Bo’s heart sank. His forehead rested against his free hand. “St. Mark’s green t-shirt and gym shorts?”
“What are you talking about? He's naked and burned with acid like the Haverly kid.”
“Do you have an ID yet?”
“No. I don’t have any info beyond a body, another boy maybe sixteen found near the location of the last one.”
“John Henry Kane. I suspect he’s the victim.”
“How would you possibly know that Bo?”
“I was calling hospitals trying to help his parents locate him. He went missing somewhere between three-thirty and five.”
“Do you know the parents?”
“No.”
“Why did he call you and not the police?”
“He called and got the standard twenty-four hour response.”
“Aw damn. How did he get your number?”
“Haverly.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Right.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and it not be him.”
“A missing rich kid from Chicago and another Leopold and Loeb style victim. Not the odds I prefer.”
“I agree my friend. I agree.”
“Guess this clears our suspects.”
“I’d say it does. What, six or seven states away? And with FBI agents for alibis no less.”
“Any other bad news you want to heap on the pile tonight?”
“Nope.I’ll call Maine.”
“I’ll see you at the lake.”
The reflection of a man mirrors his mood and it is in the negative where he sees most.
Bo viewed himself the answer to difficult questions. A few minutes after midnight, he headed east to seek an answer to Rupert Kane's fearful question.
The temperature had dipped below fifty and fog clogged portions of the trip. He arrived a little after one. It was the second time he parked the Camaro at the lake and still without a voluptuous beauty at his side. Eight portable floodlights flanked the crime scene making the area look of a night game. A white sheet lumped over the dead body lying midfield.
Men in white lab coats worked the area, their efforts methodical and measured. Clear plastic bags, tweezers and permanent markers for tools, they first worked their way through the grids providing the quickest access to the body. There had been no rain in a week so the ground was dusty dry. Bo expected there would be no footprints.
"I can't believe we have another one," Detective Dave Lowman said walking over to stand beside Bo.
Bo reached and shook his hand. "I hoped to never have to come here again, especially for this."
"I'll never understand how someone can kill another person." Dave stood beside Bo.
"Mm-hmm," Bo said, his head bobbing up and down. The gear came from his pocket as he surveyed the expanse of the scene. He focused on the spot where he first met Harold and figured it thirty-five to forty feet north of the new position. "Have you seen the body?"
"No I haven't. The Captain gave the lab crew priority. The FBI has them using this new grid system."
"I see. It's similar to what they do on archaeological excavations."
"Right. That's where it comes from. They can take measurements to reconstruct an exact replica of the crime scene somewhere else if they want."
"I read an article a couple of weeks back where the NTSB is using the system as well in crash investigations."
"Oh wow."
"It's a slow process." Bo's free hand rubbed at his forehead. "No witnesses I take it?"
"None that I've heard of. It's like these boys magically appear here."
"Maybe they fall from the sky."
Dave gazed at the night sky then turned his eyes to Bo.
"I take it the froggers found him."
"Yes. How did you?"
"I imagine the older gentleman stayed while the younger one ran home to call."
"That'd make sense."
"What was the time on the call?"
"10:18," Dave read from his small spiral notebook.
"How long of a run for the boy?"
"Not sure."
"Know what time they arrived tonight?"
"No don't know that either."
"Seen Gunner lately?"
"Gunner?" Dave questioned. "Gunner - Gunner Gibson?"
"Bo," Patty said walking up.
"Do you know how long it took the younger man to get home and - what was the other thing? Oh right, what time they arrived tonight?" Dave asked Patty.
"They, father and son, arrived a few minutes before ten and parked on the far side of this junk," Patty said pointing to some machinery. "They gathered their stuff and walked south - something to do with the wind and not wanting to walk back with a full bucket."
Bo smiled thinly with understanding.
"They found the boy at 10:07 - according to the old man's watch. I called Time & Temperature - his watch is three minutes fast. The younger guy is actually a dentist - yeah I know doesn't look the part in that outfit - and an Army field medic earlier in life. He was pretty certain the boy was dead but checked for a breath and pulse. He didn't run home, he drove to the father's house ten to fifteen minutes away."
"Good call - calling time."
"I can't seem to stop myself from thinking what would Bo do?"
A full, proud smile exploded into a snort causing Bo's head to rock back.
"It fucking haunts me."
“You know - I see a bit of my younger self in you.”
“How you mean?”
“You’re smart and tenacious.”
Patty turned to Bo. Her head twisted to one side. “Is that a polite way of calling me a smartass?”
Bo laughed. “In a way I guess, but with the emphasis on smart.”
Patty chuckled. “Well, thanks for that.” She kicked at the dirt. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did your buddy Prescott want me off the case – the other day when you two met with the Captain?”
“He wasn’t thinking straight. I convinced him otherwise.”
“Thinking straight? About me?”
“More us than you – Prescott and I have history so protection comes natural. It isn’t anything against you personally. He was worried our conflict could hinder the case.”
“And you think it doesn’t?”
“As I told Prescott, adversary is the most powerful performance enhancer there is. It’s what makes poor people rich, stupid people scholars, and an athlete rise above the competition.”
“So it’s a good thing?”
“If my presence does nothing more than makes you more comprehensive and thorough in your investigation I’ve been beneficial to the case.”
“I see your point.”
“You want nothing more than to show Prescott and the others that you’re as smart – or smarter – than I am and I want to prove you aren't. Together we push one another and no matter who gets there first, these boys win.”
“Speak of the devil,” Patty said then whispered, “I am smarter.”
Prescott walked up and considered the two. Without saying a word, he handed Bo an evidence bag with a broken watch in it.
Bo peeked at the watch and turned the bag over. "Well fuck."
"What?" Patty asked. "What?"
"JHK," Bo said handing the bag back to Prescott. He focused on the white lump at midfield and squeezed a handful of hair on the back of his head.
"What's JHK?"
"The initials of a missing boy," said Prescott.
"What? Who?"
Bo turned and walked away.
He heard Prescott explaining the situation to Patty. "Bo received a call from a man named Rupert Kane wanting help to locate his missing son John Henry."
"John Henry Kane - J - H - K," Patty said.
"Right. I have two agents who will take the watch and a broken pair of glasses for the Kane's to identify."
"Another wealthy family?"
Bo walked to Blue.
The mirror image of a mirrored image reflects true opposition.
The image of Bo reflected his opposition to chasing child killers. The percussive stoning and a storm of rifts from the Van Halen brothers pounded at the Camaro's windows with Bo shielded inside escaping the scene.
Having cleared the grid squares necessary to provide a path, the team could access the body. A rap on the driver window knocked Bo from his thunderous respite. The volume of David Lee screaming into the night fell to a whisper as he lowered the window.
"We're clear to examine the body," Dave said with one hand on the car.
"Thanks."
As Bo climbed from the vehicle, the chill of the night ran up his spine. He shivered, already missing the warmth.
"We have to go in from the left." Dave pointed.
Bo allowed his escort to lead. As they walked, he watched midfield. The sheet removed, Patty stooped examining the corpse. Her head turned toward Bo. She gripped at her mouth. Bo recalled someone mentioning acid.
By the time they reached the first grid area, Patty was stepping out.
"Identification will be difficult," she said.
Bo glanced at her. She was white as the lumpy sheet under the bright lights. "You okay?"
Her hand rubbed at her lips then pointed in the air. She swallowed hard. "Give me a minute."
Bo stopped and turned to Dave. He pulled his car keys from his pants pocket. Taking Dave's hand he placed them in it and said, "In the trunk of my car there's an ice chest. Get her a bottle of water."
Dave turned away.
"And here," he said grabbing at Dave's arm turning him back.
He pulled a small metal tin from his other pocket and handed it to Dave. "Tell her to put a bit of this under her nose - a good bit."
Dave read the tin.
"It'll help."
Dave set off on his task.
Bo eyed the boy. He walked over and stared at him. Examining him with his eyes, he stood at his feet. Patty was right about the identification. Dental records would be required. Considering the overall figure of the young man before him, Bo felt certain he matched Rupert Kane's description.
"Hello John Henry," Bo said to the corpse in a soft voice.
The gear came from his pocket. His fingers started. Lying on his back, the boy did not appear posed. He lay in the opposite direction from Harold. His head turned left almost looking at the spot where Harold died. Bo was uncertain whether it was purposeful or a coincidence.
His arms were loose at his side. The left arm lay straight, his fingers curled under. The right arm cocked out at the elbow, his palm almost pressed against the dirt. His feet rested apart. The left turned out while the right stood straight. Whoever killed this boy also applied the acid post mortem.
Bo widened his interest to the scene around the body. As with where they found Harold, the grass was thin like a balding head. Stamped flat, it showed no signs of a struggle. There were no torn or missing blades. He walked around to the head.
Patty walked up. She handed Bo his keys and tin. With his free hand, he collected them almost without notice. "Thanks," she said. He nodded still concentrating.
"You know one of these days you're going to have to tell me about that gear."
"What do you see?" he asked.
Patty ran through her list of observations including Bo's current interest, the right side of the boy's neck. "Something about it doesn't seem right."
"My guess would be displaced windpipe and maybe some broken bones."
"It's weird looking."
"What do you not see?"
"I don't see a struggle." She looked again. "No restraints like Harold."
"No blood on the ground and only a little on the head wound."
"Oh yeah, I hadn't picked up on that."
"What does it say to you?"
"The killer’s getting better - more efficient."
"Maybe."
“What do you see?” Patty folded her arms.
Bo scanned the scene. “Similar – but not at all the same.”
Her voice rose, “As in a different killer not the same?"
“A copycat of a copycat – now that’d really be something.”
“Yeah we don’t even have one suspect and now you think there could be two different killers. Fuck me.” Patty’s hands rose and fell slapping her sides.
“I don’t feel the two killings were committed by the same person.”
“Feel? You don’t feel? We don’t work in feels. This isn’t the fucking Voodoo Police Department.”
“Then why the differences?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. Maybe they were in a hurry, scared someone was going to catch them this time. Maybe the, the,” she ranted and pointed to the old man and the dentist, “those two scared him off.” Patty walked off mumbling. “Fuuuck!” she screamed at a distance. Her bottle of water bounced hard on the ground.
Bo returned his focus to John Henry. The killing and the recreation of the head wound appeared skilled to Bo's eyes. The acid was sloppy, not careful like Harold. Careful like someone afraid of harming themselves with the liquid. While the two deaths shared many commonalities, the more Bo considered the more different they appeared. In Bo's opinion, John Henry was not the mirror image of Harold.
Before the Coroner took the boy, Prescott received the news over the radio. Rupert Kane identified the glasses and watch as belonging to his youngest son, John Henry. The body had a name for the morgue.
Bo headed west.
After a couple hours of sleep, he prepared an apologetic late breakfast. Raven then showered and left for home. He sat at his desk. There had been no call providing a location on Gunner. He pulled his rolodex to him and spun to the letter "B". He stopped at the card for Jake and Carla Baranski with their address downtown.
He thought of Carla. Short and brassy, she seemed the perfect control valve for Gunner. She had followed him to Chicago then ran away home when she had enough of his lies, deceit, and especially his sideline activities. It had been a little over five years since Bo last saw her. He still got a card every Christmas.
The next card was the one he sought. Sharon, Gunner's Aunt, the earlier black sheep of the Baranski family. She lived there in Chicago. Bo often thought she had something to do with Gunner's move. When all other avenues failed, Sharon had proven herself invaluable in reaching Gunner in the past. Bo dialed her work number.
She was happy to hear from Bo, always providing a caring reference. Without saying she knew where Jake was, she offered to get him a message. Bo did. In return for her service, she required Bo promise to stop by the house one evening for dinner. He said it would be a welcomed payment.
It had been some time since he had seen her. In her younger days she was an exceptional example of womanhood. She lived in a large Victorian that was more like a boarding house than a home. Sharon shared the space with up to ten men much her junior, boys really.
The stories of her and the guys in that house would make a Catholic schoolgirl flush for penance. While never partaking, Bo recognized the appeal. He first visited with Jake, not long after they had become partners. While finding it all strange, the men were content, happy even. With thoughts lingering, he returned to bed.
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, intent lies in the eye of the skilled.
In “Gunner Mode” Jake Baranski excelled at reading people. Between body language and speech patterns, he was a talented lie detector. He credited the skill developing in his days of war, of having to make split-second decision to save or sacrifice someone based solely upon perceived intent.
The human equivalent of Identification, Friend or Foe.
It was a lesson hard learned when he once drew back on a young boy no older than Harold. Three tacks of an AK-47 lanced his right thigh before he brought his own rounds to bear. For his digression, the kid paid in full. It left a resounding suspicion of children in Gunner.
Gunner's call woke Bo from his nap a few minutes after three.
Bo told him of the plane and wanting to meet it when the boys returned from Maine. He also mentioned the concern of them recognizing him from the police questioning. The FBI had dropped their surveillance. Bo wanted them covered a while longer.
"I had plans to go fishing," Gunner said.
"I can pay you. You can go fish - oh I get it, you're still pissed about our last phone call."
"You do know I'm not a Detective anymore?"
Bo sighed hard.
"I'm on it," Gunner said.
"You sure? I'd prefer you but can reach out elsewhere."
"It's fine. I just had to yank your nads some."
"I appreciate it. Meeting them, not the yanking."
Gunner laughed. "I figured."
"Stop by if you need some cash."
"I'm flush. The ladies loved me last night."
"Right," Bo said. He wanted to recommend Gunner use his gambling winnings to pay Giorgio but decided against opening a can of worms.
"I'll call you after."
"Okay but if you go late call in the morning."
"Gotcha."
"This should be the extent of it."
That evening at the Chicago Executive Airport, Gunner parked the Army green Nova next to a hanger that appeared old and seldom used. To a young pair of future plutocrats the car was invisible, outside the scope of their narrow, focused attention. Gunner could have parked at the bottom of the boarding steps and the boys would not have noticed it.
A plane taxied to the hanger provided by Bo. Gunner verified the tail, “N-FWS1” and watched. When the doors opened two young men, boys really, deplaned. A flight crew of two followed. The boys stood as if waiting for red carpet service.
A white van pulled up. It turned toward Gunner and he dove for cover behind the dash. The headlights rested on his car illuminating the interior. Bent in two he rolled onto his back to have some ability to see if someone approached. He wiggled and reached finding a .22 pistol under the driver seat. He made certain it was loaded.
With the lights bearing down on his hood, he was unable to sit up. He was blind to the goings on. The lights remained for ten minutes though lying quiet it seemed an hour. When the light ran across the Nova’s ceiling, Gunner rose with the trailing darkness. The van pulled away.
The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1) Page 11
