Night Prey (21 page)

"I don't know," Lucas said. "Think about it. Read your files some more. Dredge something up. Wait."

"Wait for him to kill somebody else?"

"Something," Lucas said.

"I think we ought to push him. I think we ought to publish the artist's drawing. I couldn't find anybody to confirm it, but I'd bet there's some resemblance."

Lucas sighed. "Yeah, maybe we should. I'll talk to Roux."

Roux agreed. "It'll give us a bone to throw them," she said. "If they believe us."

Lucas went back to his office, stared at the phone, nibbling at his lower lip, trying to find a hold on the case. The easy possibilities, like Junky, were fading.

The door opened without a knock, and Jan Reed stuck her head in. "Whoops. Was I supposed to knock? I thought this was an outer office."

"I'm not a big enough deal to have an outer office," Lucas said. "Come on in. You guys are killing us."

"Not me," she said, sitting down, her legs crossed to one side. She'd changed since he saw her in the morning, and must've gotten some sleep. She looked fresh and wide awake, in a simple skirt with a white silk blouse.

"I wanted to apologize for Pam Stern. She's been out there a little too long."

"Who turned up the original story?"

"I really don't know-it was phoned in," she said.

"The therapist."

"I really don't know," she said, smiling. "And I wouldn't tell you if I did."

"Ah. Ethics raise their ugly head."

"Is there anything new?" she asked. She took a short reporter's notebook out of her purse.

"No."

"What should I look for next?"

"The autopsy. Evidence of the killer's semen or blood. If we get that, we've got something. There's a good chance that he's a prior sexual offender, and the state's got a DNA bank on prior offenders. That's next."

"All right," she said. She made a few notes. "I'll look for that. Anything else?"

Lucas shrugged. "That's about it."

"Okay. Well, that's it, then." And she left, leaving behind her scent. There'd been just the tiniest, microscopic pause after she'd said "Okay." An opportunity to get personal? He wasn't sure.

Connell came by late in the afternoon. "Nothing from the autopsy yet. There's a bruise on her face where it looks like somebody pinched her, and they're bringing in a specialist to see if they can lift a fingerprint. No great hopes."

"Nothing else?"

"Not yet. And I'm drawing blanks," she said.

"How about the PPP guy, the convict who saw the tattoo? What was his name-Price? If nothing comes up, why don't we drive over to Waupun tomorrow and talk to him?"

"Okay. What about Greave?"

"I'll tell him to work his own case for the day. That's all he wants to do anyway."

"Good. How far is Waupun?"

"Five or six hours."

"Why don't we fly?"

"Ah..."

"I can get a state patrol plane, I think."

Weather's head was snuggled in under Lucas's jaw, and she said, "You should have driven. You don't need the stress."

"Yeah, but I sound like such a chicken."

"Lots of people don't like to fly."

"But they do," he said.

She patted his stomach. "You'll be okay. I could get you something that'd mellow you out a little, if you want."

"That'd mess up my head. I'll fly." He sighed and said, "My main problem is, I'm not running this investigation. Connell's done everything, and I can't see beyond what she's done. I'm not thinking: the gears aren't moving like they used to."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know, exactly-I can't get anything to start with. If I could get the smallest bite of personal information on the guy, I'd have something-we just can't get it. All I have to work with is paper."

"You said he might do cocaine..."

"Maybe fifty thousand people in the Twin Cities do cocaine on a more or less regular basis," Lucas said. "I could jump a few dealers, but the chances of getting anywhere are nil."

"It's something."

"I need something else, and soon. He's gone crazy-less than a week between kills. He'll be doing another one. He'll be thinking about it already."

Chapter
13

Lucas hated airplanes, feared them. Helicopters, for reasons he didn't understand, were not so bad. They flew to Waupun in a small four-seater fixed-wing plane, Lucas in the back.

"I've never seen anything like that," Connell said, an undercurrent of satisfaction in her voice.

"You're exaggerating it," Lucas said, his face grim. The airport was open, windy, a patch on the countryside. A brown state car waited by the Waupun sign, and they walked that way.

"I thought you were going to throw the pilot out the window when we hit those bumps. I thought you were gonna explode. It was like your head was blowing up, like one of those Zodiac boats where the pressure builds up."

"Yeah, yeah."

"I hope you and the pilot can kiss and make up before we fly back," Connell said. "I don't want him flying scared."

Lucas turned to her and she stepped away, half smiling, half frightened. With the fish-white stone face behind the black glasses, he looked like a maniac; Lucas did not like airplanes.

A Waupun guard tossed a newspaper in the backseat of the state car and got out as they came up. "Ms. Connell?"

"Yes."

"Tom Davis." He was a mild-looking, fleshy man with rosy cheeks and vague blue eyes under a smooth, baby-clear forehead. He had a small graying mustache, just a bit wider than Hitler's. He smiled and shook her hand, then to Lucas, "And you're her assistant?"

"That was a joke," Connell said hastily. "This is, uh, Deputy Chief Lucas Davenport from Minneapolis."

"Whoops, sorry, Chief," Davis said. He winked at Connell. "Well, hop in. We got a little ride."

Davis knew D. Wayne Price. "He's not a bad fella," he said. He drove with one foot on the gas and the other on the brake. The constant surging and slowing reminded Lucas of the airplane's motion.

"He was convicted of murdering a woman by slicing her open with a knife," Connell said. "They had to remove her intestines from the street with a bucket." Her voice was conversational.

"That wouldn't put him in the top ten percent of his class," the guard said, just as conversationally. "We got guys in here who raped and killed little boys before they ate them."

" That's
bad," Lucas said.

"That is bad," said Davis.

"Is there any talk about Price?" Lucas asked. "He says he's innocent."

"So do fifty percent of the others, though most of them don't actually claim to be innocent. They say the law wasn't followed, or the trial wasn't fair. I mean, they did it, whatever it was, but they say the state didn't dot every single i and cross every single t before puttin' them away-and they say that's just not fair. There's nobody finickier about the law than a con," Davis said.

"How about Price?"

"I don't know D. Wayne that good, but some of the guys believe him," Davis said. "He's been pretty noisy about it, filing all kinds of appeals. He's never stopped; he's still doing it."

"Don't like prisons," Connell said. The interview room had the feel of a dungeon.

"Like the doors might not open again after you're inside," Lucas said.

"That's exactly it. I could stand it for about a week, and then they'd come to put me back in the cell, and I'd freak. I don't think I'd make a full month. I'd kill myself," Connell said.

"People do," Lucas said. "The saddest ones are the people they put on a suicide watch. They can't get out, and they can't get it over with. They just sit and suffer."

"Some of them deserve it."

Lucas disagreed. "I don't know if anybody deserves that."

D. Wayne Price was a large man in his early forties; his face looked as if it had been slowly and incompetently formed with a ballpeen hammer. His forehead was shiny and pitted, with scars running up into his hairline. He had rough poreless skin under his eyes, scar tissue from being punched. His small round ears seem to be fitted into slots in his head. When the escort brought him to the interview room, he smiled a convict's obsequious smile, and his teeth were small and chipped. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt with "Harley-Davidson" on the front.

Lucas and Connell were sitting on a couple of slightly damaged green office chairs, facing a couch whose only notable quality was its brownness. The escort was a horse-faced older man with a buzz cut; he was carrying a yellow-backed book, said, "Sit," to Price, as though he were a Labrador retriever, said, "How do" to Lucas and Connell, then dropped onto the other end of the couch with his book.

"You smoke?" Connell asked Price.

"Sure." She fished in a pocket, handed him an open pack of Marlboros and a butane lighter. Price knocked a cigarette out of the pack, lit it, and Connell said, voice soft, "So, this woman in Madison. You kill her?"

"Never touched the bitch," Price said, testing, his eyes lingering on her.

"But you knew her," Connell said.

"I knew who she was," Price said.

"Sleep with her?" Lucas asked.

"Nope. Never got that close," Price said, looking at Lucas. "Had a nice ass on her, though."

"Where were you when she was killed?" asked Connell.

"Drunk. My buddies dropped me off at my house, but I knew if I went inside I'd start barfin', so I walked down to this convenience store for coffee. That's what got me."

"Tell me," said Connell.

Price looked up at the ceiling, stuck the cigarette in his mouth, looked down at it long enough to light it, blew some smoke and closed his eyes, remembering. "I was out drinking with some buddies. Shit, we were drinking all afternoon and shootin' pool. And so about eight o'clock my buddies brought me home 'cause I was too fuckin' drunk to drink."

"That's pretty drunk," Lucas said.

"Yeah, pretty," Price said. "Anyway, they dumped me off on my porch, and I sat there for a while, and when I could get going, I decided to go up to the corner and get some coffee. There was a 7-Eleven in one of them side-street shopping centers. There was like a drugstore and a cleaners and this bookstore. I was in the 7-Eleven, and she came down from the bookstore to get something. I was drunker'n shit, but I remembered her from some welding I done for her."

"Welding?"

"Yeah." Price laughed, the laugh trailing off into a cough. "She had this piece-of-shit '79 Cadillac, cream over key-lime green, and the bumper fell off. Just fuckin' fell off one day. The Cadillac place wanted like four hundred bucks to fix it, so she brought it over to my place and asked me what I could do. I welded the sonofabitch back on for twenty-two dollars. If that bumper hadn't fell off, I'd be a free man today."

"So you remembered her," Connell prompted. "In the store."

"Yeah. I said hello and come on to her a little bit, but she wasn't having it, and she left. I sort of followed along." Price's voice was slow and dreamy, pulling details out of his memory. "She went down to this bookstore. I was so fuckin' drunk, I kept thinking, Hell, I'm gonna get lucky with this chick. There was no chance. Even if she'd said, 'Hell, yes,' I was in no shape to... you know. Anyway, I went into the bookstore."

"How long did you stay?"

"About five minutes. There was a crowd in there, and I didn't fit so good. For one thing, I smelled like a Budweiser truck had peed on me."

"So?" Connell prompted.

"So I left." His voice hardened, and he sat up. "There was this pimply-faced asshole kid in there, a clerk. He said I stayed, and that later, when this book thing was over, I followed her out of the store. That's what he said. The lawyer asked him on the witness stand, he said, 'Can you point to the man who followed her out?' And this kid said, 'Yessir. That's the man right there.' He pointed to me. I was a gone motherfucker."

"But it wasn't you."

"Hell no. The kid remembered me because I bumped into him. Sorta pushed him."

"What's this tattoo business?" Lucas asked.

Price's eyes slid toward the escort, back to Lucas, back to the escort, back to Lucas, and his chin moved quickly right and left, no more than a quarter inch. "Tattoo? Kid didn't have no tattoo."

Connell, jotting down notes, missed it. She looked up. "According to my notes," she said, but Lucas rode over her.

"We gotta talk," he said to her. "I'd rather Mr. Price didn't hear this... C'mon."

The escort had been browsing The Encyclopedia of Pop, Rock and Soul. He looked up and said, "I could take him..."

"The corner is fine," Lucas said, pulling Connell along.

"What?" she asked, low-voiced.

Lucas got his back to Price and the escort. "D. Wayne doesn't want to talk about tattoos in front of the guard," Lucas said. "Talk to him for another five minutes, then ask the guard where the ladies' room is. Get him to take you-it's back through one set of doors."