The Angel of Knowlton Park (7 page)

"What difference does it make?" Burgess waited, pen poised. "Eight months."

"And before that?"

Osborne clearly didn't want to answer, which struck Burgess as odd. Finally, the man said, "New York," without elaboration. Burgess let it go. There were other ways to find out.

"You work here in the city?" Osborne started to protest again, then gave the name of a small brokerage firm.

"I understand you were in Knowlton Park this morning, walking your dog?"

"Yeah."

"About what time was that, Mr. Osborne?"

"Six-thirty, seven."

By six-thirty, the park had been sealed off. Was this guy lying only because he didn't want to be involved or was there something else? "While you were in the park, did you observe the body of Timothy Watts?"

"Who's that?"

This went beyond stupid. Even if Osborne hadn't known him from the neighborhood, by now, everyone in the state knew the identity of the dead child. "You weren't acquainted with Timmy Watts?" Osborne shook his head, an innocence on his face that wouldn't have fooled a first grade teacher. "Let me put this a little differently. While you were in the park, did you observe the body of a child, wrapped in a blanket?"

"No."

"You never observed anyone wrapped in a blanket, lying on the ground."

"Oh, yeah. There was someone on the hillside, up by the roses. I thought it was a homeless person."

"You never approached this person?"

"They give me the creeps."

"You never approached this person?" Burgess repeated. Osborne shook his head. "What about your dog? Your dog approach this person?"

"Rogue? He went up and sniffed around."

"I'm confused," Burgess said. "You tell me you never went near the person. Then you tell me your dog approached the person and sniffed around. How can that be?"

"Dog was all over the place," Osborne said. "I was down on the path."

"There's a leash law in Portland."

"Oh, shit. No one pays any attention to that," Osborne said. Then he flushed. "I mean, I... Look, what are you trying to pull here?" he demanded. "You said you were investigating a homicide. What difference does it make whether my dog was on a leash?"

"I don't know yet," Burgess said. "I'm just trying to find out what happened to that little boy. Starting with what happened in the park this morning. It would help if I could get some honest answers."

"Hold on." Osborne reddened, rising from his chair. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"Witnesses have stated that your dog took something from the area around the body and carried it off. That you were close enough to the body to touch the blanket. I want to know what really happened. What you saw. What you did. What your dog took."

"That old bitch is lying. I never touched him. And Rogue never took anything..."

Eventually, he'd find out why this man was lying. "When you came into the park this morning, did you see anyone?"

"Not until that old bag and her prissy little mutt showed up."

"What about on the streets? Anyone getting into a car? Any unfamiliar cars?"

"No. It was dead... uh... quiet... this morning." Somewhere in the house, a phone rang. Osborne bounced up. "Excuse me. I'm expecting a call." He hurried away.

Burgess used his absence to collect some dog hairs from the pillow beside him and the rug at his feet, then collected a few damp blond hairs from the back of Osborne's chair. He put everything in evidence envelopes, slipped them in his pocket, and checked his watch. Almost time to meet Perry for their visit to the boy's family, and he wasn't finished. No matter. He wasn't getting any cooperation, and it wasn't worth the pushing it would take to move the guy off first base. These first hours mattered too much.

He'd visit the gentleman again, give his speech about interfering with a crime scene, obstructing government administration, abusing a corpse, make Osborne regret getting snotty with a tired cop. Maybe he'd bring Kyle with him. People claimed Burgess was scary, but it was Kyle who really spooked them. Maybe they'd ask why Osborne's coffee table books all featured pictures of naked men or naked children.

He limped to the door. Damned pills sure were taking their time kicking in. Or maybe they
were
kicked in, and this was as good as it was going to get. He pulled out his card, wrote 'to be continued' on the back, and set it on the hall table. Before leaving, he allowed himself a peek through the closed dining room door. A cheerful room, soft yellow with dark, modern furniture. Eight or ten large photos on the walls, all of prepubescent boys.

He swam through the thick air to his car, found Stan Perry leaning against it. "Nice canoe," Perry said.

Burgess ignored him. "Be with you in a second." He called back to 109, gave Osborne's full name, address and DOB, and asked for a records check. Then, though maybe it was locking the barn door after the horse had been stolen, he asked for surveillance on the place in case Osborne got spooked and started moving things.

"Looks like maybe we've got ourselves a pedophile." Perry nodded. "So what do we know about these people we're about to visit?"

"Got a couple hours?" Perry said. "This is a one-family crime wave..."

"Just the highlights."

"Let's sit in my car," Perry said. "It's already cool."

"Can't argue with that. How's Vince?"

"He'll live if he stays out of the heat. He never should have gotten so involved, you know? The twins are what? Seven? Eight?"

"Eight, I think. They find anything interesting when they searched the park?"

"Lotta junk out of the pond. Your usual assortment of soda cans and bottles, candy wrappers, stuff like that. No knife. Didn't find the blue thing that lady talked about. But those cattails are a real snarl. We'll send people back early tomorrow, when it's cooler. Keep the place off-limits until then."

"Gonna be a lot of angry dog owners."

"Screw 'em," Perry said. "Not our problem, is it? Personally, I never thought we maintained public parks so people's pets would have somewhere to take a dump."

Inside the cool car, Burgess closed his eyes and grunted with satisfaction. "Nice," he said. "So. The Watts family..."

"Beginning with the matriarch," Perry said, "we've got prostitution." He smiled at Burgess's reaction. "That's an old one. Lots of larceny by check, robbery, blackmail, extortion, child endangerment, assault and battery, possession of a controlled substance, possession with intent to sell, criminal threatening. Nothing since they came back to Portland, but that's unlikely to be reform. She's probably got her kids doing the dirty work now."

"And the kids are?"

"Hers? Daughter, Shauna, age 30. She's got a short sheet. Mostly prostitution, drug sales, couple OUIs. Parole officer says she's living at the house. Shauna has a baby. Son, Michael, age 28. He's a thug, pure and simple. Started knocking old ladies down and stealing their groceries, their purses, what ever he could get, at age 12. He's progressed from there. PO says at one point, he was pimping for his sister. Currently doing time for murder. He wanted a beer. Girlfriend told him to get it himself, so he shot her."

Stan shuffled the papers. "Let's see. Next you've got Dwayne, age 26. Minor drug stuff. He's mostly into home improvement scams. Roofing, driveways, things like that. Collects deposits, never does the work. He's living at home. Probably working on the place."

Burgess rubbed the back of his neck. "They know we're coming?"

"Thought I'd give 'em a chance to get the hardware and drug paraphernalia out of sight, they being the grieving family and all. Didn't want to have to arrest any of 'em today."

"Kind of you."

"Oh, I studied in the Joe Burgess school of public relations. And anyway, didn't our training talk about the importance of the detective's relationship with the grieving family?"

"Sounds like the Terry Kyle school to me. Aren't I supposed to be a heartless oaf?"

Perry's humor fell away. "What's up with that, anyway? Where is Terry?"

"Wish I knew," Burgess said. "He's compulsive about checking messages. He's always looking for overtime, looking to keep Wanda the PMS Queen off his back. He'd never miss a chance like this."

Even if Kyle hadn't been a dynamite cop and badly needed here, he was their friend. Friends looked after one another. Cops looked after one another. "When we're done here, let's swing by his place," Burgess said.

"Sounds like a plan," Perry agreed. "Let's see. Then there's Jason." Perry consulted some papers. "He's 24. Real light-weight compared to the others. Just a few minor drug things. But dollars to doughnuts, he's just better at not getting caught. How many's that? Four? Okay. Then there's sweet 19-year old Ricky. His specialty seems to be sexual assaults. Just got out for good behavior." He shook his head. "Ricky's one of those charmers thinks if the victim smiles in relief as he's leaving, it means she wants to see him again. His PO gives him three or four weeks before he falls off the wagon or whatever it is rapists fall off of."

"I think they fall into," Burgess said. "It's never their fault, poor things. The girls are asking for it."

"Yeah," Perry grinned. "It's those breasts. If they'd just leave 'em at home instead of wearing 'em out in public and driving us poor guys wild." He paused to consult his list again. "Last, and by far the least, is Iris. She's 17. And as far as I can tell, clean as a whistle..."

"How did that happen?"

"She's deaf. Away at a special school."

"In the summer? I'm surprised they let her go," Burgess said. "Sounds like a deaf girl would be handy to that lot. You'd think, in the Dickensian tradition, they'd at least teach her to be a pickpocket or something. That all?"

"Dickensian?" Perry, used to Burgess's idiosyncrasies, shrugged off the lit ref. "Then there's Pap's kids. Frankie's 40. He's up in Thomaston, but his daughter, Adele, used to live with Pap. She's 21. A working hooker. PO didn't know if she was around or not. Pap has a daughter, Alice, but she's on the West Coast somewhere. And then there's Lloyd. He's a mechanic. About 30. Lives there with his girlfriend and their baby. He specializes in stolen cars and the drug trade."

"Place must be like a rabbit warren," Burgess said.

"More like a den of iniquity."

"Iniquity, Stan? You
are
sounding like Kyle."

Perry made a face. "Gosh, Dad. I was trying to sound like you."

Burgess cuffed the side of his head. "Okay, son. Let's go ask these people some questions."

Perry put the car into gear. "We could walk," he said, "but I don't mind having my ride there. Makes me feel safer, walking into a den of iniquity and all. Think they'd mind if we asked them to wear name tags?"

Someone banged on the window and Burgess looked up to see a teenager standing there, awkward, red-faced, scared-looking. He rolled down the window. "Yes?"

"Sir. Excuse me. Are you one of the police officers working on Timmy's murder?" The boy's hands crept into his pockets, made fists, and shifted up and down, taking the shorts with them.

"I am."

"Then please, sir." Another nervous shifting of the shorts. "I'm scared as heck of Timmy's family, but I've got something I'd like to tell you."

"Get in."

Perry shoved the car back into park as the boy, sweaty and panting like he'd been running, climbed into the back seat. Burgess pulled out his notebook. "Go ahead," he said.

Chapter 6

This had better be good. Hours into this thing, they'd learned little about Timothy Watts's last day. Maybe this kid knew something. "I'm Detective Sergeant Burgess. This is Detective Perry," Burgess said. "What did you want to tell us?"

The boy's eyes darted from one to the other and then to the door handle like he regretted his impulse to hail them. "I don't know if I can tell you," he said. "I mean, like if that jerk Dwayne ever found out I'd talked to you, he'd kill me."

He was thin, his body just beginning to show the muscling of the adolescent male. Could have been any age from 15 to 19, but hairy calves and the tailored wisp of soft beard suggested the older end. He wore baggy cargo shorts, an open Hawaiian shirt, and a tight sleeveless undershirt. His gold-rimmed glasses gave him a slightly nerdy look.