by Gayle Wilson
"I appreciate how much something like that would shake you up. Ms. Patterson. And you did the right thing to come in to talk to us, but..."
"But...?" she prompted when the pause stretched too long.
"That wasn't Tate."
"Then who the hell do you think it was?"
"Could have been anybody. Somebody who saw you on TV and thought leaving you that message would be..." Cochran lifted beefy hands from where they'd rested on his desk, moving them up and then out. The gesture seemed to indicate she should know what it would be.
She didn't. She had no idea why he thought someone other than Samuel Tate would call her to describe her son's dying. "Would be what?"
"Some kind of a joke. They saw you on television and... I don't know. They decided to get in on the action. Maybe they wanted to rattle your cage. Or rattle ours."
"A joke" she repeated. "You think someone would joke about how my son died?"
"You'd be surprised what people will do. Ms. Patterson."
When she had digested that disclaimer, the initial anger she'd felt at Cochran's suggestion surged again. "No. No, I wouldn't. Not anymore. Detective Cochran. Three years ago, maybe I could still be surprised by the depths of depravity the human race can sink to. Tate cured me of that in one night."
She stood, knowing she wasn't going to get any further with the police than the district attorney had gotten with that idiot judge yesterday. For some reason she had believed the cops would want to know about Tate's message. Naively, she'd even believed they would do something about the fact that he'd called her.
"Ms. Patterson, I understand that you're upset, and you have every right to be—"
"It was Tate," she interrupted, her voice low and intense. Controlled. "It wasn't a joke."
Cochran moved his shoulders, almost a shrug. "You might want to think about getting an unlisted number. What with the publicity and all." His hands rose again, the gesture more restrained this time.
"My number is unlisted. It's never been listed. And it's fairly new, so I guess whoever this is has some pretty good sources of information. I wonder how he did that with the cops watching him so closely. Having him under such tight surveillance."
The dark eyes reacted. She hadn't been quick enough to read the emotion in them before it was shuttered.
Surprise? Or...something else?
"Serial killers have certain patterns they follow. Ms. Patterson." Cochran's voice was reasoned and patient. "They have ways in which they...work. They stick to those methods because those things make them feel comfortable. Secure. Calling and leaving a message on your machine doesn't fit Tate's pattern."
"Maybe that's because I'm not an eleven-year-old boy. He's not raping and murdering me. Detective. He's only harassing me. Maybe his 'pattern,' as you call it, is different for that."
She could tell he wanted to argue with what she'd said. Mouth tight, he refrained from correcting her again, nodding instead as if he got her point.
"You want to go ahead and file a complaint?"
"Would that give you grounds to pick him up?"
In that case, she'd be willing to fill out the paperwork, despite Cochran's attitude. She'd be willing to do just about anything that would get the son of a bitch off the streets.
They couldn't hold him long on a harassment charge, but it would buy some time. Buy some other kid a reprieve, maybe. The hours they held Tate, at least he wouldn't be out prowling for his next victim.
"You'd be welcome to file one," the detective said.
She turned the phrase over in her mind, trying to figure out what bothered her about it. "I'd be welcome to file it, but...you still won't pick him up?"
"I didn't say that."
Cochran seemed evasive, yet she couldn't think of any reason why he would be. The cops should want Tate off the streets as much as she did. So why wasn't he jumping at a chance to pick him up for something? For anything?
"You don't know where he is," she said, speaking her realization aloud. "He told me they'd follow him. The cop who jumped me yesterday. He said you'd keep a close eye on Tate's every move. But instead..." She shook her head in disbelief. How many ways could they screw this up? "You let him go, and now you clowns don't have any idea where that murdering son of a bitch is."
The silence lasted long enough that she knew she was right.
Donovan. The name of the big cop who'd told her that had been in the Picayune this morning. She had skimmed the article before she'd folded the paper in disgust and stuck it back into the stack of others at the restaurant.
Maybe he'd listen to what she was trying to tell them. At least he'd seemed to give a damn yesterday. Not like this idiot.
"Is Detective Donovan here?"
"Donovan's on leave. Be back next month."
"A little vacation." She made sure he didn't miss the sarcasm this time.
Cochran's mouth tightened again, but she didn't care. The cops had a guy who killed children on their hands, and one of their detectives was taking the month off.
"Detective Donovan was suspended."
"Suspended?" The word surprised her. They wouldn't have suspended him for preventing her from killing Tate. They would probably have thought he deserved a medal, so...
"For what?"
"The station didn't like him taking their tape."
The TV station? The one whose cameraman Donovan had confronted after he'd jumped her?
"He told them it was evidence."
"That tape could have been used to bring a charge of attempted murder against you. Ms. Patterson. After Mac took it, it kind of conveniently disappeared. That didn't set too well with some people in the department."
"I don't understand."
"Detective Donovan refused to verify that you were trying to shoot Tate, Ms. Patterson. And he confiscated that tape so it couldn't be used to prove that's what you were doing."
"And then it...disappeared? Are you saying he made it disappear?"
"Mac Donovan did you a favor. One that cost him big time."
She didn't want to feel gratitude. Not to any of them. But certainly not to Mac Donovan.
No matter what his motives had been. Donovan had kept Tate alive. When she remembered the message that had been left on her machine, she couldn't find it in her heart to forgive him for that.
"And I'm supposed to be grateful? Sony. Maybe the next mother whose child Tate tortures to death will be willing to thank him for both of us."
Cochran's eyes held hers, but she didn't back down. After a moment, he broke the contact between them by glancing down at the phone on his desk. His lips pursed, and then he looked up again, obviously conceding defeat in his attempt to induce guilt over Donovan's suspension.
"We can ask the phone company to let us know where the call came from, but ten to one, it'll turn out to be a pay booth somewhere. Or, if you want to go that route, we can put a trace on your home phone." Cochran's voice was carefully neutral.
"Don't bother. I'm sure you've got more important things to do than to chase people who are just 'making jokes.' After all, I wouldn't want anybody here to go out of their way to try to catch this guy either."
Sarah's anger built as she descended the stairs from the second floor office where she'd told her story. Eyes lowered as she hurried down them, she didn't realize there was someone coming up them until he spoke.
"Mrs. Patterson?"
She looked up, straight into the eyes of the man who'd tackled her yesterday. The man who, according to the guy she'd talked to upstairs, had been suspended for confiscating the videotape of that incident.
Apparently, she couldn't believe anything they told her. Not if it concerned Tate.
"Mackenzie Donovan." He added the identification when she didn't respond to his greeting. "We met yesterday after the hearing."
"Is that what you call it, Detective? A meeting?"
She hadn't realized until now how tall he was. No wonder she ached all over. Big and dark, with a shock of coa
l-black hair that seemed out of place with his blue eyes.
"Sony. I hope you didn't suffer any ill effects. I thought... I thought you had a weapon."
"You know damn well what I had." She started down the stairs again, intending to edge by him.
"They call you in?"
The question stopped her. Or maybe it was his tone, evoking the same response as it had yesterday. He sounded as if he really cared.
Or maybe, if the cop upstairs had been telling the truth, he was regretting that his sacrifice had been in vain. And if he had been suspended—
"I thought you weren't supposed to be here."
"I left a few personal things I decided to come by and pick up."
Apparently the detective upstairs hadn't lied. At least not about that.
"They told me you got into trouble because of what you did with the tape."
His mouth moved slightly. One corner had definitely ticked upward before he quickly controlled the motion.
The concern in his voice was replaced by a hint of amusement. "Let's just say that today I'm even less the fair-haired boy around here than I normally am. No big deal."
"It is to me."
The words were too conciliatory. Almost the gratitude she had been determined not to express. After all, if it hadn't been for Mac Donovan—
"You didn't admit to anything, did you?" he asked. "Without that tape they got nothing. I was the closest to you. If we stick to the same story, they aren't going to pursue charges because they'll know there's no point."
He was still under the impression that she'd been brought in for questioning. She supposed she owed it to him to clear up that misunderstanding.
"Whatever you told them about what happened, I guess they bought it. Actually. I came about...something else."
She had almost told him about the message. She wanted to, and that, too, surprised her.
With the other detective's reaction, she decided she'd made a big enough fool of herself for one day. Besides, she didn't want to be under any greater obligation to Mac Donovan than she already was.
She started down once more, but he didn't move, evidently waiting for her to go by him. Just before she stepped onto the stair where he stood, under a compulsion she didn't completely understand, she raised her head to glance at him again. Up close the blue eyes were more remarkable, surrounded as they were by a fringe of thick, black lashes, which made them stand out against the darkly tanned skin.
"You know they lost him."
"Tate?" he clarified.
She nodded, controlling the surge of bile that hearing his name always created.
"He'll make a mistake," Donovan said. "Use a credit card. Visit one of the places here he was known to frequent. He'll do something. His patterns are too rigid. And when he does, believe me, Mrs. Patterson, they won't lose him again."
Something in the depths of his eyes had changed as he talked. You would think a man accustomed to dealing with the scum of the earth would be better at lying. She was probably better at it. Or maybe she was simply better at spotting the telltale signs.
"Before or after?"
"Ma'am?"
"Will they find him before or after he kills the next one?"
A muscle tightened in Detective Donovan's jaw, but he didn't respond. He didn't look away either, holding her eyes until she chose to break the contact. Finally she moved past him and continued down the remaining stairs.
She didn't stop when she reached the outside door, pushing through it and out into the cold, moisture-laden air. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with it, trying, futilely, to erase the smell of the police station.
She hadn't said thank you to Donovan, although he was being punished because he'd tried to keep her from being charged with the attempted murder of her son's killer. Maybe she should be grateful to him for destroying that tape, but whatever she should feel about that was negated by how bitter she was that he'd kept her from doing what she'd intended.
Maybe Donovan hadn't gotten what he deserved, but then neither had she. Neither had Danny. Neither would the next child Tate selected.
That was something she couldn't find it in her heart to forgive any of them for. Not even herself.
"Says he left a message on her machine last night." "What kind of message?" Mac asked, trying to fit that information into what he knew about Tate.
He had wanted to know what the hell was going on. And. although he was less willing to admit to this, he had wanted some human company besides the talking heads on TV. Until this afternoon, he'd had no reason to discover how bad daytime television really was.
"Telling her how the kid cried for her while he died." "Jesus." Mac's voice was subdued by the horror of the image.
"Somebody looking to rattle her cage. Seen her on TV. Figured to be cute."
Mac nodded. It made more sense than Tate taking time to hunt up Sarah Patterson's number while he was evading the police. The guy was probably in Mexico by now. Some place far from New Orleans, anyway.
"What’d she say when you told her it wasn't him?"
"That I was wrong. That it had been Tate. Yada, yada. The call really spooked her. Took the time to file a complaint for harassment. So, you see our guy out there someplace, arrest him for harassment, okay?"
That was the kind of humor cops used when nothing was funny about the job they did.
"You talk to Morel?" Mac asked.
"About you?"
"Yeah, about me," Mac said. "What'd you think about?"
"I thought maybe about Tate. I told him about the call to Ms. Patterson. He agreed with me that it was some prankster. Bastards."
"I need to be on this. Sonny. I was the department's representative to the task force, for Christ's sake. I know this guy better than anybody here."
He was preaching to the choir, but frustration at being forced to stand on the sidelines while every cop in a hundred square miles was looking for Tate was getting to him. And he was only a few hours into this month-long suspension.
"I'll talk to him again," Sonny said, his voice free of any emotion Mac could read.
His partner understood everything he was feeling. Whining about the injustice of this wasn't doing either of them any good. He'd known there were risks when he'd destroyed that tape. He had just never imagined Morel would go so far.
"So what'd you think about her?"
It took a second for Sonny to shift mental gears. "The Patterson woman?"
Mac nodded. Then he turned one of the files on Sonny's desk around so he could pretend to read while he waited for his answer.
"Okay. If you like 'em thin. Got a mouth on her. I know why she's divorced."
"According to the news yesterday, she always blamed her husband." Mac wasn't sure why he felt the need to defend Sarah Patterson, but he didn't deny that he did.
"For the kid?"
"He was supposed to be watching him. He let him loose in the arcade at the mall while he went to the store next door. Left him there alone for more than an hour. He comes back. The kid's gone. Nobody saw a thing."
Sonny shook his head. "Bet she made his life hell."
"They say a kid dying is the hardest thing for a marriage to survive. And that's not just if it's something like what Tate did. That's illness, accident, whatever."
Mac couldn't remember where he'd read that. Maybe because of the murders, it had stuck with him. And it had come back to him yesterday.
In the case of the Pattersons, it made a lot of sense. How could you not want someone to blame if your kid was abducted and then brutalized in ways most people couldn't imagine one human doing to another?
People usually blamed the police. Or society. Sarah
Patterson had blamed her husband, who was supposed to have been watching his son.
"Yeah? So where was she when it happened? Working nights or something?" Sonny's question sounded judgmental.
Maybe it was meant to be. His wife stayed home with their three kids.
"I do
n't know. The paper didn't go into that. Just that the kid was supposed to be with his father."
Sonny nodded. "I'd like to get my hands on the guy who thought it would be cute to leave that message. Takes a sick mind, you know, to come up with something like that."
If there was one thing Mac had learned in the fifteen years he'd been a cop, it was that there were a lot of sick minds out there. Not just the Tates of this world, but guys like the one who'd left that message on Sarah Patterson's machine.
Sickos. Nutcases. Psychos. Cops called them all kinds of things. And they came in all degrees of craziness, from Tate to the homeless guy down on Esplanade who thought he was Jesus.
That had been one thing the profiler kept saying that really bothered him. That Tate wasn't insane.
Mac knew the legal definition of insanity was different from what most people thought of when they said the word, but it seemed to him that someone who could do the things Tate did to a kid would fall way on the other side of anybody's insanity scale. And he didn't. At least not according to the Bureau.
The psychologist one of the local stations had interviewed after they'd finally figured out they had a serial killer on their hands had called Tate a sociopath. No conscience. No empathy for those he hurt. No more than the normal person would have for killing a roach or a worm.
Mac understood that to do what Tate did, he would have to have that kind of mentality. What he hadn't been able to grasp, on anything other than an intellectual level, was that it didn't make him insane. Just...a sick mind.
There was that phrase again, bumping around in his head too strongly. He didn't like having it there. And he could imagine that Danny Patterson's mother had liked it even less.
Through the years, he had sometimes wondered how people endured what they endured. Remembering what had been in her eyes as she'd looked up at him from the sidewalk where he'd thrown her down, he knew exactly what had kept Sarah Patterson going.
And he wondered if Tate had any idea how lucky he had been that Mac was there yesterday morning.
Five
Sarah couldn't stop thinking about the words left on her machine yesterday, not even in the middle of the lunch hour rush. Normally, the best thing about her job was that with the hundred things she had to think about, there wasn't a lot of time for her brain to engage in that useless cycle of blame and regret.
