by Frank Zafiro
“Whatever you need,” Kopriva said. “Take as much time as you want.”
“I don’t have to go back to work until tomorrow night.”
“If you’re ready.”
Katie shrugged against his shoulder. “I’ll be ready. I just need some time alone.”
0541 hours
Neal Grady had been taking his walks along Ohio Avenue for at least fifteen years. He lived in West Central and the way the dirt road looped in a giant half-circle made it the perfect route for a walk. His wife, Betty, used to walk it with him every morning until she passed on three years ago. Now it was just he and his Labrador Buck that made the trek every morning.
When he started his walk this morning, he was in a nostalgic mood. For him, being nostalgic wasn’t a good thing. He didn’t tend to remember happy things. Or rather, when he did remember them, what usually came to mind next was how much better those times were than now. And that was depressing.
His sister, Ellen, was a diagnosed manic-depressive and sometimes he wondered if it ran in the family.
This morning he took little joy in the view of the valley below or the Looking Glass River that flowed there. Instead, he focused on how there were two new houses going up along the dirt road at about the center of his walk. There’d been at least five houses that went in the year before. Before long, Neal Grady feared, his entire route would be lined with houses.
At least the houses were clumped together, he thought to himself as he strode sullenly past.
“Buck!” he called the Labrador away from the front yard of the newest house that was being lived in. He wondered how they felt about having more neighbors.
Things were better in the old days, he thought. When the only house on Ohio was the one that the city provided for the dam worker. It was quieter then.
Buck barked and bounded ahead of him and past the final house. Neal Grady increased his pace temporarily to get past the goddamn metropolis that was springing up along his walk route. He banged his walking stick on the dusty road as he tramped past.
That’s what was next, he figured. They’d pave the road. Or worse yet, tar and oil it. Forget the fact that ninety percent of the road still ran along empty fields and was just fine as a dirt road. Those new people were bound to complain to the city and those pansies down at City Hall would give in and oil the road.
He continued around a bend, then slowed his pace. This was more like it. No houses for another mile and then the road would curve again and back into the populated area of West Central.
The dark nostalgia stuck with him even after he passed the houses on his route. He remembered Betty and how she’d always called him an old curmudgeon when he’d complained to her about the first houses that had gone in along Ohio. He’d growled at her about having to find something sunny about everything. Now when he thought of that, he felt a stab of loneliness, and a little guilt, too. He wished he had treated her better when she was still with him.
He walked along, thumping his walking stick on the dirt road, rolling in his dark thoughts, when he realized Buck was nowhere to be seen.
“Damn dog,” he muttered and called out for him. “Buck! C’mere!”
The dog answered him almost immediately with a bark. Neal spotted his head and tail about twenty yards ahead and in the field to his left.
“Git over here!” he shouted.
The dog barked back and started toward him. Then he turned around and trotted back to where he started.
“Buck! C’mere, goddamnit!”
The dog whined and barked at him, but reluctantly loped toward him. Neal kept walking onward.
When the dog reached his side, he gave him a pat and a hard rub behind the ears. Despite his gruffness, he wasn’t angry. He knew the dog couldn’t help being a dog. There was probably a dead animal out in the field or something.
Then he saw the tire tracks that left the dirt road and marked the soft earth next to the roadway. The tracks headed out into the field.
Neal paused in his stride. Buck yelped happily and bounded back out into the field, heading for the same location he’d reluctantly left only moments before.
“Probably someone dumped their garbage,” he muttered. “Damn dog is going blitz-o over old pizza boxes.”
He left the roadway and walked along the tire tracks. The further he got from the road, the thicker the weeds were. The tire tracks faded as he moved into the field, the weeds having sprung back up after being forced down by car wheels.
More likely a truck, Neal thought.
Buck barked excitedly as he drew closer. He expected to find trash bags and garbage strewn everywhere, but as he approached the barking Labrador, he could see there weren’t any large piles. He thought he could see the black plastic of a garbage bag, though.
“Buck! Shut it!” he hollered at the dog.
The Lab stopped barking, but continued to whine.
It was definitely a trash bag, Neal saw. Some jerks dumping their garbage in the middle of what little nature was left inside the city limits and—
He stopped walking and stared at the black plastic bag. A pair of feet protruded from the end of the bag, shod with a child’s dirty white tennis shoes trimmed with pink shoelaces.
“Oh, Jesus,” Neal Grady said. His stomach lurched and he leaned heavily on his walking stick.
Buck barked at him.
“Oh, Christ,” he said, running his hand through his hair. A photo from the television newscast flashed in his mind’s eye.
“Oh, Christ,” he repeated.
Buck barked again.
0603 hours
Browning rubbed the sleep from his eyes and wished he had taken up Tower’s offer to go get coffee when they first arrived on scene. The hulk of the burned out van reeked of gasoline, water and burnt plastic and some coffee would have at least helped to deaden that smell. Not to mention wake him up a bit.
“Any luck?” he asked Tower as the detective returned from his car.
“Call it what you will,” Tower said. “It ain’t great.”
“Run it for me.”
Tower looked down at his notebook. “The registered owner is a guy named Brad Dexter. Lives up in Hillyard. No telephone listing for him, but hopefully the address is current. But get this—he put in a report of sale two months ago.”
Browning frowned. That meant he’d sold the van and notified the Department of Licensing that he was no longer the owner. But the new owner hadn’t registered the van yet.
“Could be something.”
“Could be nothing,” Tower said. “But we better check it out.”
Browning nodded and waved Corporal McGee over. “Get good photos of the whole scene and then have it towed as evidence to Impound,” he told him.
McGee nodded and went to his car to get his camera.
“Could just be a coincidence,” Tower said.
“Coincidences are for the G.D., John,” Browning said, referring to the General Detective’s Division. “I don’t come across many in Major Crimes.”
“Now you sound like Crawford,” Tower told him.
Browning grunted and mimed a cigar in his hand.
“Ida-437," squawked Browning’s portable radio.
“Go ahead,” he said into it.
“Contact L-143 at 2100 West Ohio reference a crime scene. CSFU is already en route.”
Browning and Tower looked at each other. If the Crime Scene Forensics Unit was in route, that meant a body had been found.
“Copy,” Browning said.
“You think they found her?” Tower asked.
“We’ll know shortly.”
“What about this guy who used to own the van?”
“We’ll send Patrol to check it out,” Browning said. “Come on, let’s not keep Crawford waiting.”
0643 hours
Kopriva limped slowly toward the employee entrance to the police station. The glass double doors entered into a small lobby. From there, a person could go upstairs to the locker
room and the patrol division briefing room. Going straight ahead led to the records division and a left-hand turn led to the investigative division.
As Kopriva opened the doors and started through, Officer Jack Stone came in the other direction. The surly veteran was in uniform and carried his patrol duty bag over his right shoulder.
Kopriva moved to his right to give Stone a little extra room to pass.
“Morning, Ja—” he started to say.
Stone stepped to the side and drove his shoulder into Kopriva’s left shoulder. The smaller officer staggered back a step. Pain blasted through his shoulder and arm, memories of the bullet wounds from the previous summer taking no time at all to spring up.
“What the hell is your problem?” Kopriva managed through gritted teeth.
“Worthless fuck-up,” Stone growled at him, not breaking stride and continuing out the door.
Kopriva watched him go, struggling to figure out what had just happened. He figured it had to do with Karl Winter’s death. Stone was still sore about that. But all he’d ever done was show his displeasure with attitude.
He knew he should be angry. He knew his gut shouldn’t burn when people cast disgusted looks his way. But whenever Kopriva thought of Karl Winter dying on the asphalt in front of him, the only emotion that he could dredge up was guilt.
The pain in his shoulder throbbed, but was already fading. He rubbed it, shaking his head. Everyone knew Stone was a jerk. Maybe he’d just been biding his time for the right opportunity to get his digs in.
Kopriva continued to rub his shoulder as he walked into the station. Some people were just impossible to figure out.
0644 hours
Browning stared at the two dirty tennis shoes with pink laces. He hated being right.
“You want to remove the bag here or back at the lab?” Diane from the Crime Scene Forensics Unit asked him.
“Your call.”
“The lab is better,” she said. “But I can cut the bag open if you want to get a look at her now.”
Browning looked over at Tower, whose face was pale. He took a drink of coffee from a Styrofoam cup and grimaced, avoiding Browning’s eyes.
Browning could hear Lieutenant Crawford barking at one of the patrol officers about the outer perimeter a short distance away. He knew that they wouldn’t be able to set up an outer perimeter far enough to keep the media vans away. They were probably already shooting footage.
He felt Diane’s eyes on him. He didn’t want her to open the bag. He didn’t want to see what was inside.
“Do it,” Browning said to her.
Next to him, Tower groaned quietly.
“Drink your coffee,” Browning told him.
“It’s going to be her, Ray,” Tower said. “We both know it.”
Browning didn’t answer.
Both men watched as Diane removed something akin to an Exact-O knife from her tool kit. She carefully cut a long slit along the side of the bag. The she replaced the knife in her tool kit and looked up at Browning and Tower.
Neither man moved.
Diane turned back to the still form and carefully lifted the bag, uncovering the small form as if it had been wrapped in a blanket and not a garbage bag. Even bloodied and still, both of them recognized Amy Dugger’s face immediately.
“Son of a bitch,” muttered Tower as he turned and walked away.
Browning said nothing. He only stared down at the little girl’s pummeled head and face. He looked at her this first time not with his investigator’s eyes, but with eyes filled with sympathy and regret.
“I’ll take good care of her,” Diane whispered.
Browning nodded. Then he turned and followed Tower. CSFU technicians would finish with the scene. He had to wait for the results and plan his next move.
“God watch over you,” he heard Diane say to the little body, and he seconded that.
0710 hours
Officer Jack Willow knocked a second time, this time much louder and with his flashlight. He saw that the door already had a number of older divots in it from getting the “graveyard knock.”
“Hold on!” came a voice from inside the small cracker box house. “Jesus! Who the hell is it?”
“River City Police,” Willow answered. “Open the door.”
There was a pause and Willow believed he could sense the homeowner’s regret at having answered up in the first place and then his resignation as he reached for the door.
The knob turned and the door opened inward. A man in his late thirties with a beard and long greasy hair stuck his face in the crack. “What’s going on?”
“I need to talk to you, sir,” Willow said. “Can I come in?”
“Here’s fine,” the man said coyly.
Willow shrugged. It didn’t matter.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“You used to own a blue van, right?” Willow asked.
“Yeah. But I sold it, so whatever the problem is—“
“Who’d you sell it to, Mr. Dexter?”
“Some guy.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t remember. He paid cash.”
“Do you have the paperwork?”
“I sent it to the DMV,” Dexter said. “So it’s all legal.”
“Was his name Fred?” Willow asked.
“I don’t think so. It was Robert, maybe. Like I said, that was a long time ago and he paid cash.”
“I thought it was two months ago.”
Dexter looked at him evenly. “Like I said, a long time ago.”
“Was there a woman with him?”
“Nah, he was alone. What’s this all about? This guy rob a bank or something?”
Willow ignored the question and held up the black and white faxed picture of Fred Henderson. “Could this be him?”
Dexter leaned in and studied the photo. Then his face lit up. “Yeah, that’s the guy. He’s the guy that bought the van.”
0712 hours
“I say we go pick both of them up right now on probable cause,” Tower said. He was sitting in the empty desk next to Browning’s, which had been empty since Billings’ transfer three years ago. “Get that pansy husband out from under the crazy lady and we’ll get a confession in no time.”
Browning considered. “It’s still all circumstantial. We have no physical evidence linking the two of them to Amy.”
“We’ll have all kinds of evidence when he confesses.”
“If he confesses after a bum arrest, some lawyer will get the confession tossed,” Browning said.
“So we Mirandize him first.”
“At which point he clams up.”
Tower sighed. “I don’t think he’ll clam up. I think he’ll sing like a fucking canary.”
Browning didn’t argue. He figured Tower was probably right, but now that Amy was definitely dead, delay was no longer as great a risk for them. He didn’t want to jeopardize the case by moving too swiftly.
“Let Forensics come back. We should get a preliminary report from Diane within an hour. Plus we haven’t heard from Willow yet.”
“I don’t think we should wait, Ray. I think we should—“
Browning’s telephone rang and he answered it.
“Browning.”
“Ray? It’s Carrie Anne from Dispatch.”
“Dispatch,” he mouthed to Tower. “Go ahead,” he said aloud.
“Officer Willow just radioed in an urgent message for you.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t exactly understand it, but he gave it over the air, so I guess he was trying to talk in code or something.”
“What’s the message?”
“He said, ‘the report of sale matches the male from yesterday’s search warrant.’ That was it. He said you’d understand.”
“I do. Thank you.” He hung up the phone and looked at Tower. “Fred Henderson bought the van.”
Tower smiled. “Still want to wait?”
“No. Let’s go get
them both.”
0719 hours
Kathy Dugger collapsed into her husband’s arms, sobbing silently.
“Are you sure?” Peter Dugger asked.
“Not one hundred percent,” said Lieutenant Crawford. “But the detectives are confident that it is Amy and I didn’t want you to get this news from another source.”
Peter Dugger nodded, his jaw set.
“I’ll keep you up to date,” Crawford said.
“I want to see her,” Kathy Dugger said. Her voice, muffled by her husband’s chest, was low and determined. She turned to look up at Crawford. “I want to see her right away!”
Crawford shook his head. “That’s not possible yet. I’ll call you when it is.”
“I want to see her!” she cried out.
Peter Dugger shushed her and nodded to Crawford. His eyes were glistening and rimmed with red and his voice shook. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Call…call as soon as you can.”
Crawford nodded and left.
0724 hours
The Henderson home was quiet when Browning knocked. He feared for a moment that maybe Fred and Nancy had somehow gotten wind that they’d found Amy and lammed it. But after a second knocking, Fred Henderson opened the door.
“Yes, detective?” the gaunt man asked, pushing his stray strand of hair over his balding top.
“Is your wife here, Mr. Henderson?”
Fred blinked and shook his head. “She went grocery shopping.”
Browning looked at his watch. It was barely past eight. “This early?”
“She hates crowds.”
“Where does she shop?”
“Wherever the coupons take her,” Fred said. “Why?”
“When do you expect her back?” Browning asked, ignoring his question.
Fred shrugged. “Could be an hour. Could be all day. She gets that way when she’s shopping.”
Browning nodded that he understood. “That’s fine. Not a big deal. Fred, how would you like to come down to the station to talk with me for a little while?”
