The Angel of Knowlton Park (3 page)

"Not the one that says, 'No, but I've hugged yours,' okay?"

"Suitcase in the trunk. Canoe on the roof. I was a detective, I'd think you were going on vacation."

"Soon as Terry shows up, I'm out of here."

"Case of Rolling Rock says you aren't. Not with something like this..."

"I'm burned, Stan, okay. I need to do some fishing, catch some sleep, spend time with Chris when I'm not obsessing about a case or snoring. I've rented a camp. I've borrowed a canoe. She's taking some time off. Come hell or high water, I'm going."

"Oh, sure," Perry said. "Like you'd leave the fate of this little chap in the hands of lesser mortals."

"I'm not the only detective in this city. You and Terry can handle this."

"You're the best."

"I'm going."

"Case of Rolling Rock," Perry repeated. He trudged away, jingling the keys.

Dr. Andrew Lee, the impeccable and efficient assistant medical examiner, arrived a few minutes later. He surveyed the limp, the grass stains, the scraped arm. "So now you're crime scene bouncer, Joe?" He reached in a pocket and handed Burgess some Motrin.

"You got that right. Had to eject the grieving mother."

Stan returned wearing the blue polo shirt Burgess had packed to wear when he took Chris out for dinner, the nicest thing in his suitcase. No matter. Unless this thing broke in a hurry, he wasn't going to need vacation clothes any time soon. Just a shower when he could grab one and a clean shirt. His body felt slick as an eel.

Stan held out a Diet Coke. "Thanks, Dad. Once again you've saved my ass."

"I am
not
your goddamned dad."

He popped the top and went to stand by the boy's feet. He and Devlin had carefully worked a pair of clean white sheets beneath the body, fanning them out on both sides so that when they unwrapped the blanket, anything that fell would be caught. Lying in the center in his blue cocoon, the great white wings spread around him, the boy looked a sleeping angel.

"It's not getting any cooler, gentlemen," Dr. Lee said, "Let's work this body."

On TV, police might find a body, feel it, flip it, assess it and bag it in two or three minutes of plot time. In real life, it was a slow, meticulous process. Every step photographed and videotaped, with frequent pauses for evidence collection, preserving everything for a trial that might come a year or more down the road. That was why they had the white sheets and the vacuum with special filters. Working the body meant just that. Lee pulled on some gloves and started with the boy's head.

As Lee turned the head, Burgess saw blood in the boy's hair. Carefully, Lee felt the skull, describing his observations. In laymen's terms, it boiled down to a big lump and swollen, mushy tissue. "Looks like somebody hit him pretty hard. Hold on. Something strange here." He peered into the boy's hair, parting the curls so they could see. "Here's something for you, Detectives."

Burgess leaned in for a closer look. Caught just behind the ear was a small brown feather. He looked around for Devlin. "Wink, you wanna shoot this before we bag it?"

"What is it, Joe?" Perry asked.

"Feather."

"So we're looking for a chicken?"

"Chickenhawk, more like," Burgess said. But it was something. He waited while Devlin took close-ups of the feather, then carefully removed it and bagged it.

Dr. Lee bounced from foot to foot as Burgess grabbed the edge of the blanket where it was tucked under the boy's left side. "What do you think, Stan," Burgess asked. "Right handed?"

"Or clever."

Perry at the head and Burgess at the feet, they gently pulled the tucked blanket from beneath the body, stepped sideways, and laid it out on the sheet, moving with exaggerated care. The last thing they wanted was to fling some precious bit of paint, fiber, or hair that might tie this child to his killer out into the grass. They waited while Carr vacuumed the sheet and changed the filter, then unfolded the other side.

The skinny little body—bruised white limbs and a narrow, bony chest Burgess could have spanned with one hand—was naked except for patterned cotton briefs, the pattern mostly obscured by blood, and a Band-Aid on one toe. Burgess stared silently at the wreckage that had been Timothy Watts. Then, in a move that might have been choreographed, he and Perry turned away.

"There appear to be eleven stab wounds," Dr. Lee said. "I'll know better in the morning, but from the evenness of the borders, I'd say it was a double-edge knife, not serrated, perhaps an inch wide? I won't know about blade length until I get inside."

He touched the pale skin with a gloved hand. "You can see here... and here... where the thrusts were sufficiently powerful to leave impressions of the handle." He touched a single cut on the side of the chest, and a small slice on the boy's arm. "Looks like he was trying to twist away, using his arm to shield himself." He examined the boy's arms and legs, pointed to some small cuts on the hands. "A few defense wounds. He was a small boy, possibly stunned by that blow to the head. Couldn't do much to protect himself."

Lee pushed away and stood up. "If you'd like to get your pictures, we can turn him."

"Sweet Mother of God!" Stan Perry said, kicking at the soda can Burgess had set on the grass and sending it flying. "It's fuckin' savage, Joe. How could anyone...?" He turned his face away and stalked to the edge of the roses.

Burgess watched flies circle and buzz above vacant eyes reflecting a sky the color of the blanket. A tiny breath of wind rippled the soft hair. He studied the small form on that sea of blue and knew that Stan was right. He couldn't walk away from this.

They were on the clock here—the critical first hours, first days—and there was no sign of Kyle. He didn't know where he'd find the energy for a major case, the strength to keep Kristin Marks at bay, or the words to explain this to Chris. He was just so damned burned out. But nobody got away with something like this in
his
town. Someone had to stand between Portland's kids and those who wanted to hurt them.

The sun already felt hot as an iron on his head and neck. The air smelled of dust and death. He closed his eyes. As Devlin and Carr crunched wearily over the crisp grass, taking their pictures, Burgess drew a long breath, pulled deep into himself, and with a pang that was almost physical, kissed his vacation goodbye.

As he exhaled, he knelt and put his hand on the dead boy's shoulder, on bones that felt fragile as a sparrow's, and made the promise he'd made to so many victims over the years. I will find the one who did this to you, Timmy Watts, and I will get you justice.

Chapter 2

Perry would have seen his share of ugliness as a street cop, but since coming to CID he'd only handled one child, a crib death. Now, seeing Perry's stark white face, the younger cop's throat working as he fought nausea, Burgess remembered his own first time with a murdered child. Perry needed to get away for a minute, get his balance back, and remember why he was here.

He dropped a hand on Perry's shoulder. "Let's walk back down and get Vince," he said. "He's gonna run this thing, he needs to see this. And let's see if we can get some screens up. I don't want those cameras getting a piece of this. This is not some goddamned entertainment..."

Perry tapped his radio. Sweat gleamed on his shaved head, on his drawn face. "I can call..." His voice choked. "Jesus, Joe. He's so small..."

"Walk with me. Wink and Rudy gotta shoot this thing, anyway, before we can do anything more."

"Don't be long, gentlemen," Lee told their departing backs.

Perry tried for a grin but his heart wasn't in it. "Thought you'd be running this, Joe."

"Vince'll run it because it's a kid and that'll have the whole city boiling over, which, in this heat, it's primed to do anyway. What you wanna hope is this doesn't bring Captain Cote back." He felt like he was babbling but wanted to keep talking until he got Perry well away and some of that wide-eyed horror faded. Burgess knew his own reputation for meanness, for being impatient with cops who wimped out. He also knew the damage the ugly stuff they saw could do. Knew you had to look after your guys or you'd lose 'em to burnout. Last thing he wanted was for Stan to decide he'd be happier in another unit.

"Jeez, Joe. Cote wouldn't... would he?"

Burgess shrugged. Cote, next up the food chain from Melia, was an asshole. A captain who'd forgotten he'd ever been a cop. When Cote was away, it was like a weight was lifted off the building. Night the guy'd left for vacation, they'd circled up at their favorite bar and gotten seriously drunk to celebrate. "Better light some candles, Stan. Media's gonna be all over this, and that starfucking prick loves the media."

He hobbled down the hill, feeling every year and excess pound, the dry grass under his feet crackling like corn flakes. The city was waking up, news vans circling the park like sharks, distant traffic noises clamorous in the heavy air. Burgess liked night, the peace and quiet and emptiness of it. Not a steamy morning like this, already crowded with goddamned rubbernecked gawkers, gathering like a flock of vultures to gnaw on Timmy Watts.

He stepped down hard on his anger. He could be angry later. Right now, he needed to be cool-headed and clear-eyed. Not miss a goddamned thing. Timmy deserved no less.

Vince Melia was standing in the shade about ten feet inside the yellow line, talking on the phone. He finished with some abrupt words Burgess couldn't make out and snapped the phone shut. Melia wore an unrumpled summer-weight suit in a subtle blue plaid. Sweat had darkened saddles under his arms and curled his short hair tightly against his skull. His glasses were slipping down his nose. He nodded when he saw them coming, then reached in his pocket and held out an ace bandage.

"We got the kid unwrapped," Burgess said. "You better come look. And get some screens up. It's pretty damned ugly." He opened the cooler and got out a bottle of water. "I'm going to wrap up this knee. Then let's finish this thing."

He swallowed. "Lying up there with those white sheets, Vince, the kid looks like an angel. You tell me. Who would practically gut an angel?"

He swallowed half the water and poured the rest over his head. To hell with glamour. At the best of times, he wasn't much to write home about. Then he climbed in the van, undid his pants, and sat down to wrap his knee. It was like peeing on a three-alarmer—his knee screamed for what the docs called RICE, rest, ice, compression, and elevation—but this might get him through the morning. At least it was cool in the van. Maybe in a while they could take a break, sit in here, cool their brains down before someone passed out.

He was zipping his pants when Rudy Carr came in. "Wrapping my knee," Burgess explained.

Understanding wiped the clouds from Carr's face. "Long as it's not something kinky in my evidence van."

"Thought it was
my
evidence van."

"Yeah, and Vince thinks it's his evidence van." Carr jerked his head toward the door. "That's some ugly thing up there, Sarge." Carr picked up some stuff and headed for the door. "Sometimes, even though you know it can happen, it's still hard to believe."

"We'll get him," Burgess said.

"Him?"

"I'm about 98% certain."

"But how could anyone..."

"Go take your pictures, Rudy," he sighed. "If I knew what made monsters or why they did stuff like this, I'd be retired on the royalties from my books."

Truth was, he knew a lot about what made monsters. Their toxic families, or lack of families. The cruelty of other grownups and kids. And he knew what lay behind different types of killings. Crime scenes spoke volumes, if you took the time to listen. Sometimes they spoke in strange languages, or in sentence fragments, or in the spaces between the words. Sometimes they spoke in contradictions. Sometimes the words were garbled and took time to sort out. Sometimes they even lied. But they spoke.

His job was to figure out what they were saying. His job. Stan Perry's job. Terry Kyle's job. Keep working at the message until they understood it. It helped to have different sets of experience interpreting things. They listened in individual ways and each heard different things, just like in everyday conversation.

Except Kyle wasn't here. Kyle was Burgess's kind of cop—smart, fast, no nonsense, and tenacious as a pit bull. Plus, with his child support killing him, he needed the overtime. So Kyle's absence meant something was very wrong. If Burgess let it, it would worry him until he found Kyle and checked it out. But as with every other distraction, his concerns about Kyle had to wait.