Heroes Often Fail

FIFTEEN

1408 hours

Kopriva admired Katie’s bravery. She made it from the police station to his truck without crying. Then small, silent sobs began even as he started the engine and drove toward her apartment. Tears coursed down her cheeks, but she made no noise. He reached once across the cab and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Her hand was rigid and her fingers were dug into the seat. He withdrew his hand and concentrated on shifting gears and getting her home as quickly as he could.

At her apartment, he parked in her parking space and looked over at her. She was already getting out of the truck and headed for the door. He jumped out and followed her.

At the front door, she jammed her keys into the lock and pushed it open. Kopriva caught the door in his hands as she swung it closed behind her.

“Katie!” he said.

“Leave me alone, Stef,” she said, her voice thick with tears.

Kopriva hesitated in the doorway. He wondered briefly if she needed to be alone. Then he heard an abbreviated moan erupt and he pushed the thought away. Right now, she needed someone.

He found her in the living room, curled into a ball in the center of the room. Her body hitched and jerked with soundless sobs. Slowly, her legs writhed on the carpet. Her mouth opened into a silent scream. She shook her head from side to side.

Kopriva knelt down and then lay beside her. Reaching out, he touched her lightly on the head. At his touch, she rolled over and buried her face into his chest. Her body pressed tightly against him, her elbows tucked into her sides. Kopriva wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close

Finally, her sobs found sound and she wept loudly into his chest. He held her tighter and tighter with one arm, stroking her hair with the other. He tried to whisper comforting things to her and when no words would work, he kissed her lightly on the top of her head.

They lay together on the living room floor for what seemed like hours. Slowly, her sobs came further and further apart, until she was reduced to the occasional start in her chest. She turned her head to the side and looked up at Kopriva.

“I couldn’t save him, Stef,” she whispered, her voice raw.

Kopriva nodded and kissed her forehead.

“I…just…couldn’t,” she whispered.

A lump rose in Kopriva’s throat and he struggled to swallow over it. Katie closed her eyes and he tried to think of something profound to say to her. Something that would ease her pain and make her realize that she wasn’t responsible for what happened, no matter how terrible the result had been.

The clock on her wall seemed to tick and tick and he couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally, he opened his mouth to say something, anything, unsure of the words until they tumbled from his lips.

“I love you, Katie,” he said.

But his only answer was the even pattern of her breath as she lay against his chest.

1422 hours

Tower smiled at Kendra Ferguson, trying to mask his urgency. The little girl had set up a tea service for both of them and she gave his cup a long pour.

“Why, thank you,” Tower said, picking up the tiny pink cup and pretending to sip.

“You’re supposed to wait,” Kendra told him. “At least until Mr. Puddles has his, too.”

“Sorry,” Tower said, putting his cup down until the shaggy stuffed poodle had a full cup. “It’s just too delicious.”

Kendra flashed him a grin and picked up her own cup. “I know.”

Tower picked up his cup and made another sipping sound. “Ah, good stuff.”

Kendra sipped, too, obviously delighted that he was playing along. She seemed to give no thought to why he was there.

Tower fake-sipped once more, looking at the little girl over the top of his miniature cup. When he put it down on the saucer, he asked her, “Kendra, I need to talk to you about Amy again.”

A hurt look came across Kendra’s face. She put her cup down and picked up Mr. Puddles. “Okay.”

Tower smiled at her. “You’re very brave to talk about this, you know?”

Kendra nodded and picked at the stuffed dog’s fur.

“What I want to talk about is when the van pulled up next to both of you. Do you remember what color it was?”

“Uh-huh.” She paused and thought. “Brown.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. It was a brown van.”

“Not blue?”

“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “It was definitely brown.”

“Okay,” Tower said. “Do you remember the man who was driving?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t see him.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh. I only saw the man with scary eyes.”

“The one who took Amy?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was tall.”

“How tall?”

“Taller than you.”

Tower made a quick note on his pad. He stood an even six feet tall. Then he asked, “Do you remember what color his skin was?”

“Yeah. It was black.”

“Black skin?”

“Yeah. I could see his arms.”

“Did he say anything?”

Kendra squinted her eyes, thinking. Then she said, “Yeah, he talked like that mouse, remember? The fast one with the hat?”

“Speedy Gonzalez?”

“Yeah! Speedy!”

Tower uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. “But his skin was black?”

Kendra nodded.

“Do you know what a tattoo is, Kendra?” he asked.

“Sure. It’s like a picture on someone’s skin.”

“That’s right. Now, did this man have any tattoos?”

Kendra squinted in thought again, then nodded happily at him. “He did. He had them.”

“What kind of tattoos did he have?”

“It was red spiders,” she said, pointing to her bicep. “Right here.”

Tower sighed. Either she was unreliable or she was lying, he realized. And what he had to do next was not going to be pleasant. He was momentarily grateful that Kendra felt comfortable enough to sit alone with him while the grandmother waited downstairs.

Then he took a deep breath and confronted the six-year-old girl.

1436 hours

“It’s a white male about six feet tall that grabbed her up,” Tower told him.

Browning nodded and wrote, cupping the phone receiver between his chin and shoulder.

“Clothing?”

“All black, including a ski mask. No look at the driver. And the van was definitely blue. All the rest was bullshit.”

Browning swore quietly as he wrote. “Why’d she lie?”

“There’s a nearby vacant lot where they found some little cave in the side of a dirt mound. They called the place Fairy Castle. Both mothers knew about it and the girls weren’t allowed to be there.”

“So she lied…”

“She lied because she was afraid that she and Amy would get in trouble. Then she lied some more because she’d already lied. Only she forgot the first lie.”

“Jesus,” Browning muttered.

“Are you going to tell Patrol?”

“Yeah,” Browning said. “Blue vans, white males.”

“And we’re back to square one with the sicko squad,” Tower said, meaning that they would have to go back through all the registered sex offenders in River City for white males this time. “And we’ve got our work cut out for us. There’s about five times as many white RSOs in the city than black.”

“Why don’t you head home from there?” Browning said. “I’ll pull the files and we’ll get to work on them in the morning.”

“I’ll come and help you pull the files at least,” Tower said, and both men knew it wouldn’t stop there. Browning could almost smell the bleached odor of the pillowcases in the down room.

“All right. See you.”

“Be about forty minutes.”

Browning hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh, punctuated with the foulest curse he could come up with on short notice. Almost all of their work was gone. They’d have to start nearly from scratch.

He started to get up to head over to Tower’s office where the RSO files were stored, but stopped. Instead, he reached for the case file and flipped it open. He’d made the mistake of not reading it completely and carefully once before and it took Renee to point out something that he missed. There was no way that was going to happen again. If they were going to start over in this case, then he was going to do it right.

He started with the computer printout of the Computer Aided Dispatch report. He noted the time the call came in to dispatch, when Giovanni arrived and when further officers were dispatched. He followed the entire course of the first two days of the investigation in the short radio codes and time stamps. Nothing jumped out at him.

Next, he read every officer’s police report, beginning with Giovanni’s. After Giovanni’s, he read Stone’s, which consisted of three lines. Then he came to Kopriva’s report on his trip to Amy Dugger’s grandmother. The report was short, but well-written. The woman was obviously unbalanced.

Browning sat back in his chair. A feeling of dread settled into his stomach. He’d asked Kopriva if he was sure about the grandmother not being involved. The young officer had been completely certain. Besides, at the time, they were looking for a black driver in a blue van with a Mexican sidekick, so he took the kid at his word.

But what if he overlooked something?

Browning re-read Kopriva’s report and stroked his goatee. The description of Fred Henderson loosely fit the description Kendra gave. Of course, so did twenty thousand other men in River City.

Still.

Taking the file with him, Browning went to the nearest computer terminal. He entered Fred Henderson’s name and received a quick return. No local record. His driver’s license showed an address on Swanson.

Browning ran a Triple-I on Henderson’s name, which would show any felony convictions nationwide. The report was notoriously slow in coming back, as it had to query through several computer hubs across the country. Browning filled the time by running an All-Vehicles-Registered (AVR) check on Henderson. That came back in less than a minute. Henderson owned no vans.

Nancy Henderson’s local record was considerably more interesting. Browning read through the four entries. One was a traffic stop, resulting in an infraction for a stop sign violation about three blocks from her home. Another was a neighborhood dispute over a tree on the fence line between her and a neighbor. The remaining two were Assist Agency calls in which Mental Health Professionals of River City had requested help from the police to get Nancy into treatment. All four reports painted a picture of a volatile, unbalanced woman.

Just like Kopriva wrote, Browning thought. But crazy doesn’t make her a kidnapper.

Browning’s fingers glided over the keyboard. He requested another AVR, this time on Nancy Henderson and waited impatiently for it to return.

He should have explored this angle more with Kathy Dugger, he realized. He should have got a better feel for it, even if it only meant that he was that much more certain there was no connection. But he’d run off after a bum lead given by a six-year-old witness. He chased a lead that should have smelled fishy to him from the very beginning. Once there was no ransom call, you had to suspect sexual motivation for the kidnapping. And how often do sexual predators stray from their own ethnic group? How often do they work in pairs? Especially pairs of mixed race?

Browning frowned. The answer was, almost never.

The computer beeped and he hit the display key.

No vehicles found.

Browning leaned back and considered. Was he overreacting to this curve ball? Kopriva was a good cop, even if he was young. He’d been there at this woman’s house. He would have run into a fair share of nuts out on patrol, so he should be able to judge them. His cop sense would have kicked in if something was wrong. Wouldn’t it? And he would have gone the extra mile to be sure, given that a little girl was missing.

Wouldn’t he?

Browning tapped the keys, bringing up the employee database. He jotted Kopriva’s phone number down, then picked up the telephone and dialed. The phone rang and rang. He waited for an answering machine to pick up, but after eight rings, decided that Kopriva must not have one.

The computer dinged at him.

He hung up the telephone and hit the display button.

Request for III on subject: Henderson, Fred complete.

Browning pushed the display button and read. Moments later, his jaw fell open.

1548 hours

Officer Jack Willow copied the call and hung the mike back on the holder. He shook his head and cursed softly. Somehow, he’d known that he would be going back someday to the address on Swanson where the crazy lady lived with her creepy husband. What he hadn’t expected was to be going there to back up a Major Crimes Detective.

He drove to the house by memory and parked two houses away.

“Adam-259 on scene,” he told Dispatch.

A few moments later, Detective Ray Browning’s unmarked detective’s prowl car pulled up directly behind him. Willow got out of the car and greeted the detective.

“Ray Browning,” the veteran detective said, holding out his hand.

“I know,” Willow said. “Everyone knows.”

Browning gave him a curious look, then glanced at his nametag. “Willow? Did you write that report on the Feeney homicide? Right before Christmas?”

“Uh, yeah,” Willow answered, surprised.

“Jack, right?”

Willow nodded.

“That was a good report, son.”

“Thanks,” Willow said, blushing slightly.

“No need to be bashful about doing good work,” Browning said with a grin. “How long you been on the job?”

“I just made probation.”

Browning nodded. He opened his mouth to ask another question when another detective’s car turned the corner and slid in behind Browning. Willow watched as a younger detective exited the car and approached them.

“What’s going on, Ray?” he asked.

“Detective Tower, Officer Jack Willow.”

Tower gave Willow a nod and a quick handshake. Up close, Willow could see that he wasn’t as young as he thought. He figured Tower to be in his early thirties.

“Why are we here?” Tower asked Browning, adjusting his shoulder holster absently.

“This is the Grandmother’s house,” Browning said.

“The crazy one?”

“Yeah. Her name’s Nancy Henderson. She’s married to a man named Fred Henderson.”

“So?”

“So,” Browning said, “I ran Fred Henderson through Triple-I. He came back with a conviction in Colorado eleven years ago. They faxed me his booking photo. Guess what he was arrested for?”

Tower looked at him for a moment, then his face fell. “No.”

“Yes,” Browning said. “Child Molestation.”

“Son of a bitch,” Tower muttered.

“Could be nothing,” Browning said, “but we should probably check it out.”

“Wasn’t this the crazy woman that Kopriva looked into?”

Browning nodded.

“And?”

“He said she was just garden variety crazy. He didn’t think she was involved. Neither does Kathy Dugger, for that matter. And maybe she isn’t. But it’s the best lead we have right now.”

Tower considered. “Did you call Stef? We could ask him-“

“No answer at his apartment.”

Tower frowned. “It’d be nice to know how she was the last time police were here.”

“She was psycho,” Jack Willow said.

Tower and Browning both turned toward the young officer.

“I was with him,” he explained.

Browning nodded. Tower twirled his forefinger in a “hurry-up” gesture.

Willow cleared his throat. “Well, she was all over the place. She offered us beer, for starters. She was cooperative one minute and then screaming at us the next. No real warning, either. It was just like someone flicked a switch inside of her.”

“Is she on meds?” Tower asked.

“That’s what the husband said. I don’t know what kind.”

“What’d you think, Jack?” Browning asked.

Willow shrugged. “She’s crazy, like Officer Kopriva said.” He paused, then shrugged again. “I still think we should have done the search, though.”

“Search?”

“Of the house.

“Kopriva asked to search the house?” Tower asked, looking over at Browning with raised eyebrows.

Willow shook his head. “No. She offered. Sorta demanded it, actually.”

“Wait a minute,” Tower said, his voice sharp. “She gave you guys permission to search her house and you didn’t do it?”

Willow thought about blaming Kopriva, but instead, he just nodded.

“Whose bright idea was that?” Tower asked. “Yours or Kopriva’s?”

Willow half-shrugged. He didn’t want to beef Kopriva, but he didn’t want the detectives thinking he was a moron, either.

“Stef was in charge,” Browning said, in a voice that signaled both of them to drop the matter. “Anyway, maybe she’ll still be in the mood to let us search the place.”

“Maybe,” Tower replied. “The good thing is, it sounds like if she’s not in the mood now, we can probably just wait thirty seconds and try again.”

1559 hours

Stefan Kopriva watched Katie sleep. He’d read about people doing that in books and seen it in the movies. The truth of the matter was that he found it to be as corny as something from one of the romance paperbacks that lined the racks at the supermarket. Still, here he was, sitting in a living room chair, watching her in the dim light of the living room, a source of endless fascination for him.

After she’d fallen asleep on the floor, he’d lain with her for several minutes before he dared to move. He considered lifting her up and carrying her to the bedroom, but he didn’t want to risk waking her. Instead, he slipped away from her, and grabbed a pillow from the couch and a light blanket from the closet to make her more comfortable.

He watched her sleep and thought of the words he’d whispered. He wondered if she’d heard them, somewhere deep in her sleeping subconscious. He wondered if it were possible that she was dreaming about them even now, as she slept.

Now that is even cornier than those books in the supermarket, he thought.

But for some reason, he still liked the idea.

1604 hours

“Fuck you, motherfuckers!” Nancy Henderson shrieked at the three police officers in her living room. “I told that other piece of shit he could search and he didn’t want to. First one is free. Now you can go get a search warrant!”

Browning didn’t react to her outburst. “Mrs. Henderson, if you’re not involved-”

“I told you I’m not involved!”

“And that is why I am here. I need to eliminate all family members from the picture.” His voice remained calm and professional. “The only way I can do that is to conduct a search of each house.”

“You assholes had your chance last time,” Nancy said. She raised her beer can to her mouth with a shaking hand.

“Ma’am, I have to complete this search. If you won’t consent, I will have to go apply for a search warrant. I have no choice.”

“Don’t bluff me, sonny,” Nancy said. “You go get your search warrant and then I guess we’ll see.”

Browning allowed himself a small sigh. “Fine.”

“Yeah, fine,” she said triumphantly and took another drink. Fred stood against the wall, doing his best to remain invisible.

Browning turned to Willow. “I’ll radio for another uniform to stay with you while I go get the warrant. You know about locking down a scene?”

Willow nodded. “No one moves.”

“Or leaves your sight.” Browning turned back to Nancy. “You’ll have to remain on the couch until I return, Mrs. Henderson.”

“What?!”

Browning motioned to Fred. “You, too, sir.”

“You can’t tell me what to do in my own home,” Nancy protested.

“He can,” Tower said. “And if you don’t cooperate, you’ll be waiting in the back of police car in handcuffs instead. You got that, or you want to try and find out if it’s a bluff?”

Nancy shot Tower a dirty look. “What’s your badge number?”

“212,” Tower said, “Now, sit your ass on that couch or go to jail.”

Nancy huffed indignantly, but strode to the couch and flopped down on it. “What about him?” she asked in a petulant voice, pointing at Fred.

Browning motioned for Fred to sit down. He chose the chair next to the couch.

“Wait here,” Browning told Willow. He and Tower stepped out onto the porch.

“That went well,” Tower whispered once the door was closed behind them.

“Kopriva was right about the crazy part, anyway,” Browning said.

Tower shook his head. “He should’ve searched the place when she offered. You know that. Hell, even the rookie knew it.”

“What’s done is done. You want to wait here until the uniform gets here to back up Willow?”

“Sure. You want help with the warrant after that?”

“Yeah.”

Tower scratched his head. “Two things, Ray.”

Browning smiled slightly. “Go ahead.”

Tower raised one finger. “You better go to Judge Webster on this one. He’s about the most officer friendly judge there is.”

“Of course.”

“And two,” Tower said, raising his second finger, “there’s no way even he’s going to give you a search warrant on the probable cause we’ve got here.”

“No?”

“No. What do we have? They’re relatives and he used to be a child molester a decade ago.”

“Used to be?” Browning’s tone was playful. “I thought you said they never rehabilitated.”

Tower gave him a long look. “You’re playing with me.”

Browning shrugged.

“What else have you got?”

Browning smiled at him. “Did you see the videotape on top of the television, John?”

“The rental?”

Browning nodded.

“Yeah,” Tower said. “I saw it. So?”

“Did you see the title?”

“No. Did you?”

Browning nodded.

“And?”

“Somehow,” Browning said, “Nancy and Fred don’t strike me as the kind of folks that regularly rent movies like Disney’s Aladdin.”

Tower’s face paled.

“I’ll get the search warrant,” Browning said.

1645 hours

Lieutenant Crawford scrawled his signature on the approval block of the search warrant and handed it back to Browning.

“Which judge are you going to?”

“Webster.”

Crawford grunted his approval. “Didn’t we send that light-duty kid over to that address back when this all started?”

Browning nodded.

“And?”

“We were looking for a black guy and a Mexican guy,” Browning said.

Crawford stared at him.

“And the woman was a crazy drunk,” he finished.

“Go get the warrant signed,” Crawford finally said. “And call me when you execute.”

Browning turned to go. “Tower’s still there, but I could use another detective to help out with the search and any evidence.”

“Most everyone’s gone for the day,” Crawford said. “I’ll have to page someone back.”

“Billing’s still at his desk,” Browning told him. “I saw him on the way in.”

“Probably doing a crossword,” Crawford muttered.

“He knows the procedures,” Browning said.

“If he knew procedures, he’d still be in Major Crimes.”

Browning shrugged.

“Go,” Crawford said. “I’ll see that you have some help at the scene.”

Browning took his warrant and headed for the judge’s chambers, hoping to catch him before he left for the day.

1719 hours

Katie MacLeod woke slowly. The sounds and smells of her apartment felt safe and cushioned her somewhat from the ache in her chest. She opened her eyes and saw Kopriva sitting in the chair, watching her.

“Hey, girl,” he said.

“Hey,” she said back, her voice froggy from crying and thick with sleep.

“You feel better?”

She stretched and sat up. “A little.”

“Good.”

Katie stood and went to him in the chair, curling up on his lap and kissing his cheek. Then she nestled her head into his neck. She felt the warmth of his skin and could smell the remnants of his Irish Spring soap. When he wrapped his arms around her, she pressed closer to him, enjoying the strength in his arms and his hands.

“Thanks for taking me home, Stef,” she whispered.

He caressed her back with his hands. “You’re welcome.”

She sat curled in his lap, silent and thoughtless.

1738 hours

“-criminals instead of honest, tax-paying citizens, goddamit!”

Browning heard Nancy Henderson’s shrill voice the moment he opened the front door. Tower and Billings followed him into the house. Willow and a rookie he didn’t know stood in the living room like statues, ignoring Nancy. He noticed that she was drinking another beer and had taken over Fred’s place in the chair. Fred sat sullenly on the couch.

Nancy noticed him. “Did you get your little search warrant, Mister Big Shot?”

Browning tossed a copy onto her lap. “That’s your copy,” he said and held up the original for her to see. “This is signed by Judge Webster.”

Nancy ignored the packet of papers on her lap and leaned forward to look at Browning’s original.

“Right here,” Browning pointed at the judge’s signature.

Nancy Henderson snarled at him and spat at the document. The spittle landed on the paperwork before Browning could pull it aside.

“Fuck you and that judge,” she said and spat again, this time on the floor at Browning’s feet.

Browning gave her a quizzical look. “You know you just spit on your own floor, right?

Nancy smiled sarcastically and raised the can of beer to her lips.

Browning turned to Willow. “When that can is through, she gets no more while we’re here.”

“That’s the same can as before,” Willow told him.

“You think I’m an alcoholic!” yelled Nancy. “A kidnapper and an alcoholic? Oh, I am going to sue the shit out of you. All of you!”

“Keep them in their seats,” Browning instructed Willow. Then he waved to Tower, who took a photograph of the room.

“You can’t take pictures in my house without permission,” screeched Nancy. “That’s a violation of my rights!”

Browning pointed to the videotape on top of the television.

Tower photographed the tape. “This is going to get old really soon,” he muttered.

Tower picked up the tape and handed it to Detective Ted Billings, who put it in a brown paper evidence bag.

“Going to?” the overweight Billings wheezed. “I’d say that particular exit is already in our rear-view mirror.”

Browning said nothing and continued his search.

1910 hours

Lieutenant Crawford shifted the lit cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. He blew large puffs of acrid blue smoke out in Browning’s direction.

“Basically, you’ve got nothing,” he said.

Browning shrugged. “We’ve got the tape. We’ve got pictures.”

Crawford scowled. “Nothing.”

Browning didn’t answer. Crawford was right. It wasn’t much.

“Tell me about the attic again,” Crawford ordered, blowing out another puff of blue smoke.

“It looks mostly unused. There’s boxes and crap everywhere and the place is dusty. The dust is mostly settled, except in the entryway and a spot about fifteen feet from the door in the center of the room.”

“What’s it look like?”

“I can show you.”

Crawford shook his head. “Just tell me.”

“Well, it looks like there was a box or a chest or something there not too long ago. And it looks like one or both of them made a few trips to it recently.”

“How recently?”

“Hard to say. Probably within a week.”

“What else?”

“There were some broken items up there, too.”

Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of broken items?”

“A lamp and an old china doll.”

“What do you make of that?”

Browning shrugged. “With this woman, who knows? But both items were broken recently.”

“Anything else?”

“Not in the attic.”

“Any outbuildings?” Crawford asked through another blue cloud.

“There’s a detached garage. There’s some junk, but room enough for their car.”

“And you did an AVR on both of them?”

Browning nodded. “No vans registered to either one.”

Crawford took a deep breath and sighed. “Sounds like you crapped out here.”

“As far as evidence goes, yeah.”

“Pull the others and let’s go,” Crawford said.

Browning returned to the living room and motioned to the two detectives and two uniforms there. “We’re finished,” he said to them.

“Didn’t find what you were looking for, Mr. Big Shot?” Nancy said sarcastically.

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Browning intoned calmly.

Nancy got out of her chair and followed the five men as they filed outside. “That’ll teach you to harass innocent people!” she shouted at them. “Wait until my attorney gets a hold of you!”

None of the men answered. As Browning closed the small gate at the end of the walkway, he heard Nancy Henderson burst into tears.

“Find my little grandbaby,” she sobbed. “Please?”

Browning didn’t answer.

Willow and the rookie uniform drove away, probably already snagged by Dispatch for the next call. Tower and Crawford lingered at Browning’s car.

“What do you think?” Crawford asked him.

“I think they’re wrong,” Browning said.

Crawford turned to Tower. The younger detective nodded in agreement. “She’s crazy, like Kopriva said, but I think she’s crazy like a fox. And he’s a creepy fucker.”

Crawford puffed quietly on his cigar, thinking. Then he asked Browning, “No signs of a kid in the house?”

“Except for the rented videotape, no.”

“No blood, nothing?”

“No.”

“And they don’t own a van.”

“No van.”

Crawford drew deep on his cigar and let out the smoke in a long sigh. “I think we’re done here, detective.”

“For now,” Browning said. “But I don’t think this is going to end well.”

“They never do,” Crawford said. He turned and strode back to his car.

Browning watched him go, then turned and met Tower’s eyes. He saw his own thoughts reflected back at him.

“Just once,” he said, more to himself than to Tower. “Just once, I’d like one to end well.”

2101 hours

Lieutenant Robert Saylor stepped up to the podium in front of Graveyard Shift. The buzz of conversation faded.

“Listen up,” he said. “There’s been a change of plans on the missing girl situation. Apparently, the witness was mistaken or lied about the description of the suspect.”

There was a rustle as several officers drew out their pocket notebooks.

“We’re definitely still looking for a blue van. No description on the driver. The suspect that grabbed the kid is a white male, slim to medium build, about six feet tall. That’s it on the description.”

There was a hushed surprise from the graveyard officers.

“So they still want us to stop blue vans, El-Tee?” Thomas Chisolm asked.

Saylor nodded. “Yes. But we’re looking for a white male suspect now.”

“In other words,” James Kahn said sarcastically, “back to normal.”

Saylor gave Kahn a hard look. “In other words, that’s the suspect description.”

Kahn didn’t reply.

Saylor continued. “Most of you know about MacLeod’s situation, but for those of you who don’t, here it is. She’s on administrative leave for a day or two after this morning’s incident.”

The room became suddenly silent. Administrative leave was usually associated with two things. Most of the time, it meant that either a serious investigation, possibly criminal, was going on or an officer-involved shooting had occurred.

“MacLeod had court today. While she was walking back from the courthouse she came up on a DV situation on the Post Street Bridge. The male half grabbed the couple’s baby from the female. When MacLeod tried to stop him, he threw the baby over the bridge.”

The silence remained in the room for another beat, and then the place exploded with surprised shouts. Saylor held up his hands for quiet.

“Emergency Services have been working the river all day, but they haven’t found the baby yet. The suspect’s in custody.”

“Was he mental or something?” Battaglia asked.

Saylor nodded. “I think so. Vietnam Vet.”

Thomas Chisolm blanched. “He was a vet?”

“Yeah, I think that was what the report said.”

“What was his name?”

Saylor glanced down at his notes. “His name was Kevin Yeager.”

“Son of a bitch,” Chisolm muttered. Then, to Saylor, he said, “I just booked him into jail a day or two ago. He was down at the State Theater hassling the mother.”

“What’d you book him for?”

“Theft.”

Saylor raised an eyebrow.

“He didn’t pay before he went into the theater,” Chisolm explained. “It’s the only crime I had.”

Saylor nodded in understanding.

“And he’s out already,” Chisolm said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“That, ladies and gentlemen,” Officer James Kahn said, “is your criminal justice system at work.”

And this time, Saylor didn’t give him a dirty look.

2308 hours

“Baker-122?” chirped the police radio.

Connor O’Sullivan looked over at Battaglia. The dark-haired officer sat with his chin on his chest, dozing.

“You going to get that?” Sully asked.

Without opening his eyes, Battaglia’s hand snaked out and grabbed the mike. He brought it to his lips.

“Twenty-two,” he said.

“Fire is on scene with a vehicle fire near T.J. Meenach bridge, requesting police respond.”

“Great,” Battaglia said. “Traffic control for the hose patrol.”

He copied the call and replaced the mike without opening his eyes. Sully shook his head in mock disgust.

“This is the nineties, you know,” he told Battaglia. “Cops aren’t supposed to sleep away the graveyard shift anymore.”

“I’m not sleeping,” Battaglia said.

“How do you figure that?”

“I’m not sleeping,” Battaglia said, “because of all the Irish chatter in this car. Now, wake me up a block before we get there.”

“Och aye, yer a useless feck, ain’tch ye?” Sully asked, but Battaglia was already breathing the even breaths of a light sleeper. He shook his head again, this time in wonder. He didn’t know how his partner was able to catnap like he did. He himself slept like a ton of bricks and couldn’t take a nap if his life depended on it. If he knew he had to get up in an hour or two, he couldn’t even fall asleep in the first place. But Battaglia could drop off at a moment’s notice.

Sully swept down Alberta and crossed Northwest Boulevard. He approached the T.J. Meenach Bridge, which spanned the Looking Glass River at a place where it was low and wide. The rotating red lights of the fire trucks down below the bridge on Pettit Drive danced and winked in the darkness. Sully turned off before he reached the bridge itself.

The cool, wet air from the river flowed through his open window. He nudged Battaglia as he pulled to a stop behind the fire truck. His partner woke up immediately and exited the car without preamble.

A stocky Fire Lieutenant approached them, his hair tousled from sleep. “Evening, gents,” he said.

Sully and Battaglia both nodded to him.

“What’s up?” Sully asked.

The Fire Lieutenant pointed at the charred hulk just off the roadway. “It’s definitely an arson job,” he told them. “Even with all the water we dumped on it, you can still smell the gasoline.”

Sully and Battaglia stared at him, waiting. If it was an arson, the Fire Department had investigators for that. It wasn’t a police matter.

“It’s burned pretty good,” the Lieutenant continued. “I don’t know if there will be any evidence, other than for the arson itself.”

“What other evidence are you looking for?” Sully asked.

The Fire Lieutenant shook his head. “Not us. You guys.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dispatch didn’t tell you?”

Sully shook his head. So did Battaglia.

The Fire Lieutenant shrugged it off. “It doesn’t matter.” He pointed at the charred hulk. “Anyway, I don’t know what color it was, but that definitely used to be a van.”

Sully and Battaglia exchanged glances, then looked back at the Fire Lieutenant.

“You guys are looking for blue vans, right? For that little girl?”