Fallen (17 page)

They had the key scratches, the same as the other two shootings. And it appeared Boyce’s badge had been taken like Nate’s. Was it possible the shooter just hadn’t had the opportunity to obtain Watterson’s?

Or taking souvenirs was part of an evolving MO.

It appeared more and more likely that Pooch was telling the truth and these weren’t gang hits. Ryan tasted bitterness in the back of his mouth. He had handled a case like this only once before, and it had turned out to be a truck driver targeting prostitutes downtown. Not men and not police.

“If you’re done, Detective, the ME’s office needs to transport the body.”

“This bag and its contents go into evidence,” he said to the forensics tech who approached as he replaced the shirt. “I want it sealed. I’ll sign for it once you’re done. And I want the interior dusted for prints. Go over this vehicle with a fine-tooth comb.”

The tech nodded and took over. Ryan stepped away, a heaviness inside him as two jump-suited workers came forward with a black body bag. Although Ryan hadn’t known the slain officer, the murder still felt deeply personal. He spotted Mateo at the end of the driveway, pacing and talking on his cell phone.

“I don’t have any more questions. You can go back out now,” Ryan said to the responding officer, who was still taking in the scene with a dazed look. Ryan exited alongside him, both men avoiding dried blood on the slab floor. Outside, the sky had darkened and the warm night air carried the scent of honeysuckle. It was a sharp contrast to the putrid confines of the garage.

“You think he was followed here or someone was waiting on him?” the officer asked.

“I don’t know.” Ryan didn’t want to speculate. He stopped to tear off the latex gloves and paper booties covering his shoes, tossing them into a nearby receptacle.

“Do
we
need to be worried, Detective?”

Again, he didn’t reply. The media hadn’t yet speculated on a link between the recent police shootings, so far treating them as isolated incidents. But with a third one now so soon after the second, Ryan figured it wouldn’t be long—probably tonight. He had no doubt word was already spreading through the department’s ranks, something evidenced by the increasing number of police who were joining the neighbors outside the crime scene’s cordoned-off perimeter. Gathering the team, aware of the tense atmosphere, he instructed officers to start a door-to-door canvass of the neighborhood to determine if anyone had witnessed anything, including unfamiliar cars parked on the street a night ago.

He frowned as another news van appeared. Seeing his approach, Mateo completed the conversation and disconnected. Arriving after Ryan, he’d been called away from the immediate scene by an incoming call.

“Thompson,” he indicated. “Nate is still our case, but this thing’s going wider, pronto. The chief’s on his way here now. The department’s forming a task force and calling in a GBI profiler. We’ve got a meeting at noon tomorrow.”

Ryan nodded, unsurprised. “Safety protocol?”

“It’s going to be reviewed with all officers in morning briefings.” Mateo scratched his throat, a habit that usually meant he was riled up and antsy. “You saw the shell casings. Looks like the same type of gun again. No first shot from a distance to take him down this time, though. All three bullets were delivered up close and personal. What do you make of that?”

“He’s developing confidence. Either that or Boyce knew him and didn’t realize his intent.”

“We can keep looking for a connection between the victims, but Thompson says the GBI thinks we have a serial killer on our hands, targeting cops at random.”

Ryan stared back at the garage. There were nearly two thousand officers in the metro area.

“Fucking bloodbath in there,” Mateo muttered, following his gaze. He squinted against the mobile lights set up around the driveway. “I was glad to take the cap’s call for once.”

“How’s your mom?”

“It’s her seventieth birthday. She wasn’t happy about me being called away. Evie’s going to push the sangria and put her to bed before the late news. She worries too much already.”

Raised voices outside the barricade captured their attention. Ryan figured the man trying to gain entrance was Boyce’s partner. Wearing civilian clothes, he flashed a badge and shoved against the stationed officers, trying to get past.

“Let him in,” he called, dreading this. They spoke briefly to him, asking some questions, then accompanied him to view the body. Ryan laid a hand on the officer’s shoulder as he broke down upon seeing the deteriorating corpse. His own heart hurt.

A short time later, he and Mateo pushed through the horde of media, ignoring questions tossed at them. They walked across the street to the towering home of the software executive who had alerted 9-1-1. As they did so, Ryan observed metal tracks embedded in the asphalt, ancient and rusted with age. They were rails that had once been used for streetcars nearly a century ago. They could still be found in some of the older in-town neighborhoods.

Mateo stepped over them as they went onto the sidewalk in front of the house’s manicured lawn.

“Simpler times, man,” he said.

*

The gun used to kill Matthew Boyce was a match to the other homicides, something that had been revealed at the Saturday task force meeting. The news had sent anxiety through police gathered there.

The meeting now over, Ryan sat at his desk inside the precinct, going through the other forensics reports that were still filtering in via e-mail. He rubbed his eyes hard enough to see starbursts. His day had begun with the autopsy on Boyce at seven a.m. He had observed it in hopes of hearing firsthand any evidence gleaned from the body that hadn’t shown up in the precursory examination. He had attended Nate’s, too, despite his personal connection. Both times, however, he had come away with nothing of use.

“Food trucks are in the park,” Mateo announced, entering from the corridor. He tossed a brown paper bag to Ryan. “I hooked you up—Cuban, hold the pickles.”

Ryan realized he hadn’t eaten in hours. “Thanks.”

“Anything new show up since I’ve been out?” Mateo unwrapped his own sandwich at his desk.

“The duffel from Boyce’s car was missing something else. A department-issued stun gun. Boyce checked it out a few days ago.”

His partner’s eyebrows rose. Ryan figured he was wondering the same thing he was. What did the shooter want with it?

“Forensics are still coming in. They lifted a half-dozen prints on and inside the car besides Boyce’s, but none matched the exemplars in the IAFIS,” Ryan said, referring to the national fingerprint and criminal history database. Without a match, it meant the prints were basically useless unless they had a suspect in custody.

“What about the duffel?”

“No discernible prints. Nylon’s not a good canvas.”

While the investigation into Watterson’s death seven weeks ago had been out of their control, they’d checked Nate’s vehicle for prints inside and out, too. A receipt inside the glove box indicating he had recently had the car detailed had diminished the potential for finding anything useful, however.

They ate for a time in silence until Mateo asked, “So what do you think of Danielson’s theory? Not that he could limit it to just
one
, mind you.”

Ryan caught the cynical edge to his words. GBI Special Agent Joe Danielson was a trained profiler who believed the victims had been selected at random. He’d speculated to the task force that the unsub—Bureau shorthand for unknown subject of an investigation—held an extreme grudge against police for some perceived injustice. As an alternate theory, he’d also suggested the unsub could have even attempted to enter law enforcement at some point but failed, fueling a desire for comeuppance.

“Does our perp just
hate
cops or does he secretly want to
be
one?” Mateo pondered around a mouthful of ham and roast pork. “If we go with the whole hating cops thing, we’ve narrowed it to nine-tenths of the population. No problem, case closed.”

“We haven’t given Danielson much to go on,” Ryan pointed out.

Five pairs of detectives, all six precinct heads and several members of the department’s upper ranks, as well as representatives from the GBI, had attended the task force meeting. They had more hands on deck now, although Ryan and Mateo were still identified as the primaries in Nate’s—and now Matthew Boyce’s—shootings. The gathering had been tense. In addition to the homicides’ specifics, there had been discussion about media protocol and police safety, with a new mandate that no officers were to be on patrol alone.

Of course, Ryan had pointed out that none of the men had been shot while on official duty. Watterson had just gotten off a moonlighting gig and gone to his car in an isolated location, while Nate and Boyce had been returning home for the night. It appeared as if each had been carefully stalked, with the perpetrator knowing the men’s patterns and lying in wait for them at the safest place and time. This was the problem he had with Danielson’s random-victims theory. Whatever the homicides were, they didn’t seem to be impulse shootings. This wasn’t some perp just driving around in a car looking for a cop to take aim at.

Still searching for some connection between the dead men, Ryan placed the three homicide reports on the computer’s split screen in front of him as he ate.

“You ready?” Mateo asked a short time later. He gulped the last of his soda.

“Yeah. I’ll meet you out back.” Ryan tossed the sandwich wrapper into the receptacle and stood. They were headed to the Dunwoody town home where Boyce’s ex-wife lived, although the interview was mostly a formality. She wasn’t a suspect. She’d been with her new boyfriend and his two sons the entire night of the murder. Still, she might be able to give some insight into Boyce’s private life, his habits. She’d been notified of the death by uniformed officers the previous evening, but had been told to expect detectives.

Ryan walked to the police-only restroom, which was combined with a large locker area and row of shower stalls. Briefly, he peered at his reflection in the mirror above the basins, aware of the faint lines fanning out from his eyes and tension bracketing his mouth. He’d come in to wash the Cuban’s stickiness from his hands, but instead he splashed cold water on his face. He’d been reviewing the crime scene photos from last night on his computer, as well. Matthew Boyce’s corpse, the bloody garage—all of it was burned inside his brain. Nearly a repeat of what had happened to Nate a week ago. He thought of Kristen and his promise to her that he would find Nate’s killer.

When he turned off the faucet and opened his eyes again, he saw Seth Kimmel’s reflection in the mirror. He stood about six feet behind him. They were the only two in the room.

Ryan reached for a paper towel.

“Heard you got your ass kicked by a banger the other night.” Dressed in civilian clothes, Seth smirked. “Have to give those homies a free pass next time they’re on my turf.”

Ryan took a deep breath and held it in, then turned to face him. “What’re you doing here, Kimmel? I thought they put you on leave for that Taser stunt.”

“Dash cam shows the truth. Asshole punked off to a cop and paid the price. I’m going to be cleared, so my union rep says to enjoy the paid vacation. I just came by to get some things from my locker.” He swaggered closer. “I haven’t forgotten I owe you.”

Irritation lanced through Ryan. He was in no mood for Seth’s bullshit. “Then why wait? I’m right here.”

“You’d like that. Me taking another swing at you here in the house where all your buddies can pull me off and Thompson can extend my suspension.” His voice lowered menacingly. “
Know this
, Winter. When I’m ready for payback, you won’t even see me coming.”

Ryan gave a mirthless smile. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“And
good policing
on bringing in Weisz’s shooter, by the way. Now there’s another one of us down. With you on the job, I better start sleeping with my vest on and one eye open.”

Ryan crumpled the paper towel he’d used and tossed it into the receptacle. Seth was baiting him, hoping he would be the one to initiate another physical confrontation. He brushed past, headed out.

“’Course, from what I hear, you’ve got a history of letting your own die on your watch.”

Ryan halted, a stunned heat sweeping through him.

He had accepted that his co-workers knew of his personal tragedy. A handful of them, detectives themselves, had even heard the recording of his anguished poolside call to 9-1-1. Police weren’t special. The case had been investigated like any child death.

Shoulders rigid, he forced himself not to turn around. Seth was scum.

“I don’t know who on the desk let you back here, but it’s a violation of policy,” he said hoarsely. “You have two minutes. Get your things and go or I’ll escort you out myself.”

Chest burning with anger, he walked out.

Chapter Fourteen

The Hope Gala
took place annually under a massive tent at the Atlanta Botanical Garden. The black-tie event was the hospital’s largest fundraiser, and the city’s upper crust made up its attendees. Socialites, business executives and politicians mingled with the hospital’s board and administrators, while a live band played and servers poured champagne.