by Frank Zafiro
“MacLeod, it’s over,” Gio whispered. “They’ve got him in cuffs.”
Hearing that, she went slack in Gio’s arms, defeated. At the same time, the screaming stopped. She realized it had been her voice making that terrible noise.
“It’s all right,” Gio said.
She’d never heard words that were more false.
THIRTEEN
1115 hours
“I thought this crime analysis stuff was the wave of the future,” Tower observed dryly, giving Browning a sly look. The three of them stood in the confined office room, huddled around Renee’s desk. Tower figured the office was probably used as a storage closet until office space became so premium.
Renee snorted. “Crime Analysis is just the buzzword of the decade for good old detective work. The only difference is that I’m a civilian and this,” she pointed to her PC, “is a computer instead of a pile of paper.”
“A lot of good it’s done us,” muttered Tower, tapping his pen on his notebook.
“It has, though,” Renee said. “Without my computer system and expert analysis, you’d be two weeks away from knowing you had nothing.”
Tower rolled his eyes at her.
Browning sipped his coffee and asked, “Let’s see if we’re missing anything.”
“Fine,” Renee shrugged. “But we haven’t.”
“Humor me.”
“It’s your dime,” she said. “Ask away.”
Browning considered, then asked, “The child witness said the Hispanic guy called the black guy Wesley. Any hits on that?”
“The only two black males named Wesley in River City don’t fit the age description.”
“How close?”
“One’s four and one’s eighty-two.”
Browning sipped his coffee. “You check Department of Licensing?”
Renee looked at him as if he’d just asked a monumentally stupid question. “I did. There were several black males named Wesley with Washington State driver’s licenses or identification cards. None had vans of any kind registered to them. All were on the west side of the state, near Seattle. Only one had a criminal record and he’s in Walla Walla State Prison right now.”
“How about Idaho DOL?” Browning asked. “The panhandle’s only ten minutes away.”
“Of course I checked,” Renee said. “And there were no black male Wesley’s in any of the northern panhandle counties.”
“Okay. How about any hits on the descriptions of the suspects?”
“No,” Renee said. “Or rather, yes. Hundreds of black males and hundreds of Hispanic males. The descriptions were too general. I mean, some of our own officers matched up.”
“How about the tattoos?”
“All dead ends. All subjects who fit the race and tattoo are incarcerated, except for five. One of those was Antonio Lopez and you talked to him.”
Browning nodded. “He was a decent guy. Owns a catering business. He said the tattoo was from when he was fifteen years old. He’s definitely not involved. But what about the other four?”
“All four have moved out of the area,” Renee said. “I called the police agencies in their new digs and asked for a courtesy interview. All had solid alibis. Besides, the closest one was in Arizona.”
Tower grunted.
Renee ignored him. “Just in case she was mistaken about the race, I ran all tattoos containing a spider or a spider web on either arm. I cross-referenced them to known sex offenders and—”
“And we checked all those sickos,” Tower finished.
Renee pressed her lips together, but nodded. “Yeah.”
The trio fell silent for a while. The hum of the computer fan filled the room. Tower stared at the comic strips Renee had clipped from the newspaper, but didn’t read them. Browning sipped his coffee. Renee fumed.
Finally, Browning asked, “Why spider webs and spiders, Renee? And why both arms? Why not just run the specific tattoo and arm? You’d narrow your list that way.”
“True,” Renee said, irritation seeping into her voice. “But I didn’t know which report was right, so I ran it both ways.”
“Which report was right?” Browning asked. “What’s that mean?”
Tower leaned forward. “One of those reports was mine.”
“I know,” Renee said. “And the other one was from Officer Giovanni. And they were different.”
“Different how?” Browning asked.
Renee pulled copies of both reports from her file and laid them side-by-side. Browning and Tower stood over each shoulder and watched as she flipped through pages in both until she found what she was looking for. Each report had a section outlined in red.
“See,” she said, pointing with her pencil to the handwritten report. “Giovanni’s report says the male had a spider tattoo on the inside of his left elbow.”
Both men read over the description, nodding in unison.
Renee moved her pencil to Tower’s typed report. “Your report says it was the right arm and a web tattoo on the elbow.”
The men read it for themselves, still nodding.
“That’s why I ran it both ways,” Renee said.
Browning pointed. “Your report also has the guy yelling after her and having an accent.”
“And the name Wesley,” Tower said.
Renee looked back and forth between both men. “You guys didn’t know about this other report?”
Tower shrugged. “I interviewed the little girl. I didn’t think I needed to read Giovanni’s report, at least not yet.”
Browning offered no excuses, but wandered back to an empty chair and sat down. He didn’t like the fact that he had read only Tower’s report. He should have been more thorough, even if the information would have been redundant. But they’d been so tied up in trying to find the guys, he hadn’t spent the time he should have reviewing the case material.
“Damn,” Tower muttered.
Browning’s mind was whirring. “Do you suppose Giovanni made a mistake?” he asked Tower.
Tower looked over at him, knowing very well that the question applied to him, too. He didn’t take offense. The question was necessary. “I don’t know. Possibly. But I interviewed her very carefully.” He pointed to his report. “That is definitely what she told me.”
“Maybe she was confused when she talked to the patrolman. Still scared.”
The men looked at each other, both thinking the problem through. Neither mentioned another possibility.
Renee did. “Could she be lying?”
“She’s six,” Tower said.
“Kids lie,” Renee answered.
“But not without a reason.”
“Maybe she’s scared of something,” Renee suggested.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Tower scowled.
“We’ll probably need to interview her again,” Browning said. “But first I want to check with Giovanni and see if he’s sure on this description.” He picked up Renee’s telephone and dialed Police Dispatch.
“Dispatch. Carrie Anne.”
“Carrie, Browning here. Is Officer Giovanni working today?”
He heard the sound of a keyboard being used in the background, then she answered. “Yeah. Adam-257. He’s down at the bridge at the crime scene.”
“Crime scene?” Browning asked. “What crime scene?”
1205 hours
Kopriva found her in an interview room. Even though the door was wide open and there was no one guarding the room, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she looked like a prisoner. She sat at the table with her face buried in both palms.
He reached out to touch her shoulder. “Hey, girl,” he whispered to her.
Katie looked up at him, her eyes rimmed with redness. When she recognized him, her eyes filled anew with tears. She stood and fell into his arms.
“Shhh,” Kopriva said, holding her close and stroking her hair. “It’s all right, Katie.”
She sobbed into his chest while he held he
r. They stood stock-still in the interview room, for the first time not caring who might see them. She wept without shame, without fear and without pretense. All the while, he held her and stroked her hair and whispered to her that everything would be fine, it would be all right.
Kopriva held her until the smell of cigar smoke entered the room and he heard someone clear his throat. He turned to see Lieutenant Crawford eyeing both of them. He didn’t seem to approve, but he made no comment on their embrace.
“You don’t have to make a statement right away, MacLeod,” he said gruffly. “If you don’t want to.”
Katie pried herself from Kopriva’s chest and reached for a tissue on the table. “It’s okay,” she said as she wiped her nose. “I’m ready.”
Crawford looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Detective Finch and Detective Elias will be in to interview you in a couple of minutes.”
He gave another look at Kopriva, then left.
Kopriva took Katie’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Come get me when you’re done,” he told her. “I’ll use some vacation time and take you home, okay?”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
Kopriva leaned in and kissed her cheek softly. Afterward, he lingered near her face, taking in the smell of her skin. He wanted to whisper something to her, something important, but he knew the time wasn’t right.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said instead.
1219 hours
Browning frowned. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Gio told him. “That’s exactly what she told me. I asked her three times. We even talked about whether she knew the difference between a Tarantula or a Black Widow, which she didn’t.”
Browning looked at Tower, who shrugged.
“I’ll go talk to the little girl again,” Tower said. “Nail this down one way or the other.”
“Maybe she was confused,” Browning suggested.
“Not when I talked to her,” Tower said.
“Not when I did, either,” Gio said.
“Well,” Renee observed, “something’s wrong somewhere. And it’s more than just the tattoo.”
No one answered. Tower picked up the phone and dialed.
“What happened on the bridge?” Browning asked.
Gio told him.
“Goddamn,” Browning muttered.
Tower said “thanks” and hung up the telephone.
“Kendra is up at her Grandmother’s house in Deer Park.” He held up a slip of paper. “I’ve got the address right here. But I have no idea how to get there. I guess I’ll call County Dispatch and have a deputy—”
“Ask Kopriva,” Renee said.
“Huh?”
“Stefan Kopriva. He’s from Deer Park.” She looked at Tower. “Isn’t he working light duty in your office right now?”
“Yeah, but how’d you know…?”
Renee patted her computer. “I know everything. It’s my job.”
FOURTEEN
1313 hours
Amy Dugger couldn’t stop crying into the pillow. She buried her face deep into the musty thing, ignoring the poky parts somewhere inside the lumps and just let all her tears tumble out.
Some of the tears were born of the fear that she felt constantly. It was an uncertain fear and one filled with doom.
She cried because she hurt badly and in places she had never hurt before.
But most of all, she cried because she missed her mommy and her daddy. She missed them so badly that she thought her heart might burst with each sob that ripped from her throat and was drowned in the pillow.
After what seemed like the longest time, her tears dried up and her sobs died away. She rolled over and stared up at the rafters of the attic. She saw a spider web in the corner and watched carefully to see if the spider was home.
When the stomping came on the staircase, she wished with all her might that it wasn’t Grandpa Fred. Not again. Not so soon.
When Grammy burst through the door and she saw the wildness in her eyes, she forgot her wish.
Clutched in her fist was a hammer.
“Little harlot!” the troll-ish woman raged at her.
“Wha-what?”
“Don’t play innocent with me,” Grammy screeched, pointing a fat finger at her. “You know what you’re doing!”
Amy didn’t know what to say. She stared dumbly back at the woman, fixing her eyes on the large moles on her cheek, trying not to look at the hammer that twitched and jerked in Grammy’s hand.
“I thought you might be different from your stupid, ungrateful mother,” Grammy said. “I thought that once I brought you here, we could all be happy together.”
“I’m happy,” Amy lied, knowing it was what Grammy wanted to hear.
“I’ll bet you are, you little tramp!” Grammy screamed at her. She swung the hammer, bashing it into an old lamp stacked on top of a cardboard box. The lamp shattered and pieces of glass scattered across the attic floor.
Amy began to cry again.
“Can’t I have anything in this world?” Grammy asked, looking up at the ceiling.
Amy remained still, tears coursing down her small cheeks. She watched as the woman fell to her knees and sobbed. She used the hand with the hammer to steady herself on the floor and the other hand remained behind her back.
“I’m cursed,” she sobbed. “Cursed.”
Amy sniffed and said nothing, but in her head she thought that maybe someone who steals little girls from their mommy and daddy deserved to be cursed. If such a thing existed as curses.
“It’s not fair,” Grammy cried.
A long strand of snot began at her nose and got steadily longer until it had almost reached the floor. Amy watched it, fascinated.
As suddenly as her sobs had begun, they ended. Grammy wiped the snot away and stood awkwardly. She glared at Amy. “It’s your fault. You’re just like your miserable bitch of a mother.”
My mother is not a bad word! Amy cried out in her mind, but then Grammy swung the hammer again, banging it loudly into one of the exposed studs.
“I thought I could rescue you from all that,” Grammy said, waving the hammer in the air to punctuate her words. “I really hoped that things would work out, but obviously they aren’t going to.”
Amy wondered for a moment if she were telling the truth. She wondered if that meant they would take her home now, but the hammer scared her.
“How could you do this to your Grammy?” Grammy asked, taking a step toward her. Her voice was a mixture of hurt and rage.
“W-w-what?” Amy sobbed.
“Oh, don’t play innocent with me!” screeched Nancy. She swung the hammer, blasting it into the face of a china doll perched on top of a bookshelf. The shattered plaster pieces ricocheted off the unfinished walls. “Steal my man! That’s what, you little whore!”
Amy squinted her eyes in confusion. Steal her man? What did that mean?
Grammy’s wild eyes flew open wide. “Oh, you think you can steal my man and then glare at me? Defy me? Well, I will fix that problem right now.”
The large woman rushed toward Amy, raising the hammer in the air.
Amy let out a scream, but it was cut short. Her Grammy swung the hammer downward. Amy felt of momentary slice of pain, then darkness.
FIFTEEN
1408 hours
Kopriva admired Katie’s bravery. She made it from the police station to his truck without crying. Then small, silent sobs began even as he started the engine and drove toward her apartment. Tears coursed down her cheeks, but she made no noise. He reached once across the cab and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Her hand was rigid and her fingers were dug into the seat. He withdrew his hand and concentrated on shifting gears and getting her home as quickly as he could.
At her apartment, he parked in her parking space and looked over at her. She was already getting out of the truck and headed for the door. He jumped out and followed her.
At the front door, she jammed her keys into the l
ock and pushed it open. Kopriva caught the door in his hands as she swung it closed behind her.
“Katie!” he said.
“Leave me alone, Stef,” she said, her voice thick with tears.
Kopriva hesitated in the doorway. He wondered briefly if she needed to be alone. Then he heard an abbreviated moan erupt and he pushed the thought away. Right now, she needed someone.
He found her in the living room, curled into a ball in the center of the room. Her body hitched and jerked with soundless sobs. Slowly, her legs writhed on the carpet. Her mouth opened into a silent scream. She shook her head from side to side.
Kopriva knelt down and then lay beside her. Reaching out, he touched her lightly on the head. At his touch, she rolled over and buried her face into his chest. Her body pressed tightly against him, her elbows tucked into her sides. Kopriva wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close
Finally, her sobs found sound and she wept loudly into his chest. He held her tighter and tighter with one arm, stroking her hair with the other. He tried to whisper comforting things to her and when no words would work, he kissed her lightly on the top of her head.
They lay together on the living room floor for what seemed like hours. Slowly, her sobs came further and further apart, until she was reduced to the occasional start in her chest. She turned her head to the side and looked up at Kopriva.
“I couldn’t save him, Stef,” she whispered, her voice raw.
Kopriva nodded and kissed her forehead.
“I…just…couldn’t,” she whispered.
A lump rose in Kopriva’s throat and he struggled to swallow over it. Katie closed her eyes and he tried to think of something profound to say to her. Something that would ease her pain and make her realize that she wasn’t responsible for what happened, no matter how terrible the result had been.
The clock on her wall seemed to tick and tick and he couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally, he opened his mouth to say something, anything, unsure of the words until they tumbled from his lips.
“I love you, Katie,” he said.
But his only answer was the even pattern of her breath as she lay against his chest.
