Creatures of Appetite Page 13

  Thorne turned his gaze back to the young girl’s body lying on the table on the other side of the glass. He made himself watch the entire autopsy from start to finish.

  Chapter Thirty

  Kane sat on an exam table in Emergency with an icepack to the side of her head. Her left eye was black and her lower lip swollen. Thorne pulled back the curtains with an angry yank, the autopsy still fresh in his mind. He was behind the curve and he didn’t like it.

  “How’s it look?” Kane asked.

  Thorne tilted her head back for a look. “It’s an improvement. What’s the prognosis?”

  “No stitches, pounding headache. Extreme embarrassment. That’s twice you’ve saved my life.”

  “Yeah,” Thorne sat opposite her, “and I don’t even like you.”

  “Do you really not like me?”

  “I really don’t like you.”

  “Nice boots, by the way.”

  Thorne wore new boots, hiking boots with a thick, heavy tread.

  “I like them. Good traction. Adaptability, very important, Kane. Polar bears are very adaptable.”

  “You were right about him coming to us.”

  “Of course I was right,” Thorne said. “Why do I have to keep reminding everyone?”

  “The Frederickson girl? She’s dead?”

  “She’s dead. That brings his total to twenty.”

  “Twenty little girls. And I was close enough to smell him and I fucking let him get away.”

  “Yes. He got away from both of us.”

  “He’s like a ghost or something.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s got different appetites than we do, but other than that he’s human, he breathes, he bleeds and he can and will die. He has to sit in order to shit, just like everybody else.”

  “Thorne,” Kane said after a moment, “do you believe in good and evil?”

  “No.”

  “What do you believe in?”

  “Brains. Balls. Inspiration and imagination. Observable fact. Old school arithmetic. Classic jazz. Capital punishment. Breakfast at any hour of the day. Non-fat yogurt.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Winning.”

  “Why did the Iceman come after us?”

  “He thinks he’s the hero of the picture.”

  “Hero of what?” Kane asked.

  “The picture in his head,” Thorne stood to leave. “In the movie running in his head, he’s the hero, he’s the star.”

  “In his mind he’s the hero and we’re the bad guys?”

  “That’s what he thinks. Little does he realize, I’m the name above the title, I get top billing, I’m the fucking STAR of this show.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Snow fell, though not as heavy as earlier. School let out and children played on the playground while waiting for their parents. A beefy uniformed policeman stood guard at the entrance of the school and another watched the playground with eagle eyes.

  Darcy Mullens waited just inside her school door, looking wistfully yet again as the other kids played in the snow. Mrs. Goodwin stood nearby, keeping a close eye on all her charges. A car honked.

  “There’s your mother, honey,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “Have a good weekend.”

  “Bye, Mrs. Goodwin.”

  Barb Mullens, behind the wheel of her blue Ford Escort in her standard red stocking cap, reached over and opened the passenger door for Darcy. She honked again. Darcy waved good-bye to her friends and then ran to her mother’s car, got in and shut the car door quickly. They drove off.

  Mrs. Goodwin found herself distracted by a fight between two children on the playground. After breaking it up and scolding the youngsters for their lack of holiday goodwill, she heard a familiar car horn honk.

  Barb Mullens’s blue Ford Escort again parked and waiting in the bus zone. Mrs. Goodwin walked over to the car, confused and curious. Barb Mullens, in her red stocking cap, rolled her window down.

  “Hello, Mrs. Mullens, did you forget …” Mrs. Goodwin stopped short.

  She saw that Barb Mullens was sitting in her car alone.

  “Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Goodwin, I had a flat tire,” Barb Mullens said. “Where’s Darcy?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  In a blue Ford Escort very similar to the one owned by Barb Mullens, her daughter Darcy looked up in confusion at the person driving the vehicle.

  A red stocking cap and a blonde wig landed on the car seat next to Darcy.

  Darcy looked at the wig and then back up at the Iceman, who whistled a Christmas tune as he drove them both towards destination unknown.

  “Where’s my Mommy?” Darcy asked, more than a little scared.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  An hour later, Thorne wandered the elementary school hallway. Uniformed policeman and CSU technicians were everywhere, inside and out, interviewing teachers, frightened children and custodial staff. News vans clustered just beyond the patrol cars outside. Thorne leaned against a locker as Kane approached him.

  “So somebody, dressed like her mother,” Thorne began, “in a car just like her mother’s, drives up, picks the kid up and nobody notices that it’s not the kid’s mother?”

  “That’s the situation,” Kane replied. “The teacher swears that whoever it was looked just like the mother. Maybe it’s been a woman we’ve been after this whole time.”

  “No. The Iceman is male, not female, don’t even go there,” Thorne said.

  “Women snatch children all the time, thinking they belong to them, thinking …”

  “You’re making noise, Kane. It’s a man that snatched this kid. It was a man that shot at us, it was a man that we chased through a blizzard and it was a man that knocked you on your ass.”

  “Maybe it’s a couple, a man and woman, working together, like that case in Canada,” Kane said.

  “No, Kane,” Thorne cut her off, “stop making noise and listen to the music. This is one guy, one smart and ballsy fucking guy with an agenda.”

  “He’s getting close; this is what, twenty miles from headquarters?” Kane said. “Norman Hairston called me. They got the lab back on the pubic hair. The hair on both bodies was a match, they came from the same person. DNA does not match Carl Mitchell, which is hardly surprising since he was in jail when we were getting shot at by the Iceman.”

  “And also because I said he didn’t do it,” Thorne said.

  “But what was surprising is that they did get a DNA match on it, they got a name, somebody already in the system,” Kane said.

  “Let me guess. Hair matched that of a man who is already dead.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because if the Iceman had plucked a few pubes from a live man, said live man just might remember him. I would. Get on with it, Kane.”

  “Well, you’re right. The hair came from Trent Boyd, African-American, resident of Omaha, Nebraska, killed in a traffic accident five months ago. They’re getting an order from the judge to exhume the body, verify that Boyd is indeed dead as the death certificate says he is.”

  “Waste of time, he’s definitely dead and someone plucked his pubes. Check the mortuary where Boyd was interred, it’ll be a dead end but do it anyway, find the cop who processed the accident scene, the paramedics that drove the ambulance, I want it all. Also, backtrack his friends, family and acquaintances and find out if Mr. Boyd served in the military and if there’s anyone in the area that served with him.”

  “So the Iceman planted it, then, to fuck with us?”

  “Now you’re singing, Kane. This isn’t a case that’s going to be closed by forensics. This guy lives for fuckery. Anything else?”

  “Jesus Fucking Christ!” Scroggins entered the hallway, furious. “Darcy Mullens. I can’t believe this is happening here of all places!”

  “Why not here?” Thorne asked.

  “I live here! I grew up in this town.”

  “You grew up here?” Kane asked.

  “Denton, Nebraska, population eight hundr
ed nine. Three churches, two bars and one school. I went to school here, I played football here, I’ve lived here my whole fucking life, three miles right outside of town. Fuck!” Scroggins punched one of the lockers.

  Gilday joined them.

  “We’re doing a run on all the blue Ford Escorts in the county, but it’ll take awhile. I can’t believe this. Gerry, you talk to Barb yet?”

  “No, I didn’t, and I seriously doubt she wants to talk to me,” Scroggins glared at Gilday.

  “Come on, man, don’t be that way.”

  “Who’s Barb?” Thorne asked.

  “Barb Mullens,” Kane replied. “Darcy’s mother.”

  “We know Barb, we all went to school together,” Gilday said.

  “You live here too?” Kane asked.

  “I grew up here, I moved to Lincoln when my folks passed away, ten years or so ago,” Gilday replied. “This building here used to hold all twelve grades, but the school district expanded and now this building is just the elementary school, the junior high and high school students take the bus to Gowrie.”

  “Where’s the mother now?” Thorne asked.

  “At the hospital under sedation. The father, Chad Mullens, is there with her now.”

  “Here’s a picture of the girl,” Kane handed a school photo to Thorne. “Darcy Mullens, age seven, blonde hair and blue eyes.”

  “Blue eyes?” Thorne furrowed his brow.

  “Just like her ma,” Gilday said.

  “Blue eyes,” Thorne repeated.

  “How well do you know the parents?” Kane asked.

  “Barb, Gerry and I were all in the same class together. Chad went to school here too, he was two years ahead of us,” Gilday replied. “But it’s no secret that Gerry knows Barb a lot better than I do.”

  “You fucking asshole,” Scroggins pushed Gilday hard against the lockers.

  “What’s your problem, it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Gilday said, shocked into anger and pushed Scroggins back. Scroggins grabbed Gilday by the jacket, cursing.

  Kane got between the two and separated them. “Hey! Hey! Cut the shit!” The two men glared at each other, breathing heavily.

  Uniformed personnel poked their heads out of different rooms to see what was going on. Thorne watched the whole drama impassively.

  “Look, fellas,” Kane said after a moment, “we’re all under pressure here. Let’s just take it easy.”

  “Come on, man, it’s not like it’s not gonna come out,” Gilday said.

  “Jeff, why don’t you go puke or something,” Scroggins replied, his neck red with anger. “Isn’t that what you usually do at a crime scene?”

  Scroggins stalked off.

  “What was that all about?” Kane demanded.

  “Barb and Gerry went out together in high school, three years,” Gilday sighed. “She dear-Johned him while we were in the service, ended up marrying Chad Mullens. They don’t even talk to each other even though they live in the same town. He’s touchy about it and I should’ve known better.”

  “So he had a personal connection with the victim?”

  “Shit of course, but so did I, we’ve known her and Chad our whole lives. There isn’t anyone in town Gerry doesn’t have a personal connection to in some way. There are at least four or five other kids in the same class whose mother is someone Gerry or I dated at least once at some point before they got hitched. It’s a small town. This is hitting too fucking close to home, man.”

  Kane looked at Thorne.

  “Don’t look at each other like that, don’t fucking … Gerry is a stand-up fucking guy.”

  “Why this town?” Thorne asked. “Why here, why now?”

  “Is he fucking with members of the task force?” Kane asked him. “Is he deliberately targeting those close to the people that are working on his case?”

  “He deliberately targeted us last night, didn’t he?” Thorne replied.

  “What’s mine is yours, and yours is mine,” Kane repeated. “I will take away what you most prize.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Gilday said. “You think he’s gonna start hitting us where we live? I know a bunch of guys on this case that have kids about this age, if he’s going to start doing that there’s gonna be a lot of fucking suspects shot while trying to escape.”

  “You think that’s what going on, Thorne?” Kane asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know yet,” Thorne replied, thinking.

  “What about Forsythe, does he have daughters?” Kane asked.

  “He does, but they’re too old.”

  “Why the eyes?” Thorne asked them both.

  “What?” Kane said.

  “Why lovely eyes? Who says that? Why say that? Why put that in the note? Gilday! The Frederickson girl,” Thorne said.

  “What about her?”

  “Did they check her entire body for fingerprints?” Thorne asked.

  “Far as I know the man checked everything,” Gilday replied.

  “Even the eyeballs themselves?”

  “I don’t know,” Gilday admitted.

  “Then go find out. Find out now,” Thorne said.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Later that night Thorne contemplated his chessboard while Thelonious Monk played softly on the CD player next to him. Not far from him, Gilday sat at a desk and tapped away on a computer while talking into a phone cradled on his neck. A television with the volume muted nearby broadcast the news, which featured photos of Darcy Mullens. Kane approached Thorne from the other side of the room.

  “Found the car, ten miles outside of town, dumped. Clean so far, no prints, nothing,” she said. “It was reported stolen from Cedar City yesterday.”

  Thorne glanced up and then looked past her. Kane followed his gaze. Scroggins stood behind her, watching the television screen. Barb and Chad Mullens pleaded silently onscreen into microphones. Both were crying. Scroggins walked over and took a seat next to Thorne.

  “It’s probably too late for Darcy, isn’t it?” Scroggins asked him.

  “Probably. Not positively, but probably.”

  “Thorne,” Scroggins said after a moment, “I want this pig-fucking Iceman, I want him like I’ve never wanted anything in my entire life, are you listening to me? No easy mental time, no jail time, I want him screaming and dead. Now, I’m going to ask you a question and I don’t want one of your smart-ass federal bullshit answers. I want to know, can you catch this cocksucker or not?”

  “I can catch him. I will catch him.”

  “I got your word on that?”

  “You got my word.”

  Scroggins looked at Thorne for a moment and then held out his hand to shake. Thorne reluctantly surrendered to another bone-crusher. Scroggins stood and walked over to Gilday, who still had the phone to his ear.

  “Hey, Jeff?” Scroggins said quietly.

  “Yeah?” Gilday put his hand over the receiver.

  “About, you know, earlier …”

  “Gerry, it’s nothing, forget about it.”

  “I just wanna say …”

  “We’re best friends. You don’t have to say anything.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s all,” Scroggins held out his hand.

  Gilday gripped his partner’s fist until the knuckles went white. Thorne shook his head at this display and went back to his game.

  Forsythe and Hairston joined the group. Hairston handed a report to Thorne. Kane noticed that Forsythe never looked directly at Thorne anymore, preferring to watch him from the corner of his eyes now whenever possible.

  “Report on the note left on the body,” Hairston said. “No prints, but it’s been determined that it was printed by an Epson Stylus 700, a pretty common computer printer. If we can find the printer, we’ll be able to match it.”

  “In other words, not much help at all,” Thorne said.

  “Basically,” Hairston said, glancing at his silent boss. “So Agent Thorne, what do you recommend we do next?”

  Thorne thought about that for a moment.
>
  “Well,” he began.

  “What!” Gilday interrupted, shouting into the telephone. “Are you positive? Hell yeah, run it! Run it right now, I’ll network with you!” Gilday slammed the phone down and looked at everyone.

  “What is it?” Kane asked.

  “We got a partial, we got a fucking partial!”

  Gilday turned his computer screen toward everyone so they could see the large picture of a fingerprint on it. The program ran quickly, comparing the print with other prints in its memory.

  “You got a print?” Forsythe bulled his way over to the desk.

  “Off of the Frederickson’s girl left eyeball; it’s only a partial thumb print, but it’s a good one we can run. He touched her eyes, just like Thorne said, with his bare fingers. It’s going through VICAP and CODIS now, if he’s ever been arrested or printed for anything for any reason, we’ll know it in seconds!” Gilday hunched over the computer, excited, as everyone except Thorne crowded him.

  “Run it through the state and federal database as well. If he’s employed as we are, it’ll flag,” Thorne said. This possibility quieted the group.

  Thorne stared at his chessboard, concentrating for a moment, and then looked up at the map of Nebraska on the wall. The computer beeped.

  “Oh my God. We got a hit. We got him!” Gilday said. “Bart McNeil.”

  “Bart fucking McNeil?” Scroggins asked. “I know him, I once arrested him for beating the shit out of his wife!”

  “I know him too, I busted him for DUI once. Bart McNeil, forty-five, ex-marine, divorced now, big drinking problem,” Gilday read information on the screen. “Lives in Crete, that’s only ten miles away from Denton. Get this, he’s taken the cop test three times and failed, he’s a volunteer on the neighborhood watch and he drives a Schwann’s Ice Cream delivery truck; his route covers half the state of Nebraska.”

  “Ice cream. Iceman,” Kane said.