by Travis, Todd
“Besides, what did you accomplish staying up most of the night here, other than reviewing material you’ve already gone over again and again? You’re like those pretty faces on those goofy fucking TV shows, making noise for no reason.”
“Maybe I should take a break like you, catch a movie or something, next time we’re in a car chase.”
“As long as you’re not driving, I don’t care.”
“I don’t get you,” Kane said.
“And who says you will?” Thorne replied, turning to face her. “I told you, it’s all in the timing.”
“Yeah, I heard you, but what the fuck does that mean?”
“Listen to this music, how do you think it fits together?” Thorne held out his hand toward the song Etta James was most definitely feeling on his CD player. “The music in a song isn’t just simply the musical notes. It’s the space in between them. A song without strategically placed rests, or any rests at all, isn’t a song or music. Without the rests, without the timing, it’s nothing. It’s just noise. It’s just TV.”
Thorne turned his attention back to the chessboard. He made another move and turned the board around, viewing the situation from the other side. Kane watched him for a moment.
“Why do you do that?” Kane asked finally.
“Do what?”
“Play chess against yourself, you know that you’re guaranteed to lose that way, don’t you?”
“Also guaranteed to win.”
“So what’s the point?”
“You’re just making noise now, Kane, you’re bothering me. Why don’t you go play with your friends, Bo and Luke Duke? Speak of the devil, here’s the handsome bastards themselves.”
Gilday and Scroggins, his arm no longer in a sling, entered headquarters and walked over to them.
“You might want to see this,” Gilday turned on a nearby television. Forsythe’s large frame appeared, Hairston close by his side, on the screen at a press conference.
“In addition to evidence linking him to five of the murders, we have been able to extract a confession from Ryan Robertson, admitting to the crimes,” Forsythe took a dramatic pause. “We have determined that he is not responsible for any of the other disappearances or murders; in other words, he is NOT the criminal you all have labeled the Iceman.”
“We? What’s this WE shit?” Thorne grumbled.
“We do have a suspect in custody that we strongly believe is connected to the Iceman killings. We are waiting for the DNA results to come back from the lab before going before a grand jury. The search for Wendy Frederickson will continue until she is recovered. I and my task force will not rest until the man responsible for the Heartland Child Murders is brought to justice,” Forsythe concluded.
Scroggins switched the television off. “Loves a good sound bite, doesn’t he?”
“He’s STILL looking at that black guy for this?” Thorne asked.
“They just took Mitchell into custody this morning, he was hiding out. They got a swab on him about an hour ago after his lawyer got done screaming. They haven’t gotten the results back, but damn, Thorne, we do have a pubic hair from a black man on one of the bodies,” Gilday said. “Carl Mitchell’s African-American, a convicted child molester, he’s still the best bet.”
“Doesn’t matter, he didn’t do it. No black man did this. Read the file, Jethro, it’s all there.”
“You’re sure?” Scroggins asked.
“I’m not sure, I’m fucking certain. Why do people keep asking me that? Do I look like I’m fucking around here? I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t certain,” Thorne grumbled.
“You know what, hotshot?” Gilday said, crossing his arms. “You haven’t really said jack about the Iceman so far. Gerry and me stuck our necks out for you on Robertson and you came through, that’s true, but we’re here to catch the Iceman and all you’re doing is pissing on the locals. You’ve said he ain’t black and that he’s in the area, but other than that, you ain’t said shit.”
Thorne fixed Gilday with one of his looks. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“It is a challenge.”
“All right,” Thorne stood and went to the big map of Nebraska on the wall.
“Mitchell’s a pre-teen groper, he’s been caught with his hand in the candy jar more than once, in fact, the very fact that he’s been arrested disqualifies him, because the guy we’re looking for is much smarter than that. Mitchell is a high school dropout with the reading level of a fourth grader. The Iceman is not.
“The Iceman is a hunter, a stone-cold predator. He started up in here in North Platte a little over a year ago, right? Real slick, he operates a few months before anyone connects anything, slowly creeping east on Interstate Eighty. He picks a town, bags his kill and moves on. He stalks his victim, takes the child when he’s ready for it. These are not crimes of opportunity, he takes the kids when HE decides.
“He gets into locked houses and buildings, once he even got into a locked car. He never seems to take the easy route in any of his abductions, goes for the three-pointer every time. And notice how deliberate he is about where he leaves his kills, when he does leave them; bodies have been left on playgrounds, in churches and most importantly on school grounds.
“Why? He leaves them where other children will see. So they know what he has done. This guy is smart and cold, he doesn’t get rattled, does his job and enjoys his work, the cuts on the bodies smooth, clean and straight. That’s not Carl Mitchell, just looking at his file you can tell that.”
“Okay, say the pubic hair isn’t Mitchell’s,” Gilday said, “but it could still belong to the Iceman, right?”
“Not a chance. He’s organized, smart, knows procedure and forensics and in over twenty kills has managed to never leave any distinct physical evidence other than what he chooses … until now? Now he leaves a pubic hair? Don’t buy it. He’s fucking with us. It’s a classic red herring, this guy’s studied up on what we do, how we do it and he threw a curveball at us. Pubic hair? That suggests sexual interaction and I don’t think so. Doesn’t add up, that isn’t what this guy is.”
“What is he?” Kane asked.
“White male, thirty to forty, well dressed and well traveled, served in the military and I’ll bet he served with distinction. Likely divorced or something close to it. High IQ and educated, couple years of college. He’s got a job that allows him to travel a lot, maybe a salesmen, truck driver, anything like that. I think he’s a police buff, has a scanner, knows police procedure. He would probably like to be a cop,” Thorne paused a moment. “He may even believe that he thinks like a cop.
“This guy looks and acts just like everyone else but inside he’s different. Inside he’s not like anybody. He’s a hunter, and he’s after prize kills. Notice the victims here are all from stable homes, middle-class to wealthy. He targets the most protected ones, the victims that are the challenge to acquire.
“But he’s smart about it, he’s a sick fuck but he’s not stupid. He’s had these fantasies for a long time and now he’s letting them loose. This is the Iceman, this is the only thing he likes to do so he’s very careful about it.”
“If he’s this good, how can we catch him?” Scroggins asked.
“Three things for now. First thing, check the map. Mark the towns in his path that have not yet been hit. Look for a medium-sized community, five hundred to two thousand, that’s what he likes best, and it’s gotta have its own school, that’s important. Start staking out the schoolyards, churches and playgrounds, especially at night. Have cops everywhere. He’s gotta drop the next one soon.”
“He doesn’t always drop them.”
“He’ll drop this one. Put out a call for volunteers to help with this, call it a national neighborhood watch or some shit, I don’t care, but take applications for it. Use these guys as eyes, but only let them have radios, no weapons, and they only watch for the Iceman in pairs. This is very important.”
“Why is that?” Gilday asked.
“Be
cause you’re going to screen the volunteers. Odds are, the Iceman’s going to try and involve himself in the investigation in any way that he can.”
“They already got something similar to that up and running,” Scroggins said. “We’ll take it over, make it bigger and control it, that’s a good idea.”
“Screen everyone, even those that have been doing it. He’ll have to involve himself if he hasn’t already, he won’t be able to help it,” Thorne said. “Look, and look hard, at any volunteer that fits the profile and especially any ex-military.”
“Jesus, do you know how many veterans there are around here?” Gilday exclaimed. “This is the Midwest, serving in the military is the thing you do if you can’t play college ball.”
“Shit, Jeff and I are both Gulf War vets ourselves,” Scroggins said.
“Which one?” Kane asked.
“First one. The good one,” Gilday answered.
“Next, release a negative profile of this guy to the media, portray him as a ticking time bomb who’s definitely going to self-destruct any day now. We label him impotent, sloppy and psychotic. Kane, this is where you can get creative; he already thinks we’re stupid, so let’s go all the way and challenge the shit out of him. Write something up and make it sound as bad as you can. Grab him by the short and curlies, Kane.”
“If he’s that smart, won’t he see right through it?”
“You bet, but he’ll still do something about it. This guy’s got a huge ego and he will not be able to let it go unanswered. The minute Carl Mitchell is cleared by the lab I want the profile on the evening news in big capital fucking letters.”
“We go to the media the captain is going pitch a fit unless it’s from him and his team.”
“Hell yes, he’s going to have kittens and I can tell you right now he’s not going to want to release any misinformation, reporters hate that and the captain thinks they trust him. There’s going to be a shitstorm.”
“Nobody said it would be easy, boys,” Thorne interrupted them. “You asked and you have received. Get your spurs jingling and jangling and move it.”
“Wait,” Kane said, “you said three things. What’s the third thing?”
“That is the third thing,” Thorne replied. “We WAIT. Wait for him. He’s going to show himself to us eventually. He won’t be able to resist.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
When school got out, children played in the snow on the playground as they waited for their parents. A school bus loaded up some of the kids from outlying farms, watched over warily by a beefy local cop. Darcy Mullens waited obediently just inside the school door next to her teacher Mrs. Goodwin. Darcy looked wistfully at the other kids playing in the snow, but rules were rules.
The Iceman watched Darcy from his car across the street. He glanced at the other children, but Darcy was the one that held his attention. He breathed heavily as he watched.
Barb Mullens, a red stocking cap down tight over her blonde hair, pulled up in her blue Ford Escort and honked. Darcy waved good-bye to Mrs. Goodwin, ran to her mother’s car and got into the already open passenger door. Barb Mullens drove off.
The Iceman watched them go. He had an idea now.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Thorne sat with his feet up on his desk, staring at his chessboard, supplanting that with an occasional glance out the window where fat snowflakes fell heavily in the night. Kane approached his desk, file in hand, and sat down next to him. Thorne had a faraway look in his eye, one that grabbed hold of him on rare occasions.
Kane had noticed that Thorne was almost sociable when he got this look. She didn’t associate it with the music he had currently playing on his CD player, not even knowing who Charlie “Bird” Parker was.
“Here’s the release, I sent a copy to Norm and everyone; what do you think?” Kane handed him her creation. Thorne gave it a quick read.
“Good. This should piss him off; you all but said he has a tiny dick. There may be hope for you yet.”
“Jeff and Gerry got this into the pipeline and everything else that you said is rolling forward. Anything else we can do?” Kane asked.
“Just wait,” Thorne said absently.
“Anything else we can do besides that?”
“Nothing else we can do at this point.”
Kane fidgeted for a moment. “I hate waiting.”
“I don’t know anybody that really likes it,” Thorne said. “Ever watch the nature channel? Only decent thing on television these days. I love that shit, I really love watching the polar bears hunt, you ever see that? A polar bear will sit watching a hole in the ice for hours until finally a seal pops its head up for a half a second to catch a breath of air and zip-zip, BING! Polar bear’s got himself a seal sandwich.”
“So you’re certain that he will pop his head up?” Kane asked.
“Remember rule number one. I am always right.”
“I don’t like that story. I like seals.”
“Too bad, you want to be a profiler, you’re going to have to learn to like polar bears.”
“Why does the Iceman do what he does?”
“You tell me,” Thorne made a move on his board.
“Sex thing?”
“What is he, Kane? WHAT does he do?”
“He’s a hunter.”
“And why do hunters hunt?”
“Well, for sport.”
“Why else?”
“For …” It suddenly dawned on her and Kane gawked at Thorne, open-mouthed.
“That’s right,” Thorne said. “They do. And sometimes they do it for both of those reasons, like our boy here.”
“But how do you know …”
“Why else do we only find just pieces of victims, here and there? He’s careful, he doesn’t want us know, at least not yet, but that’s exactly what he’s doing. Look at the pictures, look at how the bodies have been cut, do you think that’s accidental? Think about it. It’s the only explanation.”
“Why haven’t you said anything to anyone else about this?”
“I haven’t even really said it to you. You came up with this on your own. But to answer your question: Timing, Kane. All in the timing.”
“Oh my God. So that’s why?”
“That’s part of why. Not the whole part of why, but a big part. When we can break down the rest of the why, then we’ll know where and who and we’ll be there before he cracks open the A-1 sauce.”
Kane was silent for a moment. “I’ve seen a lot of things, bad things, working DC Homicide isn’t Disneyland, but … I don’t know how some people can do the things they can do.”
“You’re on that HOW thing again. Come on, Kane, there are three or four billion people on this planet. They all do weird shit and there’s no real explanation for it. I don’t understand the attraction rollerblading holds for people, or how anyone can listen to gangsta rap, but it happens. It’s there, it happens. People do it.
“No rhyme or reason other than that the shit that people do is the shit that people do. Learn it, live it and know it. One of the few constants in life, Kane,” Thorne selected a rook on his chessboard and moved it, “is that shit happens.”
Kane had to think about that for a couple of minutes. “Thorne, do you believe in life after death?”
“I’m still not sure about life before death.”
“There’s got to be a reason for things like this. I have to believe that.”
“That’s all those bullshit TV shows speaking for you. All right, Kane,” Thorne lowered his feet and rubbed his hands together.
“Let’s do a little exercise. Picture in your mind a young boy, one with no real friends, no brothers or sisters, one whose parents alternately ignore and abuse. Got the picture? Okay, now you know what this little boy’s doing? He’s killing bugs. In his spare time he’s killing all the bugs he can, mashing caterpillars, pulling legs off of grasshoppers, digging up anthills and going to war with them.
“He kills bugs all the time. He’s real creat
ive about it too, douses them with glue and lighter fluid and anything else he can get his hands on. He gets real good at it. Now. Tell me. Why does he do that?”
“Killing bugs gives him a sense of power in his life,” Kane replied, her eyes lighting up. “He lives a life which is subject to the whims of others, one where he’s not in control, he doesn’t get a choice in what happens. Killing bugs gives him a chance to be in control, the ability to choose who lives, who doesn’t. Right?”
“Wrong. That’s the television answer. The real answer: He just likes killing bugs. That’s just what he is, a bug killer. He does it because he likes it and that’s what he is. Maybe he’ll grow up and become a bug exterminator, maybe he’ll move up the killing chain from bugs to animals to people.
“One we don’t concern ourselves with, the other we do. But it doesn’t change what he is and always will be, a killer,” Thorne leaned back and put his feet back up on his desk. “And our job is to be able to know a killer when we see him, bug, animal or otherwise.”
“But …”
“No buts. You want to know how I do what I do, there it is.”
Forsythe suddenly appeared in their line of vision, very red in the face. He stomped over to the federal officers and, with one swipe of a meaty paw, knocked Thorne’s feet off the table where they were resting comfortably.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing? Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t dictate policy HERE, you don’t delegate actions or tell ANYONE on this task force WHAT TO DO!” Forsythe was screaming now, spittle flying from his mouth.
Heads from nearby desks popped up to watch and listen to the fireworks. Thorne simply stared at Forsythe impassively.
“Now, you may have pulled a slick trick or two outa your ass, you MAY have done that, but I don’t care what you think you’ve accomplished,” Forsythe continued. “I’m in charge of this operation here. Either accept that or get the fuck OUT! If I have to go to the governor to make that clear to you, I will do that. I am THE BOSS! And do you know what that means? It means you DON’T DO ANYTHING WITHOUT CHECKING WITH ME FIRST!
