by Shawn Ryan
"I told you before. I don't want any more of your tips," Bradley said.
"Don't be so sure, boy," Quintard said, an edge in his voice. "Just pay me the courtesy of a listen."
Bradley was silent for a few seconds. "Okay, go ahead," he said, grudgingly.
"I understand that until the murder of that little Ortega boy, Medlocke hadn't been in the office for several days, that he was up on Lake Altoona," Quintard said. "It makes me wonder what a detective is doing on vacation when there's a murder investigation going on. What do you think?"
"I've already gotten a tip on that," Bradley said. "I called both Captain Silverman and Detective Franklin. Both said Medlocke was handling some family emergency at the lake with his father. Silverman added that he thought Jason could use the days off to recharge his batteries. According to what I heard, there was nothing working on the investigation. They'd exhausted all their leads, run down all the possibilities. I knew Medlocke was gone, but I don't see that taking a few days off affected the investigation one way or the other."
"I disagree," Quintard said. "If he had been here working, instead of off gallivanting, maybe these latest murders wouldn't have taken place. I don't think he was doing his job."
"Is that why you requested that he and Franklin come to Tuesday's commission meeting, so you could bring this up, throw it in his face?"
"That request was made by the commission," Quintard said.
"Yes, but according to the county clerk, it was a request that originated with you. You were the one who had her put it on the agenda."
"I just want the people of this county to know what's being done about these killings," Quintard said.
"Is that all?" Bradley said.
"That's it," Quintard said. "Can I expect to see you at the commission meeting?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
Quintard hung up and reached into his drawer for the always-present bottle. He took a slug straight from it.
The wheels were in motion and they were going to crush those fuckers Medlocke and Franklin like dogs on the freeway. No way those two could refuse the request to appear before the commission, not if they wanted to keep some semblance of dignity and respect from the people in Gwinnett.
He'd have their asses at best, but at the very least he intended to have their jobs. He'd get them out of Gwinnett, perhaps out of Atlanta if he could. Then there'd be no one to stand in his way.
He raised the bottle of Jim Beam to the ceiling as though giving a toast.
Thank you, Mr. Mercy Killer, he thought as he gazed at the treetops outside his office window. Thank you for being so smart and so hard to catch. I owe you one.
Chapter 28
« ^ »
What Quintard didn't know was that the Mercy Killer had finally made a mistake. A big one.
As the forensic technicians examined the scene around Nina Bartlett's body at the old courthouse, they found a huge dent in one of the dumpsters sitting in back of the building, as if someone had backed a car into it. The day before the body was found, the dumpster was emptied during routine pickup about seven in the evening. Jack Edelman, the man driving the garbage truck, said there was no dent in it then.
Technicians carefully scraped a trace of metallic brown paint off the blue dumpster and rushed the evidence back to the lab. Examination under the electron microscope and chemical spectography computer revealed the paint came from a 1984 Chevrolet Caprice.
"Oh goddamn, oh goddamn," Badger kept saying, pacing back and forth from his desk to Jason's. "We've got the sonuvabitch. We've got the bastard cold. How many brown 1984 Caprices can there be in this county?"
Twelve, according to the list transmitted from the Department of Motor Vehicles. Jason and Badger hovered over the teletype machine as the alphabetized list rolled off. Their eyes froze on the third name down.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Badger whispered.
"Oh, it can't be that fucking simple," Jason said.
Joseph Benton.
"I don't remember seeing a Caprice in his driveway," Badger said.
"They have a garage," Jason said. "It might have been parked in there. Or he might have had it hidden."
"Let's check it out," Badger said.
The two practically ran to the car. Badger floored it coming out of the station and headed toward Benton's accounting offices off Peachtree Industrial Boulevard. When they pulled into the office park, a seemingly never-ending series of low-slung beige buildings, they scanned the parking lot in front of Benton's office for a brown Caprice. There was none.
"Maybe he's at lunch," Badger offered.
A secretary said Benton might be at lunch, but not in Georgia. He had driven to Charlotte Sunday to handle some business for a client, she said. Then the phone rang and she excused herself. She spoke into the receiver for a moment, then said, "Let me check on that." Getting up, she went into Benton's office. The sound of a metallic file drawer being pulled open came from inside.
Badger poked Jason hard in the ribs and Jason almost grunted from the force of the blow. "What the fuck are you doing?" he whispered in a hard voice. Badger nodded his head toward the open door of Benton's office. A desk was visible through the door, a typing table next to it. Sitting on the typing table was a typewriter—a huge, gray IBM that must have been at least twenty years old. Jason felt his heart begin to pound.
The secretary came back into the reception area, closing the door behind her. She picked up the phone and spoke into it for a few seconds before hanging up. Then she turned her attention back to Jason and Badger.
"I expect Mr. Benton back this afternoon," she said. "Can I give him a message?"
"No, thank you. It's just business related, nothing really important," Jason lied. "We'll call back later in the day."
"Can I have your names?" she asked, but Jason and Badger already were on their way out the door.
Once they arrived at headquarters, Jason relayed a message to the dispatcher: Tell all patrol cars in the area to keep an eye on Benton's office and to report immediately if his car returns. He also told patrol to cruise by Benton's home just in case he went there instead of the office. Under no circumstances was Benton to be accosted or arrested, he said. Just keep him under observation and report back.
Badger started pulling together a background check on Benton, seeing if there were any abnormalities in his past, any time spent in mental hospitals, any previous arrests. Nothing turned up. His background was exactly what one would expect from a man like Benton—dull and routine.
While Badger was doing the background check, Jason spent his time trying to determine Benton's whereabouts over the past two months, to see if any patterns emerged, to see if he could pinpoint Benton's whereabouts on the day of each murder. It was not easy to do without arousing suspicion and he didn't want anyone to alert Benton. So Jason gently poked and prodded without any conclusive results.
According to Benton's wife, he'd been asleep in bed next to her every night since Amanda's death. Of course, she'd had a little trouble sleeping so she generally took something to help her, she said. Nothing strong, you understand, just something to relax her. Jason recognized the slurred speech of someone who'd been drinking heavily for a long time.
Yes, her husband had worked some late nights at the office, but he'd always done that. As a CPA, his tax crunch time began well before April fifteenth and lasted long after. "Why all the questions?" she finally asked.
"Just making sure our records are complete, Mrs. Benton," Jason said. "This is strictly routine. We're going back over everything trying to see if we've missed something. Apparently we haven't in your husband's case. Thank you for your time."
Benton's secretary was more suspicious than Mrs. Benton, probably because her mind wasn't fogged by alcohol and drugs, Jason reasoned. At first she wouldn't answer any questions, saying Benton himself would be the one to talk to. But Jason gently persuaded her that the only reason they needed this information was to know where Benton was in case th
ey needed to get in touch with him quickly.
"That'll be hard to do," she said. "There are many days when Mr. Benton is out and about for a good part of the day, visiting clients at their offices, down at the library looking up tax laws, attending meetings. Your best bet would be to call me because I always know where he's at."
"Does he have a beeper?" Jason asked.
"Yes."
"May I have the number? That might make it easier to contact him."
The secretary hesitated a moment, then relented. "888-0983," she said.
"That number is similar to mine," Jason lied casually. "Is that a Circuitron beeper?"
"No, it's from Advance Plus Systems," the secretary said.
Jason thanked her for her help, told her he'd be back in touch if he needed any more information, then immediately turned around and called Advance Plus. When he asked for a list of the phone calls that had been made to Benton's beeper over the past three months, the owner of Advance Plus stonewalled.
"That's privileged information," the man said.
"I know and I can get a court order to have you release it, or you can streamline the whole process by just giving it to me," Jason said. "The latter is much easier and more pleasant, but I'll leave the final decision up to you."
The man was silent, then said: "I'll need to speak to my lawyer. Can I get back to you?"
Damn! Jason said inwardly, but over the phone he calmly and amicably said: "Certainly."
The next hour or so passed excrutiatingly slowly. Pencils tapped and knees quivered nonstop. The cold front that dumped an afternoon of rain on the city did nothing to liven most of their spirits.
Jason, however, was feeling a little better about things.
The fact that a concrete suspect—a human one—had been found was like a godsend to him. If Benton was the man—and Jason was beginning to believe he was, if only for his own mental well-being—it meant that his fears about Moloch being involved were unfounded. The whirlwind of activity of the past several hours had prevented Jason from calling his father to discuss the matter, but now it seemed as if he didn't need to. There was nothing supernatural about these child murders. They were the work of insanity.
About three in the afternoon, the phone on Jason's desk rang. He almost knocked it off his desk lunging for it.
"Medlocke here."
"Hi baby," Alex said in a wispy voice.
"Oh hi," Jason answered. "What's up?"
"I went to the doctor this morning," she said.
Jason noticed a different quality to her voice, a faraway note, as if she were floating somewhere in the ozone.
"And? What did he say?" he asked. "What's the matter with you?"
"The matter with me is you," she said. "Or rather something you gave to me."
"What? Am I some sort of Typhoid Mary? What'd I give you?"
"A baby."
Jason almost choked on the sip of coffee he had taken. He sucked some of the liquid down his windpipe and sprayed it all over Badger while coughing it up.
"Goddamn!" Badger hollered as he was showered with coffee. "Cover your mouth."
It took several seconds and several more coughs before Jason could speak again. When he did, his voice was a croak.
"A baby?" he whispered. "You're pregnant?"
Badger's head shot up from his chest where he was wiping the coffee off with a napkin. An expression of both alarm and joy registered on his face. He jumped up from his chair and started bouncing around the office like an overgrown teddy bear on springs.
"A baby? Oh fuck, that's great," he said. "Or is it? That's good, isn't it? I mean, you want one, don't you? I mean, you love her, don't you? I mean, a baby. Jesus, that's great. Isn't it?"
Jason waved his hand at him, telling him to shut up.
"Alex, is he sure?" he asked.
"Oh yeah, he's positive," she said, then paused. "The pills I've been taking weren't strong enough. I'd been off birth control for a while and got back on it just before I met you to try to regulate my periods. My gynecologist and I still were trying to find the right dosage when I found you."
Jason didn't say anything.
"Well, what are we going to do?" Alex said.
"What do you mean what are we going to do?"
"I mean, what are we going to do? We're not married, you remember. Are we going to get married?"
"I… I don't know. I mean, I guess that'd be the thing to do. I just hadn't thought much about it I mean, I had, but not really…"
"Jason, don't you want this baby?" she asked.
"Well, sure. I mean, yeah. Damn, Alex, this is a total shock. What do you want me to say?"
Alex waited for a few seconds before she spoke again.
"Jason, there's something I haven't told you yet, but now seems to be the time," she said. "I had an abortion when I was sixteen. I got pregnant from my high school boyfriend. I'm not going through that again. Whether we get married or not, I'm going to have this baby. I want you to be its father, not just a biological father, but the one that raises his child, who's there when a knee gets skinned or a hug is needed. Are you willing to do that?"
"Yeah, yeah, I guess I am," Jason stammered. "It's just such a surprise. I don't know what to say. Listen, can you come home today? We need to talk about this and I'm wrapped up in this case. I'm expecting a very important phone call any second."
"Yeah, I was going to come home today anyway," she said. "I'll call you when I get in. Will you be at home or the office?"
"I don't know. Try both. I'll be at one or the other."
"Okay, I'll call you later. And Jason? I love you."
"I love you, too," he said and hung up.
Badger was standing over him, a huge grin on his face. When he saw Jason's expression, the smile faded around the edges.
"Hey, this is great, buddy," he said, slapping Jason on the back. "A baby. You virile stud you."
Jason smiled—sort of.
"I guess you're right. I don't know. Shit, Badger. One more thing on my shoulders. like I don't have enough problems already."
"Hey, this isn't a problem," Badger said. "It's a solution. Man, I've been watching you for almost two years, ever since you lost Sarah and Claire. You can hem and haw and say it's too soon, and you're not ready, but that's bullshit. Your mood has improved one hundred percent since you met Alex. She's the best thing that could've happened to you. I mean, it's not as if you have to get married, at least not yet. Plenty of couples have babies without being married. And I suspect that, given a few weeks to think about it, you'll decide marriage is right for you anyway. You're not exactly the bar-hopping type."
"Maybe," Jason said. "But wouldn't Quintard just love to get his teeth into the fact that Alex and I aren't married but we have a baby?"
"Fuck him," Badger said. "Bringing up something like that up will only make him look like a fool. People around here don't much care for having their private lives snooped into, especially if you're just an average guy and not a politician."
Despair filled Jason's eyes and he looked up at Badger. "But what about Sarah and Claire," he asked. "Am I staining their memories?"
Badger sat down on the edge of Jason's desk. His face got serious.
"You love Sarah and Claire," he said quietly. "You'll always love them. And they'll always love you. There's no way they'd want you to pass up a chance for happiness. I know Sarah wouldn't. She wasn't that kind of woman."
"Maybe," Jason said. "Maybe."
The conversation was interrupted by the ringing phone. Jason answered it.
"Medlocke."
"Detective Medlocke, this is Anthony Bradley from Channel Two. Have you got a minute?"
"Is it about Benton?" Badger whispered.
Jason shook his head and Badger sat down in his chair with a sigh and a whispered "Fuck."
Jason felt disappointment, too, and let it color his voice.
"Yeah, I got a minute, but that's about all," he said cooly.
Bradley
hesitated for a moment and Jason could hear him taking a long breath. God, here comes some shit, he thought.
"First of all, I want to apologize for that incident a few weeks ago," Bradley said. "I realize I went too far. I shouldn't have asked such personal questions. They had nothing to do with the investigation. It's just that I'm new to the station. I was trying to make a good impression on my bosses. Be a hard-assed reporter, ask the tough questions, and all that. But my editor reamed me out when he heard what happened. Said I'd acted like an asshole. And I had to agree with him."
Jason was taken aback by Bradley's honesty. He hardly knew what to say. Reporters are humans, too, he figured, and everyone acts like a dipshit sooner or later. Can't hold that against a person for the rest of his life.
"Well, I agree that you acted like an asshole, but I accept your apology," he told Bradley.
"Thanks. I appreciate it. Maybe one of these days I can buy you lunch and we can start over on a fresh footing."
"Is that all you wanted, to apologize?"
"No, as a matter of fact, I was calling to see if you were going to accept the commission's invitation to attend the meeting tonight," Bradley said.
Shit, Jason thought, I forgot all about that. Although he probably shouldn't attend, he didn't see any way to get out of it. If he didn't show, the public would think he had something to hide. If he did show, chances were Quintard was going to pull some shit out of his hat and try to embarrass him. Either way, the equation figured against him.
"Yeah, I guess I'll be there," he said. "But to be honest with you, I don't see any way that it will help things. It will only throw gasoline on an already hot fire."
"I think you're right," Bradley said. "You know this request was issued by Quintard."
"I'm not surprised," Jason said.
"Well, for all his windbag tendencies, he seems to be a pretty shrewd wheeler-dealer," Bradley said. "He's made it almost impossible for you to refuse. One other thing—and I'm probably violating all the rules on reporter ethics here, but I feel I owe you—Quintard called me about your recent trip out of town with your father. He wanted me to investigate it, said he thought it was dereliction of duty."
