In an effort to manage the frustration, Jed had written off such details as irrelevant in the short term. The whole department had. All that mattered was the boy’s capture. They’d all rationalized that whatever motivation Nathan might have had for killing the supervisor was between him, the prosecutor and the jury.
Jed silently berated himself and his colleagues as he realized that this collective myopia had nearly cost a young boy his life. The very police force that was supposed to protect him had in fact eased the burden on his killer. That thought—and the thought of those poor cops in New York—sickened him. Soon, though, they’d set it all straight.
The first thing Jed noticed about Mark Bailey’s untidy little house was the drawn curtains. They gave the structure a haunting, abandoned look.
“I wonder if anybody’s home,” he thought aloud.
Things didn’t look right. A Ford Bronco sat in the driveway, its image shimmering in the heat rising from the driveway. Nothing moved this day but the thermometer. It was barely noon, and the temperature had already topped ninety-eight degrees. The weatherman on the radio said to expect a new record at 104. Jed longed for the fall.
“That’s his car:’ Harry offered. “In the same spot as yesterday.” “Does the place look odd to you?” Jed asked.
Harry studied the front of the house for a moment. “No,” he said. “Looks like a house. What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” Jed mused. “Looks odd to me for some reason. Like nobody’s home. All the blinds are shut.”
“Well, his car’s still in the driveway,” Harry reminded him. “My guess is he’s just trying to keep the place cool.”
Jed said nothing else. He opened the car door and walked silently up the sloping front yard toward the porch. Harry followed, three steps behind. The younger man was startled when Jed withdrew his big nine-millimeter Glock from the high-hip holster under his sportcoat.
“What’s up?” Harry asked as he drew his own weapon.
“Don’t know,” Jed replied, whispering now. “Just doesn’t feel right.”
Standing off to the hinge side of the door, out of harm’s way in case someone blasted bullets through the door, Jed knocked loudly enough to draw a look from the neighbor across the street. There was no response. Harry took a mirror position to Jed, on the knob side. Seeing the guns, the neighbor moved quickly inside, gathering her five-year-old daughter in her arms.
Jed knocked louder. “Mark Bailey!” he shouted. “This is the police. Open the door!” In the humid air of the still neighborhood, his voice echoed off the houses. Despite the noise, nothing moved from within Mark Bailey’s house.
Jed eyed the doorknob, then nodded to Harry, who reached down and tried to turn it. When it didn’t budge, he returned his eyes to Jed and shook his head.
Jed swung away from his defensive position and took a shooter’s stance, two-handing his aim at the door, while Harry swung around to jam the sole of his boot into the door just adjacent to and a little above the knob. As though blasted open with dynamite, the steel door exploded inward with a crash and rebounded closed, just as Harry dove sideways to catch the door with his shoulder. From his awkward position on his left side, Harry could cover the front hallway to the right. In three quick steps, Jed darted into position to cover the left.
“Mark Bailey!” Jed yelled again. “Police officers!” Harry scrambled to his feet, staying crouched down low, ready for action. Still, nothing moved.
“Check out this level:’ Jed instructed. “I’ll go upstairs.”
They split up, and even as they parted, Jed knew what they would find. There is a smell to death, a thick sweet odor. Over the years, he’d learned to detect even the faintest traces of the stench. Mark Bailey’s house reeked of it. Jed had just reached the top of the stairs when Harry called out from the living room.
“Oh, shit!” shouted Harry, clearly unnerved. “Oh, Christ, Sergeant, I found him! He’s in the living room! He’s dead.”
I knew it, Jed thought as he headed back downstairs.
Harry was finishing a frantic primary search of the first floor while Jed entered the living room, holstering his weapon. “Bad guy gone?” he asked, inwardly amused by the fear on the young cop’s face.
Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “the place is clean. Look at him, though. That’s disgusting:’
“Yeah,” Jed agreed as he surveyed the body, instinctively reaching for his little notebook. “He sure as hell pissed somebody off.”
Mark Bailey’s body was tied rigidly into a dining room chair, his head cast backwards over the chair back. His mouth was open wide, a yawning cavern rimmed with crimson smears. His graying blond hair dangled heavily, matted and violet. In the middle of it all, a long finger of extruded brain tissue extended like a ponytail from a ragged hole in the crown of his skull. Both arms dangled limply at his sides. Harry was the first to notice that the cast had been removed from Mark’s right arm, and that his purple, swollen fingers were twisted at horrifying angles.
Using a handkerchief to hold the receiver and a pencil eraser to push the buttons, Jed used the phone on the end table next to the sofa to call for the criminal investigative unit and the coroner. While he waited on the line to pass along the critical information, he surveyed the interior of the tiny house, taking particular interest in the broken television set with the empty booze bottle resting where the picture tube should have been. Three days’ worth of newspapers had been stacked next to the sofa, each issue opened to a story about Nathan. Jed remembered his briefing on the details that had sent Nathan to the Juvenile Detention Center, and he wondered what the boy’s Uncle Mark had thought about the events of the past three days. Was he remorseful? Titillated? Amused?
“C’mon,” Jed urged impatiently, waiting for somebody in the coroner’s office to pick up the phone. He shifted the receiver from his hand to his shoulder, where he held it in place with a sustained shrug. His eyes wandered to a sheaf of papers; legal documents, he recognized from the numbered lines and exaggerated indentions. There it was, on the front: The Last Will and Testament of somebody named William Steven Bailey. Having nothing better to do, he casually thumbed through the stapled pages.
Something underlined on page fourteen of the will caught his attention, and his mind shifted from scanning mode to reading mode. Halfway through the second paragraph, his backbone straightened and he sat down on the edge of the sofa cushion.
“I’ll be damned,” he said aloud.
“What have you got?” Harry asked, taking advantage of the opportunity to examine something other than the body.
“Our motive,” Jed said sharply.
“Medical Examiner’s office, this is Julie,” a voice said in his ear. Jed told her to hold on for a minute.
Chapter 36
So let me get this straight,” Sheriff Murphy summarized after listening to Warren’s presentation. “You want me to go before the voters of this county and tell them that on the advice of a police detective from Virginia, I should ignore all the physical evidence gathered thus far—not the least of which is an admission of guilt from the kid himself—and shift our efforts to find a phantom hit man. Is that what you’re telling me, Lieutenant Michaels?”
Warren scanned the faces of the sheriff and Petrelli, who sat perched like a parrot next to his fellow politician. A deep, abiding belief in the criminal justice system was the only thing that kept Warren from popping them both. This was a useless exercise, he realized. To these two, police work was about votes. Nothing more.
When Warren didn’t answer, Petrelli filled the silence. “Warren, I’m worried about you,” he said, shaking his head, his voice dripping with condescension. “We all know how hard the loss of your son was on you last year. I think maybe you’ve lost perspective on this case. Perhaps you should volunteer to step down from it. That way, I don’t have to ask Chief Sherwood to remove you from it.”
Petrelli’s words hit him in the chest like a hammer. Bang! Warren h
ad known going into this meeting that his arguments were not yet well formed, and that they directly contradicted much of the physical evidence. He knew that he would have to change their entire approach to the facts, and he had, in fact, done the sales job of his life.
To anyone else, the arguments would have been persuasive, but he had underestimated the depth of political ambition jammed into this tiny little office. By refusing to be persuaded, they had made Warren look like a fool. It had been an opportunity for which Petrelli had been waiting for years, and there it was. Find the most vulnerable weakness in your opponent, and concentrate all your forces on that spot. It was every bit as reliable a rule in politics as it was on the battleground.
Worst of all, Petrelli was right. He had no business remaining a part of this case. Warren had known it ever since he’d seen the still picture from the JDC video. His heart was every bit as involved in this case as his mind, but he believed nonetheless that he could keep them separate; he believed he could be professional and objective when he had to be.
But objectivity was not the issue here. Fact was, he was right! And these assholes knew it! For Petrelli, though, the opportunity to make his historical adversary squirm was a far more important prize than justice. By discrediting Warren—the flatfoot in charge of the investigation—Petrelli would be able to recover a portion of the political damage done by Nathan’s celebrity.
“So, what do you say, Warren?” Petrelli pressed. “Why don’t you step down?”
Warren smiled politely. “Why don’t you kiss my ass, J.?” He knew when he’d lost. He also knew that Chief Sherwood was the only human being on earth who hated Petrelli more than Warren did. Petrelli’s threats were as hollow as his spine.
“That’ll be enough!” Sheriff Murphy intervened. “Lieutenant Michaels, I think this meeting is over.”
Warren turned away from Petrelli and faced Murphy. “Look, Sheriff, all I ask is for you to tell your men to take it easy. They’re looking for a murderer named Nathan, not a victim named Nathan. That makes a huge difference in how they take him down. You authorized a green shooter’s light, for Chrissake!”
“Do I need to arrange an escort for you to leave, Lieutenant?” Murphy offered. The phone rang. “I can arrange that, if you want.”
Warren stood still for a moment longer. There was nothing left for him to do. As he turned to leave, he heard Murphy answer his phone and pass it to Petrelli.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Petrelli exploded. “I did no such thing!”
Warren stopped short of the door to eavesdrop. Seeing Petrelli blow his cool always lightened his day. Now the prosecutor-cum-senator seemed as confused as he did angry.
“Look, Stephanie,” he said after a long spate of listening, “I’m telling you I didn’t call. Do you think I have a death wish? Judge Verone would have my butt in jail before nightfall.”
The pieces fell together for Warren. “Stephanie” would be Stephanie Buckman, who had represented Petrelli’s ridiculous petition before Judge Verone the day before. When it all focused in his mind, Warren’s heart started racing. Somebody was trying to trace Nathan’s call.
As much as he wanted to suspect Petrelli of foul play, he knew that the slimebag would let his mother be lynched before he’d violate a court order. After all, the lynching would earn him tons of voter sympathy; the bad press from violating the court order would kill him. He realized in an instant that Nathan’s would-be killer was making his next move.
Warren moved quickly back across the office and snatched the telephone away from Petrelli, pushing him aside with a forearm. J. Daniel looked shocked at the lieutenant’s strength.
“Stephanie, this is Warren Michaels,” he said hurriedly. “I understand that somebody was trying to trace Nathan Bailey’s telephone call?”
Stephanie’s voice showed surprise at the sudden change in characters. “Well, y-yes,” she stammered.
“Did he get it?”
“Y-yes. But why…”
“How long ago?” Warren interrupted. His voice was abrupt and insistent.
“Look, Lieutenant…”
“Goddammit, how long ago, Stephanie?” Warren was shouting now.
“I-I don’t know for sure. Twenty minutes, maybe.” Stephanie seemed hesitant to speak to him about the details.
Warren checked his watch without seeing the time. “Shit. What’s the number?” he asked.
“Lieutenant, what happened to Mr. Petrelli?” she stalled.
“No one knows for sure,” Warren said without missing a beat.
“We think he was born an asshole.” He looked directly at Petrelli as he spoke, lest there be any doubt. “Look, Stephanie, I need that number. The guy who was asking for it is our killer. Please. Tell me what it is.”
Petrelli made a move to wrestle the phone back, but retreated immediately from Warren’s threatening glare.
“You know if you use this, any evidence will be tainted,” Stephanie warned, a broad smile in her voice from Warren’s comments about her boss.
“I don’t care:’ Warren promised. “I just need that number.”
With more than a little hesitation, she gave him the number. As soon as the seventh digit passed Stephanie’s lips, Warren dropped the phone onto its cradle.
Without a word, Warren left Murphy’s office, dialing his cellular as he walked.
Denise marveled at the margin by which the afternoon callers were favoring Nathan’s side. Having been so terribly unnerved at first, Nathan seemed to have calmed down a lot, though he was a mere shadow of the jovial personality she’d had on the air yesterday. For the most part, he was sparing of the details surrounding his capture and escape. All she really knew for sure after nearly two hours on the phone with him was that he was convinced that he was the target of a police conspiracy to kill him, and that he had had nothing to do with those police officers’ deaths the night before.
When Denise pointed out that law enforcement people had an uncanny way of turning up dead in Nathan’s presence, he had no rehearsed response. He only reiterated that he was victim just like all the others—or a potential victim, anyway. And if cops were trying to kill you, what better place to do it than at a prison?
Much as she hated to admit it, today’s phone call with Nathan was getting repetitive and boring. Pretty soon she was going to have to cut him off and move on to other things. The thought tugged at her heart, though. It seemed as if he needed to talk on the radio today.
Carter from Tuscaloosa was on the phone asking Nathan about life with his Uncle Mark when a stranger joined them on the line. “Excuse me,” the voice said, “this is the telephone operator, with an emergency break-in call from Lieutenant Michaels from the police department. Go ahead, sir.”
There was a click, and then Warren’s voice joined the conversation. “Nathan, this is Lieutenant Michaels from the Braddock County Police Department,” he said officiously.
“Wait a minute, Lieutenant,” Denise protested. “How did you break in? In case you hadn’t heard, we won our case yesterday…”
“Yes, ma’am, you did,” Warren confirmed. “I’ll be happy to explain all the details to you later, but right now Nathan is in grave danger. Son, you need to run away from where you are. Now. The man who tried to kill you last night is on his way to do it again.”
Nathan turned pale, causing Billy to move closer to the receiver where he could hear. Barney followed. It didn’t even occur to him to turn on the radio.
The police had traced his call! They couldn’t do that! He’d heard this morning on the news that a judge had told them they couldn’t do that. Now a cop was telling him to run away, but it was cops who had tried to kill him in the first place.
“H-how do I know you’re not trying to trick me?” Nathan asked, his voice taking on a dazed quality.
“You don’t,” Warren answered simply. “You’ll just have to trust me.
Denise blurted, “Trust! You break into a private conversation—aga
inst court orders, I hasten to add—and you talk about trust? It seems to me…”
Warren cut her off. “Shut up, Bitch!” Boy, that didn’t sound right. “Nathan has no choice but to trust me, because if he doesn’t, he’ll get killed, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Believe it or not, son, I’m one of the good guys. Now, run!”
“Where to?” the boy asked, desperation building in the pit of his stomach.
Oh, shit! thought Warren. He hadn’t planned that far ahead. There was only one landmark he could think of, and it was out in the middle of everything: the obelisk in the town square.
“Can you take us off the air for just a minute, Bitch?” Warren asked, his tone pleading and polite.
Denise heard the sincerity in the police officer’s voice, the fear.
She didn’t have to do anything he asked, but she decided that she could ill afford not to.
“All right,” she agreed, “but I’ll be able to listen in.”
“Must you?” Warren asked.
“Unless you want an earful of dial tone,” Denise replied.
“Suppose you were to take your earphones off?”
Denise sighed loudly into the microphone. “Okay,” she conceded. “You’ve got thirty seconds of dead air.”
Enrique looked at her as if she’d gone completely over the edge, but followed suit anyway, removing his own earphones. In all his years in radio, this would be his first half-minute without his ears covered. They felt strangely cold.
“Go ahead, guys,” Denise instructed. “Your clock is running. Let’s go to commercials, Rick.”
As Nathan listened, he felt his world becoming very small, just himself and this cop named Michaels. He started to object twice, but Michaels wouldn’t let him. During the first ten seconds of the monologue, Nathan learned that there was a plot to kill him, and that it didn’t involve the police. In the next ten, he heard that most of the police who were on the street thought that Nathan had killed the cops in the jail last night, and that they were cleared to shoot him if he resisted arrest. Finally, he learned that this Lieutenant Michaels was the only person in the universe that he truly could trust, and that the most important thing that Nathan could do was let Michaels bring him in.
Nathan’s Run Page 29
