Spare the Lambs (7 page)

              As I stood outside of the building, I
realized
the kid did a pretty good job describing it.  It did look like a bloodstained tooth,
black
instead of red.  However, I doubt I would’ve made that connection without his words.  If Eric hadn’
t
fell in with this group, he might have grown up to be a writer like Stephen King, the main reason why I can’
t
be near clowns to this day.

              More of the roof had fallen in than in the boy’s description.  About half of the roof looked to have fallen down, and I could see ruble in a few of the windows on the third floor.  The interior was much as he had described; trash, dust, and ceiling panels littering the floor.  Dust had slowly coated the trail to the stairs, but not enough time had past to hide it completely.  The second floor was absent of any evidence that I could find.  Even the cigarettes, joints, and beer bottles that littered 57 Tenth
St
. were missing. 

The only thing out of the ordinary was a spot, five by seven feet, that was cleaner than the rest of the building.  The spot was in the
center
of a large room at the side of the building.  Six windows lit the area and I could imagine how the moon would land on the spot.  I’d found it, the place where Eva Collins had been murdered.  My skin crawled, and I was filled with rage as I stared at the clean spot.

I called the forensic lab and asked them to send a few people.  After an hour, five lab guys told me that there was nothing they could use, and headed back to their clean lab and hot coffee.  Agent Johnston showed up just as the lab techs were leaving.  Still annoyed at having to beg him to help, I might’ve of used the wrong tone when I asked what he was doing there. 

He bristled and told me, in a tone that suggested I was the reason he hadn’t been helping more, he was there to help with the case.  He was starting to piss me off and I asked him to question Eric Moore’s teachers.  He looked suspicious until I made up a line about having been “too busy to talk to them.”  He went off with a bounce in his step, leaving me to glare at the spot where the girl had died.

April 1, 2001 from work computer

Well, Johnston was pissed.  Took him long enough to figure out I sent him on busy work.  The special agent was met with anger instead of indifference.  After talking to a few of them, all glaring and snappish, one told him that I had spoke to them.  When he got into the station this morning he told me, “You’re an asshole and probably would’ve solved the case years ago if I had accepted my help.”

That pissed me off even more and I said, “I would’ve gladly accepted help from anyone that wasn’
t
a lazy shit.”  I managed not to scream at him or to ask what use he had ever been.

Special
Agent
Johnston shook his head and said in a low voice, “You care too much.  It’s not healthy.”

I told him to fuck off and left the bullpen.  I shouldn’
t
have lost it and yelled at him like that.  The chief will have something to say about it.  Pissing off the FBI is never a good idea.  They could cause trouble all the way up the chain of command.  Plus, I’d used their resources before.  Of course, I had to beg them for access.

Johnston might be a lazy fucktard, but I can’
t
stop thinking about his comment.  Of course I care, I might be the only one.  I don’
t
care too much; they just don’
t
care enough.

April 2, 2001 from work computer

              I spent a lot of time going over what
Agent
Johnston said yesterday.  I’d hoped it would be something less Freudian than the first thing that came to mind.  But no matter how hard I tried, nothing else made sense.  Here’s what I thought: when I was twenty-one years old, I was going to get married to a girl that desperately wanted children.  I met her my first year in college.  She wanted kids so badly that we were activating trying to get pregnant before the wedding date was picked.  After two years of nothing, I went to a doctor to see if maybe I was the reason we hadn’
t
had a child yet.  She’d already gone and all was well, so it was probably me. 

              A few days later, the doctor told me that I was incapable of fathering a kid.  Apparently, I had no living sperm.  This was depressing news, but I could live without children of my own.  However, she could not.  She left me because she couldn’
t
see herself without children and adopting wasn’
t
good enough.  If she couldn’
t
have a kid that was half her and half me, she would find someone else, someone who could give her a baby.  Therefore, I guess I “caring too much” I’m looking for or protecting my lost children. But it could also be psychobabble.

              The chief had a lot to say when I got to work.  God forbid someone not like an agent of the FBI.  But thinking about it now, I was probably the only one in the bullpen that didn’
t
like Johnston.  All the other detectives love to sit around and listen to his made-up stories.  The chief screamed at me for ten minutes and talked down to me for twenty more.  I had worse before, but the look he gave me during the taking down worries me.  It was the “are you working too hard?” look. 

              I hate that look.  It’s the same look I got from the chief immediately before he ordered me to take a vacation after Eva Collins’s death.  I can’
t
afford another forced vacation.  Back at my desk, I read Eric’s confession again to see if I missed something.  However, it was the twentieth time I’d read it and nothing new popped out.  Plus, that asshole Johnston kept walking by my desk with a huge smile on his face.  He was always conveniently talking with someone as he went by but I know that smartass grin was meant for me.  I wanted to knock out a few his bleached teeth.

April 3, 2001 from work computer

              This morning, I took my search in a different direction.  I drove over to a high school and hired a “cool kid” for tomorrow.  It felt like a creepy pervert as I waited outside the school’s front doors in my unmarked car. But eventually,  an older teenager came out surrounded by a large group of admirers.  I knew I had chosen the right kid when I walked up and his friends, who
recognizing
my cop walk, calmly but quickly disappeared.

I hadn’
t
been in a uniform in years, but just like a soldier, cops will always walk differently from most people.  If his friends had stuck around, I would’ve waited for someone else.  I didn’
t
need a popular good kid, but this kid had some real clandestine stuff going on that his friends didn’
t
want to be caught up in.  That kid will know where other cool, law-breaking kids hang out.  For fifty dollars that boy will show me all the places kids hung out on Saturdays.  If they aren’
t
in some abandoned building, they might be at a normal hangout spot.  After all, they don’
t
need a hiding place until Good Friday and they still need to be around other people, so they can mark their next victim.

April 4, 2001 from work computer

              Chief called me on my
cell phone
while I was waiting for the kid to get ready for the day’s guided tour.  Somehow, he knew what I was doing and started riding me about using the city’s money to pay for something that would never pay off.  He asked what I thought I was going to do if I saw someone that fit any of the descriptions.  Which, he said, was about half the kids in the city.  He wanted to know if I planned on arresting every kid I saw or follow them until a patrol car had to came out and see what a
middle aged
man was doing stocking children?

              I broke in on his rant, telling him that I wouldn’
t
do anything unless at least three of them were together and I would only watch.  I told him that there were thousands of children that would fit the descriptions, but there couldn’
t
be more than ten groups that have at least three people that matched.  I promised him that I wouldn’
t
approach the kids unless all six were there.  The chief started up again, but fell silent as I assured him that I was using my money to pay the boy and for the gas needed to drive around today.  He hung up on me without another word.  I cursed him for being so cheap and
Agent
Johnston for spying on me.  That lazy fucker could be the only one following me; everyone else had real work to do.

              A few minutes later, my guide came out and hopped into the car.  The boy was pretty amusing once he loosened up.  We talked about his views on things and exchanged PG-rated jokes.  We started the day off at a skating park, all concrete and metal tubes.  Teens went there to skate, drink, smoke cigarettes and weed, and spray paint the walls with their names or
gang
signs.  Then we stopped by an arcade.  Kids of all ages were there and some parents too.  I noticed that the older they were, the less games they played.  Finally, we walked to a clearing on top of a hill that overlooks one of the only operating drive-in
theaters
left in the country.  At night, the teens watched the movies without sound, drinking, and having sex.

Even with “thousands of kids that fit those descriptions,” I saw no one that I felt could be a member of the group of murdering monsters.  I watched my rearview mirrors throughout the day, hoping to catch
Agent
Johnston tailing me.  I knew he was dogging my every move, but I never saw him.  I guess he was good at something, once he put some effort into it.

April 6, 2001 from work computer

              I had to take yesterday off to cut down on overtime.  Chief called me as I left my apartment and said he had a look at my timesheet and wanted me to stay home.  Agent Johnston took the case for the day, as I knew he would.  He definitely wants an advancement if we solved this.  Plus, every other detective avoids the “Easter
Murders
” like a plague.  I knew Johnston wouldn’
t
get far on the case in one day, but I hoped he wouldn’
t
ruin the case somehow in that time.  But, instead of voicing these thoughts, I thanked the chief for the day off and hung up.  I called
Agent
Johnston, trying to lessen any damage he might do, and asked him to leave a report of his actions on my desk, so I wouldn’t have to waste time retracing his steps.  I was overly polite to that cocksucker, knowing every bad word would find its way to the chief.  Once I was off the phone, I kicked my door frame so hard that my toe still hurts.

              The story of the large number of homeless people we arrested and released finally made its way into the papers.  A fourth-page piece demanding that the city do something about the homeless of this city.  I’m sure the piece will be blamed on me.  It had to be one of the beat cops that let it slip; the lower ranks have always padded their small paychecks by selling information to the newspapers.  Hell I did it myself.  It’s a great way to help pay the bills.

              I doubt anything will be done about the “homeless problem”.  People don’
t
care about anyone outside of their own families, and sometimes not even them.  They wouldn’
t
want to pay more taxes to take care of the homeless.  I have never understood why people bitch about not being enough cops, firemen, and teachers or they complain about roads falling apart and the postal service being too slow.  At the same time, they complain about paying taxes, never stopping to think that their taxes pay for all of that.  If they really wanted all that stuff fixed, they’ll have to pay for it.

              I’ve been seeing people out of the corner of my eye all day.  I was startled the first time it happened in my apartment.  I looked towards what I thought was an intruder, but was no one there.  Too much stress, or too little sleep maybe?  With no new ideas on how to find the kids, I spend most of the day looking over Johnston’s report and catching up on my paperwork.  At my desk, I only noticed the odd shadows from my apartment because they were smaller than the detectives and other officers that normally wandered around.  Small like children.  Today was not a very productive day.

April 7, 2001 from work computer

              I almost had a heart attack this morning.  I was shaving while looking in the slowly clearing mirror when I saw a little blonde girl standing in my bathroom.  I was shocked.  How could a little kid get into my locked apartment?  For an irrational moment, I felt dirty standing naked in front of a little girl.  All that once, I
recognized
the girl and her bouncing curls.  A thick sweat broke out of my pores and I barely made it to the toilet before vomiting.  It was Eva Collins.  A dead girl was in my apartment.

              When I was done dry heaving, I saw that Eric Moore was standing in my bathtub.  Instead of wondering how these dead children could be in my home, I wondered how Eva could be so close to Eric without attacking him or running in terror.  I dressed as fast as I could and fled my apartment.  My heart had finally calmed to a normal beat by time I got to the precinct.