Criminal

  “I—” Amanda didn’t know what to say. She glanced down the street. The moon was almost full in the sky. The black wooden cross cast a shadow across the sidewalk in front of the soup kitchen. “We’re staking out a possible suspect.”

  “We?”

  She let the question go unanswered.

  “What evidence do you got?”

  “Nothing,” she admitted. “Just—” She searched for a better explanation, but could only come up with, “Women’s intuition.”

  “Don’t call it that,” he ordered. “Call it a hunch. You feel it in your gut, not between your legs.”

  Amanda didn’t know what to say other than, “All right.”

  He coughed a few times. “That’s Rick Landry’s case you’re poking around, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I wouldn’t trust that idiot to find his asshole in a snowstorm.” His chuckle turned into a sharp cough. “If you’re out late, you’ll need your sleep. I’ll get myself breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  The phone clicked in her ear. Amanda stared at the receiver as if the plastic mouthpiece could explain to her what had just happened. She didn’t look up until a pair of headlights flashed for her attention.

  Evelyn’s Falcon station wagon smelled of candy and cheap wine. She smiled as Amanda settled into the passenger’s seat. “You okay?”

  “Just puzzled.” She told Evelyn about the phone call with her father.

  “Well.” Evelyn sounded circumspect. “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

  “Yes.” Duke was a lot of things, but he was not a liar.

  “Then he must be telling the truth.”

  Amanda knew that Evelyn would never trust Duke. She could understand why. As far as the other woman was concerned, he was cut from the same cloth as Rick Landry and Butch Bonnie. And maybe he was, but he was still Amanda’s father.

  Evelyn stared down the street at the soup kitchen. “Is Ulster even in there?”

  “He’s cleaning up.” Amanda had walked by earlier and seen James Ulster lifting a large soup pot off the table. His back was to her, but she’d still quickened her step. “There’s a green van parked behind the building. I called in the license plate—it’s registered to the church. There were some religious tracts in the front seat, a Bible on the dash. It has wooden crates in the back, a bunch of ropes. I guess he uses them to keep the food from spilling.”

  “Delivering food to the needy. That sounds like a serial killer to me.”

  “Surely you can think of one?”

  Evelyn wasn’t up for teasing. “Driving over here, part of me felt like I was going to my own funeral.” She crossed her arms low on her waist. “Our last day on the job, or at least our real job. The job we want to do. I don’t think I can fit into my crossing guard uniform anymore. I thought that thing was retired.”

  Amanda didn’t want to talk about it. “Did you call Georgia Baptist?”

  “Callahan’s fiancée is named Eileen Sapperson so at least we were told the truth about that. She didn’t show up for work this morning. No home phone number. No address. Another Doug Henning magical disappearance.”

  “Another dead end,” Amanda noted. Miss Lula hadn’t been able to find anyone at Techwood who remembered seeing a man fitting Hank Bennett’s description, and while plenty of people knew the hulking Mr. Ulster, none of them had ever seen him cause trouble. It was hard to make enemies of people to whom you were bringing a hot meal.

  Evelyn said, “James Ulster is at Techwood every Monday and Friday, the same days the victims were found.”

  “He’s in and out so much that no one would notice him,” Amanda added. “He knew Kitty, at least. He knew enough about Mary Halston to say that Trey had a thing for her. He probably knew Lucy Bennett, too.”

  “He’s the only one who puts the girls as alive recently. Jane Delray, Hank Bennett, Trey Callahan, Juice—they all say the three girls have been gone at least a year.”

  “Maybe Ulster is Butch’s CI. He could’ve said Lucy Bennett was dead so her brother would stop looking for her.”

  “Was he really looking for her?” Evelyn asked. “As far as we know, he stopped when he found Kitty. And none of this explains why Hodge sent us out in the first place. Or who transferred us if it wasn’t your father. Any of it.”

  Amanda couldn’t bear the thought of spinning it all around again. No matter how many times they talked it through, the construction paper puzzle would likely never be solved. Evelyn had her family to go home to. Amanda had her schoolwork, a major paper to write. They had never really been assigned this case, and tomorrow, their authority would be no greater than that conferred upon them by screaming school-aged adolescents.

  Evelyn said, “I was thinking—what would happen if I really did file a sexual discrimination suit?” She rested her hand on the steering wheel. “What would they do? The law is on my side. Butch is right. We can’t keep threatening it without following through. It’s lost its teeth.”

  “You’d never get promoted again. They’d stick you at the airport, which is only marginally more humiliating than crossing duty.” Amanda felt the need to tell her, “But I would testify for you. I saw what Rick did. And Butch. They had no right to do that.”

  “Oh, Mandy, you’re such a good friend.” She reached out and grabbed Amanda’s hand. “You’ve made this stupid job almost bearable.”

  Amanda looked down at their hands. Evelyn’s were so much more elegant than her own. “You’ve never called me Mandy before.”

  “You don’t really seem like one.”

  Amanda didn’t feel like one anymore. Did a Mandy go into a jailhouse and rattle a pimp? Did a Mandy stand up to bullies and call them nasty names?

  Evelyn said, “You know, I was so scared of you when Hodge first sent us on that call.”

  Amanda didn’t have to ask why. If this week had taught her anything, it was that the Wagner name was not the asset she once believed.

  Evelyn said, “But you turned out to be so swell. If there’s anything good that came out of this, it’s our friendship.”

  Amanda had been fighting weepiness all night. She could only nod.

  Evelyn squeezed her hand before letting go. “I don’t have many friends. Any friends, really.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Oh, I used to have lots of them.” She twisted her fingers into her hair. “Bill and I would go to parties every weekend. Two or three. Sometimes four.” She let out a long sigh. “Everyone thought it was a gas when I joined the force, but then they saw I wasn’t going to quit and suddenly there was nothing we could talk about. I didn’t want to swap recipes or plan bake sales. They couldn’t understand why I would want to do a man’s job. You should hear my mother-in-law on the subject.” She laughed ruefully. “This job changes you. It changes how you think, how you see the world. I don’t care what the boys say. We are cops. We live it and breathe it as much as they do.”

  “You don’t see Butch and Landry out here right now.”

  “No, they’re probably home with their families.”

  Amanda doubted that. “Their mistresses, more likely.”

  “Hey, that’s him.” They saw Ulster locking the front door of the building. The darkness did him no favors. He was a hulking man. Amanda could not imagine anyone putting up much of a struggle against such raw power.

  He glanced up the street. Both Amanda and Evelyn ducked, but Ulster didn’t seem to notice the red station wagon, or if he did, he didn’t think much of it. In retrospect, the car—with its children’s toys in the back and crayons melted into the carpet—was the perfect cover.

  Amanda held her breath as she waited for Ulster to reappear. It felt like hours but was only minutes before Evelyn finally said, “Here he comes.”

  The green van turned onto Juniper. They stayed hunched down as it passed. Evelyn cranked the key. The engine sputtered, then caught. She pushed the knob to make sure the headlights were off, then swung the nose ou
t into the street and smoothly entered the opposite lane.

  “You’re getting better at this,” Amanda said.

  “Last hurrah,” she muttered.

  There were no streetlights on Juniper. The moon was enough to drive by, and where she couldn’t see, Evelyn coasted her way through.

  Ulster took a left onto Piedmont Avenue. He drove deep into Bedford Pine. The stench of Buttermilk Bottom filled the car, but they kept the windows down.

  “Where is he going?” Evelyn asked.

  Amanda shook her head. She had no idea.

  The van braked at the last minute, taking a sharp turn onto Ralph McGill. Amanda directed, “Cut over to Courtland.”

  Evelyn had to reverse to make the turn. “Do you think he spotted us?”

  “I don’t know.” Their headlights were still off. The car’s interior was dark. “Maybe he’s just being careful.”

  “Why would he be careful?” Evelyn sucked in her breath. The green van was up ahead. “There he is.”

  They followed the van up Courtland. The road was a straight shot. Evelyn hung back at least a hundred yards. When the van turned onto Pine, the lights from Crawford Long Hospital illuminated the interior. They saw Ulster’s unmistakable frame. Evelyn slowed, peering down the street before making the turn to follow him. The lights from the expressway made the going more difficult. He turned onto Spring Street.

  “Evelyn,” Amanda said.

  “I know.” She followed him up North Avenue. Past the Varsity. Over the expressway. He was going to Techwood. “Get my radio.”

  Amanda found Evelyn’s purse on the back seat. The revolver was cold in her hands. She passed this to Evelyn, who kept one hand on the wheel as she slid the gun underneath her leg.

  Amanda clicked the radio. “Dispatch?”

  There was no answer.

  “Dispatch, this is unit sixteen. Over?”

  The radio clicked. “Unit twenty-three to unit sixteen,” a man’s voice said. “You gals need some help?”

  Amanda gripped the radio in her hand. She had called for dispatch, not some hillbilly out on patrol.

  “Copy sixteen?” the man asked. “What’s your locale?”

  Amanda spoke through gritted teeth. “Techwood Homes.”

  “Repeat, please.”

  Amanda enunciated the words. “Tech. Wood. Homes.”

  “Copy that. Perry Homes.”

  “Jesus,” Evelyn hissed. “He thinks this is a joke.”

  Amanda clutched the radio as hard as she could, wanting to break it over the man’s head. She put her finger to the button, but couldn’t bring herself to press it.

  “Amanda,” Evelyn mumbled. Her voice had a tone of warning.

  Up ahead, the green van didn’t slow to turn on Techwood Drive. Instead, it continued straight, going into the heart of the ghetto.

  “This isn’t good,” Evelyn said. “There’s no reason for him to be here.”

  Amanda didn’t bother to vocalize her agreement. They were in a part of town that no one—black, white, cop, or criminal—willingly entered after dark.

  The van turned again. Evelyn slowed, nosing into the turn, making sure they weren’t sitting ducks. Just ahead, they saw the van’s taillights glowing softly. Ulster obviously knew where he was going. His pace was slow and deliberate.

  Amanda tried the radio again. “Dispatch, sixteen going north on Cherry.”

  The man in unit twenty-three answered. “What’s that, sixteen? You wanna gimme your cherry?”

  There was more clicking as the radio was jammed.

  Dispatch cut through the chatter. “Ten-thirty-four, all units. Sixteen, repeat your ten-twenty.”

  Evelyn said, “That’s Rachel Foster.” The women in dispatch were the only ones who could override the nonsense. Evelyn grabbed the radio. “Sixteen heading north on Cherry. Possible thirty-four on a green Dodge van. Georgia license plate—” She squinted at the van. “Charlie, Victor, William, eight-eight-eight.”

  Rachel said, “Verify ten-twenty, unit sixteen?”

  Amanda took the radio so Evelyn could return both hands to the wheel. “Verify Cherry Street, Dispatch. Heading north.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Rachel’s tone was terse. She knew the streets better than most cops on the road. “Sixteen?”

  The car was silent. They both stared at the green van heading deep into the ghetto. Was Ulster leading them into a trap?

  “Sixteen?” Rachel repeated.

  Amanda said, “Verify heading North on Cherry.”

  Static filled the seconds. Rachel said, “Give me five minutes. Hold your location. Repeat, hold.”

  Amanda put the radio in her lap. Evelyn kept driving.

  Amanda asked, “Why did you report the van as possibly stolen?”

  “All we need is whoever that cowboy is on unit twenty-three rushing in here with lights and sirens.”

  “Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” Amanda had never been in this part of town. She doubted any white woman ever had. There were no street signs. No lights on inside the houses that dotted either side of the street. Even the moon seemed to glow less brightly here.

  The van took another left. The air felt too thick. Amanda had to breathe through her mouth. The street was lined with junker cars on both sides. If Evelyn followed Ulster, there would be no way to hide the station wagon from him. In the end, they didn’t need to. The van’s brake lights flashed as he slowed down and turned into the driveway of a clapboard house. As with the others, there were no lights on inside. Electricity was a luxury in this part of town.

  “Are they abandoned?” Evelyn asked, meaning the houses. Some of them were boarded up. Others were so dilapidated that the roofs had caved in.

  “I can’t tell.”

  They both sat in the car. Ulster got out of the van and entered the house. Neither woman knew what to do. They couldn’t very well kick down the door and go in guns blazing.

  Amanda said, “Rachel should’ve radioed back by now.”

  Evelyn kept her hands gripped around the steering wheel. They both stared at Ulster’s house. A light came on in one of the back rooms. It cut a sliver of white across the front of the green van parked in the driveway.

  Evelyn’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Would you think I was a coward if I said we should call in unit twenty-three?”

  Amanda had been wondering how to ask the same question. “He could tell Ulster the van was reported stolen.”

  “And ask to look around inside the house.”

  And get shot in the face. Or chest. Or punched. Or stabbed. Or beaten.

  “Do it,” Evelyn said.

  Amanda pressed the button on the radio. “Twenty-three?” There was only static. Even the clicks were gone. “Dispatch?”

  “Shit,” Evelyn cursed. “We’re probably in a pocket.” There were dead spots all over the city. Evelyn put the car in reverse. “It was working the last block over. We can—”

  A scream pierced the air. It was feral, terror inducing. Something inside of Amanda recoiled. Her body broke out in a cold sweat. Every muscle tensed. The sound triggered a primitive urge to flee.

  “My God,” Evelyn gasped. “Was that an animal?”

  Amanda could still hear the sound echoing in her ears. She’d never heard anything so terrifying in her life.

  Suddenly, the radio came to life. “Sixteen? Twenty-three here. You foxes reconsider my offer?”

  “Thank God,” Evelyn whispered. She pressed the button, but didn’t have time to speak.

  The second scream was like a knife cutting straight through Amanda’s heart. It wasn’t an animal. It was the desperate cry of a woman begging for help.

  The radio crackled. “Sixteen, what the hell was that?”

  Amanda’s purse was on the floorboard. She reached inside and pulled out her revolver. She grabbed the door handle.

  Evelyn’s foot slipped off the brake. “What are you doing?”

  “Stop the car.” It was roll
ing back. “Stop the car.”

  “Amanda, you can’t—”

  The woman screamed again.

  Amanda pushed open the door. She stumbled as she got out of the car. Her knee dug into the asphalt. Her hose ripped. She couldn’t stop herself. Wouldn’t stop herself. “Get twenty-three. Get everybody you can.” Evelyn yelled for her to wait, but Amanda kicked off her shoes and started running.

  The woman screamed again. She was in the house. Ulster’s house.

  Amanda tightened her grip on the revolver as she ran down the street. Her arms pumped. Her vision tunneled. She slipped as she rounded into Ulster’s driveway. Her hose bunched up at the balls of her feet. She slowed. The front door was shut. The only light was toward the back of the house.

  Amanda tried to quiet her breathing, keeping her mouth open, taking in gulps of air. She squeezed past the van. She crouched down low, though no one could see her. The house blocked the moonlight, painting everything in shadow. She pointed her revolver straight ahead, finger on the trigger, not on the side like they had taught her, because she was going to shoot anybody who walked into her path.

  The scream came again. It wasn’t as loud this time, but it was more desperate. More frightened.

  Amanda steeled herself as she approached the open window. The light was coming through a pair of heavy black curtains. She could hear the woman moaning with each breath. Almost mewing. Carefully, Amanda peered through the part in the curtains. She saw an old washstand. A sink. A bed. The woman was there. Sitting up. Blonde hair streaked red. Emaciated but for her distended belly. The skin on her arms and shoulders was a bloody pulp. Her lips and eyelids were torn where she’d ripped them open. Blood coated every inch of her skin—her face, her throat, her chest.

  The girl screamed again, but not before Amanda heard something behind her.

  A shoe scuffing on concrete.

  Amanda started to turn, but a large hand grabbed her from behind.

  twenty-three

  July 15, 1975

  LUCY BENNETT

  Her shoulders were free, but she did not care.