AT HIS DESK, AS SEVEN O’CLOCK IS APPROACHING, DULAC IS reading and studying the special log for himself and considering ongoing steps in an investigation. In an hour or so, to look around and to be there when the principal and the teachers arrive, he will drive to the boy’s Little Harbor Elementary School, to at least allow the school idea its chance, he thinks. Then he will place things in motion.
Returning the special log, he sees that the officer on duty is the same one who took the call on the Men Who Love Boys chapter alleged to be forming in the area. “Yes,” the officer said, “it did seem like a local call.”
“Tell me exactly what was said,” Dulac tells him.
“Well, this guy said, ‘Are you people aware that a Men Who Love Boys chapter is forming in the Seacoast area?’ I said, ‘Sir, could you give me your name, please.’ He said, ‘No, I won’t do that. I just think you should be aware that one of these groups is starting up here, and that they do work to recruit young boys.’ Then he hung up.”
“He said ‘work’?” Dulac says.
“Yes sir, that’s what he said.”
Moments later, when Sergeant Mizener comes in, Dulac tells him to check out the group. “Check with Boston, but also Portland and Concord,” Dulac says. “See what they can tell us. Explain our situation, that we have a twelve-year-old missing. Mainly, see if they think there’s any connection. Make up a little report for me. Make sure you get the names of people you talk to, because we’ll probably be following up on known sex offenders. What do you think? Does this make sense to you?”
“None of this shit has ever made sense to me,” Mizener says. “It sure as hell is out there, though. I don’t know why it wouldn’t come here. Everything else is.”
Well, Mizener isn’t going to be much help, Dulac is thinking, even as he hears himself say, knows it is coming from his exhaustion, his lack of sleep, “Neil, goddamit you sound like some old reactionary cop. It looks clear now that this boy has been picked up. If we’re going to get him back, or if we’re going to avoid having some other kid picked up, we’re going to have to play a little smarter game than that.”
Mizener, reprimanded, appears stunned. “Why does it look clear?” he says. “I thought everyone expected him to show up this morning at school.” Mizener is staring at him.
Dulac is surprised himself at his little outburst, which seemed to run away on its own. “Listen, I apologize for barking,” he says. “I’m tired. But do you really think the little boy is going to show up in school this morning? You really think that?”
“You obviously don’t. That’s the word that came down, that’s all I know.”
Dulac pauses, checks himself from barking again. Then he says, “Shirley Moss will be here any minute; she can help with the calls coming in.”
“She’s going to screen the calls?” Mizener says.
“Right. You do the phone stuff, and we’ll work together on other things. Right now, today—this afternoon and evening, too, when the paper comes out—is going to be our best time. Our most important time, if this little boy has been picked up. Somebody has to have seen something. Pass that on to everyone. Someone has to have seen something. The calls are important.”
“Lieutenant, I think you are tired—if you don’t mind my saying so. Maybe someone else should take on this case.”
“What?” Dulac says.
“It’s another case, Lieutenant, is all it is.”
Dulac stares at him. “I know exactly what it is,” he says.
Mizener makes an expression, dismisses the question.
“I’ll be at Little Harbor School,” Dulac says. “Anything comes in that looks halfway promising, I want to be called. Even if it’s questionable, I want to be called.”
Dulac starts to turn away and turns back. “I mean what I say about this being the best time. I don’t want any screw-ups on that. I want people listening—carefully.”
Going on then, he says to himself, Jesus, you are in a state of mind. At his desk, though, fixing his cuffs to his belt, slamming shut a drawer, still in debate with Mizener, he imagines saying to him, Someone better take charge of you, because you sure as hell won’t ever take charge of anything, because you’re a fucking loser is what you are, a fucking reactionary cop.
A moment later he is looking for Shirley Moss on his way back through the building—he’d like to have any kind of exchange with her, as a person he likes—but she seems not to be in yet. He goes on, strides along the driveway to his car at the rear of the building. Easy now, he says to himself.