The Angel of Knowlton Park (28 page)

"Most of that was from the Lewiston office," Taylor said, as if that meant it wasn't a signal to keep a close eye on Timmy. "You have to understand. We have a huge caseload. Far more than our regulations call for. The union has complained repeatedly. And then, of course, Timmy was an active boy."

Kyle's chair landed on one of its uneven legs with a bang. Burgess shot him a cautioning look. "We know about those ridiculous caseloads," he said sympathetically. "Being a social worker's a hard job. People burn out pretty quickly, we know you really need your weekends to recharge. Just a couple questions and we'll be out of your hair. You've been here how long?"

"About a year."

"What did you do before?"

"I taught in a private school."

"One hard job to another. Around here?"

"Out in Oregon." Burgess got his phone number, then asked, "And who is your supervisor?" Got that name and phone number. He finished making notes, put his papers back in the file, and reached for Terry's. "Thanks for coming in so we could see this, Mr. Taylor. We appreciate the help. You live in the city?"

Taylor nodded. "Condo in the Old Port. I like to be where the action is."

"Like Jeff Osborne. I think he's got a place somewhere around there."

"Oh, no," Taylor said. "Jeff's in the East End. Up by the park, near where..." Too late, the light dawned. He fumbled the papers together and stood up, clutching the file to his chest. "I'll just see you out," he said, "so I can lock up."

"Give us a call," Burgess offered Taylor a card, "when that file's available. I'll send someone to pick it up."

They stood out on the sidewalk, waiting while Taylor locked the door behind them, watching him disappear into the dark building.

"What do you want to bet the majority of his cases involve young boys," Burgess said. Looking from the dirty gray sky to the dirty gray street, he thought about something his sergeant used to say, back when he was on patrol. Only thing about this job that was black and white was the car. This case might still be gray, but what Jim Taylor was seemed pretty black and white. "Let's see how Vince's doing on that warrant."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Kyle muttered, kicking at a coffee cup and sending a shower of mud-colored liquid onto the sidewalk. "Fox in the fucking chicken house. We ought to get a warrant for
his
apartment, too."

Chapter 21

This time, Osborne answered at the first knock, but he was no more eager to let them in. Burgess showed his badge and introduced Kyle. "We have a few follow-up questions about yesterday. May we come in?"

Osborne hesitated, tipping forward on the balls on his feet like a runner about to make a dash for it. Kyle, sensing the fleeing impulse, stepped behind Burgess and to his right, so that between them they made a wall. Eventually, Osborne stopped trying to read their faces—they wore cop faces, there was nothing to read—and stepped reluctantly backward.

"Come in," he said. "Should I call my lawyer?"

"Afraid I can't advise you about that." Burgess followed him into the living room. "Do you think you need a lawyer?"

"Of course not." Burgess and Kyle took the chairs, forcing Osborne onto the sofa, a place from which he could only watch one of them at a time.

It was late afternoon and Burgess was grouchy as a bear just out of hibernation. The day's sauna-like plunging from extreme heat to icy cold, had not, as a sauna might, refreshed him; it had only yo-yoed his overtaxed system in a state of deeper weariness. He looked at Kyle, sitting still as a statue. In the death mask face, Kyle's eyes were the only animated thing about him. He reminded Burgess of Kevin McHale, with his gaunt saint's face, playing brilliant basketball for the Celtics, even with broken bones. Must have come from being raised Catholic. Burgess found the face of suffering aesthetically pleasing.

Osborne sat tentatively on the edge of his own sofa, his eyes shifting from one of them to the other, then down at his watch. "I hope we can make this short," he said. "I have a prior commitment." The two colorful needlework pillows were gone.

Burgess made a show of pulling out his notebook and slowly flipping through it. "When we spoke yesterday, Mr. Osborne, you stated you didn't know the little boy whose body was found in the park, is that correct?"

"No."

Burgess raised his eyebrows. "No, that's not correct, or no, you didn't know him?"

"Neither, really," Osborne folded his hands together and clamped them between his knees. He wore tennis shoes with short little socks that left his ankles bare, and another ugly polo shirt. His body had the look of a workman who drank too much beer—strong shoulders, soft gut. "I knew who he was from the neighborhood. That's all."

"You never spoke with the boy?" Osborne shook his head. "Never approached him down at the park?" Another shake. Osborne's high forehead gleamed with sweat, a heel tapped the floor. "Never invited him into your house?" Another, more vigorous shake.

"You never invited him here for pizza?"

"Of course not. I told you. I didn't know the boy."

"Did you ever take photographs of Timmy Watts?"

"No." Osborne's hand crept toward the cell phone on the coffee table. Kyle shifted on his chair and Osborne pulled his hand back.

Burgess flipped slowly and loudly through the pages. "Have you ever met a man named Dwayne Martin?"

"Not that I recall."

"Did a man ever come here, identifying himself as Timmy Watts's brother, and threaten you?"

Osborne studied his knotted hands, as though the answer was written there. A streak of afternoon sun illuminated a scalp glowing pinkly through the thinning hair. "Yeah. Martin threatened me. I believe he said something about punching my lights out. But that was just a misunderstanding. I'd yelled at some kids down at the park for teasing my dog. They must have gone home and told some bullshit story. That's what kids do these days. They watch stuff on TV and suddenly they're accusing innocent people of all sorts of awful things. I saw a TV show last week where that happened. Ruined a man's life."

"Where is your dog, Mr. Osborne?"

"With a friend. It turns out he's really not a city dog." Osborne ran a hand through his hair, checked between his fingers for deserters and looked from Burgess to the door.

Burgess thumbed through the pages again, wasting time, making Osborne nervous, waiting for his radio to tell him that they were ready with the warrant. "What about Officer Delinsky? He ever speak with you about Timmy Watts?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Osborne snapped. "Man's got his nose up every ass in the neighborhood."

"I'm asking you."

"Yeah. He came here. I told him what I just told you. That it was bullshit. That the kids were the problem, not me and my dog."

"When I was here yesterday, you had two needlepoint pillows on your couch. Today they're gone. Why?"

"I hardly think my decorating decisions are a matter for the police."

Burgess smiled. "You're probably right about that." He flipped back to his interview with Grace Johnston. "Yesterday morning, when the body was discovered, you were walking your dog in the park?"

"If you say so."

"You're saying you weren't there?" Osborne didn't answer. "I asked yesterday whether your dog had taken anything from the vicinity of the body. Do you recall that?"

"I'm not sure. I'm not accustomed to being questioned by the police. I was flustered. I might have said anything."

"You don't deny that your dog was near the body?"

"No."

"At some point, your dog picked something up and carried it down to the pond?"

"No." Osborne was getting combative.

"No? We have a witness who..."

"I already told you. That old bitch doesn't know what she's talking about. The thing Rogue carried down to the pond had nothing to do with that boy. It was a little pillow, like the ones that..." Osborne looked around, but the other pillows were gone. "Like the ones you saw yesterday," he finished lamely. "Rogue likes to play with them."

Burgess nodded. "Yesterday you said the dog didn't have anything in its mouth."

Kyle made a sudden move and Osborne's eyes jumped to him, shoulders tensing. Kyle was staring at something on a low bookshelf. A blue Power Ranger. "Timmy Watts loved the Power Rangers," he said quietly.

"All the boys that age love Power Rangers." The words were out before Osborne could stop them.

"You like young boys?" Kyle asked.

"I like children. Most people do. So naturally I notice things about them."

"You ever invite young boys to your house for pizza?"

"That's not a crime," Osborne said. "I told you. I like children. There are lots of them in the neighborhood. Once or twice, I've invited passing kids in to share a pizza."

"You know a boy named Lonnie Mitchell?" Burgess said. Osborne shook his head. Burgess dropped his voice down, low and mean. "You think we're stupid, Mr. Osborne?"

"Excuse me?"

"You think we don't know what you are?"

"That's it," Osborne said, getting to his feet. "You're leaving. I've tried to be cooperative, but I won't tolerate being insulted in my own house. How I live my life is my business. I had nothing to do with what happened to that boy."

"Which boy?" Burgess began. His radio crackled. "Joe? We're ready to go." Burgess nodded to Kyle, who opened the door, admitting Melia and some uniformed officers.

"Hey!" Osborne said. "Hey! What the hell's this? What's going on?"

Melia stepped up to Osborne. With the suit, the hair, the glasses, everything but the hard cop eyes, he looked like an expensive lawyer. He handed Osborne a paper. "Detective Lieutenant Vincent Melia," he said, "Portland CID. This is a warrant to search the premises."

"A warrant? Search?" Osborne was strangling on the words. "You've got no right. No right! I'm calling my lawyer." Melia took a step toward him. "Keep away from me, asshole," Osborne yelled. He stepped swiftly into the living room, snatched up the phone, then rushed across the room and through a door, slamming it behind him.

Melia turned to Burgess. "What's that room?"

"I don't know. Another way to the kitchen, I'd guess."

"Keep an eye on him," Melia told one of the patrol officers. "We don't want him destroying anything." The officer seized the door handle. It was locked.

"We blocked the garage, so he can't use his car," Melia said, "and I've got an officer in the back."

But Burgess was already moving down the hall to another door. It, too, was locked. "Terry, come on!" He raced past them, out the front door and down the steps, running along the side of the long, narrow house to the back. The back door stood open, a very surprised uniformed officer lying on his back at the bottom of the steps. "Which way did he go?" Burgess yelled. The officer pointed toward the rear of a neighboring house.

Burgess jumped the low fence separating the two yards and ran toward the street through an obstacle course of plastic vehicles and toys. It was like a football drill, and his knee didn't like it one bit. He made it to the street and stopped, looking both ways. Nothing. Kyle, panting, appeared beside him. "You go left," Burgess said. "I'll go right."

He headed down the street, walking now, checking each parked car in case Osborne was hiding inside or underneath. Periodically, he stopped and listened. In the distance, Kyle was doing the same. It was a quiet afternoon, everyone inside out of the heat, the damp air muffling sounds. He heard the faint scrape of shoes on rough cement. Holding his breath, he tried to pinpoint the sound. It came from somewhere behind him. Driveways. Dammit. He'd been paying too much attention to the street.

Stepping onto grass to muffle the sound of his own feet, he backtracked, holding his breath and listening. There it was again. That rasping scrape. He was coming to the end of a high hedge. Too good an ambush spot. He stepped across the sidewalk, between two parked cars, and into the street, moving carefully along the outside of the car until he could see down the driveway. It was empty, but at the back a garage stood open.

Years ago, he might have charged right in. Age and experience had taught him caution. He hovered behind the car, acutely aware of the incongruity of it all. A beefy, over-the-hill cop with a bum knee, chasing a wily pervert through a breathless gray afternoon, backed only by Kyle, the Knight of the Living Dead.