Tower ignored the jibe. “I don’t know that there’s much I could’ve done last night, anyway,” he told Crawford. “MacLeod did a great interview and a great report. Chisolm and Westboard searched the crime scene and didn’t find anything. They took photos anyway.”
“Those are patrol officers,” Crawford said, “not detectives.”
Tower shrugged. “It was good police work.”
Crawford grunted again. “So where are you at with this case, then? If the police work was so good.”
“I think this guy might be a serial.”
“And?”
“And I’m trying to figure out how to work it. None of the lab work is back or will be anytime soon. The victims didn’t get a look at the guy. I’ve got no witnesses. I’m looking for an angle to play. Maybe Renee in Crime Analysis-”
“You’re looking for a magic bullet.”
“Huh?”
Crawford shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “You’re looking for a magic bullet to solve this case. It ain’t gonna happen. You think you’ll go down to Crime Analysis and flirt with Renee like you’re flirting with Glenda in there. Then her computer will spit out some guy’s name. But it doesn’t happen that way.”
Tower shrugged. “Sometimes it does.”
“Bah.” Crawford waved his hand. “You need to get out there and wear out some shoe leather. Canvass the area where the assault occurred. Somebody saw something.”
“This isn’t the 1940s,” Tower said. “It’s the nineties. I agree on the canvass, but — ”
“Stop looking for a magic bullet, Tower. Wear out some shoe leather, like I said.”
Tower clenched his jaw and nodded. “Fine.”
“You want help on this?”
“Ray’s looking at the files.”
“Ray’s going on vacation. I mean, you want me to reassign Prather and Carlisle to help you on this?”
Tower shook his head. “They’ve got their own cases. If I need help with anything, I’ll grab somebody in patrol. Or, if it’s in the office, I’ll get Billings to help.”
“Billings?” Crawford snorted. “Good luck with that.”
Tower didn’t reply, mostly because he knew the lieutenant was right.
Crawford gave Tower an appraising look. “How sure are you this is a serial?”
“Pretty sure. The M.O. is identical and he used a key phrase both times.”
“The whammo thing?”
“Yeah.”
Crawford chewed slowly on the cigar. “This is two rapes in two days, right?”
Tower nodded.
“Pretty short turnaround, isn’t it?”
Tower nodded again.
“You figure he’ll hit again soon?”
Tower shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe whatever is driving him has been satisfied for a little while. But who knows?”
“I’m sure the FBI knows,” Crawford said sarcastically.
“The FBI knows everything,” Tower agreed, deadpanning.
Crawford didn’t smile, but Tower spotted laughter in his eyes. “All right, Tower. Do what you can. Get Browning’s input. Check with Renee in Crime Analysis. But get out there and find a witness.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And get me copies of both files. I’m going to have to alert the media on this.”
“I understand.”
“I figure you want the whammo thing as a keep back?”
Tower nodded. “Yeah. Just in case the false confessions start rolling in.”
“All right.” Crawford looked down at the paperwork on his desk, signaling a dismissal.
Tower turned and left the office.
0837 hours
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Lieutenant Alan Hart said to the man on the telephone. “From what you’re telling me, the officers behaved quite inappropriately.”
“I pay their wages,” the man on the other end said. “I don’t need them coming to my house and being smart-asses. Or cussing at me. Especially when I’m the victim.”
“I agree,” Hart replied. “Mr. Elway, would you be willing to come down to the police station and sign a formal complaint?”
“Well…”
“You needn’t worry about any repercussions. If an officer were to retaliate in any way against a citizen who files a complaint…”
“It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t have my Beemer back yet. And you guys aren’t even looking for it.”
Hart cleared his throat. “I can come to you with the complaint form, Mr. Elway.”
“Fine. But what about my stolen car?”
“I’ll have an officer dispatched right away.”
“Good.”
“Thanks for calling, Mr. Elway,” Hart said. “It’s citizens like you that make this department a better one.”
“I just want my car back,” Elway said. “But what’s going to happen to those two clowns you guys sent up here?”
“They’ll be dealt with,” Hart assured him.
“I hope so. Guys like that shouldn’t be cops.”
“I agree.”
Elway hung up without a word.
Hart replaced the receiver. He finished scratching out the nature of the complaint on his notepad. He’d transfer it later to an official form, but he liked to get it all down while the call was still fresh.
O’Sullivan and Battaglia. A couple of hot-shot, graveyard jokers. He used to come across the two of them as they were getting off of graveyard shift and he was coming on day shift, back when he was the lieutenant for day shift patrol. He still recalled the arrogant, condescending looks they’d cast toward him as they bit off the words, “Good morning, Lieutenant.”
Well, he had them cold now. From Tad Elway’s statement, they’d get charged for Officer Demeanor and Inadequate Response. The demeanor charge was iffy on O’Sullivan, but when Battaglia cursed and was directly rude to Elway, that sealed things. While that charge might only result in a written reprimand, the inadequate response had some teeth. A citizen reported a stolen vehicle and officers failed to take a report. That was serious. There might even be a suspension on the horizon for both officers.
Hart smiled. He wondered how funny those two jokers — no, Elway had called them ‘clowns’ and he liked that better. He wondered how funny those two clowns thought a suspension would be.
When he’d finished making his notes, he fired up his computer. He typed in his password — INTEGRITY, something a lot of River City officers could improve upon — and opened a new, official complaint form.
He assigned a case number. When the previous investigators ran IA, they investigated about fifty complaints a year. Most, even Hart had to admit, were frivolous. But he felt that those investigators had been lazy. Either that, or they were overly sympathetic to the officers.
Hart didn’t have that problem. It was only April, and he’d investigated fifty-three already.
Correction, he thought as he typed in the narrative of Tad Elway’s complaint.
Fifty-four.
His phone rang.
He snatched the receiver off the hook eagerly. “River City Police Internal Affairs. Lieutenant Hart speaking.”
“Is this where I’m supposed to call to complain about an officer’s driving?”
Hart nodded, even though the caller couldn’t see him. “Yes, it is.”
“Good. Because this guy was flying. And he wasn’t even using his siren.”
“Really?” Hart raised his eyebrows. If that were true, that was a clear policy violation. Another slam-dunk complaint.
“Yeah. And if you ask me, that’s bullshit.”
“When was this, sir?”
“Last night,” the caller said. “Look, I’ve been in trouble before and I’ve been hassled by the police. So if I have to obey the law, then so does he.”
“That’s true.” Hart agreed. He often felt that police officers believed themselves to be above the law.
“And if it was such an emergency, why didn’t he turn on his siren. Or at least his lights?”
“I don’t know,” Hart answered. “But I’ll find out.”
“Good.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Marty Heath.”
“And did you get a car number on the patrol vehicle you saw speeding last night, Mr. Heath?”
“Oh, I did more than that,” Heath gloated. “I’ve got pictures.”