“That’s nice.”
She went back to her computer. The police department’s server had been down, and her web site had just gone live. She was monitoring the postings on the site’s blog, hoping Mr. Clean took the bait. There was technology which would have enabled her to read the site’s blog on her BlackBerry, only no one in the building knew how to use it.
“Those coffees must be hot,” she said.
“You bet they’re hot. They’re burning my fingers.”
“Put them on the desk and have a seat.”
DuCharme put the food on the desk. He grabbed a chair and sat so their legs were nearly touching. Shredding the bag, he removed two huge Danish pastries dripping with sweet cheese, and offered Vick one.
“No thanks,” Vick said.
“Aw, come on. They’re really good.”
“I was raised never to eat anything bigger than my head.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Roger, I’m sure.”
DuCharme inhaled the first Danish as if it were his last meal, gulped down his coffee, then attacked the second with the same gusto. The crescendo was a deep belch which he smothered with his fist.
“You’ve piqued my curiosity,” she said. “What’s cougar-time?”
“It’s when older women pursue younger men,” DuCharme said, licking the sugar off his fingers.
“And why would that pertain to me?”
He pointed at the photographs of Mr. Clean’s three victims lying on the desk. “Those are three good-looking boys,” he said.
“Those are our victims. In case you hadn’t noticed, Mr. Clean is picking good-looking teenage boys to kidnap and kill. I was studying them.”
“I thought Mr. Clean was picking them because they were punks.”
“Punks?”
“Yeah. You know, trash.”
“Why do you call them that? Because they’ve killed?”
“Damn straight.”
“They’re still victims.”
“Society’s better off with them gone, you ask me.”
No one asked you, Vick nearly said. She stifled the urge to blow him off, and tried a more tactful approach. “Society treats young people who kill differently than adults. Young people, especially teenage boys, often act impulsively, and don’t fully comprehend the consequences of what they’re doing.”
“What… we should let them skate?”
“No, just give them another chance.”
“Why do that?”
“So they can be rehabilitated.”
DuCharme pointed at Wayne Ladd’s photo. “That boy stuck a bayonet through his mother’s boyfriend’s heart. He got right in his victim’s face, and looked him in the eye when he killed him. There’s no changing punks like that.”
Vick wanted the conversation to end. A new posting had appeared on the web site’s blog. Reading it, the skin on her scalp turned warm and prickly.
The police are never going to catch this guy because the police don’t know what they’re doing. They’re fucking assholes. They look at things, and only see what they want to see. How can people that fucking stupid expect to solve a crime. Answer: THEY CAN’T!
Someone with real anger toward the police had written this. The claim that the police would never catch the killer was also troubling. Vick typed a command into her computer that allowed her to access the filter on the site. The author’s IP address appeared on her screen, along with the physical address of the author’s computer. The posting had been made from a computer terminal at the Broward County main library.
Vick phoned the library and spoke to the sheriff’s deputy in charge of security. She asked the deputy how many cops were on duty.
“I’ve got five officers in the building,” the deputy said.
“Get them together, and go to where the computer terminals are located,” Vick said. “Have your officers hold whoever’s sitting at those computers. Our suspect is a large Cuban male between thirty-five and fifty years of age. He’s armed and extremely dangerous. I’ll be right there.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the deputy said.
Vick hung up and grabbed her purse off the back of her chair. She was halfway out the door when she spotted DuCharme frantically punching a number into his cell phone. She paid it no heed, and hurried down the hallway toward the elevators.
The Broward County library was an imposing six-story structure on the corner of Andrews Avenue and SW 6th Street in downtown Fort Lauderdale. A covered walkway protruding from the building’s second floor led to an elevated parking garage across the street, which also serviced the nearby courthouse. Vick had planned to park in the garage and use the walkway, only there was a problem. The front of the library was jammed with police cars, both marked and unmarked. Unable to maneuver around them, she put her FBI decal on the dash, and parked in a bus zone. She turned to DuCharme, who sat in the passenger seat.
“Is this your doing?” she asked angrily.
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” the detective said.
“What if Mr. Clean was listening to the police patrol car conversations on a scanner, and heard your distress call go out? You didn’t say our suspect was a serial killer, did you?”
“I may have…”
“You idiot.”
Vick jumped out of the car and slammed the door. She ran up the steps while pinning her FBI badge to her jacket lapel. The library’s head of security greeted her at the front door. His name was Deputy Murphy, and he had snow white hair and the weary gloss of an older cop. She waited until they were inside an elevator before speaking.
“Tell me what you’ve got,” Vick said.
“We detained four people who were on the library computers using the Internet,” Murphy said. “I spoke to the librarian who monitors the computer area, and she said they were the only patrons on the computers at the time you called.”
“Describe them.”
“Suspect number one is a retired postman in his late-seventies. Number two is an overweight white male in his late teens. Number three, an expectant housewife. Number four, a smart-mouthed teenage girl.”
None of them matched Mr. Clean’s profile. Yet one of them had written the angry post on the web site. Vick needed to find out why. The door parted with a hiss and they got out on the sixth floor.
“Is the teenage girl giving you a lot of crap?” Vick asked.
“She won’t shut up.”
“Cursing?”
“Quite a bit. It took me by surprise. She’s clearly upset about something.”
“That’s the one I’m looking for. Let’s put her in a room by herself. I’m going to grill her.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
DuCharme appeared as Vick was preparing to question suspect number four. He was out of breath, and had been searching the building for her. He tried to apologize, and Vick cut him off at the knees.
“You get in trouble every time you open your mouth,” Vick said.
“Look, I’m really…”
“Shut up.”
He nodded compliance. Vick grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The room was windowless, with a round conference table and eight chairs. Plastered on the walls were posters of Dr. Seuss characters promoting National Reading month. A sullen teenage girl sat in a chair at the end of the table. Deputy Murphy stood behind her, his arms crossed.
Vick cleared her throat as she entered the conference room. She heard DuCharme shut the door behind her. That made him good for something.
“Hello,” Vick said. “My name is Special Agent Vick, and I’m with the FBI.”
The girl’s mouth dropped open and panic lit up her eyes. She was the complete package. Luscious face, full bosom, hypnotic eyes, small waist. The kind of girl that boys dreamed about late at night, and fought over in schoolyards. Her clothes were suggestive, and showed cleavage and plenty of well-tanned skin.
“What’s your name?” Vick asked.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” the girl shot back.
Vick came around the desk so fast that the girl pulled back in her chair.