Case #AV87047 . He reviewed the file of a girl named Amy Grenny, age 14, the victim of a hit-and-run driver in Alexandria. Cause of death: massive head trauma. He hit enter, and the next case flashed up.
Case #AV39787 . Again he glanced through the record. Arlington...5’2" female...Stacey paused, Sig sat close, begging for his breakfast.
“Next,” he entered.Case #RV23771 . The girl was from Richmond, killed in a drive-by shooting, the bullet perforated her aorta.
Stacey, unable to stand the dog-breath any longer, relented. “Okay, okay, let’s get you something to eat.” He went to the kitchen and opened the regular two cans of dog food, shoveled them into the dish, but didn’t give the usual command to eat. Sig sat patiently, waiting for the signal. “Let’s see if you remember,” Stacey told him, walking out of the room. Sig looked on expectantly as Stacey returned to his work.
Case #WV32976, Woodbridge, the cursor flashed. Female 4’11". Age: 13. Name: Flora Sueldo. Found: Wooded area near Potomac River. Date: 3/ 17/94. Mother reported her missing. Cause of death: Asphyxiation by strangulation. Father suspected, cannot be located. Contact: Woodbridge P.D. Detective Oswald. Photo available.
Stacey perused the record a second time. “This is closer than anything else I’ve found. Woodbridge...Woodbridge. The captain’s from Virginia. That’s right. He served at the Pentagon.” He went to his bookshelf and dug out a stack of magazines. “It’s got to be here somewhere,” he mumbled. He began flipping through the dog-eared magazines, one by one. “Here—found it!”
Returning to the desk, he opened a road atlas, thumbing through the section on Virginia. “Virginia ...Virginia,” he said over and over, almost as a mantra. Finally, he located the page. “Let’s see. The Pentagon’s in Arlington....” His index finger took on a zigzagging motion, searching for surrounding cities. “Woodbridge ...Woodbridge. ... His finger stopped. “There you are, just south of Arlington. Maybe 20 miles.”
“This is weird,” he continued. “Suppose the murders are related. The captain isn’t the girl-killer. He doesn’t meet the profile, or the description Ashley gave.”
“Advanced search,” Stacey keyed in.Soon he had the number for the Woodbridge Police Department and the photo of the girl. Soft, graceful facial features; dark skin; beautiful, long black hair. Stacey dialed the number. The wrong-number tone sounded. “The area code you have dialed has been changed. The new area code is...” Stacey made a note and re-dialed.
“Woodbridge City,” a voice answered.
“Would you connect me with Detective Oswald?”
“I’m sorry. He’s no longer with the city. Would you like me to
connect you with that department?”
“Yes, pl—” She cut him off before the words were even out of his
mouth. He waited, the phone line clicking repeatedly as he listened. Another voice came on the line. “Police Department.” “This is Officer Rick Stacey from the Mapleton, Utah P.D. I have
some questions about an unsolved homicide you have posted on the
N.C.I.C. case number WV32976. Happened on March 17, 1994. Detective Oswald was handling the case. Can you tell me who’s taken it
over?”
“Just a moment.” The phone began to click again. A minute later
the voice came back on the line. “That would be Officer Green. He
isn’t in right now. Want me to have him call you when he returns?” “Yes, please. It’s important.”
After the dispatcher had taken down the pertinent information
and Stacey had hung up, he leaned back in his chair. This case probably has nothing to do with ours, he mused, trying to keep his hopes in
check, but it’s worth a try.
He glanced around the room for Sig. It’d been 45 minutes since
he’d put the food in his dish. “Sig!” Then it hit him. He shot up from
his chair and turned the corner to the kitchen. There was Sig, sitting
in the exact spot as before, a four-inch-wide puddle of saliva on the
floor in the space between his front paws and the dish. The moist
dog food had darkened around the edges. “Okay, lunch!” came the
command, followed by the praise, “Good boy! You may not have
appreciated the wait now, but some day that same obedience might
save your life.” Then his voice softened, as a flicker of guilt washed
over him. “Sorry, Sig,” he whispered.
Captain Bingham eased his Pontiac to the curb near the Reid home. The sun was just stretching its rays above the peaks to the east.
At seven-fifteen he spied Mrs. Reid leaving the house, heading to work on foot. He stayed put, watching her, until she turned to cross the junk-filled vacant lot at the corner of the old Swenson subdivision. He put the car in gear and crept along the curb, pulling into a cul-de-sac that intersected the well-traveled path she was on that led to Main Street. It was there, at that secluded spot, that he pulled his car up alongside her and rolled down the window. “What do you want?” her weary voice was heard.
“We may want to bring you back in for questioning,” he told her. “I want to review your testimony.”
“Your young officer already went through it.” She started to walk away.
The captain’s brow crinkled. He gunned the engine and pulled forward, blocking her path, then lurched from the car. “What do you mean he went through it?” he demanded.
“Like I told you,” she exclaimed, cowering away from the man, “he went over everything the other day after you arrested my old man.”
“Which officer was it?”
“You ought to know! The one with the dog.”
“What’d you tell him?” His voice was breathy, insistent.
“Same thing you told me.” She took a step back, out of reach.
The muscles of his jaw drew taut. “Damn!” He stomped back into the car and squealed away.
Stacey dressed, rummaging through the pockets of his pants from the day before. The key he’d borrowed from the police garage was wedged in the small change pocket. “Oh no! How’d I forget to return it? I’d better take it back after I pay Saunders a visit.” He ordered Sig into the garage. The bucket of water was almost half empty and Sig seemed more reluctant than ever to go in. After the door was closed, Stacey headed for the cruiser.
He started the engine. “One thirty-nine, dispatch.” “Morning Stace, you ready to roll?” Maryann’s voice was heard. “Ten-four, log me in.”
“Sure thing.”
Typically, Stacey would patrol an hour or two before heading into
the station. He hoped Officer Green from the Woodbridge Police would return his call. He’d left his mobile number so the call wouldn’t end up in the wrong hands. He knew if he went down to the school zone, he could write at least ten citations in an hour. The captain was big on the cash flow the citations generated.
Maryann had just gotten off the radio with Stacey when the captain strode up to her desk.
“The other day Officer Stacey was looking for a phone number for Detective Derickson. Did you help him look up the number?”
Maryann nodded timidly at the hulk of a man looming over her. “Yes, sir, I did.” His harsh voice and huge frame made her uncomfortable. And today she could tell he was in an especially foul mood. She flipped through the options on her computer screen, remembering the time and date of the call. Suddenly a call came in, and the screen automatically changed to “incoming caller” mode.
“Mapleton Police, is this an emergency?” she asked. “Oh, hi, Dianne.” The captain shuffled around the desk and leaned forward next to Maryann so he could get a look at the screen. It read:
Incoming call: 7:55 a.m. Tuesday, April 13, 1999. Utah Valley Medical Center.
“Oh, dear, do the doctors think he’ll be okay? Do they know what caused it?...I’m so sorry. I’ll let everyone know....Okay, you hang in there. Bye.” Maryann’s face now registered distress. “Deek’s in the operating room—he went into a coma last night. They think his intestine ruptured, contaminating his blood stream. They’ll know more in a few hours.”
Bingham’s mind took in the news. “That’s too bad....” His concern rang hollow. “Did you find that number?”
Once more she changed screens. “Here it is.”
The captain didn’t write it down—or even repeat it. He just stared at it a second, then walked off.
Barker sat at his desk in the squad room, reviewing his files and notes, when Bingham approached. “Is Officer Stacey working on any cases with you?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Barker replied.
The captain plodded past and into his own office, closed the door, then picked up the phone. “Get me the lab. This is Captain Bingham from Mapleton....Do you have the results of the Reid home worked up yet?”
“Hold on. I’ll check.” The phone went on hold.
A new voice answered. “We found the bullet to be a definite match. And the fibers you brought in, a positive match.”
“Were the fibers labeled?”
“Who’s this?”
“Captain Bingham. Who’s this?”
“Saunders. Sorry, captain, I thought you were Officer Stacey. He asked me to match a small sample of fibers he brought in with the gun and sweats.”
“Thanks.” He hung up the phone and took his radio out from under his jacket.
“One-ten, one thirty-nine.”
“One thirty-nine, go ahead, captain.” Stacey was stunned. The captain never called him on the radio; orders always came from Barker. And Bingham was calling him on channel two, normally reserved for private conversations.
“Officer Stacey, I need you to run to Vegas. We’ve got a lead that might be helpful in solving Ashley Gardner’s kidnapping. I want you to personally interview the informant. The guy won’t even reveal his name until we get there. Stop at the phone booth in the lobby of the MGM Grand and dial room 21022. He’ll find you when you make the call. I’ll call the Vegas P.D. and have them back you up, in case something’s out of line. I need you to leave right away; gotta be there by one.”
“Ten-four, captain.”
“Stop here and get the files before you go. You may need to reference them.”
Vegas was six hours away going the speed limit. Stacey’d have to move smartly to make it on time. But something didn’t feel right. He decided to call Deek and make sure he had covered the Reid evidence with Saunders. “Room 312.”
“One moment. I’ll connect you.” The phone rang several times before he hung up. Deek was probably in therapy. He decided to call back in an hour.
Entering the station, Stacey found the captain waiting for him near the lobby, a file box in his arms. “Open your trunk and I’ll put it in back.” Stacey did as he was told and the captain shut the trunk.
“I’ll clear you a code in case you need to use the lights,” he said, more than a touch of urgency in his voice. “Now hurry, this might be the break we’ve been looking for.”
Don finished the powder orders by ten. He wondered why everyone smiled at him funny when he saw them. It was almost as if they were talking about him behind his back.
He quickly showered and reported to the front desk. Jeff and Dave were talking when he came in. Suddenly they quit their conversation. Both had the same guilty look on their face. “What’s up guys?’ he asked casually.
Dave answered as Jeff began to walk back to the plant. “Nothing. Ready to get to work?”
Don settled into his job as Cecily came through the front door with a box. It was the kind of box a cake or donuts would come in. Don wondered if they were going to have a party. Several customers followed Cecily into the front office, and for the next hour everyone went about their work, helping customers and answering phones.
The ringing of his cell phone brought Stacey back from the mindless trance induced by the freeway passing beneath his cruiser. “Stacey here,” he answered.
“Officer Stacey,” a quiet voice said. “This is Ashley Gardner. I remembered something that’s really important that I need to talk to you and Sig about.”
Stacey heard the phone signal growing weak. “Ashley, my phone’s giving me trouble. Can I call you as soon as I get back in town?” Then the signal went dead.
Stacey cast a disparaging scowl at the signal bar and tried to make another call. “Room 312.”
“One moment. I’ll connect you.”
This time he let the phone ring. He figured maybe a nurse would pick up and have Deek call when he got back from therapy. The mountains from Nephi to Beaver often didn’t allow the phone signals through. The connection grew fuzzy.
“Room 312, Nurse Hatch.”
“Is Detective Derickson in?” The static grew worse. “I’m sorry. He’s...” The connection was lost again.
“All employees report to the lunch room please! All employees to the lunch room!” Cecily’s voice could be heard over the intercom.
Don looked around. What could it be? He didn’t want to be put on the spot. Dave finished what he was doing and stood. “Let’s go see what’s up.”
“It must be someone’s birthday,” said Rex, as they met and walked together.
“Birthday?” Don questioned.
“Yeah, we go through this every few weeks.”
A row of cupcakes ran down the center of each table. Cecily was busy lighting the candles that poked from the white and blue icing. When all had gathered, Cecily led out. “Let’s sing Happy Birthday to Morty. On three: one, two, three....”
It was, without a doubt, the worst rendition of “Happy Birthday” Don had ever heard. Not a single person sang on key; it was as if they were doing it on purpose. An angry cat could have done as well!
Morty, a first-year employee, blushed in embarrassment. He’d seen others sung to before, but had hoped they’d forget it was his turn.
“So who’s the next birthday boy?” someone asked as they scarfed down the cupcakes.
“Rod—early next month,” Cecily replied.
“The big 55!” Rod crowed.
The party was a good break, but too quickly over. Cecily was right—this company did seem like family.
Captain Bingham left the station, went to a corner phone booth and dialed out. “We’ve got some problems. I think I can handle it, but we’ve got to hurry this thing along....I know it will. No, we don’t leave until we finish. Let her know. I want to be out in eight days....Yeah, I’ll take care of the flight reservations. You talk to the banker to see if Rick Stacey has an account there. If he does, wire twenty thousand from one of our offshore accounts into his. Deposit twenty more, cash, and make sure she postdates the record for two days ago....Oh, and call our man in Vegas and have him handle Stacey. You know the drill. I think that should take care of everything until we finish.”
He hung up the phone and made a second call. “I’m sorry, the customer you are trying to reach is either unavailable or has traveled outside the coverage area. Please try again later.” He hung up the phone and returned to his car.
Working at his computer, Melvin logged in his entries. He sent the digital recording into his file titled “Captain.”“One twelve, one thirty-nine.” The captain waited a minute. “One twelve, one thirty-nine,” he repeated. No answer. “One twelve, dispatch.”
“Dispatch, go ahead, captain.”
“Have you heard from Officer Stacey yet?”
“No, sir, not since he logged in this morning. Do you want me to
try him on his mobile?”
“No, I’ll try later. I’ll be in in a few minutes.”
He pulled into the parking lot and went to his office. Opening his
file cabinet drawer, he removed a folder and reviewed the file, jotting a note in the margin. “Lieutenant Barker,” he called. Barker stopped what he was doing. “Yes, captain.”
“We go to hearing on the cocaine case next week. We need to review the file and verify the evidence. I can’t locate Officer Stacey. Will you and Olsen check the evidence room? I seem to have a discrepancy in my notes. My log files show 75 kilos of cocaine; the arrest files show 76. After you count them, check the case files and see what the official documents show.”
“Sure.” Olsen and Barker headed to the evidence room. They both knew it was 76, since it had been in all the papers and on the nightly news as one of the biggest busts in the state.Meanwhile, Stacey checked his phone for a signal. He had to talk to Deek. Something was wrong—out of place. The assignment to go to Vegas, the captain’s orders, the whole thing. He decided to stop in Beaver to try again. “Beaver, ten miles,” the sign read.
Entering the evidence room, both officers signed in. Barker then noticed the empty space he was supposed to have signed when Stacey took the gun to the lab. “Oops, forgot to sign Stace out,” he said, slightly embarrassed at the procedural oversight. He bent and filled in the blank.
“The labels show 76,” Olsen confirmed.
“The captain said to count them. You start on the lower shelf and I’ll start here.” He reached above the sign-out table and pulled a pair of latex gloves from the box. Olsen did the same. They both began to count, each whispering as they went. Olsen finished first and waited for Barker.
“Thirty-six,” Olsen said.
“Thirty-eight.”
The men stared at each other a moment as they added the two numbers in their heads. Barker was first to speak. “That’s only 74!”
Olsen nodded. “We better count again.”
The two men began the count again, this time giving each bag an attentive pat. Barker finished first. “Thirty-eight,” he said.
“Thirty-six,” Olsen repeated. “We better find out which two are missing. Let’s sort and re-stack them by number.”
Minutes later, the count was finished. “It appears numbers ten and 31 are missing,” Barker concluded as they placed them back on the shelf. The two officers didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, so they went from shelf to shelf, searching the entire room for the missing bags. Nothing turned up.
“Now what?” Olsen asked.
“I guess we tell the captain.” He’d been reflecting on the events of the past few days. He’d just signed for Stacey; in fact, Olsen had watched him log an improper date and time. This was the first time in the eight years Barker had been on the force that anything had turned up missing from the evidence room. They’d hardly ever kept anything of value in there.
“What do you want me to say about the entry you just made?” Olsen asked.
Barker swallowed and subconsciously bit his lower lip. “You’d better say exactly what you saw.” He knew they were about to hang Stacey out to dry.
“Did he do it?”
“I can’t believe he would.”
Olsen knew the possible repercussions. “Who, then?”
“I don’t know. The captain and I carry the only two keys to the evidence room....”