Strike Dog

by Joseph Heywood

  Gasparino looked at Tatie Monica, who nodded assent and approached the computer expert. “You’re supposed to check in with the lead agent, Glory.”

  “Don’t start,” the blonde said wearily, “and don’t call me that. LA is history. I’d say bury the hatchet, but this is the twenty-first century. You ought to think about joining it.”

  A less-than-harmonious history between the women, Service surmised.

  Ten minutes after Gasparino gave her the things she asked for, the statuesque agent reported, “I’m in,” adding, “E-mail’s through AOL, same passwords for everything.” She clucked disapproval and mumbled, “People are so predictably stupid.” Having invaded the dead woman’s electronic domain, she turned to Special Agent Monica. “What am I looking for?”

  “We’re not sure; maybe a string of notes, an invitation to meet, something.”

  “Hoping for luck to strike again?” the woman said, turning her back to Monica and tapping keys.

  “Just do your job,” Tatie Monica said.

  “Not a problem when you’re competent,” the woman countered.

  Service nudged Gasparino. “What’s all this about?”

  The two men stepped into the next room. “Word has it that Pappas and Monica were part of a high-profile investigation out of the LA field office. They have a history.”

  “Pappas?”

  “Glory Drophat is what Tatie calls her. Her name’s Alona Pappas. The way I heard it, Pappas boffed somebody above Monica to get the team lead on that case, but after she got it, the investigation went into free fall. Monica never bought what Pappas was selling and went her own way and broke the case. Pappas moved over to cyber and Monica ended up in Milwaukee. Last we heard Pappas was in New York, on loan to Homeland Security. We didn’t know she was in St. Louis.”

  Service inferred that both women had been disciplined. “What kind of case in LA?” Special Agent Monica had told him Milwaukee was her choice.

  “Multiple homicide: four people sliced and diced the same night in an upscale Brentwood apartment building. Pappas was sure it was an inside job, but Monica thought it was too much like an unsolved in Houston. Pappas pushed for the arrest of a simp, the twenty-something-year-old son of one of the vicks. Monica insisted the simp might do one out of passion, but not four. There was no apparent motive or weapon, and nothing in the man’s background to indicate serial murder personality traits, like sadistic tendencies. Monica learned that one of the suspects from the Houston case had moved to LA, and she hunted him down and found the weapon stashed at a house where he worked as a gardener.”

  It sounded to Service like good police work. “Why Drophat?”

  “Tatie claims Pappas will boink anybody, anytime, anywhere, to get ahead—like, at the drop of a hat?”

  “Okay,” Service said. Not only did he not understand yet why he was here or what exactly they expected from him, but now it appeared he would also have to contend with internecine warfare. Of all the agencies he had worked with over the years, the FBI was, hands down, the most uncooperative, secretive, and parochial, and, from what he was hearing, 9/11 hadn’t improved either their attitudes or their performance. If anything, the FBI was imperious, looking at itself as the penultimate professionals of law enforcement and all other agencies as rank amateurs. Wink Rector, the FBI man who covered the U.P. out of Marquette, was a good guy, but even Wink pretty much towed the agency’s line, and Service had learned the hard way to be wary.

  Service walked outside and found Eddie Waco perched on a rock by the river. “How all y’all doin’ in ’ere?”

  “Whole lot of thunder and no lightning,” Service said.

  “Any word from thet Bonaparte feller?”

  “I’d be the last to know,” Service said. He still hadn’t even met the man.

  Eddie Waco propelled a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. “Make y’all wonder a-why they done brung you to the hoedown?”

  “It’s crossed my mind,” Service admitted, knowing it was time to nail Special Agent Monica’s ass to a record. How many days had he been gone? It seemed like a month, and he had not called the captain, the chief, or O’Brien. The captain and chief would both understand. Grant would explain to the priest he was out of state and on a case and didn’t have time. “Your man Cake be okay?” Service asked.

  “Cake’s Cake. He be lookin’ like a sick dawg with a thorn in his foot fer now, but he’ll get on, I reckon.”

  19

  ALTON, MISSOURI

  MAY 27, 2004

  Service waited until they had checked into a sleep-cheap in Alton for the night before calling Tatie Monica out to the parking lot. “Pappas get anything?”

  “Not yet. She’ll take the hard drive to St. Louis, see what she can recover. Don’t bother crossing your fingers.”

  “Then what?”

  “St. Louis will send more agents and we’ll canvas friends and associates of both vicks and see what we get. It would’ve been too easy if the computer gave us a trail,” she lamented.

  “As slick as this guy seems to be, you’d think he’d be stupid enough to use a computer?” he asked.

  “We’ll have to check it out to rule it out.”

  Slogans made Service cringe.

  “You can do without me. I think I’m going to head for home,” Service announced. He doubted that talking to hill people would give the FBI much more than they had. It was a tight society not open to outsiders unless they got vouched in by someone like Eddie Waco. He had work to do back home. Nantz’s killer was on the loose. He was wasting his time here. Also, if a serial killer planned to knock off a Michigan CO to fill his scorecard, Service had no business being out here. People needed to be warned.

  The FBI agent looked at him through squinty eyes. “Leaving on whose authority?”

  “My own,” he said. “I’m not in the homicide business.”

  “I already explained your value to the team and effort,” she countered, looking like she wanted to scream at him. After a pause and a glance at the night sky, she added, “How about waiting for Bonaparte? Will you do that?” She sounded like she was choking on her words.

  “When?” Service asked.

  “Soon,” she said.

  “Not good enough,” he shot back. “I ask questions and the check is always in the mail. When will he be here?”

  “Not here,” she said. “Wisconsin.”

  “When?” Service pressed.

  “First, we have to get things squared away here,” she said, clumsily negotiating for time.”

  “Dammit, Tatie, when?”

  “He’s supposed to be there tomorrow.”

  “Good. Get me on a plane tonight.”

  “I don’t have that kind of muscle.”

  “I’m out of here, one way or another.”

  He thought she was on the verge of a tantrum, but she toggled her handheld and said calmly, “Larry, call Wes and tell him we need a bird to transport Detective Service back to Iron Mountain.”

  Gasparino asked, “Now?”

  “Right now,” she said emphatically.

  “Wes?” Service asked.

  “My boss in Milwaukee.”

  The two of them stood in the parking lot not saying anything. A red Jeep Liberty pulled into a parking spot and a couple got out, laughing. When they started groping each other Tatie Monica growled, “Take that shit inside!” The startled couple fled.

  “Drives me crazy,” she said to Service, “us up to our asses in gore and people carrying on like the world is normal.”

  “It is normal,” Service said. “At least, it’s our job to make it seem that way.”

  Gasparino came outside. “Bonaparte’s here,” he said breathlessly.

  “Here?” Monica asked, unable to hide her surprise.

  “He walked into the hotel ten minutes ago
and wants a sit-down, ASAP.”

  Tatie Monica looked confused, then concerned. She turned to Service. “I guess you won’t need that plane.”

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  Cranbrook P. Bonaparte was a nondescript man with a receding hairline, pasty skin, and the benign, almost grandfatherly countenance of the legendary basketball coach, John Wooden. His eyes were pale green and he had a number-three pencil poised in his right hand. A half-dozen more pencils were on the coffee table atop a pocket protector, making it look like a raft. He also had a notepad, a cell phone, and a handheld radio in front of him. His squint suggested contacts or weak eyes. Service guessed his age as late fifties, give or take. A cane was hooked on the edge of the desk.

  When Service walked in with Monica and Gasparino, Bonaparte brightened and, looking at Service, stood, extended his hand, and said, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  The man’s voice was friendly and welcoming, his handshake neither too soft, nor too emphatic. Nothing about him suggested FBI. His shirt was wrinkled and he had a smudge above his shirt pocket.

  Tatie Monica said, “Detective Grady Service, Michigan Department of Natural Resources.”

  Bonaparte studied him. “Yes, of course.”

  “I thought he might add a unique perspective to the investigation, and he has already helped locate the kill site in Wisconsin by thinking like a trout fisherman.”

  Service picked up on her words. She thought? Hadn’t his involvement been the Wisconsin AG’s idea?

  “Excellent,” Bonaparte said. “Creative initiative, Special Agent Monica, invariably yields results.”

  They all sat down and Tatie Monica took Bonaparte through the Wisconsin killing, then the Missouri murder, adding, “Detective Service identified a witness who accompanied the dead man. The witness saw a woman he knew near the kill site. We later found her body. She was murdered in her home. She was a local deputy county sheriff.”

  “May have accompanied the vick,” Service corrected her. “And we haven’t found the actual kill site, but Culkin told us approximately where to look.”

  Tatie Monica looked over at him. “Culkin said Spargo met the woman, and with the storm coming in, we can’t be sure of the kill site, though the body was found not that far from where the witness thought the meeting took place.”

  When did she learn this? Service said, “That’s not what I heard Culkin say. Deputy Owens may have been at that scene, or she may have just set up a meet for Spargo—or neither.”

  “I heard what the man said,” Special Agent Monica said too forcefully.

  “We should wait for the autopsy to determine her TOD,” Service said.

  “Is that your professional opinion?” the FBI woman shot back.

  “Common sense.”

  Service expected Bonaparte to intervene, but he continued to scribble notes.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Service said.

  Tatie Monica resumed her report, explaining the theft and subsequent burial of the dead conservation agent’s body. Service thought he detected a twinkle in Bonaparte’s eye. Either he was enjoying Monica’s anguish, or he was just an agreeable sort, which seemed to fit his demeanor.

  When Tatie Monica finished, Bonaparte looked at Service. “Any other observations or constructive criticism you would care to share, Detective?”

  Jesus Christ, was the man inviting him to pile on? Was Bonaparte trying to irritate Monica? Service considered questioning his own role in the boondoggle, but decided this wasn’t the right time. He wanted ­clarification and direction, not more conflict and confusion. Monica allegedly had responded to the Wisconsin attorney general’s request to bring him into this, and he still didn’t fully understand why. Had she lied? “I’ve seen some things, but it would be useful to see all the case reports and wait for the autopsy on the Owens woman.”

  “All before these last two are in the computer,” Tatie Monica said. “We’ll get you a password.”

  “I’m not comfortable with the electronic world,” Service said. “I like the feel of paper in my hands.”

  “A man of traditional values,” Bonaparte said pleasantly, “a view I wholeheartedly share.”

  Service smiled and tried to get back to the point. “When can I get hard copies?”

  Monica looked at Gasparino, who left the room. Service quickly excused himself and followed the man out, leaving Tatie Monica and Bonaparte alone. “Larry, the case reports will include the list, right?” He tried to keep it light, a friendly afterthought.

  “Tatie’s the only one who issues copies of the list. It’s her baby.”

  “I lost mine,” Service lied. “Any chance to get another copy?”

  Gasparino paused before answering. “Sorry, it’s her rule; only she makes copies,” the young agent insisted.

  Shit, Service thought. “How about a quick look at yours? I just need to refresh my memory on something before I dig into the case reports.”

  Gasparino paused again, but shrugged and said, “Okay, man. When I get the other stuff—cool?”

  “Thanks,” Service said, and let himself back into the meeting room where a tight-lipped Tatie Monica passed him on her way out.

  “Ah,” Bonaparte said as Service sat down. “Your timing is propitious. I wanted some time alone with you, and let me say at the outset that I must apologize for Special Agent Monica’s impetuosity. She sometimes lets enthusiasm turn to zeal, which tends to overpower all reason. For example, I had no idea she would call in a favor from Wisconsin’s attorney general.”

  “What favor?”

  “To have you seconded to the investigative team.”

  “I’m not following this,” Service said, but he was. Seconded?

  “Your governor was asked to send you here so that Agent Monica could look after you. Your governor, of course, was not fully informed, and it’s a questionable judgment—albeit grounded in the best of intentions. This sort of knee-jerk reaction has marked her career.”

  What the hell was going on? Bonaparte had just taken a crap on the case’s lead agent.

  “Why would she want to ‘look after’ me?” He didn’t know whether to laugh out loud or let Bonaparte keep talking.

  “I have tried to convince her that we are in pursuit of the perfect killer,” Bonaparte said, “a killer who makes no mistakes—or if he does, cleanses them, the net result being perfection.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” Service said.

  Bonaparte said enthusiastically, “It comes down to faith, you see? Mankind accepts perfection in God by whatever name, and we are taught we are all made in the image of a creator, and while the vast majority fall short, statistical probability alone tells us there will be the occasional perfect human being.”

  Mother Teresa, Service could buy—maybe—but not a murderer. “What does any of this have to do with my being looked after?”

  “Precisely,” Bonaparte said, fluttering his eyebrows. “It’s not at all clear to me that a professional of your caliber needs protection, but she has developed the list, and that seems to be driving all of her decisions and tactics.”

  “List?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Bonaparte said wearily. “I’m surprised she hasn’t filled you in. When our analyst informed us of his findings, she immediately queried the states and asked them to rate their top officers in terms of effectiveness, aggressiveness, and so forth. God knows why, much less what all she threw into the stew,” Bonaparte said. “It’s ludicrous and presumptuous to think she could so easily develop a predictive instrument—or even attempt it—but that’s our Tatie, both decisive and intuitive, even when she’s wrong.”

  Ranking game wardens? Service nearly laughed until it suddenly dawned on him that his name must be on her list. Why else would she have singled him out? Gus Turnage was the best CO he knew, and he could think of at least t
en men and women in the state who deserved to be on such a list, and why the hell was Lansing even giving out such bullshit information?

  “The point is,” Bonaparte continued, “the killer simply switches targets, which folds opportunity cost into the equation. If Special Agent Monica mobilizes to protect A, he strikes B. This flexibility is part of his brilliance.”

  “B?”

  “Look at the situation in Missouri. The top-rated man on her list is an Agent Waco, but it was number two who got killed.”

  “Elray Spargo,” Service said, feeling his pulse quicken. “Are you telling me that my being here puts somebody else at risk back in my state?”

  “I’m speculating, but I would think there is an extremely high probability,” Bonaparte said solemnly. “The killer seems to have well-established goals.”

  “Are you suggesting that the best course for me is to retreat to my own turf and wait?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a retreat.”

  Service felt a bolt of ice in his heart. “Has he attacked families?”

  “Not yet; but given his adaptability, we can’t rule it out, can we? He’s creative, and if the analysis is correct, Michigan appears to be the final task in his mission.”

  “Monica brought me here to protect me,” Service said, still not taking the thought fully on board.

  “Good intentions, but poorly thought out,” Bonaparte said. “He could go after you anywhere. But on your own territory, presumably you would have the advantage.”

  “Has he killed a warden outside the warden’s state?”

  “No, but he’s both dedicated and creative. Most serial murderers are psychotic and essentially unstable. This one appears to be neither. A sociopath perhaps, but for whatever reason he seems to have set this mission for himself, and when it’s completed by the rules he’s set for himself, he’ll stop.”

  “That’s what your profile predicts?”