“Okay, quiet! I need your attention.” The years of military rule commanded consideration from the crowd. Everyone stopped talking and turned their attention toward the front of the room. Even when the room was hushed, Bingham paused for a few more moments of dramatic silence. Then he began. “We can’t assume that the events of last night are related to the assaults. We don’t have enough information. We’ve asked you to come and help us on this case so we can protect our children. The safety of the young girls in this town— and every neighboring town in the state— should be our first priority. We’ll continue to look into last night’s shooting from within the department. The information that Detective Derickson and Officer Stacey gathered could be the most important thing we have yet. I’ll ask Officer Stacey to explain the details.” The captain stepped away from the podium.
Stacey stepped up to speak, rocking self-consciously on his heels. “Before Deek was shot, we’d planned on having you come in to share the new information we have. Last night, Ashley Gardner came in for another interview, Deek called me in to help. Ashley opened up like she’s never done before. I‘ll let Dr. Wendy Brown, the state’s criminal psychiatrist assigned to this case, explain.”
A woman in her mid-fifties stepped up next to Stacey. She was attractive for her years, with a calm and pleasant demeanor. “Ashley has formed an emotional bond to Officer Stacey’s dog. He represents the savior that chased away the one that was going to harm her. In the psychiatric field we call this ‘transference of gratitude.’ Officer Stacey is on the same plane as Sig, just not quite as high.” A few of the men in the room chuckled.
“After Officer Stacey explains what he learned last evening, I’ll give you a profile of the perpetrator,” the doctor continued.Stacey again moved closer to the podium and spoke. “As you read in the e-mail, Ashley believes the man is approximately fivefoot-four inches to five-foot-six inches tall. She told us he was very strong yet slim. She couldn’t identify any other physical features except that he has a high, raspy voice. She said he was wearing slick, dark clothing. This information is consistent with the fibers we recovered at the scene of the crime. We believe he was grazed by one of Mitchell’s bullets, and it was his blood we found on Ashley. The DNA results verify, and they match up with the skin samples we found under the second victim’s nails.” Stacey paused and leaned his slender frame forward, rocking on his toes.
One of the men in the room raised his hand. Stacey pointed and instructed him to state his name and jurisdiction.
The man stood up. “I’m detective Dierpont from Lehi. Is it true that none of these girls have been sexually molested?”
“Yes.”
“So the attacker could be anyone?” Dozens of hands shot in the air.
“I’ll let Dr. Brown answer that.” Stacey motioned to the doctor.
“The answer to your question is yes and no,” she explained. “All the victims except Ashley were possibly molested. There’s no evidence to suggest copulation took place. We think they may have been fondled, but haven’t any physical evidence to prove it. He may be impotent, which is part of our profile of the attacker. We believe he’s between forty and fifty-five years old. The wind pipe or esophagus of each murder victim was crushed in a manner consistent with someone trained in certain military procedures, or possibly self-taught. I found information on the Internet about this sort of kill, apparently common during the Vietnam War, used by enemy soldiers. We also believe this man was severely abused as a child. The consistent age of the victims may give us some clue as to his age at the time of his abuse. I’ll prepare my report and make it available through proper channels.” Dr. Brown turned back to Captain Bingham.
Several hands went up and the questions went back to the subject of Detective Derickson.
Nancy stood under the shower until the hot water was gone. She turned off the water and dried herself with a towel. The hum of the washing machine coming from the furnace room seemed to calm her heart. Paul had probably put the soiled bed covers in the wash.
She brushed her teeth and combed out her long, dark hair. After using her towel to wipe the steam from the mirror, she put on her makeup, wrapped the towel loosely around her body to keep warm and padded into the bedroom.
Simultaneously, Melvin silently picked up his tool box and stepped out from the furnace room. Nancy’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the bright filtered light that blazed in through the open curtains of the windows. Setting out to close them, she realized Melvin stood next to her, and shrank back.
Her heart leapt to her throat. Frantic, she screamed, “What are you doing here!”
Melvin backed away several more steps. “Didn’t your husband tell you?”
Nancy partially regained her composure, her courage bolstered. She hugged the towel tightly around her body as she retreated to the bathroom, then readied to slam the door shut if he came near.
“I told him I needed to fix the leak on the water heater,” Melvin droned on. “He said it would be okay.”
Nancy didn’t answer—just shook her head.
“I knocked, but no one answered. If it’s a bad time, I’ll come back later.”
Nancy exhaled. “I think that would be best.”
The landlord took two steps toward the door, then turned around. Nancy pushed the bathroom door closed a little more. “It’ll only take a few more minutes.”
Nancy was almost in tears. “No. No. Please...later.”
Melvin turned once more, opened the front door and closed it behind him. After a few seconds’ wait, she rushed to the door to lock it, backed into the corner, sank down, and began to sob.
Lunchtime approached. Don had completed 228 units for the inventory, cleaned up—nearly filling a dumpster with garbage and excess powder—and finished the four small orders on his board. The building was already 92 degrees. He was proud of himself. Jeff had checked on him an hour earlier to let him know he wouldn’t be mixing that afternoon. He was completely caught up.
He brushed the dust from his clothes and headed for the main building for lunch. Passing the shipping area, he noticed Ryan, struggling to shrink wrap a large package.
“Here,” Don offered, “let me give you a hand with that.”When the task was completed, Don, after cleaning the worst of the dirt from his face and hands, proceeded to the break room.
“Ralph wants to see you after you finish,” Cecily said as she handed him his lunch bag. “What took you so long?”
“Just lots of dirt to clean off.” Don wondered what Ralph wanted. He was eating his dinosaur fruit snacks when Ryan entered.
“Thanks for the help, man.”
Don grinned. “Any time.”
“Jeff told me I could have the afternoon off if I got everything on the first pickup. The truck came just as you left. Thanks again.” Ryan picked up his things from his locker and headed out the door.
Don went back to digging the last of the little dinosaur fruit snacks out of their snug wrapper, which read: No artificial colors or preservatives. One hundred percent natural. He shook his head. “My ex-sisterin-law made lunch for me along with all the other children,” he sighed. “Too bad I didn’t marry her instead of her younger sister.” He tucked the empty wrapper in the bag and drank the last of his “all natural” fruit drink from the pouch. Gotta go, he thought to himself. I’ve got an important meeting with Ralph.
“Come in,” Ralph called without looking up. “Hi, Don. Close the door and take a seat.” Ralph caught himself as he looked up. “On second thought,” he said, eyeing the man up and down, “maybe you shouldn’t.”
Ralph put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat. “Jeff tells me you’ve done one heck of a job in the powder department.”
“I’ve done my best.”
“We’ve been considering hiring a new part-time salesperson for the front desk. If you did powders early in the morning, showered and changed in the men’s room, you could sell in the afternoons.” Ralph clasped his hands behind his head. “You’re already familiar with what we do from watching us all these years.”
Don nodded in agreement.
“After you’re trained, you’ll need to travel, train others and help at the trade shows,” added Ralph. “If you do a good job, we’ll pull you out of powders so you can sell full-time. Salespeople make a straight five-percent commission. Our top salesman rakes in about eighty thousand a year.”
Don whistled under his breath. He’d never made more than thirtyfive, even with tons of overtime and ten years’ experience.
“You’ll have to get your driver’s license back before you get a company car. I don’t allow anyone near a vehicle if they’re convicted of a DUI.”
“I wasn’t—” Don started to explain.
“I know,” Ralph broke in. “I took the liberty of pulling a copy of your record.” Then he asked frankly, “Well, what do you think?”
“What can I say? I’m ready!” Don laughed, slightly overcome. “When do I start?” Acompany car...five percent commission... travel... not to mention a chance at eighty thousand a year. He’d never even been on a plane before. The farthest he’d ever traveled from home was Moscow— that is Moscow, Idaho!
“Clean off the dirt, sit with Dave this afternoon to get a feel for what he sells. You might also wander around the plant and familiarize yourself with our product line.”
Paul, returning from his classes around three fifteen, nearly stumbled over Nancy’s two suitcases as he entered the front door. “Nancy?”
“I’m in the bedroom.” A thick layer of anger blanketed the apartment. Paul could feel its smothering effects.
He stepped over the luggage, a confused expression on his face. “What’re you doing?”
“After you left today,” Nancy spat, “our dear Mr. Briggs came in, claiming he was here to fix the water heater!”
Paul raised his eye to the ceiling. “He asked me if it would be okay. Didn’t you read my note?”
“I didn’t have time to read it. He was already in here when I got out of the shower.” Nancy jammed the last of her things in the bag. “And I’m not spending another night in this place. I’ll stay with Aunt Beverly...or whoever else.”
She bent down to zip up the bag, jamming the zipper halfway. “You can take me, or I’ll take the car, you pick,” she hissed, yanking the half-zipped suitcase off the bed and marching toward the door.
Paul could tell by her determined voice and jerky movements that this discussion would go no further. The frustration she felt as a newlywed, being scared half to death with talk of the attacker, someone lurking outside the window—someone she insisted she’d seen before—and an overly friendly landlord skulking around her home, they all added up to a hysterical wife. “I’ll drive you,” he offered, knowing her aunt lived some eight miles away in the neighboring city of Provo and not thrilled with the idea of walking the distance to see his bride.
They drove in silence. Paul thought the whole thing was ridiculous. He couldn’t understand why she was making such a big deal over such a little thing. But it would probably blow over by morning, he figured.
Fascinated by the vast product line of his new employer, Don no longer wondered why he’d been asked to sign a “Good Faith/ NonCompetition Clause.” This company had more potential than he’d seen in any of his past employers. They used dozens of different urethanes and plastics. Rooms were filled with diverse molds, both cast and frame. Truckloads of finished orders sat out on the loading docks. Ralph’s company had grown over the years. It looked like it had a great future—and now he was part of it.
“We’ve got the warrant. We’ll be there in five,” Mitchell announced over an open channel. Captain Bingham had ordered 24-hour surveillance of the residence of Howard Reid, owner of the old Chevy sitting in the impound yard. Stacey was assigned the watch from one until four. There in the front seat of his pickup, parked a block and a half away from the Reid residence, the only movement Stacey had seen all day was when the wife left for work in the morning and when Howard wandered down to the state liquor store a few hours later.
Deek’s unmarked car was in Provo to have the bullet removed from its front-left door, where it embedded after going through his gut. An expert would examine it to determine its caliber and from which type of gun it had been fired. Judge Benson was on vacation in Florida, so the city prosecutor had gone through the Fourth Circuit Court. And now, finally, they had the warrant in hand.
Mitch pulled up next to Stacey and tugged nervously at his dark moustache. Olsen sat in the passenger’s seat of Mitch’s car, his hair cropped so close to his scalp he almost looked bald.
“Still in there?” Olsen asked, just coming on duty. Stacey nodded in the affirmative.
Barker and Grue eased around the corner from the other direction. Stacey started his truck.
“Stace, you and Sig take the back door,” ordered Barker. “Grue will cover the south, Olsen the north. Mitch and I will go through the front. We can still see him sitting on the couch.”
All five men were protected with vests. Stacey wished he had one for Sig. This was the first door-break he’d ever been involved in. He jumped the fence two houses away, Sig instinctively following his master’s lead. He felt little anxiety over the entrance. Howard seemed harmless. He was a big man—all bark, no bite. Stacey was the one who pulled him over the last time he was DUI, his fourth, since the first of the year. He’d been released only two days before. Why would he break into the impound and shoot a cop? he wondered.
“He’s asleep,” Barker grunted under his breath. “Go in at my word.”
Stacey crouched at the back door. Reaching up, he checked the knob to see if he needed to break the window for entrance. It turned easily. He eased the door open just an inch and waited for Barker to give the word.
Sig was preoccupied with the dryer vent on the other side of the back door.
“Come!” Stacey whispered.
“Go,” came Barker’s command.
Stacey opened the door. “Seek!” Sig bolted inside. Stacey had torn a piece of the tattered seat from the old Chevy for Sig to sniff in preparation for the raid. Sig knew just what he was looking for. Stacey followed his partner. They had a clear view of the front door. “Kawham!” The door tore off its hinges and landed on the floor with a crash. Howard sprang to his feet, startled by the commotion.
“Police! We have a warrant!” shouted Barker. Howard swung his body and arms frantically. Mitch was the first to attempt a take-down. Almost effortlessly, Howard hurled Mitch across the floor. Barker was next. Howard, now an enraged bull, launched him through the front window, where he landed on the porch, his mouth bleeding. Olsen paused to see if he was seriously hurt then bolted through the open doorway.
“Subdue!” Stacey commanded. Sig hesitated a split second to decide for whom the command was meant. In the meantime, Stacey saw an opportunity and charged forward from the rear, wrapping his legs and arms around the neck and body of the big man. Sig seized Howard’s right arm and hung on with the fury of a wolf. Olsen went low, taking out his legs. Mitch recovered from his blow and rejoined the fight. That’s when Howard went down with a mighty thud, Sig still attached to his arm.
Stacey yanked the heavy, tattooed left arm behind Howard’s back. It took all of his strength. Barker staggered back in and grabbed hold of the thrashing man’s head, while Grue joined Stacey in pinning the drunk’s left arm behind his back. Stacey reached out with both hands to take control of the right arm from Sig.
“Release,” Stacey commanded. Sig still hung tightly. “Release!” Stacey yelled again above the clamor. Sig let go, and Stacey pulled the bleeding arm behind the massive body.
The man’s comparatively small mouth opened with a roar. “Get off me!” he bellowed, followed by a string of vulgarities.
Grue latched the cuffs on the huge wrists. “We’ll get off as soon as you settle down.”
“One twelve to medic three,” Barker called out on the radio. “Come in. We’ve got it under control.”
The ambulance team was waiting around the corner. Lights flashed and sirens blared in the street as they approached.
“I want every inch of the house searched,” Bingham ordered over the radio.
Howard stopped thrashing. Stacey slowly rolled to the side and pulled himself to his feet, rubbing his wrists. He turned to Sig, now prancing back and forth in front of his defeated quarry. “Seek!”
The dog immediately began his search. He stopped briefly to sniff at nearly every object, giving every room the same thorough scrutiny. Nosing excitedly through piles of trash, reeking of alcohol, stacks of moldy newspaper, layers of dirty clothing on the floor, Sig didn’t seem to mind in the least. Stacey followed behind from room to room, then down to the basement. “Nothing, boy?” Stacey kneeled, pulled the scrap of upholstery from his pocket, and held it out at Sig’s level. Sig trotted over to give it another whiff. “Seek,” he commanded again.
For a second time Sig initiated a routine sweep of the basement, then suddenly bolted up the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, Stacey giving chase.
Stacey skidded to a stop in the kitchen, where the medics were busy working on Howard’s injury. “I did nothin’—nothin’!” he repeated. “I was here, passed out on the couch last night. Ask the old lady.”
Stacey glanced both ways and listened. Sig was nowhere in sight. Then he heard a scratching sound coming from outside the back door. Stacey flew out the door to find Sig frantically clawing the cover off the dryer vent.
“Off, boy!” Sig took two steps back and lowered onto his haunches.
Barker poked his head out the back door. His blood-stained chin and swollen lip looked worse than they really were. “What’s he got?” he muttered, dabbing at the wounds with an ice cube wrapped in a napkin.
Stacey shook his head. “Don’t know.” He took a packet from his back pocket, tore it open and took out a pair of latex gloves, which he stretched over his meaty hands. He then pulled out from his shirt pocket a penlight. Carefully lifting the vent flap, he flipped the flashlight’s switch and aimed the tiny beam through the opening. “What’s this?” he said as he reached back almost to his elbow and pulled a bundle of loose black cloth from the pipe. Right away Stacey could tell by the feel and how it gathered at both ends that it was a pair of sweat pants.
As it was drawn out, the bundle fell open and a small revolver tumbled out onto the crumbling concrete steps below.
“Jackpot!” Barker muttered under his breath when the image registered in his mind. “Captain, we got a gun and black sweats out here,” he said into his radio. “Sig sniffed ‘em in the dryer vent.”
Captain Bingham’s voice hissed back through a gust of static. “Arrest him for the attempted murder of detective Kiser Derickson.”
Stacey returned to the basement, where he’d spotted an old pair of bolt cutters resting on top of a pile of newspaper. Still wearing the latex gloves, he carried the cutters to the tableful of evidence being collected above. Two empty bottles of cheap whiskey, still with police inventory numbers attached, were also among the find.
Don was in the mold shop at four-thirty. “It looks like you’ve been abandoned again,” he said to Rex.
“Naw,” he shrugged, peering over his saw, “they always leave early on Fridays and finally turn off the blasted radio. Peace and quiet do me good.”
Rex had grown somewhat intolerant of the whine the radio made. He’d lost some of his range of hearing in the service, which had also taken from him his love of music, particularly the Big Band songs.
Don wanted to get to know the old fellow better. “What can I do to help?”
“Well...see that dish of oil over there?” Rex pointed to a dirty whipped cream container. “Put on some gloves and start wiping down the mold with the rag in the dish.”
Don did as he was told, dipping an oily rag in the container, wiping it over a new mold—and listening to his new friend.
After awhile, Don glanced at the clock. “I gotta go, Rex. My ride leaves at five.” He snapped the latex gloves from his wrists and tossed them in the trash barrel.
Suddenly Dave came storming through the quiet shop, howling, “I’ve got a flat on my car! Now I’ll be late to my mother’s birthday party.” He let out a muffled “Grrrrr!” and headed to the phone to call his wife.
Don retreated into the front office. Seeing him, Cecily stopped typing, looked up with a smile and said, “I’ll be five more minutes, okay?”
“Sure,” replied Don.
He walked out front to wait for his ride. Noticing the open trunk of Dave’s car, he hurriedly removed the spare from the back and began jacking up the car. This is a piece of cake compared to a cement truck, he thought. He had the flat tire off and the mini spare halfway back on by the time Dave returned.
“How did you do that so fast?”
“I’ve had plenty of practice,” Don answered as he tightened the last lug nut, “with the kind of cars I’ve driven over the years....I’ll let down the jack and you put the flat in the trunk. We’ll get you to your party on time.”
Don put the jack away, shut the trunk and rubbed his hands. “See you Monday. Have a good weekend.”
“I will.” Dave smiled as he drove away.
Cecily had been standing at the gate, watching the last few minutes of Don’s good deed. “You better be careful” she needled, “or you’ll get promoted to sainthood.”
Don shook his head. “Far from it,” he said modestly.
They climbed into the open Jeep and buckled in. This time Cecily didn’t turn on the radio—or drive like a maniac. “You did well today,” she commented. Don was watching her short blond hair fluttering in the wind. She was pleasing to look at. He felt a slight attraction toward her, even if she did get his goat at times.
He stretched his back against the seat, closed his eyes and breathed in. “It must be time for a change. Seems I’ve always gotten the raw end of the deal. This is the first time I’ve ever felt really useful.”
He was starting to sound a little soft. Just as he started to change the subject, he swivelled his head to glance down 4th Street, which ran through an old section of town. “Wow, did you see that?” he blurted out. “There were cop cars, television crews, an ambulance.” He pointed to the next street up. “Go around the block.”
Cecily followed his instructions. When they rounded the corner, a large man was being escorted from a run-down house to a squad car. The crews were filming as he went. All three of the major stations were there, satellite dishes pointed toward the sky, cameras rolling. Cecily craned her neck to get a better look. “We’ll have to watch
the news to see what’s going on.” She put her Jeep in reverse and
began to back away from the crowd.
“Captain Bingham, is he the one who shot Detective Derickson?” An aggressive reporter had stuck a microphone under the captain’s chin. He turned from the camera, lifted his large calloused hand, and nudged the microphone aside.
“Off the record, only,” he whispered.She motioned to the camera man to kill the footage. “Okay, off the record.”
“We found a weapon. The gun seems to match the caliber used in the Derickson case. That’s all I can say right now.”
She took a card from her purse, insisting he contact her, anytime, with any newsworthy information he could give. After scribbling her cell number above her name, she pressed the card into his hand.
Cecily pulled up to the curb and turned off the Jeep’s motor. Christina came running from the house to meet her Dad. Bright and bubbly, she called out, “Can I go with Danny and Jake down to the river? We want to work on Jake’s tree house.”
“What about supper?”
“I’ll go ask Aunt Kate.” Christina disappeared around the house. Cecily picked up their conversation where it had left off. “If you
Don didn’t mind the chat either. In addition, he needed to broach the subject of getting to work late.
“I’d like to try sales, if the concrete business wasn’t so chauvinistic—”
“What do you mean ‘chauvinistic’?”
“I know as much about Ralph’s business as any of his salesmen, but when the customers call in, they won’t give me the time of day— ’cause I’m a woman....I take that back. They don’t mind talking, just not about concrete. I’m propositioned almost every day.” She added the latter comment with a mixture of disgust and pleasure in her voice.
Christina reappeared from around the corner of the house, out of breath from her little run. “Aunt Kate said supper is almost ready. She expects Uncle Alan home any minute. She said if Cecily wants, she can stay and eat with us.”
“I’d love to!” Cecily gushed before Don had time to react. He stole a glance at Cecily, whose lips had softened into a delicate smile. He couldn’t help notice that Christina had assumed the same girlish grin.
“Aunt Kate said to hurry and clean up,” Christina said between breaths.
“Yeah, you’re filthy!” Cecily gave Don a teasing poke as he stepped from the Jeep. He peeled off the cheap plastic cover they used to protect the seat, shook his head, and strolled to the house, wondering if he’d just been suckered into a dinner date. He didn’t mind a bit. As a matter of fact, he’d been contemplating asking Cecily out on his own—he just hadn’t known how to go about it.