CHAPTER 8

 

By the time Kearns got to his apartment the sky was overcast and the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. Flakes of snow were starting to descend, and his hands shook when he inserted his key into the apartment door. He didn’t know whether the shaking of his hands was from the falling temperature or the day’s events. After several tries he got the door open and switched on the light.

Kearns’ apartment was sparsely furnished. He’d had little time and money to obtain furniture since his police academy graduation. The apartment did have a sound heater, however, and he turned it up to take the chill from his bones.

His head hurt, and he was exhausted, but he knew he couldn’t sleep. Over and over again he replayed the day’s stark scenes in his mind. He couldn’t erase the images and sounds of the murderous attack. The crunch of his shoes on the pavement as he jogged; the frantic voice of the now-dead teacher; the chorus of terrified children; the deafening report of the pistol; the big man’s emotionless eyes. It was a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

Kearns went to the kitchen and started a kettle to boil. He felt cold and weak, and knew the adrenaline deficit was responsible. He removed his revolver from his belt and placed it on the kitchen table.

The weapon, a Smith & Wesson Model 19 .357 magnum with a 2 ½ in barrel, was purchased when he’d graduated the police academy as an off-duty gun. His departmentally-issued duty revolver was still at the station in his locker.

Kearns stared at the blue steel of the compact revolver and wished he’d had the weapon when jogging this morning. The kettle’s whistle broke his reverie. He gripped the kettle with both trembling hands to keep from spilling the boiling water. A pounding on his apartment door startled him, and he nearly scalded himself.

He heard several loud voices outside his apartment door. Someone was knocking on the door and ringing the bell simultaneously. Cursing, he put down the kettle and answered the door.

He was immediately blinded by a flash. A din of voices bellowed, and he blinked his eyes to clear them. He was aware of people crowding his doorway. Gradually his vision returned.

The group was carrying an array of cameras, videocams, and sound-recording gear, like peasants bearing pitchforks and torches as they stormed a castle during a revolt. Kearns was puzzled and angry all at once. How did the reporters find out where he lived?

“Deputy Kearns,” a woman’s voice erupted from the crowd, “did you know the child was murdered today?” Without waiting for an answer, the same voice asked, “Did you know after the kidnapper got away from you, that the child would in all likelihood be killed?”

Another voice, a man’s, came fast and harsh. “Deputy, do you know the kidnapper? Have you ever seen him before? Was he–”

Still another voice interrupted, “Deputy, have you spoken with the child’s parents? Did you know they were at the hospital at the same time you were?”

Kearns reeled, as more questions were hurled. Camera bulbs flashed sporadically, and he was aware of microphones in various shapes and sizes being thrust at him like weapons. The crowd of reporters pushed towards him, as those in the rear moved forward to get their microphones and cameras in. He tried to close his apartment door and found feet blocking it.

The deputy pushed his way into the crowd and moved the bustle of reporters away from his door. As soon as he cleared a path, he backpedaled into his apartment and closed the door and locked it. Instantly the doorbell began to ring again and the pounding resumed.

Kearns’ hands fumbled the phone from its cradle. After several tries he dialed the number of the sheriff’s department.

“Sheriff’s office, is this an emergency?”

“This is Kevin Kearns. Get me Evers.”

After a moment, “Dick Evers here.”

“Sarge, it’s Kevin.”

“You’re gonna have to speak up,” Evers said. “I can barely hear you.”

“That’s what I’m calling about. There’s a mob of reporters at my apartment. They won’t leave.”

“How the hell did they find out where you live?”

“I don’t know. Maybe somebody followed me.”

“Sit tight. Don’t talk to any of them. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Thanks.”

He hung up the phone and sat down on a worn sofa he’d bought at a garage sale. His tea grew cold, and he didn’t have the energy to make more. His head pounded in concert with the incessant pounding on his door. He felt like screaming.

Instead, Kevin Kearns put his face into his shaking hands and cried.

By the time Evers arrived Kearns had wiped away his tears and calmed his breathing. He wasn’t proud of his crying jag, but once over it he found his hands had steadied. He poured the remainder of his tea down the sink and ran cold water over his face. He noticed the pounding on his door had stopped. This silence was followed a moment later by Evers’ familiar drawl.

“Open up, Kevin, it’s me.” Kearns opened the door, hoping any evidence that he’d been crying had washed away under the water.

Evers came in, his breath visible. Behind him came Detective Rod Parish, who Kearns had only met once before. Kearns could see two uniformed deputies outside, roughly dispersing the crowd of reporters.

Evers made introductions, and Parish and Kearns shook hands.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Kearns said.

“This was bound to happen,” said Evers. “Besides, we need to move you anyway.”

“Move me?”

It was Parish who answered. “Kevin, things went to shit after you left the station. The sheriff held a press conference and opened his big goddamned mouth. There’re at least a hundred people at the department, and more coming every minute. Reporters from every network, school administration people, church groups, plus the usual troublemakers and rubberneckers. It’s a zoo.” Parish looked around for a place to spit tobacco. Kearns found a plastic cup emblazoned with the Iowa State Cyclone and handed it to the detective.

After Parish spit, he continued. “The citizens don’t know what happened, and they’re all worked into a lather. Folks are confused; they’re grieving, and angry, and some of em are asking how come the girl’s dead and you ain’t. The press ain’t helping things any, either. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s a mob alright,” Evers added. “It’s ugly as hell, and getting uglier.”

Kearns felt a stab of pain in his stomach.

“Like I told you at the hospital, people get crazy at times like this; they don’t think. Some are jumping to foolish conclusions. Folk are looking to make sense out of something nobody can make sense of. They want someone to blame.” Evers took off his hat and wiped his brow. “They’re blaming you.”

“He’s right, kid. Things are really hot,” Parish said, around his plug. “There have been threats.”

“Threats? Against me?”

“Take it easy. Like I said, people get crazy.”

Kearns ran his hands through his hair, flinching when he inadvertently rubbed the fresh stitches. “What the hell did I do? Why would somebody want to threaten me?”

“It’s what they think you didn’t do, Kevin. Folks are worked up and looking to lash out,” Parish said. “You’re the most convenient target.”

“I’m not responsible for what happened to that little girl! Is somebody implying that I caused the girl’s death? That I’m responsible?”

“Sheriff Coates didn’t exactly say you weren’t,” said Evers.

“That fucking blowhard can’t keep his mouth shut,” said Parish. Evers nodded in agreement, cursing under his breath.

“What did the sheriff say?”

“He didn’t say you were the cause of anything,” Evers said, kneading his hat in his large, calloused hands.

“But he damn sure didn’t say you weren’t,” finished Parish. “Buck’s no JFK when it comes to public speaking on a good day, but with the crowd the way it was, he should have kept his mouth shut. I think he was trying to showboat and score a few votes, but all he did was rile everybody up. Damn near caused a riot right out in front of the station.”

“How did reporters find out where I live? My address and phone number are unlisted.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody at the station leaked it,” Parish said. “Besides, it’s a small town. They’d have found you eventually.”

“Buck goes up for re-election in less than a year,” Evers explained. “He’s already campaigning, and he’s afraid of voter backlash. He wants to distance himself. The sheriff’s got no loyalty to you; you’re a rookie. Hell, you’re still on probation. And now you’re a source of controversy. He ain’t saying you did anything to cause today’s crime spree, but he damn sure ain’t sticking up for you, either.”

“And that ain’t all,” said Parish. He spit a wad of brown juice into the plastic cup for emphasis. “That FBI fucker you crowned, Scanlon? He’s madder than hell. He was at the hospital getting his face repaired when all the reporters showed up. He’s been running off at the mouth about what a reckless asshole you are. Said even though the investigation is still in preliminary stages, he can’t eliminate you as somehow connected to the kid’s disappearance, that sort of shit.”

“Swell,” said Kearns. “What am I supposed to do?”

“First off, we get you out of here,” said Evers.

“Yeah,” agreed Parish. “We’ve got to move you. You’re a hot potato. At this point, I wouldn’t put anything past anybody.”

“You’re not taking the threats seriously, are you?”

All Kearns got for an answer was a hard look from both veteran cops.

“Pack a bag,” said Evers. “Take plenty of clothes. I don’t know how long you’re going to have to lay low.”

Kearns began stuffing clothes and toiletry items into a green army duffel bag. The last thing he packed was the snub-nosed Smith & Wesson magnum from the table and a box of cartridges. He followed Detective Parish and Sergeant Evers from his apartment.

Parish led them to an unmarked sheriff’s sedan parked nearby. Evers dismissed the two deputies who stood guard, and they left in their patrol car. There was half an inch of snow on the ground, and more was coming down. Parish fired up the cruiser and the trio drove off. Kearns sat in the back with Evers riding shotgun next to Parish.

No one spoke as they drove past the city limits and onto Interstate 35. The snow was getting thick on both the road and the windshield, and the wipers worked hard. After ten minutes on the highway Parish pulled into a roadside motel.

All three men exited the car, and Parish produced a key to a room on the ground floor. Kearns lugged his bag in, followed by the two deputies. He didn’t ask why Parish didn’t check in.

“OK, Kevin, you’re on your own,” said Parish. “Don’t go out of the room. There are a lot of out-of-town folks, especially reporters, who are going to be flooding these roadside motels. Don’t give them a chance to spot you. We’ll check in tomorrow.”

“I’m supposed to hide out? Like a criminal?”

“Don’t think of it that way,” said Parish, spitting in the snow. “More like a witness.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not being stashed in a shitbox motel with orders to keep out of sight.”

“It’s only for a while,” said Evers. “Until things cool off a bit. Try to relax.”

“Could you?”

Evers and Parish exchanged a look. “We’ll be in touch. Lock the door behind us.” They left.

Kearns looked around the dingy room. The bed had a device which vibrated if you inserted coins. There was a rotary phone, a bible, two white towels in a bathroom which smelled too strongly of Lysol to be truly clean, and a battered color TV with cigarette scars on its simulated wood grain plastic top.

He placed his bag and took off his coat, removing his revolver from the pocket. He opened the wheelgun and made sure there were six cartridges nestled in the cylinder. He replaced the handgun into his coat and slung it over a battered chair.

Kearns checked his watch. It was past 10 o’clock. He switched on the TV and found a news station. The picture wasn’t great, but the sound was adequate. He settled on the bed, watching and listening intently. The television was tuned to a nationally-broadcast news network.

“In political news today, the Tower Commission released a damning appraisal of the Reagan administration’s direct involvement in the Iran-Contra affair. What President Reagan personally knew of his administration’s decision to sell arms to Iran through Israel in exchange for the release of hostages held by Hezbollah is still under investigation.”

Kearns switched to local news.

“Tragedy struck in rural Iowa today. An unidentified gunman apparently kidnapped a seven year-old elementary schoolgirl after gunning down her teacher during a brazen daylight attack. We have received unconfirmed reports that after making his getaway, the lone gunman sexually assaulted the child and killed her by unknown means.”

Kearns held his breath and wrapped his arms tightly around his chest.

“What made this particular act of violence especially brutal,” droned the monotone voice of the anchorman, “is the fact that the suspect, according to law enforcement sources speaking on condition of anonymity, apparently left the victim’s body at a well-traveled highway rest stop. Steve Buchanan, on location, has more on the story.”

The TV picture switched to a shot of the Franklin Roosevelt Elementary School crime scene, with cops, ambulances, and a large crowd milling about. The location reporter, Buchanan, was babbling away in the same monotone as the anchorman who’d introduced him. Kearns barely heard him. In the background, medics were loading a sheet-covered stretcher into the back of an ambulance.

From there the image changed to a still-photo of a matronly woman in horn-rimmed glasses, standing proudly by a group of small children. The reporter described the woman as a dedicated teacher, churchgoer, and grandmother who died courageously trying to save a child in her care.

Kearns felt queasy. He wanted to turn off the TV but couldn’t take his eyes from the screen.

The TV shifted to a picture of Tiffany Meade. The shot showed a small girl with a kitten in her arms sitting in front of a Christmas tree. She was wearing pajamas and an ear-to-ear smile. Kearns flinched, tears forming in the corners of both eyes.

The camera changed once again. It switched back to the reporter, Buchanan, this time standing in a field. Snow was falling and his breath was visible. In the background, ringed by yellow crime-scene tape, were state troopers and sheriff’s deputies. There was also a crowd of onlookers. The reporter motioned to a grove of trees, and indicated those very trees were the location where young Tiffany Meade’s body was discovered.

Kearns closed his eyes hard in an effort to stop the flow of tears. He opened them an instant later to see footage of the hospital, taken earlier that afternoon. Hospital staff scurried about tending to the hysterical children and adults in shock. He knew while those pictures were filmed he’d been inside the hospital getting his head sewn up. He listened to Buchanan’s estimation of how hard the solid, blue-collar community was rocked by the tragic event.

“We are receiving mixed reports that an off-duty sheriff’s deputy may have been somehow entangled in the day’s events. Unconfirmed rumors have surfaced that the deputy has refused to cooperate with the FBI task force. There’s been no comment from the deputy, who’s been tentatively identified as Deputy Kevin Kearns, a rookie with less than a year’s tenure on the department.”

Kearns’ jaw dropped. He watched his police academy graduation photo displayed on television. He was shaking his head in disbelief when the familiar face of Sheriff Buck Coates lit up the screen.

“...assure you that my department will do everything possible to apprehend the individual responsible for today’s crime. You all can count on that. You have Buck Coates’ word on it.”

Kearns couldn’t believe his ears. Coates was using the incident as a campaign platform. He began to understand Detective Parish’s assertion that a scapegoat was in the making.

The news story continued with a sketch artist’s rendering of the suspect. The description was given to detectives earlier by Kearns at the hospital. The story ended with an admonition that the suspect was considered armed and dangerous.

The news broadcast returned to the stern but friendly face of the anchorman, who said the current Tri-State manhunt for the suspect was the most extensive in the region’s history. Kearns switched the TV off.

He wiped the tears from his eyes angrily and drew the curtains apart. He hadn’t turned on the lights inside the motel room. Outside, gentle but heavy snowflakes descended on a blanket of fresh snow and reflected off the neon lights of the motel sign, casting an eerie glow. Kearns watched the falling snow. It reminded him of the picture of Tiffany Meade on the TV a moment ago. She was cuddling a kitten near a Christmas tree. But Tiffany Meade would never see another Christmas.