by Owen Mullen
They wanted to be convinced. They weren’t.
‘Jolene Johnson, the latest victim. Another winner.’
They shifted their eyes from me to the photographs and back. I was alone on this one. Danny said what they were thinking. ‘It doesn’t work, Delaney. Three out of eight isn’t a consistent pattern.’
‘But it isn’t three from eight. It’s the three obvious ones, that’s all. We haven’t been looking for that connection before, so we haven’t found it. All we know about Lucy Gilmour is she went missing from a pageant in Panama City Beach, Florida, and that her body was never found. What happened at that event? How did she do? I’m betting we’re going to find Lucy won.’
They were listening, no more than that.
‘Dorothy Dulles in Alabama. The details of her death are in the record. Did she win?’
My delivery started to pick up speed.
‘Mimi Valasquez.’
My finger tapped the shot of an innocent child who’d been unlucky enough to be born with some singing ability.
‘Agent McLaren called to tell me about her. The mother left to collect her brother. Mimi had got through to the final. An outstanding performer for her age. “A real talent,” that was his phrase.’ I was on fire. ‘Let’s check Lucy, Dorothy and the others. I know what we’ll find. Winners: all winners.’
Delaup said, ‘Let’s do that.’
Danny bent over his case-notes, speed reading. ‘Here it is. Andrea Hassel came first in her age group in the Modern Miss Mobile Pageant.’
‘It fits.’
‘No, it doesn’t, Delaney. It doesn’t fit.’
Danny walked to the wall and singled out one of the victims. ‘Pamela White in Texas wasn’t in the competition. She was only there to support her sister, Donna.’
‘How did Donna do? We need to find out about her, as well as the first two. My guess is when he couldn’t reach Donna, he settled for the next best thing: her sister.’
Delaup said, ‘Suppose you’re right, what would that prove? How does it help us?’
These guys must have missed their morning cup of Joe. They were slow to catch on.
‘It reveals the connection between the victims. He goes for the winners, or someone close to them. That doesn’t narrow who we’re looking for. It sure as hell tightens the focus on who we’re trying to protect. And it tells us something about the perp. Charlie Diskins might make something of it.’
Fitzpatrick was already on the phone talking to the FBI. Soon, we’d have the information we needed to fit another piece of the puzzle together. I felt good, because if I could dig out how the victims were chosen, I could go all the way.
It wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but at least we were in the game.
I hung around until confirmation came through. Before she disappeared, never to be seen again, Lucy Gilmour had won in Panama City Beach; Dorothy, too, in Alabama. The information on Donna White took another hour. It fit with the rest. Donna was collecting her scroll and a check for fifty dollars when her big sister, Pamela, went missing.
Eight out of eight.
The killer preyed on winners. Molly had won. Our family had been lucky, though I wouldn’t be telling Catherine or Ray. Delaup said the FBI considered the connection between the victims important. Charlie Diskins would work on it. Try to tease it into something helpful.
The Captain patted me on the back. ‘Good work, Delaney.’
I doubted my name had been mentioned to the Feds. What did that matter? I was a team player, wasn’t I? The only important thing was the result.
Danny caught up with me out in the corridor. ‘Don’t want to rain on anybody’s day, but we’re still miles away from stopping this crazy. Diskins may well come back with something we can use. I doubt it.’
We sat on a big old cast-iron radiator. Fitzpatrick was subdued, his mood was off.
‘We’ll get him, bud. I know it.’
‘Hear about Rutherford?’
I hadn’t.
‘He’s out of it, at least for a while.’
‘What happened?’
‘His wife left him. He just snapped.’
I remembered Jim Rutherford the last time I’d seen him, withdrawing into himself as his professional life and his real one collided before our eyes. Some can juggle the pressures and priorities for years without the cracks showing. Too many crashed and burned. It was a hard life to lead and an even harder one to leave.
I said, ‘We need to talk.’
‘What about?’
‘Can’t tell you yet. I think I need your help.’
He nodded. ‘Sure thing.’
‘Can I trust you?’
He reacted like I’d slapped his face. ‘Fuck off, Delaney!’
I relaxed. It was the right answer.
31
Stella surprised me with a visit and a bottle of something cold. Next morning, she left before eight a.m. After she’d gone, I lay for a while, thinking things over. I had a plan to help Cilla Bartholomew, one that didn’t involve the cops. Danny Fitzpatrick was a friend before everything else. I’d asked a friend for help, and he’d said yes. That’s what friends were for.
The serial killings were more difficult. My job was to stay with it. The break would come.
I padded through to the kitchen to put coffee on. The soles of my bare feet slapped where the floor was tiled. Halfway there, Lowell sneaked up on me, almost knocking me over, letting me know I hadn’t spent nearly enough time with him.
‘Easy boy.’ I patted his side to quiet him down.
The coffee was good and strong, reviving me enough to send me into the shower whistling. After that, I took Lowell out and played with him, throwing an imaginary stick for him to catch and racing against him. You needed to be a dog lover to get it.
When we got back, I fed him and went over my arrangements for the weekend. For a change, the band didn’t have a gig. That suited. Tonight, I could give Stella my undivided attention. Tomorrow, the Saints were at home to the San Francisco 49ers. Cal and I would be there. I’d keep my arrangement with him, though I didn’t want to. Anything else wouldn’t look right. Then, I’d go to my sister’s and hang out. This morning, the long-shot search for the child-killer would continue at a small pageant not far from the city.
The phone rang. It was Catherine. ‘Hi, how’s it going?’
‘Hi, sis. Everything’s fine at my end. You?’
‘You’ll be over tomorrow as usual?’
‘Sure will, right after the game.’
‘Good. There’s something I want to tell you.’
‘Something good?’
She laughed. ‘We’ll see. It’s a surprise.’
‘I’ll be straight over.’
‘All right. Think those Saints can get enough points on the board?’
‘I live in hope. I live in hope.’
‘Okay, see ya.’
If there was one thing I hated, it was a surprise. I preferred to be in the dark until the last moment. Better still, forget surprises for me. The phone sounded again, and my plans went down the pan.
Surprises. Who needs them?
Tom Donald was still in the ICU. A uniform stood by the door. The news that Timmy’s father was regaining consciousness meant everything else went on hold. A white-gowned doctor laid out his priorities; priorities very different from ours.
‘Mr Donald keeps slipping in and out of consciousness, and really, it would be in his best interests to leave him undisturbed. Your boss – Delaup, is it? – assures me my patient may hold vital information.’
We didn’t respond.
‘This man is very, very ill. Anything that tires, excites or weakens him reduces his chances of coming out of this alive. Do you understand?’
We did.
‘A few minutes, no more.’
No matter how important we believed our business to be, it came a long second to his. We sat down next to the bed. Life-support mechanisms droned away.
Fitzpatrick s
poke, ‘Mr Donald? Mr Donald, can you hear me? I’m Detective Danny Fitzpatrick of the NOPD, and I’m trying to find the man who killed Timmy. Help us.’
Tom Donald didn’t stir. Fitzpatrick tried again. The figure of the doctor loomed in the doorway ready to call time.
‘You try,’ Danny said.
The doctor looked at his watch; the chance was almost gone. I leaned forward, the damaged face, pitiful under wads of bandage and gauze.
‘Mr Donald. Mr Donald, why did you run? Why did you run from me?’
The head moved a fraction. The cracked lips parted. I bent low, my face turned so my ear was close to the injured man’s mouth.
And he spoke. Almost. I felt Danny rise from his seat. A tortured sigh escaped Tom Donald. A ghost word slipped out into the world and away. I leaned closer. His breath brushed my face. I thought I made out “ann.” And “hatch.”
Danny willed me to capture the precious clue. I couldn’t.
‘Mr Donald,’ I tried again, ‘why did you …’
‘Enough. That’s enough.’
The doctor ended it before it had even begun. He stood between us and his patient until we headed for the door.
The noise from the bed made us all stop and turn.
‘Man,’ Tom Donald forced the clumsy sound past his tongue, weak and guttural, barely audible. ‘Man … match …’
Timmy’s father faded into the comfort of unknowing.
32
‘So, you’re sure?’
‘Sure? No. That’s the best I could get.’
Delaup repeated the words to himself. ‘“Man” and “match.”’
It was after ten o’clock at night, and the three of us were in Delaup’s office. The Captain wrapped the bowtie he’d been wearing at the black-tie dinner around his fingers. When Danny called him, he’d left and joined us. About now, a taxi was dropping an unhappy Mrs Delaup home. ‘Will he live?’
Fitzy supplied the same unacceptable answer. ‘Who knows?’
‘Maybe we can get another crack at finding out what he was doing at a kids’ event by himself.’
‘If he recovers. Meantime, the killer walks free.’
Fitzpatrick added new information that brought little relief. ‘Called McLaren on the way here. No new attacks. That’s something.’
Delaup nodded. ‘Yeah, it is. No thanks to us. The perp’s still picking and choosing, still in control. We’ll get a break when he gives us one. Which means he gets to decide who lives and who dies. Write up what happened today. Present it to the team.’
Delaup got to his feet, his face full of tiredness. He called the front desk for a car to take him home. We took the elevator to the underground garage. Danny drove in silence. The morning’s optimism was far away.
Do what you do. What you always did.
Danny tried to cheer us up. ‘If Tom Donald pulls through, we’ll have a shot.’
‘“Man.” “Match.” It’s in there somewhere.’
I played the game. ‘He definitely said “man.” No question. He was following somebody. But “match”? I’ve no idea.’
‘Unless that wasn’t it.’ Fitzpatrick kept his eyes on the road. ‘Match – batch, hatch, latch, patch, thatch, scratch.’ He bit his lip. With nothing new to contribute, I stayed quiet.
‘Delaup would like this one to come through,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘High-profile. Working with the Bureau. Make him look good. He gets to look good, we get to feel good.’
‘I’ll take that deal.’
‘You’d better. It’s the only one on offer.’
‘It’s the only one I want.’
The car slowed outside my house. Danny turned the engine off.
‘What was that “can I trust you” bullshit?’
‘I need your help, Fitzy. Not as a cop, as a friend. The people involved have already been burned, because I made a mistake. I wouldn’t listen. This time, I’m listening. Trouble is, I can’t pull it off alone.’
‘And do I get to know more?’
‘Of course. Next week. Next week we go to work.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Catching the bad guys. You remember how to do that, don’t you?’
We met as usual for a late breakfast at Cafe Du Monde on Decatur, ate scrambled eggs and croissants, and talked football.
Things had changed for the Saints in the three weeks since they opened their new season account with the win over the Bucs; they had a catalogue of injuries.
In the diner, Cal wolfed through the food. ‘Today’s a big one. We need a win.’
‘Sure do. Still an awful lot of football to be played.’
‘That’s right, but the charge starts today. 2-2, I can live with. 1-3? No way. No quarter.’
‘The games we lost were close, Cal, only seven points all told. We can play better.’
He rubbed a hand over his chin. ‘We’d better.’
And that was typical of Cal Moreland: all or nothing.
Because I was leaving to go to Catherine’s after the game, we travelled to the Superdome in our own cars. When I came up the stairs, he was already there, standing in the aisle with his cell pressed against one ear and a finger in the other, trying to block out the background noise. I spent a minute watching how animated he was, pacing up and down, turning and turning back again, speaking all the time.
He settled into his usual place. Whatever his call had been about, his mood had changed. Now, he was Mr Positive. He clapped and shouted as the teams came out. It meant a lot more to him than it did to me.
‘We can do this, Delaney.’
‘By how many?’
‘Ten points.’
He held up both hands, fingers splayed. ‘Ten.’
‘Got fifty on it?’
‘Sure do.’
New Orleans needed to find energy from somewhere to lift themselves out of their losing run. At 28-9 early in the fourth quarter, Cal Moreland’s prediction was coming true. He beamed and applauded, joking with strangers in the crowd.
The final score was 31-17. Leaving the Dome, Cal raved on and on about the team. That was the way it was. You were either important to him or you weren’t; useful to him or not; helping him win or responsible for some loss in his life. He didn’t mess with the middle ground.
He said, ‘This is our season.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘Yeah. Who knows where the road goes.’
He laughed and walked off to his car. I watched him go, cutting through the crowd. A man I’d been friends with most of my life and didn’t really know at all. The whole time we’d talked only about football; not the traders or the dead cops.
Catherine’s face flushed; a cross between pride and embarrassment.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.
‘That’s the surprise. Fantastic. You must be delighted.’
‘I am. We don’t want Molly to grow up an only child. A brother or sister will be good for her, don’t you think?’
I hesitated. ‘Can’t say. You were doing fine ‘til I came along.’
She thought about it. ‘You’re right. I forgot about that.’
It was hard to remember when the week hadn’t begun with the Monday meeting. Now, only McLaren and Diskins represented the Bureau. McLaren sat ramrod straight, revealing nothing of who he might be when ID was no longer necessary and the gun in his shoulder-holster had been set aside.
The same could be said of Diskins, the FBI profiler. All the usual faces were there from our side. The polite protocol, evident in the beginning, was gone. Agent McLaren took over from the off. And if Delaup was annoyed, he hid it well.
‘Okay, let’s get started. There were no new attacks over the weekend, and for a change, we think we’ve got the beginning of something. Detective Fitzpatrick.’
Fitzy cleared his throat. ‘On Saturday, Tom Donald regained consciousness for a few moments and said two words. As far as we could make out – and remember this man is figh
ting for his life – Tom Donald said “man” and “match.” We’re certain about the first word. The second could be wrong. Maybe he was asking us to catch this man. We can’t know until Mr Donald improves enough to tell us.’
McLaren moved in. ‘Before we break up, I want you to form groups of twos and threes and spend half an hour exploring what those words might mean. Bat ideas around. Nothing’s too outrageous. The break we need is there. We need to see it.’
He cued me to speak.
‘Mr Delaney’s gonna speak, but I want you to know the current thinking. The crimes have concentrated in the New Orleans area since he came on board, so the perp may be using him as a focus. For example, there was no incident on Saturday when he wasn’t at an event. Is that just a coincidence? So far, we have nothing except dead kids. We have to consider every possibility, no matter how unlikely.’
I stepped forward and threw in my two-cent’s worth.
‘Last week, I re-interviewed people who may’ve seen something. It was a waste of time until Baton Rouge. The woman responsible for the event told me she had ordered the judges to change the result when they couldn’t find Timmy Donald. She did that because they were about to announce he’d won. Timmy was going to be the winner. We checked the other victims, and bingo! They were all winners, except Pamela White. Her sister Donna came in first in her age group. The thinking is, he couldn’t get to her, so he took the next best thing. That pattern works in all cases. Even Lucy Gilmour, the first victim whose body was never found. The last thing she did before going missing was win.’
I paused and studied the faces staring back at me, willing me to give them something they could use. I believed I had. ‘Understanding the thread that connects the victims gets us a little nearer to catching this guy. Before, we were watching every kid there. Now, we can concentrate on anybody taking an unusual interest in the winner.’
McLaren spoke, ‘Charlie Diskins has done some work on this. What does it tell us, Charlie?’
‘It allows speculation about motive – taking the best may feed the enormous ego we know this killer has – or it might be a reference to something in his past, we can’t know. Some disappointment or rejection. Mr Delaney has, I believe, correctly identified the link between the victims that helps us build it into a plan to bring him down. Unfortunately, with scores of these events taking place every weekend, the target area is too wide. That’s the main problem.’
