Bleeding Out (32 page)

Frank drove home. The blinking light on her answering machine let her know she had two calls. The first was from Foubarelle, telling her to call him. Frank was surprised, and happy, that the second message was from Kennedy, asking if she wanted to have dinner with her.

She did, although her first inclination was to ignore the message, to not call back until it was too late. She hated that she wanted to see Kennedy, was angry at her weakness. If she ignored the feeling long enough, it would fade. With a twinge of guilt she took a quick shower and left without returning Kennedy’s call. At Parker Center she paged Foubarelle from a phone right outside the conference room. He came out looking confused, frowning when he saw Frank.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Not now. I’m in a meeting,” he hissed.

“Sorry. I got your message so I thought it was important.”

She could see he was anxious to get back in, it wouldn’t look good to be gone for long. She added, “Is it about my papers?”

He nodded impatiently. “They came through yesterday.”

Bastard, she thought, showing no trace of her anger. “When can I get my ID and my gun?”

“Later on,” he waved dismissively. “There’s paperwork, too.”

“When later?” she pressed.

“This afternoon,” he whined. “What’s your hurry?”

“My hurry is I’ve been out of work for weeks and I’ve got a lot of shit to do. The sooner I’m back the sooner I can get stats for your meetings.”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait until I’m done here.”

Which Frank did. The meeting broke for lunch then reconvened until four-thirty. Foubarelle was ready to go home, but in her inimitable style, Frank persuaded him to go by the office and clear her for work. Two hours later she walked into the deserted homicide room with her ID securely clipped to her belt and the Beretta snuggled under her arm.

She felt whole again. The day was gone, though, and she still hadn’t gotten back to Dorsey. She wondered how much progress Gerber and Cherry’d made, or whether RHD was on it yet. Dialing the Southwest Division she said in a bored voice, “Yeah, this is 3-Adam-31. I’ve got an alarm going off at Dorsey High. Who’s the EC for this place?”

The desk sergeant gave her the emergency contact number— Milo Davidson, the assistant principal. She dialed his number, introducing herself as a detective involved in the morning’s homicide. She apologized for bothering him at home, but it was critical that she review certain records this evening and talk to whoever coached Dorsey’s football team.

“You don’t think he has anything to do with this, do you?”

“Not at all,” Frank lied. “There are just certain logistical situations I need to confirm with him.”

“Oh. Well, I was just about to have my dinner,” Davidson said glumly.

“Sorry about that. How long will it take you to get to the school?”

“I’m about twenty minutes away.”

“Fine. And the coach’s name and number?”

“Oh, I don’t think I should tell you that over the phone. I mean, how do I even know you’re who you say you are?”

Frank rolled her eyes and suppressed a sigh.

“You’re right.
You
call him, and have him meet us at the school at,” she glanced at her watch, “eight o’clock.”

“Well, alright. But I’m not certain I know his number.”

“Mr. Davidson, if you can find his number, call him, and both of you meet me at school at eight o’clock. If you can’t find his number, then you meet us at the school at eight o’clock and we’ll call him from there.”

“Oh. Alright,” he said, still pretty glum. “Eight o’clock.” Frank glowered at the huge mound of paperwork on her desk. She had absolutely no justification for continuing with Agoura/Peterson, but then rationalized that Fubar would have let her hang in the wind all weekend anyway.

“I should’ve known I’d find you here.”

Startled, then embarrassed she hadn’t heard her creep in, Frank flashed a guilty grin at Kennedy. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

The younger detective dropped onto the hard couch, throwing an arm behind her head and swinging her feet over the end. Black slacks and blouse made a striking contrast to her inelegant posture. Frank realized she’d never seen her in anything but shorts or baggies and was surprised at how nicely she scrubbed up. Indicating the outfit, she asked, “What’s up with the duds?”

“The what?”

“The clothes. Why are you all dressed up?” Kennedy yawned hugely. “I was in court all day. It sucked.” Kennedy told Frank how the judge had thrown out their search warrant, then asked, “Have you had dinner yet?”

“No. I was going to get some work done. I’m officially back on duty.”

“Alright! That’s excellent! Let’s go celebrate. I’ll buy you a beer.” Frank shucked her head down at the desk. This was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid. She bowed out, explaining about the new body and how the perp had posed it this time.

“I’ve just got this feeling it’s there for somebody to see, and I think that somebody might be a coach.”

“You don’t think he’s still in school, do you?” Kennedy asked skeptically.

“Nope. That wouldn’t support any of our profile. No, I think he’s definitely out of school, at least agewise, but his
head’s
still there. I’m going to meet the assistant principal in about an hour, talk to him and get into the files. I want to talk to the coach, too. See how long he’s been there, or who was there before him. I want to find all the kids that played for Dorsey that fit our description. I’ll start there.”

Kennedy had twisted onto her side and was studying Frank.

“Why are you so involved in this? Why can’t you just let RHD finish it?”

Frank sighed and sat back.

“Noah asked me the same thing. You know, usually, people kill each other because they’re pissed off, they’re angry, they got burned. Usually vies and perps have a relationship, they’re linked somehow. Sometimes it’s just accident and circumstance, there’s no relationship at all, but still you can see what set the perp off. Even if it’s totally ridiculous, they’ve got a reason. But this guy, I don’t
know
the reason. I can guess, but until I see him I won’t know why.”

“You might never know why,” Kennedy interjected. “Even if you do find him, he might never cop to any of it.”

“True. But I want to track him down. I want the satisfaction of finding him and looking him in the eye, even if he doesn’t say a word. Because I know him now. He’s part of me. If I know enough to find him, then I already have my answer, but right now he only exists in my head. I need to see him flesh and bone before me. It’s the only way I can get rid of him.”

Abashed at having said so much, Frank added dismissively, “Besides, he has to be picked up before he kills anyone else. I think I can get to him before RHD does.”

Kennedy regarded her curiously, and Frank steeled herself for another question.

“You want help shuffling through these records?”

“No. You don’t need to get involved in this.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ else to do. Why don’t we grab some sandwiches and I’ll go over to Dorsey with you and help you find your boy.”

Frank crossed her arms against the by-now familiar jumble of emotions: pleased that Kennedy was willing to help her, wanting her company, then kicking herself for being such a sap and squelching her pleasure.

“Why aren’t you out surfing or playing with your friends?”

“The surf’s too flat and I don’t have any friends.”

“Well, go out and make some. You’re young and…healthy,” Frank almost said beautiful, “and I know you can find something better to do than hang with me all night.”

Kennedy stood and said, “Well, I can’t think what that would be. Come on. Let’s go for sandwiches and get to work.”

Frank considered the offer, knowing she should tell Kennedy thanks and send her home. She surprised herself, though, saying, “Alright, but I’m buying.”

Now he saw girls everywhere. The city was full of them. Hundreds, thousands. If he was careful, maybe he could have them all. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d been. No one had seen him or heard him. The girl never even saw him. No one knew it was him.

The last time he’d felt so good was after his last touchdown, and that was a very long time ago. He felt happy every time he remembered her. It was only his first time, and it had been good, but already he was thinking of ways to make it better the next time. His only regret was that his father couldn’t see him. He’d finally be proud of him.

Forty-five minutes later, a slender black man, his hair gray at the temples, met them in the high school parking lot. Conscious of how good it felt, Frank let Davidson carefully examine her ID. He blinked forcefully and often. She bet the kids had a field day with that. Leading them in through a back door to his small, vastly cluttered office, he explained he hadn’t been able to find the coach’s home number. He turned on the fluorescent overheads and fingered through a Rolodex until he located it. Handing Frank the card, he looked more pleased with himself than was necessary.

Coach Welsh was upset. He’d already talked to detectives this morning. He didn’t know what else he had to say. Frank explained she needed to go over some student records with him and that it would be easiest to do that at the school. Welsh grumbled he was busy, that it’d be at least an hour before he could get there.

“Fine. See you then,” Frank said, and hung up.

Next, Frank asked Davidson for the school’s personnel records, going back fifteen years.

“Oh, boy,” he said, blinking faster and harder. “I know where they are for the last four or five years, but I’ll have to call Carrie to find out where the older records are kept.”

“Set us up with what you’ve got, then call whoever you need to. And while you’re at it, I’d like yearbooks for the last fifteen years as well.”

Frank and Kennedy exchanged a grimace as Davidson pawed through metal filing cabinets, mumbling, “Oh boy,” and, “That’s not it.” Frank looked around the office for pictures of the staff or football team, but there weren’t any, just inspirational posters and corkboards tacked with sheaves of papers.

The assistant principal handed Frank a stack of manila folders, indicating another cluttered desk she could use. Producing two yearbooks, he explained apologetically that he’d have to ask Carrie where the rest of them were.

Kennedy dragged a chair next to Frank’s and said under her breath, “Whoever the hell she is, you should have had Carrie come in instead of this jerk.”

Frank slapped some of the folders in front of her.

“We’re looking for anyone who’s worked in any capacity in the athletic department. Names, dates, SS, driver’s license.”

“Oh boy,” Kennedy mumbled. “Oh boy.”

They were working their way through the Cs when John Welsh arrived.

Frank made quick introductions and asked, “How long have you been coaching here, Mr. Welsh?”

He thought a moment. “Since spring of ‘93.”

Frank asked to see all his rosters and followed him to the gym. She questioned Welsh about his players, but the coach was laconic and noncommittal. She tried softening him up, saying, “I’ll bet when you played you were a back.”

“That’s right.”

“Who’d you play for?”

“USC, then pro for a couple years with the Redskins.”

“No kidding? When were you with the Skins?”

“Eighty-one to eighty-three.”

He seemed bored until Frank said, “Wow, you must’ve played with, uh, let’s see, John Riggins and Joe Theismann. Art Monk, right?”

Welsh eyed Frank suspiciously.

“You been checking up on me?”

Frank looked sheepish. “Nah. I’ve been a Giants’ fan all my life,” and to Kennedy she explained, “They’re division rivals.”

“That was a long time ago. You’ve got a good memory.”

“Helps in this business. How come you left?”

“Bad neck,” he grimaced. “My wife and I decided I’d better get into teaching before I ended up in a wheelchair.”

Frank had relaxed Welsh. He told the detectives what he knew about his kids, their abilities and failings on the field, who got scholarships, who wound up where, but he offered nothing personal. They went through the rosters until eleven-thirty, producing a list of thirty-three white males who had played or tried out for football at Dorsey High since 1993. Davidson provided personnel records as far back as 1992. The rest were stored in the district office. Frank made a note to find out who could get her into those files over the weekend.

Davidson protested, but Frank and Kennedy remained behind after they cut the two men loose. The detectives spent the early morning searching through yearbooks for students who matched the perp’s physical description. They wrote down vitals and ranked them. Kids with no extracurricular or bio info got highest priority. Moderate bios were second priority, and kids with extensive activities were rated third. Frank felt their guy would be engrossed in football and somewhat of a loner. She wasn’t expecting him to be the homecoming king or class valedictorian.

Somewhere around two-thirty, Frank realized it had gotten awfully quiet. She looked up from her legal pad at Kennedy, asleep amid the wreckage of Davidson’s desk. Frank watched her for a moment, then returned to her yearbook.

Frank had crashed at Kennedy’s. After a three-hour nap and breakfast, Kennedy had insisted on helping Frank with the new leads. Driving to headquarters through a light rain, Frank tuned out Kennedy’s chatter.

She felt closer to him. He’d tipped his hand at Dorsey and shown so much more of himself. She wondered where he was right now. Regardless, Frank was certain he was happy. Posing the girl had been huge for him. He’d revel in that for quite a while. It might even slow his spree a bit. Unaware that she was doing it, Frank slipped into a dialogue with him.

Were you a star on the field, or a failure? Were you the coach’s golden boy? His whipping boy? Oh, I’ll bet you were a star. You’d do anything he asked, wouldn’t you? And you’re doing this for him now. What happened when you had to leave him? Who was there for you? Was there just a big, empty hole inside you? Does this fill it up for a while?