A Perfect Evil (26 page)

“D
o you like the baseball cards?” The mask muffled his voice. He sounded as though he were underwater. With all the dripping perspiration, he felt like it, too.

Matthew stared at him from the small bed in the corner. He sat on top of tangled bedcovers and hugged a pillow to his chest. His eyes were red and puffy. His hair stuck up in places. His soccer uniform was wrinkled. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes to sleep last night.

Light filtered in through cracks in the boarded-up window. Pieces of broken glass rattled as the wind crept in through the rotted slats. It whistled and howled, creating a ghostly moan and licking at the corners of the posters hiding the cracked walls. It was the only sound in the room. The boy hadn’t said a word all morning.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

When he approached, the boy skittered into the corner, smashing his small body against the crumbling plaster. The chain that connected his ankle to the steel bedpost clanked. There was enough length for the boy to reach the middle of the room. Yet, the cheeseburger and fries he had left last night sat untouched on the metal tray table. Even the triple-chocolate shake was still filled to the brim.

“Didn’t you like your dinner, or do you prefer hot dogs? Maybe even chili dogs? You can have anything you want.”

“I wanna go home,” Matthew whispered, squeezing the pillow, one hand twisted so he could bite his fingernails. Several were chewed down to the quick and had bled during the night. Dried blood spotted the white cotton pillowcase. It would be hell to wash out.

“Maybe you’d enjoy comic books more than baseball cards. I have some old Flash Gordons I bet you’d like. I’ll bring them with me next time.”

He finished unpacking the contents of the grocery sack: three oranges, a bag of Cheetos, two Snickers bars, a six-pack of Hires root beer, two cans of SpaghettiOs and a snack pack of Jell-O chocolate pudding. He laid each item on the old wine crate he had found in what must have been a supply room. He had gone to great lengths to get all of Matthew’s favorites.

“It may get chilly tonight,” he said as he unrolled the thick wool blanket and draped it over the bed. “I’m sorry I can’t leave a light. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“I wanna go home,” the boy whispered again.

“Your mom doesn’t have the time to take care of you, Matthew.”

“I want my mom.”

“She’s never home. And I bet she brings strange men home at night, doesn’t she? Ever since she threw your dad out.” He kept his voice calm and soothing.

“Please let me go home.”

“She leaves you alone all the time. She works late. She even works on weekends.”

“I just wanna go home.” The boy began to cry, quiet sniffles he muffled with the pillow.

“And you can’t stay with your dad.” Calm and cool. He must remain calm, though already he could feel the anger starting in his gut. “Your dad beats you, doesn’t he, Matthew?”

“I just wanna go home,” the boy whined, no longer keeping quiet.

“I’m going to help you, Matthew. I’m going to save you. But you must be patient. Look, I brought all your favorite things.”

But still, the boy cried, a high-pitched whine that made him grimace. He felt the explosion racing up from his stomach. He must control it. Calm, why couldn’t he just remain calm? Yes, cool and calm.

“I wanna go home.” The wail grated.

“Goddamn it! Shut up, you fucking crybaby.”

C
hristine’s article in the evening edition hit downtown Omaha’s newsstands at three-thirty. By four o’clock, newspaper carriers tossed the rolled-up
Omaha Journal
onto porches and lawns in Platte City. By four-ten, phones started ringing nonstop in the sheriff’s department.

Nick assigned Phillip Van Dorn the task of adding more phones and phone lines, even suggesting to go as far as commandeering the county clerk’s office down the hall. This was exactly what he had hoped to avoid. The frenzy had officially begun, and already Nick could feel it churning up his insides.

Angry citizens demanded to know what was being done. City Hall wanted to know how much the extra personnel and equipment would cost the city. Reporters badgered for an interview of their own, not wanting to wait for the morning press conference. Some were already camped out in the courthouse lobby, restrained by manpower better used on the street.

Of course, there were also leads. Maggie was right. Matthew’s photo jogged plenty of memories. The problem was sorting the real leads from the crackpot ones—although Maggie insisted the crackpot leads could not be thrown out entirely. Tomorrow Nick would even send someone to check on Sophie Krichek’s story about an old blue pickup. He still believed it would be a waste of time. Krichek was just some lonely old woman looking for attention. But he didn’t want anyone thinking he hadn’t checked every lead, especially Maggie.

“Nick, Angie Clark has called for you four times.” Lucy caught up with him in the hallway, obviously irritated with being the messenger for his love life.

“Next time tell her I’m sorry, but I just don’t have time to talk.”

She seemed pleased and started to walk away, but spun back. “Oh, I almost forgot. Max is on her way down the hall with those transcripts from Jeffreys’ confession and trial.”

“Great. Tell Agent O’Dell, would you please?”

“Where do you want me to put them?” She skipped alongside him as he made his way to his office.

“Can’t you just give them to Agent O’Dell?”

“All five boxes?”

He stopped so suddenly she bumped into him. He grabbed her by the elbows as she teetered on her two-inch spiked heels.

“There’s five boxes?”

“You know Max. She’s pretty thorough, so everything’s labeled and cataloged. She said to tell you she also included copies of all the evidence that was entered and logged, as well as affidavits from witnesses who didn’t testify.”

“Five boxes?” He shook his head. “Put them in my office.”

“Okay.” She turned to leave, then stopped again. “Do you still want me to tell Agent O’Dell?”

“Yes, please.” Her distrust, contempt—whatever it was—for Maggie was beginning to wear thin.

“Oh, and the mayor’s holding on line three for you.”

“Lucy, we can’t afford to hold up any of those lines.”

“I know, but he insisted. I couldn’t just hang up on him.”

Yes, he was sure Brian Rutledge would have insisted. He was a royal pain in the ass.

Nick retreated to his office. Behind closed doors he plopped into his leather chair and uncinched his tie. He wrestled with the collar button, almost ripping it off. He dug a thumb and forefinger into his eyes, trying to remember how much sleep he had gotten since Friday. Finally, he grabbed the phone and punched line three.

“Hi, Brian. It’s Nick.”

“Nick, what the hell’s going on over there? I’ve been on hold for goddamn near twenty minutes.”

“Don’t mean to inconvenience you, Brian. We’re a little busy.”

“I’ve got a crisis of my own, Nick. City council thinks I should cancel Halloween. Goddamn it, Nick, I cancel Halloween and I look like the goddamn Grinch.”

“I think the Grinch is Christmas, Brian.”

“Goddamn it, Nick. This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing, Brian. But you know what? I have a few more serious things to worry about than Halloween.”

Lucy peeked in from behind his door. He waved her in. She opened the door and motioned for the four men following her to set the boxes in the corner under the window.

“Halloween is serious, Nick. What if this nut ends up pulling something when all those kids are out running around in the dark?”

Rutledge’s whiny, tin voice grated on Nick’s nerves. He smiled and mouthed “thank you,” to Maxine Cramer, who had hauled in the final box. Even at the end of the day and after hauling a box halfway down the hall, her royal-blue suit held its sharply pressed seams. Her blue-gray, salon-permed hair matched her suit, not a strand out of place. She smiled back at Nick and nodded, then made her way out the door.

“Brian, what do you want from me?”

“I want to know how goddamn serious this thing is. Do you have any suspects? Are you making any arrests in the near future? What the hell are you doing over there?”

“One boy is dead and another is missing. How goddamn serious do you think this is, Brian? As far as how I handle the investigation, it’s none of your fucking business. We need this phone line open for more useful things than reassuring your sorry ass, so don’t call again.” He slammed the phone down and noticed O’Dell standing in the doorway, watching him.

“Sorry.” She seemed embarrassed to have witnessed his fury. Twice in one day. She must think he was a madman, a raving lunatic, or worse, simply incompetent. “Lucy told me the transcripts were in here.”

“They are. Come on in. Close the door behind you.”

She hesitated as though assessing whether it was safe to be behind closed doors with him.

“That was the mayor,” Nick explained. “He wanted to know if I’m going to have an arrest made by Friday, so he won’t have to cancel Halloween.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Pretty much what you just heard. The boxes are here under the window.” He rolled his chair around to point to them, then kept it there to stare out the window. He was tired of cloudy weather. Sick of rain. He couldn’t remember the last time there’d been a full day of sunshine. It was as though all of Sarpy County were trapped under one of those glass globes. The kind you shake and it snows. Only here, you shake it and the clouds rolled in, over and over again—the same clouds, rounding the globe and passing over again.

O’Dell was on her knees. She had several box lids off and files scattered on the floor around her.

“Can I get you a chair?” he offered, but made no motion to leave his own.

“No, thanks. It’ll be easier this way.”

She looked as though she had found what she was looking for. She opened the file and began scanning the contents, flipping pages, then settling on one. Suddenly, her entire face went serious. Her eyes darted over the page. She sat back on her feet.

“What is it?” Nick leaned forward, trying to see what had grabbed hold of her so intensely.

“It’s Jeffreys’ original confession, right after his arrest. It’s very detailed, from the kind of tape he used to bind the hands and feet to the carvings on the hunting knife he used.” She spoke slowly, continuing to scan the document.

“Okay, and Father Francis said Jeffreys hadn’t lied. That means the details are true. So what?”

“Did you realize that Jeffreys confessed to murdering only Bobby Wilson? In fact,” she said, flipping through several more pages, “in fact, he was adamant about having nothing to do with the other two boys’ murders.”

“I don’t remember hearing any of that. They probably thought he was lying.”

“But if he wasn’t?” She looked up at him, her brown eyes haunted by something more than the file she held.

“Okay, if he wasn’t lying, and he did kill only Bobby Wilson…” Nick didn’t finish. Suddenly, he felt sick to his stomach, even before Maggie finished his sentence.

“Then the real serial killer got away, and he’s back.”

C
hristine’s article in the evening edition hit downtown Omaha’s newsstands at three-thirty. By four o’clock, newspaper carriers tossed the rolled-up
Omaha Journal
onto porches and lawns in Platte City. By four-ten, phones started ringing nonstop in the sheriff’s department.

Nick assigned Phillip Van Dorn the task of adding more phones and phone lines, even suggesting to go as far as commandeering the county clerk’s office down the hall. This was exactly what he had hoped to avoid. The frenzy had officially begun, and already Nick could feel it churning up his insides.

Angry citizens demanded to know what was being done. City Hall wanted to know how much the extra personnel and equipment would cost the city. Reporters badgered for an interview of their own, not wanting to wait for the morning press conference. Some were already camped out in the courthouse lobby, restrained by manpower better used on the street.

Of course, there were also leads. Maggie was right. Matthew’s photo jogged plenty of memories. The problem was sorting the real leads from the crackpot ones—although Maggie insisted the crackpot leads could not be thrown out entirely. Tomorrow Nick would even send someone to check on Sophie Krichek’s story about an old blue pickup. He still believed it would be a waste of time. Krichek was just some lonely old woman looking for attention. But he didn’t want anyone thinking he hadn’t checked every lead, especially Maggie.

“Nick, Angie Clark has called for you four times.” Lucy caught up with him in the hallway, obviously irritated with being the messenger for his love life.

“Next time tell her I’m sorry, but I just don’t have time to talk.”

She seemed pleased and started to walk away, but spun back. “Oh, I almost forgot. Max is on her way down the hall with those transcripts from Jeffreys’ confession and trial.”

“Great. Tell Agent O’Dell, would you please?”

“Where do you want me to put them?” She skipped alongside him as he made his way to his office.

“Can’t you just give them to Agent O’Dell?”

“All five boxes?”

He stopped so suddenly she bumped into him. He grabbed her by the elbows as she teetered on her two-inch spiked heels.

“There’s five boxes?”

“You know Max. She’s pretty thorough, so everything’s labeled and cataloged. She said to tell you she also included copies of all the evidence that was entered and logged, as well as affidavits from witnesses who didn’t testify.”

“Five boxes?” He shook his head. “Put them in my office.”

“Okay.” She turned to leave, then stopped again. “Do you still want me to tell Agent O’Dell?”

“Yes, please.” Her distrust, contempt—whatever it was—for Maggie was beginning to wear thin.

“Oh, and the mayor’s holding on line three for you.”

“Lucy, we can’t afford to hold up any of those lines.”

“I know, but he insisted. I couldn’t just hang up on him.”

Yes, he was sure Brian Rutledge would have insisted. He was a royal pain in the ass.

Nick retreated to his office. Behind closed doors he plopped into his leather chair and uncinched his tie. He wrestled with the collar button, almost ripping it off. He dug a thumb and forefinger into his eyes, trying to remember how much sleep he had gotten since Friday. Finally, he grabbed the phone and punched line three.

“Hi, Brian. It’s Nick.”

“Nick, what the hell’s going on over there? I’ve been on hold for goddamn near twenty minutes.”

“Don’t mean to inconvenience you, Brian. We’re a little busy.”

“I’ve got a crisis of my own, Nick. City council thinks I should cancel Halloween. Goddamn it, Nick, I cancel Halloween and I look like the goddamn Grinch.”

“I think the Grinch is Christmas, Brian.”

“Goddamn it, Nick. This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing, Brian. But you know what? I have a few more serious things to worry about than Halloween.”

Lucy peeked in from behind his door. He waved her in. She opened the door and motioned for the four men following her to set the boxes in the corner under the window.

“Halloween is serious, Nick. What if this nut ends up pulling something when all those kids are out running around in the dark?”

Rutledge’s whiny, tin voice grated on Nick’s nerves. He smiled and mouthed “thank you,” to Maxine Cramer, who had hauled in the final box. Even at the end of the day and after hauling a box halfway down the hall, her royal-blue suit held its sharply pressed seams. Her blue-gray, salon-permed hair matched her suit, not a strand out of place. She smiled back at Nick and nodded, then made her way out the door.

“Brian, what do you want from me?”

“I want to know how goddamn serious this thing is. Do you have any suspects? Are you making any arrests in the near future? What the hell are you doing over there?”

“One boy is dead and another is missing. How goddamn serious do you think this is, Brian? As far as how I handle the investigation, it’s none of your fucking business. We need this phone line open for more useful things than reassuring your sorry ass, so don’t call again.” He slammed the phone down and noticed O’Dell standing in the doorway, watching him.

“Sorry.” She seemed embarrassed to have witnessed his fury. Twice in one day. She must think he was a madman, a raving lunatic, or worse, simply incompetent. “Lucy told me the transcripts were in here.”

“They are. Come on in. Close the door behind you.”

She hesitated as though assessing whether it was safe to be behind closed doors with him.

“That was the mayor,” Nick explained. “He wanted to know if I’m going to have an arrest made by Friday, so he won’t have to cancel Halloween.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Pretty much what you just heard. The boxes are here under the window.” He rolled his chair around to point to them, then kept it there to stare out the window. He was tired of cloudy weather. Sick of rain. He couldn’t remember the last time there’d been a full day of sunshine. It was as though all of Sarpy County were trapped under one of those glass globes. The kind you shake and it snows. Only here, you shake it and the clouds rolled in, over and over again—the same clouds, rounding the globe and passing over again.

O’Dell was on her knees. She had several box lids off and files scattered on the floor around her.

“Can I get you a chair?” he offered, but made no motion to leave his own.

“No, thanks. It’ll be easier this way.”

She looked as though she had found what she was looking for. She opened the file and began scanning the contents, flipping pages, then settling on one. Suddenly, her entire face went serious. Her eyes darted over the page. She sat back on her feet.

“What is it?” Nick leaned forward, trying to see what had grabbed hold of her so intensely.

“It’s Jeffreys’ original confession, right after his arrest. It’s very detailed, from the kind of tape he used to bind the hands and feet to the carvings on the hunting knife he used.” She spoke slowly, continuing to scan the document.

“Okay, and Father Francis said Jeffreys hadn’t lied. That means the details are true. So what?”

“Did you realize that Jeffreys confessed to murdering only Bobby Wilson? In fact,” she said, flipping through several more pages, “in fact, he was adamant about having nothing to do with the other two boys’ murders.”

“I don’t remember hearing any of that. They probably thought he was lying.”

“But if he wasn’t?” She looked up at him, her brown eyes haunted by something more than the file she held.

“Okay, if he wasn’t lying, and he did kill only Bobby Wilson…” Nick didn’t finish. Suddenly, he felt sick to his stomach, even before Maggie finished his sentence.

“Then the real serial killer got away, and he’s back.”