The Cruelest Cut (17 page)

Jack grinned at him. “Knock yourself out,” he said, and Liddell inhaled a chocolate-covered long john.

“Thanks,” Liddell said and dug deeper into the sack. “What's up?”

“Well, let's see,” Jack said. “Susan came in early this morning with the first bag of donuts and wanted me to go running with her.”

Liddell raised his eyebrows and said, “First bag?”

Jack ignored him and continued. “Then Katie came by a few minutes after Susan left and broke down in tears.”

“What's the matter with Katie?” Liddell said, the donuts forgotten for the moment. “Did something happen to her?”

“Nothing happened to her,” Jack said angrily, though he didn't know why he was angry. “At least, that's what she said.” He sat on the loveseat that served as his couch and picked up his pistol from the table and dropped the clip out of the grip.

“Nothing?”

“That's what she said. I asked, ‘What's the matter?' and she said, ‘Nothing.'”

“That's it?” Liddell said.

“Yeah. Why do women do that?”

Liddell shrugged. “Marcie's not like that,” he said. “When something's on her mind she spills it.”

“Maybe you could have Marcie talk to her.”

“No problemo, Jack,” Liddell said; then, nodding at Jack's pistol, “Glad to see you have your backup piece handy.”

Jack stuck the Glock in his back pocket. “That's what Boy Scouts say. ‘Always be prepared.'”

“You know what else Boy Scouts say?” Liddell asked.

Jack didn't want to play the game. He knew it was going to be some lame joke, but what could he do? “I'll bite. What else do Boy Scouts say?”

“Don't touch me there,” Liddell said with a straight face, then started to crack up. “Get it? Don't touch me there.”

“Real funny, Bigfoot. So why are you here? I know you didn't bring donuts, too, and you sure as hell don't want to run. I hope you're not going to start crying, because I don't think I have any more paper towels. Of course, as big as you are, I would probably have to get a beach towel anyway.”

“If we don't get a break in this case soon, we'll all be crying,” Liddell said, and both men became somber.

Liddell had called Jack several times to update him on developments in the Kids' Kingdom case. Unfortunately, there were no updates. No missing child report. Nothing. The boy's picture would go on television at five o'clock if they didn't have someone come forward before then. But right now, they didn't have shit, except another dead body, and this one with Jack's name carved in it.

In the dining room of Two-Jakes, one of the servers, Vinnie, polished the tabletop to a high shine, and then put paper coasters down for the men. Jack, Liddell, and Captain Franklin sat in a back booth away from the long glass wall overlooking the river. Jake Brady brought coffee and shook hands with Franklin, assured them the doors were all locked and they wouldn't be disturbed, and then headed off to the kitchen to let the men talk.

“Any news on the last body?” Jack asked Franklin.

“Chief Dick is doing a news conference at five with all the media. So far we haven't had anything but crank calls,” Franklin answered, then changed the subject. “Liddell said you wanted to talk, Jack, but I have to tell you, this isn't off the record,” Franklin said.

“That's okay,” Jack said, knowing the risk that Franklin was taking even being near him without Double Dick's knowledge and approval. Liddell had told him that Double Dick had created a whole new meaning for the word
micro-manage
.

Liddell stood and said, “Plausible deniability.” The other men looked at him, and he explained, “I learned that from Bill Clinton.” He chuckled and went to mooch breakfast from Vinnie.

When he was gone, Jack said, “I appreciate your coming, Captain. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.”

Franklin remained quiet.

“First of all, the Black Jack gum wrapper that was found in Dubois County,” Jack said.

“What about it?”

“Mark Crowley is the chief deputy, and he's the one that found that particular piece of evidence. It hadn't been on the ground long, Captain. It could've been dropped by someone watching the cabin.”

“Jack, that's a state police case now. Dubois isn't in it anymore. And neither are we.”

“I know, but Mark Crowley is a very, uh, industrious investigator. He probably would get us a copy of any prints they lifted.”

“What would that do?” Franklin asked. “If the state police came up with a suspect, they would share.”

Jack gave the captain a sardonic look.

“Okay. Maybe they wouldn't share,” Franklin conceded. “But eventually, we would find out.”

“Yeah. You're probably right,” Jack said sarcastically.

“It's not a contest, Jack,” Franklin said.

“The hell it isn't! The bastard is killing kids,” Jack said.

Franklin leaned closer to Jack. “What can we do about it?” Jack knew he was really asking what they could do about Chief Dick, but the captain was a professional and would never bad-mouth the chief. Even Double Dick.

Jack looked away from the captain and said, “What if someone was to deliver copies of the state police fingerprint evidence to you?”

“I probably don't want to know who that would be, but I guess if someone were to have evidence that related to our killings I would be negligent in my duty if I didn't look into it,” Franklin said.

Jack sat back and sipped his coffee.

“You're just like your dad, Jack,” Franklin said.

“I forgot you and my dad knew each other,” Jack said. “Actually, I thought he retired before you were hired.”

“He was my training officer,” Franklin said to Jack's surprise.

“No kidding? I'll bet that was an experience,” Jack said. Jack's father had retired as a motor patrol officer. He'd never had any aspirations of doing anything but working the street. When Jack had been sworn in as an officer, his father had set him straight about who did the heavy lifting on the police department. “It sure isn't those sissy pen-pushers,” his dad had said, meaning the detectives. But to his credit, when Jack had transferred into the investigations side, his father had been as proud as a man could be.

“Yeah,” Franklin admitted. “We had some different ideas about how to do the job, but he was a good cop. Would have made a good detective. But he didn't know when to shut up. Just like you.”

Jack grinned. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. But you have to admit, Captain, I went out with style.”

Franklin tried to hide a smile and got up to leave.

“See you, Jack,” he said, and Vinnie unlocked the door to let him leave.

Liddell came over and sat down. “Well?”

Two days later…

The identification of Kyle Bannock as the victim at Kids' Kingdom was front-page news for all of one day. But the murders had stopped as quickly as they had started. Maddy had received no further notes from the killer and had resorted to rehashing the story of Jack's humiliating suspension. The newspapers had also picked up on this, but because they were courting the mayor's favor, they were giving the mayor credit for replacing the chief of police and thereby putting pressure on the killer. Chief Dick had taken to wearing SWAT attire, minus the helmet and ballistic vest, but keeping the spit-shined combat boots. He believed this gave him a forceful look. A man of action. A man that gets things done.

What a joke,
Jack thought as he drank coffee and browsed the newspaper, looking at a picture of Double Dick in SWAT tactical attire. The front-page stories didn't report that absolutely nothing had been done on the case since Jack's suspension. Or that they hadn't had any cooperation with the state police with the Dubois investigation. So, they didn't have a clue what was being done. In reality, except for the discreet inquiries being made without Double Dick's knowledge, no one was really assigned to the case anymore.

Double Dick had reassigned Angelina Garcia to her previous duties so that he could have the chief's conference room back. Detective Jansen had somehow become Dick's PIO, or public information officer, and so no one was actually compiling information on the case except Liddell.

In other words, no one—the news media, the cops, nor the politicians—knew anything. All they knew was that the murders had stopped, and like all good sheep, they could go back to their mindless grazing until the wolf reappeared at their door and took another of their children.

Because of the lull, Maddy's big dreams were falling apart, and with the drop in viewers, it wouldn't be long before she would be out covering church bake sale stories.

Jack had contacted Chief Deputy Mark Crowley, and his proposition of working together was met with enthusiasm. Sheriff Tanner Crowley gave his son some much-deserved time off, with the usual warning that he was not to be working on the murder case—
wink, wink
.

Jack and Liddell had their first member for the team they would put together in spite of Double Dick. Within a matter of hours they had assembled what Liddell jokingly referred to as “the Holy Jihad team”: Jack Murphy, Liddell Blanchard, Susan Summers, Mark Crowley, Detective Walker from Crime Scene, and sometimes Captain Franklin. Their “war room” was a back room of Two-Jakes that was used for small gatherings and birthday parties.

Jake Brady and Vinnie kept them in coffee and they never lacked for food, but what they didn't have was the freedom they needed to use the vast resources of the police department. Liddell had been effectively gelded by Double Dick and couldn't have a thought about the cases without clearing it with Dick first.

That was where Susan Summers and Tony Walker came in. Tony was their mole in Crime Scene and had access to police data, reports, and some crime scene equipment, while Susan was their communications. She was able to use her position as a state parole officer to make inquiries of other law enforcement agencies, jails, and prisons. It wasn't the ideal way to conduct an investigation, but by working together they had found a way around Jack's suspension.

Susan and Franklin were absent from this meeting—Susan, because she still had parolees to supervise, and Franklin, because he had to keep up appearances at work.

It was already getting dark by the time Mark Crowley had obtained a good copy of the partial latent fingerprint taken from the Black Jack gum wrapper. He faxed this copy to a nervous Tony Walker, and then drove to Evansville. By the time he arrived at the Two-Jakes, Walker had examined the copy of the latent print and entered his results into the state database of latent prints, Indiana Automated Fingerprint Information System, or IAFIS, and was now giving the assemblage a report. “I couldn't get into the FBI's fingerprint system,” Walker explained, “because that computer is in the Central Record room. If I go in there and get caught, Chief Dick will be on me like stink on shit. He's got spies everywhere.”

“We'll ask Franklin to check on doing that,” Jack said.

Tony continued. “The IAFIS system spat out about two hundred possible matches. The print wasn't very good to begin with, so that is all we're going to get. I don't think even the FBI will do any better.”

“Get this,” Crowley said, looking over the autopsy report findings, “The state cops have a DNA sample.” He was referring to the Indiana State Police investigation into the murder at Patoka Lake. “Apparently our girl took some skin out of her attacker's hide.”

“But it'll take weeks to get the results back,” Liddell reminded him.

“Yeah. There's that,” Crowley conceded. “But if we ever catch the bastards, it could make the court case a lot easier.”

Jack looked at Crowley. “You just said ‘bastards'—plural.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I did.”

“Up to now we've been thinking we only had one killer,” Jack said. “Maybe we should widen our thinking a little—while the pressure is off?”

“But that takes us back to square one,” Liddell said.

“Maybe that's what we need. Some new perspective on this,” Jack said looking around the table. Then to Liddell, he said, “You still got the phone number for Garcia?”

While Liddell called Angelina's cell phone, Jack filled in the other members about her involvement. They agreed that Garcia would be an immense help. If she agreed.

Liddell got off the phone and smiled. “Fuck Double Dick and the mayor he rode in on,” he said. “Her exact words.”

“Let's start again early tomorrow,” Jack said. Then, remembering that Crowley had driven for an hour, he added, “If that's all right with you, Mark?”

Crowley grinned. “Well, I was thinking of heading down to the riverboat and trying my luck anyway.”

Liddell took out his cell phone. “I can get you a free room at the casino hotel,” he said.

“Can you get me some playing money, too?” Crowley asked, unashamedly.

Liddell just rolled his eyes.

 

He'd been surprised that there was nothing in the newspaper about him beating that Indian woman at the motel. Eddie could tell he'd hurt that woman badly. He'd beaten and stomped her unconscious, and there was a lot of blood. So much, in fact, that he'd had to stop at a nearby car wash and spray the blood off his boots. Surely the cops were combing all the cheap motels trying to identify him. But it had been three days since the killing at Kids' Kingdom and there was plenty in the newspaper about that, but not a thing about the motel.

In a way it pissed him off that he'd rushed out of his room and spent his dwindling cash supply to lay low. If he'd have known the police didn't give a shit about some Indian broad, he'd have just woke her up, dusted her off, and given her a few bucks for her trouble.

He had laughed the incident off, but Bobby had gone ape-shit at the time.
There you go thinking with your dick again,
Bobby had said.
Are you trying to get us caught?

Eddie wasn't trying to get them caught. But he wasn't going to take any shit off some fucking motel maid either. He was beginning to think that Bobby had lost his nerve, and that wasn't good. It bothered him that Bobby was so quiet. Quiet unless he had something bad to say about the way Eddie was doing things.

If Bobby wasn't the only family he had left, he'd tell him to go to hell. But it had always been him and Bobby against everyone else—when they were kids, when they grew up, while they were in prison, and back on the street. Bobby was the only one he could count on. He wanted to tell Bobby how he felt, but he knew Bobby'd just tell him he was acting gay or something.

Eddie looked at the newspaper on the table in front of him.
DETECTIVE MURPHY STILL ON SUSPENSION
,
the headline read.

“Do you think they figured it out?” Eddie asked his brother. “Do you think they pulled Murphy off the case? Or did he get scared and quit?”

“Eddie, get your head outta your ass,” Bobby said. “They think we won't finish this if they pull his ass off the case. They think we're weak, or stupid, or both.”

“What are we gonna do, Bobby?” Eddie pushed the newspaper off the table and onto the floor with the fast-food containers and empty beer cans.

Bobby looked at him and shook his head sadly. “Whining don't get the job done, bro.”

Eddie winced at the reprimand. There Bobby went again saying shit that the preacher used to say. “I ain't whining, Bobby. This was your idea in the first place.” Eddie was getting mad, building up some steam as he spoke. “So why don't YOU quit complaining and calling me dumb and come up with a fuckin' idea?”

Bobby didn't seem to notice Eddie was mad. Or if he did notice he didn't seem to care. He just sat on the couch and rubbed at his right eye with a knuckle, like he had something in it or had an itch. Eddie had noticed him doing that a lot lately.

Finally, Bobby stopped rubbing his head, and said, “Okay, here's the plan.”