As I sifted through the box, Mac hovering over my shoulder, I noticed it was full of case files on children suspected of being abused or neglected. My eyes rapidly sifted through the information while desperately seeking not to miss that explosive clue that would break the case, and hopefully save the lives of at least six children, not to mention my job. I noticed the names. They screamed at me from the paper, begging to be noticed.
“Do you have the list of children taken?” I asked Mac.
He furnished a list of ten names from his briefcase: two returned safely, two murdered, and six still missing.
I scanned the names and the files — one match, two matches, and so on until ten. All ten files were highlighted in green, but what worried me were the two files highlighted in red. Recalling every clue that I could remember from a Sherlock Holmes mystery, my insides shouted that those two were next. If I was right, Maxwell Colender and Kima Pittman were in grave danger.
I jumped to my feet and headed for the door. “Call Milan and Pettis and tell them to get over here quick.” Then I headed for the receptionist.
After I had explained to her that Mac had lied about being Bryan Franks’ brother-in-law and that we were actually investigating, what had been tagged in the earliest days of the story, The Child Stealer Case, she seemed to forgive our deception. She was excited to be on the periphery of the city’s largest manhunt.
“So, what’s going on? How was Bryan involved?” she asked.
“We’re not quite sure yet. Julie, right? Julie, do you remember anyone visiting Bryan. Someone who didn’t work here. A purely social visit.”
“Well, I don’t think he had many friends. Wasn’t the social type, you know, but there was this one guy. He started coming by right before Bryan was fired. I remember him pretty well because he was a real babe, you know. But I think he was kind of slow. Never knew his name.”
“Julie, it’s very important that you tell me exactly what he looked like and anything else…anything that might be useful in finding this man.”
“He was blond, had long beautiful hair, about six feet tall. He looked really strong but I can’t say much else about him. He hardly ever said more than two words to me, except to ask for Bryan. He sounded a little slow though -- like he really wasn’t retarded but he sure as hell wasn’t a doctor. Know what I mean?”
“I tell you what, a couple of police officers will be here in a few minutes. Tell them what you know. They’re probably going to need you to describe the man to a sketch artist.” Leaving the woman at her desk, I rushed back into the office to see how Mac was making out.
*
Minutes later when Milan and Pettis arrived, they took control of the investigation. Officers were ordered to find Maxwell Colender and Kima Pittman and provide twenty-four hour protection. Pettis questioned the receptionist, while a sketch artist rendered a drawing of the suspect from her memories. Several more junior investigators swarmed Franks’ office, looking for fingerprints, rummaging through documents, and checking his still full voice mailbox. An unusually young looking cop sat at Franks’ computer. He was the department’s resident computer hacker, but he wasn’t having much success in getting passed the layers of extra encryption Franks had installed.
“Damnit, this computer is better protected than Air Force One. This bastard definitely has something in here and doesn’t want anyone to find it,” the young officer yelled to no one in particular.
Back outside the office, the receptionist suggested that they may want to check the sign-in at the lobby. “No one hardly ever signs in, but there’s a chance, I guess.” Pettis sent an investigator down. He returned thirty minutes later with nothing. He had searched the logs for the last three months and no one had signed in for Bryan Franks.
“Shit. I’m in,” the police hacker yelled from the office.
Pettis immediately ran to the office door and ordered, “Scan every file on that damn computer. Something has got to be there. And where the hell is Lance?”
*
We were at the QuickMart down the street from Bryan Franks’ house, just yards from the scene where Franks had lost his head, literally, when my cell rang. “Christopher Lance,” I answered.
It was Milan and he had a name, Tommy Willis. Apparently this was Franks’ accomplice, gleaned from information found inside hacked computer files. Milan decided it might be best to feed me information to ensure that I kept him in the loop. It was obvious to Milan and Pettis that I was having better luck with the case than the APD. According to Milan, Willis worked part-time as a teacher’s assistant at Needle Middle School, when he wasn’t trimming hedges for a local lawn service. He was single with no children and thought to have a lower than average IQ but not mentally retarded. They had tracked him down and were presently in hot pursuit. They were intensifying their search of Franks’ house, Willis’ apartment, and Pettis had sent investigators to Needle Middle School.
“Don’t be a hero on this one. Where ever you are, stay put,” Milan said before hanging up.
“So what’s our next move?” Mac asked.
“Well, we’re not staying put. I still don’t trust Milan and Pettis to finish this thing.”
“So where to?”
“Needle Middle, of course.”
*
In my mind, I processed information at breakneck speed, while Mac drove us to the school. Lots of information, lots of facts. Bryan Franks and Tommy Willis. What was the connection between the two and why would Willis kill Franks? Maybe Bryan Franks was losing his nerve -- about to spill the beans, maybe -- leaving Willis with no choice but to decapitate his partner. My head was hurting.
The only problem with my theory was that seemed to put Tommy Willis in control as the kidnapper-killer. The baffling part was that by all accounts Tommy Willis was slow, but what did that mean? It meant he couldn’t have been the one I was speaking with on the phone. Angel was quick-minded, sharp, intelligent and cunning. Perhaps, the dull, lethargic Tommy Willis was just a nice cover for Angel. Maybe he was sitting in a downtown Atlanta office building looking down at the APD and laughing his ass off.
By the time we pulled into the visitor’s parking lot, school had let out and students raced about, having a good time. No signs of cops anywhere. Mac made a wisecrack about the thoroughness of the APD’s police work, which I thought was funny and laughed at, as we walked toward the school. After first visiting the head administrator, Mac and I were directed to speak with a Mr. Hardling, a history teacher and Willis’ mentor.
“Mr. Hardling, Christopher Lance with the Atlanta Inquisitor.” We shook hands. “This is my associate MacKenzie Crawford.”
“So what brings you fellas by? Are you profiling teachers now?” Hardling said with a chuckle. “Have a seat.”
We sat in a couple of student desks, the type that you slide into like a champ when you’re a teenager but begin to have some trouble with toward midlife. The classroom was small but, of course, it was made to hold thirteen year olds.
“We need to talk to you about Tommy Willis.”
No surprise showed on his dark, hairy face, which was almost hidden by a bushy, black mustache. I told him what we and the police suspected of Willis. The short, stalking man with a body builder’s frame sank back in his seat. “The detectives just left. I still can’t believe he’s had any involvement. That’s exactly what I told them.”
“The principal tells us that Willis worked for you part-time as an assistant,” Mac said.
“Yes, all of that’s true. Actually, he was a student of mine when I taught high school. I was the one who talked the principal into hiring him.”
“How did he help here?” I asked.
“He made copies and graded papers.” I looked at him with disbelief. “Oh, simple stuff,” Hardling said. “Multiple choice type quizzes. Nothing that required any judgment.”
“I know you don’t believe he’s involved, but a slightly different question, could he have done this?” I asked.
&n
bsp; “Never. He’s a gentle man and, I don’t know if you know this, but his IQ is in the mid-seventies. While he functions phenomenally, based on his mental faculties, I doubt he could pull off something like kidnapping those children. He couldn’t have been the mastermind. It’s unthinkable.”
Part V
The End of It All
“We need a car on Vallette Street now. Parrish, he’s heading your way,” Milan yelled into his radio. Pettis drove the unmarked Chevy behind Tommy Willis’ Olds Cutlass at high speeds. The lead detectives were on his tail and other squad cars were behind them. Back-up!
From the moment the police had walked into Rawley’s Country and Western Bar, it seemed that Willis knew why they were there — it was as if he was expecting them — and he had ran. Now, twelve police cars were in on the chase and more were coming. ‘Can’t lose him this time’ was the phrase Pettis kept muttering under his breath.
The Cutlass hit a small hill in the road and shot diagonally into the air like bottle rocket on the Fourth. It landed and bounced twice on a steep down slope on the other side of the hill. At the bottom of the hill, two squad cars blocked Vallette. Parrish stood tall above the cars, six foot and four inches, with his Glock pointing at the barreling car. The non-slowing car.
The APD had wanted to stop the suspect before he reached the outskirts of the business district, but they had failed. Small shops and people lined the streets leading into downtown Atlanta. With the sight of the mammoth detective hoisting his gun in the air and the careening automobile barreling toward him, shoppers scurried inside the closest business.
Bang. Bang. Parrish managed to fire two shots into the windshield of the Willis’ vehicle before jumping toward the sidewalk, landing on his side and rolling. The car rammed the blockade at sixty miles per hour and then spun sideways and screeched to a halt. Willis sprang from the car, seemingly fueled by an adrenaline rush! He ran toward an alley with long, athletic strides. Pettis and Milan, now on foot, along with Parrish, chased Willis, holding their guns high.
A soft drink delivery truck blocked the other end of the alley. Willis leapt unto the top of the truck’s cab and continued his flight. The police squeezed through a crack between the back of the truck and the alleyway.
Tommy Willis’ leaping maneuver allowed him to gain some distance from them. Pettis the youngest and most athletic of pursuers ran faster, and had gained by the time he saw Willis enter the Securities Mutual Life Insurance building. The detectives pushed up three flights and each of them, even Pettis, wanted to stop and catch a breathe, but Willis sounded farther ahead of them with each passing flight. After the fourth and last flight, the policemen burst onto the roof and found that Willis was trapped. He could either stop or jump. The way Pettis saw things, he could either live or die.
“Stop you bastard and put your hands up. Put them up or I’ll blow your goddamn head off.” Pettis was sweating. The index finger on his left hand was aching as it flexed against the trigger of his cold metal gun.
Willis twirled and took a step backwards, bracing himself against the edge of the building.“Stop! Don’t move,” Milan yelled. It was too late though. Willis leapt over the edge as shots rang out. Pettis was the fastest and it was his shots that hit. Wham! Double Whammy! Willis shrieked in agony and blood flew as he fell toward the roof of an Econoline van parked below. He had hit back first with a thud and was on the ground and running when the cops got to the edge to look over.
“Goddamnit, this guy has nine lives,” Milan said.
“I think I hit him pretty clean in the chest,” Pettis said, leaning over the building’s edge, catching his breath. “He shouldn’t get too far. Hopefully, the bastard’s dying as we speak.”
“He’d better or we’ll all be run out of town.”
*
It had been thirty-five hours since I had last slept and now I was dozing off in front of my computer screen. Templeton had brought me an expresso but that wasn’t helping. Imagine a chronic insomniac fighting to stay awake. Nonetheless, I had to do something. Things didn’t make sense. When the facts weren’t adding up, you had to rearrange them and see a different picture. That was my own philosophy, and I thought it worked well.
All my searches, sources, and investigators had come up with air bubbles so far, and the shear madness of it was all that kept me awake. Point one: Tommy Willis was mildly retarded. Point two: He couldn’t be the mastermind, but maybe the front man for a killer/kidnapper. Point three: Then Bryan Franks had to have been in control. That’s when things unraveled and my analysis burst and ruptured at the seams, because Bryan Franks was now dead and it seemed that Tommy Willis had killed him. Why, was the only thought invading my brain — screaming and shouting and kicking, why?
“Maybe, it’s all an act and Tommy Willis is a freaking genius,” Templeton said. “His act could be part of the greatest deception in the history of criminals!”
I nodded at Templeton, while my face showed disbelief in his theory. “Try again.”
“Maybe, Franks was abusive toward Willis, and one day the kid snapped and chopped his tormentors head off.”
“That’s a little more plausible,” I responded.
“Damn, right it is. I get paid to come up with plausible ideas, and that one is damn plausible.”
The Grabber was getting excited now, and he was getting on my nerves. At that moment, one of our gofers entered my cube with a full manila folder marked, ‘Franks - APD records’.
“What’s that?” Templeton asked.
I ignored him as I searched through Bryan Franks thin criminal record. He had three convictions for smaller crimes, misdemeanors, nothing at all serious. He had done some computer hacking as kid, hence the super encryption on his work computer. All his convictions had been in the Atlanta area, where I assumed he was from, except for his first conviction. That one was in Ocola, Florida.
“If you’re not going to share I have other things to do.” Templeton stomped off.
Good riddance, I thought.
Hoping that Ocola was his hometown and would provide some background, I searched the city registry and newspapers over the net, dating back as far as I could find. Searching for anything. Franks had definitely spent his childhood in Ocola. His father was a high school principal, but I found no work record for his mother and assumed she was a housewife. His little league baseball team had won the state championship when he was eleven, behind seven strong innings from Bryan Franks. The team was even coached by his uncle and … That was it! That was my Loch Ness Monster -- a two ton creature just lying there but nearly impossible to find. I ran a couple more searches and then ran out the door.
*
Angel’s eyes lit up, like a Lite-Brite, when he saw the tall slender, almost post-like cop standing outside the door where Kima Pittman lived. Leaning against the wall, reading one of those magazines devoted to telling you how to gain more mega-points in some Xbox video game, he looked like a giant boy scout. One moment Angel wanted to whip the slug’s ass, the next, he sympathized with the man-child, remembering how he as a child was abused by idiot bullies. They always terrorized those who were different, Angel thought. And Angel was different.
“Excuse me, officer. I have a delivery for Evelyn Pittman. She does live her, right? Four-fourteen?
The cop startled, quickly looked up at Angel and then smiled. “FedEx got you guys workin’ overtime, huh?”
“Yeah. She here?” Angel answered. He was getting excited now.
“Nope, but her mother’s here. I’ll get her.”
No sooner than the stick man turned, Angel brought a steel pipe from the hollow package he held and raised the cylinder above his head. He pounced once, twice, and blood splattered everywhere before the cop was able to knock even once. Angel was ice cold now, as if he were ice fishing and enjoying a smooth beer. Cool and calm.
He stepped over the cop and entered the apartment through a short hallway. Just beyond hallway he could see slight shadows bouncing off the wal
l. A small shelf across from him displayed several trinkets from past travels, one of which was a replica of the Empire State building. This brought a devilish smile to his face. If he were right, Kima was watching the tube, eating popcorn, and doing her homework like she did every night, alone. He heard ‘Yabba dabba doo’ blast from the television, no doubt the cartoon channel. Her fat assed grandmother was sure to be in her bed snoring, he thought. Still cool and calm though. He eased along the wall with his back pressed against it, as if he were on a ledge, until he was ready to move. Angel twirled into the living room, leaping over the coffee table and landing with his legs spread apart across the girl’s chest. Her eyes widened. She tried to scream, but his hand was attached to her face. Then from out of nowhere Angel brought forth a bottle of chloroform spray. As he sprayed, the mist showered her face -- her sweet pretty face. After a few seconds, her defenses numbed by the anesthetic, he held her limp body.
Acting fast, he laid the girl down, softly, and went to his car. He returned with a large green bag, one that was used in the military to hold assault rifles, and one that would now hold the sleeping body of Kima Pittman. He placed the small girl in the bag, and then hoisting the bag over his broad shoulders slowly walked out of the building, making sure to stay away from the cop’s blood that crept down the hall. And all the time, Angel was cool and calm.
*
As I pulled up to the apartment building where Kima Pittman lived, I had no reason to believe that Angel would choose to steal Kima over Maxwell Colender. Indeed, the only things I knew was that he’d now have to go underground and he’d only have time to take one child. I bet on Kima Pittman, but first I gave Milan a call to tell him what I believed. He seemed interested but not impressed. To hell with him, if he wanted to be that way; this had been my mission to begin with. Angel had contacted me not them. The madman played a game with the both of us, but he’d chosen to make it personal with me.