“There’s two Starbucks in Irondequoit. You should have said Bridge Road.”
“I thought it was obvious. It’s right behind my office.”
Pitman acknowledged the logic with a nod. “Sorry. Besides, I needed a puff outside.”
“A two pipe problem, Sherlock?”
Pitman smiled dutifully. As a student, being a pipe smoker when everyone else was on drugs had seemed so cool, Decades later he still could not break the habit, and paid the price in Sherlock Holmes jokes.
Matt knew better than to press Pitman before he was ready, but curiosity got the better of him. “Uncle Tom?”
The lieutenant looked around furtively before responding. “You remember the last press conference? The statement we issued following the post-mortem?”
“I was there. So what?”
“It wasn’t the full story.”
Matt shrugged. “And?”
“Tony Kellerman’s on to it."
“No surprise there.”
“He’s got a copy of the post-mortem.”
Matt caught his breath. “Why bother?”
“We think there was a leak in St. Catherine’s. They say not, but Kellerman clearly knew something the other day. Something he said to Weisman as we were leaving.”
“Which was?”
Pitman ignored the question. He’d explain in his own time.
“We have reason to believe Kellerman will go public with what he knows, tonight or tomorrow. In your opinion, Matt, if he had a major new angle on this story, would he play to the networks tonight or hold for the headlines in the morning?”
“Jesus, Dave. What is this about?”
“As I said on the telephone, this is strictly off the record. Weisman would have my pension if he knew I was talking to you.”
“But if Kellerman already has it...”
“Exactly. I just don’t want Claire hearing it from someone else first.”
“For Christ’s sake!”
Pitman took the hint. “Let me be blunt, Matt. Rebecca presented forensics with a lot of problems. Even the cause of death is not one hundred per cent, though clearly strangulation was attempted.” He dropped his voice to a low whisper. “The pathologist found something.”
Matt went cold. He held his breath as Pitman considered his words.
“The sick bastard left a calling card, wrapped in a ziploc bag.”
Matt’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his coffee mug.
“I’m sorry. We wanted to keep it quiet, but now Kellerman’s got hold of it.”
Matt nodded, his mind numb.
“It’s just a cheap card, from a print machine like you’d find in any big shopping mall. A logo of an ice-cream cone. And the words With Compliments, Uncle Tom.”
11
Matt forced the words through gritted teeth. “He’ll kill again.”
“Almost certain to. Our big fear is that if this hits the headlines it could provoke the next assault sooner rather than later.”
“Fuck Kellerman. Can’t you get the editors to hold back?”
“Not something this big. There’s no legal argument against it. Besides, he’d just plaster it over the net regardless.”
Matt nodded his understanding.
“One small glimmer of hope, Matt. We’re bringing in six suspects in the morning.”
“Six? Isn’t that...?”
“Exactly. Wouldn’t get too excited. Besides, we’ve had them all in over the past few weeks and drew a blank. But the Captain’s got to be seen to be doing something. The Mayor’s on his back”
“Anyone I’ve heard of?”
“All locals with backgrounds with little kids, obviously. Some convictions, some just allegations... Mostly just lookers. Two serious contenders. The others are just for public consumption, to make us look busy.”
“And the two serious contenders. They are?
“One’s got a background in road construction. A tenuous link with the painted nails. A conviction for indecent images years ago. Nothing since. I don’t rate him.”
“And the other?”
“That’s a strange one. Convicted pedophile. On the Registry. I interviewed him last week, before Rebecca’s body was found. Just routine. Made no impression on me. I’ve been through his details with a fine-toothed comb since. Sick as they come, no question, but nothing to suggest he’s capable of this. I was quite satisfied to put the file away. But...”
“David?”
“St. Catherine’s got an anonymous call, female, on an untraced cell-phone, claiming to live nearby. She says she saw a red Dodge near the canal shortly after the girl disappeared, and that the driver threw something big into the water. Needless to say our man drives a red Dodge.”
“Jesus.”
“There’s more. He once had his own ice-cream van.”
“What’s his name?”
“You know I can’t tell you that, Matt.”
“If he’s pulled in I’ll know by morning anyway.”
“True enough.” Pitman considered briefly. “Off the record, Thomas Bristow. Lives just up the road. Brighton. But that’s off the record, Matt. I mean it.”
“Don’t worry. I just want to be able to tell Claire. But you’re obviously not convinced?”
“Not by a long shot. First name Thomas, drives a red Dodge and used to be an ice-cream man. Almost too coincidental, if you ask me.”
Matt raised a doubtful eyebrow. “The real killer setting him up?”
“Nothing so sinister, Matt. People like Bristow have plenty of enemies. This is just someone’s sick idea of fun. We’ll pull him in come morning, have forensics take his car apart and he’ll be back at home in a week filing a claim for harassment. I’ve already crossed swords with his attorney once. Don’t fancy doing it again. But obviously we’ve got to act on information received.”
“So what’s the schedule?”
“Weisman has set the pick-up for ten tomorrow morning if you want to have a photographer nearby. Just don’t bring my name into it. There’ll be a formal press statement mid-day, which will at least be a damage limitation exercise if Kellerman goes ahead. And who knows, maybe I’ve misjudged it. Perhaps Weisman does know his ass from his elbow and Bristow will prove to be our Uncle Tom.”
12
Of necessity, and as recommended by his attorney, Thomas Martin Bristow was a creature of habit. On the second and fourth Thursdays of every month, he made the journey from Brighton to Greenwich to lunch with his sister.
Watching from the kitchen window, he left his Brighton home precisely as the mail-man rode into Barclay Square, sat in his car and jotted down the mileage reading from the speedometer into a well-thumbed pocket book. Alongside, he noted the time, 0934 hours, and the date, August 29.
When the mail-man appeared from a gateway, Bristow carefully edged the aging red Dodge into the road, heading towards the New York State Thruway.
He purposefully acknowledged the mail-man with a nod of the head. The mail-man returned a mouthed obscenity. Not a pleasant way to start the day, but Bristow valued recognition above popularity.
An overcast sky heralded rain blowing from Ontario later in the day, but Bristow hoped to make Greenwich before it began. The windshield wipers were worn and in need of replacement, but his welfare payments did not extend to such luxuries as car repairs. Buying the E-ZPass for the toll-road was a once a month luxury to ease the journey.
The early part of the journey proved uneventful, the weather holding, the traffic reasonable. He anticipated arrival in Greenwich well before noon, a straight journey most of the way. The I-90 to Albany then the I-87 to Saratoga and on to his sister’s.
He guessed he could probably drive the route blindfolded by now. For years he'd made this same journey by the same roads on the same days each month, to enjoy his sister's company and take lunch with her. In the summer months the invitation extended to tea as well, but just lunch in the spring and winter. Thomas Bristow preferred to be home before nightfa
ll.
The police patrol vehicle appeared from nowhere on Lake Ave as he left the I-87, tucking in behind him and following at a sedate forty-five.
He felt beads of sweat forming uninvited on his forehead, his mouth dry, his stomach queasy. He tried to concentrate on the road ahead but the image of the patrol vehicle in his mirror drew his eyes like magnets.
As Lake Ave became Spring Street he patrol vehicle kept its distance, cruising with the traffic, forcing the speed of vehicles into the confines of the legal limit.
The lights began to change as he reached Broad Street and he cruised through on the turn, his head directed forward, his eyes glued to the mirror. The patrol vehicle stopped obediently for the red. Behind him he saw traffic emerge from the contra flow to separate them.
A sigh of relief and he pulled into the flow of traffic into Schuylerville. His armpits were soaked and he made a mental note to invest in a deodorant.
Cursing his lack of self-control he flicked on the radio, then jabbed a finger to switch frequencies. A country and western station provided a welcoming distraction.
13
Twelve officers were involved in the swoop on the six suspects, two per pick-up, each carefully coordinated by Captain Weisman for maximum media impact, watches synchronized on his instruction, to their quiet amusement.
At precisely 10am six pairs of officers knocked on six doors across the county.
Only five doors opened.
At the Brighton home of Mr Thomas Bristow there was no reply.
By 10.15 Weisman was pacing the floor of the operations room in angry mood, glaring at his colleagues, cursing his luck, mentally cancelling the planned press release which was to announce the swoop to a surprised public.
Despite Pitman's reservations Weisman was convinced Bristow was their man. After that morning's headlines every ice-cream man in the country was a suspect. Bristow was a convicted pedophile on the New York DCJS sex-offenders’ registry, with no alibi and an anonymous sighting near the scene. Enough to justify at least a few days detention for questioning. Anything less and they would be open to accusations of negligence. It was an argument Pitman dutifully acknowledged.
At 10.20 Weisman authorized an APB on Bristow's vehicle and officers began questioning neighbors, who confirmed what a closer inspection of intelligence would have told them anyway: that every second and fourth Thursday he visited his sister in Greenwich. Weisman cursed himself.
He had taken a senior post through the accelerated promotion program at the expense of more experienced but less qualified men at the station.
He knew his colleagues were watching his every move, waiting, hoping, for him to stumble.
Reluctantly he put the call through.
14
The siren blasted once, directly behind him, sending Bristow's stomach into turmoil, the radio broadcast thrust from his mind. He clutched at the steering wheel and glanced in the mirror The familiar Greyhound bus that had accompanied him on the Schuyler Island crossing had gone. In its place the flashing lights of the patrol vehicle announced its heathen presence.
Instinctively he knew it was the same one that had followed him earlier, but he dismissed the thought, concentrating on his breathing, bringing his heart rate down to something approaching normal.
He hadn't been speeding and had indicated properly. He prayed to God it was just a routine check.
Not for the first time Thomas Bristow's ingrained faith in the Almighty was to prove misplaced.
“Sorry to trouble you, Sir. Is this your vehicle?” The officer peered through the wound-down window at Bristow's apprehensive face, polite and unassuming.
He nodded, anxious. “Is there something wrong?”
“Just a routine check, Sir. And you are?”
“Bristow. Thomas Martin Bristow.”
“Do you have your documents with you, Mr Bristow?”
“In the glove compartment.” He leaned over and produced them.
The officer studied the drivers license carefully, then handed it to his colleague who returned to the patrol vehicle to radio through the details . “A long way from home, Sir. Going anywhere nice?”
“Greenwich. To see my sister. Is there a problem?”
“Nothing to worry about. We won't keep you long.”
He turned to his colleague in the patrol vehicle. A casual nod of the head. “Nice place, Greenwich. I lived in Fort Miller myself, as a kid. Near the Reformed Church. Do you know it?”
He glanced at Bristow, looking for a reaction, then bent down to the front off-side wheel, examining the tire with his fingers. “I think your tracking's out, Sir. Your tread's a bit worn on one side. I'd get that seen to if I were you.”
“I didn't realize,” Bristow murmured. “I'll attend to it first thing. Is there anything else?”
“Mr Bristow, we'd like to ask you a few questions, if we may.”
His heartbeat raced. “Questions?”
“Down at the station. If you wouldn't mind, of course. It's just that we're obstructing the traffic here.”
Bristow's face paled. He struggled for control. “What for? What type of questions? I don't quite understand.”
“This would be easier at the station, Sir.” The officer was polite, but his tone indicated it was an offer not to be declined. “It won't take long.”
“Which station? Where?”
“If you'd care to get in our vehicle I'll take you there direct. My colleague will bring your car along.” He held his hand out for the keys.
“I think there's been some mistake. I haven't done anything.”
“With respect, Sir, no-one has said you have. It's just a routine enquiry.”
“Then why...” His voice trailed off nervously. He knew better than to argue. “I have to be at my sister's by twelve. She's expecting me.”
The officer glanced at his watch sympathetically. “Just a few questions and you can be on your way. It's not a problem, Sir, is it?”
He was ushered into the station through the rear entrance and found himself pushed into a sparsely furnished room where he was told to wait.
An hour passed before anyone attended him.
15
He retrieved a rolled-up New York Times from his jacket pocket, but couldn't concentrate on the words, turning the pages absently, his mind elsewhere.
The Uncle Tom headline went unremarked, as had the radio reports on the way in.
He was sick to the teeth hearing about the murdered girl by now.
Eventually, without apology or explanation, he was taken before the Custody Officer.
“Mr Bristow, isn't it? How very nice of you to call in. Pleasant journey?”
“Officer, could you please explain to me why I've been brought here.”
The Custody Officer cut him short. “All in good time, Mr Bristow. All in good time. Did my colleague bring you by the scenic route?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Past the play park?”
Bristow caught his breath. Just take it easy. Cooperate. “Am I under arrest?”
“No Sir, of course not. You're free to leave at any time.” The tone dared him to try.
“I'd like to make a phone call, please.”
“But you're not under arrest, Sir. You're not entitled to one.” The Custody Officer smiled sweetly. He was enjoying this.
“I need to phone my sister. She's expecting me for lunch.”
“All this way, just for lunch? You must be very close.”
Bristow reeled round in anger, then quickly calmed himself. Keep control. Let them play their silly games.
“Mind you I suppose she'd be a bit too old for him. Or does she dress up in gym-slip and white socks?”
“I want to speak to my attorney.”
“Maybe later. We're a bit busy at the moment.”
Bristow felt his stomach stir, panic beginning to build.
“I know my rights. I'm entitled to a –”
“Your rights,” the Custody Officer
slammed his fist on the desk, the smile gone, “are what we decide they are, when we decide they are.”
The officer who had driven him in stepped forward. “Perhaps you'd like to take your spectacles off, Sir.” His tone had changed now. The politeness of their public encounter had been replaced by a less pleasant demeanor.
“My glasses? What for?”
“We wouldn't want them to get broken, would we.”
Bristow caught his breath. Just keep calm. Let them go through the motions.
“Put him in number three.”
“But…” Bristow looked anxiously towards the security camera.
The Custody Officer grinned. “Hasn’t been working all week, sunshine. The only maintenance people we could find were motherfucker Mexicans, and they haven’t got security clearance to come through here.”
“But…”
“Computer’s a bit slow today too, so I’ll have to book you in later. I suggest you exercise great care meanwhile, as you’re not officially here.”
Bristow was led meekly through to a cell at the rear of the station and pushed through the entrance. The door slammed behind him and he took a seat on the thin mattress on the edge of the concrete bunk, next to a worn, coarse-textured blanket. A dirty, seat-less steel toilet provided the only other furnishing in the pastel-painted, brick lined cell. Graffiti had been scratched into the walls. He realized he'd left his newspaper in the other room and quietly cursed himself.
He knew that before the day was through he would have read every item of scrawl on the walls several times over as sensory deprivation took its toll. It was one of those few occasions when he wished he had the low mentality people usually associated with perverts. At least then he might have been contented to just sit and stare at the wall
Daylight glared through the thick, opaque glass blocks that formed a window. The air reeked of stale vomit and urine, residual from the drunks who had been the cell's inhabitants the previous night.
He needed a cigarette. He hadn't had one since he'd left home. It was part of his plan to give up. No smoking in the car. His packet of twenty king size were still in the glove compartment, unopened, with his lighter. Suddenly he was desperate for a smoke.
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 3
