Death Angel (13 page)

Bob had been a teacher for several years
before joining the force and had never lost the habit of lecturing. He was the
most conservative of the team, all too aware that as the highest ranking
African American he had to be a role model. He had a tendency to frown on the
raunchy humor of the other officers. Carl had rarely seen Bob in anything other
than a suit. Even on summer days when the rest of the force was close to heat
prostration, Bob never broke a sweat.

“Richard Warner’s secretary said he’d
been short-tempered in the morning. What she called post-presentation nerves.
Said usually he’s wonderful to work for. She was at lunch when he left. The
receptionist said it was about 12:45.”

“Trains?” Bea asked.

“He could have caught the 1:26, which
gets into Round Lake Beach at” — Bob flipped through his notes — “at 2:41. It
would be tight to get to Pickard in time but Warner is definitely in the
picture. Christian Mayerling’s another possible. He’s got little or no alibi.
Had lunch at Debowski’s in Chicago with his stockbroker. Verified. Then around
two he says he went to the health club. Can’t remember seeing anyone he knew.
When I checked with the staff they said, he could’ve been there. He comes in a
lot, but nobody could swear that he was there Tuesday. Could have been Monday
or Wednesday. Mayerling says he was there until five.”

“Background?”

“Inherited a bundle. Well connected in
the city. Sexual preferences questionable.”

“A fag?” asked Tony, speaking around the
donut in his mouth.

Torrentino’s homophobia annoyed Carl,
but he put it down to the man’s super-macho image. He was built square, very
muscular, almost bullish. His dark skin was badly pockmarked and his mashed
nose had little definition. Thick, black hair and heavily-lashed eyes were his
only good features. He dressed the part of old time bootlegger. Powdered sugar
dotted his black tie like snow.
 

Carl had grown up in the Hyde Park area
where color and sexual preference weren’t as important as education. Since
becoming chief, he’d been at special pains to eradicate as much bigotry as
possible in a police force made up primarily of whites. He’d hired blacks,
Latinos, and more women. Pickard’s police force was far more representative of
the population than it had been.

Bob ignored Tony’s comment. “Mayerling’s
fifty-five. Divorced. He was married in his late twenties. Lasted six years. No
kids. According to the gossip at the office, he’s got an ongoing relationship
with a society matron. However, some thought it might just be window dressing.”

“Opinion?” Carl asked.

“My guess is that he swings both ways.
There’s nothing overtly gay about him, but it’s possible. His background is
clean. He might just be one of those affected rich guys.”

Tony grunted and shuffled through his
papers. “I thought the witness said the guy had dark hair. Wouldn’t she have
seen the white hair if it was Mayerling?”

“Not necessarily,” Carl said. “She only
saw the back of his head and got the impression his hair was dark. Mayerling’s
hair is dark except for the white at his temples.”

Bea spoke up. “Would Jennifer have
gotten in the car with Mayerling?”

“I think so.” Carl said. “Mayerling was
at the Warner home frequently. Jennifer knew he was her father’s boss,
therefore a trustworthy authority figure. If his story was good enough, say an
accident . . . let’s say it’s possible.”

“What about the doc?” Diego checked his
notes. “Kennedy? He’s also at the house a lot, and he’s her godfather.”

“I interviewed him pretty extensively
about Richard Warner,” Bob said. “I figured he’d be able to give me a solid
picture of the guy. Biased maybe, but I could adjust for that. He grew up an
army brat. Couple postings abroad. Germany and France. At any rate he came back
to the states for college. Cleveland, Ohio. He and Richard were roommates.
Married a New Yorker after graduation. She worked to put him through med
school, and then filed for divorce during his residency.”

Bob checked his notes. “Since then he’s
had a series of live-in and live-out girlfriends. His current arrangement is
with a Miss Chesapeake Chesney, one of the nutritionists at the hospital. He
has a townhouse near the hospital, and stays at hers in Chicago a couple of
times a week. According to the nurses at the hospital, he’s — and I’m quoting
here — a teddy bear.”

“Guy that big looks more like a grizzly
bear,” Tony said.

Bob continued, “His specialty is
geriatrics and, again according to the nurses, his patients adore him.”

“Cut to the chase.” Carl was getting
impatient. “Does he have an alibi?”

“Looks like it. The shift change is
three o’clock. Two of the nurses going off duty saw him at 2:45 on the second
floor in” — Bob looked down at his notes — “a Mrs. Edith Olson’s room.
According to the night shift nurse, he was there at 3:19 when Mrs. Olson began
having trouble breathing. He ordered an increase in her oxygen and stayed with
her until she was stable. The routine is that when the new shift comes on the
floor, they go around to each patient. Check vitals and see if there’re any
problems. On May sixteenth, there were only six patients. One of the nurses
found Dr. Kennedy dozing in Mrs. Olson’s room. She figures it was around 3:30
or 3:45. She didn’t wake him. His beeper went off at 4:30. He left the floor
after taking his messages at the nurses’ station.”

“The witness saw the kid get into the
car at 3:10. Unless the good doctor can stop time, he’s out of it.” Carl
flipped through his notes. “How are the school kids dealing with this, Ellen?”

“The younger kids don’t understand, the
older kids think they’re invincible, and the rest are in between.”

Despite her master’s degree in social
work, Carl had been reluctant to hire Fredricks. With her little mouse voice,
long hair, and bangs, she looked about twelve. He hadn’t thought she was tough
enough for the job. Ellen had sensed his hesitancy and suggested he give her a
month’s probation.
 

She never spoke above a whisper yet
somehow she established an immediate rapport with the kids brought into the
station. Even the streetwise punks. They started out smart-mouthing her and
ended up confiding their pissant life stories.

Carl hadn’t waited until the end of the
month; after two weeks he gave her the job.

“Have you got enough counselors?” Bea
asked.

“Right after I was hired I set up a
reciprocal deal with the Chicago Suburban Board of Education. Pickard sends
three or four counselors when they’re shorthanded. In return they supply us
with a full-blown trauma team.”

There were murmurs of approval around
the table, and Ellen’s cheeks pinked with pleasure.
 

“This is the first time we’ve needed
help with a violent crime,” she continued. “We’re working with the parents as
well as the children. And, I can tell you, anxiety is running pretty high.
Everyone is afraid it’ll happen again.”

The sounds of assent were a low murmur
around the table. Carl waited for the room to settle down. “Squint’s in the
lab, so he gave me his notes. The photo session with the Warners went well.
They identified about fifty percent of the pictures. Another twenty were
identified from various sources. That leaves thirty percent unknowns. Chicago
is working on those. Bea has a list of those ID’d.”

Bea picked up the narrative. “I’ve
cross-referenced the names with the interviews we’ve done already. A team was
set up to contact the rest. We did a brief background check, and if anything
came up, it was added to the individual’s file. Incidentally, two men with
priors were here in Pickard the day of the funeral. Both repeat child
offenders. Their pictures turned up in a crowd scene. I gave the names to
Tony.”

“The assholes were here all right. Said
they happened to be in the neighborhood.” Tony spoke out of one side of his
mouth. His hamlike hands made chopping motions to punctuate his words. “Leaned
on them but they had alibis for the day the victim disappeared. I don’t think
they’ll be back.”

“What about locals?” Bob asked.

Bea riffled through the papers in front
of her until she found the one she wanted. “One convicted molester. Two more
with complaints against them but never charged. A couple peepers. And one guy
charged with stalking kids. You should all remember him. He’s the one who said
he was making a movie about the innocence of children at play.”

“The guy was a faggot,” Tony said.

“That don’t mean he can’t get it up.”
Diego made a hand gesture by way of illustration. “He told me he was going to
be the next Walt Disney.”

Carl rapped the table with the end of
his pen. “You check ’em, Tony?”

“Better believe it. They were all pissed
off, but in each case there was an alibi for some or all of the crucial time.
Only one of the peepers I still got to talk to. According to his brother, he
left town the moment he heard the news.” Tony shook his head at the intent
expressions. “Don’t get your hopes up. The kid’s nineteen and a computer nerd.
The peeping was four years ago when he was fifteen. Raging hormones and no
outlet. Roamed the neighborhood until he found someone stripping or screwing
without pulling the blinds. Used to stand outside in the bushes and jerk off.
He’s got a girlfriend now.”

“It’ll save him from the dreaded rose
rash. Talk about a sore prick.”

“Really, Diego,” Bob said. “Don’t you
ever quit?”

Diego’s humorous contributions generally
eased the tensions in a meeting, so Carl stayed out of it. Luckily the man was
a first-rate cop. Great detail man. Intuitive during interrogation. He said it
was his Latin side that gave him hunches and the ability to sniff out a lie.
Carl didn’t doubt it.

Pushing back his chair, Carl walked
across to the windows. Hands behind his back, he stretched backward, rolling
his shoulders to ease his stiffness. Outside the sun had broken through the
clouds but the sunlight was anemic. He raised the window, letting in some of
the fresh air.

A young mother pushed a stroller in the
park across the street. Behind her, a girl of three or four hunkered down to
investigate something on the ground. The mother’s voice was sharp as she called
the girl back to her side. Everyone in town was edgy.
 

Returning to his chair, Carl called the
group back to order. “Diego, did anything come up on house to house?”

“
Nada.
Aside from Mrs. Doutt, no one
looked out the front windows.”

Carl cleared his throat. “The lab
reports from the crime scene are in the packets I gave you. As you already
know, the rape took place in the woods, probably just prior to the murder.
Blood and hair samples were found on the surface of a rock at the scene.
Positively identified as the victim’s. It adds some credence to the theory that
the murder was probably spur of the moment.”

“Does that mean the chances for another
kidnapping are minimal?” Bob asked.

“Maybe,” Carl answered. “According to
the profile we’re working up, if this is a first-time offender he’ll go one of
two ways. He’ll be so frightened by the enormity of his act that he’ll never do
it again. The worse case scenario is that, as we all know, the second time is
always easier.”

Gloom settled over the table.
 

“Yo, chief.” Diego jabbed the point of
his pencil on one of his notes. “I know we’ve been doing interviews over in the
forest preserve with joggers and other people who use the trails. Have we put
out the word to the gays who meet and greet by the south entrance shelter?”

Tony leaned across the table. “I thought
you said the guy who killed the kid wasn’t a queer?”

“He probably isn’t,” Diego shot back.
“But the gay boys have eyes. And they mighta seen something. They’re always
looking around, afraid they’ll get busted or bashed.”

“Good point,” Carl said. “We got anyone
with connections to the alternate lifestyle group? Someone with a little
discretion?”

“I know someone,” Bea said, holding up
her hand as Tony opened his mouth to comment. “No need to panic, Tony. He’s no
one you know, so we can count on the fact he’s got some sensitivity.”

“Was that a slam?” he said, cocking his
head as he spotted the grins on several faces. “I can’t help it if I got a
thing about those guys. They give me the creeps. What I was going to say was
that I couldn’t find my summary of the crime scene.” He continued to shuffle
through a clutch of paperwork.

“I don’t know how you find anything in
that mess. I won’t even mention your desk.” Bob pointed to his own meticulous
stack of folders. “You need to spend more time getting organized.”

“Let’s keep moving,” Bea said. She
leaned across the table and handed Tony her copy of the summary. “Was there
anything in particular you wondered about?”

“Semen,” was the blunt response.

“None.” Bea’s voice was brisk. “No
stains on the clothing. Panties had been torn off and were lying separate from
the body. No condom was found at the scene.”

“By the way,” Carl interjected, “I want
all of you to take a good look at the photograph of Mrs. Warner’s necklace. The
charm is the same as the one on the bracelet that’s still missing. Jenny’s
teacher confirms the girl had it on when she left the school. It could have
come off on the way home from school, in the guy’s car, or during the attack.
The profile suggests the killer may have taken it as a trophy.”
 

He pushed the pile of folders and loose
sheets to the side and flipped open the cover of his notebook. “After a week,
the only real suspect we have is Richard Warner. Do we have enough for a search
warrant?”

“No.” Bea’s voice was sharp as she
stared down the length of the table. The eyes of the others swiveled back and
forth between the ends of the table. Carl raised his hands, palms toward the
older woman.

“It’s just a question,” he said. Bea
didn’t comment; her stiff body language indicative of her thoughts. “Aside from
the fact Warner lied about being at the office on the afternoon of his
daughter’s disappearance, does the rest of his statement check out?”

“With the exception of the period from
12:45 when he left work and 6:45 when he got home, everything he said is
correct,” Bob said.

“He could have picked his kid up at the
bus stop, killed her, and had plenty of time to spare.” Tony glared down at his
tie, rubbing the spots of powdered sugar with his thumb. “He has the PF license
plate. Did the background check turn up anything?”

“No. No arrests. No complaints. No
speeding tickets.” Bea kept her answers short.

“I’m inclined to think you might be off
base on this one, Carl.” Bob straightened his collar and smoothed his shirt.
“I’ve gone over the interviews at Warner’s office, the hospital, the
neighborhood, and the church. I didn’t pick up a thing.”

“Then, God damn it, where was he Tuesday
afternoon?” In his frustration Carl slapped the table with his open hand.

“My guess is that he’s having an
affair.” Bob shrugged his shoulders at the skepticism on several faces. “I know
it’s hard to believe he’d lie, considering the gravity of the situation. In the
beginning I think he lied to protect his lover. Now I think he’s lying to
protect his wife from further pain.”

“Has the lab report on his clothes come
in?”
 

“I’ll check,” Bea said, leaving the
room. When she returned, she was holding a piece of yellow, lined paper. Her
mouth was pursed as she reread her scribbled notes.

“I called the lab and they were just
about finished with Warner’s clothes. Some of the test results aren’t in yet.
As you already know, the slacks had been cleaned and the shirt washed. The
preliminary findings on those two items show: no blood, no semen, no hair, no
nothing. Prelims on the jacket show no blood and no semen. Five distinct hair
samples were tested. Two are unknowns. In a preliminary test, the other three
belonged to Richard Warner, his wife Kate, and the victim Jennifer. As you are
all aware, the victim’s hair could have come from direct contact or could have
been picked up indirectly around the house.”

Carl scribbled a note then asked,
“Shoes?”

“They took minuscule scrapings from
Richard Warner’s shoes. The sample was tested against another sample from the
parking lot of the forest preserve where the victim’s body was found,” Bea
said.

“And?”

“It’s a direct match.”

Ten

“T
he dirt sample from Richard’s shoes
matches
the sample taken from the parking lot of the forest preserve,” Bea repeated.

“Is that definite?”

“Yes.” She sighed, obviously not pleased
with the information. “I made a quick call to Seanne Buckwalter, the head of
the forestry department. One week before the murder, the town sprayed a section
of the forest preserve with an experimental weed killer. It’s a special blend
that Buckwalter mixes herself. The only way that Richard Warner could have
gotten that particular chemical combination on his shoes was from the area
where Jennifer’s body was found.”