Stedman eyed the yellow tape crisscrossed over the doorway to the parole office. ‘I surely don’t like the looks of that.’ He walked over and looked into the office.
‘So far, it’s just a precaution. Like I told you, there’s not a lot of blood. Might not even be a crime. Maybe an accident of some kind.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Stedman looked grim. ‘Let me tell you how this works. When these guys get out, we tag-team them pretty close for a while, especially the repeats running through the system for the second or third time. You never know what those guys are going to do, which means we do everything by the book, and then some. If he hadn’t shown up for the meet yesterday, Doyle would have called me, right after he called out a warrant. Plus, Weinbeck never checked into the house by curfew last night – another automatic for a warrant, which was why I was trying to reach Doyle. Trust me, the man was here, he’s running now, he’s got a history of violence, and this doesn’t look good.’
Tinker kept his face expressionless. He was just hearing what his gut had told him all along, but didn’t much like hearing it out loud. He looked at the soft case Stedman was carrying. ‘Thanks for bringing that over. Hell of a day to ask a man to come outside.’
‘No sweat. I’ve been locked in a house for two days with sixteen stir-crazy ex-cons. I need to see your creds before I show you this.’
Tinker handed over his badge case and watched the man’s eyes shift from the ID to his face, then back again. ‘Okay, Detective. Did you get a chance to look around for Doyle’s copy of the file?’
Tinker nodded. He’d spent the last twenty minutes in latex gloves going through every piece of paper and every file in and on Steve’s desk, including the locked drawers. ‘There’s nothing here with Weinbeck’s name on it, except a notation in Steve’s day planner for yesterday’s meet.’
Stedman sighed and headed for a padded bench on one wall. He sat down, put his case on the floor between his feet, and pulled out a fat file folder. ‘Kurt Weinbeck, did three out of five in Stillwater. They cut him loose Friday on a conditional release – six months with me and my boys.’
Tinker asked, ‘What was he in for?’
‘This.’ Stedman handed him a sheaf of photos.
Even Officer Chalmers recoiled when he saw the one on top. ‘Jesus. What is that?’
‘That,’ Stedman replied, ‘is what his wife looked like last time he was through with her. Seven and a half months pregnant.’
Tinker took a closer look at the photo. He could recognize it as a person now that he knew what he was looking at, but just barely. He glanced at the rest of the photos of a ruined face, then turned them upside down on the bench. ‘Are you telling me he only did three for a double?’
Stedman sighed and started thumbing through the rest of the papers in the file until he found the wife’s hospital records. ‘Believe it or not, she and the kid lived through it. Six months in the hospital, and about a million surgeries over the next two years to put her back together again. She’s the reason I wanted you to tear this place apart looking for Doyle’s copy of this file. That’s the one and only place you’ll find this woman’s address.’
‘You don’t have it in yours?’
‘Nobody has access to the addresses of victims trying to stay out of sight, not even the court. Doyle had it because she had to be notified when her ex was released, and you can bet your ass he wouldn’t let that file out of his sight.’
‘So he wouldn’t have left it at home.’
‘I’ve worked with the man a long time. He wouldn’t even take that file home with information like that inside. He’d keep it here under lock and key with all the other confidential stuff. You sure you hit all the locked cabinets?’
Tinker held up a jangling key ring. ‘Every one.’
‘So we’ve got a missing parolee, a missing parole officer, and now a missing file with a victim’s address in it.’ Stedman pulled out a cigarette, leaned forward on the bench, and lit it. No one mentioned the laws against smoking in public buildings. ‘I’ve got copies of the public court documents. She took back her maiden name after the divorce. Julie Albright. That’s all I know, that’s all I can give you, except a hell of a lot of experience with guys like Weinbeck.’ He turned his head and looked Tinker in the eye. ‘He’s going after her, Detective.’
14
Sheriff Iris Rikker looked tiny behind the wheel of the big SUV, and Magozzi hoped she was tall enough to reach the pedals. He took the passenger’s seat and let Gino slide into the back – that way, his view out the windshield would be obstructed, and he’d have less opportunity to anticipate the worst. His nonstop commentary on the way up here had nearly driven him crazy, and he was used to it. He figured the sheriff didn’t need the extra stress this morning.
Gino poked his head between the front seats. ‘You got the four-wheel engaged on this thing?’
Iris nodded. ‘The four-wheel is always engaged.’
‘Yeah? Are you sure? Because I think there should be a little light on the dashboard or something that tells you the four-wheel drive is on, right?’
‘I suppose there is.’ She put the truck into drive and eased forward out of the parking lot.
‘I don’t see it.’
‘What?’
‘The four-wheel-drive light.’
Iris glanced over at Magozzi, who was trying not to smile.
‘It’s right there, Gino.’ Magozzi pointed to the center console.
Gino slumped back in his seat.
As they crawled down the hill toward the lake, the crime scene and surrounding activity materialized out of a blurry white mist of snow: there were county cars, state patrols, the BCA vans, and a few civilian vehicles that Magozzi hoped belonged to off-duty cops and not the general public. No media yet, thank God. But most notable was a garishly colorful tent with stripes and polka dots and smiling clown faces plastered all over it erected out on the frozen lake itself.
Gino leaned forward again. ‘What the hell is that? Is the circus in town, or what?’
‘That’s the crime scene,’ Iris replied.
‘Nice tent,’ Gino remarked. ‘Really sets the mood. Are you handing out candy, too?’
As far as Iris knew, she didn’t even have a temper. Cats threw up on her, men cheated on her, the high-schoolers she taught used to ignore her most of the time, and not once had she felt the compulsion to fire back an answering shot. Maybe it was because she placed cats, husbands, and high-schoolers on the same mental level – all creatures who were incapable of change, biologically mandated to behave a certain way. Or maybe it was because fighting back simply wasn’t in her nature. She had the feeling that Detective Gino Rolseth was going to change all that, because she had to struggle to keep her tone even. ‘Bob’s Party Rental on Main Street was kind enough to donate it. It was all we could get on short notice.’
Gino grunted. ‘Great. We’re gonna have every kid in the county swarming the place, trying to buy tickets.’
‘Perhaps we could leave you at the entrance and you could hold them off with your big gun,’ Iris said sweetly, and then snapped her mouth shut, wondering where that had come from.
‘Yeah, well I took a look, and your gun’s bigger than mine. Besides, from what I hear, dealing with kids is what you’re trained for.’
Magozzi slid down in the passenger seat a little and covered his eyes.
Iris skidded into an empty space at the landing and slammed the truck into park. So that’s what this was about. Not just the pompous city cop looking down his nose at the county cops. This was all about her, the English teacher wearing the sheriff’s badge. The woman wearing the sheriff’s badge. He probably hated all women. Sexist pig. Then again, he could just be a conscientious detective who didn’t want an important investigation fumbled by someone as inexperienced as she was. Lord knows she couldn’t blame him for that. If there was one thing Iris knew, it was the extent of her own incompetence.