R.S. Guthrie - Detective Bobby Mac 03 - Reckoning (12 page)

I STOOD before the group of elite law enforcement personnel. The funny thing that hit me was that even police could be afflicted with “cop panic”. I was intimidated as hell. But I tried to breathe steadily, concentrate, and remember Garvey’s words.

“I think it’s time we put a bullet in the elephant,” I said.

Not so much as a chuckle. It was a tough crowd.

“You all know my story. I am not going to stand up here and tell it nor will I defend it. It is what it is and the only parts of it that matter are those that help us catch this fucking killer.”

Graveyard silence.

“I don’t know any of your religious beliefs,” I said. “I don’t care. I am most of the time confused about my own. But I know I am sane, I know what I have
witnessed
, and I know that there is more at play here than cops like you all and myself are used to dealing with on a daily basis. Beyond that, I’d rather this be more of a sharing of information through questions and answers. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I’ll tell you my working theories, crazy as they may sound. But I’m pretty sure each one of you has a shitload of questions for me so why don’t we start there?”

Steve Jenkins, Deputy Director of the Colorado Bureau of Investigations, took the opportunity like a hungry lion spotting a fresh kill unattended.

“You think this is God and Devil and demon possession, don’t you?”

Jenkins had no middle ground, no places in which he tiptoed.

“Sir, as you well know and with all due respect, nothing is as simple as that.”

“But you
are
implying to us that there is something preternatural to these killings, are you not?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I knew your old man, son,” Jenkins said. “Paddy was a mean son of a bitch, but he was one of the most honest, worthy men I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. Whatever you’ve got to say, whatever you’ve seen or know, I am ready to hear it.”

In the silence following the Deputy Director’s statement you could’ve heard a gnat cough. Jenkins didn’t get to where he was being anyone’s pal, so I appreciated the vote of confidence even more.

“You’ve no doubt all heard a variation of the stories,” I said. “Only believe the most unbelievable parts.”

The ovoid faces around the table turned to one another in my peripheral vision, my own eyes never leaving Deputy Director Jenkins. He nodded in understanding.

“My theory is that the bus driver herself drove those children to their deaths—sorry, almost all,” I said.

“You believe a devout Mormon killed seven children, intent on killing them all as well as herself?” said Janet Del Rio, a supervising Sergeant and Detective in the Douglas County Sheriff’s Department.

“I don’t believe she was herself when she did it,” I said.

“What exactly does that mean?” said Del Rio.

“I believe she was possessed.”

At that moment, you’d have been able to hear the gnat
blink
.

“Son, you’re askin’ a lot from these educated, experienced lawpersons. Maybe a little truthful sharing of what you’ve learned, seen, done—whatever the case, might be in order. No one is here to doubt, and there ain’t no crazy thoughts or theories, not if one brings us closer to the killer, or killers. The only ‘crazy’ far as I’m concerned is out there murdering innocent young ladies,” said Garvey. “And now children.”

So I told them. I was so tired of holding it all in I told them everything. Except the part about Greer. That one stayed within my circle of trusted friends and family. No one else need hear of the worst night of my life. It bore nothing on the case at hand.

When I was through there were no immediate questions. I believed it was the shock. My own included. As I spoke, it hadn’t sounded like me, or rather, it was as if I were listening to myself right along with the rest of the room.

“I think we’ve had enough for the morning,” Jenkins said, popping the silence as if it were a balloon of nothing at all. It was almost noon and we’d begun at seven. “I think it’s fair enough to say that we should be working on the premise we have less than a month before Melissa Grant is likely to be killed. Until something else alters that theory, I thank Detective Macaulay for his candor—that couldn’t have been easy, particularly considering the audience—and beliefs aside, this is what we’re going on.”

“I disagree,” said Janet Del Rio. “I’m sorry, this is just asking too much. No disrespect, Detective Macaulay. We each respect your reputation.”

“None taken,” I said. “I’ve wondered more than twice myself.”

“What about the dimes,” asked Kent Reams, a young star Special Victims detective. “We never released the fact that we found the dimes on all the victims.”

“Who are we going to get to admit that?” Del Rio said.

The speakerphone lying in the middle of the conference room table rang just as Del Rio finished her question. We all looked around as if someone had farted. I was standing nearest so I pushed the button.

“Hello?” I said

“Bobeeeeee.”

I frowned.

“And everyone else, hello. It is ‘who’, Ms. Del Rio, to answer your question. Spence Grant. I am the one who’s going to know about the dimes. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been finding so many dimes minted before 1965? I should get some sort of award for that alone. Well, never overstay your welcome I always say. Oh, and don’t worry Ms. Del Rio—I won’t say a word to the team about the
other
Ms. Del Rio.”

The phone and Janet Del Rio’s complexion went dead.

Officer Rico came up to Homicide the day after I dropped my nuke on the task force. I really wasn’t in the mood for an apology. Good thing. He didn’t come toting one; he came to take me up on my offer of three rounds in the ring.

“Detective Macaulay,” he said, him out of uniform, off duty, sweat-stained grays from wherever he worked out.

I looked up, my brain a million light-years away. “Uh, Rico. Yeah. What’s up?”

“Figured you weren’t going to call so since my Pilates place is just up the block decided I’d stop in so we could get that fight scheduled. The one where you’re supposed to clean my clock or somethin’ like that.”

I leaned over my desk and motioned him in close so I could speak and not be heard by anyone but him. “Some friendly advice. No matter what your brain tells you to say, don’t always say it. I am a Senior Detective and you are one year off boot status, so I say this not because I personally give a shit but because as you move along, your career’s gonna care a lot. Step the fuck away from my desk now. You stink.”

Rico stepped back. Said nothing, at least not with his mouth. His eyes wanted me in that ring right then.

“Guy down at the Third Precinct is a buddy of mine. Best ring in the city. I’ll call and get us a couple hours, what, next Tuesday? You working nights still?” I said calmly.

“Yeah. I am still workin’ nights. Sir.”

“Today’s Tuesday, right? What say you skip
Pilates
next week and we do this thing instead?” I looked up at the clock; I had no fucking idea what time it was. “Two to four PM?”

“See you there,” Rico said, and spun to leave.

“Officer Rico,” I said, loudly.

He stopped but didn’t turn around.

“Bring plenty of ice.”

I showed up at the Third Precinct gymnasium an hour early to get my sweat going. I was hoping no one had yet told the kid I was Golden Gloves five years running in my youth, half-Irish, and could have beaten most anyone in the DPD in their annual boxing championship tournament except I never entered for one reason: there was an undercover guy in Narcotics—grew up in Boston’s Southie neighborhood—that just before joining the force was one bout from getting a shot at the World Welterweight Division Champion when he busted his hand on some brawler’s thick skull in a charity fight. This guy fought every year—one of those ego guys—and he always won the trophy.

I had also never cozied up to the feeling of a fist hitting my face (gloves, head gear, or no). Not even when I was winning.

But this kid, Rico. I didn’t want to fight him because of my ego or my anger or because of anything other than the brutal reality that being a cop was a dangerous gig and he had, hopefully, eighteen plus years ahead of him, and if he didn’t take a beating now, he was going to die later.

At least that was what I told myself.

But I wasn’t stupid. That Pilates shit; I knew the kid had the conditioning on me in a big way. I’d checked up on him and he’d done some boxing, half wins, half losses, dropped his gloves way too often, always looking for the big punches—I figured I had one round of beating on him, bruise him up good and sore, and then I just needed to wait for him to drop those gloves and knock him down and out near the beginning of the second round. If the fight went much longer than that, my gas tank would be running on fumes.

Rico didn’t show up to the gym until fifteen minutes before, like he was suited up for a pick-up basketball game, no warm-up required for the old guy with one good leg. I was wearing what I referred to as my Pistorius—prosthetic strictly for athletics. It was actually even better for fighting than running, helping my bounce and weave.

By the time the bell rang for Round One, there were probably thirty other cops, mostly from Patrol, wanting to see their young stud champion stick it to the old man in Homicide. Score one for the grunts.

Rico danced around the ring like an idiot, kissing his gloves, throwing them to his buddies, acting like the ring rooster he was.

When he finally decided to stop showboating and fight, he came at me hard, just like I’d heard, young, dumb, and always looking for the knockout punch. He was five feet from our first contact when I changed my mind.