««—»»
Beck’s summation helped Helen see it all now, but why bother running it by Olsher? Waste of time, she thought. Not until I get more evidence or manage to find Campbell.
Campbell, she thought. Your picture’s going to be in the paper today. Try hiding from that, asshole.
Next duty on the agenda, of course, was to reinterview Tredell Rosser, who was upstairs right now in the precaution ward. But when she was crossing the lobby, she stopped in at the newsstand to pick up today’s Tribune. And—
“Goddamn!” she complained loud enough for everyone in the lobby to hear. She tore through the paper, examining every page for the composite and announcement, and—
It’s not here!
Nowhere in the paper was there any sign of Campbell’s artist composite or the corresponding announcement she’d written revealing his last name.
Helen was on the pay phone at once, to Olsher.
“Damn it, Larrel! Why wasn’t my—”
“Save your breath,” Olsher told her over the line. “You want to know why the Tribune didn’t run you sketch and blurb, well I’ll tell you. The Commissioner’s Office said no way. Shit, Helen, the PC himself howled about it.”
“Why?” Helen griped.
“Because it’s a liability. Think, girl. You don’t have enough evidence on Campbell—whoever the hell he is, if he even exists at all—to add up to squat. You go running a guy’s likeness in the paper, along with his name, saying he’s wanted for questioning by the state police violent crimes unit? You know what he does then, Helen? He sues the department for fifty million and wins. It’s defamation of character. It’s an assault on his rights.”
“Aw, Chief, give me a break!”
Olsher’s voiced turned rigid. “I gave you a break this morning when I convinced the PC to keep you on the case, Helen. He wants you off. He thinks you’ve turned into a loose gun.”
Helen squinted her incredulity. “You’re kid—”
“I’m not kidding at all, Helen. You’ve shitnamed yourself bad. That exhumation only stirred the press up more, and now this. I told the PC you’re still the best investigator we got, so he agreed to keep you on. But any more bonehead moves like this, and I can’t cover for you anymore.”
Olsher hung up even before Helen could complain further. What’s the point! she thought, walking for the elevator, a headache kicking at the inside of her skull. If it had been such a bonehead move, why had Olsher suggested she attempt authorization? Are all the men in the world thick-headed morons, or is it me?
So now she was on the PC’s hit-list. Great. Olsher was right about one thing, though: she could kiss her promotion goodbye.
I could care less, she told herself.
This news about the paper wasn’t good; however, the news once she got upstairs was worse.
Helen obstinately flashed her badge to the charge at the reception desk for the psych wing.
“I need to talk to Tredell Rosser,” she said, more distracted by her headache than anything else.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the guard informed her.
“Sorry?”
“This morning during med call, Rosser was found dead in his cell.”
— | — | —
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Hey, man.”
He turns.
The sly smile fades a bit. The beautiful deep-blue eyes open slightly in curiosity. “We met, man?
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Funny. You look sort’a familiar.”
The man smiles. That is, the man who was once the boy from Bath, Ohio.
««—»»
The Dock. He wants something off a ways from the Circle. Too much heat there lately… Thanks to me, he thinks. Another harmless bar, like Friends. The hard-hitters all went to the trade joints. But he doesn’t want that.
“Another?” he asks.
Music flutters. Some old Carly Simon tune. The barlight only embellishes the guy’s beautiful face. Cuts it down to bare, visible parts.
Maybe I’ll do that later, he thinks.
“Look, man, I appreciate the drinks and burger and all, but you know the score. I ain’t on the street ’cos I like fresh air.”
“Sure, I know. I just…like you.”
“Great. But what’s the score? We going or what?”
He nods. “Yes, yes, I’m interested,” he says a bit peevishly. But that’s not like him, is it? Not now. Not after his awakening. “I have…someone at my place.”
“A lover, huh?”
“Yes,” he says. But that’s not a lie, is it? “Can we go to your place? I…I don’t want to use a motel. I’ll even pay extra.”
“Don’t sweat it. I cop what every guy on the street cops—fifty bucks for head, a hundred for an hour. Two for all night.”
From his wallet, then, he slips out four fifty-dollar bills, then slowly slides them across the bar.
“Straight up,” the guy says. He’s handsome: chiseled, poised but kind of tough, tight clothes, and all the right moves. “Yeah, man. This is solid. Let’s go.” Another smile, sexy and sly. “I’ll do you right. Count on it.”
««—»»
Helen needed to kill time. Well, she didn’t need to—she wanted to. It was essential she talk to Tom—about Rosser’s death—but talking to Tom wasn’t something she felt too comfortable doing right now. Have some guts, Helen, she told herself. But she drove around rather aimlessly. Waiting. Stalling.
No guts were forthcoming.
She even switched on her radio as an excuse, but the hourly news highlights only offered one pulpy report about Dahmer after the next. “—entire city locked in a reign of terror.” “—when will he strike next, and where?” “—in a fruitless search for associates who helped Dahmer escape incarceration.”
“I saw him,” some whack reported on a call-in show. “I saw Dahmer! It was up near Dudley Circle. He had a beard and dyed his hair, but I just know it was him!”
“Call in your Dahmer-sightings now!” the talk-show host implored.
Idiots. Helen switched the radio off, but at the same instant, she heard over her scanner:
“Federal Signal 12. This is a Federal response request. All available city, county, and state units in proximity to Perry Point Apartments, east grid, Madison, please respond. We could use your help to secure the scene.”
At least here was an excuse to put off seeing Tom. Helen didn’t know what a Federal Signal 12 was, but Perry Point Apartments? That was Madison, the northeast fringe. And it was just around the corner.
She parked by a wave of throbbing visibars, which turned the winter twilight into a stroboscopic blue-red world. First thing she saw was a Green van with the stenciled side panel T.A. TIRES. That much I do know, she thought. T.A. Tires was a phony acronym—for T.A.T.—the F.B.I.’s Tacticle Assault Team.
We must have a hostage situation here, she realized.
She flashed her badge and ID three times, trying to get through the phalanx of armed cops from multiple departments. Then a voice called out: “Captain Closs!”