The Damage Done

by P J Parrish

  “Then go with your gut. You’re dreaming about someone you haven’t thought about in years. Something triggered that and I suspect you know what that is.”

  “I do.”

  “Then you probably also know what to do next.”

  Louis shook his head. “I’m not sure now is the right time to look him up.”

  “When will the right time be then?” Emily asked.

  Damn her. He never should’ve brought this up.

  “Thanks,” he said, standing.

  “Anytime.”

  He started back to his own desk then paused halfway across the nave. He glanced up at the loft then headed over to Tooki. When Louis pulled up a chair, Tooki looked up from his computer.

  “You need something, Louis?” he asked.

  “Yeah, maybe. Can you access state files on that thing?” Louis asked and nodded at the computer.

  “Criminal records? Sure.”

  “No, child services.”

  Tooki leaned back in his chair. “What are you looking for?”

  “I need to find a foster child who went through the system in the late sixties.”

  “What does this have to do with Jonas Prince?”

  “Nothing.” It wasn’t fair or even legal to ask Tooki to use the state computer for a personal objective so he lied. “It has to do with my boys in the box case.”

  Tooki leaned into his computer and started typing. Louis watched as he filled the screen with search terms. A generic-looking form appeared with the words Michigan DHS at the top. Tooki tabbed down and looked back at Louis.

  “Name?”

  “Sammy.”

  “Last name.”

  “I don’t know. Can you add race and age and get anything?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Race black, age . . . try 1957 for the year of birth.”

  The screen went blank for a second then popped back up with a long list of names, dates, and cities in Michigan. Louis started to scan the names to see if anything clicked.

  “What if we add the city as Detroit?” Louis asked.

  “Won’t do any good, Louis,” Tooki said. “Look at the dates here. The oldest one on this list is 1988. That’s as far back as these records go. They aren’t even close to being fully computerized yet.”

  “Dammit.”

  “It looks like you’ll have to do a manual search,” Tooki said. “The files are probably in some warehouse in Detroit but you’ll be in there for months if all you have is a first name.”

  “I get it,” Louis said.

  Tooki tapped a few buttons and the screen changed. “Here’s their fax number for records requests. Do you want me to print it out?”

  Louis’s first thought was that even an official request on state police letterhead wouldn’t do any good without Sammy’s last name, but then he realized he had all the information he needed on another boy inside that house—himself. If he could get his own file, maybe Sammy’s name would be in there.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Louis said.

  The printer next to Tooki’s desk kicked out a piece of paper. Louis grabbed it and stood up.

  Tookie touched his arm. “Hey, you said at the table that Anthony Prince tried to blackmail that radio jock. Over what?”

  “Bushman’s daughter is a lesbian,” Louis said. “Apparently Anthony Prince thought that Bushman’s listeners would care about that. They didn’t.”

  Tooki nodded slowly, then turned back to his computer. “Lots of people do, though,” he said softly.

  There was a resignation in Tooki’s voice, and Louis couldn’t help but wonder if Tooki was gay, then he noticed the accordion file on the edge of Tooki’s desk. He had selected the Palmer Park wolf pack murders as his test case. If Louis remembered right, Palmer Park was once a gay haven in Detroit. He knew that rising crime in the 1980s had forced the gay community to relocate but he didn’t know where.

  “The wolf pack murders,” Louis said. “Those involve gay guys?”

  Tooki hesitated then nodded. “Four of them.”

  “You have any leads?”

  “The Detroit police department let me look at the file but they refused our help. One detective told me they know who did it but they don’t have enough evidence to make an arrest.”

  A man came to Louis’s mind—pink-faced, pampered, and genteel—a gay man who worked as a “walker” in Palm Beach, serving as a sexually-safe escort for the dowagers on the charity circuit. Bullied and abused more times than he would ever admit, he was one of the most interesting and bravest men Louis had ever met. He had given Louis the silk Brioni bow tie that was now resting with the other mementoes on Louis’s book shelf.

  “If you need any help, let me know,” Louis said.

  “It’s a dead case.”

  “It’s never dead, Tooki. Not as long as you keep it there on your desk.”

  Louis went back to his desk, his mind turning back to the boys in the box. He knew it had to wait. Jonas Prince was now their top priority, but as he typed up his foster file request to child services, the idea that the boys would remain lost started to gnaw at him.

  A few minutes later, he sent off the request for his child services file. As he stood at the fax machine, his gaze drifted to the loft. Crime techs would be scouring the church and Jonas Prince’s house for days. And it would take weeks for the forensics to come back. Maybe Steele would let him return to Keweenaw for a few days.

  He headed up the stairs, stopping at the top to knock softly on the wall so he didn’t intrude.

  “Come in, Louis.”

  Steele’s nook had changed a little. The once-bare bookshelves were now filled with what looked like law enforcement textbooks and a few legal journals. A rug lay in front of his desk, a gold and blue plush pile customized with the Michigan State Police emblem. A small sofa and file cabinet had been added in the corner. Louis could just make out the label on the top file drawer—PERSONNEL. Steele was standing in front of the leaded glass window, holding an open folder. “Yes?”

  “I’d like to return to Eagle River,” Louis said. “I have a suspect on my boys in the box case.”

  Steele set the folder down on the desk. The back lighting from the window was so murky that Louis couldn’t clearly see his face.

  “Why were you in Saginaw last night?” Steele asked.

  Louis was surprised by the question. First because he wondered how Steele knew, and second, why did it matter?

  “I was playing a hunch,” Louis said. “I met with a witness from Keweenaw,” Louis said. “He’s a priest—or was a priest and he—”

  “When you veer off course, I need to know,” Steele said. “When you’re traveling and I tell you to grab a room in Detroit, I expect you to do it. And we don’t play hunches here. We follow the evidence and stay focused.”

  Louis was pissed, feeling if he were being treated like a patrolman. But he hid it. Or hoped he did.

  “So, tell me about this priest.”

  Louis let out a breath. “Four months after the bones were found, a man came to his church in the middle of a snowstorm and confessed to killing the boys. The suspect left before the priest could convince him to turn himself in.”

  “Who is this suspect?”

  “I don’t have a name yet. Just a description.”

  “Good enough for a sketch?”

  “No, but you know what it’s like up there. Lots of people have lived there all their lives. They’re isolated and insular. Someone knows something, even if they don’t know they know it.”

  “You’re not going back to Keweenaw right now.”

  “But it will be weeks before forensics comes back. I only need a few days up north.”

  “I said no. This case is more important.”

  “More important to who?”

  “To the team,” Steele said sharply. “I shouldn’t have to tell you how hot the spotlight is on us. We’re expected to perform and to perform quickly and well. I know you understand that.”

&n
bsp; Louis looked down, to the bold, gold-and-blue shield under his feet. Keep your mouth shut, Kincaid. You need this job.

  “This is what I understand,” Louis said, looking up. “You’re under intense pressure and you’ve put a lot on the line forming this team. But we both know a detective can’t prioritize victims based on who they were. When that starts happening, it cheapens what we do.”

  Steele came out from behind his desk and stopped two feet from Louis, so close Louis could see a shaving nick on his chin. Louis flashed back to the last time Steele had gotten in his face, six years ago back in Loon Lake. Steele had shouted at him, calling him incompetent, in front of the whole police force.

  Louis didn’t move, silent.

  Then, to Louis’s surprise, Steele suddenly softened and, as quick as it came, the anger was gone.

  “I know what you are saying,” Steele said. He paused, and for a moment Louis thought he was about to be dismissed, but then Steele let out a breath.

  “The nameless, the faceless—they pull at us, I know that,” Steele said. “But we have to answer to the living, not the dead.”

  The phone rang, its trill echoing in the loft. After four rings, Steele picked up the receiver.

  “Yes,” Steele said. “Give me the name and address again.”

  Steele grabbed a pen and scribbled something on his notepad. When he hung up, he held the page out to Louis.

  “We have a witness who says he saw someone lurking around Jonas Prince’s house the same day he was killed,” Steele said. “When he read about Prince in the newspaper this morning, he called the police. I want you and Cam to head back to Grand Rapids, talk to the man, and get him with a sketch artist.”

  Steele sat down at his desk and opened a folder. Louis waited, hoping Steele would reconsider his request to head back to Keweenaw but his boss was just sitting there, reading.

  “Sir, you know they still haven’t found them,” Louis said.

  Steele looked up. “I’m sorry?”

  “The boys,” Louis said. “They still haven’t found my boys.”

  Steele stared at him, not with anger or even impatience. It was a different look, something almost paternal. And when Steele spoke, his voice was so soft Louis almost didn’t hear him.

  “They’re not your boys, Louis. Remember that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The traffic heading west to Grand Rapids was heavy, but Cam drove with impatience and a lead foot that had his Explorer weaving through the semis and Louis grabbing for the armrest.

  “Damn it, Cam, slow down.”

  Cam didn’t look at him but he did ease the SUV back under eighty. Louis let go of the armrest and watched the farmlands rush by. During the meeting back at the church, Cam had suddenly fallen silent and the easy-going jokester who Louis had come to know in their short time working together had been replaced by a sullen zombie who looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

  “You okay?” Louis asked. “You seem tense.”

  Cam threw him a none-of-your-business glance. “In-tense,” he said softly. “I’m intense, that’s all.”

  Louis didn’t press it. He figured he didn’t look much better himself. Three days with little sleep, no decent food, and memories floating up he didn’t want to deal with.

  And Emily wasn’t much better. She had been oddly cool when he had sought her out about Sammy. Something was bothering her.

  The Explorer made a sudden swerve. Louis looked over to see Cam flip down the visor to snatch a pack of Kools. He used his knees to steer as he lit up. Louis tensed, ready to grab the wheel, but Cam managed to keep it steady until he had a hand back on the wheel. They drove on for a couple more miles, acrid smoke and a hard silence filling the Explorer.

  “Fresh air, please,” Louis said.

  “Oh, sorry,” Cam said, rolling down the window. “Been a while since I had a passenger.”

  Louis knew a little about Cam from Emily’s research—service in the Marines, five years Chicago PD, and a one-time stunt man—but there was one important thing he didn’t know.

  “How’d Steele find you?” Louis asked.

  “We met working a kidnapping about six years ago,” Cam said. “Michigan victim, Chicago drop site. I was the money man.”

  “You must’ve made an impression on Steele,” Louis said.

  Cam shrugged. “I was only picked because I spoke Russian and the kidnappers were right off the boat from Moscow. We arranged the payoff to take place in Jackson Park. Know where that is?”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s a park full of lagoons,” Cam said. “Anyway, right in the middle of the exchange, the victim manages to escape from the trunk of the car and takes off running. One bad guy starts shooting at me, the other runs after the vic. My backup was five minutes out.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I shot the guy shooting at me and took off after the other shooter. I caught him about a half-mile away and took him down. Then I realized the victim was in the lagoon, flailing around, in some kind of panic attack. It’s fucking December but I jumped in after her.”

  Louis was quiet. He would have done the same.

  “It was only afterwards,” Cam said, “that I realized I had done all of that with one bullet in my vest and three more in my body.”

  Suddenly the idea of Cam being Stallone’s stunt man didn’t seem so far-fetched. “Impressive,” Louis said.

  “Yeah, I guess Steele thought the same thing. What about you? How’d you grab the captain’s attention?”

  Louis looked away, at the cornfields. I killed a fellow cop to save a juvenile delinquent.

  Cam waited a few moments. “Okay, some other time then. This is our exit anyway.”

  Louis looked at the sign as they curled around an exit ramp. IONIA STATE REC AREA.

  “Why are we stopping here?” Louis asked.

  “A quick detour,” Cam said.

  They passed empty fairgrounds and turned onto Main Street. The downtown was a neat mix of restored Victorian storefronts, and Louis counted four churches before Cam turned again, this time into a complex of red brick buildings. Cam parked the Explorer and turned off the engine.

  “You going to tell me what’s going on?” Louis asked.

  “The body’s still here,” Cam said, nodding toward one of the buildings.

  Louis looked at the sign on the building—IONIA COUNTY HEALTH DEPARTMENT.

  Ionia? Why did that ring a bell? Then he remembered—on the news last night, a story about a prostitute found in Ionia. All he could remember was something about a suitcase in a cornfield. But then he understood. Cam had picked the case of the dead hookers that first day they met.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Cam said, reaching for his door.

  Louis grabbed his sleeve. “Cam, wait. Does Steele know we’re stopping here?”

  “No.”

  “He just backed me off my cold case,” Louis said. “He made it clear Jonas Prince is our top priority. I don’t—”

  “The only person who’s going to tell Steele about this detour is you, partner,” Cam said. “You in or out?”

  Louis pushed open his door and followed Cam into the complex’s lobby, holding back as Cam showed his ID to the receptionist. She made a call, then gave them directions to head down a hall to the “medical annex.” Inside the yellow-tile room, a small, dark man in green scrubs with a nametag that read ACERO met them. He took one look at Cam’s badge and frowned.

  “State police?” he asked. “Why are you guys here? This is an Ionia County case.”

  “Let’s just say we’re following up a lead,” Cam said.

  Acero hesitated. “I’m not supposed to let just anyone view the body.”

  Cam gestured toward Louis. “He’s family.”

  Acero’s eyes moved over Louis. “Doesn’t look like family.”

  “Second cousin,” Louis said.

  “Uh-huh,” Acero said. “Well, you guys got the gold badges, so I guess that’s what I�
�ll put in the log. Follow me.”

  Acero led them down a hall. “You’re lucky she’s still here,” he said. “Tomorrow they’ll be taking her to Lansing.”

  “Why Lansing?” Louis asked.

  “That’s where our medical examiner is,” Acero said. “Sometimes he comes here, but sometimes we ship the body to him.”

  “So she hasn’t been autopsied yet?” Cam asked.

  “No, so don’t mess around with the body,” Acero said.

  Aero led them into the storage room and opened one of two metal body drawers. When he pulled out the body, they both moved closer. Louis first thought was that Acero had pulled out the wrong corpse. This was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen—maybe five-foot-two, narrow-hipped, flat chested, and delicately muscled. His hair was close-cropped and black.

  Louis looked up at Cam and it was clear he was thinking the same thing. Cam gently pulled down the drape, revealing the genitals.

  Female.

  Louis focused again on the chest and now he could see the soft shape of very small breasts. And the face—round with eyes closed. Maybe she was Asian, but it was hard to tell because her face was bruised and puffy.

  Acero left, the door echoing in the room. It was so quiet Louis could hear the soft wheeze of Cam’s breathing, and then the crackle of his leather jacket as he pulled the drape back up to the girl’s waist.

  Louis glanced down at the hands. One was still bagged, but the other was exposed, revealing black fingerprint ink on the fingers. The fact that the TV report last night had identified her meant that she probably had a record somewhere.

  “She was strangled,” Cam said.

  Louis looked at the woman’s throat. There was a reddish-purple ligature mark, like a grisly necklace, that suggested she had been strangled by some kind of clothing, maybe a scarf, tie, or soft belt. Also, along her neck, he could see fingernail scratches, probably left as she clawed to free herself.

  Cam carefully pulled back one of her eyelids, revealing the petechial hemorrhages, the telltale tiny blood clots that formed in the eyes during asphyxiation.

  “Look at this,” Cam said, prodding open the victim’s bloody lips. “She almost bit her tongue clean through.”