False Positive (6 page)

She was a woman of her word.

Except, of course, when she was forced to use deception to further her cause. That was different.
Ruse de guerre
had been acceptable for centuries. The one thing she'd never do was break a promise. Although when she saw the zoo of people in the hotel foyer, for the first time in her life she was tempted…

There were no clear lines. No signs of organization. Rowdy children were running everywhere. She was glad she'd left the boy outside in the Mercedes. She'd done it because he was still drowsy, and she hadn't wanted to draw attention to him—though she immediately saw that was an unnecessary concern, given the bedlam she was facing. But either way, the place didn't set a good example for a kid.

Any kid.

And enduring it would certainly be no way for
this
little boy to begin his treat.

Saturday. Early Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for seventeen hours

A helicopter was touching down on the roof of the Children's Center as Loflin approached the hospital's main campus. Devereaux watched it land and wondered if his father would have pulled through if he'd been airlifted to the Emergency Room forty years earlier, rather than being left to bleed out on a filthy wooden floor.

Loflin dropped the Charger in a no-parking zone and the two detectives made their way past the fountain and the gently rippling reflecting pool, and hurried into the chessboard-fronted main building. Devereaux recognized the receptionist who was peering out from a forest of indoor ferns at the counter—she'd helped him a couple of times before, when he'd been visiting injured colleagues—and she directed them to the trauma and burn center, where Mary Lynne Crane worked.

The room the detectives requisitioned to hold their interviews had started life as a closet. Then it spent time as an office, though the only sign of that period was a line of framed photographs on one wall, showing old scenes of Birmingham—grimy workers lined up outside their foundry before the Tennessee Coal, Iron and Railroad
Company closed its doors; Vulcan fresh from his cast in 1903, before his triumphant visit to St. Louis; the Heaviest Corner on Earth at 1st and 20th, right after the Trust and Savings building was completed in 1912. But these days the room was mostly used for storing the flowers that any friends or relatives who didn't know better tried to send patients in the closely controlled environment of the trauma center. The bouquets that ended up there were supposed to be distributed to lonely souls without any, elsewhere in the hospital, but more often than not they were left to rot in their vases. As a result, the room stank of decay. It didn't strike Devereaux as an auspicious place to search for clues that might save a little boy's life.

The five nurses on that day's early shift each took their turn on the least decrepit of the chairs Devereaux and Loflin had scrounged up to furnish the otherwise empty, windowless room. Some of the staff brimmed with confidence, looking the detectives in the eye and relishing the hint of adventure in this departure from their everyday routine. Others were more hesitant, focusing on the marks on the walls or the stains on the ragged carpet tiles rather than the people asking the questions. But regardless of their style, each of them told a variation on the same story: Mary Lynne wasn't the best nurse in the world. She wasn't the worst. She was good at interacting with patients—especially younger ones. She was bad at keeping records, occasionally dropping the ball toward the end of busy shifts. Good at staying on top of new clinical research. Bad at accommodating last-minute shift changes. And so on.

Two of Mary Lynne's co-workers embellished the picture with a few less-flattering details. She was a poor timekeeper who took more than her share of sick days, according to one woman, though Loflin soon led her to admit that her own recent attempt to adopt a child had been unsuccessful. Mary Lynne sucked up to management and stabbed her peers in the back, said a guy who Loflin quickly pegged as a rival who'd lost out to her for a promotion.

The door clicked shut behind the last of the early-shift nurses, and without a specific task to focus on, Devereaux felt the familiar catch in his chest at being cooped up in a relatively small space. He turned to Loflin, who was studying the old photographs. Neither detective spoke. The seconds became a minute. The minute became two. All
the while the silence seemed to grow in intensity, bearing down on Devereaux until he could feel his head starting to swim. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus, eager for a distraction to latch onto.

“Are you OK?” Loflin reached out and touched his arm.

“Me?” Devereaux's eyes snapped open. “I'm fine. Thanks. I just don't like waiting. Where's the next batch of nurses? We need to get this show back on the road.”

“We do.” Loflin drew back her arm. “But, Cooper, listen, while we've got a minute, can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

“Goodness, this is awkward. OK. Here's the thing. I really want to make it work in your squad, so I was wondering, I mean, I'm worried…”

“Don't be. Spit it out. Whatever it is.”

“Cooper, are there stories about me? Rumors? About why I'm not with Vice right now?”

“I heard something about you coming back from disability?”

“Right. Only, I didn't get hurt. Not physically, anyway.”

“Oh. I see. Well, OK.”

“You're not freaked out?”

“Should I be?”

“No. But a lot of people are. Psych problems are treated worse than leprosy, a lot of the time. Especially in the department.”

“Not by me.”

“Thanks for understanding. I'm glad to get this out in the open. In case you do hear any rumors. Because, bottom line? The doctor doesn't think I'm ready to go back undercover. That doesn't mean I'm not ready to be a good detective again. And a damn good partner. If you'll let me.”

“Received and understood. But what about longer term? You see yourself heading back to Vice, when you get the green light for the sneaky-beak stuff?”

“I don't know. Talk about stressful. You don't like the waiting in this job? Try undercover work. There's no waiting. You're always working. Working to get accepted. Working to make your mark interested in you. Working to make him
want
you around. There's no
respite. It's like trying to breathe someplace where there's not enough oxygen. It's suffocating.”

“It sure sounds like it.” Devereaux checked his watch. “You know, Jan, I need to make a call, real quick. Give me a minute?”

Devereaux paused in the corridor and checked the directory in his phone before selecting a number. His call was picked up after one ring.

“Eddie England.” England had partnered with Devereaux for a spell three years previously, before moving to Vice on the promise of a promotion. One that had yet to materialize.

“Eddie—it's Cooper. Listen, buddy, I don't have a lot of time so I'll come straight to the point. Quick question. Jan Loflin. What can you tell me about her?”

“Not much.” There was a moment's silence. “I was only on the same squad as her for a few months. She seemed nice enough. Quiet. Didn't hang out at the usual cop bars too much. Kept herself to herself outside of the job.”

“How about when she was working?”

“She was a mixed bag, I guess. In some ways, she was brilliant. Undercover? She was a chameleon. Seriously. Think Meryl Streep, only better.”

“Sounds impressive.”

“Right. But in other ways, she was a disaster. Like she had tunnel vision. If she didn't get something, or agree with it, or if it didn't fit with the way she wanted things to be, she'd just blank it. Act like it didn't exist. Live in denial till she got written up for procedure violations. Happened at least twice, to my knowledge. It was weird. Hey—why do you need to know all this?”

“She's landed in my squad for a while. She's working a case with me. And I need to be sure, bottom line—is she a flake? Or can I trust her?”

England took a few seconds to consider.

“You can trust her, Cooper. Just don't marry her.”

“Thanks, Ed. I won't. I'm not the marrying type. You know that. Listen, thanks again. Got to go…”

The detectives added a little variety to the questions they put to the nurses from the late shift, but they drew the same kinds of answers. And again, Loflin's demeanor subtly adjusted with each new face that came through the door. Her body language altered to mirror her subject. The tone of her voice shifted, too. Sometimes she came across as sympathetic. Sometimes hard. Sometimes amused. But every time one of Mary Lynne's co-workers tried to hide an agenda, Loflin sniffed it out. She had an uncanny, intuitive ability to latch onto any false note in an anecdote or opinion and not let go until she heard the truth.

When the door shut behind the final nurse, Devereaux and Loflin had to admit they'd uncovered nothing conclusive. No one had noticed any worrying traits in Mary Lynne's behavior. No one could cast any credible doubt on her ability or commitment as a parent. It was unlikely she'd handle triazolam on a regular basis, due to the kind of patients she came into contact with and potential contraindications with the other types of drugs they used in the unit. But it wasn't impossible. There were a few situations where triazolam could be legitimately prescribed. And there was a fully stocked pharmacy onsite.

Devereaux's experience was that people have ways of getting hold of whatever they want, if they're motivated enough.

Saturday. Late Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for twenty-one and a quarter hours

The sun was hovering lazily over the rooftops when Devereaux and Loflin emerged from reception. Drops of water from the hospital's fountain were refracting its beams into tiny rainbows that hung briefly in the air before splashing down into the uniform blue of the pool. Devereaux watched them for a moment, then his focus switched to a man on the far side of the concourse. He was pacing to and fro, and talking rapidly into his phone.

“Look.” Devereaux stopped moving. “What's that guy doing here?”

“He was outside the Crane house earlier, with that herd of reporters.” Loflin's forehead wrinkled. “I nearly hit him with my car.”

“Very nearly.” Devereaux took hold of Loflin's shoulder. “Maybe you should have hit him. Ever read his blog? But never mind that now. Come on. Back inside. Fast.”

The doors to the Pediatric ER were at the end of a long, brightly lit corridor on the first floor of the main Children's Center building. They were painted to resemble the air lock of a spaceship, and made
the entrance look like a warm and welcoming alternative to the inhospitable terrain depicted all around it.

Devereaux badged the triage nurse and asked her if any unidentified seven-year-old boys had been brought in, either unconscious or DOA.

“Nope.” The nurse stretched both arms above her head. “None. Been a quiet shift. Boring.”

“OK. How about—” The doors slid open behind Devereaux and a man hurried inside. It was Joseph Crane. He was holding the plastic T-Rex that Dillon had been playing with at the house.

“Mr. Crane?” Devereaux stepped across to block Joseph's path. “What's going on?”

“Dillon's toy.” Joseph Crane was breathing hard. “He left it in the car. Went to fetch it for him.”

“Dillon's here? Why? Blood test?”

“What? No.” Joseph screwed his eyes closed for a moment. “This is a day from hell. He fell off the couch. Hit his head on the bookcase. I need to get back to him…”

Devereaux moved aside, waited for Joseph Crane to disappear around the corner, then turned back to the triage nurse.

“Dillon Crane. What can you tell us? Accident?”

The nurse shrugged. “Not for me to say.”

Devereaux turned to Loflin, and her expression told him she was thinking the same thing.
First one kid disappears…

“Jan, I need you to talk to the Cranes. Take them for a cup of coffee. Both of them. Together. Find out what happened. And don't let them out of your sight till I join you.”

Devereaux pulled the curtain open a couple of inches and poked the head of the stegosaurus he'd borrowed from the stash of toys in the waiting area through the gap. He heard a delighted squeal from the cubicle, then drew back the curtain a little farther and slipped inside. Dillon was sprawled out on a hospital cot that had tall guardrails attached to each side. He was still wearing his Mickey Mouse sleep suit. His T-Rex was clutched tightly to his chest. And a bandage had been taped to his forehead, above his right eye.

“Dillon?” Devereaux crouched down so that he was at the same level as the boy. “It's me again. Cooper. Remember me? I came to your house this morning.”

Dillon nodded, hesitantly.

“Good.” Devereaux smiled. “Now, I was wondering. Would it be OK if my dinosaur plays with your T-Rex? He's called Steggy. He got left behind by all his friends.”

“Yay!” Dillon sat up and brandished his T-Rex. “Dino Wars! Come on!”

Dillon grabbed the stegosaurus and played out a furious battle, complete with ferocious cartoon sound effects. The T-Rex was soon victorious, and Dillon ended up on his back with the models collapsed at his side.

“Dillon?” Devereaux reached out and retrieved the stegosaurus. “Steggy really enjoyed that, but he doesn't want to fight anymore. He just wants to be friends. Would that be OK? That they're friends?”

“I guess.” A confused expression covered Dillon's face, as if he'd never considered such a possibility before.

“In fact, Steggy was hoping he could come back to your house tonight. Maybe have a sleepover? What do you think?”

“Yay! Dino sleepover!” Dillon sat up and held out his hand. “Can he come? I WANT him to come!”

“Well, I'm not sure.” Devereaux pulled a puzzled expression. “Would there be room at your house? Remind me what it's like.”

“My bedroom's 'normous. I share it with my brother.”

“Your brother Ethan?”

Dillon nodded.

“
Maybe
Steggy could come.” Devereaux looked like he was struggling with a very serious problem. “But I do need to be sure there's enough space. See this cot? Let's pretend it's your room. Yours and Ethan's. Where would your bed be?”

Dillon pointed vaguely to one edge.

“OK.” Devereaux nodded. “But help me out a little. Make sure I understand. Pretend your T-Rex is you, and put him where you sleep.”

Dillon pushed the T-Rex to the side of the mattress.

“Good job! Now put Steggy where Ethan sleeps.”

A sad, confused expression spread across Dillon's face. “Ethan's gone.”

“Oh.” Devereaux frowned. “Well then, let's try this. Pretend it's last night. Ethan was there with you when you went to bed last night, right?”

Dillon nodded, but looked like he was on the verge of tears.

“Good. So can you put Steggy where Ethan went to sleep?”

Dillon took the stegosaurus and set it gently on the pillow.

“Great!” Devereaux nodded. “Now, who else do we need? Who else was in your room last night?”

“No one.”

“I don't just mean when you guys went to sleep. I'm talking about the whole night.”

Dillon shook his head.

“What about your daddy? Did he come in and see you and Ethan?”

“No.”

“I see. Now, this is important, Dillon. I need to be really clear about this, before I can agree to Steggy sleeping in your room. There needs to be someone else with you, at least for a little while, to help you look after him. So you need to tell me. Who else was in your room last night?”

“Andrew!”

“Andrew was in your room? That's good. Who's Andrew?”

“My hippo. He's blue. He's supposed to snore when you hug him but the thing in his tummy's broken and Daddy says you can't fix it without hurting him.”

“Andrew's a toy hippo?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I want you to think real hard, Dillon. Who else was there last night, when you and Ethan and Andrew were in bed? It counts even if you heard someone, but didn't see them, OK? Anytime—even for a second—before your mom woke you up this morning.”

“A bug came.”

“What kind of bug?”

“A stinging bug.”

“Did you see it?”

“No. Felt it sting. It hurt.”

“OK. So apart from Andrew the hippo and a stinging bug, there was no one else in your room last night?”

Dillon nodded, and a tear formed in the corner of his eye.

“It's OK, Dillon.” Devereaux got to his feet. “You did good. Real good, buddy. You can care for the dinosaurs on your own, after all. Steggy can come visit. For as long as you want.”

Extract from Motion to Exclude Evidence Presented at Jefferson County Courthouse, Alabama
.

Counsel for the Defense in the case of the State of Alabama vs. Flynn moves that the quantity of cocaine seized in Ridout's Forest Hill Cemetery should not be admitted as evidence as it was not obtained during a legal search. Rather, it fell from Mr. Flynn's coat in the course of a vicious assault he suffered at the hands of a police officer—Detective Cooper Devereaux—after he had voluntarily surrendered himself into custody.

This is not the only account of Devereaux beating on suspects. I could give you a bunch of others.

Why was Devereaux alone with the suspect in a secluded cemetery?

How many other times did this kind of thing go unreported? For every victim who came forward, how many stayed silent? 10? 100? Who knows?

See the pattern in this man's behavior, Jan…?