Silent Scream (49 page)

Both Fischers shook their heads. “But we can get you the records of who he called,” Mr. Fischer said.

Again Sasha hesitated. “He had another phone. One of the prepaid ones, so that he could have privacy. So that you couldn’t
see who he’d called.”

“How do you know this?” Noah asked.

She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a flip phone. “He gave me one on my birthday. Said I was sixteen, old enough
for privacy. I’m sorry, Dad.”

“What is her name?” Olivia asked. “And do you know where they’d meet?”

“He called her Mary. I’m sorry, I don’t know a last name. Usually he’d tell her to meet him outside the library. Once he told
her to meet him at the Deli. It’s a sandwich place near the school, but she must’ve said no, because he said he’d go to her
dorm.”

Olivia leaned forward. “Do you remember which dorm Mary lives in?”

“No. He just said ‘the dorm.’ I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Olivia said. “You were an amazing help and brave. Thank you.”

She waited until she and Noah were in the car. “How many girls named Mary do you think live in the university dorms?” she
asked glumly.

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”

Olivia started the car. “It may not be that difficult. If Joel visited her in the dorm, she had to sign him in. He’d be in
the log.” She’d pulled to the end of the Fischers’ street when Noah’s cell phone rang.

“Change that plan,” he said when he hung up. “Ian
wants us back at the morgue. He’s about to let the Fischer boy go, but needs us to see something first.”

Wednesday, September 22, 10:05 a.m.

Austin winced as he jerked the souvenir knife’s dull blade over the last of his hair. It wasn’t sharp enough to cut butter,
but he’d made do. Now he dropped the last of his hair into the gas station’s totally gross, outside toilet and flushed it
down. No reason to leave handfuls of red hair in a trash can for everyone to see.

He pulled the first of the three disposable razor blades from the package and winced again as he prepared to shave his head.
The sink only ran cold water, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Three very dull blades later, he ran his hand over his mostly
bald head. Add to that three days’ growth of his beard, and he looked nothing like the picture that was being flashed on the
television.

Logic told him that he should believe the texts on his phone were really from the cops. Except that the ones from Kenny were
playing with his mind.
They lie. Don’t trust them.
He’d drive the rest of the way into town. Somewhere he’d find a television with closed-captioning and he’d see what was really
happening.

Wednesday, September 22, 10:30 a.m.

“This is embarrassing,” David muttered, then flinched when a petite ER doctor pulled the suture on his chin a little too hard.
“Ow. That hurts. Aren’t you done yet?”

She rolled her eyes. “You big guys are the worst, you know. Whine, whine, whine.”

He felt the need to defend himself. “Hey, it’s fifteen stitches.”

Her lips tipped up as she pulled another suture. “Only fourteen. You’ll have a scar, though, so you can brag about it for
years to come.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Casey burst through the curtain, anger in his eyes that David knew was leftover panic. “What the hell
did you do to yourself, Hunter?”

“I was stupid, okay?” David said, now angry with himself. “Ouch.”

“Hold still, cowboy,” she said. “Could you please sit down, whoever you are?”

Casey pulled up a chair and dropped into it. “I’m his captain. He’ll live?”

“Oh, sure. He’ll have a hell of a headache, but he’ll survive. Not so sure if he’ll survive the ribbing he’ll get later.”

“Thank you,” David said sarcastically. “I tripped, okay? It was an easy fire. Lady had left a towel on the stove, husband
accidentally turned it on, and the kitchen went up. We put the damn thing out in three minutes. Less, even.”

“So what did you trip on?” Casey asked.

“Her damn cat.” He clenched his teeth. “I went down, hit my chin on some stupid metal modern-art sculpture… thing.”

“I have to say, I’m relieved you’re not invincible. I was getting kinda spooked there.”

The doctor’s brows lifted. “What horrible fates have you barely escaped?”

“Falling four stories and getting pinned by a beam,” David said flatly. “This week.”

Her eyes widened. “
You
caught the ball? Well, I guess you were due a scratch. I’m almost done.”

“Good,” he said, “then I can get back to work.”

Casey shook his head. “No.”

“What do you mean? She’s gonna stitch me up, send me back in the game. Right, Doc?”

She shook her head. “He’s the boss, big guy. I just do the needlepoint.”

Casey had his stubborn face on now. “You can’t work with stitches in your chin. It’s against policy. And even if it wasn’t,
I’d still say no. You’re distracted, and you have a right to be. But I’m not putting your team in danger because you can’t
concentrate.”

It was fair. He’d gone in, seen it was an easy fire and his mind had exploded three million different directions. Olivia,
Kane, Zell, Lincoln Jefferson, that damn Web site and the boy who’d been at the fire… “I’m sorry, Captain. I know we’re shorthanded.”

“It’s okay. I should have seen the signs and told you to take a day off. I was preoccupied with Zell, too. Is he done?”

“He is. Go home, let your girl fuss over you. You’ll be back to work in a week.”

She left and David pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.” His head hurt and he was feeling really surly. And
a little nauseous, too. Wonderful.

“Who’ll fuss over you?” Casey said. “Your girl’s a little busy right now.”

“I know. She was just here last night. This is where they brought Kane.”

“I know. That was my first thought when Carrie called
and told me you were hurt and the medics were bringing you here. I’ll take you back to the firehouse to get your stuff and
get the paperwork done. Your stitches have to be healed before you can come back. You’re officially on leave.”

Wednesday, September 22, 10:30 a.m.

O
livia had hoped not to come back to the morgue today. She’d already had enough gut-churning for one morning. Feet like lead,
she followed Noah through the hallways that seemed to grow narrower with each step.

Earlier this morning they’d met Ian in one of the offices up front to talk about Joel. This time they were going back to the
autopsy suite. Somewhere in there, lay Kane.

Her heart pounding, she stopped, trying to slow her breathing. “Noah. Wait.”

He turned, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

It was humiliating, but somehow easier since she’d blurted it to Donahue that morning. “I’ve been getting panic attacks. Since
the pit.”

Understanding softened his features. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. I just have to get through it on my own. But… this is harder than usual.”

“You know, you’re really hard on yourself. Do you think you’re the first cop this has happened to?”

“You?”

He nodded once. “Long time ago. You okay to go in now?”

“I have to be. How do you handle it?” she murmured when they were walking side by side. “When you get overwhelmed?”

“Therapeutic sex,” he said wryly. “I’m serious,” he added when she snorted a surprised laugh. “Sometimes you need to hold
back reality for a little while.”

She thought about the amazing ride she’d taken with David that morning. Part of her had been feeling a little guilty for forgetting
her grief for those few minutes. The other part of her knew it was silly and that Kane of all people would have told her that.
But hearing it from Noah made it a little easier. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime.” Opening the door, he stuck his head in, then looked back. “Just Joel.”

He’d understood that, too, her fear of seeing Kane here. Like this. She drew a breath and made her feet move. Ian stood waiting
impatiently.

“I’ve got an angry undertaker pacing out front,” Ian said. “We need to hurry.”

“What’s so important?” Noah asked.

“This.” Ian lifted the sheet, exposing Joel’s pelvis. “Right here. A needle mark.”

Noah winced. “He shot up in his groin? God. I hate when they do that.”

Olivia gritted her teeth and made herself look. “That’s usually a behavior for long-term IV drug users. Did you find track
marks in other places?”

“No, I didn’t and I doubt he injected himself,” Ian said. “I found the binder from the pills in his stomach contents, like
I told you earlier, but I started thinking after you left. The pills he swallowed to get that much binder in his stomach weren’t
consistent with the high level of narcotics in his system. I figure he swallowed
the first two, then the rest was injected. Given no evidence of prior IV drug use, and a couple pills already in his system,
I doubt he’d have been able to access the femoral vein with a steady hand.”

“So somebody did it for him.” Olivia felt relief for the Fischers.

“I wonder if Joel was about to tell on the others,” Noah said. “They shut him up.”

“Something else,” Ian said. “Injected, it would have been a fast high and not the slower action of swallowing the pills. I
don’t know how he managed to drive anywhere.”

Olivia frowned. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t think he drove his own car off the road,” Ian said.

“They would have had to put him behind the wheel, shove his foot on the gas, and put the car in gear from outside the car,”
Noah said. “It’s been done.”

“Whoever did this had to be strong enough to put Joel in the driver’s seat,” she said.

“Or they could have shoved him over the gearshift,” Ian said. “When you know what you’re looking for, you see things differently.”
He pointed out a bruise on Joel’s left hip. “Could have been from being thrown from the car. Could have been from the shift.”

“I think this will give the Fischers some peace, but worsen their grief, too,” Olivia said. “Someone murdered their son.”

• • •

Wednesday, September 22, 11:15 a.m.

Austin stood on a downtown Minneapolis sidewalk, at the large plate-glass window of a gym with televisions suspended from
the ceiling. They had the closed-captioning going for the exercisers, who sweated on treadmills.

His face was all over the news. The arsonists had struck again last night. Four dead. So many hurt.
This has to stop. I have to make this stop.
Then the next story started and his blood went cold. A bomb-threat scare.
At my school.
An unidentified student narrowly escaped kidnapping. Police detective killed. An interpreter missing.

That the bomb threat related back to him, he had no doubt. Were they trying to kill him to keep him from talking? Were they
trying to keep Kenny from talking?

A man identified as Captain Bruce Abbott came on the screen, a sign language interpreter at his side.
Call us, Austin. You are in danger. We’ll keep you safe.

He dropped his eyes to the cell phone in his hand. Kenny had sent another text.
Don’t trust the cops. Call me. I can hide you
.

Austin knew one way to separate the truth from the lies. He opened the latest from Kenny’s new account.
Here in TC. Scared. Where can I meet u?

He hit
SEND
before he could change his mind. Then started walking. He didn’t want to stay in one place, didn’t want to draw attention.
Keep walking
.

Wednesday, September 22, 11:15 a.m.

He’d had to exert a great deal of discipline this morning not to obsess over the silence of Austin Dent. Austin was
still top of the news, so the police hadn’t found him yet. He’d sent one more text from Kenny’s “new” account. He hadn’t wanted
to lay it on too thickly, but for God’s sake, where was the damn kid?

There had been heavy traffic all morning due to Detective Kane. Cops gathered here to soberly talk, to mourn. To wonder how
it could have happened. Such a good cop. Such a nice guy. About ready to retire. Not fair.

Well, life isn’t fair. So get over it.
He’d taken the next order when the cell phone in his pocket buzzed.

Austin. Finally. “Hey, Buster, I need to take a break. Can you handle things?”

“Sure,” Buster said, not looking up from the latte he was mixing.

The men’s room was empty. He checked his cell phone and smiled. Austin was back, in the Twin Cities. Very good.

Need to meet U
, he typed.
You’re in danger.

When? Where?

He was supposed to be Kenny, who was supposed to be at school, twenty minutes from downtown.
12:30
, he typed
. Will sneak away at lunch.

McD’s by school?

He frowned then. The McDonald’s was across from the sub shop, where he’d grabbed the interpreter.
Too many cops looking for you. Library parking lot.

Okay.

Hide till then. Cops looking for you. They lie. Don’t trust them.

That should take care of Austin Dent until he could take care of him in person.

• • •

Wednesday, September 22, 11:20 a.m.

“Not home,” Olivia muttered, standing on Eric Marsh’s welcome mat.

“We could try for a warrant,” Noah said and she shook her head.

“Brian Ramsey couldn’t get me one last night for Joel and that was with proof he’d been in a fire. We’re not getting a warrant.
Not unless we find something else.”

The apartment door to the left opened and a grumpy-looking old man stared out. “He’s probably at school. Some kind of engineering
major. Whaddya want with him?”

“We want to talk to him,” Olivia said. “I’m Detective Sutherland and this is Detective… Webster.” She’d almost said Kane.
“And you are?”

“Jed Early.” Early glared. “Comings and goings and goings-on. Give a kid that age an apartment and you’re just asking for
trouble.”

“Who’s been coming and going?” Olivia asked.