Spare the Lambs (6 page)

We finally got a hit from
Missing
Person’s
.  It took his mother a week to figure out her son was gone.  I brought her down to the morgue and had her identify John Doe 15337-1 as Eric
James
Moore, born on December 18, 1988.  She reeked of beer and her words were slurred, so I doubt her ID.  I’ll wait for dental records to confirm it truly is Eric Moore.  Doubts or not, I question his mother about the boy. 

He had been a loner with no friends, that she knew.  She said she “worked too hard” to be certain of any friends or girlfriends.  She had no idea where Eric spent his time outside of school and home.  She didn’
t
even
realize
her son wasn’
t
at home when he was actually off with the group.  There was no father in the picture, I guess his statement about having parents was a lie to throw us off, or possibly it was wish
fulfillment
.  When I asked for the father’s name and contact information, a normal question when dealing with
missing
kids, she told me she didn’
t
know the father’s name.  The boy’s life had been as different from my childhood as you can get while living in the same area, but I started to understand how he could’ve been dragged into the group so easily.

The Charlesville Times,
cover
page.

March 27, 2001

One Easter
Murderer
Down

A young man who committed suicide last month has been identified as 13-year old Eric Moore.  Along with the boy’s name, Police
Detective
Pearson released a written
confession
found with the
body
.  A copy of the
confession
can be found on our website, www.charlesvilletimes.com.  The letter states that Moore had been was brought into a group, or possibly a cult, of teens who convinced him to kill Eva Collins, last year’s Easter
Murder
victim
.

Eric Moore was the only child of an unmarried factory worker.  Coworkers describe Ms. Moore as “a drunk” that still managed to be a good worker.  A source within the police
department
leaked that it took Moore five days to report her son as
missing
.  When asked if her son had ever run away or had ever given her any reason not to report her son’s absence, she refused to comment.  Could Eric’s crime and suicide have been prevented by better parenting?  How many other, lesser wrongs could be avoided with better parenting?....

March 27, 2001 from work computer

              Dental records confirmed John Doe as Eric Moore this morning.  I spoke to his teachers.  Their statements matched his mother’s.  He was a quiet kid with no known friends and he earned poor grades.  The only thing they could remember about him was that up until the winter of 2000 he was beaten by other students almost daily.  I had a flash of hope that I could get a better description of the others, but my hope died when I asked them what had changed about Moore.  I’d hoped that his friends had dealt with the bullies, since bullies always remember the people that kicked their ass; the people that took their power and self worth away.  While the people being bullied might be able to forget their tormentors one day.  No luck though, according to the teachers, Eric just started fighting back.

              I decided to let the
confession
be released to the papers.  Hopefully someone saw something and the
confession
might jog their memory.  The uniformed cops finished checking all the abandoned buildings in the city.  The group could be hanging out at one of their homes.  They could also be out in the woods, for all I know.

              I took some time off work this morning to see my doctor about some pills to stop the nightmares.  They are becoming more and more real every night.  He didn’
t
want to prescribe me anything for the dreams.  Instead, he wrote a prescription for high blood pressure medicines, using the time to tell me that I really need to lose some weight and to see a shrink for the nightmares.

There is no way I can go to a head doc.  I can’
t
afford to pay them myself, and if I use my
department
insurance, the visit could go on my record.  While the record won’t say what I talk to the shrink about, it can still kill a career in the
force
.  They make you see a damn head doc if you shot someone and that is fine.  But see one on your own and you will end up riding a desk into the sunset.

March 28, 2001 from work computer

I went out to seven abandoned buildings surrounding the metro area.  The chief is pissed over the arrest of six more homeless.  Whether they help my case or not, I can’
t
leave them out there.  Even if they are drugged out of their minds, no one should go hungry or freeze to death.  He was able to grit his teeth and stay silent when the holding cells were filling with the city’s homeless, but couldn’
t
stomach the cost of
jailing
those from outside the city limits.

              He yelled at me for ten minutes.  He used to do whatever it took to make the city safer, but a few
investigations
by the major destroyed his backbone.  Once I couldn’t take it anymore, I yelled back that I found people breaking the law during my search for clues to solve a series of
murders
.  My words bounced around his little office, made smaller by his new and huge oak desk.  His face turned so red I began to worry it might explode.  He screamed, “That’s not your job.  The beat cops are too stupid to know who to arrest and who to let slide, but you’re a fucking
detective
, you know better.  Do your damn job and only your job, or you won’
t
have one.”

              I glared at him and opened my mouth to yell something back.  However, the chief held up a hand to silence me and waited until his face returned to a normal
color
.  He told me, “The taxpayers will only put up with covering room and board for the homeless for so long.  Question the sober ones and get them out of my cells.  Dry the others out and do the same.  Find the damn kids and don’
t
arrest any more hobos.  They’re not our problem.”

              I agreed to do so and he finished, “be sure that you do,” then looked down at some paperwork on his desk.  I stood there and waited to be dismissed.  After a few minutes without him looking up from his pages, I left his office.

March 29, 2001 from work computer

Special
Agent
Johnston showed up today.  I should’ve known his lazy ass would come running the moment we got a lead.  Feds are never a good thing.  Their arrival means either your
department
is so dirty that Internal Affairs can’
t
clean it up, or you have just stepped in something too deep for the locals to deal with.  Bad news or not, an
agent
is normally useful if they don’
t
take the whole thing out of your hands.  They have experience, more education, and a lot more resources.   However, this is not true with Johnston. 

Whatever the requirements of getting into the FBI are; I’m sure Johnston must have blew someone to get in.  Each year for the month after another murdered kid is found, Johnston is up my ass.  He never offers help or resources.  He just follows me around and gets angrier that I haven’t solved the case yet, so he can shoot his way up the FBI’s ladder.  It’s such a relief when he finally gives up and leaves.

I looked up from my desk in the bull pin just in time to watch him enter the room.  My balls sucked up into my gut and I felt an ulcer growing.  During our first year working together, if you can call it that, I’d asked for help but never got any.  Our second year, I demanded his help and failed yet again.  Today I tried begging for his help and this asshole finally decided to help.

We started to work through the forty-six homeless people in our cells.  By the end of the day, we had twenty left to question and one being held as a witness to an unrelated
murder
.  The remaining twenty-five homeless we had to let go, since they hadn’
t
seen the group, or just couldn’
t
remember them.  I questioned ten of them, while
Agent
Johnston went through fifteen.  I should have questioned all of them, I’m sure he let someone go that would’ve closed this case but the chief would blow his top if I did that.  The others should’ve come down off their “poison of choice” by tomorrow.

March 30, 2001 from work computer

              I started questioning the remaining homeless in custody at 8 a.m.  I did it alone, even though Johnston was there and ready to go.  It sickens me to think that it took me almost begging on my knees to make that prick finally do his job.  I told him I could handle it myself and he got upset as if he could tell I thought he couldn’
t
tell his asshole from a hole in a log.  Around noon, I began to feel worried.  So far, all the interviews were wasted time and cell space.  Even the witness of the
murder
will be ignored for being drunk, drugged, or insane.  By four p.m. I was totally disheartened.  Nineteen of the homeless had nothing to offer and were released.  But, the last one had a bit of a tale to tell.

              He squatted, or lived illegally, at an old school building on the east side until winter two years ago.  Just before the end of 1999, he was woken up by a tall
blond
man in a
black
coat.  When I asked how old he was, the man said, “I don’
t
remember.  It’s been so long.  Young but not a kid.” 

              The
Blond
man told the
hobo
to get his stuff and be gone before he returned.  The
hobo
told me, “Of course, I told him to fuck myself and to find his own place to sleep.”

              When the
man
came back, he brought two teenage boys and two girls with him.  The man told the
Hobo
that he should’ve listened just before the guys put the boot to him, while the girls watched and cheered.  He claimed that they beat the him so badly that he had to crawl away and sleep out in the cold before he was recovered enough to find somewhere new to squat.  I doubt he understands who they were and just how lucky he was to be alive.  I thanked him, gave him twenty dollars for his help, and gave him my card in case he saw any of the teens again.  He was twitching and scratching his arms too much to be anything but a junky.  Even if he pointed the kids out, any testimony he provided would be disregarded by every jury in the country.

              I got directions to the old school from the man, I had to take a few hours to puzzle it all out and do some guessing to form his directions into anything useable.  But I now believe he’d been squatting at the future site of Eva Collins’s
murder
.  I doubt there will be much to be gained, in terms of evidence after a year.  Especially considering the care the group took in cleaning up, as described in Eric’s
confession
.  However, being in the place where they’d practically lived for months and where they’d killed the girl might give me a feel for the group.  I tried the same thing at Eric’s building, but failed to find anything.  I just felt very uncomfortable when I’d look at the window.

March 31, 2001 from work computer

              After waking from another nightmare, I checked to make sure my translation of the wino’s directions were correct.  From the vague description given in Eric Moore’s confession, I guessed the building was the right one. It sat abandoned on the outskirts of town in a lightly developed area years ago.  I tried but failed to return to sleep.  I gave up, got dressed, and went into the office.  I had to introduce myself to the
officer
stuck on desk duty, as I hadn’
t
been to work during the graveyard shift in years.  After clocking in, I requested the keys to one of the
department
cars.  The chief’s voice sounded in my ears when I
realized
I had clocked in three hours early, “The taxpayer doesn’
t
want to pay you overtime.”

              However, I couldn’
t
go there without being on the clock.  I might not be back in time to begin my shift.  The rest of the
force
needs to know where I will be as well, in case the building fell on me.  Plus, my
medical
coverage only takes care of any injury I get while on the clock.  The chief might be pissed, but it’s not like I am laying around sucking up money like a few of the detectives in the department.  The chief is a little too tight with the taxpayer’s purse anyway.  Damn the
mayor.
The chief used to understand that sometimes it took a bit more money to get the job done right, but a few
investigations
requiring the pay of “excessive” overtime, to keep to keep the people safe, had changed him.