The Lost Son: A Mystery Thriller, page 12
“Right,” she said firmly as she came up beside the first gurney. Even the three doctors on the scene stopped and looked at her for instruction. “Let’s get these people to the OR.”
Chapter 15
Dancing Grass
Terry knew without a shadow of a doubt that the man in the picture was the one he had seen in his nightmares so often over the last 18 years. The round-rimmed glasses had changed to larger, pilot-rimmed frames, but the face was the same. There seemed to be no life behind the eyes (as he’d remembered all too well), and even though Leonard Cole’s hair had receded somewhat since the day he tried to snatch Terry, there was no mistaking who it was. The image on the top left-hand corner of the manila file was the child killer who had terrorized Concord and New Hampshire for over a decade.
Leonard Cole, a 58-year-old cab driver who had lived on Combine Drive in southern Concord all his adult life, was a pillar of the small, local community. On weekends, he headed up his congregation’s charity drives, organizing bake sales, raffles, and fun activities for the kids. He had a wife and two kids—both now adults and living in the city—and he liked to fish on Wednesdays. There had been some weight gain over the last two decades, Terry noticed, and now a paunchy gut hung over two spindly legs.
Most of the images and information had come through online resources attainable by anyone with a laptop or an iPhone, but the most recent pictures had been taken yesterday and this morning by the surveillance team. The white van synonymous with the child snatcher had yet to be found anywhere on his property (Cole didn’t have much, so if they weren’t seeing it, the vehicle was somewhere else), but the cops knew it was somewhere close by. How? Because at precisely 8:38 on Monday morning, Leonard Cole tried to drag 10-year-old Shawn Sparks into it as the kid walked to school alone. Luckily, Shawn Sparks was not to be messed with, and after fighting off the predator who was trying to kidnap him—taking a good mess of skin and blood under his nails as he did so—the brave youngster had run to the nearest farmhouse, where the owners looked after him until the cops showed up.
Amazingly, Leonard Cole had driven into the city not long after and started taking fares in his cab, leading one of his passengers to question the fresh scratch marks on his face. Following the horrible son of a bitch’s fumbled excuses, the vigilant civilian had memorized his ID on the dash and called the authorities as soon as they had gotten out of the car, reporting the suspicious wounds on the face of the man who had driven them to work that morning.
As this had been happening, the samples had been taken from underneath the nails of a shaken yet thankfully relatively unharmed Shawn Sparks and had been sealed and sent directly to FBI labs in their offices in Bedford to be fast-tracked. Given the nature of the crimes being attributed to the suspect—anything child abuse-related would always be rushed, Terry knew—the Investigations Department had only had to wait three days for a watertight confirmed match. Thankfully, Leonard Cole had been arrested five years before out of state for a DUI, and his DNA was still on file.
Even before the DNA match, Terry and Alan—and everyone in the CPD—had known Leonard Cole was their man. The MCU detectives already had a tail on the suspect, following his every move since Monday afternoon, and three days in between had been some of the most agonizing of Terry’s life. Alan, who sat beside him now in the Buick LaCrosse, which was parked up on one of the two roads leading into Combine Drive, had been like a caged animal. Terry had never seen his partner this way, and he was starting to see just how much this case had affected the man.
“You should eat a pastry. It will keep your strength up,” Terry said, tossing the manila folder on the back seat and pointing at the untouched brown paper bag on the dash. Alan grunted something that sounded like ‘no’ and continued looking out the window.
The day was bright, and all along the country road, Terry could see green fields coated in morning dew. The blades shimmered as they danced in the slight breeze, and in any other situation, it would seem almost majestic. But this was not a normal or even slightly strange situation because Terry and his aging partner were waiting on the go-ahead from Judge Patino to make their move on a child killer.
The warrant for Leonard Cole’s arrest was a formality—they had a witness, DNA, and the recent surveillance photos showing the two-day scratches on the suspect’s face—but if they jumped the gun and made an arrest before getting the required paperwork, then a scumbag lawyer might just get the piece of shit off on a technicality. Even thinking of this made Terry’s blood boil, and he could feel the tension in his jaw from how hard he was clenching his teeth.
Through the rest of Monday and all-day Tuesday and Wednesday, MCU had continued to work on other cases, but Terry and Alan had been tense. They hadn’t spoken much, and Terry could feel the immense fear throughout the precinct that something would go wrong before they made the arrest. Everyone knew this was unlikely, but they had all waited so long to get to this point in the case that it was inevitable there would be some trepidation, however irrational it was.
The FBI had been great, Terry had to admit, and even after fast-tracking the samples taken from Shawn Spark’s nails, the two agents sent up the road to Concord had remained mainly in the background since. This was a CPD—and particularly, an MCU—case, and it would be Alan and Terry who made the arrest. Terry had feared his personal attachment to the case, given what happened in his childhood, might have had him removed, but nothing had come of it.
The car’s radio burst to life, and Shea said, “Movement in the target’s house.”
Shea and Kellerman were parked down the street from Cole’s house in an unmarked vehicle. With Terry and Alan blocking one of the exits—the one leading to 93 and into town—and Haggler and his stand-in partner, Benny Benz, waiting at the other, Terry knew they had the suspect covered. Still, his palms were damp with sweat, and his normally steady thoughts were racing.
“Good,” Alan barked. “Follow him at a distance.”
Alan picked up his phone, punched in a number, and held it to his ear, drumming out an angry tune on his leg with his free hand as he waited.
“Chief,” he said after a few seconds. “Give me some good news on the arrest warrant.” There was a pause. “Fuck sakes. We know he’s our guy, Chief, so lean on Patino… okay, okay. We’ll hold our ground.”
Alan hung up and punched the dash so hard the car actually jerked a little.
“FUCK,” he roared. “How the fuck can Mallick hold us back like this?”
Terry knew why—and so did Alan—but it didn’t make it sting any less. If this were a typical homicide case, where some husband had snapped and killed his wife or lost it in a bar over a game of pool and jammed a glass into someone’s neck, the warrant would be cut and dry. But losing someone like Cole—who had committed the horrible crimes he had—on a technicality would mean high-up jobs being lost, and as the heads rolled, those very people who decided to grant the warrant too early would be the first to go.
On top of all of this, the CPD had been run through the mill in the eight days since the drug bust, and even though Internal Investigations had cleared both Terry and Haggler completely, this little bit of information wasn’t exactly click-bait. Heavy-handed police work and out-of-control detectives sold papers and lit up websites. With the Kevin Thorpe murder still fresh in the memory, too, Terry was inclined to think the CPD had never had a five-week period such as this before.
“He’s moving,” Shea said through a slight crackle. “Heading your way, MCU.”
“Smith?” Alan said, getting the attention of the one-half of Smithbyrne that wasn’t on life support.
“Yeah?” Haggler replied.
“Start movin’ toward the city until you get to the other end of 93 and wait there.”
“Got it.”
From Cole’s residence to where Terry and Alan were parked took 20 minutes. Again, Terry could feel the tension in the Buick growing to a boiling point. If the warrant didn’t come through soon, he didn’t know how they would handle it. The arrest needed to be made now, and the longer the piece of shit who had killed at least four innocent kids continued to go about his day as a free man, the more the whole concept of law enforcement seemed warped. That was something Terry Wakes found almost impossible to grasp.
Alan readjusted his considerable weight in the driver’s seat again and drummed his fingers on the wheel. His salt and pepper hair was in disarray from him constantly running his hands through it, and for the first time since Terry had partnered with him, the man looked almost disheveled. Terry didn’t blame him, and although his own blue suit was pristine today, he felt like chopped liver inside.
“Judge Patino is reviewing the evidence as we speak, Alan,” Terry said, trying to reassure but regretting it instantly when Alan snapped his head around and glared at him. But he continued regardless. “It won’t be long now. She has to grant it with everything we have on the bastard.”
Alan growled and went back to his drumming, and Terry breathed a sigh of relief. Terry Wakes was a man who could handle himself in a scrap, but he dreaded to think what would happen to someone—including himself—if they went up against an enraged Alan Letzki. Terry didn’t blame him for his anger; he felt the same way. The system was far from perfect, and it was at times like this that it felt like the chips were always firmly stacked against the good guys.
Still, he was brought up always to do things by the book, and he couldn’t imagine a time in his life when that would ever change. Despite Alan’s current mood, Terry knew his partner believed in the basic intentions of the law. Given Alan had spent the last 34 years dealing with this kind of crap, Terry felt the man was more than entitled to feel extra aggrieved.
“He’s 12 minutes away from you,” Shea cut in.
“Okay, Shea,” Alan replied. “Stay on him. Smith?”
“Aye?”
“Location?”
“We’re comin’ up on 93 now, Letzki. Be there in five.”
“Good. Keep me posted.”
“Aye.”
Terry could feel his heart beating against the 22 inside his jacket. Outside, the fields continued their slow, rhythmic dance. Every so often, a car would whiz by, and Terry would think of the people inside going about their day, completely unaware of what was taking place so close to them. Would they want to know, given the option? Terry knew they wouldn’t, and rightly so. Why would they want to live their lives in such a way, fearing everyone they saw and keeping their kids bubble-wrapped 24 hours a day?
“Fuck this,” Alan suddenly snapped. “I’m callin’ the chief again.”
He was reaching for his phone on the dash when it rang. Alan’s hand snatched it up, his other hand already reaching for the keys dangling from the ignition.
“Tell me it’s a go, Chief?” he croaked. There was a pain in his voice that touched Terry’s heart, and he remembered the same man—no gray in his hair and fewer wrinkles on his strangely handsome face—reaching across the table at the police station and reassuring Terry that everything was going to be okay all those years ago.
Alan nodded once, hung up, and tossed the phone back on the dash. Then he took his 22 from its holster, checked it over, replaced it, and nodded at Terry.
“We’ve got the go-ahead,” he snarled into the radio. There was a unanimous “Okay,” and then Alan Letzki started up the Buick.
As he pulled out of the old dirt road near 93, Terry looked to his left for a moment, slightly in awe of the man beside him. The spring sunshine had lit up his weathered face, making him look 10 years younger than the disheartened detective who had cursed aloud and punched the wheel moments before. Terry had been waiting 18 years to catch the man who tried to snatch—and inevitably rape and kill—him, but he sometimes forgot Alan Letzki had waited just as long.
“You ready, Letzki?” Terry said as they began speeding toward the target.
Alan gave him that reassuring crooked smile and winked. “You fuckin’ bet I am, rook.”
Chapter 16
God’s Work
“Have you been drinking today, Georgia?” William asked, the sunshine beaming through the kitchen windows illuminating his handsome face. He was wearing the loose khaki pants and tight white T-shirt combo he always looked so good in. “If you’ve been drinking, then I don’t want to have this conversation.”
Georgia hadn’t been drinking (a couple of Xanax, sure), but knowing her husband had to ask her such a question before noon on a Thursday hurt. Could she blame him for his mistrust? Probably not. But she could feel her instinctual defense mode kicking in, nonetheless.
“Of course not, William,” she snapped.
He raised his hands, palms out. “Okay, okay. I just don’t want this turning into another drunken argument.”
All she had asked about was his strange phone call that weekend. William had tried to reach her several times following their argument, but she hadn’t picked up for a day and a half. When she finally did, it was after one in the morning, and her state of mind had been rattled, to say the least. If anyone should have been pissed off, it was him, as it had been her seemingly ignoring his calls. But he didn’t seem too concerned; he hadn’t even bat an eyelid when she finally answered in the early hours following her blackout.
“So,” she said, feeling her heart racing at the question she was about to reiterate, “Was there someone in the room with you when you called me?”
“Jesus, Georgia,” William groaned, shaking his head. “Like who?”
She wanted to say “Melissa Martell,” even though it was ridiculous even to think it. Her paranoia that her husband was having an affair had grown in the last couple of days, and with no good reason as to why. It had taken such an ugly place in her subconscious that she almost asked one of the receptionists at St. Alban’s to check if Dr. Martell had been off over the weekend. Georgia hadn’t been at work until Sunday evening herself, but she had seen Melissa in her lab coat on the Friday morning when she stumbled upon William and her laughing in the hallway, so it stood to reason that the pretty blonde surgeon had been rostered on through Saturday and Sunday, too, especially with William away.
Instead of saying the name she wanted to say, Georgia just shrugged and mumbled, “I dunno.”
Sitting at the kitchen table now with her coffee in front of her, Georgia suddenly felt very stupid for having broached the subject. Had she even heard a muffled voice in the background when William called her? She had just come out of a jarring blackout, and to add insult to injury, she had discovered it had lasted a whole day longer than she’d first imagined. Even if there had been another voice, it had sounded more upset than anything. Not exactly the tone of some beautiful woman sitting on the bed sneering at her lover’s stupid wife on the other end of the phone as Georgia kept picturing.
”As I told you when you asked that night,” William said through a large exhale, “I had the TV on in the background. You hadn’t answered the phone for nearly two days, and I was worried. I couldn’t sleep, and you know I need the TV on in the background when that happens.”
All of this was true, and Georgia was very aware that the only one she was certain to have told a lie so far was herself. William hadn’t seemed overly relieved when she’d finally answered the phone, but he had been angry she had let it go on so long. Without time to think and with her mind still racing from having seen the date on the screen of her Samsung, Georgia told him she had lost her phone and had only just found it. Telling William about the second blackout in just over a month would have only led to more arguments, as his ever-growing belief that alcohol was becoming a trigger for them would be blown out of all proportion.
William walked over to the sink and looked out the window. The silence that fell between them was nothing new these days, but this time it felt more final. Georgia couldn’t explain why, and she didn’t even know if her husband was feeling it too, but she was inclined to think he was. Her need to find out if he was having an affair just seemed like the correct thing to do, as if being jealous would be how an ordinary wife would react. But when she really thought about it, there was a part of her growing each day that almost wanted him to be fucking someone else. They needed closure on the horrendous act that had ripped them apart seven years before, and maybe going their separate ways was the answer.
Much like her blackout earlier in the week, Georgia hadn’t called William in the aftermath of the four-car pile-up which had filled the OR a few days later. In days gone by, Georgia would have called her husband after tending to the patients who had been brought in, but all she had done was clean herself up and drive home. William had been at the door as she came in, suit and tie on and briefcase in hand as he set off for his shift at St. Alban’s, and even then, she had just nodded hello and said goodbye.
“You never even asked me,” she said to his back. Three of the nine people brought into the hospital that morning had died not long after, with another one holding onto their life but losing a leg. It had been a rough one.
“Hmm?”
“When I came in from work on Wednesday, you never even asked me about the pile-up on 93.”
William didn’t turn away from the window. She knew he must have known about the accident that morning, as it had been on the local news. Apart from that, the hospital would have called him, and surely that was why he was heading off early that morning.
“You must have known,” she added, still unsure why she was fishing for an argument.
This time he did turn around, and when she looked into his eyes, she didn’t just see disgust; she saw hatred. “And when the fuck do you ever ask me about my day, Georgia? Although I suppose it is hard for someone who has passed out to enquire about their husband’s day.”
He held her gaze now in the shining kitchen. Georgia could feel something stirring inside, and even as she was being shamed yet again for drinking too much, her mind kept drifting to the bottle of vodka in the closet upstairs. She didn’t like hiding alcohol, but William’s lack of trust had driven her to such embarrassing behavior. If he understood that she liked a drink every once in a while, then maybe she wouldn’t have to sneak around so much.
