Part 10 (1/2)
”What's that quaint phrase you police officers use? 'The f.u.c.kin' s.h.i.+t has. .h.i.t the fan?' I think that's it.”
7.
ANDERSON WAS WAITING in the corridor outside Lucas's office, reading through a handful of computer printouts. He pushed away from the wall when he saw Lucas.
”Chief wants to see us now.”
”I know, I got a call. I saw TV3,” Lucas said.
”Paper for you,” Anderson said, handing Lucas a manila file. ”The overnights on Wannemaker. Nothing in the galleries. The Camel's confirmed, the tobacco on her body matched the tobacco in the cigarette. There were ligature marks on her wrists, but no ties; her ankles were tied with a piece of yellow polypropylene rope. The rope was old, partially degraded by exposure to sunlight, so if we can find any more of it, they could probably make a match.”
”Anything else? Any skin, s.e.m.e.n, anything?”
”Not so far . . . And here's the Bey file.”
”Jesus.” Lucas took the file, flipped it open. Most of the paper inside had been Xeroxed for Connell's report; a few minor things he hadn't seen before. Mercedes Bey, thirty-seven, killed in 1984, file still open. The first of Connell's list, the centerpiece of the TV3 story.
”Have you heard about the lakes?” Anderson asked, his voice pitching lower, as though he were about to tell a particularly dirty joke.
”What happened?” Lucas looked up from the Bey file.
”We've got a bad one over by the lakes. Too late to make morning TV. Guy and his girlfriend, maybe his girlfriend. Guy's in a coma, could be a veggie. The woman's dead. Her head was crushed, probably by a pipe or a steel bar. Or a rifle barrel or a long-barreled pistol, maybe a Redhawk. Small-time robbery, looks like. Really ugly. Really ugly.”
”They're freaking out in homicide?”
”Everybody's freaking out,” Anderson said. ”Everybody went over there. Roux just got back. And then this TV3 thing-the chief is hot. Really hot.”
ROUX WAS FURIOUS. She jabbed her cigarette at Lucas. ”Tell me you didn't have anything to do with it.”
Lucas shrugged, looked at the others, and sat down. ”I didn't have anything to do with it.”
Roux nodded, took a long drag on her cigarette; her office smelled like a bowling alley on league night. Lester sat in a corner with his legs crossed, unhappy. Anderson perched on a chair, peering owlishly at Roux through his thick-lensed gla.s.ses. ”I didn't think so,” Roux said. ”But we all know who did.”
”Mmm.” Lucas didn't want to say it.
”Don't want to say it?” Roux asked. ”I'll say it. That f.u.c.kin' Connell.”
”Twelve minutes,” Anderson said. ”Longest story TV3's ever run. They must have had Connell's file. They had every name and date nailed down. They dug up some file video on the Mercedes Bey killing. They used stuff they'd have never used back then, when they made it. And the stuff on Wannemaker, Jesus Christ, they had video of the body being hoisted out of the Dumpster, no bag, no nothing, just this big f.u.c.kin' lump of guts with a face hanging off it.”
”Shot it from the bridge,” Lucas said. ”We saw them up there. I didn't know the lenses were that good, though.”
”Bey's still an open file, of course,” Lester said, re-crossing his legs from one side to the other. ”No statute of limitations on murder.”
”Should have thought of that yesterday,” Roux said, getting up to pace the carpet, flicking ashes with every other step. Her hair, never particularly chic, was standing up in spots, like small horns. ”They had Bey's mother on. She's this fragile old lady in a nursing-home housecoat, a face like parchment. She said we abandoned her daughter to her killers. She looked like s.h.i.+t, she looked like she was dying. They must've dumped her out of bed at three in the morning to get the tape.”
”That video of Connell was pretty weird, if she's the one who tipped them,” Anderson suggested.
”Aw, they phonied it up,” Roux said, waving her cigarette hand dismissively. ”I did the same G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing when I was sourcing off the appropriations committee. They take you out on the street and have you walk into some building so it looks like surveillance film or file stuff. She did it, all right.” Roux looked at Davenport. ”I've got the press ten minutes from now.”
”Good luck.” He smiled, a very thin, unpleasant smile.
”You were never taken off the case, right?” Her left eyebrow went up and down.
”Of course not,” Lucas said. ”Their source was misinformed. I spent the evening working the case and even developed a lead on a new suspect.”
”Is that right?” The eyebrow again.
”More or less,” Lucas said. ”Junky Doog may be working at a landfill out in Dakota County.”
”Huh. I'd call that a critical development,” Roux said, showing an inch of satisfaction. ”If you can bring him in today, I'll personally feed it directly and exclusively to the Strib. And anything else you get. f.u.c.k TV3.”
”If Connell's their source, they'll know you're lying about not calling off the case,” Lester said.
”Yeah? So what?” Roux said. ”What're they gonna do, argue? Reveal their source? f.u.c.k 'em.”
”Is Connell still working with me?” Lucas asked.
”We've got no choice,” Roux snapped. ”If we didn't call off the investigation, then she must still be on it, right? I'll take care of her later.”
”She's got no later,” Lucas said.
”Jesus,” Roux said, stopping in midpace. ”Jesus, I wish you hadn't said that.”
THE TV3 STORY had been a melange of file video, with commentary by a stunning blond reporter with a distinctly erotic overbite. The reporter, street-dressed in expensive grunge, rapped out long, intense accusations based on Connell's file; behind her, floodlit in the best Addams Family style, was the redbrick slum building where Mercedes Bey had been found slashed to death. She recounted Bey's and each of the subsequent murders, reading details from the autopsy reports. She said, ”With Chief Roux's controversial decision to sweep the investigation under the rug . . .” and ”With the Minneapolis police abandoning the murder investigation for what appear to be political reasons . . .” and ”Will Mercedes Bey's cry for justice be crushed by the Minneapolis Police Department's logrolling? Will other innocent Minneapolis-area women be forced to pay the killer's brutal toll because of this decision? We shall have to wait and see. . . .”
”n.o.body f.u.c.ks with me like this,” Roux was shouting at her press aide when Lucas left her office with Anderson. ”n.o.body f.u.c.ks with me. . . .”
Anderson grinned at Lucas and said, ”Connell does.”
GREAVE CAUGHT LUCAS in the hall. ”I read the file, but it was a waste of time. I could have gotten the executive summary on TV this morning.” He was wearing a loose lavender suit with a blue silk tie.
”Yeah,” Lucas grunted. He unlocked his office door and Greave followed him inside. Lucas checked his phone for voice mail, found a message, and poked in the retrieval code. Meagan Connell's voice, humble: ”I saw the stories on TV this morning. Does this change anything?” Lucas grinned at the impertinence, and scribbled down the number she left.
”What're we doing?” Greave asked.
”Gonna see if we can find a guy down in Dakota County. Former s.e.x psycho who liked knives.” He'd been punching in Connell's number as he spoke. The phone rang once, and Connell picked up. ”This is Davenport.”
”Jeez,” Connell said, ”I've been watching TV. . . .”
”Yeah, yeah. There're three guys in town don't know who the source is, and none of them are Roux. You better lay low today. She's smokin'. In the meantime, we're back on the case.”
”Back on.” She made it a statement, with an overtone of satisfaction. No denials. ”Is there anything new?”
He told her about Anderson's information from the Wisconsin forensic lab.
”Ligatures? If he tied her up, he must've taken her somewhere. That's a first. I bet he took her to his home. He lives here-he didn't at the other crime scenes, so he couldn't take them. . . . Hey, and if you read the Mercedes Bey file, I think she was missing awhile, too, before they found her.”