Tovar shrugged. ‘‘What if he’s the killer?’’
Rossi said, ‘‘Then we better make sure he doesn’t get away.’’ He made a face, eyebrows climbing. ‘‘Of course, if this really is our UnSub? Once we get back, Morgan and I can start updating our résumés.’’
Tovar bit. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Because we’ll be looking for work once Hotchner sees out how far off we were on the profile.’’
They stood at the rear of the double-parked Tahoe and discussed tactics. Morgan and Lorenzon would go in the front, Rossi and Tovar down the alley next to the ten-story brick building, to find a back entrance or a fire escape, just in case.
They were about to execute their plan when Morgan looked up and saw Eddie Minchell less than half a block away, walking toward them, smiling to himself, the poster boy for the Ignorance Is Bliss Society.
With this many citizens around, Morgan couldn’t risk yelling; he could only hope Minchell would just keep coming, oblivious to their presence on the sidewalk.
A medium-sized guy with a plastic bag of groceries dangling from one hand, Minchell was a ringer for the forensic drawing: floppy blond hair, lively blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a sharp chin. He wore a green T-shirt with the words ALL-BEEF WIENER, jeans with holes in the knees, and canvas sneakers.
Morgan willed himself to become invisible in the throng. The two detectives and the other profiler were turning now, to go to their stations, and had no idea that their quarry was approaching them from their right. Wanting to alert them, but knowing he’d have to yell to be heard, he didn’t, as Minchell would hear him, too. . . .
‘‘Don’t see me,’’ Morgan muttered to himself as he closed the rear door of the SUV. ‘‘Don’t see me, don’t see me, don’t see me.’’ Morgan stepped up on the curb, the muttering now his mantra, his eyes riveted to Minchell.
Hand snaking toward his pistol, Morgan took another step . . .
... then their eyes locked.
And in a split second, everything went to hell.
Minchell made him as an officer, and the blissful smile dissolved as he froze, staring at Morgan. And in his next breath, Minchell took off in the opposite direction, pitching the grocery bag.
‘‘Minchell!’’ Morgan bellowed.
‘‘Freeze!’’
Rossi, Lorenzon and Tovar all turned, but Morgan was already in motion, heading up the block in pursuit, struggling through the mob on the sidewalk. His eyes still on Minchell, Morgan instantly decided to cut between two parked cars and move into the street.
Within seconds, Morgan heard footsteps pounding the concrete behind him and knew the others had joined pursuit. Minchell was still struggling to make his way on the sidewalk, shoving people out of his way, running as best he could, occasionally looking back to check on the progress of his pursuers.
Running in the street, weaving in and out of cars, getting sworn and honked at, Morgan closed the distance on his prey rapidly. The space between them narrowed from twenty yards to ten yards, then to five yards as Morgan again cut between two parked cars and hopped up onto the sidewalk, and closed the distance to ten feet.
‘‘Federal officer!’’ Morgan yelled, but the crowd didn’t cut him much slack.
Still, Morgan managed to get within five feet of his man, and then Morgan drew even closer, stretching his arm to reach for Minchell, who suddenly veered left out of Morgan’s grasp, down an alley.
Morgan overshot, and had to bump his way back to the opening, the other three—Rossi, Tovar and Lorenzon—turning down the alley, ahead of him now.
No pedestrian traffic in the alley, but parked cars sat here and there on either side. The four officers followed their man down the narrow canyon of brick and concrete.
‘‘Freeze!’’
Rossi yelled.
Tovar followed that with,
‘‘Stop!’’
Soon Lorenzon—younger than Rossi and Tovar— took the lead while Morgan quickly caught up with the other two. On his way, Minchell tipped over a metal trash can and it caught Lorenzon across the shins, sending him in a somersault that landed the detective in a heap, the others dodging around him to keep from piling on. Rossi and Tovar slowed, Morgan bursting past them, continuing the chase as he heard Lorenzon yelling, ‘‘
Go! Go!
I’m
fine
!’’
Instead of turning at the next corner, Minchell charged straight into the street, sidestepping left to keep from running broadside into a passing Volkswagen Passat. Lurching right, Minchell avoided a second car, drawing horn blasts from several drivers as he sprinted across the street, Morgan closing in again.
Hearing the screech of brakes, Morgan looked right to see a yellow Hummer bearing down on him, and he dove out of the way, rolling and popping up again, but having lost ground with his suspect.
Morgan was in top shape but he still felt as though he were breathing liquid fire. Sweat rolled down his cheeks and his back felt sopped under the Kevlar, his legs aching like flu had suddenly set in. Even as he pursued his quarry, a part of his brain was processing just how bad his balky knee would feel tomorrow. . . .
Still, he pounded after Minchell, determined that the bastard was not going to get away. They were nearly to the end of the second block’s worth of alley when Morgan saw a pile of garbage bags on the right. Veering left, he launched himself, his arms encircling the legs of his target, and he and Minchell flew as one into the garbage bags and crashed with a sickening, smelly squish. Then they both rolled back into the alley, rising together, facing off, Minchell getting a short-bladed knife from somewhere, like Bugs Bunny producing a carrot.
As Rossi and Tovar caught up, drawing their weapons as they saw the knife, Minchell lunged at Morgan, the blade extended.
Pirouetting, allowing the blade to miss down his side with a swish, Morgan grabbed Minchell’s right arm, the knife arm, in his own right hand.
The suspect was behind him now, and off balance. As Minchell kept coming forward, helped by Morgan pulling his right arm, Morgan threw his left elbow backward, catching Minchell in the face with a crunch. The blade fell from the suspect’s hand and clattered on the concrete as the man seemed to slowly melt into a puddle at Morgan’s feet, his nose a crushed, shapeless thing.
Standing over the suspect, wearing the nasty smile of big city cop, Tovar said, ‘‘You have the right to remain silent. . . .’’
Minchell’s eyes rolled up into his skull and he passed out.
‘‘. . . oh the hell with it. I’ll Mirandize his ass when he wakes up.’’
At Morgan’s side, Rossi asked, ‘‘You okay?’’
‘‘Yeah. I wish he hadn’t done that, though. Knives aren’t my favorite.’’
‘‘Maybe he had the knife,’’ Rossi said, looking down at the bloody face of the unconscious Minchell, ‘‘but he got your point.’’
Lorenzon finally came limping up and looked down at Minchell. ‘‘That’s what you
get
, fucker!’’ he told the unconscious suspect. The big detective leaned down and rubbed his shins. ‘‘
Damn
it, that hurt. Everybody else okay?’’
‘‘Well, except for this lazy jackass,’’ Rossi said, nodding toward the slumbering Minchell, ‘‘yeah.’’
Getting out his cell phone, Lorenzon called for an ambulance, then phoned a judge to get a search warrant for Minchell’s apartment.
‘‘A search warrant?’’ Tovar asked. ‘‘On what basis?’’
‘‘Running from federal officers is probable cause,’’ Lorenzon said, ‘‘don’t you think?’’
Tovar had no argument.
Four hours later, the four found themselves in the curtained cubicle of the nearest emergency room, a bandaged Eddie Minchell in a hospital bed, hooked to a saline IV. The two cops, Rossi and Morgan, fanned out around him, Lorenzon holding up a fat bag of marijuana confiscated from the suspect’s apartment.
‘‘A pound of trouble, Eddie,’’ Lorenzon said, looking into the bloodshot eyes of the suspect.
‘‘How the hell did you know I had that?’’ Minchell asked, frowning with the hurt look of a betrayed child. ‘‘Did Boo Boo rat me out?’’
Rossi looked at Morgan. ‘‘Boo Boo?’’
Morgan couldn’t help it—he laughed.
‘‘Hey, is it my fault that’s his fuckin’ name?’’ Minchell said, through bandages that made understanding him a trifle tricky.
‘‘Pound of dope and attempted murder of a federal officer,’’ Lorenzon said. ‘‘Little man, you’ve had a busy day.’’
‘‘No shit,’’ Minchell said; then he lapsed into a surly silence.
‘‘You happen to know about these murders going on in the city?’’ Tovar asked. ‘‘I assume you can read the papers or watch TV.’’
Minchell glared at the Hispanic cop, but said nothing.
‘‘We’re not DEA,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘We’re FBI. We came to see you about the killings.’’
His eyes huge with fear, Minchell blurted, ‘‘I want a lawyer. Now!’’
‘‘That’s smart,’’ Morgan said, patting his arm. ‘‘That’s what I’d do if I was in your shoes. Or your hospital bed, anyway.’’
Rossi stepped closer to the suspect’s bedside. ‘‘My colleague’s right. If you have a lawyer, you can’t get in any more trouble. It’s just that it’s going to take a lot longer to clear all this up.’’
‘‘What? Why?’’
Rossi gave him a rumpled, seen-it-all smile. ‘‘I mean, hell, Eddie—we been through that rattrap where you live. We know you’re not the killer, and we just had a couple of questions for you; but yeah, sure, right, having a lawyer makes more sense. You don’t want to take any chances aiding an investigation.’’
Minchell stewed for a long moment.
Then, as Lorenzon plucked his cell phone off his belt, to make the call to the public defender’s office, Minchell said, ‘‘I guess I could probably answer a couple of questions, without, you know, an attorney.’’
‘‘Good,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Cooperation is a good thing. That might help me forget what happened in the alley.’’
Minchell stared cross-eyed at the bandage on his nose.
‘‘Yeah, I know,’’ Morgan said, his voice matter-of-fact, no malice at all. ‘‘I broke your nose. But remember, you did try to knife me. Attempted murder of a federal officer? Kind of makes a pound of grass seem like so much shit.’’
‘‘. . . Okaaay. What do you wanna know?’’
Rossi said, ‘‘We need to talk to you about a couple of your friends.’’
Minchell shifted excitedly in the bed. ‘‘You didn’t say anything about me ratting anybody out!’’
Rossi shook his head. ‘‘These friends aren’t worried about getting ratted out, Eddie. These friends are dead.’’
Minchell looked surprised. ‘‘No friends of mine died lately. That I know of.’’
‘‘How about Bobby Edels and Stevie Darnell?’’
His brow tightened. ‘‘Never heard of ’em.’’
Rossi and Morgan traded a look.
‘‘We were told different,’’ Morgan said.
‘‘Who the hell said so? Somebody yankin’ your chain, is who. I never heard of
either
of those guys.’’
‘‘A bartender from Hot Rods says you knew them,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘In fact, he says that on one occasion, Bobby left the bar with you, and on another, Stevie did.’’
Minchell shrugged. ‘‘I go to that bar sometimes, yeah. It’s an okay place. I’ve even left with guys from time to time. I’m what you call bi-curious. But I don’t remember either of those names. Of course, sometimes names don’t enter into it. . . .’’
Lorenzon withdrew pictures from a pocket and passed them to Minchell. ‘‘You recognize one or both of these men?’’
Minchell studied the photos for a moment. ‘‘Well . . . yeah, actually I do. Yeah, I remember both these dudes . . . but neither of them was ever with me.’’
Rossi frowned at him. ‘‘Are you saying that neither of them left the bar with you? Or are you saying that you didn’t sleep with either of them? Be specific, Eddie.’’
Minchell had to think about it, but finally he said, ‘‘I didn’t have sex with either of those guys. Both were dudes I picked up for this
other
guy—uptight character who didn’t want to be seen going into a gay club. Paid me good money to help him out and serve as sort of . . . an intermediary.’’
‘‘Pimp,’’ Tovar chimed in.
‘‘Hey, I performed a service and was tipped for my trouble. I told each of ’em a really good-looking guy was interested, but he was shy, a closeted type, you know? But he was hot, and he had money to burn. They both went along. That isn’t pimping where I come from.’’
‘‘The important question now,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘is not what we call your activity, but the name of your client.’’
‘‘Hell, I don’t know,’’ Minchell said. ‘‘Swear to God, I don’t.’’
Lorenzon held up the bag of weed. ‘‘This is not simple possession, you know. This much weight is intent to deliver—a felony.’’
Minchell threw up his hands, nearly pulling out the IV. ‘‘Bust me for the pot, bust me for the knife, hell, what can
I
do about it? I don’t know the guy’s goddamn
name
!’’
Rossi patted the air in a calming fashion, then asked, ‘‘Could you identify the guy?’’
‘‘How?’’
‘‘If you
saw
him,’’ Rossi said, as if to a slow child, ‘‘would you
know
him?’’
Minchell nodded. ‘‘Like I said, good-looking guy. He’s not very big, though. Still . . . there’s something kind of . . .
off
about him.’’
Morgan asked, ‘‘How many other times did you . . . troll for this guy?’’
‘‘Just those two times. Never saw him but on those two occasions.’’
‘‘If we brought in a forensic artist,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘would you be able to help develop a picture of this man?’’
Minchell’s eyes and nostrils flared. ‘‘If this guy’s some kind of killer, and he found
out
. . .’’
Lorenzon dangled the bag of dope. Morgan watched as Minchell silently calculated how long he would be spending in the Joliet state pen. To nudge him in the correct direction, Morgan got out the evidence bag that held Minchell’s knife.