R.S. Guthrie - Detective Bobby Mac 03 - Reckoning

by R. S. Guthrie

  I also knew, like kids, he’d have picked it up anyway. Every cop I knew cussed like a made Mafioso, man and woman. It was a matter of time; I just didn’t relish being his mentor in that regard.

  “Grab the ages of our victims and I am going to do a small but significant math trick for you,” I said.

  Manny grabbed the file and I got up and cleaned a space on our whiteboard.

  “Read the victim ages, in order,” I told him.

  “16, 22, 19, 20, 19, 20, 19, 17, 19.”

  “Remember the terms mean, median, and mode?”

  “From math,” he said.

  “From math.”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well you’re not alone. Don’t feel bad, it was a hunch but I had to look them up on the Internet last night to make sure I had them right.”

  Manny’s face de-scrunched and the slight frown that had formed went flat. The competition in that kid—

  “Mean is simple. It’s the average; average and mean, same thing.”

  “So you total and divide by the number of numbers,” Manny said proudly.

  “Yep.”

  “Let me guess, nineteen is the avera—I mean, mean. Shit, that’s a double untundra or something.”

  “Uh, double entendre, and no, it isn’t—that would take you into English class.”

  “Oh, I hated English more than Math. You gringos have the most fucked up language I know.”

  “Fair enough, but you got it right, nineteen is the mean.”

  “What’re the other two?” Manny was literally like a kid in school now.

  “Median is the number in the middle. So if you look at the listing of the ages of our victims…”

  “Nineteen, smack in the middle.”

  “Yes, again, grasshopper.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Young Jedi?”

  “Ahh, right. Okay, still don’t know what a grasshopper has to do with any of this, but gotcha.”

  “Mode,” I said, “is the number in the sequence used most often.”

  “Nine-fucking-teen,” he said.

  “Watch the language. Yoda would shove his walking stick up your ass, young Rican Jedi.”

  “I like that—call Lucas; the next Jedi needs to be a fucking ‘Rican.”

  “So are you with me on this nineteen thing or do I have to sell it to the lieutenant on my own?”

  Manny scowled again.

  “What’s up,” I asked.

  “I got your back no matter what.”

  I’d have this young man ready in less than a year. Hell, maybe six months. In less than a year the love of my life could have her old job back. I had no idea what the fuck I was going to do.

  “Hey, Jedi,” I said.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “We’ll work the angle of his daughter being next. But we’ll watch for more victims. Keep the undercover women out on the streets. No reduction in force. We’re covering every base on this one.”

  It was after we were seated in Lieutenant Elias Shackleford’s office that I realized I’d not yet sprung the “Spencer Grant” appearance on him either, as I had promised to do with all bravado in front of my partner. Well, might as well put my young partner’s “got your back” creed to the test.

  “What do you have?” Shackleford asked and began moving things around on his desk. The lieutenant was easily the neatest man I’d ever known and the few objects on his desk—a picture of his wife and children, a golf bag pen-holder, a Post-it container, and an obsidian paperweight—had never changed position or moved at all as long as he’d been my boss. But he moved them out of position and back like a three card monte dealer with OCD. Still, any lack of eye contact with Elias Shackleford was a small blessing.

  “I have a theory, L-T,” I said. “Actually, I received a rather, uh, let’s refer to it as strange and fortuitous phone call the other day.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Shackleford mumbled.

  “The caller was Spencer Grant.”

  The lieutenant froze. He peered up. He didn’t seem pleased (although I am not sure what ‘pleased’ looked like on my boss). “You’re telling me the caller claimed to be Grant?”

  “I am telling you it was him. I know his voice.”

  “Trace on the phone that called you?”

  “A burner. In fact, we were at 7-11 getting tape—I mean capture—from the security camera there because we were lucky to track down the purchase location of the cell that called our pizza delivery guy to the Hailey Carpenter scene.”

  “So he was following you. Or knew you’d trace the phone—or both,” Shackleford said.

  “Likely a yes to all,” I said. “Manny was able to put a pretty good match in build to Grant entering the 7-11, buying a batch of phones, and leaving. He had a hoodie hiding his face, but I know it was him.”

  “How so?” Shackleford said.

  “He waved at the closest camera as he walked by,” Manny said.

  “Probably doesn’t want to give away his disguise,” I said.

  “Any of the other burners been used?”

  “No,” Manny said.

  “What else. You said ‘theory’, Mac, not perp identification.”

  Oh, boy. This was where the road split and I was afraid of the path less-traveled.

  “Were you a big math guy, sir?”

  “Come again?”

  “Look, I am going to cut to the chase. You will or won’t like it: the mean average, median, and mode of our victims’ ages is nineteen.”

  “Interesting,” Shackleford said, intertwining his long fingers and looking speculative. “Mean and average are repetitive, though. Same thing.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m aware.”

  Then, out of left field, from the cheap seats, a hundred mile an hour spit ball:

  “Good detective work, Mac. This is the kind of strange shit that solves cases.”

  For the moment, I was stunned into silence.

  “There’s more,” I said, glancing at Manny, a bit confused.

  “September twentieth is Melissa Grant’s nineteenth birthday,” said the boss.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Which means his daughter is with him in Denver and it’s likely we have a month to find this psychotic bastard.”

  “That’s the best—our best—theory, Lieutenant.” I said.

  “I concur. But stay alert, men. There are still a lot of days for this turd to chalk up another nine killed and make his own daughter number nineteen.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  Manny nodded, and we left.

  “There’s more,” I whispered as we returned to our freshly installed, seven-foot cubicle walls. Manny waited until we were seated and gave me his undivided attention. “This story I need to tell you should be done somewhere other than here.”

  “What about Deb’s?”

  “Too many cops. We need to talk openly. You’re also probably going to need a drink or two for this and we’re on duty.”

  “I know a ‘Rican spot that’s perfect. Well, I wouldn’t send you down there alone, but with me, you are en buenas manos. Safe in my hands, partner.”

  I let Manny drive and he took us into a neighborhood I’d never been in before. Clearly Puerto Rican. Once we got there, Manny’s body stance and language shifted slightly. The homeboy had gotten out, but was still a homeboy nonetheless. I had never felt before that my life was in my partner’s hands as much as that moment. Alone, I’d have never made it back to familiar streets unharmed, of that I was sure. But I trusted Manny.

  He slipped into an alleyway and then quickly pulled the Charger left and into a gravel spot with no markings and the smell of sweet cooking pork in the air.

  “Back entrance,” Manny said, swaggering.

  ‘Rican.

  I nodded, feeling that white-and-way-the-hell-outta-place thing. Almost like my whole body had swelled and made me look gargantuan and on display.

  We entered a dark room, made signific
antly worse by our sun blindness. As my eyes adjusted I realized the place was maybe half the size of our small squad room.

  Manny went straight for a booth and lifted his head to the brown-skinned, waifish girl behind the bar who returned the gesture. She appeared at our table with two sweating bottles of Dos Equis ambers.

  “Gracias, mija,” Manny said, showing those love ya teeth.

  “De nada, Manolo. Hola, Mac.”

  My surprise was evident.

  “Manny, he talk about you. Good stuff. Good man. You’re welcome here any time, sexissimo.” And the gorgeously plain bartender spun and disappeared to a room behind the bar.

  “She likes you,” Manny said.

  “I got that with the sex thing.”

  “Sexissimo. It’s slang, not very ‘Rican, actually. And usually it’s sexissima and catcalled at the ladies.”

  “Still a compliment, I’ll assume,” I said and took a pull on the Dos Equis. It was delicious.

  “She meant it nice. And she meant you could come anytime and feel safe. Adelmira has pull in the ‘hood. Daughter of a big guy, probably should stay nameless for now. Her name basically means ‘from nobility’. By the time we get back to the station everyone around here will know you’re intangible. Untouchable. It’s why I brought you here.”

  “Where is ‘here’?”

  “Mira’s Place.”

  “Original name.”

  “Puerto Ricans get to the point.” He took a drink.

  “We’re not going back to the station,” I said. Manny nodded and signaled to Adelmira for another pair.

  “This story—this, history—few know it.”

  A nod.

  “My wife. Me. Spence Grant. That’s about it. Bum Garvey I told recently.”

  “Glad you threw Amanda and Bum in there. They’ll bring the story that touch of acceptability, I hope.”

  “Trust me, if it were just me and Spence Grant I’d have checked myself in.”

  “Wow. We’re definitely not going back to the house.”

  “Not likely,” I said. Adelmira returned with two fresh beers and two shots of clear tequila.

  “Patron Silver. You both have that look about you. So serious. Lighten up; ‘He enjoys true leisure who has time to improve his soul’s estate.’ Thoreau.”

  “Gracias, Adelmira. For everything,” I said. My Spanish was bad; I tried nothing more intricate than a thank you.

  “Mira to you, Bobby Mac. And you are most welcome.”

  Manny picked up his shot glass, raised it toward me, and downed it. I followed suit. Mira smiled and left.

  “It’s not our custom to wait. Direct. Remember that,” Manny said.

  “Excelente,” I said, pointing to the empty shot glass. “Time for a tall tale, I’d say.”

  “Speak. And hesitate not.”

  I started at the beginning, which was not a cliché because I had thought long and hard about how much to tell him, which parts, what order. In the end, the truth might actually set me free. So I started at the beginning.

  I told him about the MacAulay history, the Book of Ossian, Father Fic Rule, the demons—all of it. I even told him about Amber. How it was self-defense but that she was not herself, she was possessed of the demon Rule. Or Satan himself.

  We drank as I talked. More tequila. More Dos Equis. And Mira never came close, never listened in, and no other patrons so much as looked in our direction. I watched Manny’s eyes the whole time. I wanted to read him, know how he was taking this absolutely insane tale, what he was thinking—mostly what his impressions would now be of me.

  Finally I told him about the mountaintop, and about Jax. How he died; what Rule did to him before he died.

  And then I was done. Two hours. Four. I really couldn’t have guessed how long the story took. We sat in silence after I finished. Manny sipped on his beer and I signaled my new favorite Puerto Rican bartender for another round of Patron.

  “Madre de Dios,” Manny said, and crossed himself.

  I had no idea he was even religious.

  6

  THE CALL came in just after the morning shift had started the next day. A female uniform had run down from the eighth floor to speak to me in person.

  “Detective Macaulay,” she shouted. I stood in my cubicle and waved her over. “Officer Freitas, sir. A phone call came in, from Special Tactics. Hostage situation and the taker is asking for you personally.”

  This couldn’t be happening again. That was my first thought. Then, why fight it?

  “Location?”

  “Overpass at Evans and I-25. They’ve stopped all traffic on the freeway and on Evans in both directions. It’s a school bus, Detective. He’s driven it through the barrier and it’s hanging forty-five feet in the air. He’s threatening to drive it the rest of the way over the ledge if you aren’t there in twenty minutes.”

  “Come on,” I said to Manny as I ran from the cube. “Did he give a name at least?”

  “The man said to tell you his name is Rule.”

  The scene was as described. The bus—a smaller version of a regular bus with a handicapped symbol on the sides and back—had indeed been driven through the concrete barrier and was teetering on the edge.

  “What in fuck’s sake is up with you, Macaulay?” Len Brighton said to me for the second time in as many months. “You should join up with us.”

  He handed me the cell phone and I slowly placed it against my ear.

  “Bobeeeee.”

  “Good Christ, Grant, what the hell are you doing now?”

  “Good one with the ‘Rule’ bit, eh? Bet that got the old heart pumping.”

  “Come on, Grant. Let’s talk this through—”

  “Bad tactics, Detective. Negotiations one-oh-one. Befriend the taker. I’ve asked you at least a half dozen times to call me Spence.”

  “Okay, Spence.”

  “And never, ever sound defeated, Mac. You never want your own stress or emotions to transfer to the taker. Think what it might make him do.”

  “Do you have any demands?” I just couldn’t take this joker any longer. It was like a bad episode of Batman. “Or are we just gaming here, Spence?”

  “I never actually thought that far ahead,” he told me. “Shit. World peace, I guess. And let Charlie Manson go, too. That old fart couldn’t harm a fly he’s so bat-shit crazy.”

  “This is serious, Spence. You’ve got school children on board.”

  “Special needs.”

  “What?” I said.

  “These are all special needs kids, Mac. You know, short bus and all.”

  Oh, God. I hadn’t even let the logic open up my brain.

  “Shit, Spence—”

  “There’s that deflated sound again,” he said. “And swearing? Never, ever swear at the taker. He might get offended.”

  I didn’t want to talk to him anymore. I wanted to give the phone to Brighton and go home. Retire today. It wasn’t a brave or courageous thought. But it was what I wanted. I couldn’t stop thinking about the tropical pictures on the computer that Amanda sent me. I happened to look over at my partner—at Manny. The look on his face was like a punch to my solar plexus. The disappointment. The pleading in his eyes for me to do something. His father figure. His hero. I went back to the phone.

  “Let’s quit gaming, Spence, what do you say? Let’s figure out what you’re planning here because we both know you’re not here for demands.”

  “Oh but I am, Mac. You know those ice cream trucks? The ones that drive around the neighborhoods playing that god-awful music that drives me nuts all summer day long?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want eight cones from one of those trucks. No, make it eight of the orange popsicles, what do they call ‘em? Creamsicles. Orange on the outside, vanilla cream in the center. The ones you used to beg your parents for when the truck came ‘round during Gilligan’s Island.”

  “What the f—how could you know that?”

  “Come on, Mac, we’re waaaaaay p
ast those kinds of questions, now aren’t we?”

  “Eight?” I said.

  “Come back?”

  “You said you needed eight? You have eight hostages?”

  “Nine, Mac. Nine. You know this part. Eight kids and one bus driver. But just bring eight because Wanda here looks like she needs one of those Slim Fast bars. You know what? Round her up one of those while you’re getting ice cream for the retards.”

  He almost got me with that one. I nearly tossed the phone and rushed the bus.

  “You loved the math puzzle, didn’t you?” Spence said. “You and that aptitude test when you were, what, six? Seven?”

  “Let’s talk about the kids, Spence. Okay?”

  “You were high in all the areas, but off the charts in verbal and math. A real honest-to-god genius. And what’d your dad do with the test results?”

  “The kids, Spence. Don’t hurt the kids.”

  “Good old Paddy. He took one look at those outstanding scores and he crumpled them up and tossed them in the old fireplace, now didn’t he?”

  “Paddy was a hero.”

  “Because he was a fireman? Is that why, Mac? Or is it because of that good old Scottish temper?”

  “Shut up, Grant.”

  “You didn’t mind taking a beating. But when he went after Jackson, that really got to you, didn’t it?”

  “Grant, I swear to Christ—”

  The cops had all gathered around me by now. I was at the edge of meltdown. Red in the face. Sweat running as through a sieve. Trembling. I couldn’t imagine what my eyes must’ve been saying. I knew what I was thinking:

  I didn’t care. I didn’t care what happened to any of them, as long as I got my hand around that son-of-a-bitch’s neck. It was past all rules and regulations. They didn’t make ‘em for this type of onslaught anyway. And I knew those poor children and their terrified bus driver didn’t stand a chance anyway.

  “Here’s the real mathematical beauty of it,” Spence whispered into the phone. “When you do all the ages, along with this old bus driver, you’re going to come up with the same number.”