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Authors: John Sandford
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room?”
Anderson stopped picking his teeth. “We run a list,” he said. “We got thirty-four people, cops and civilians, who might of took it. There are probably a few more we don’t know about. Found out the fucking janitors go in there all the time. I think they’re smoking some of the evidence. Everybody says he’s clean, of course. We got IAD looking into it.”
“I want to talk to them, the thirty-four people,” Lucas said. “All at once. In a group. Get the union guy in here too.”
“For what?” Wullfolk asked.
“I’ll tell them that I want to know what happened to the gun, and the guy that tells me, I won’t turn him in. And that the chief will call off the IAD investigation and nothing more’ll happen. I’m going to tell them that if nobody talks to me, we’ll go ahead with the shoo-flies and sooner or later we’ll find out who it is and then we’ll prosecute the son of a bitch on accessory-to-murder and throw his ass in Stillwater.”
Anderson shook his head. “I wouldn’t buy it, if I was the guy.”
“You got a convincer?” asked Daniel.
Lucas nodded. “I think so. I’ll outline how the interrogation will go and I’ll tell them that I won’t read them their rights or anything else, so even if they are prosecuted, the whole thing would be entrapment and the case would be thrown out. I think we could build it so the guy would buy it.”
Anderson and Daniel looked at each other, and Anderson shrugged. “It’s worth a try. It could get us something fast. I’ll set something up for late afternoon. Try to get as many as I can. Four o’clock?”
“Good,” Lucas said.
“We’ve set up a data base in my office, we got a girl typing everything in and printing it out. Everybody working it gets a notebook with every piece of paper we develop, every interview,” Anderson said. “We’ll go over everything we know about these people. If there’s a connection or a pattern, we’ll find it. Everybody’s supposed to read the files every night. When you see something, tell me. We’ll put it in the file.”
“What do we have so far?” asked Lucas.
Anderson shook his head. “Not much. Personal data, some loose patterns, that sorta shit. Number one was Lucy Bell, a waitress, nineteen years old. Number two was a housewife, Shirley Morris, thirty-six. Number three was the artist that fought him off, Carla Ruiz. She’s thirty-two. Number four was this real-estate woman Lewis, forty-six. One was married, the other three were not. One of the other three, the artist, is divorced. The real-estate woman was a widow. The waitress was a rock-’n’-roller, a punk. The real-estate lady went to classical-music concerts with her boyfriend. It goes like that. The only pattern seems to be that they’re all women.”
Everybody thought about it for a minute.
“What’s the interval between murders?” asked Lucas.
“The first one, Bell, was July 14, then Morris was on August 2, nineteen days between them; then the next was Ruiz on August 17, fifteen days after Morris; then Lewis on August 31, fourteen days later,” said Anderson.
“Getting shorter,” said one of the cops.
“Yeah. That’s a tendency with sadistic killers, if he is one,” said Wullfolk.
“If they start coming faster, he’ll be doing them off the top of his head, not so careful-like,” said another of the cops.
“We don’t know that. He may be picking them out six months ahead of time. He may have a whole file of them,” Anderson said.
“Any other pattern to the days?” asked Lucas.
“That’s one thing, they’re all during the week. A Thursday, a Tuesday, a Wednesday, and another Wednesday. No weekends.”
“Not much of a pattern,” Daniel said.
“Anything about the women?” asked Lucas. “All tall? All got big tits? What?”
“They’re all good-looking. That’s my judgment, but I think it’s right. All have dark hair, three of them black—the Bell girl, who dyed hers black, Ruiz, and Lewis.
Anderson stopped picking his teeth. “We run a list,” he said. “We got thirty-four people, cops and civilians, who might of took it. There are probably a few more we don’t know about. Found out the fucking janitors go in there all the time. I think they’re smoking some of the evidence. Everybody says he’s clean, of course. We got IAD looking into it.”
“I want to talk to them, the thirty-four people,” Lucas said. “All at once. In a group. Get the union guy in here too.”
“For what?” Wullfolk asked.
“I’ll tell them that I want to know what happened to the gun, and the guy that tells me, I won’t turn him in. And that the chief will call off the IAD investigation and nothing more’ll happen. I’m going to tell them that if nobody talks to me, we’ll go ahead with the shoo-flies and sooner or later we’ll find out who it is and then we’ll prosecute the son of a bitch on accessory-to-murder and throw his ass in Stillwater.”
Anderson shook his head. “I wouldn’t buy it, if I was the guy.”
“You got a convincer?” asked Daniel.
Lucas nodded. “I think so. I’ll outline how the interrogation will go and I’ll tell them that I won’t read them their rights or anything else, so even if they are prosecuted, the whole thing would be entrapment and the case would be thrown out. I think we could build it so the guy would buy it.”
Anderson and Daniel looked at each other, and Anderson shrugged. “It’s worth a try. It could get us something fast. I’ll set something up for late afternoon. Try to get as many as I can. Four o’clock?”
“Good,” Lucas said.
“We’ve set up a data base in my office, we got a girl typing everything in and printing it out. Everybody working it gets a notebook with every piece of paper we develop, every interview,” Anderson said. “We’ll go over everything we know about these people. If there’s a connection or a pattern, we’ll find it. Everybody’s supposed to read the files every night. When you see something, tell me. We’ll put it in the file.”
“What do we have so far?” asked Lucas.
Anderson shook his head. “Not much. Personal data, some loose patterns, that sorta shit. Number one was Lucy Bell, a waitress, nineteen years old. Number two was a housewife, Shirley Morris, thirty-six. Number three was the artist that fought him off, Carla Ruiz. She’s thirty-two. Number four was this real-estate woman Lewis, forty-six. One was married, the other three were not. One of the other three, the artist, is divorced. The real-estate woman was a widow. The waitress was a rock-’n’-roller, a punk. The real-estate lady went to classical-music concerts with her boyfriend. It goes like that. The only pattern seems to be that they’re all women.”
Everybody thought about it for a minute.
“What’s the interval between murders?” asked Lucas.
“The first one, Bell, was July 14, then Morris was on August 2, nineteen days between them; then the next was Ruiz on August 17, fifteen days after Morris; then Lewis on August 31, fourteen days later,” said Anderson.
“Getting shorter,” said one of the cops.
“Yeah. That’s a tendency with sadistic killers, if he is one,” said Wullfolk.
“If they start coming faster, he’ll be doing them off the top of his head, not so careful-like,” said another of the cops.
“We don’t know that. He may be picking them out six months ahead of time. He may have a whole file of them,” Anderson said.
“Any other pattern to the days?” asked Lucas.
“That’s one thing, they’re all during the week. A Thursday, a Tuesday, a Wednesday, and another Wednesday. No weekends.”
“Not much of a pattern,” Daniel said.
“Anything about the women?” asked Lucas. “All tall? All got big tits? What?”
“They’re all good-looking. That’s my judgment, but I think it’s right. All have dark hair, three of them black—the Bell girl, who dyed hers black, Ruiz, and Lewis.
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