“Yeah.” Dunn stood up, facing him. “You’re a tough guy, right?”
“Maybe,” Lucas said.
“Football, I bet.”
“Hockey.”
“Yeah, you got the cuts…Think you could take me?” Dunn had relaxed again, and a faintly amused look crossed his face.
Lucas nodded. “Yeah.”
Dunn said, “Huh,” like he didn’t necessarily agree, and then, losing the smile, “What d’you think—you gonna find my wife and kids?”
“I’ll find them,” Lucas said.
“But you won’t guarantee their condition,” Dunn said.
Lucas looked away, into the dark house: he felt like something was pushing his face. “No,” he said to the darkness.
4
THE HOMICIDE OFFICE resembled the city room of a slightly seedy small-town daily. Individual cubicles for the detectives were separated by shoulder-high partitions; some desks were neat, others were a swamp of paper and souvenirs. Three different kinds of gray or putty-colored metal file cabinets were stuck wherever there was space. Old fliers and notes and cartoons and bureaucratic missives were tacked or taped on walls and bulletin boards. A brown plastic radio the size of a toaster, the kind last made in the sixties with a big, round tuning dial, sat on top of a file cabinet, a bent steel clothes hanger jammed into the back as an antenna. An adenoidal voice squeaked from the primitive speaker.
“…is one of the most historical of crimes, from the Rape of the Sabine women to the Lindbergh kidnapping of our own era…”
Lucas was drinking chicken noodle Soup-in-a-Cup, and paused just inside the door with the cup two inches from his lips. The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place it until the DJ interrupted:
You’re listening to Blackjack Billy Walker, go ahead, Edina, with a question for Dr. David Girdler…
Dr. Girdler, you said a minute ago that kidnapping victims identify with their kidnappers. All I can say is, that’s a perfect example of what happens when the liberal school system shoves this politically correct garbage down the kids’ throats, teaching them things the kids know are wrong but they gotta believe because somebody in authority says so, like these union hacks that call themselves teachers…
Girdler’s voice was consciously mellow, hushed, artificially and dramatically deepened. He said:
I understand your feelings—heh heh—about this, although I don’t entirely agree with your sentiments: there are many good teachers. That aside, yes, that identification often takes place and begins within hours of the kidnapping; the victims may actually suggest ways that the police can be more effectively foiled in their efforts…
Lucas stared at the radio, not believing it. Greave was sitting at his desk, eating a Mr. Goodbar. “Sounds like a fuckin’ politician, doesn’t he? He couldn’t wait to get on the radio. He walked out of the school and drove right down to the station.”
“How long has he been on?” Lucas finished the Soup-in-a-Cup and dropped the cup in a wastebasket.
“Hour,” Greave said. “Lotta newsies have been looking for you, by the way.”
“Fuck ’em,” Lucas said. “For now, anyway.”
A dozen detectives were milling around the office—everybody from Homicide/Violent Crimes, more from Vice, Sex, and Intelligence. Some were at desks, others were parked on swivel chairs, some were leaning against file cabinets. A very tall man and a very short one were talking golf swings. A guy from Sex elbowed past with a cafeteria tray full of cups of coffee and Coke. Almost everybody was eating or drinking. The office smelled like coffee, microwave popcorn, and Tombstone pizza.
Harmon Anderson wandered over to Greave’s desk, eating a chicken-salad sandwich. A glob of mayonnaise was stuck to his upper lip. “Anything for a buck,” he said between chews. Anderson was a hillbilly and a computer expert. “Girdler is not a doctor. He has a B.A. in psychology from some redneck college in North Carolina.”
Sherrill, still damp, strolled in, pulled off the tennis hat, slapped it against her coat, then took off her coat and hung it up. She nodded at Lucas, tipped her head at the radio, and said, “Have you been listening?”
Lucas said, “Just now,” and to Greave, “Did you ask him not to?”
Greave nodded. “The standard line. I said we should keep it to ourselves so the perpetrators don’t know exactly what we have, and so we can present a better image if we get to court.”
“Did you say perpetrator?” Lucas asked.
“Yeah. So shoot me.”
“I’d say he didn’t give a fuck,” Sherrill said, fluffing her hair. “I was listening on the way over. He’s remembering stuff he didn’t give to us…”
“Making it up,” Lucas said.
“Everybody’s gotta be a movie star,” Greave said. And they paused for a moment to listen:
Dr. Girdler, you know, the police don’t stop crime; they simply record it, and sometimes they catch the people who do it. But by then, it’s too late. This kidnapping is a perfect example. If Mrs. Manette had been carrying even a simple handgun, or if you had been carrying a handgun, you could’ve stopped this thug in his tracks. Instead, you were left standing there in the hallway and you couldn’t do anything. I’ll tell you, the criminals have guns; it’s time we honest citizens took advantage of our Second Amendment rights…
“Damnit,” Sherrill said. “It’s gonna turn into a circus.”
“Already has.” They all turned toward the door. Frank Lester, deputy chief for investigation, stepped inside with a handful of papers. He was tired, his face drawn. Too many years. “Anything more?”
Lucas shook his head. “I talked to Dunn. He seems pretty straight.”
“He’s a candidate, though,” Greave said.
“Yeah, he’s a candidate,” Lucas said. To Lester: “Have the Feds come in yet?”
“They’re about to,” Lester said. “They can’t avoid it much longer.”
Lucas twisted the engagement ring around the end of his forefinger, saw Lester looking at it, and pushed it down in his pocket. Lester continued, “Even if the Feds come in, Manette wants us working it, too. The chief agrees.”
“Jesus, I wish this shit would stop,” Greave said, rubbing his forehead.
“Been doing it since Cain and Abel,” said Anderson.
Greave stopped rubbing: “I didn’t mean crime. I meant politics. If crime stopped, I’d have to get a job.”
“You could probably get on the fuckin’ radio with that suit,” Sherrill said.
Lester waved them silent, held up a yellow legal pad on which he’d scribbled notes. “Listen up, everybody.”
The talk died as the cops arranged themselves around Lester. “Harmon Anderson will be passing out assignments, but I want to outline what we’re looking at and get ideas on anything we’re missing.”
“What’s the overtime situation?” somebody called from the back.
“We’re clear for whatever it takes,” Lester said. He looked at one of the papers in his hand. “Okay. Most of you guys are gonna be doing house-to-house…”
Lester dipped his head into a chorus of groans—it was still raining outside—and then said, “And there’s a lot of small stuff we’ve got to get quick. We need to know about the paint in the parking lot by morning. And we need to check the school, for that color or type of paint. Jim Hill here”—he nodded at one of the detectives—“points out that you hardly ever see poster paint outside a school, so maybe the school is somehow involved.”
“Her old man did it,” somebody said.
“We’re checking that,” Lester said. “In the meantime, we got the blood on that shoe, and we need somebody to walk the blood tests around, ’cause we need to know quick if the blood’s Manette’s or one of the kids’. If it’s not—if it’s somebody else’s—we’ll run it through the state’s DNA offender bank. And we need to talk to the University medical school, get Manette’s blood type. I’m told she occasionally volunteered for medical studies, so they may even have a DNA on h
er, and if the blood on the shoe belongs to one of the kids, a DNA might tell us that…”
“DNA takes a while,” said a short, pink cop who wore a snap-brim hat with a feather in the hatband.
“Not this one,” Lester said. He looked at the paper again. “We need Ford Econolines checked against all her patients, against the school staff, all relatives, and against whatever database we can find on felony convictions, Minnesota and however much of Wisconsin we can get. We need to see if any Manette-or Dunn-related companies own Econolines. Go to Ford, see if we can get a list of Econolines from their warranty program—they said it was an older one, so go back as far as you can. We need to run the registration lists for Econolines against her patient list, which we’re trying to get…”
Anderson broke in. “I’m setting up a database of patient names. Any name that pops up in the investigation, we can run against the list—so get all the names you can. All the teachers at the school, her phone records, anything.”
Lester nodded and continued. “We need to check Manette’s and Dunn’s credit ratings, see if anybody’s got money problems. Check insurance policies. What else?”
“Manette’s putting together an enemies list,” Lucas said.
“Run that, too,” Lester told Anderson. “What are we missing?”
“Public appeals,” said a black cop in a pearl-gray suit. “Pictures of Manette and the kids.”
“All the news outlets already have some kind of pictures, but we’re putting out some high-quality stuff in the next couple of hours,” Lester said. “There’s some talk of a reward for information. We’ll get back to you on that. And I want to say now, all the news contacts should go through the Public Affairs Department. I don’t want anybody talking to the press. Everybody clear on that?”
Everybody was. Lester turned to Sherrill. “How’s the house-to-house going?”
“We’ve hit all the houses where the residents could see the school, except for two, where there’s nobody home, and we’re looking for those people in case they were there during the kidnapping,” Sherrill said. “The only thing we have so far is one woman who saw the van, and she picked out Econoline taillights as the lights she saw. So we think that ID is solid. Now we’re going back for a second round, to talk about what people might’ve seen in the past couple of days—and we’re doing the same thing in Manette’s neighborhood. If this was planned out, he must’ve been scouting her. So, that’s about it.”
“Okay,” Lester said. He looked around the room. “You all know the general picture. Get your assignments from Anderson and let’s get it on the road. I want everybody breaking their balls on this one. This one’s gonna be tough, and we need to look good.”
As the other detectives gathered around Anderson, Lucas leaned toward Greave and asked, “Did the kid, the witness kid, did she see anything different from what Girdler gave us?”
Greave scratched the back of his head, and his eyes defocused. “Ah, the kid, I don’t know, I didn’t get much from her. She was fairly freaked out. Didn’t seem like much.”
“You got her phone number?” Lucas asked.
“Sure. You want it?”
“Doesn’t she live over in St. Paul? Highland Park?”
“Someplace around there…”
LESTER CAUGHT LUCAS outside his office as Lucas was locking the door.
“Any ideas?” he asked.
“What everybody else says—money or a nut,” Lucas said. “If we don’t get a ransom call, we’ll find him in her files or in her family.”
“There could be a problem with the files,” Lester said. “Manette talked to the Wolfe woman and she hit the roof. I guess there was a hell of an argument. Medical privilege.”
“Doesn’t exist, Frank,” Lucas said. “Subpoena the records. Don’t talk about it. If you talk about it, it’ll turn into a big deal and the media will be wringing their wrists. Get a judge out of bed, get the subpoena. I’ll take it over myself, if you want.”
“That’d be good, but not tonight,” Lester said. “We’ve got too much going on already. I’ll have it here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Lucas nodded. “I’ll pick it up as early as I can drag my ass out of bed,” he said. He didn’t get up early. “I’m gonna stop and see the kid, too. Tonight.”
“Bob talked to her,” Lester said, uncomfortably.
“Yeah, he did,” Lucas said. And after a moment, “That’s your problem.”
“Bob’s a nice guy,” Lester said.
“He couldn’t catch the clap in a whorehouse, Frank.”
“Yeah, yeah…did you talk to the kid’s folks?”
“Two minutes ago,” Lucas said. “I told them I was on the way.”
CLARICE BERNET WORE a suit and tie. Her husband, Thomas, wore a cashmere sweater and a tie. “We don’t want her frightened any more than she is,” Clarice Bernet said. She hissed it, like a snake. She was a bony woman with tight blonde hair and a thin nose. Her front teeth were angled like a rodent’s, and she was in Lucas’s face.
“I’m not here to frighten her,” Lucas said.
“You better not,” Bernet said. She shook a finger at him: “There’s been enough trouble from this already. The first officer questioned her without allowing us time to get there.”
“We were hoping to stop the kidnapper’s van,” Lucas said mildly, but he was getting angry.
Thomas Bernet waggled his jowls: “We appreciate that, but you have to understand that this has been a trauma.”
They were standing in the quarry-tiled entry of the Bernets’ house, a closet to one side, a framed poster on the opposite wall, a souvenir from a Rembrandt show at the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam in 1992. A sad, middle-aged Rembrandt peered out at Lucas. “You have to understand that this is a kidnapping investigation and it could become a murder investigation,” Lucas snapped, his voice developing an edge. “One way or another, we’ll talk to your daughter and get answers from her. We can do it pleasantly, here, or unpleasantly down at Homicide, with a court order.” He paused for a half-beat. “I’d rather not get the court order.”
“We don’t need threats,” Thomas Bernet said. He was a division manager at General Mills and knew a threat when he heard one.
“I’m not threatening you; I’m laying out the legal realities,” Lucas said. “Three people’s lives are in jeopardy and if your daughter has a bad night’s sleep over it, or two bad nights, that’s tough. I’ve got to think about the victims and what they’re going through. Now, do I talk to, uh, Mercedes, or do I get the court order?”
MERCEDES BERNET WAS a small girl with a pointed chin, a hundred-dollar haircut, and eyes that were five years too old. She wore a pink silk kimono and sat on the living room couch, next to a Yamaha grand piano, with her ankles crossed. She had recently developed breasts, Lucas thought, and sat with her back coyly arched, making the best of what was not yet too much. With her mother sitting beside her, and her father hovering behind the chair, she told Lucas what she’d seen.
“Grace was standing there, looking back and forth, like she didn’t know what was going on. She even walked back toward the door for a minute, then she went back out. Then this van pulled around in front, going that way.” She pointed to her left. “And this guy jumps out, and he runs up to her and she started to back up and the guy just grabbed her by her blouse and by her hair and he jerked her right off the porch-thing…”
“The portico,” Clarice Bernet said.
“Yeah, whatever,” said Mercedes, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, he pulled her toward the van and slid the door back and threw her inside. I mean, he was this huge dude. He just threw her. And before he closed the door, I saw two other people in there. Mrs. Dunn…”
“Mrs. Manette,” her mother said.
“Yeah, whatever, and she had blood on her face. She was, like, crawling. Then there was another kid in there that I thought was Genevieve, but I couldn’t see her face. She was, like, lying down on the floor, and then the guy closed the do
or.”
“Where was Mr. Girdler during all of this?”
“I didn’t see him until afterwards. He was behind me somewhere. I told him to call 911, but he was like, Duh.” She rolled her eyes again and Lucas smiled.
Then: “Think about this,” Lucas said. “Tell me exactly what the kidnapper looked like.”
Mercedes leaned back, closed her eyes, and a minute later, eyes still closed, said, “Big. Yellow hair, but it looked kinda weird, like it was peroxided or something. ’Cause his skin looked dark, not like a black dude, but you know…dark.” She opened her eyes and studied Lucas’s face. “Like you, kinda. His face didn’t look like yours—he had, like, a real narrow face—but he was about your color and big like you.”
“What was he wearing? Anything special?”
She closed her eyes again and lived through the scene, then opened her eyes, looking surprised, and said, “Oh, shit.”
“Young lady!” Clarice Bernet was shocked.
Lucas wagged his head once and asked, “What?”
“He was wearing a GenCon shirt. I knew there was something…”
He said, “GenCon? Are you sure? Did you see what year?”
“You know what it is?” A skeptical eyebrow went up.
“Sure. I write role-playing games…”
“Really? My boyfriend…”
“Mercedes!” Her mother’s voice took a warning tone and Mercedes swerved into safer territory.
“A friend at school has one. I recognized it right away—the shirt isn’t the same as my friend’s, but it was a GenCon. Great big GenCon right on the front, and one of those weird dice. Everything black and white, kinda cheap…”
“What’s a GenCon?” asked Thomas Bernet, looking suspiciously from his daughter to Lucas, as though GenCon might somehow be linked to ConDom.
“It’s a gamer’s convention, over in Lake Geneva,” Lucas said. To Mercedes: “Why didn’t you tell the other officer?”
Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10 Page 37
