“Un-fucking-believable!” she shouted. “How could you misspell cheetah?” The nine-year-old boy cringed at her verbal attack. “You had the spelling bee won. It was yours. My God… cheetah! You let cheetah ruin it? And those people who told you that you should be proud were all full of shit. No one will remember that you took second place. By next week, everyone will have forgotten who the poor dumb sap was who couldn’t spell fucking cheetah!”
Most boys under such an attack would have broken down, reduced to a sobbing mess. Years of such attacks had hardened this particular nine-year-old. He narrowed his eyes, packing the pain further back in, back where the little boy who could cry was buried.
“What the hell are you looking at? Get your ass up to bed,” she growled vehemently.
“I haven’t had supper yet,” he barked stubbornly.
She snapped his head back with a vicious backhand. “Don’t raise your voice to me. You need to learn that to the victor goes the spoils.” She stared at him coldly as he rubbed his jaw. “Now, make like a cheetah and run your dumb little ass up to bed.”
She watched him slowly turn, then make his way up the stairs. She felt a tiny pang of guilt, wondering to herself whether she just might be pushing him a little too hard. She roughly shook it off. Being exceptional took discipline, her mind reasoned. It took drive, character. She could spoil him, ruin him, but when he turned out ordinary, she was the one who would shoulder the blame.
Satisfied that she had acted as any good mother would have, she mentally asked God Almighty to give her the strength, the will, to continue doing what she had to do. She felt that the warm feeling she was experiencing was God’s answer to her prayer. He understood that she was going to make certain that her boy was special.
◆ ◆ ◆
The week passed with relative calm. The realization that the investigation was at a standstill had long since settled in on Sydney and crew. News coverage had become a death watch. When will the Butcher strike again? was the constant question.
Ellis sat at his desk Thursday afternoon, contemplating that same question, when his thinking was interrupted by the ringing phone. “Yeah, Sergeant Moore.”
“Terry Morrell, Sergeant.”
Ellis sat up, grabbing a pen. “Terry, how goes it?”
“All’s quiet here.”
“Yep, nothing new here either.”
“I wanted to let you know that we are flying in tomorrow.”
“What time?” Ellis asked, his pen poised.
“We should be arriving a little after five p.m.”
“I did some checking, Terry—Reed was definitely in town during the times of each of the murders.”
“I already told you that he was in town for every murder,” Terry replied, irritation creeping into his voice. “I hope you guys haven’t spent the entire week checking into things I have already laid in your laps.”
“Isn’t it strange for a senator to be away from the Capital so often?” Ellis asked, shifting gears.
“You’d be surprised at the attendance records of some of these guys,” Terry replied, smirking. “The bitch of it is, they still manage to get re-elected, and with no two-term limit either. Actually, Reed has an above average attendance history. We mainly go home on weekends, occasionally staying over until Monday. There have been a few other days along the way because of the campaign, of course.”
“How does Reed spend his evenings in Washington?”
“Just like he spends his evenings in New York—on the prowl. He goes bar hopping almost every night, sometimes alone, more often with cronies.”
“Looking for women?” Ellis asked rhetorically.
“Oh yeah—and usually finding them.”
Ellis frowned, shaking his head. “See, Terry, I have a problem with that. If killing women is a sick impulse of his, why no murders in DC?” Why only in New York?”
“I don’t know. I guess because he’s following a pattern of some kind. Isn’t that what serial killer’s do?”
“Serial killers kill, Terry. If he is constantly surrounded by beautiful women in Washington, wouldn’t the temptation be overwhelming for him? Wouldn’t he slip up at least once? Wouldn’t he kill one, just for the hell of it?”
“Maybe that’s why we come home every two weeks or so. Maybe he needs the outlet. I only know that every time he goes home, someone dies.”
“But why did this start only a few months ago?”
Terry sighed audibly. “Maybe it was buried. Maybe something finally triggered the guy.”
“You must have taken psychology at Harvard,” Ellis said with a light laugh.
“Oh, I’ve checked out several books on the subject,” Terry said without hesitation. “We have a pretty good library here in DC.”
“I guess so,” Ellis said, chuckling, “the freaking Library of Congress. Anyway, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow night—after you two arrive?”
“There’s a good possibility we’ll hit the town. Reed usually goes by his place, showers, then heads straight back to the night life. I always take him up on it when he invites me, so I can keep an eye on him.” He paused. “Are you guys going to be tailing him?”
“Like I said before, we’ve been ordered to stay clear of him.”
“Then I guess it’s up to me to keep track of him,” Terry said. “If I ever do catch him in the act, there may not be enough left of him for you guys to arrest.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Ellis said sternly. “You’ve got a pretty rosy future. Don’t blow it.”
“Okay, I’ll leave the dirty work to you guys.” He paused. “Just thought of another possible reason he doesn’t kill in DC.”
“Shoot.”
“Isn’t there an old saying that a bear doesn’t shit in his own cave?”
“I heard it as a man doesn’t shit in his own bed, but I get your drift,” Ellis said with a light chuckle.
“Washington is where his fame and fortune lies,” Terry continued. “He may be purposely keeping it clean.”
“Interesting theory. Damn, you’re not only a crack psychologist, but an amateur detective to boot.”
They laughed, obviously at ease with one another. Terry finally wound the conversation down. “If anything of interest occurs, I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks for the call, Terry.”
Ellis hung up and rubbed his tired eyes. He wondered why everyone else seemed to buy the possibility of Reed being the killer, while he couldn’t seem to get a hard on for the notion. Maybe it is this fucking diet, he mused.
◆ ◆ ◆
“Ellis, you’ve got to fight the urge to treat Morrell as a confidant,” Sydney said irritably. “The cold fact of the matter is that, just like Reed, Terry Morrell fits every bit of the circumstantial evidence that we have.”
“So we ask the kid to keep an eye on Reed one minute, then treat him like a suspect the next?” Ellis asked, his temper flaring.
“In a normal scenario, I’d agree with you… but this is far from normal. Besides, Morrell was going to keep an eye on Reed whether we wanted him to or not.” Sydney noticed that he wasn’t convincing his friend. “Okay, let’s play what if. What if Morrell is our man? He sees that we’ve connected the democratic political machine. He panics—but we’re talking about an honor graduate from Harvard here—so he comes up with a great plan. He sells us the ‘Senator Reed’s a madman’ story.”
Ellis shook his head, as Sydney continued, “Then, the kid even offers to help us catch the guy—serial killer turned hero. Hey, I don’t believe it, but there is a possibility that Morrell’s our man.”
“Very remote, in my opinion,” Ellis replied.
“If you and Morrell are becoming such bosom buddies, maybe he’ll eventually let his guard down.”
“What about tomorrow night—are we gonna tail them?”
“The captain was dead serious the other day,” Sydney said shaking his head ruefully. “If we get out of line, we could seriously be writing our tickets out of here.”
“Dammit, Syd,” Ellis said, his voice rising, “we have got to resolve the Reed and Morrell connection once and for all. We will never push this thing forward until we do.”
Sydney nodded at his friend’s logic. “Then what do you propose we do?”
Ellis stared intently into Sydney’s unwavering eyes. “If another girl dies, you and me, we’ll still have our pensions… right?” Noting Sydney’s nod, he continued, “But… will we be able to sleep at night?”
Sydney knew where Ellis was headed. “The city council has Jim by the balls. Crossing them would be a very risky proposition. I wouldn’t even dream of asking you to do that.”
“Who the hell asked you to ask me?” Ellis stated calmly. “Women are dying, Syd. Real men don’t stand by and let that happen.”
Sydney realized then why he loved this portly black detective so much. “Well, then, let’s me and you catch the sumbitch.”
They nodded their mutual understanding of just what that entailed.
◆ ◆ ◆
“Jim, I need you to reconsider your stance on Reed. I’m not talking about harassing the guy—we just need to do a little digging. Not investigating the man would be a gross violation of the public trust,” Sydney said evenly to his subdued captain.
“Exactly what evidence have you come up with that would merit such a change in my stance?” Jim Bradshaw asked, somewhat sarcastically.
“How about the fact that, while he’s in Washington, we have no bodies to clean up? None. Zero. Nada.”
“You know better than that, Syd.”
“Okay, how about, because you trust my judgment? How about, because you know I wouldn’t go off half-cocked on something this important?” Sydney stared intently at the squirming man. “How about, because I asked you to?”
Jim gave him a pained expression, then stood, pacing the room. “Sydney, you know damn well what I’m up against here. If you pursue the senator, there has got to be a shitload of evidence and probable cause, or we are totally screwed.”
“Jim, there has to come a point where the mere possibility of saving a young woman’s life, far outweighs a politician’s temporary discomfort.”
Jim made eye contact with his old friend. “You realize that you’re talking about twenty-eight years for me and eighteen years for you?”
“I can’t speak for you,” Sydney said without hesitation, “but yeah, it’s definitely worth my career to save the life of a potential Patricia Swilling.” He nodded his head aggressively. “Yeah, you bet your ass it is.”
Silence hung in the air as Jim circled his desk, finally plopping down, looking older than Sydney had ever seen him. “If you come to me with more than this flimsy, circumstantial bullshit you’re peddling, then I might reconsider.”
Sydney, suddenly wondering if he had ever really known the man, asked through clinched teeth, “And until that time, it’s my ass hanging in the wind?”
“You said that, I didn’t,” Jim replied, his face reddening in anger. “What I’m officially telling you is that Senator Dexter Reed is still very much off limits.”
Sydney shook his head, more disillusioned than he had ever been. “Captain, don’t worry about accountability. I have no trouble answering to a councilman. Answering to the family of this guy’s next victim is what I want to avoid at all costs.”
Jim struck the table with his fist, a vein in his forehead standing out. “That’s enough, dammit. Don’t lay some guilt trip on me. Are you guys even looking into other possibilities on this thing? You know damn well you can’t have tunnel vision on a case like this one. My God, Syd,” he barked, “you are talking about a fifty-year-old United States fucking senator ripping girls apart!”
“Stranger shit has happened,” Sydney barked back. “By the way, he’s in his forties… and very fit for his age.”
Jim again sat, a frown adorning his face. “Okay, Syd, you’re one hell of a poker player. You’re telling me that the pitiful hand you’re holding is worth betting your entire career on?”
Sydney leaned forward, staring intently at his boss. “I’ll tell you what I am willing to bet on, Jim. The senator will be here this weekend. I will bet you a hundred bucks that the body count goes up while he’s in town.”
“That’s pretty fucking morbid,” he replied with a look of disgust.
“This is a morbid fucking case, Jim.” He stood to leave. “One last chance, Captain… let me keep an eye on him. Hell, I might even clear him entirely.”
“Sorry, Syd,” he said, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head glumly. “I guess I can assume that poker is out tonight?”
“I can honestly say that I’ve had my fill of games for one day,” Sydney answered with a wry smile. “I’ll probably be working late anyway—I’ve got grieving parents to call. They all wanna know how the case is coming along.”
Jim let the sarcasm go, something he would do for no other subordinate in the precinct. “Maybe we’ll get together next week then.”
Sydney did not answer, turning and leaving. After Sydney had closed the door, Jim Bradshaw reached across his desk, picking up the picture of his beautiful twenty-two-year-old daughter. Staring at her photogenic smile, he found himself wishing he had the balls to go along with his best cop and good friend. He found himself wondering just how long ago he had lost his nerve.
◆ ◆ ◆
He glanced through the cracked bathroom door, noticing that she was prone in the tub, her head back, her eyes closed. His eyes roved over the parts of her that were visible. Her ample breasts and the tuft of hair between her legs hypnotized him, making him helpless to move. She looked so much better than the girls in the books he kept under his mattress, the books he had worn out the past several months.
Like any thirteen-year-old boy, he was curious. She had caught him looking before, shocking him with her reaction—an amused and knowing smile. He knew that it was wrong, but the temptation was far too great. Why didn’t she just close the damn door? his mind shouted. Why parade around the house with almost nothing on?
He felt the familiar stirring in his pajama bottoms. Looking down, he saw the small tent forming. When he dared look up, he was not surprised to see her staring at him, a smile creasing her lips. He suddenly felt a rush of excitement, then the wet stream flooding his pajamas. His eyes froze on hers. Her smile widened. Then she once again laid back, closing her eyes.
He ran to his room, a confused mass of shame, excitement and humiliation.
◆ ◆ ◆
The phone rang in Sydney’s office, just as he was leaving that evening. “Yeah, Berry,” he answered gruffly.
“Sarah Beale, Lieutenant. How is the investigation going?”
“Very little has changed since we last spoke, Ms. Beale. We’re walking in quicksand, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry to hear that—I really am. The reason I’m calling—I thought of something that might be of some help.”
“Please, what’ve you got for me?” Sydney asked sincerely.
“Do you still suspect Reed and his aide?”
“Nothing has happened that would clear them of suspicion.”
“Check out their past relationships—the sexual ones. If either of them is a dynamo in the sack, I would find them less apt to be your man. There should be some form of sexual dysfunction in this fellow’s past. I feel very strongly about that.”
“Sounds reasonable to me, Ms. Beale. Unfortunately, the senator will be tricky to investigate.”
“How about the kid?” she asked. “You could at least shed some light on his sexual past.”
“I’ll get with Warren or Ellis on it,” he agreed.
“And if he’s really so eager to help you solve this case, why not have the kid give you a blood and semen sample? It could clear him once and for all.”
“I’ve been considering doing just that,” Sydney replied. “We’ve got some plans for Reed and Morrell this weekend, but if those don’t pan out, I’m going to discuss that very option with Morrell.”
“Excellent, Lieutenant. Please do let me know what happens.”
“Yes ma’am. Thanks for calling.”
The door opened as Sydney hung up. Ellis stuck his head in. “We still on for tomorrow night?”
“Yep. We’ll discuss the details in the morning. You’re not telling Warren, right?”
“I don’t see the need to risk another career,” Ellis said, shaking his head. “Besides, you and me can handle it alone.”
“We’ll need to drive two cars,” Sydney said, nodding.
“Two cars?”
“You seem to always forget that we have two suspects,” he answered. “They may split up.”
“Two cars it is.”
“Get a good night’s sleep. It just might be a late one tomorrow.”
“Just like in the old days,” Ellis said, smiling.
“Only now, we’re the ones who are old,” Sydney added grumpily.
Ellis noted Sydney’s haggard and worn look. “What’s wrong, Syd?”
“Jim… he let me down.”
“Don’t be too hard on him, man. When you sit in the big chair, you’re expected to toe the line.”
Sydney smiled wanly, shaking his head. “You didn’t know him fifteen years ago. That Jim Bradshaw would be right beside us tomorrow night. Make no damn mistake about that.”
“But this Jim Bradshaw is a captain, inside two years of retiring. We all like to think that you’re gonna replace him.”
Sydney started for the door. “After taking a closer look at the job description, I’m not sure I’m cut out for it. Besides, you’ve been smooching my ass for years. Now you can move right on over to Bradshaw’s fanny.” Sydney smiled, running his hand across the air, as though reading a name plate. “Captain Ellis Moore. How does that sound?”
“It do kinda tumble off the tongue don’t it?” Ellis said, laughing.