There was a fair chance this guy had something and possibly something that would tie him to the murder. There were also the stakes and the girl's panties, if she had been wearing any, were missing.
As he returned to bed the detective thought about it. The odds were enough to justify it, he decided. I need to know beyond any doubt and then, then I'll get that son of a bitch.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Killian checked back into his office at three-thirty four that afternoon. It was Monday and he had been unable to sleep restfully since the previous Friday when he had first decided that Bud's missing girl was the body found in the desert. His decision to take no action towards Pratt until he knew for certain the missing flower girl and the body were the same had been necessary, but extremely hard on him. His usual patience had fled. Careful boy, stay detached or you're going to trip yourself up badly, he cautioned himself.
Killian examined the missing girl's flyer he discovered on his desk. The flyer contained specific descriptive information matching the autopsy report. The body weight had been down five pounds, the height was off a quarter inch but a knee scar matched perfectly as did a birthmark on the dead girl's lower back.
The two girls were one and the same.
Killian decided to await the arrival of the dental charts before turning what he had over to the Medical Examiner for positive identification. The girl had been dead three weeks. A few days waiting for official identification would not matter.
At this point if he took what he had to Sergeant Bustamante he would receive nothing but praise for his resourcefulness. He would make Graff look bad but then that was no loss and not very difficult. Killian would probably have to turn down another urging that he transfer to Homicide but he was prepared to deal with that.
All in all he had conducted himself in a splendid and professional manner. He had been a bit of a maverick but had done nothing to extreme and his excesses would be overlooked in the light of his success.
But for anyone of several reasons Killian considered valid, he did not intend to come forward, yet, with what he had. He was convinced that except for blind luck the department would never get Pratt for the girl's death. The man would not confess as his previous contact with the police demonstrated and his parents would once again retain an excellent attorney who might well get the asshole off. This was too serious a matter for such a risk, in Killian's opinion.
Pratt would not stop. There would be more dead bodies until a massive police operation finally produced the guilty party when the animal at last tripped himself up. Killian was simply unwilling to wait for more dead bodies and accept such an injustice.
Should Killian come forward with what he knew Bustamante would remove him from the case and Killian had no intention of relinquishing the case to anyone. It was his. Killian also had a plan. If he came forward and suggested it in order to stop the killer at once, the department would veto the idea. No, all things considered, the detective had no intention of giving this case up. Not yet.
He would need help for the next stage. Until now he had managed to work pretty much in a cocoon. Those few who were involved did not know enough about what he was doing to see the whole picture
Killian gave the matter considerable thought the rest of that day and by evening had come up with two people he believed were trustworthy. One he would need immediately; the other very soon.
~
Clinton Ross had been one of Killian's earliest friends within the department back when Killian had been new and had not yet decided against socializing with other cops. The two of them spent much of
their off duty time together, playing cop twenty-four hours a day.
A reserved, quiet, lean man, Ross had balanced Killian's extroverted manner perfectly. They had been a model team. One night the pair had gone to county hospital and desperately tried to obtain a statement from a knife victim. The competent Emergency nurse had booted them out and the illegal died without uttering a word. Ross had called on the nurse the next week to explain why they had barged in as they had and ended up taking her to dinner.
During the next two years he had seen less and less of Killian until finally he had asked that his friend stand for him at his wedding. The detective was now delightfully and happily married to the full bodied nurse with brunet hair. Her cheery disposition spread like a balm over the life of what had once been a very intense policeman.
Killian saw little of Ross since his marriage five years before but they were still friends, perhaps even good ones. That evening, calling first, Killian went over to the Ross' pleasant home located in far northwest Phoenix where spacious houses were still relatively cheap.
Diana greeted him with a bear hug and wet kiss and then taken her husband and his friends out onto the atrium, a converted patio. Amid a jungle of plants seated on wicker furniture the old friends reminisced about the old days, drinking the Heineken Killian brought, quick chilled so cold they could hardly taste it.
After several hostess calls the pair were left to themselves while the lady of the house, for such she truly was, went off to bed their two children. At seven-thirty, Jaimie, age three, and Curtis, age four, tottered in for hugs all around and compliments before going to sleep. The detectives sat back and started on the second six pack of Dutch brew.
"So why don't we see much of you anymore?" Ross asked. He had hardy outdoor looks and could have easily passed for a construction worker.
"I don't know. It just seems to happen when one marries and the other doesn't. Besides, the last two times I was here Diana was playing matchmaker and I got pretty uncomfortable. I like women but not when they come at me all bright eyed, bushy tailed, buck toothed and eager as hell just to the bottom line ended in 'matrimony'."
"Be fair," Ross protested. "Neither of them had buck teeth."
"Well, maybe not," Killian allowed, "but they had everything else especially that unwholesome twinkle in their eye. Answer this for me. Did either of them stay single longer than one year after I met them?"
"Huh, no, I guess not come to think of it. Maybe they were in a hurry after all. So what's wrong with marriage?"
"Absolutely nothing. It's been a favorite practice of man for generations and contrary to popular myth is in no danger at all of disappearing. But it's miserable if it's with the wrong person, bliss or pretty close with the right one. Look at you two."
Ross shrugged. "I take no credit for it. I had the extreme good fortune to fall for the kind of woman all men should have for wives. She makes it go. I just enjoy."
"I don't believe that for a minute Ross. Ask Katherine. It takes two working at it for marriage to work."
"Maybe so. Ready for another?"
"Yes. Jesus that tastes good. I forget just how good a fine beer really is."
Ross crossed over to the cooler and pulled two more green bottles from it, opening both before returning to his seat.
"You still in Special Investigations?" Killian asked. Special Investigations was the departmental euphemism for narcotic investigations.
"Yeah. I think it's leaving its mark on me though. I've had a beard and long hair for so long I don't want to return to normal police work. You guys all look like Charlie Brown. I like working in Levis and T-shirts, odd hours. It still has its moments but hell I wish they'd hurry up and legalize pot. I'm sick of overlooking it all the time. Shit, if I made every pot bust I could that's all I'd ever do."
The two talked shop for another hour until at last they were down to the last of the beer.
"I need help, Ross," Killian began.
"What kind of help?"
"For now I need somebody tailed. I'll work it with you. Later, I'll need another kind of help, something you may not want to risk all this for." He waved his hand about the lovely room. "What I need now is on the up and up although outside usual channels. I don't want you doing anything that would cause you trouble."
"What's this all about? You know I'll do anything I can."
"It's one of
those situations where the less you know the better. I'll tell you as much as you need to know as we go along with it. It's for your own protection. If the shit ever hits the fan, at this point, you can always tell them what I'm about to tell you and that you helped out a friend. Nothing bad will happen to you then. I want to keep it that way. I've taken this as far as I can alone. I still wouldn't have come to you but you're just what I need at this point, you've got the skills and the equipment."
"So quit beating around the bush. I'm a big boy. I'll make my own decisions. Who do you want tailed and why?"
Killian had come to Ross because in narcotics he was used to tailing suspects by car without backups and without aerial assistance. Also the man drove an unmarked car, a seized vehicle, that no one would ever dream was a cop car. Finally, Ross was a friend and could be trusted to remain silent.
"The guy’s name is Jared Pratt. He's nineteen, on probation for an Aggravated Assault that stems from an attempt to abduct a teenage hitchhiker. He's a sex offender with priors. I need to know what he's doing and where he's at. I think he murdered a girl three weeks ago. If he's as sick as I fear, he may be ready to do something again and if he did it while I was still messing around with this thing, I'd never forget it. I don't want any more dead girls."
"Alright. But sex crimes and homicide? I thought you were still in property crimes?"
“I am. This is extracurricular."
"So, how do you want it?"
"First, no one, absolutely no one else is to help out with it. If you've got him in sight and something happens you have to cover yourself, don't call in a back up to take over for you. Just let him go. I can't risk bringing in anyone else official. Got it?"
"O.K. But why all the secrecy?"
"I'll let you in on everything later when it all comes down if you're still part of it." Killian explained that according to the information he had Pratt rarely left his cottage before two or three in the afternoon. He wanted Ross the pick the man up if he left his place in the afternoon and stay with him until Killian could spell him at five-thirty or six when he got off. If Ross was to be unable to cover Pratt on an afternoon he was to let Killian know so he could cover.
"I'm interested in his routine also. I'll need to know it. All of his assaults took place along McDowell, between Central and Seventh Avenue. I want to know if he goes there and how often. His victims are usually, though not always, flower girls so watch any interest in them. That's it for now."
"How long do we keep it up?" Ross asked.
"I'm not certain. Probably no longer than a week, certainly no longer than two."
Ross pursed his lips and nodded his head. "I'm your man. It will be done nice and smooth without problems."
"One other thing, Ross. Be very careful around the prick's house. His parents are well to do, run in good circles and they go to bat anytime their precious little Jared is accused of anything."
"Those kind huh?"
"Those kind. If they catch us 'harassing' their baby there will be hell to pay. So don't take chances.” The two of them said goodnight and arranged for Ross to begin the following day.
Ross picked Pratt’s up at three-twenty two the following day. He had parked down the alley keeping the old Ford sedan in sight correctly assuming Pratt wouldn't leave without it. He had been at his position for over one hour when he saw Pratt for the first time.
Ross had told his supervisor that he was working something that would be time consuming and as yet he didn't know if it would be productive. That should keep his sergeant happy for a week or so, he had thought. Officers assigned to Special Investigations customarily worked free and easy.
The Ford headed the opposite direction down the alley but Ross who had many long hours at his trade had no difficulty picking his suspect up. He soon learned that Pratt would be an easy tail. He was an indifferent, slow driver, predictable in his every move, given to traveling the same streets and following the same routine. Ross stayed well back or in front but he was confident that Pratt was making no attempt to check for a tail. Pratt drove as though in a fog.
By Friday, Ross saw what Killian meant. Pratt, he decided, was a very scary guy.
~
It was late Friday afternoon when Killian received word that the dental charts for Tracy Fremont had arrived from St. Louis along with an urgent request for information concerning what Phoenix knew about the girl. Killian called Dr. Kruglick after he picked up the packet with no expectation that the doctor would be in his office. Governmental agencies were notorious for shutting down early on Friday. To his surprise, Kruglick's secretary informed him that the doctor was in but not for much longer.
Killian hastily checked out for the weekend and nearly ran the two blocks to the Medical Examiner's Office. Dr. Kruglick's secretary waved him down the hall to the receiving dock office where the two of them had talked previously. He found the doctor in jeans, a tattered T-shirt and worn Mexican leather sandals.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Kruglick," Killian said a little breathlessly.
"You so soon? I thought we gave you the report last time."
"You did. That's why I'm back."
"This will teach me to come in when I'm supposed to be on vacation. I dropped in three hours ago to finish a report and ended up with an autopsy. Now you show up." The man was protesting but good naturedly. "What can I quickly, and I mean quickly, do for you?"
"See if these dental charts are a match for the girl I talked to you about."
"The desert slaying?"
"Yes."
"Alright. Let’s go see."
The detective followed the doctor to his office where Kruglick pulled a file from a cabinet. After a few minutes the man said, "They're a match. Who is she?"
Killian let out his breath. "Her name is Tracy Fremont, a runaway from St. Louis." Dr. Kruglick wrote the information down from the flyer Killian handed him.
"Do you want to notify the mother or shall I?" the doctor asked.
"I will," Killian replied.
~
The phone rang three times before it was answered.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Fremont?" Killian asked.
"Yes?" The voice was tentative.
"This is Detective Robert Killian, Phoenix Police Department."
"Oh, I've been so worried. Is Tracy alright? Ever since her call several weeks ago I've just worried and worried about her. Then the police wanted her dentist's name for dental charts but they didn't know anything except that the police in Phoenix wanted them. Is Tracy alright? What do you need her dental charts for?"
"Ma'am, I'm very sorry to be the one to tell you, but Tracy is dead."
"Dead?" Silence. "Oh no, no, not that." Silence. Then in a tight, very controlled voice, "What happened?"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Fremont. Tracy was murdered."
"My God!" the woman gasped. "Murdered? Who would do such a thing? She never hurt anyone. Who did it?"
"We don't know, Ma'am. The investigation is ongoing."
"You don't know?" Silence. "My God, somebody killed my baby," she whispered so softly the detective hardly heard her. The voice held both grief and disbelieve.
Killian stayed on the line out of a sense of decency. He would not end the conversation until she did. This rips it, he thought. Monday I've got to let Bustamante know I've I.D.'d the girl.
Killian had been reluctant to contact the Medical Examiner because that would make the dental match public record and once the doctor and he knew for certain who the dead girl was, there was no way Killian could refrain from informing the victim's mother.
Killian had wanted to ask that Kruglick sit on the identity but he had decided that he did not know the doctor well enough and besides, he decided that the man's professionalism would not have permitted it anyway.
Killian had to move quickly now. He started a boulder careening down a rocky mountain and only for the next day or two could he possibly hope to influence its ultimate destination. All to quickly the boulder
was picking up momentum and assuming a life of its own, headed for a destiny beyond the control of any one man.
"What was your name?" the grieving woman asked.
"Killian. Robert Killian," he repeated.
"Thank you for calling." Mrs. Fremont hung up. Killian glanced at his watch. Just fifteen minutes to go before meeting up with Ross. Jesus, he thought as he hurried to his car, the shits going to hit the fan soon. A pervasive sense of urgency now affected his every movement and decision.
~
It was precisely five-thirty when Killian established contact with Ross. The procedure they had agreed upon called for them to make contact no later than five-forty five by using departmental walkie-talkies that Ross routinely kept in the trunk of his unmarked car. They had decided against using police car radios and channels as being too risky. Standard C.B. would serve.
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