Abby, squinting, rocked forward nervously, her hands clamped in a viselike grip between her thighs.
Dart said, “I had access to the other Asian Strangler reports-Lucky wasn’t the only one. All three of the victims had been tied and bound with hemp rope. I was very proud of myself, and not thinking it through. I wrote it up and put it into the file. I requested that Teddy Bragg collect the spool from the apartment.”
“Oh, God,” she said, seeing clearly where Dart was headed.
“Not long after that, I started thinking what you’re thinking now, and it terrified me too.” He hesitated and said, “I stole two pieces of the rope from the property room-one used on Lucky Zeller, the other from the spool found in the apartment. I circumvented Teddy and submitted the samples to the lab and intercepted the return report so that no one saw it but me. It came back that the two were from the same manufacturer-more than likely the same lot run.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Zeller had somehow tracked down his wife’s killer-the Asian Strangler-and, as far as I was concerned, had probably caved in his hat and then tossed him out a window to cover it up.” He looked up at the bare limbs and the gray sky-it all seemed so dead. “I had to cover myself, because the State Police lab would itemize the work done for us in their monthly bill, and Teddy Bragg, meticulous as he is, would see it. So I properly filed the lab report in with the Ice Man file, in case he checked-put it right where it belonged.”
“Oh, shit!” she said.
Good little Boy Scout, he was chiding himself as he held up a finger to stop her briefly. “I had some thinking to do. The Asian Strangler was dead. A man who tortured and mutilated women. No cost to society. No more concerns about the threat he posed. And I had to think: What’s so wrong here? If I was right, Zeller had evened the scales, had done us all a favor, and maybe had found a way to live with the loss of his wife. He was no longer drinking. He was looking better, even talking about teaching down at the university.” He continued, “But I had left quite a trail of evidence. I had to bring it to Kowalski’s attention-to Haite and Rankin-or let it slide. Leave it where it was-divided between the property room and the file room.”
She paled noticeably.
He said strongly, “It was entirely circumstantial. I knew damn well that this was no grounder. We wouldn’t get a conviction-not if Walter Zeller was in fact the killer; he wouldn’t leave that kind of trail-”
“Oh, shit,” she said, realizing what she had done by alerting Haite to the Ice Man files.
Dart felt resolved now to tell it all. In a way it felt good to him. “But I did bring Zeller the evidence that I had. I told him what I knew, and what I thought he had done. He must have gone ten minutes without saying anything. Then he looked over at me and told me that it was time to retire. He showed no remorse, no guilt. But he had hate in his eyes-he had wanted to stay on in the department, and he knew that I had ended that.”
She scooted over to him and held him, and he felt the warmth of her through his jacket. “I’ve opened it up again.”
“It’s better, I think. This thing has damned near killed me. And now Stapleton and Lawrence and Payne-all far too close to the Ice Man.”
“Oh, shit,” she gasped.
“It’s him, Abby. I may never prove it-I don’t know how he’s doing it-but I know it in my heart, and that means that I’m responsible for those deaths. You want to talk about motivation to solve a case?”
She leaned back and caught eyes with him. “They’re slime, Joe. Every one of them is pure slime. Trust me on this. There’s no great loss here.”
“Look the other way?” he said, disgusted. “You don’t think I’ve considered that? A jury of one? Uniform justice? Shoot the guy in the alley and it’s easier on everyone? You try that out. It’s not something you can live with and keep coming to work.”
“Bullshit,” she said. “You don’t know that you’re right. You can’t prove it-you said so yourself. You need to find Zeller, to collect more evidence.”
To take control, Dart felt like adding.
“Haite will tear you apart. You’ll be suspended, investigated-and you never will find out the truth.” She added, “Do you think Kowalski will?” She checked her watch. “There’s still time.”
“For what? Me to get out of the country?” he mocked.
“To get the Ice Man files and the evidence and make them disappear.”
“You’re not serious,” Dart said.
“I got you into this.”
“Abby-”
“I am serious,” she said. “And damn it, I’m going to need your help.”
CHAPTER 21
The meeting took take place at a dirt cul-de-sac called “the swing,” a dirt track that led to an old tree overhanging the river, used in the summer to swing and splash. In November the place was certain to be deserted.
Dart remembered the location from his rookie year when the swing had been one of his patrol responsibilities. He had come upon a coed group of skinny-dipping teens and had scared them half to death.
To reach the swing, he drove to the East Hartford side, crossing Charter Oak Bridge, and headed north until the treacherous dirt track that led steeply down toward the river, and executed a hairpin turn before descending into the bulb-shaped parking area littered with beer cans. He locked the Volvo and took Mac for a short walk, going slowly so that the old dog didn’t push his arthritic bones. When Dart stopped, drinking in the view of the peaceful river and a gaggle of Canada geese skimming its surface, Mac came alongside and leaned his weight into Dart, catching his chin on Dart’s knee-for Mac, the ultimate sign of affection. He reached down and petted his head. Mac was old, having lived two more years than the vet had given him, and yet it was true: He was Dart’s best friend. The idea of losing him was too much to bear, and for this shared moment of quietude, Dart felt grateful.
He continued on and reached the edge of the river, where a thin shelf of bone white ice stretched twenty yards toward the main current. Rocks had been tossed through the ice, puncturing it with small dark holes that had bubbled river water and then scabbed over.
As darkness settled in, from across the river came the lights of the water treatment facility and the power generating station.
Dart couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched, paranoia tickling at the edges of his rational mind. And yet the area appeared to be clear.
As he climbed back up to the parking area, Mac at his side, he heard the sound of Gorman’s arriving car.
Bud Gorman, Dart’s friend whose job involved tracking a person’s credit history and spending patterns, was dressed for the cold, his big ears protruding from beneath a knit cap. Dart didn’t think of the man as possessing a nervous disposition, but this spying did make him jumpy-his nose twitched like a rabbit’s. “That’s an old dog,” he said.
“What did you find out?” Dart asked, knowing to keep this business. Gorman was a talker.
“Walter Zeller drew unemployment for two months, March to early June, three years ago.”
“After he retired,” Dart said.
“I suppose so. July through December the same year, he worked for something called Proctor Securities.”
“Yes, I remember,” Dart said.
“He pulled in six hundred forty-three a week, after withholdings. We have record of the usual phone and utility bill payments, some credit card activity for this same three-month period. Lived at-”