“Can you trace the other number?” Reed asked.
“I’m betting from the exchange that it’s a disposable cell,” she said.
Michaels looked up from securing Thompson’s head. “You could call it.”
She smiled at him. “I could, but then he’d know we’d found Thompson. I’m not sure I want to tip my hand yet. But thanks.” She patted the young man’s shoulder. “And, um, Michaels? That crack about the seat belt? It was kind of funny. In a real juvenile, break-the-tension kind of way.” She huffed a tired chuckle. “Wish I’d thought of it.”
Michaels’s face was full of empathy. “Feel free to borrow at any time, Detective.”
Thursday, November 30, 11:45 A.M.
Solliday parked his SUV. “If I make a juvenile joke, will you speak to me again?”
She looked up, brows furrowed. He’d broken her train of thought. “What?”
“Mia, you’ve given me the cold shoulder for the last two hours. I’m ready to grovel.”
Her lips quirked. “The ride over was the cold shoulder. The ride back I was just thinking. But a little groveling wouldn’t hurt.”
He sighed. “You were making Secrest mad on purpose. You didn’t need to.”
She tucked her tongue in her cheek. “But it felt so good.”
“We might need him.”
“Oh, all right. But I’d feel a lot better if I knew why he quit CPD early.”
“I’d feel a lot better if he respected you.”
She shrugged. “I got that all the time from my old man.” She slid down before he could ask the questions he so obviously wanted to. “Let’s see what Jack’s been up to.”
Secrest waited for them at the front door. “Well?”
“He’s dead,” Mia said. “Throat slit. We’ll need to contact his next of kin.”
This time Secrest’s flinch was more pronounced. He opened his mouth to speak, then cleared his throat. “He was divorced,” he murmured. He looked away, his face grown pale. “But I know his ex-wife. I’ll get you her number.”
“Bring it to where we’re doing the printing,” she said, trying to be nice. “Thanks.”
Officer Willis was printing Atticus Lucas’s beefy fingers when they walked in. “Mr. Lucas,” Mia said. “Thanks for cooperating.”
“I got nothin’ to hide.” He ambled out and Mia shut the door behind him.
The mobile fingerprinting unit was a digital system, ink-free. Once a print was scanned, it could be immediately compared to the database. Jack looked up from his laptop screen. “Both rooms are clean. No bug concerns. What did you find?”
“Thompson’s dead. Throat slit. He visited Manny -Rodriguez last night.”
Jack blinked. “Interesting.”
Solliday pulled up a chair and looked at Jack’s screen. “Well?”
“I’ve printed all the staff but one. I asked the desk dragon to go get him. She just paged him on the loudspeaker. When we get his prints, we’ll start on the students.”
Mia’s lips twitched. Marcy the Desk Dragon. She liked it. But she sobered, taking in the stack of print cards. “So do we have any obvious differences?”
“Sorry, Mia. Everybody’s prints match the ones in the state’s database.”
“And the fingerprint cards Bixby gave us?” Solliday asked.
“Just a nice souvenir the printing agency gives, really. The official print I go by is what’s in the state’s system. And none match the odd print we found in the art room.”
“Who’s the teacher you haven’t printed?” Solliday asked.
There was a knock on the door and Mia opened it to Marcy, aka the Desk Dragon.
“I’ve looked everywhere for Mr. White. I can’t find him anywhere in the building.”
Secrest came up behind her, looking grim. “And his car isn’t in the parking lot.”
Mia’s brain started to churn. “Shit. Aw, shit.”
“He can’t be gone,” Jack said. “There’s been a unit out front all morning.”
“He was standing here when Marcy announced you’d arrived, Jack,” she remembered. “He must have heard we were getting ready to fingerprint. Willis was a few minutes behind and that’s when the units got to the front gate.”
“Thompson,” Solliday said through gritted teeth. “The cell phone number. He called White last night.”
Solliday rushed for the teachers’ personnel files he’d left in the other conference room. She ran to look over his shoulder. “Please say White’s cell isn’t 708-555-6756.”
“It is.” He looked up, her frustration mirrored in his eyes. “It was White. He’s gone.”
She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, her chin dropped to her chest. “Shit, damn, fuck.” A wave of weary despair washed over her. “He’s slipped right through our fingers.” Brooke Adler’s face flashed in her mind, as she’d been a few hours ago, burned and in blinding pain. The woman had clawed and clung to life long enough to give them important information. Count to ten. Go to hell.
They’d use it to find the bastard. “Let’s go find him. Before he kills anybody else.”
Thursday, November 30, 12:30 P.M.
“Beacon Inn, River Forest. This is Kerry. How can I help you?”
He kept his back to the pay phone, eyes scanning the street, ready to run. “Hi. Can you connect me with Joseph Dougherty, please?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the Doughertys checked out yesterday.”
I kind of figured that out on my own. “Oh dear. I’m calling from Mike Drummond’s Used Cars. We heard about the loss of their home and wanted to offer them use of one of our cars until their insurance supplied them with another one. Could I possibly get a forwarding address or telephone number?”
“Let’s see...” He heard the clacking of a keyboard. “Here. Mr. Dougherty asked deliveries be forwarded to 993 Harmony Avenue.”
“Thank you.” He hung up, well-satisfied. He’d head on over there right now to make sure they were there. He wouldn’t let them slip through his fingers a third time.
He got back into the car he’d stolen. He was boiling mad on the inside, but freezing on the outside. He’d had to walk out of Hope Center with nothing more than the clothes on his back and the book in which he’d stuffed all his articles. And not a minute too soon. He’d been halfway down the block when a cruiser pulled up to the front gate. Another minute and he’d have been trapped. He’d quickly abandoned that car and stolen another in case they detected his absence right away.
Damn bitch cop. She’d gotten to the print discrepancy sooner than he’d expected. He’d thought he’d have another day at least. Shit. For the time being he’d have to travel light. He’d run back to his house, taking time only to leave a surprise for the lady of the house and to grab his seven remaining eggs. He had to make sure the woman who’d cooked and cleaned for him all these months wouldn’t give him up to the cops, because he had big plans for his little bombs. And when everything settled down, he’d go back to the house for the rest of his things. His souvenirs of the life he was leaving behind. Then he’d go on with a new life, all sources of anger eliminated from existence. He’d finally be free.
Thursday, November 30, 2:45 P.M.
“You gonna eat those fries?” Murphy asked and Mia gave him the Styrofoam box.
They were sitting around Spinnelli’s table, Reed and Mia, Jack and Westphalen, Murphy and Aidan. Spinnelli paced, his mustache bunched in a scowl.
“So we have no idea where he is?” Spinnelli said for the third time.
“No, Marc,” she said, irritated. “The address on his personnel sheet was fake. He told us he had a fiancée, but nobody at the school knows her name. He has no credit cards. He’s cleaned out his bank account, the address on which is a PO box in the main post office with about a million other people who don’t want to be found. We have an APB on his car, but so far it hasn’t turned up. So, no. We don’t know where he is.”
Spinnelli glared. “Don’t get sarcastic with me
, Mia.”
She bristled. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Marc.”
“What do we know about Devin White?” Westphalen inserted in a way that made Reed think the old man had calmed those two down before.
“He’s twenty-three,” Reed said. “He taught math at Hope Center starting this past June. Before that he was a student at Drake University in Delaware. According to the résumé in his personnel file, his degree is in math education and he played on the school’s golf team. The registrar’s office at the university confirms he was a student there.”
“He had to live somewhere,” Spinnelli said. “Where did they mail his checks?”
“Direct deposited,” Reed said.
“We lifted prints from the coffee cup in his classroom,” Jack said. “They matched the ones I’d been looking for so I didn’t bother reprinting the students.”
“How did he get through the background check?” Aidan asked.
Jack shrugged. “I talked to the company that does Hope Center’s fingerprinting. They swear they printed him and that they uploaded his prints into the system.”
“I used to work with ex-cons in a rehab program,” West-phalen said. “On drug test days, they’d pay people for their urine. We had to change our system. One of us had to go in the toilet with these guys and watch them give their sample.”
Everyone grimaced. “Thank you for that picture, Miles,” Spinnelli said dryly.
Westphalen smiled. “My point is, if White didn’t want to be in the system, there are ways to avoid it if the security at this printing company was lax enough.”
Spinnelli sat down. “How reputable is the company?”
Again Jack shrugged. “It’s a private firm. It does employee fingerprinting for a lot of companies in the area. I suppose it’s possible White got somebody to take his place, but why would he? His prints aren’t in AFIS.”
Murphy’s mouth bent speculatively. “Maybe he was worried they were.”
“He could have been arrested for a misdemeanor,” Mia mused. “But he still would have shown up on a records check. Unless... this guy has no credit cards, and all the addresses he’s given are fake. He’s flying really low under the radar. What if Devin White’s a fake?”
“The university confirmed he’d gone there,” Reed said. Exhausted, he dragged his palms down his face. “Graduated with honors.”
“Yeah, they confirmed Devin White went there.” She tilted her head. “Can we get a picture from the university? A yearbook picture or something?”
Aidan stood up. “I’ll check. Murphy, you fill them in on what we found.”
“We found a neighbor who remembers seeing a guy -meeting White’s description with Adler last night,” Murphy said. “He was helping her up the stairs to her apartment.”
“That’s consistent with White’s story. The bartender says she drank three beers. Her car was still at the bar. We knew that already. What else?” Mia said impatiently.
Murphy shook his head. “Testy today. While we were going door to door, a woman came screaming at us, saying someone had stolen her car. Ten-year-old Honda.”
“His getaway car,” Reed said.
“But it gets better.” Murphy’s brows went up. “It had GPS. Installed aftermarket.”
Mia sat up. “No way. He probably picked an old car thinking it wouldn’t have GPS. So where did you find it?” she demanded.
“Parked in a 7-Eleven lot near Chicago and Wessex.”
Reed frowned. “Wait.” He pulled the list of White’s bank transactions from the pile of paper in front of him. “That’s a block from where he wrote some of his checks to ‘Cash.’”
Mia’s grin was Cheshire-cat slow. “It’s where he lives. The bastard murdered two women then drove to his neighborhood, probably walked home and went to sleep.”
Spinnelli stood up. “I’ll get uniforms canvassing that area with pictures of White.”
“We can go to the press,” Westphalen said and Mia gave an exaggerated wince.
“Do we have to?” she whined.
Spinnelli shot her an understanding look. “It’s the most direct way.”
“Not Wheaton or Carmichael, okay? How about just to Lynn Pope? We like her.”
“Sorry, Mia. This one I’d have to give to all the networks. But I’ll try to avoid Miss Wheaton.” He left to organize the search.
“Damn.” Mia turned to Westphalen. “Did you talk to Manny today?”
“I did.”
“Thompson went to see Manny last night. Right before he called me. A few hours before he died.”
Westphalen took off his glasses and polished them. “That makes sense. He said that his doctor had told him not to talk to anybody. Not to ‘cops, lawyers, or shrinks.’”
“So he didn’t talk to you?” Reed asked.
“Not a lot, no. He was genuinely terrified, but not of Thompson. He did tell me that cutting out the articles wasn’t his idea. That they were given to him, but he wouldn’t say how or by whom. I asked him where he got the matches, and he claimed he didn’t take them, that they’d been planted there. When I asked why someone would do that to him, he shut up. Didn’t say another word, no matter how I pried.”
Mia’s brows furrowed. “Is he paranoid?”
“Hard to say without more observation. I will say that he’s every bit as fascinated with fire as you indicated, -Lieutenant. Even when he wouldn’t speak, his eyes became glazed over when I showed him video of a burning house. It was like he couldn’t control himself. I think that if he’d known the matches were in his room that he wouldn’t have been able to resist using them. Do you know exactly where they were found?”
Reed was annoyed. Like Manny couldn’t control himself. The kid liked fire. The kid made bad choices. The shrink was showing his true colors. And because he was so annoyed, he bit his tongue and said nothing.
“Secrest said they found them in the toe of his high-tops,” Mia answered.
Westphalen nodded. “Not exactly the most discreet place to hide something.”
She looked perplexed. “Are you saying you believe somebody actually planted matches in his shoes? Why would somebody do that?”
“I don’t know. You’re the detective. Your lieutenant is very annoyed with me, Mia.”
Reed kept his voice calm. “Yes, I am.”
“Why?” Westphalen asked.
Reed controlled the exhale that would have been a frustrated huff. “Manny Rodriguez is not a radio-controlled hypno-zombie,” he replied. “He’s a kid who’s made some bad choices. Every time he lit a match, he knew it was wrong and yet he chose to do it anyway. Maybe he didn’t steal those matches. I don’t know. But to suggest that using them would be out of his control is not only ludicrous, it’s dangerous.”
Westphalen’s amusement had fled. “I agree.”
Reed’s eyes narrowed, not trusting the sudden capitulation. “You’re setting me up.”
One side of Westphalen’s mouth lifted. “No, I’m not. Really. Reed, I don’t believe that anybody’s decision to break the law makes them less accountable. They should still be punished. But their ability to control their impulses is sometimes hampered.”
“By upbringing,” Reed said flatly.
“Among other things.” Westphalen studied him. “You don’t buy that, either.”
“No, I don’t.”
“And you’re not going to tell me why.”
Reed relaxed his face, made his mouth smile. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“I think it matters a great deal,” Westphalen murmured. “What I’d be looking for now is Devin White’s trigger. What made him start now? Why? We can assume Brooke was retaliation, but what role did the other victims play in his life to make him hate them so?”
Mia sighed. “So we’re back to the files.”
Westphalen smiled at her paternally. “I’d say so. Call me if you need me.”
Mia watched him go, then turned to Reed, questions in her eyes. But she left them una
sked. “Let’s go talk to Manny, then back to the files.”
Thursday, November 30, 3:45 P.M.
Reed waited until the boy was seated across from him. Mia was standing behind the glass, watching. “Hi, Manny.”
The boy said nothing.
“I would have come to see you earlier today, but we’ve been very busy.” Nothing.
“It started at four this morning when Detective Mitchell and I were called to the scene of this really big apartment fire.” Manny’s chin stayed stoically rigid, but his eyes flickered. “Big flames, Manny. Lit up the whole sky.”
He paused, let the boy get his salivation under control. “Miss Adler is dead.”
Manny’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“Your English teacher is dead. She lived in the apartment that was set on fire.”
Manny’s eyes dropped to the table. “I didn’t do it.”
“I know.”
Manny looked up. “I didn’t want her to die.”
“I know.”
He sat there for a moment, just breathing. “I’m not going to talk to you.”
“Manny.” He waited until he had the boy’s attention. “Dr. Thompson is dead.”
Manny paled, shock flattening his face. “No. You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I saw his body myself. His throat had been slit.”
Manny flinched. “No.”
He slid Thompson’s morgue photo across the table to Manny. “See for yourself.”
Manny wouldn’t look. “Take it away. Fuck you, take it away.” The last was a sob.
Reed slid it back and turned it facedown. “We know who did it.”
Doubt flickered in his eyes. “I’m not talking to you. I’ll end up like Thompson.”
“We know it was Mr. White.”
Manny slowly met his eyes. “Then why do you need to talk to me?”
“Dr. Thompson called Detective Mitchell right after he left here last night. He said it was urgent. He then called Mr. White. A few hours later he was dead. We want to know what you told him that he needed to tell us.”
“You don’t have White.”
Reed shook his head. “No. And we may not unless you’re straight with us.”