While Galileo Preys (5 page)

He was counting on her.

But so were Rafe and Sophie.

S
ix deaths meant six separate funerals, but Amarillo, like Atlanta, held one memorial service to honor them all. There was much debate over where the service should be held. The Amarillo metropolitan area boasted over 1,000 churches, and almost all of them jockeyed for the opportunity to host the service. Mayor Deidre Lumley, however, insisted the memorial service remain non-denominational (although many of Amarillo’s more prominent clergymen were assured seats on the dais).

The memorial service in Atlanta had been held at the 4,500-seat Fox Theatre and every seat had been filled. Amarillo had Dick Bivins Stadium, which seated 15,000, but Mayor Lumley A) didn’t want to associate tragedy with sports, and B) didn’t expect 15,000 people to show up. All those empty seats would look very bad on national TV. After much deliberation, many pots of coffee, and a quid pro quo from the editor-in-chief of the local newspaper, Mayor Lumley and her staff decided upon the Globe-News Center. It was relatively
new, seated over 1,000 quite comfortably, and was very media-friendly (as it was named, after the local newspaper, the
Amarillo Globe-News)
.

By the time Tom Piper arrived at the Center, about an hour before the service was scheduled to begin, there already were 5,000 people milling in the parking lot. Law enforcement did their best to conduct the traffic, but sheer numbers forced new arrivals to turn back; park their cars three, four, five miles away, and walk. Children and elders were dropped off, and with a half hour to go the crowd had surpassed 6,000.

Some carried candles. Some carried billboards with the names of the fallen handwritten on them in Magic Marker. All carried grief—in their hearts, in their eyes. Their community had been attacked. A demon had singled them out. Six of their heroes had died trying to protect them. And there was no closure—the demon was still at large.

He might even be one of the 6,000 here at the service.

Tom Piper surveyed the men and women. Despite what he considered frankly outlandish claims about his ability to decipher minds, he knew the probability of his detecting an irregularity, especially in a mass of people this enormous, was astronomically low. Detection was the justification he’d offered his team (while they remained behind and worked the evidence—what little of it there was) for his attendance here today, but this was bullshit.

The truth was far simpler and quainter: He was here out of a sense of duty.

He secured his helmet and protective leggings to his Harley, adjusted the feeling of his baggy black leather coat on his slim shoulders, and joined the throng. Tom wanted to maintain his anonymity here, in this vigil, but that was the easy road. Twenty people were dead. He hadn’t yet earned the easy road.

He displayed his badge.

The questions came almost immediately:

“Do you have any leads?” “Who could have done this?” “What are you doing to keep this from happening again?” “How did you let this happen at all?”

The questions pelted him, pricked at him. He felt every one. The sight of his badge, though, forced everyone, friendly or not, to let him pass. He silently made his way to the red sandstone building, showed his badge to the cops at the gate, and entered.

Inside the auditorium, Tom identified the four distinct cliques. The family members, mostly culled from Amarillo’s lower middle class, wore black polyester. They all knew each other, and chatted freely amongst themselves. Tom picked out the genetic resemblances—these giants over here must be kin to Cole the night watchman, those fair-skinned redhead variations over there must belong to Daniel and Brian McIvey. Among the firefighters in attendance, the genetics varied wildly, but as a group they were easily distinguished by their Class A’s, the black-and-gold uniform each wore in honor of their fallen brethren. The third pocket of attendees, smaller than the first two, was the politicians. Here were the $2,000 suits and the once-a-week haircuts. Tom recognized the state’s congressmen and senators.

The fourth, final, least significant clique was the press. They sat in the rear, set up their cameras. Here was the widest variety of humanity. They carried on their faces bleary evidence of two-hour naps in tiny motel rooms, and their clothes looked shopworn. Some attended funerals for a living. It was part of their job.

Tom took a seat in the back, with the press. After all, he identified most with the press. He too, it seemed, attended funerals for a living.

The service was scheduled to begin in five minutes.

Six large black-and-white photographs hung like flags from a pipe above the stage, as if to remind the attendees the reason they were here. As if anyone needed reminding. Underneath the photographs were eight black chairs and a miked podium. Tom wondered if Mayor Lumley and the other seven distinguished guests (which included Catch’s pal Lt. Governor Jed Danvers) were milling in the green room, eating cubes of cheese.

Tom fixated on the photographs.

Cole Kingman.

Bobby Vega.

Lou Hopper.

Daniel McIvey.

Brian McIvey.

Roscoe Coffey.

Names forever added to his memory. Names, like the fourteen in Atlanta, forever associated to a madman with a gun.

And Esme still hadn’t called him back.

He’d sent her the e-mail around 10:00 a.m. EST. It
was almost 12:30 p.m. now in Amarillo, which meant it was almost 1:30 p.m. in Oyster Bay. She hadn’t e-mailed him back—he had his BlackBerry set to notify him when he received new messages at his work account. What was she doing? Surely she wanted to help out…right?

Perhaps the seven years had changed her more than he’d expected. Perhaps he didn’t know her anymore at all.

And yet
she’d
called
him…

The speakers took the stage. Gradually, the attendees settled, and sat. Mayor Lumley approached the podium. The shoulder pads in her dark blue pantsuit made her look like a transvestite.

“Good afternoon,” she began…and then Tom tuned her out. He’d met the woman the previous night at city hall, and she’d seemed to possess the trait of being both ignorant and condescending at the same time. It was a trait most commonly found in politicians and actor-activists, and there actually was a psychological term for it. The Dunning-Kruger effect: the dumber you are, the smarter you think you are. Tom’s father, a lawman in Jasper, Kentucky, had a better phrase to describe them: “arrogant fuckwits.” As in: “there’s that arrogant fuckwit on TV again, vomiting at the mouth.”

Tom pursed his lips in a small grin.

“Special Agent Piper,” whispered the young Asian woman to his left, “what’s so funny?”

She was an itty-bitty thing, with spiky faux-black hair. Twenty-two years old, if that. Her dark V-neck cardigan went down to her knees. Her right nostril was
pierced. Who is she, thought Tom, and how does she know my name?

As if psychic, she held out her hand. “Lilly Toro.
San Francisco Chronicle.
” She had the body of a child but the croak of a chain-smoking octogenarian.

Tom shook her hand, didn’t notice nicotine on her fingertip. “You’re a long way from home, Ms. Toro.”

“So are you, Special Agent Piper.”

They spoke in hushed tones, so as not to disturb those around them, who were apparently enraptured in the mayor’s oratory.

“I sat next to you on purpose,” she said.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Ms. Toro?”

“Not unless you’re hiding a vagina.” Her breath smelled of spearmint and menthol. “And call me Lilly.”

“Why did you sit next to me?”

A pasty gentleman to Tom’s right stopped jotting notes onto his steno pad and gave them an accusatory look.

“Sorry, Roger,” said Lilly.

“Sorry, Roger,” echoed Tom.

Up on stage, Mayor Lumley wrapped up her remarks and turned the helm over to Pastor Manny Jessup. Both Roscoe Coffey and Bobby Vega had been congregants at his church. He stepped up to the podium, took a deep, steadying breath, and spoke.

The service lasted another hour. By the time it was over, much of the mighty crowd outside had dispersed. Plastic cups and candy wrappers were strewn across the parking lot, as if the fair had just left town.

Tom made his way to his Harley.

“Special Agent Piper…”

Lilly Toro, more than a foot shorter, hustled to catch up.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, I’m afraid, Ms. Toro…”

“Lilly.”

“Lilly.” He fastened his protective leggings over his slacks, lest he crash his motorcycle, shatter his bones, and accidentally bleed on his clothes. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I gave my statement yesterday at the press conference.”

“Okay.”

Tom offered her a sympathetic shrug and mounted his bike. The engine started with a tiger’s roar. He petted it. Good boy.

“I was just wondering,” she yelled over the roar, “I was just wondering why you haven’t disclosed anything about the shoe boxes!”

Tom sighed. He
hated
press leaks.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who your informant is?”

“No,” replied Lilly. “But thanks for confirming his story. Or her story. Maybe their story…”

“You don’t really want to know why I haven’t disclosed that information, because you already know why I haven’t disclosed that information. You understand the principle of withholding key evidence because you’re doing the same thing now with me.”

She lit up a Marlboro, blew smoke away from his face, and grinned.

“Okay, so now, Ms. Toro, I guess I’m going to ask you what your price is for your discretion. What is it
your newspaper wants to keep any mention of shoe boxes off the front page?”

“An exclusive.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Not an exclusive on the whole case. I know you can’t give me an exclusive on the whole case. I want to report about your team.”

“Me.”

“‘What’s it like, firsthand, to track down a serial killer?’ I want to be embedded.”

“Uh-huh. That’s very much not going to happen.”

He revved the Harley.

“You know,” she yelled, “once we print the story, you’re not going to have any leverage to tell the difference between the fake leads and the real ones! I imagine that’ll make your team’s lives a lot more complicated!”

He gritted his teeth. Before she even said it, he knew she was right. By keeping some elements of the crime a secret, his team could sift out the crazies and the wannabes. Once those elements became public, his task force would have no easy way of confirming or denying the validity of any call they received. Their time and resources would be wasted while the real killer remained at large.

He
really
hated press leaks.

He killed the engine. Again.

“Let me give you my number,” Tom mumbled.

“Don’t worry,” Lilly replied. “I’ve already got it.”

“Of course you do.” When he discovered which cop/flunky/politician was slipping information to the press… “Goodbye, Ms. Toro.”

“Special Agent Piper, please. Call me Lilly. After all, we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

On his way to the hospital, Tom grabbed a bite to eat at Whataburger. He ate out in the restaurant’s parking lot. Eating outside, come rain or shine, was one of his private pleasures. The quality of the food itself rarely mattered—right now he was at a fast food joint, for Christ’s sake—but the combination of environment and nourishment offered Tom his few fleeting moments of peace.

As it turned out, by midafternoon the day had become unseasonably warm, and Tom, atop his bike, gratefully shrugged off his heavy leather coat. The breeze tickled at his neck. Although the sun remained hidden behind gray clouds, it was most assuredly up there, somewhere. Trying. One couldn’t help but admire the effort.

Esme still hadn’t called.

Tom was tempted to phone her back, but refrained. If she didn’t want to get involved, she didn’t want to get involved. He had to respect that. He
didn’t
respect it—just as he hadn’t seven years ago—but he had to at least pretend. Pushing only created distance.

She would be such an asset on this case. There were so many variables, so many questions unanswered. This was a killer who thought outside the box, and Tom knew his capture would only be achieved by a detective who thought outside the box. And Esme flourished outside the box. So what in the hell was she doing in cookie-cutter Long Island…?

Tom washed down the last of his burger with a swig of tangy lemonade and tossed his refuse in a nearby bin. Across the street was a superstore which specialized in hats. Sometimes Amarillo reminded him of his childhood back in Jasper. Only Jasper wasn’t as flat. Nothing was as flat as the Texas Panhandle. The landscape was populated, as it were, with forests of shrubs that rarely rose above Tom’s ankle. The rest was desert, and went on for infinity.

Tom motored up Wallace Boulevard to Baptist St. Anthony’s. Chief Harold Lymon, nicknamed “Catch,” was situated on the fifth floor. Since no one from the hospital had left Tom a message, he assumed the man was still, sixty-five hours after being shot, unconscious. The doctors had insisted that Catch’s condition wasn’t critical, that he had been extraordinarily lucky, that his brain functions appeared normal and he could awaken at any moment. However, that likelihood decreased with each passing hour. Catch—and what he might have seen at the aquarium—was their best hope—their only hope—in identifying the sniper who called himself Galileo.

So imagine Tom’s relief when he received a text message, just as he pulled into the hospital lot. CATCH AWAKE, it read. It was from Darcy Parr, the youngest member of his task force. She’d drawn the morgue assignment, and since the morgue was situated in Baptist St. Anthony’s, it made sense she’d be the first to learn any status change in Catch’s condition.

Three minutes and thirty seconds after reading the text, Tom had locked up his motorcycle, secured his
gear, and was riding the hospital elevator up to floor five. Darcy met him at the nurses’ station.

“The doctors are in with him right now,” she said. “They said he may be too weak to talk, but I convinced them to give us five minutes as soon as they’re done.”