“Back off,” said Mallory. Every pair of eyes was on her as she spoke to the FBI agent. “The trooper stays, and that’s not negotiable. You’re outnumbered here. So play nice.”
“Well, math isn’t my strong point,” said the fed. He turned his smile on the crime-scene technicians. They did not smile back. “I count—”
“They’re civilians—no weapons,” said Mallory. “I misspoke. I should’ve said you were outgunned.” Turning to the technicians, she said to them, ordered them, “Wait by the helicopter.”
The four men turned around and walked toward the far side of the lot until the startled fed found his voice and yelled, “Just stop right there!” He turned to Mallory, his voice strained but calmer when he said, “I need to see your badge. I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
The detective pulled a black wallet from the pocket of her jeans, opened it and held up her gold shield, as if it were a talisman for warding off fools. Cops were dirt to this man, and she knew that, but the fed already had his little smile in place for settling minor turf wars with local cops ranking higher than a trooper. He leaned down for a closer look at her badge and ID card so that he could use her name in a sentence and win her heart—she knew this drill too well.
“A New York detective?” He held up his own badge and the card that identified him as Special Agent Bradley Cadwaller of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “Mine trumps yours, Detective Mallory.”
“Not in the real world,” she said. “You’re from the Freak Squad, right?” This was the only scenario that would resolve the odd problem of a middle-aged FBI agent who made rookie errors. Before he could confirm or deny that he was with the Behavioral Science Unit, she rolled over the first words out of his mouth. “They don’t let you out much, do they? No, your people just want to look at photographs of the crime scene.” She waved one hand at the green Ford. “Nothing like the real thing. Too bad you’ve forgotten every crime-scene protocol. I can’t believe you landed that damn helicopter in the parking lot. And don’t ever forget that Hoffman saved your ass before you could blow the evidence away.”
The crime-scene technicians were smiling again. They were enjoying this—a lot. She wondered how long they had been riding with this man. It took a while to break down the tight chain of FBI command, even among the civilian employees. They must have been traveling with him for longer than the time it took to snatch one body part—maybe months. Kronewald might find that useful.
She turned away from the agent and called out to his technicians, “You can come back now.” One of the techs gave her a mock salute as he stepped forward with the others. The federal agent was speechless for all the passing seconds it took to understand that he was not in charge anymore.
When the senior technician stood beside her, Mallory issued her last orders of the day. “The trooper will observe and take notes. Make sure you give him a complete inventory of everything you take.” With that, she returned to the diner, knowing that the FBI agent would follow her inside.
A folded newspaper hit the gas station’s door with the crack of distant gunfire, and the drive-by artist pedaled away to make deliveries to other doors. The mechanic opened his copy of the Chicago Tribune and shook his head. “Amazing. It never made the papers.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Riker. “Amazing. I need to know how much you figured out.”
“So you’re on damage control, right?”
“That’s my job today.” And that was no lie. “So…baby bones.”
“Yeah, well, the dispatcher says to the rookie, ‘You found a baby, too?’ And the kid tells her no, just some real small bones, a kid’s hand. And that’s when the dispatcher shut him down.” The mechanic grinned. “Don’t take much to make a connection with the federal body snatchers.”
“The feds took everything?”
“You mean last night’s murder? How would I know?”
“You know how this works,” said Riker. “I ask the questions and you talk.”
“Well, I’m talking about the old cases—cold cases—those missing kids. The damn grave-robbing FBI made off with their bones. I know there’s real hard feelings between the cops and the feds around here, and it’s been going on for a longtime.”
Without thanks, the FBI agent accepted coffee from the waitress, then cut short her cheerful speech on how the first cup was always free. He waved Sally off to the other side of the diner, then fiddled with the knot in his tie and turned a smile on Mallory. “Call me Brad.”
She preferred the man’s surname, Cadwaller. It vaguely reminded her of a species of fish.
“I’ll call you Kathy,” he said.
“You’ll call me Mallory,” she said, correcting him, “or Detective.”
“Is this a feminist thing, the use of—”
“It’s a cop thing,” she said. “More like a superstition. If a fed gets close enough to your case to use your first name, it’s considered bad luck.” She did not hate all feds. There were New York agents, a few, who would not be shot on sight if she found them at one of her crime scenes. It was the Freak Squad that offended her most, and this man was certainly a profiler, a witch doctor without the credential of a Ph.D. “Now tell me who’s in charge of your operation.”
“I am.” Agent Cadwaller polished a spoon with his napkin, the better to see his reflection in the stainless steel, and now he smoothed back his hair. “I’m in charge.”
Mallory thought otherwise, and she took him for a poseur. The FBI would never let the Behavioral Science Unit run an investigation. Cadwaller’s people were an embarrassment best kept in the basement. It was surprising that they had allowed this man in the outside world long enough to alienate an entire forensics team. But she had already guessed that the case was large, and field agents would be spread thin.
“And you’re a New York cop,” he said. “So we know this isn’t your case.”
Mallory was annoyed by this statement of the obvious, and he would have to pay for that as well as other sins: his smirk, his arrogance, his lies. “Cadwaller, you know how many bodies we’re talking about?” Detective Kronewald had not mentioned more bodies. Cagey old bastard, he had given her nothing to work with beyond the skeletal hand left in place of the one that was cut away from Linden’s body. But now she could make more sense of a frantic rookie’s ramblings on the police scanner last night—the lines and the circle carved into the dead man’s flesh. “The serial killer who murdered Gerald Linden was a—”
“Hold it,” he said. “No one’s calling the Linden murder as a serial.”
“Really? Well, let me clear that up for you. I know you’ll never be allowed near that body. But maybe you’ll get to look at the photographs.”
His smile was smug, and he took some satisfaction in saying, “I’ve seen the body.”
“Good. Then you saw the number carved into Linden’s face.” She was bluffing with only the description of two lines and a circle on the dead man’s forehead, but now Cadwaller’s eyes were rounding, and she knew he had never seen that corpse.
“It was a large number.” Mallory leaned back and regarded him through half-closed eyes, as if this subject might be boring to her. “The first cop on the scene took one look at that body and figured it for a serial killing,” she lied. “He was fresh out of the academy, and twenty Chicago detectives agreed with him. But you’re not sure yet? And they put you in charge?”
Cadwaller’s professional smile was showing some wear, and it was obvious that he was hearing about the number for the first time. He slugged back his coffee and studied her face for a moment before he spoke. “So New York has an interest in this case?”
“The victims come from everywhere.” This was more guesswork based on Gerald Linden’s Colorado plates, but she was onto something here. The agent’s eyes darted to the menu, as if his next tactic might be posted alongside Sally’s special of the day.
“So, yeah,” she said. “New York has an interest. Now give me the name of the SAC on this ca
se.”
“Mallory, all you need to know is that the FBI has officially taken over.”
“And now I know you don’t get out much. That idea only works on paper.” She planned her next bluff with the link between the caravan parents, the old highway they traveled—and the FBI man’s sunburn. “You’ve been on the road awhile. You’re working Route 66—that’s eight states.” Right again. The proof was in this man’s startled eyes. “Lots of cops to deal with along the way.” She turned to the window on the parking lot, pleased to see the trooper only nodding while the technicians did the talking. All the boy had to do from now on was listen to their gripes and sympathize. Mallory cared nothing about the forensic inventory—only the job complaints, one working stiff to another.
The federal agent was having a quiet time-out, probably regrouping for another round with her and maybe trying to remember some useful line from an old psychology class. But, no—the man was rising from the table, ready to end this now.
Mallory broke the silence only to keep him inside the diner and away from his crew. “Can I assume the FBI will protect the caravan?”
The agent slowly settled back into the booth.
Nodding toward the green Ford beyond the window glass, she said, “Gerald Linden was one of the parents, but you already knew that, right?”
Cadwaller winced. Apparently the caravan was a connection he wished she had not made. He could only stare at her, unwilling to confirm or deny anymore.
“The caravan’s in Missouri by now,” said Mallory. “Since this is your case—” Yeah, right. “I guess you’ll be asking Missouri troopers to guard those people. Before you try that, you might want to clean up the mess you made here in Illinois.” She turned back to the window. “I suggest you suck up to that state cop before you leave.”
Detective Riker held the cell phone to his ear as he walked back to the Mercedes. “Yeah, boss. What’s the word?” He listened for a moment. “Oh, sure. I’ll touch base with Kronewald…. Yeah, as soon I get there.” In fact he had already set up that meeting. “I got Charles Butler? Great…. No, that’s okay. I’ll talk to him…. No problem. He’ll be in Chicago today.”
Riker opened the car door and spoke to his sleepy passenger, a man fifteen years his junior, who stood six-four in stocking feet—when he could stand. The passenger had awakened as they were crossing Indiana, but he was still groggy, and now it was all he could do to push strands of curly brown hair away from his eyes.
“Hey, Charles, you’re gonna get paid for this little vacation.”
“Vacation…. Yes.” Charles Butler nodded, then stared into a bag of cheeseburgers with a look of wonder, as if it might contain moon rocks instead of greasy food. But the man always looked that way; it was his eyes—small blue irises floating in the center of heavy-lidded hen’s eggs. Charles went everywhere with that same look of surprise, the aftermath of a popped balloon. Adding to the comedy that was his face, the hooked nose was of eagle-beak proportions. However, from the neck down, this forty-year-old man might pass for a rumpled model from a magazine ad for Savile Row tweed and Oxford linen.
Riker took the bag of burgers away from his friend. “Never mind that. I’m gonna get you some real food.” He put the car in gear and rolled westward. “You can’t start a road trip like this one without a good meal.”
Charles Butler had been slow to wake, slower to grasp the fact that Riker had taken him eight hundred miles from his home, and now he said, “Another…road trip?”
The state trooper entered the diner and approached the booth that Mallory shared with the FBI agent. Hoffman hesitated, probably sensing that the atmosphere had been poisoned. As he came forward, he looked back over one shoulder to make sure that the waitress was out of earshot.
“What’s up, kid?” asked Agent Cadwaller.
Trooper Hoffman spoke only to Mallory. “I got the inventory. Those guys are ready to leave. They just have to pack up a tire.”
“A tire?” The fed slapped his hand on the table, perhaps with the idea that this would call the younger man’s attention back to himself. It did not.
The trooper was facing Mallory when he said, “It’s the flat tire from the trunk.”
By wince and moan, the fed implied that his own men were idiots. He looked up at the trooper. “I want photographs and evidence bags. That’s it! Go back out there and tell them we’re not taking the damn tire on the helicopter.”
The trooper would not even look at the man. Mallory was his higher power in this room, and her next words to Agent Cadwaller were heavily laced with acid. “Does Hoffman impress you as the handmaid type?”
Eventually, the FBI man realized that he was his own messenger boy today, and he left the diner. The trooper waited until the door had closed on Cadwaller, and then sat down on the other side of the booth. “The techs seem to think that flat tire might be important.”
“And they’re right. Did they open up the cell phone they found in the car?”
“No, ma’am. It didn’t work, and they were in a big hurry. They told me Cadwaller never gives them time to do the job right. So they just bagged the phone.”
“And what does that tell you?”
He did not answer right away, but gave it some thought. Over the course of one morning, she had taught him, by punishing sarcasm, to use his head. He held up both hands to say that he could not come up with any brilliant answer for her. “All I know is this. They’ve been riding with this guy for a long time, and they hate his guts. Oh, and they do all the digging. Agent Cadwaller just stands around and asks if they can’t dig any faster. I don’t know what that was about. I just listened. They’re digging up bodies, aren’t they?”
Mallory nodded. “So they’ve all been on the same case for months.” It would take at least that much wear before the techs would gripe to anyone outside the FBI. “And they do the digging. That means they’re beating local cops to the bodies. Write that down.”
Obligingly enough, now that they had a common enemy, he was quick to do as he was told. He took out a small pad of lined paper and scribbled his notes. Done with this chore, he looked up, his pencil hovering, waiting for her next order. But Mallory was watching the action outside in the parking lot.
Something about Cadwaller bothered her, nagged at her. “You need a background check on that agent.” Before the trooper could ask why, she said, “The FBI never gives a crime-scene unit to the Freak Squad. You might see a profiler along as an observer, but that’s rare. You know why?” She pointed to the redheaded man in the suit. “Not one of those bastards ever solved a case. Field agents do that. The profilers sit in the cellar and look at pictures. Now write this down. And when you turn in your report, remember that this is what you came up with. All the bodies they’re digging up are buried on Route 66.”
He looked up at her. “And how did I figure that out?”
“The caravan parents, the posters of missing kids.” Beside her in the booth was a stack of flyers that she had helped the waitress take down from the windows. She laid them out on the table. “Our victim, Gerald Linden, was supposed to join those people back in Chicago. Detective Kronewald already knows about the caravan connection. I phoned it in. And maybe he’s figured out the rest, but he’ll like your report.” And she would be free to get back on the road.
“Kronewald?” The trooper put down his pencil. “No, you meant my captain.”
Mallory shook her head. “You’ll be filing a written report in Chicago tonight. I’ll clear it with your captain.”
While the trooper worked over his notes with much erasing, Mallory turned back to her view of the parking lot. The fed was reaming out the technicians as he stood over the bag containing the disputed flat tire. The senior forensics man had a defeated body language; he ripped off his latex gloves, tired and angry and beyond caring anymore. This told Mallory that the tire would be left behind, and the victim’s cell phone would not be opened for examination anytime soon. Telephone company records would be the sour
ce for Gerald C. Linden’s last phone call, and she doubted that it would have anything to do with the case.
Agent Cadwaller’s arms were in motion, and she could hear him hollering words guaranteed to drive the techs crazy. “Hurry up! Get a move on, people! Lift those feet!” One by one, the remaining bags were hauled across the parking lot and loaded onboard the chopper, all but the bag containing the tire.
Mallory wrote a telephone number on one of the posters of missing children, then passed the whole stack of them across the table. “That number is Kronewald’s direct line. Tell him the feds didn’t know about the victim’s missing cell-phone battery. So he’s got a sporting chance to find it first.” In answer to the trooper’s unspoken question, she said, “The man was trying to charge his cell-phone battery before he died. That’s why he didn’t call for help when the tire went flat. After I popped the trunk, I opened up his phone—no battery. Tell Kronewald the tire was sabotaged at the last place Linden stopped to eat.”
“Or get gas?”
“No, too open,” she said. “A restaurant parking lot full of cars would leave the killer less exposed. When you talk to Detective Kronewald, you’re going to suggest—” She held up one finger in the air to stress this word. “Suggest that Kronewald does a credit-card trace to find that restaurant. He’ll want to get somebody out there to search the parking lot for the discarded battery. It might have fingerprints. He would’ve done that anyway, but he’ll like that touch. I know this man. And he’ll like you, too. Tell him you’re driving all the way to Chicago to bring him a flat tire. The crime lab should find a tool mark on the air valve.”
He just stared at her in lieu of asking any more questions.
“The killer loosened the tire’s air valve,” she said. “Then he replaced the cap. He needed to disable the car, but he wanted it to stop down the road and away from witnesses. So the victim pulls over with a flat tire and checks it out with that little flashlight. He’s on a dark road, no lampposts. He can’t find any holes in his tire. Probably figures the problem is wear. The other three tires looked due for a change. And he couldn’t see much with that little flashlight of his. You’ve got the size of the broken bulb on your inventory?”
Find Me Page 8
