Nathan's Run (1996) (36 page)

A long moment passed with Michaels and Murphy staring angrily at each other. Then the anger disappeared from Murphy's countenance and he just looked tired again. Without another word, the sheriff turned and walked toward his office. Petrelli followed.

Goddamn politicians, thought Warren.

The very last thing in the world that Pointer wanted to do was call Mr. Slater. Nonetheless, the call had to be made. Pointer was a professional, and one of the duties of a professional was to own up to his mistakes. Sammy Bell answered the phone and passed him right through to Mr. Slater. Said he'd been expecting the call.

"Is it true what they say on the news, Lyle?" the old man asked, his raspy voice giving testimony to fifty years of unfiltered Chesterfields. "Is it true that you let this Bailey boy get away again?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Slater," Pointer explained, surprised by the shakiness of his own voice, "but it's like this . . . "

"Be quiet, Lyle," commanded Mr. Slater. "I don't want to hear any more of your excuses. Do you comprehend how much embarrassment you've brought down on us with your incompetent screwups? Do you know what the others will say about us? Even the niggers will laugh at us. Punk kids, Lyle, and they'll be laughing at us."

"It's not like you think, Mr. Slater," Pointer offered.

"Shut up," the old man commanded a second time. "You don't know what I think, Lyle, and I don't care what you think. I care about performance, Lyle, and you've let me down terribly. Now, here's what I want you to do. Leave the boy alone. It appears that the police are intent on keeping him from our grasp. I want you to come home. We have some things we need to discuss."

Pointer felt himself hyperventilating, but he could not control his breathing. "What about that asshole Mark Bailey? Don't you want me to . . . "

"We'll take care of him."

"Please, Mr. Slater, at least let me . . .

"I said we'll take care of him, Lyle. I want you to come home. I want to see you in my office this afternoon at five."

Pointer closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. For a moment, he thought he might cry.

"Do you understand me, Lyle?"

"Yes, sir." Pointer's tone was flat, as though he were dead already. "Lyle?"

"Yes, Mr. Slater?"

"Make it easy on yourself, son," the old man instructed, an unexpected touch of kindness in his voice. "Don't make us come after you."

Unable to make his voice work, Pointer placed the phone gently on the cradle. He cocked his head oddly as he stared at his hands. He had never seen them shake before.

Warren set up camp in an empty office, where he leafed through the Polaroids for the sixth time. Not knowing the officers involved personally, the pictures were no more or less shocking than dozens of others he'd seen, but the sheer violence of the act was baffling. The marksmanship was amazing. Three shots were fired, each one a kill shot. Where does a kid learn to shoot like that? He jotted the thought down on a yellow legal pad. One shot like this might be luck. To score three meant skill.

The circumstantial, physical evidence was undeniable, but Warren still couldn't put it together in his head. How did a kid who had spent most of his formative years in upper-crust suburbia learn to kill with such skill? How did a twelve-year-old who was known by his peers as a wimp muster the courage and physical strength to overcome three adults and kill them? Okay, so the first one -was drunk and unlucky-or so said Nathan-but what about the ones last night? How does a boy wrestle a gun from a man and still have enough composure to snap off perfect kill-shots?

For that matter, what were the cops doing wearing firearms in the cellblock? That violated the most basic security procedures followed by every jail in America.

He tried to reduce it to a timeline on his legal pad. Assuming that Nathan got as far as his cell, and according to Deputy Steadman, that was where the boy was the last time he saw him, Schmidtt had to be the first one killed. Otherwise, where would Nathan have gotten the gun? Warren wrote on his pad, Smuggled in gun?

No, the gun he took from the Grimeses' house was found in the Honda, unused. Could always have been a second piece, but where would he hide it? Steadman's report said that Nathan was thoroughly frisked before he was put away.

So, one way or another, Nathan whacked Schmidtt. With the door open, he had free access to the hallway. So why didn't Watts react? He was shot in his chair, once close up, and once from further away. The Polaroids clearly showed powder burns around the mouth shot, but none on the chest. When you hear shooting down the hall, you don't just stay in your seat. You react. At the very least, then, there should have been a shootout in the hallway, but that wasn't the way it happened. Watts was shot dead where he sat. Shot twice.

Michaels strolled out to the watch desk and ran some quick mental calculations. The young deputy assigned to maintain security stepped aside to let him past. Standing at the side of the watch desk, at the doorway to the cellblock, Warren pantomimed a shot. His extended arm came within three feet of the taped outline on the floor. This had to be where the head shot was fired. The circled hole in the linoleum even showed where the bullet exited Watts's brain and lodged in the floor.

That meant Watts was already on the ground when Nathan allegedly fired point-blank into his mouth. In all his years on the force, Warren could only point to a handful of sociopaths with the cojones to shoot a man in the face at close range.

Why would he do that? Warren asked himself.

Taking care not to step in the blood slick, Warren stepped in behind the watch desk to pantomime the events. "Okay," he said aloud, talking himself through the timeline. "I'm sitting here doing paperwork, and I hear a shot from down the hall. What do I do?"

"You'd go and check it out," the young deputy answered, apparently thinking the question was addressed to him.

"Huh?" The comment briefly broke Warren's concentration. "Right. Yes. That's exactly what you'd do." He again stepped over the mess to enter the hallway. "So, reacting to the noise, you run out into the hall like this, with your weapon drawn, right? I mean, you'd be ready for a fight, right?"

"Shit, yes," the deputy declared.

Warren nodded. It was coming together. "Yes. Shit, yes. Like you said." He fumbled through the Polaroids again. "But Watts's weapon remained in its holster. Why wouldn't he draw his weapon?"

The deputy shrugged. "Beats me."

"Yeah, me too."

"Maybe he holstered it after he was hit."

Warren considered that. "So, you hear gunfire. You react. You come out into the hall, and you're bushwhacked with an incredibly good shot. You're hit in the chest. Surely you know you're dying, or at least you know you're in a hell of a lot of pain. Are you going to take the time to reholster your weapon?"

The deputy shrugged again. "Don't know. Never been shot."

Warren chuckled. The logic amused him. "Fortunately, neither have I. But I just can't imagine that. The last thing I'd do is take away my last chance for fighting back."

"What else could have happened?" asked the deputy.

"Suppose he never drew his weapon in the first place?" "Shit," the deputy snorted. "That don't make no sense either."

Warren nodded pensively. "No. No, it doesn't. A cop hears shots, he's gonna pull his gun. It's instinct. Unless . . . "

Suppose somebody shot Watts first? Chest shot first, then, as he lay on the ground, the head shot. That would work. And Schmidtt? He had to be shot second. Well, maybe he didn't have to be, but it sure made sense.

The accomplice!

So, somebody comes in the front door, pops Watts, and then goes into the cellblock to break out his buddy, Nathan.

Okay, so where was this accomplice now? Helps the kid break out of the JDC and then disappears, only to reappear in New York in time to kill two cops. That Was some accomplice!

Then he saw it.

The mind is a funny thing. You program it with a certain set of assumptions, and it will dutifully draw dozens of conclusions, all of which are plainly obvious-common sense, even-so long as you never question the validity of the assumptions. The most oft-forgotten job of a police detective is not only to seek evidence, but to continually question the most basic assumptions on which the case was based.

In a single moment of inspiration, Warren realized that they'd been looking at all of the evidence surrounding Nathan's escape from the wrong angle. Even when he had allowed himself to accept the kid's version of what happened at the JDC, he hadn't seen it. Those two deputies were never the target of whoever shot them. They were just in the way.

Warren's body jumped visibly when it all crystallized for him. Nathan was in far deeper trouble than any of them had realized.

"Deputy, get me Sheriff Murphy right now," he Commanded.

The young man seemed startled by Micliaels's suddenly harsh tone. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know where he is . . . "

"I didn't ask you if you knew where he is. I told you to go get him. And point me to a phone."

Jed Hackner nearly dropped the phone when he heard Michaels's theory. "A hit? Jesus, Warren, are you sure?"

"Think about it, Jed," Michaels said urgently. "If we assume somebody's got a contract out on Nathan, everything else falls into place. This kid's not a killer. He's just defending himself."

Jed admitted that the theory had merit, but making sense didn't make it so. Perhaps Brian's death last fall was making the boss lose perspective. "With all due respect, Warren, don't you think maybe you're taking benefit of the doubt too far?"

"I know what you're thinking," Warren acknowledged, his voice getting more anxious. "I know it sounds like I've lost it, but think. It's more than just the killings. How do you explain the breakdown of the video security at the JDC-not the whole system, mind you, but just the parts that would show Ricky coming and going."

"And the plane ticket." Jed saw it, too.

"What plane ticket?"

Jed told him about his visit to Ricky's apartment and his talk with Mitsy.

Warren's excitement showed in his voice. "I think that pushes it over the top," he said. "Why else would Harris go to so much trouble just to kill a kid? You don't trash your whole life just because you don't like a resident at the JDC. Hell, he didn't like any of the residents of the JDC. Somebody had to be paying him."

"So who's gonna put a contract out on a kid?" Jed asked.

"Beats the hell out of me," conceded Warren. "That's what I want you to find out. I've got to call off the dogs up here. You said you were gonna do some digging into Ricky Harris. Try his financial records. See if you can ID who's funding him."

Jed frowned. "We've already started, but we haven't turned up much. Wait." A manila envelope had materialized in Jed's in basket since the last time he had visited his office. It bore the logo of Braddock Bank and Trust. "Cancel that. We have his bank records. Must have just gotten here."

"All right, good. Start there. Get me a good solid case that Nathan's a good guy and that Ricky's the bad guy."

"You got it, boss."

"And Jed?"

"Yeah?"

"Get that kid Thompkins involved in the investigation. After the week he's had, he could use a few (atta boys."

Jed smiled. "Nobody was ever that nice to us, you know." Warren laughed. "Yeah, I know. Well, if I'm wrong on this one, there'll be plenty of career mobility for all of you."

Chapter
33

Nathan dialed continuously for over an hour before the phone line finally rang. Billy caught the change in the rhythm of dial-hang-up, dial-hang-up, and instantly shifted his attention from The Price Is Right.

After thirty rings, a familiar voice answered.

"You've reached The Bitch line," Enrique said. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Hi, it's me," Nathan said simply. "I need to talk to Denise."

Enrique recognized the voice right away. "Hold on, Nathan, I'm sure she'll put you right on. Callers have been pretty tough on you today."

"I bet," Nathan said dejectedly. "Been a tough day all around."

"Did you do any of what they're now saying?" Enrique probed gently. It wasn't his place to ask such a question, but he couldn't help it. He had to know.

"I didn't kill those cops, if that's what you mean."

"Glad to hear it," Enrique said, meaning every word. No doubt about it, he was a believer. "I'll put you through now."

While on hold, Nathan could hear the end of the last conversation. Some lady was calling him a "bad seed," whatever that meant. Denise hung up on her abruptly, and his line went live.

"Nathan Bailey, are you there?"

"I didn't do it!" Nathan blurted out.

Denise read the panic in his voice and fought away tears. "Okay, kid, I believe you," she soothed. `Tell us what happened."

He did. When he was done, The Bitch was fifteen commercials behind. The list would grow considerably longer before it began to shrink.

Harry Thompkins couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "You mean he named me specifically? I thought he was pissed."