by Shawn Ryan
McCracken cleared his throat to ask another question, but Quintard jumped in.
"Detective Medlocke, this killer doesn't seem to be making any missteps," Quintard continued. "In fact, he seems to be doing a good job of spitting in the face of the police department. He left one boy's poor, wretched body only a few feet from the doorstep of police headquarters. And yet you say you still can't catch him. Not even when he's that close?"
"Commissioner, closeness makes no difference if we don't know he's there. And we are not physically capable of having someone positioned at every spot in the county where a body may be found. I wish we could. We've got our patrol officers doing double shifts, trying to keep an eye on things."
"Why not use the FBI?" Commissioner Carrington asked.
"We are," Jason said. "The FBI has cooperated with us in every way possible, allowing us access to their files, their computers, their expertise. But murder falls under state laws, not federal, so it's not in their jurisdiction and they have other cases they must allocate their manpower to solving. Still, we talk to them almost every day, just to keep them abreast, to get their advice."
"I think the bottom line is, Detective Medlocke, are you capable of finding the killer?" Quintard said. "If so, why haven't you? Is there something wrong at the police department? Why is it so hard to catch someone who already has killed five? Don't you feel responsible?"
Jason sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. This was an important answer.
"I feel responsible in the same way that any detective feels responsible when a killing takes place on his beat," Jason said. "Ever since the first killing, there've been many nights when I've lain awake, trying to figure out if I missed something somewhere, overlooked a clue, neglected a possible lead. But I haven't found any. Detective Franklin has done the same thing, and so have many other officers in the Gwinnett County Police Department. When murders like this take place, it affects the whole department. We all work at finding the killer. But whoever is doing these killings—and we are assuming it's one person—is very intelligent, very crafty. He's covering his tracks well."
"Does that mean he's more intelligent than you and Detective Franklin?" Quintard asked.
Jason smiled. Motherfucker, Quintard thought.
"Let's just say that, at this moment, he's been luckier," Jason said. "But that will change."
"Are you saying that you're hoping for luck to catch this killer?" McCracken asked.
"Isn't that a rather superstitious and inconclusive way to handle a case?" Quintard quickly added.
"Believe it or not, luck plays a major role in many investigations," Jason said. "An unexpected tip from a witness you didn't know existed, a clue found in an out-of-the-way place, an anonymous phone call, all those can be counted as luck.
"But no, we're not placing all our hopes on a lucky break. That would be foolish. As I said before, we're tracking down a few leads at this moment. And we're going by the book in the investigation, using every scientific and investigative tool at our disposal.
"Believe me," Jason continued, directing his statement to the audience, "no one wants this murderer more than the police do. Nobody wants him more than I do. I lost a daughter in a car wreck about two years ago, so I understand what the loss of a child does to a parent. It rips out your soul. We at the department are doing everything we can to catch this killer."
Damn him, Quintard thought. He's playing this too slick. Why wasn't Franklin here? With his hot head, he could get a sarcastic or biting response to turn the crowd his way. Medlocke was too cool. It was time for his trump card.
"Well, Detective Medlocke, you say these killings are horrible to you and that you're doing everything you can to solve them. If that's so, then why were you at a cabin on Lake Altoona for the past five days, enjoying the scenery while our children were being murdered around our homes?"
The crowd rumbled with the new information. Jason waited for the noise to die down. He was expecting this question.
"The explanation is simple," he said smoothly. "First of all, I was up there for only three days, not five. Second, I was up there with my father, taking care of some urgent family business. It was business that required solitude and the lake seemed a good spot. I cleared the days with my superior, Captain Silverman. There was nothing new working on the investigation, and my partner, Detective Franklin, was fully capable of handling the day-to-day checkups on the case. Third, I needed the break. Like anyone else who works for a long time on a single task, I was getting too close to the investigation. I needed a few days to recharge my batteries, come back with a new perspective."
"But can't something new break on the case at any time?" Commissioner Carrington asked.
"Yes it can, and I gave my partner strict instructions to call me the moment anything did," Jason said. "He called me less than an hour after the fourth child was found. I came back immediately."
"What sort of business did you and your father discuss?" Quintard asked. "Why was it so important?"
"It was business of a personal nature," Jason answered. "What it was is not relevant to this investigation. Let's just say it was some old family business that needed to be taken care of."
"Perhaps if you had been doing your job instead of pursuing personal business, the last two killings would not have taken place," Quintard said.
Jason had had just about enough. There was no real information being dredged up here. Quintard was just trying to trip him, make him look like a fool. It was time to put this to rest, but it must be done with skill.
"Let me ask you, commissioner, since you seem to have such a firm grip on what is and isn't being done, what could we do that we haven't done already?" Jason asked.
Quintard blinked several times. He hadn't expected Medlocke to go on the offensive. The question caught him off guard and he stammered for an answer.
"Well… it's… it's not my job to find the killer, it's yours," he said.
"Precisely, commissioner," Jason said. "It is my job. And I'm doing the best that I can. The whole department is doing the best it can. Look at the bags under my eyes or the eyes of any other officer on the force. If you want to know how hard we're working, take a look at the amount of overtime that's been authorized to work on this case. We're all working our tails off. So why don't you stop badgering us, hounding us with useless things like this, and let us do what we're paid to do?"
A smattering of applause broke out across the audience. Quintard reached up and wiped sweat from his forehead. This wasn't going well at all. He heard the crowd grumbling with displeasure. "What the fuck is Quintard doing?" one voice whispered. "He's jerking us off," came the answer.
With their anger unfocused, Jason was no longer the target. Quintard realized the crowd was turning on him. He was losing control of the situation. He could see his future political plans blowing away on their anger. He had to do something and he went for his last shot.
"How does your alcoholism affect your handling of the case?" he asked.
The audience rumbled again, but Jason just gave Quintard a cold stare. He'd been expecting this question, too.
"It doesn't affect me," he said. "I haven't had a drink in almost a year. At the time of my drinking problem, I had just lost my wife and child in a car accident. That's no excuse, but it's a reason."
"Didn't you almost kill a man in a car wreck while you were drinking?" Quintard asked.
"Yes, myself," Jason answered, then squared his shoulders. "But I assume you're talking about the man whose truck I hit. He escaped without any injuries at all. I was in the hospital for weeks. Afterward, I entered a rehabilitation clinic."
Once again, Jason turned to the crowd.
"I've never tried to keep my alcoholism a secret. Everyone who has been around me, my superiors, my co-workers, even the reporters who cover this beat, are aware of it. It's simply a problem that I deal with. It doesn't affect my job."
The crowd murmured and fretted. Quintard looked at it with hor
ror. All he saw was a ravenous beast ready to pounce. The beast was angry and irritated, wanting to taste blood and catching only air. Quintard had promised, but not delivered.
"I believe that's enough," McCracken said. "I'm satisfied with Detective Medlocke's answers. I recommend that we adjourn. Do I hear a second?"
"No!" Quintard protested. "I have more questions. Important questions."
"I doubt it," McCracken said as several people in the crowd chuckled.
"But I want to know about Detective Medlocke's connection with a woman named Alex Cotton," Quintard blurted out. "Someone he's been spending a great deal of time with, time perhaps better spent on these murders."
Jason felt his face flush and the tingling erupted in his muscles. How dare this fat bastard bring up Alex's name! He began to rise but forced himself down. At the same time, a dark cloud rumbled across McCracken's face.
"That is enough," McCracken roared. "I will not have Detective Medlocke's personal life dragged through these proceedings for your benefit, Anson. I move that we call this meeting to a close."
"Second," Commissioner Carrington said.
"All in favor say aye," McCracken said. Four ayes were heard.
Quintard silently fumed, seeing nothing but the remains of his career crumbling before his eyes. That and black hatred.
Before McCracken could slam the gavel down to officially close the meeting, someone in the audience stood up. Jason, who had been looking at McCracken, turned his head to see who had risen.
Joseph Benton.
The man still looked deathly ill, his face covered in a sheen of sickly sweat, his eyes glassy and dull. As he stood, he swayed unsteadily, but he managed to keep his feet. Everyone in the audience froze; those beginning to get up slowly sat back down.
"Detective Medlocke, my name is Joseph Benton. My daughter is… was… Amanda Benton, the first child to die. I'm sure you recognize me."
Jason nodded.
"Mr. Benton, this meeting is over," McCracken said. "I'm sure if you wish to speak with Detective Medlocke, you can schedule—"
"I only have one question," Benton intoned. "Why?"
" 'Why,' Mr. Benton? I'm not sure I understand," Jason said.
"Why did my daughter die? Why was she choked to death? Why was her head cut off and her eyes gouged out? Why was she raped after she was dead?"
The crowd gasped at these new revelations. Not everything had been printed in the papers or broadcast on TV.
"Why does this devil call himself the Mercy Killer when he kills innocent children? Why not a more appropriate name… like Moloch?"
As the name rippled across the lips of the crowd, Jason almost lost his composure. The room started to spin and he could feel the blood begin to sink from his face. If he didn't regain his composure soon, his skin would turn pale and waxy for everyone to see. Closing off the outside world, he called upon the power, felt it rise slowly inside him. But not too much, just enough to maintain, just enough to get back to an even keel.
"What do you mean, Moloch?" Quintard asked, leaping at this final offering. When Benton stood there zombielike, he turned to Jason.
"What does he mean, Moloch?" he demanded. "Is that the name of this killer? Are you hiding something from us?"
"No," Jason said, trying to sound calmly assured. "Mr. Benton obviously knows something about religious mythology. Moloch is the Phoenician god of death. He demanded child sacrifices. And yes, we came across it in our research into these murders only because the computer kicked it out when we were looking for links between religion and ritual killings."
Quintard said nothing, but his eyes shot poisoned darts at Jason. Judging from the look on Quintard's face, Jason didn't think he believed his story. But Jason didn't give a rat's ass. All he was focusing on now was Benton, who'd brought up the one name Jason did not want to hear.
Jason's mind hummed with the implications. Was it just a random name that Benton pulled out of his memory? Or was it something more? Dear God, was it something more?
Faces in the crowd turned toward Benton, but the man remained silent. For several seconds he swayed precariously back and forth, then stumbled down the aisle and up the steps. He almost fell, but caught himself on the back of one of the seats. A man leaned over, asking if he was okay, but Benton didn't answer, he just stared uncomprehendingly at the man.
I've got to follow him, Jason thought. He started to rise, when a hand tapped his back. He turned and found himself standing face to face with Quintard. A smile was on Quintard's face, a plastic clown grin meant to hide his anger from the voters in the crowd. He grabbed Jason's hand and pumped it in a furious grip.
"You bastard," Quintard whispered, smiling all the while. "You think you're such a slick shit. You've cost me my credibility and very likely my seat on the commission. That affects my future plans. I warned you and that dumbass partner of yours once before and I'm telling you again. I'm going to skewer your asses on a stick. I'm going to make you pay."
Jason just stared in disbelief. Then he shook his head.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" he said. "I can't believe you're for real. Get away from me Quintard. Whatever's fucked you up may be contagious."
Jason pushed past Quintard and headed for the exit, not looking back. He didn't feel Quintard's eyes burning lasers into his back. He was too busy speeding up the steps, trying to keep up with Benton.
Chapter 30
« ^ »
Almost sprinting, Jason weaved his way in and out of the people jamming the aisles.
"Excuse me, excuse me, please, sorry, excuse me," he blurted as he tried desperately to get to the top of the stairs.
Squeezing through one of the double doors at the top, much to the irritation of others trying to get through it at the same time, he was dismayed at the swarm of people milling about in the carpeted hallway outside the commission chambers. For twenty yards in either direction a sea of heads was visible. Twisting his eyes back and forth, he searched for Benton.
People made it nearly impossible. Supporters kept coming up, wanting to shake his hand and offer encouragement. "I think you guys are doing everything you can," one man said. "That Quintard is a moron," a woman offered.
Jason tried to be nice, smiling and making noncommittal comments, but his patience wore thin as more and more came forward. The whole time he shook their hands and thanked them, his eyes darted back and forth.
Finally he spotted Benton, leaning against the curved glass windows that formed the outside wall of the building. Sweat still covered his cheeks and forehead. His left hand rubbed his face, as though checking for fever. His shoulders suddenly hunched forward and his cupped palm shot to his mouth, but nothing came out. He straightened himself, wiped his face one more time, and headed for the exit.
Shit, Jason thought, I need time to find his car in the parking lot. But how to stall?
Jason's eye caught the flare of TV lights coming to life to his right. It was Anthony Bradley, interviewing Bill McCracken. Jason cut an abrupt beeline through the crowd. The reporter was finishing his interview when Jason grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Oh, hi," Bradley said, a little startled by Jason's approach.
"I need a favor and I need it now," Jason said.
"What is it?"
"See that guy moving this way, the one who looks as if he's about to puke?"
"You mean Benton, the father of the first girl who was killed?" Bradley asked.
"Yeah, that's the one. I want you to interview him, keep him busy in here for about five minutes. Can you do that?"
"Sure, no problem," Bradley said. "I was planning to interview him anyway, since he stood up at the meeting. But I need to get you on camera, too. When can I do that?"
"That'll have to wait a few minutes," Jason said. "Right now, I want you to keep him here."
"Why do you want him stalled?" Bradley asked.
"I have my reasons," Jason said.
Bradley looked deeply into Jason's eyes
, then back at Benton. "I don't understand, but I'll do it," he said.
"I promise if you do this for me I'll give you the whole story afterward. But you've got to keep him here for a few minutes."
"You got it."
Jason clapped Bradley on the back and headed for the doors to the outside. As he did, a couple of other reporters tried to corral him for a statement. "Not right now. Give me a couple of minutes. I need to make a phone call," he lied.
A cool front had passed through that afternoon and already was lowering the temperature. Although it was late summer, the air was decidedly cool and its briskness caught Jason in the face as he rushed outside. The beads of sweat felt like cold diamonds along his hairline. Without trying to seem frantic, he walked hurriedly across the building's plaza, aiming for the parking lot.
It was a little past eight-thirty, and the sun was going down. A half-light of orange and purple hung over the building, but it was dark enough for the photosensitive cells in the parking lot lights to flicker on.
Five minutes, Jason thought as he looked-out over the parking lot, that's about all the time Bradley can take. It's not nearly enough. That lot is huge and practically full. I can't check all the cars in five minutes. But he had to try.
Breaking into fast-paced strides, he moved down the first line of cars. He tried not to look conspicuous to the people filing from the building to the parking lot, but it was hard to keep from breaking into a run. Time was so precious.
The first two rows came up empty, but on the third, Jason spotted something one row over. It was hard to be sure in the dimming light, but as he walked hurriedly over, his suspicions were confirmed. A brown Chevrolet.
Jason rushed to the rear quarter panel and squatted. He found himself staring at a large dent crumpling the metal from the tire well to the back bumper. Several deep scars sliced down to bare metal.
Keeping his head low, Jason reached into his back pocket and drew out his wallet, pulling a dollar bill from it. He folded the bill into a V shape and held it in his left hand while he fished around in his right front pocket and drew out a quarter. Gently he scraped some paint from the damaged quarter panel into the dollar. Carefully folding the bill into a tight square, he placed it carefully in his wallet. Afterward, he stood up and walked to the front of the car, where he bent down and ran his hand along the tread of the front tire.
