. Her navy Portland PD jumpsuit was too big and reminded him of his sisters in their snowsuits. He wished he had some news to cheer her up.

When Wink finished, he went on to Rocky, revulsion churning his stomach as the pictures Rocky had pried loose from Osborne's encryption appeared on the screen. Naked male children in sexually provocative poses, often with naked male adults. None of the adult faces were shown. "Just the tip of the iceberg, Joe," Rocky said. "I'm gonna find real bad stuff in here."

It was hard enough dealing with the awful things adult did to each other. But children were so helpless. It made him want to do extremely bad things to the people who collected this trash, traded it, got off on it. He wasn't alone. That was why child molesters had such a hard time in prison. Even the most vicious killers found their crimes revolting.

"Dwyer seen these?" he asked.

"Said she wanted to shoot his fucking dick off. She was looking for you earlier. Something about one of these kids. She recognized a few of the photographs, too. Took a couple, following a hunch."

Burgess, thumbing through the ones Rocky had printed, found several of Timmy Watts sitting naked on the floor, playing with a Power Ranger. Had Osborne thought they wouldn't find these?

"It gives me the creeps thinking about guys like that, going around to parks and playgrounds, snapping pictures of people's kids," Perry said. "Kids getting their diapers changed, kids romping naked on the beach. Little boys peeing in the bushes. Pervert going around taking those pictures and the parents don't notice a thing, while he's probably bringing 'em home and jacking off."

"More like bringing the kids home and doing more than jacking off." Kyle said.

The atmosphere in the room was bleak, the mood ugly. Perry fiddled with the dirty bandage on his head. Kyle drooped on his chair, staring blankly into space. All waiting for Melia to see if he wanted them to stick with the Timmy Watts case or put more time in on Osborne and Taylor.