Endangered Species (16 page)

“Oh, God—oh, my God.”

He waited, but the line was silent. Finally, he asked, “Mr. Tillotson, we need some help to find your daughter’s killer. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Yes … I suppose so.”

“Did your daughter say anything to you about why she was in Denver or who she was staying with?”

“No. We didn’t even know she was there. She was in Arizona—she was with—” The voice stopped. “Her boyfriend, Libby, what happened to him? Where is he?”

“Would that be Libeus King?”

“Yes. Isn’t he there? Why didn’t he call?”

“He seems to have disappeared, sir. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“Is he the one …? Do you think he did it?”

“Did he ever threaten your daughter, sir?”

“No—not that I know of. But the way you said it … You make him sound like a suspect.”

“We don’t have any suspects yet, sir. She was staying at a house rented by a John Marshall. Did she ever mention that name?”

“Not to me.” The hand over the mouthpiece made another interruption. “Her mother doesn’t remember it, either.”

“Can you give me the names of any of her friends who might know why she came to Denver?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. She hasn’t lived at home for several years. Not since she went to college. I … I guess I don’t know who her friends are anymore.”

“Would you mind asking your wife, sir? Anything might help us.”

He did, but the answer was the same, and Wager guessed that the girl, conscious of security, had said little to anyone about the new friends and acquaintances she met while going with King.

“Is there anyone she might have written to? High school buddies, hometown friends—anyone at all I can talk to just in case she told them anything?”

“Just a minute.” The voice came back. “You might try Sheila Riggs. She used to be Pauline’s best friend—they went to high school and college together.” He gave Wager the number after his wife looked it up. Then he asked, “Mr. Wager, was Pauline … Was it … sexual? Was she hurt before …?”

“We don’t have any evidence of sexual assault, Mr. Tillotson. It looks like death was caused by a blow to the head.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, not yet.” He told the man what Colorado number the California mortician should call for his daughter’s body. “He’ll make all the arrangements, Mr. Tillotson.” He again said he was sorry about the man’s daughter, thanked him for the information, and left his name and number if the Tillotsons remembered anything else, no matter how trivial.

Hanging up, he dug his fingers into the tense muscles at the back of his neck. It didn’t bother some of the detectives to give relatives the gory details of their loved ones’ death; it did bother Wager. He kicked away from his desk and poured himself another cup of the sour coffee that steamed gently on the hot plate in the small utility room. Ross, baggy-eyed, his mouth tight at the corners, strode down the hallway. Wager caught his eye.

“Archy Douglas wants an update as soon as you have something.”

“No shit, Wager. So does everybody else.”

“He asked me to tell you, Ross. That’s all.”

“Fine. You told me.”

The dark-haired detective turned his back on Wager to grab the handful of messages from his pigeonhole. Going to his desk, he ignored the glances of the other detectives and began making telephone calls. Devereaux, Ross’s partner, stopped by the utility room to rinse out his coffee cup for a refill. “Ross is pretty wound up over this, Gabe. He worked the same district as Rosener.”

“Any names yet?”

Devereaux shook his head. “Some of those people at the Blue Moon know something. But nobody’s talking. Not yet anyway.”

“If you’re getting up a reward, count me in for a hundred.”

“Thanks, Gabe.”

At his desk again, Wager called the dispatcher for another statewide BOLO on King’s car and plate. No one had yet reported seeing it, which could mean that it was out of state or parked somewhere off the streets. Or—most likely—the patrol officers were paying less attention to wanted plates than to many other things, such as a fugitive cop-shooter. Sliding his name across the locator board, Wager headed back to the west side with the photographs of Libeus King.

9/24

1031

A
NGELA
C
RUZ WAS
at her cash register in Payless Drug. Under the cold light of the fluorescent ceiling, she looked at the collection of photographs. Wager had put them into a large manila folder that had rows of little cut-out windows. Most of the faces were roughly similar to King’s; a couple were radically different. Arranging the display was an art form, and Wager had been careful to choose faces that were close but still different enough not to cause confusion for a witness. The manila windows showed pairs of photographs, one full face, one profile with the hair pulled back to show the ear. The frames of the windows were supposed to hide the fact that the photographs had DPD identification numbers below them. That way, the court said, the suspect’s rights wouldn’t be violated by prejudicing a witness against someone who had an arrest record. Wager figured the court thought all civilians ran around getting mug shots.

The girl’s finger ran halfway across the second row and stopped. “That’s the one—that’s him.”

“You don’t want to look at the rest?”

“No. That’s him.”

It was King’s FBI photograph.

The answer was the same at the liquor store, and just as positive. But the newsstand manager frowned. “It could be this guy, or him, or this one down here. I really can’t say—I see so many people every day, they all sort of fall into categories, you know?” He handed the folder back. “These three are all from the same category, see? Dark hair, kind of bushy; eyes kind of like triangles and going down at the corners. Kind of an oblong face. But whether it’s the same individual, I really can’t say.”

Wager thanked the man and crossed him off the potential-witness list. King’s photograph was among the three he’d pointed to, but if a case went to court, Wager would want an ID stronger than “maybe.” After all, Kolagny might be the prosecutor.

The last stop was the used car salesman out in Aurora. He, too, indicated King’s picture and said that was definitely the man who bought the Toyota. Then he added something. “I remembered after you left. He asked if the car was adjusted for high altitude. He said he wanted to take it up into the mountains.”

“Did he say where?”

“No. Just that he wanted to make sure it would run OK at altitude.”

Back at his desk, Wager pasted a new name tag over the lip of the Marshall folder and inked in “KING, William Libeus, aka John Marshall.” Then, checking the wall clock, he called the Bulldog’s office to find out if Special Agent Mallory had arrived yet. The secretary said the agent was in with the chief now; did Wager have an urgent message for them? He didn’t.

Mallory would get down to the homicide office when he could; Wager began catching up on the routine paperwork that never stopped. He was in the middle of a survey of overtime hours when the telephone rang and a familiar voice brightened his day. “Wager—I understand you’re sitting on a story that you don’t want the press to learn about.”

“Good morning to you too, Gargan. If there’s something I don’t want the press to know about, I’m sure as hell not going to tell it to you.”

“You know that doesn’t at all surprise me? But I’ll tell you what does surprise me: blatant disregard of the police department’s Public Relations Enhancement Program by one of its own detectives. Or are you the only cop in DPD who hasn’t heard of I-PREP?”

“I’m a cop who doesn’t discuss open cases.”

“You haven’t even asked me what case I’m interested in! If I had to tell Chief Sullivan, I’d have to say you don’t care what case I’m interested in—you just want to be uncooperative with the press.”

The reporter was right on both counts: Wager didn’t care and he was uncooperative. But in support of the Public Relations Enhancement Program, he asked, “All right, Gargan, what case are you interested in that I can’t talk to you about?”

“That arson and possible homicide over on Wyandot Street. Female victim in her twenties. Lieutenant Watterson gave us a press release yesterday and asked for any witnesses to come forward. Guess who he wanted them to call, Wager?”

“You a witness?”

“Har-de-har. Was it a homicide or not?”

“Why aren’t you on the Blue Moon cop shooting, Gargan? A sniper attack on a cop’s a hell of a lot more exciting than an unidentified corpse. And maybe you could even do some good for a change—talk one of those barflies into identifying that goddamn sniper.”

“The editor put a team on that one. Now, was it a homicide or not?”

“Yes.”

Gargan waited. “That’s it? You’re giving me a one-word story?”

Wager could think of two or three more words to give Gargan, but they would violate the good-relations policy. “It’s an ongoing case, Gargan.”

“Right. So I suppose you don’t want to tell me why the San Diego FBI office sent a man to investigate it.”

Wager hadn’t told Watterson about that. “If you know so goddamn much about it, you don’t need to talk to me.”

“I know you’re the officer of record, Wager. Now, do you tell me about it, or do I file a complaint with Chief Sullivan?”

“What you do, Gargan, is talk to the public information officer. Either that or go to hell.” He hung up on an indignant squawk and stared at the wall as if it could tell him where the reporter got his information. They had their sources—their juice—all over the department. For the price of a dinner or a few beers or a flattering mention in the news, cops and support staff would tip reporters to the confidential details of cases. Every cop wanted his payoff case, the case that would get national headlines and make his name famous. Promotion, better job offers, book and movie money—Wager had heard the squad room talk about how this detective or that one had milked a case for its payoff: “Like that French Connection cop—man, didn’t he hit a big one! And thing is, guy like that’s not a damn bit better than you or me or any other cop. Lucky, that’s all—lucky to be in on a big case and lucky to have the right connections with the press, man.”

He had heard the talk, but just who Gargan could flatter to get information about the FBI, Wager didn’t know. Nevertheless, he had a suspicion that it wasn’t any of the very few people in the department who knew about the case. And when Mallory finally showed up, Wager asked him.

“How much have I told the Denver office? Why?”

“I had a call from a reporter a little while ago. He wanted to know if you were here because of the Tillotson homicide.”

Mallory’s dark eyes studied Wager’s. “A local reporter?”

Wager nodded.

The FBI agent came to the same conclusion, and a flash of anger tightened his lips. “Bunting knows I’m here. We’re required to check in with the regional office, under normal circumstances. I have no doubt he has his contacts in the San Diego office who could tell him what brought me here.”

“Bunting called first thing this morning. Asked me what was going on.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Talk to you.”

Mallory nodded. “You don’t think the leak came from this department?”

“It wasn’t me. The only other one who knows anything is Chief Doyle. And you were still briefing him when the reporter called. Who else is left?”

“Goddamn it—Bunting would do it: use publicity as leverage to get the case away from our office.”

That wasn’t what worried Wager. “Would a story scare King off?”

“It certainly could. Worse, if he is planning a strike, it could push up his timetable.” The agent ran a hand through his short gray hair. “I explained that to Chief Doyle—he said he’d go along with a news blackout on the story for now.”

“That’s fine. But maybe you better explain it to the reporter too.”

Mallory reached for the telephone. “What’s his name?”

It took three or four calls. The first was to Mallory’s home office. It was hot and terse, and the name Bunting came up several times. The other calls were to the
Denver Post
, where finally an editor in chief agreed to hold the story. But he demanded an exclusive interview with Mallory when it was over. The agent said that since the newspaper had him over a barrel, he would agree, though reluctantly, to that stipulation. Then he smiled as he hung up. “I’ll of course give due credit to you and the Denver Police Department, Wager.”

Wager grunted. “Provided things work out.”

“Well, yes, always that proviso.” Which he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Let’s go get some lunch. We can tell each other where we’re at.”

Mallory knew a little about Denver—”I’ve spent some time here on cases”—and had his favorite restaurants—”I’m on per diem this trip; I can afford it.” The one they went to wasn’t one Wager would have chosen. For one thing, it was in the heart of tourist country, Larimer Square, and for another, you had to wait in line for a table, then wait at the table for the menu, then wait after the menu for the food. The only thing quick was the check. At least there weren’t any trees growing over their table.

Wager told Mallory that he had positive identification from three witnesses that Marshall and King were the same man. “I also have a description of his car and his license number, but nothing’s turned up on that yet. I talked to Tillotson’s parents. They didn’t even know she was in Denver. They gave me the name of one of her friends, but I haven’t reached her yet.”

Mallory pulled a slip of paper from his vest pocket. “Here’s a roster of her known associates. It’s up-to-date, but as far as I know, none of them are in the Denver area.”

Wager glanced down the list. He recognized a couple of the names. “Any word on this Simon guy? The one up in Boulder?”

“Nothing new.”

“What can you tell me about Charles Pipkin?”

“Oh? You’ve run across him?”

He told Mallory about the telephone calls listed to the Wyandot number. “One of them was to Pipkin. It’s a rural route address outside Steamboat Springs.”

The agent cut into the chicken swimming in its special house sauce and chewed for a moment. “Pipkin. I didn’t know he’d left the San Diego area. No arrest record, graduated San Diego State University about six years ago, now a science teacher in a junior high school. Active in Greenpeace and a couple other conservationist political movements; became associated with King’s group two years ago, and that’s when Tillotson met him.”