Must have seen something…
It was a courageous attempt, but too soon. Claire broke down before the cameras, substituting vitriol for the script. As the tears flowed Matt stepped into the frame and embraced her, finishing the appeal himself, barely more able to control his own words.
Fellow reporters savored the moment, torn between compassion for a colleague and an unfolding human interest drama.
Pitman was quietly pleased, feeling Claire’s emotion, but certain the raw power of the scene would produce results.
As Matt escorted Claire from the room Pitman moved centre stage to parry the flood of questions, finding himself alongside Captain John Weisman to give the formal briefing. It was, Weisman had assured him on more than one occasion, Pitman’s inquiry. He had no intention of treading on toes. But as the investigation was now a murder inquiry involving two separate counties it was only appropriate that a more senior officer should make the initial briefing.
Pitman acquiesced in good humor. He was fast approaching retirement and had no intention of spending his last few years on the force fighting his superiors - least of all the new boy. Weisman had been at the station barely a month and was keen to establish himself as a community figure. Pitman guessed he’d want to enjoy his moment of glory before the cameras, then to disappear back to his office.
Claire and Matt watched the conference unfold on a video screen from the privacy of an adjacent room. In different circumstances he would have been in the front row, clamoring for the details that would make the next day’s front page. But right now the blood-thirsty media pack sickened him.
Weisman made a show of shuffling his notes and checking with his lieutenant before proceeding with the introductions and expressing his condolences to the family. The assembled media listened politely to the formalities, but as the Captain came to the murder details the room fell silent bar the faint hum of the electronic recording equipment, the reporters hanging on his every word.
“Thanks to DNA results we are now able to say beyond doubt that the body found is that of Rebecca Anne Meadows, the ten year old girl reported missing from just outside her home in Pittsford on the evening of Friday, August second.”
Weisman paused to give the cub reporter in the front row time to catch up. Pitman eyed the young journalist with disdain. What the hell was a novice doing covering a case of this importance? He must have been a last minute substitution for a more experienced reporter. Even his ID card was pinned to his lapel upside down. Pitman made a mental note to have a word with him before he left.
Weisman was speaking again. “Regrettably, due to the time the body had been in the water, the post-mortem results are not as detailed as we would have liked. However, we are able to make the following observations with some certainty. It is likely Rebecca’s body had been in the canal at least ten days, suggesting she was killed very soon after her abduction. Cause of death is believed to have been ligature strangulation."
“Was she sexually assaulted?” The novice at the front was looking up, eagerly awaiting the reply to his question. Pitman was fuming, but Weisman acknowledged the question with a grave expression. The room bustled. Sex crimes sold. This was what they all wanted to know, delighted the cub had got the matter aired so quickly.
Weisman chose to bide his time. “As I’ve already said, due to the advanced state of decomposition the post-mortem results were not as clear and detailed as we would have liked. But no, there is no indication of rape.”
There was an almost audible sigh of disappointment.
“But she was naked, right?” The novice again. Cameras zoomed, the room a flood of flashing lights. This kid wouldn’t have to buy a drink all night!
“Obviously the fact that the victim was stripped of her clothes suggests a possible sexual motive.”
Pitman was impressed at how Weisman depersonalized the statement, omitting Rebecca’s name when talking about the sexual aspects, but using her name at other times, reminding them all that this was somebody’s child.
“Have all her clothes been recovered?” The question came from the back.
“Most, not all. The child’s cycle helmet, hair band, socks and panties are as yet unaccounted for. Our colleagues in Saratoga and Fort Edward are working the canal as we speak, searching for the missing items. They believe may have drifted free from the body and could be anywhere along the length of the canal.”
From the floor: “Might the underwear have been kept by the killer, as a trophy?”
“We can’t rule that out.”
"Will he strike again?" It was the cub at the front.
Weisman glared at him. It was not a question he wanted to address, but now he had little choice. “We have to be open to that possibility. Whoever committed this heinous assault, this brutal murder of a helpless child, is clearly someone very, very disturbed. We urge parents everywhere to be vigilant - to be careful.”
“Is he a serial killer?”
Weisman stared daggers at the novice, unsure how to respond. Pitman came to his rescue.
“As there is currently no evidence to link this murder to any other unsolved homicide cass, we are treating this as a single incident.”
The novice looked suitably embarrassed. Weisman breathed a sigh of relief, looking across the room for another question.
Someone asked, “What about the painted nails?”
6
Weisman raised his hand to ensure he had their undivided attention.
“That's a good question. Gentlemen, ladies. May I first make clear that my officers have no wish to associate themselves with this stupid, scaremongering Yellow Peril nickname that certain thoughtless, some would say mindless, editors have chosen to give to the perpetrator of this heinous crime. This kind of reporting does nothing to help the investigation, and I can only guess at the distress it must cause to the family of the victim.”
There was an almost shamed silence as the comments registered. Weisman moved up a notch in Pitman's esteem.
“With regard to your question, we can confirm that the fingernails of the girl were painted yellow by her killer. To what purpose we can only guess. What we can say definitely is that the nails were painted, not varnished. The paint is a lead chromate based product of the type commonly used for road markings. The product is not readily available to the public and this will certainly be a factor in the conduct of our investigation.”
“Any suspects?”
“We are currently examining our records for known offenders and I can assure you every avenue is being explored in the hunt for this individual. There are a number of people we wish to interview and we will advise you of developments as they occur. We expect to make arrests in the very near future.”
A burst of questions came from across the floor as they realized the briefing was over. Weisman stood up and raised his hand to quieten them.
“Thank you, gentleman, ladies. That's all we can say at this stage.”
A few reporters persisted but the majority were already fighting to get out.
As the room emptied Weisman and Pitman walked towards the rear door, ignoring the questions still being fired at them.
Pitman recognized Tony Kellerman, a freelancer with a deserved reputation for knowing more than he should, heading towards them.
He patted Weisman on the shoulder in a false gesture of camaraderie and hurried him along. Before they could reach the door Kellerman was upon them.
“Captain, one last question.”
Weisman ignored him. He'd already made plain the statement was over.
Pitman pulled open the door and gestured his senior through.
“No more questions,” Pitman growled.
“Captain!” Kellerman persisted.
Weisman turned on him. “That's all, gentlemen. No more questions, please.”
Kellerman was there, microphone in hand.
“Captain Weisman, just one question, please. How's your Uncle Tom?”
It was the briefest of
reactions.
Barely a twitch.
As Pitman pushed his superior through and pulled the door closed behind him the smile on Kellerman's face said it all.
7
Greg Randall remained expressionless as he watched the funeral on the mid-afternoon news bulletin.
As the footage of the funeral ended Lieutenant Pitman repeated the appeal for help from the public. Someone, somewhere, he said, must have their suspicions about a friend, neighbor or relative. He reeled off a confidential number they could ring, that ran as a banner at the bottom of the screen, and ended with a warning for parents to be vigilant. “A dangerous predator is at large. He could strike again at any time.”
As the subject switched to sport, Randall hit the off button and grabbed his jacket, his mind racing. He stopped at the railings to the play-park. A few mothers stood by, chatting amiably while their children played.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
Randall swung round to see the Dynamite Twins running towards him, arms outstretched, and his worries vanished. He bent down to scoop up the two six year olds, one under each arm, smothering them with kisses.
“Greg? What are you doing here?” It was an innocent question, casually asked by his wife Elizabeth, clearly delighted, if surprised, to see him. “No work today?”
He hugged the girls tightly as he replied, always even with his affections. “Finished early, love. I thought you might be here with the Twins.” He eased the two girls to the ground and ushered them into the play-park. “Just five minutes. Be careful.”
“You should have come along to the day-centre, Greg. Tamara has another picture on the wall. And Natalie is doing so well with her reading. Honestly, I sometimes think they learn more during the break than they do in term-time.”
Randall leant his back against the railings, facing the road. Out of sight, out of mind. He took Elizabeth by the hand and pulled her across to him, planting a kiss on her cheek. She put up a token resistance, slightly embarrassed by the stares of the other mothers at this public show of affection. But after eight years of marriage she knew better than to complain, when so many of her friends envied the apparent freshness of their relationship.
“Can't you wait till we get home?”
“No, let's do it here, in the park. Right now. In front of everybody.”
“Greg!” An embarrassed Elizabeth distanced herself from her husband. “Natalie! Tamara! Come on, or we'll be late for tea.”
She began moving away, to encourage the children to hurry, ignoring their justified protests that the promised five minutes had not yet elapsed.
Randall entwined his arm with his wife's. “When we get home then,” he persisted in practiced tones. “The Twins can play in the yard. We'll lock the door, unhook the telephone, and Boom! Boom! Boom! while the neighbors are still at work.”
Elizabeth checked the children were following and pulled him closer. A quick kiss.
The Dynamite Twins were close behind, and one of them slipped her hand into his palm, her warm, tiny fingers clutching his own. He looked down at her, running alongside him, her short legs struggling to match his pace. She looked up and beamed a smile at him. A cold shiver ran down his spine.
They were too precious.
He pulled the cell phone from his pocket.
“I didn’t hear it ring?"
“It didn’t. I just need to call the office. Something I forgot.”
Elizabeth turned in surprise. “Can’t it wait ’til we get back?”
He made a show of examining his watch. “It could, but if I try now it will save me hours of extra work in the morning. You go on with the girls. I'll catch you up.”
“You’re sure it’s not that blonde bimbo I saw you with the other day?”
Randall looked horrified. “What blonde bimbo?”
“Joking, darling.” Elizabeth pecked a kiss on his lips. “I’ll get the coffee on. Don’t be too long.”
She walked on, chiding Natalie for straying too near the road. He waited till they'd moved away before searched the menu for the single letter Q. The dialing tone purred briefly, then he was through.
“I'd like to make an appointment, to see Dr Quinlan.”
8
Matt swiveled impatiently in his chair as he scanned the Google results, an experienced eye skimming over the details, picking out key words and phrases.
More than two weeks had passed since the boys had found Rebecca’s body. The younger child was still in trauma. In hospital, under sedation, his parents at his bedside. The second boy had affected a rapid recovery with no ill-effects to speak of.
Matt jotted shorthand notes, slowly getting back into a working routine after the few days compassionate leave.
He chased the cursor round the screen, saving tracts to folders as he went, adding to the file laden with press reports of child murders dating back over thirty years. At some stage he would find time to go through the details, to pick out any salient points.
The police would be doing the same thing, using the more accurate official reports rather than what little information the media had been allowed.
There were ways round that problem, but Matt preferred to explore all legal avenues first. Apart from anything else, McIntyre would want to know source details before allowing any suspect story to run.
A smile parted his lips as he thought of Danny.
There were some sources Matt preferred not to explain.
He brought up on screen a press directory from archives and ran a search for trauma in children. Nothing specific on boys coming across rotting cadavers. He jotted down some generalized observations in shorthand but the material was too vague to be of use.
In different circumstances he would have broadened the detail with a bit of guesswork and common sense observations, attributed to unnamed sources in case of any comebacks.
But this time it was personal.
He valued accuracy over meeting the looming deadline, despite McIntyre's overbearing presence.
He flicked open his mobile, obtained an extension and eventually connected.
“Professor Large speaking.” The accent was still vaguely southern, the once relaxed Louisiana drawl now tinged with a New England twang.
“Gavin, it’s Matt.”
“Matt! How are you, mate? Business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“Oh. It’s my lunch-break, mate. Can it wait?”
“I'll source you.”
“It’s still my lunch-break.”
“You've been following the homicide here, I presume?”
Large sighed. “Be serious, Matt. I don’t have time to keep up with New York’s delinquents. So long as it happens your side of the state line it may as well be on a different planet. Drug-related, no doubt?”
“No, this was a child.”
A pause. “The little girl they found the other week? Rachael somebody?”
“Rebecca. Rebecca Meadows.”
“The Yellow Peril murder, right? I guessed you might be covering the story.”
“Not just covering it, Gavin. Personally involved. I knew the girl.”
“Knew her?”
“Remember John and Claire Meadows?”
“Vaguely. Photographer? Brain tumor?”
“This was their daughter.”
The line fell silent. “Jesus. Aren't you and Claire...”
“Like I say, Gavin, I'm personally involved.”
The line fell silent a second time, then, “Matt, I'm so sorry. I never made the connection. You’re nowhere near the Champlain. Is there anything I can do? How's Claire?”
“As can be expected. We're just taking a day at a time right now.”
“Time heals, Matt. You'll see. Any news on the bastard who did this?”
“Nothing yet. I'm trying to keep up the media interest until there is. I'd hate to see this inquiry fade quietly away with nothing to show for it. Just another unsolved child murder lying on file.”
“That
's one thing that won't happen.”
“Why so confident?”
“It was too ritualistic. This wasn't a crime for passion or profit. It was cold, calculated murder. Anyone sick enough to kill a child and then decorate the body is in it for gratification. Those types of people don't just enjoy it, Matt. They need it. Believe me, he'll kill again if he's not caught.”
9
Matt put down the receiver and swiveled his chair to the window view over the city.
From the fourth floor of Lake Ontario Media Solutions’ prestigious operations centre, Irondequoit Bay lay tranquil before him, a constant reminder of the Champlain Canal and Rebecca’s body being found.
He considered the phone conversation. He had a lot of respect for Gavin Large’s views. And he needed to get something on screen for the next print run to keep McIntyre off his back.
The cell phone buzzed and Matt's hand reached out on automatic, flicking the clam open.
Withheld number.
“Burford.”
“Matt, it’s Lieutenant Pitman.”
Matt smiled to himself. Pitman was always formal on the Station phone.
“Any news?”
“Nothing you could print, Matt. Can I meet you somewhere private? Off the record?”
“Off?” His heart sank. “Where are you?”
“Jay Street, but I don't want to be seen with you here. Are you busy?”
“This is important, obviously.”
“And then some. I can be in Irondequoit, say an hour?”
“Where?”
“Somewhere neutral. And quiet.”
“Starbucks?”
“That’s quiet?
“At this time of day , sure.”
“Alright. Sixty minutes.”
“What's this all about, Dave?”
There was a long silence before Pitman replied. “Ever heard of Uncle Tom?”
“Should I have?”
“You'll wish you hadn't.”
10
Matt was on his second latte when Pitman arrived.
“How’s Claire?”
“Bearing up.” Matt made a point of looking at his watch. “Traffic heavy?”
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 2
