“Get comfortable, Eales. You’re not done here.”
Circling the table, Finn returned the man’s scowl.
“I got something that belongs to you,” he told Eales then, his hand going to his jacket pocket and feeling the plastic evidence bag.
He and Kay had gone through the old crime-scene photos from Eales’s house, verifying the presence of the crucifix on Eales’s dresser top. After an hour of cross-referencing the entire inventory log, they knew the piece hadn’t been seized in the original search.
From there they’d made a quick visit to the Crime Lab. Kay had stood over Walt Currie’s shoulder, watching him dust the crucifix. As Jonesy had predicted, no usable prints were on the piece.
Finn withdrew the bag now and opened it, shaking out the contents. The St. Benedict’s pendant clattered onto the table.
“Recognize that?” Finn asked.
Eales picked it up, the fingerprinting powder already wiped from it. When he looked up, his glare was reserved for Kay.
“You been in my house, you bitch.” He almost came off the chair again, but Finn gave him another shove.
“Are you sure it’s yours?” Kay’s voice was surprisingly calm.
“Damn right. Was my mother’s. Why you messing with my shit?”
“We didn’t mess with your shit,” Finn said. “We found that.”
“Like hell.”
“Don’t you want to know where, Eales?”
Eales strangled the crucifix in his thick hands.
“We found it on your girlfriend,” Finn told him.
“What the fuck you talking about?”
“Actually, it was more
inside
your girlfriend. Patricia’s dead, you shithead. She was murdered two nights ago.”
Eales shook his fat, shaved head. The confusion Finn saw in Eales’s face in that moment seemed authentic.
“He cut her wrists, Bernie. Bled her to death. Then he threw her out when he was done with her, for everyone to see.” Finn opened Kay’s briefcase and pulled out a photo taken in Leakin Park yesterday morning. He slapped it down on the table.
Eales turned away.
“Look at her, shithead.”
Eales refused. His knuckles whitened around his mother’s cross.
“Look at her!” Finn slid the photo closer, the print buckling when the edge of it caught Eales’s arm.
He looked then, but his expression remained hard.
“There’s your meal ticket,” Finn said. “She’s dead. Now
what are you going to do, huh? Who’s going to bring you smokes now?”
More silence. Finn imagined the big man was scrambling to put the pieces together, to make sense of it.
“She loved you, didn’t she, you schmuck. Did you love her?”
Eales averted his gaze.
“Did you
love
her?”
But Eales wasn’t answering. Finn removed the photo and watched the man’s eyes. The raw confusion was gone, and now, any emotion that might have lain behind the glazed expression was unreadable.
Next, Finn took out the note. Dry now, and pressed flat in an evidence bag. “You recognize this?” He laid it on the table.
Eales stared blankly at the tattered and stained remains.
“Who the hell is Roach?” Finn asked.
But Eales was mute.
“Should I tell you where we found the note, hmm, shit-head? Maybe you’ll start talking then. We pulled it out of Patsy too. Roach killed her, then he used your letter to wrap up your mother’s crucifix and shoved both of them into your girlfriend’s twat. You ready to talk
now?”
Eales clutched the cross. Swung his ugly head from side to side.
“Tell us who you’re covering for.” Kay spoke at last, her voice soft, compensating for Finn. “I
know
you didn’t kill those women, Bernard. But whoever this Roach is, he let you believe you did, and then he helped you get rid of the bodies, didn’t he?
He’s
the one who killed them though. Not you. And now he’s killed Patricia.”
There was a shift in Eales’s expression, but Finn couldn’t read it.
Kay leaned in closer. “If you tell us who he is, Bernard,
we can get the state’s attorney to cut a deal. I’m sure of it. You’d be looking at an assault charge and obstruction at most. The rest can go away. With the time you’ve already served, you’re ahead of the game.” But she might as well have been pleading to a deaf-mute.
“Come on, Bernard,” she said. “Help us out. Help yourself. I know you didn’t ask him to kill Patricia. He’s operating on his own now, isn’t he? This wasn’t part of the game, was it?” She gestured to the crucifix. “He’s telling you to fuck off, that he doesn’t care if you rot in jail or take a needle in your arm. Tell us who he is, Bernard.”
But the dumb Bawlmer billy-boy had shut down. Too stupid even for self-preservation. His blue eyes half-lidded and fixed, his mouth hanging open as his sour breath seeped out.
Finn couldn’t take it. “Answer her!” When he brought his open palm down on the metal table, the resounding slam reverberated through the cell, but Eales barely flinched. His gaze slid from Kay to him.
“Who is he, shithead?”
Eales’s lips curled back, revealing crooked, yellowed teeth, and Finn knew they weren’t going to get what they’d come for.
“Fuck off” was all he said. But there was little weight behind the words. Eales was deflated. Resigned.
“Fine,” Kay said quietly. She tucked the bagged note back into her briefcase and slid one of her cards across the table. “Call if you change your mind.”
Finn recognized the tactic. Leave gentle. Let Eales absorb the news, maybe he’d soften. Let him believe Kay was on his side and maybe he’d roll over on Roach.
When Kay held out her hand for the cross, Eales choked it tighter.
“I’m sorry, Bernard. It’s evidence.” She motioned for it again. “Maybe I can get it back for you after.”
The big man moved fast. The clatter of chains was the only warning, but by the time Finn registered the movement, Eales already had Kay’s wrist in his big hand.
Finn was about to launch himself across the table when Kay put up her free hand to stop him.
“You be careful now, Detective Delaney,” Eales whispered then as he slid the crucifix into her palm.
“And what the fuck do you mean by that, asshole?” Finn demanded.
Eales released his grip on Kay, and this time when his gaze drifted over, Finn knew it was a look he’d never forget.
Nor would he forget Eales’s parting words: “Just that she’s Roach’s type.”
63
THE CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION BUREAU’S
boardroom was dusty and airless, with half the fluorescent bulbs overhead either burned-out or flickering. Kay’s headache had started around her eyes, and after three hours of sorting photocopied reports, compiling copies of photos, and mounting case stats on the four whiteboards, the pain had graduated to her temples. She needed a coffee. And she needed sleep.
But she stayed, for Gunderson. With Hagen’s murder, he’d been unable to hold off the brass any longer. Kay’s worst fear had come true: by the end of the week a team of six detectives would be working the new murders. Gunderson was still conferring with other sergeants in the unit deciding who would make up the task force, but it
would be up to Kay and Finn to bring the new detectives up to speed, to organize and delegate. And while they wasted precious time kissing the asses of the brass upstairs, Roach would be cutting up his next victim.
The resentment was hard to swallow. Twelve days ago Valley’s body had been lifted from the floor of the burned warehouse. They’d worked the investigation less than two weeks, and already it was being taken away from them.
To her right, Albert Arbor, one of the Department’s systems experts, sat behind a smudged monitor wired to Hagen’s computer for the past hour. As he worked the keyboard, the CPU chirped, and the technician himself let loose the occasional blurt of victory as he undeleted yet another series of files.
Finn sat at the far table, sorting through the papers taken from Patricia Hagen’s house. The woman had written dozens of letters to organizations across the country: the Innocence Project, the Center for Wrongful Convictions, even the National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers. All contacted with the same plea: assistance in Eales’s defense. Kay had been ready to light a match to the whole ludicrous pile until Finn had taken over.
“I thought I’d find you two here.”
Kay started at the sound of Vicki’s voice. When she looked up, the assistant state’s attorney crossed the boardroom.
“I heard about the task force,” Vicki said. “How long before the reinforcements ride in?”
“Sarge is trying to hold them off till the end of the week.” Kay rubbed her temples and leaned back in her chair.
“So what’s all this?” Vicki nodded to the papers Finn was sorting through.
“Patricia Hagen’s attempt at exploitation. I can’t believe
how many people this woman tried to milk money from for Eales’s defense,” Finn said. He didn’t look up from the letter in his hands, and when he sat forward, the chair’s springs squealed. “You ever heard of someone named Adele McClurkin?” he asked, reading from a letter.
Vicki nodded. “The name’s familiar.”
“Eales’s aunt?”
“Right. I remember. We talked to her after Eales’s arrest. I think Varcoe did the interview. Tried to get more background on Eales,” Vicki said. “She was a dead end though. She took him and his brother in briefly after their mother’s death, but then Eales apparently moved out. Took his brother with him. Varcoe didn’t get much out of McClurkin. She hadn’t spoken to Eales since he was eighteen. Why?”
“Patricia Hagen wrote her a letter. Asking for money.”
“Any response?”
“Not that I’ve been able to find.” Finn indicated the stacks of paperwork while the portable laser in the corner spit out even more letters that Arbor was printing from the recovered files off Hagen’s hard drive.
“Well, maybe a task force
will
help,” Vicki suggested then. “Help you go through this stuff.”
“It’s not more detectives we need,” Kay said. “It’s a concrete lead.”
“Looks like you’ve got a mess of those.” Vicki nodded to the boards.
“Yeah, and they all go nowhere.” Kay followed Vicky’s gaze to the photos mounted on the whiteboards, and the notes in different colored markers surrounding them, indicating possible links.
“Maybe it’s time to start eliminating some of them,” Vicki suggested. “Any word yet from Latents on the results from the Keystone house?”
“They ran the print cards already, and they didn’t get any hits on Printrak. But we
did
get several corresponding prints between three-eleven Keystone and Eales’s house. Whoever was operating in three-eleven
was
in Eales’s house over a year ago.”
“Well, that’s good. And what about Scott Arsenault’s prints?”
“A couple partials had similar points, but not enough for the technician to classify them a match,” Kay said. “Like I told you, too many leads and no solid suspect.”
“But you don’t think it’s Arsenault anymore?”
From the corner of her eye, Kay caught Finn’s look. She ignored it and shook her head.
Vicki seemed to study the boards. Then: “You’ve still got to eliminate him. And Jerry Bates too. You’ve been investigating these guys, and I know you’ve seen Grogan work a jury on reasonable doubt. He’s going to make sure those jurors know you were targeting Bates and Arsenault as suspects, and unless you give me ways of absolutely eliminating each of them to those jurors, Grogan’s going to succeed in casting enough doubt in their minds. We need alibis for these guys. Solid ones.
Something
that proves neither was involved.”
Vicki was silent for a moment, and Kay knew she was visualizing her prosecution. “You’ve got Arsenault’s name on the tenancy agreement for three-eleven, correct?”
Kay found Gaines’s landlord form and handed it to her.
“Good. I can get you a warrant on this. I want you to check out Arsenault’s place. Rule him out. You want it for morning?”
“That’d be great,” Finn said.
Vicki looked across to the boards again. “And Bates? Where are you at with him? Is he still being held?”
“He lawyered up and they cut him loose before we
could get to him,” Finn explained. “We crossed his prints with the Keystone house, and there’s no matches.”
“Get an alibi too,” Vicki demanded.
“Kay and I are going to talk to him again tonight. The weasel’s gotta know something about this Roach guy.”
Vicki nodded, seemed satisfied. “All right. Let me know if you get anything from Bates.”
Her gaze lingered on the five-by-sevens: Valley, Beggs, and Hagen. Kay wondered if Vicki noted the space Kay had left below them. The space she hoped she wouldn’t have to fill with more photos of victims.
“Get this guy,” Vicki said to both of them finally. “You’ve got me all the evidence I need to put him away. Now all you have to do is bring the son of a bitch in.”
64
“I DON’T KNOW NO ROACH.
And I was damn well here the other night.” Jerry Bates was twitching for his second, or maybe third, hit for the night.
They knocked on Bates’s door at nine thirty and pushed him hard for fifteen minutes, forcing him to sift through his heroin-rotted brain for names of Eales’s associates. He gave them a couple, but on “Roach” he drew a blank.
“Come on, Jerry, think. You never heard Bernie use the name?”
“No. I already told ya, Bernie and I didn’t hang out. We got high a couple times. That’s it. I don’t know his friends.”
Bates paced. Kay watched as Finn followed him, clearly amused at the effect his presence had on the junkie. Bates scratched his arms, his neck, then worked his nails into his scalp.
“I swear, I don’t. And I was right here Saturday night.” He was whining now and nearly tripped over a toppled stack of magazines to get away from Finn. The living room was still a wreck from the warrant team’s sweep. Apparently, getting a fix after a night in jail was a higher priority for Bates than straightening up.