by Mary Deal
“Megan, no more. Please.” Abi held her hands up in front of her face.
“I'm not the only one who needs to face this. Rae has to face it, too, and you'll need to get on with life.”
“No one needs to know these details.”
“Maybe you're right. It really doesn't matter, does it?” She smiled again suddenly, her demeanor flip-flopping. “Rae's just like me. To know one is to know the other.”
At times, Megan expressed such innocent naïveté. The lifestyle she was forced to live had not taught her much, or perhaps, had actually protected her from it all. In Megan's desire to face her situation, she had no idea how gruesome she sounded. Reality for her had been severely distorted. Those truths probably held true for Becky as well. “Damn you, Preston.” Abi clenched her fists in the air. “Damn you!”
“Oh, please.” Megan's tone sounded as if she thought Abi was being melodramatic.
“When I thought you were Becky. I offered my soul to set you free.”
Megan smirked in a sad way. “But I'm not Becky. So your soul is safe.”
Abi couldn't take any more. She had not learned Becky's whereabouts and Megan was not about to tell. Game playing was probably the last control Megan had over anything. Becky was somewhere in Creighton and Abi determined to find her. She still hoped that Megan would have a change of heart and tell her how to locate her daughter, even if she did it as a last minute confession before lethal injection.
Keys jangled as a guard approached. Abi glanced at her watch and breathed a sigh of disappointment. Visitation time had ended and Megan looked frightened again. She rose off the bed and backed away. They took one long look at each other and Abi was not sure she would ever see Megan again.
Chapter 53
Everywhere Abi and Joe went, they carried copies of the photos that Yates was to review, all in hope he would show up somewhere, anywhere, along the way. They would get Yates to look at the photos again if they had to knock him unconscious to get him back to the precinct. They parked and walked the streets of Creighton, going in and out of shops, cafes and bars, studying people's faces and hanging copies of Becky's computer aged photo in shop windows and on light poles.
They visited farms on the outskirts of Creighton. They chanced walking through the seedy skid row edge of town. They had only a few days left, but felt sure that Yates would return to view the execution, yet, so far, he had not been seen anywhere. Neither had he tried to contact his sister. Nor had they seen anyone closely resembling Becky. They did, however, learn that some very frightening characters populated the run-down fringes of town.
Joe finally shaved. He looked and seemed more positive. Abi felt too tired and avoided looking into a mirror except to apply light makeup to cover the circles around her eyes. With no place else to go, they went to Det. Britto's office hoping against hope he would have some news about Yates's whereabouts. With the fateful day rapidly approaching, sitting at home became unbearable. Working was out of the question.
Det. Britto was on the phone, so they waited in the main room just outside his office. Abi's thoughts wandered. She had been in that same building many years earlier following Becky's abduction. The facility was quiet with fewer crimes back then. Over the years, the precinct was expanded to adjoin the next building to the side and another in back. Two more floors were added. The chief's former office had been where Det. Britto now occupied a desk.
Officers and everyone else seemed in a frantic state, as a couple of alleged perpetrators were being booked and officers rotated shifts. Abi sighed. If only she could turn back the clock and rewrite the scripts they were to live out.
“Hey, you two!” Det. Britto waved them in with the hand carrying the phone. They entered his office. “I'm glad you're here. Sit down, sit down.” He hurriedly pointed toward the chairs.
“What is it?” Abi sensed a flicker of hope.
“That Aryan we caught?”
“Croner, was it?” Joe pulled out a chair for her.
“He ties to the case.” Det. Britto leaned forward on his knuckles on the desktop.
“Spit it out, Britto.”
“We tied his prints to a couple of burns in Idaho. We got him!”
Joe threw his hands into the air. “If they find him.” His tone sounded on the brink of anger. “You should have trumped up some charges. He bonded out, didn't he? He's probably skipped—”
“Arno, you're not hearing me. We got him. We're bookin' him in now.”
Joe pulled back his chin and stared at the detective. “For the Idaho fires, right? How the hell does that tie to us?”
“He made a big mistake.” Det. Britto pounded a fist into his hand and chuckled. “A big mistake.”
“By not leaving town when he was released, I'd say.” A glimmer of hope made Abi almost smile for the first time in weeks.
“That's one for us, Britto. How does it help?”
“When he was being questioned not fifteen minutes ago, he said his prints were at one of the Idaho fires because he knew the people who lived there.”
“What's that prove?”
“Wait, there's more.” The methodical Det. Britto seemed thoroughly pleased with himself. He meted out information so he could tell the facts in order. “We got him real excited talking about that Idaho burn. Real excited.” Then he snickered. “We threw in some data about our fires, threw all kinds of detail at him. All the while he's playing innocent, like he heard it all on the news. He never realized what he admitted.” Det. Britto paced the small space behind his desk, repositioned his chair to get by, and glanced out the window, then looked back at them again with a devilish expression. “Croner said, 'Who woulda' guessed all those piles of paper would explode like that?' Right away, I said, 'That faded yellow house glowed like daylight in all those flames, didn't it?' And he said, 'Yeah! None of 'em went that fast since!' ”
“Wait, Hazel's house was green. Mine was white.”
“That's right. But the house Yates's family died in was yellow and piled high with newspapers, remember?” He paced some more, shaking his head and pounding a fist into a palm. “Get this. When we started playing up the fires, you know, talking about flames glowing and cinders flying in the night air and all, Croner went bonkers.”
“Snapped?”
“Loved it! Damned pyromaniac.” Det. Britto gestured frantically with both arms. “When we got him talking, he didn't know how many fires he'd copped to.”
“Did he admit to the first Yates fire?”
“Not exactly, but now we can place him there because he knows it went fast and the house was yellow and stacked with paper. He'll crack under pressure. I can feel it in my bones.” Det. Britto put up a hand asking them to wait, like he had to catch his breath.
Joe asked anyway. “Can you use this information? Did he have an attorney present?”
“Wanted one. Said he couldn't afford one, so we got him some representation. Spilled his guts anyway, right in front of counsel.” Det. Britto shook his head in disbelief. “When Croner was being interrogated, the dumb ass leans back in his chair and props his feet on the table, like he's the big executive type. Well, he has this chunk of rubber missing from the tread of his right boot, okay?” Det. Britto put the back of his hand across his mouth, thinking. He seemed to want to laugh and had to take a moment to quell the urge. “Croner doesn't know about the boot prints we picked up outside that estate burn south of Seaport last month. His boot's got the same chunk missing as those boot prints we picked up.”
Joe jumped out of his chair. “What else? We need something to tie him to our case.”
Det. Britto could no longer control himself and laughed heartily. “So now I've sent Idaho the dental work from that perp who roasted himself in that April warehouse burn. Likely, we couldn't ID him 'cause he was from out of state.”
Abi had listened as Joe and Det. Britto threw information back and forth. “If Croner names names, when will you know if he might clear Megan?”
“Soo
n, ma'am.” Det. Britto sat again, rocking backwards in his chair. Then he came forward suddenly and looked at both of them. “I'll never understand the beauty in tattoos.” He shook his head.
“Some can be kinda classy.” Joe winked at Abi, teasing.
“Seems this Croner guy wanted to make himself as ugly as possible. Tatted himself from his neck all the way down to the nasties.”
Abi remembered a face she had seen, a man with a peculiar tattoo on his neck. Her thoughts drifted momentarily. Then a memory came to her in a flash. “I once saw a man with an ugly tattoo on his neck. It was a knife blade cutting across his jugular, with blood dripping out.”
Det. Britto flew out of his chair and leaned across the desk. “Where?” He nearly screamed. “Where?”
Abi had to search her memory and just as she was about to give up, she remembered. “There were some men helping at the fireworks factory. Remember, Joe?” She turned again to Det. Britto. “They wore military issue clothing but didn't seem to have anything to do… just wandered about.”
“The fireworks factory burn in Creighton?” He still leaned toward them over his desk.
“Abi came with me when I did news coverage.”
“Which side?” Det. Britto swiped a finger across first one side of his neck, then the other. “Which side of the neck?” His hand shook, the finger still pointed.
Abi touched her throat. “Left side. It stuck up out of the collar of his jacket.”
Det. Britto's fist connected with the top of his desk and made pens and other small items jump like grasshoppers. “We got him!” He threw a fist high and jumped into the air. Officers in the main room looked their way. Det. Britto calmed, leaned toward them again and spoke in softer tones. “Seems among others, this Croner idiot has the same nasty-looking artwork—”
“The same, Britto? The same?”
Det. Britto paced. “We got him, We got him. Those blood drops mean the same thing as the teardrops at the corner of the eyes that some punks wear. Each drop represents how many times they've been sent up. Sometimes it means how many people they've wasted. He'll have a rap sheet.”
“Then Abi's an eye witness.”
“You'll have to look at some mug shots, ma'am, soon as they're ready.”
The office had been cool, but now felt like a cooker, as each expressed excitement. Det. Britto took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. He leaned across his desk again which seemed to be what he did when wishing to keep his voice low. “You remember some time ago, I told you news got out too fast around here?” They nodded, waiting. “Well, this dumb pyromaniac who disguises himself as an Aryan referred to someone among the Neos as Old Mellow.” He paced again behind his desk. If he could get all his information out in a couple of sentences, it might ease his nervous condition. “One of the uniforms that used to work this precinct was known as Mellow Yellow. He got that name because he busted up a ring of aging hippies trying to make a business out of scraping banana skins and packaging the product to sell for dope. Like the hippies did back in the 60s.”
“You think that officer was your leak?”
“Him and a couple others. This one's long retired. A lot of the uniforms move on, or up.” He paused. His last remark sounded as though he was envious of others moving up in the ranks, but he also sounded proud he had not done so other than by proper means.
“So the leaks stopped when this officer left?”
“How could I have missed that? I must be ready to retire.”
“Don't be so hard on yourself, Britto.”
“Ha! To think I've been paranoid all these years. Those guys have been long gone, and they maybe being Neos? Why couldn't any of us make 'em?”
“Not an easy thing to spot, with so many officers coming and going. Britto, anyone you know could be Neo and you may never find out.”
If anyone had heard of a major leak of other cases at the precincts where some officers transferred, someone could have put it together.
“Musta' been more than one officer. We'll know as we investigate the PD's dirty laundry. But, you know?” He paused briefly to reflect. “Unless it's my imagination, things have been different around here since. I mean… the birth certificates? When I finally booked those into evidence that should've been leaked right away like everything else.” He paced and flailed his hands as he spoke. “Nothing leaked about Winnaker being laid up in the Seaport hospital either.”
“So where does all this leave us with Megan and my daughter?”
Det. Britto glanced at his watch. “A quick lunch?”
Abi had not thought of eating. All she wanted to do was turn up something new if it took every spare moment they had left.
“Joe and I are headed to Rachter.”
“That means you'll be cruising Creighton, ma'am. Am I right? I know how you feel but we got our guys out looking. If Yates turns up, you can bet we'll be bringing him in.”
She only smiled.
Two days later on the way to visit Megan, an announcer interrupted a tune with a news flash about the Winnaker case. Abi quickly turned up the volume.
“The alleged Aryan, Gary Croner, had admitted to being involved in some of the local fires. He named the very upstanding retired Police Lieutenant Donald Nater, previously a street officer, then known as Mellow Yellow to fellow officers, as being Old Mellow to the Neos and a full-fledged Aryan of the highest order. If you'll recall, it was Officer Donald Nater who raided the mini-storage nine years ago and who negated any evidence that could clear Megan Winnaker when she went to trial.”
Abi watched the radio as if it spoke directly to her. “There's been an undercurrent all along.”
Joe slammed on the brakes and slid into a parking space. He turned the volume even higher.
The newscaster went on to describe the mysterious package received at Police Headquarters; how it was involved with the Winnaker case, and that it was determined that the blood vials had been switched. He talked about the confusing identities but said nothing she and Joe and the public didn't already know. Then the newscaster added that just when everyone thought all of this didn't make any sense, police found one thumb print and one fingerprint on the vial, and part of a palm print on the package that they received. Though the fingerprint was yet unidentified, the thumb print on the vial, and the palm print on the outer packaging belonged to the long retired and much promoted Lt. Donald Nater. When a swarm of officers went to arrest Lt. Nater at his townhouse that morning, as he stood at an upstairs bedroom window watching them walk up the driveway with guns drawn, the Lieutenant put a revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger.
“No-o-o!” Abi screamed and shook all over.
The station went to a commercial. Joe turned the radio down and she and Joe sat for a long while in silence.
The next day, maybe Megan's last full day to live, Abi and Joe rushed to visit to Det. Britto at the police station.
The detective greeted them enthusiastically. “Things are breaking wide open, you two. Croner's suddenly realized the water's hotter back in Idaho and wants to stay here.” He smirked and rubbed his hands together.
Abi had another flicker of hope. “He's talking, thinking he won't be extradited?”
“Did he burn the Yates house?”
“He's letting out just enough information to keep himself here. Stick here with me a little longer.”
Joe paced, threw up his hands. “You've got to do more, Britto. We don't want this case to go down to the needle.”
“Patience.” Det. Britto stood quietly with a hand across his mouth, deep into thought, like an animal strategizing, positioning for the pounce.
“We're due up at Rachter.”
“For heaven's sake, Britto. Execution is just after midnight tonight and you've got nothing solid.”
“If Croner's telling the truth, Dara or Sling—“
“You can't count on them.” Abi was surprised her heart had not given her problems, as tension mounted and she felt they were
headed for disappointment.
“Without finding Yates, they're all we've got.”
“And Dara's already passed a polygraph.”
“According to Croner, Dara and Sling parted company and have been at each other's throats for years.” Det. Britto smiled a wicked smile like Abi had never seen. Was he on to something? Was he having trouble spilling the news? “If either were at the first Yates fire like Croner claims, we're gonna get one of them to spill guts. Stay with me on this.”
“This is Megan's last day. We promised her—”
Det. Britto's desk phone rang. He listened then slammed the receiver down, grabbed up his jacket and slipped quickly into it. As he rushed from his office, he yelled back over his shoulder. “Stay here. Don't leave.”
They peered through the glass partition of Det. Britto's office as he ran across the room and disappeared out the back door of the holding area. Just as Abi was about to express her exasperation, the back door burst open and a handcuffed surly man in gritty jeans with a bare bulging belly under an oily leather vest was dragged in. A smiling Det. Britto followed.
The man fought and screamed. “My arm. You're hurting my arm.” An earring in his left earlobe twinkled under the fluorescent lighting. Officers shoved him into a holding cell and slammed the door in his face.
Det. Britto returned. “One down.” He threw a fist into the air.
“Who?”
“Sling, and Dara's been picked up too.”
Abi gasped and brought a hand to her chest and bowed her head. “Please hurry.” She wasn't about to let herself cry.
“Listen, I've got to go upstairs with this….” Det. Britto's voice trailed off as he stared past them toward the front of the lobby. “What the hell?”
Abi and Joe turned to look too. After being cleared to enter, a tall elderly man with cheaply dyed black hair and full beard and mustache leisurely strolled through the front door into the middle of the pandemonium of the lobby. He wore a green and red plaid shirt and black trousers, carried a heavy red-checkered parka and resembled a scrawny lumberjack.
