Repressed Page 5

  Shock did that to you, or maybe whatever the doc had prescribed her; the medications were the main reason they hadn’t been able to see her earlier. A sedated witness, especially one numbed to the point of sleep, belonged in bed and not answering critical questions. Or perhaps her vacant look was denial. Her eye twitched and Morrison wondered if she could already feel it trying to break through her composed façade: the thick heaviness of sorrow, the impending doom of a life where every day was just another in a new reality where a piece of you would forever be rubbed raw by grief.

  Petrosky sat across from her at the metal table. When his chair squawked against the cement floor, she finally turned to face him and sniffed.

  Morrison brought his notepad to the corner and stood behind Petrosky, suddenly too antsy to sit across from Lancaster, or maybe he didn’t want to look too deeply into her eyes, which surely held a glimpse of her future misery. His heart hurt enough already.

  “I was at work,” Lancaster said, closing her eyes a beat longer than a blink. “They told me to come to the station right away. I thought … I thought maybe his dad had taken him.” She shuddered, though the temperature in the room was always a good five degrees warmer than was comfortable. Then again, Morrison’s insides felt cold too.

  “Is his father your ex-husband, ma’am?” Petrosky asked.

  Slow nod. Then: “But he didn’t do this.”

  Morrison flipped to a clean page and wrote, ex-husband.

  “We’ll need his address.” Petrosky’s voice was soft, but Morrison recognized the set of his shoulders—they’d investigate the ex. Most victims were abused by someone familiar to them and it would have been easy for a father to get his son to walk off the playground.

  He wasn’t sure Lancaster had heard Petrosky until she nodded slowly.

  “Any issues with your ex lately?” Petrosky shifted in his seat.

  “Arguments about custody. He wanted more time with Dylan. I said no.”

  “How’d he take that?”

  “Terribly. But—”

  “What did he say?”

  She lowered her gaze to her shaking hands. “That he’d see me in court. And he said he’d make sure Dylan knew what a bitch I was. That he’d drag me through the mud.”

  The mud. Literally what had happened to Dylan Acosta. But this didn’t feel like an angry ex seeking revenge. The crimes committed against Acosta were vicious. And their killer hadn’t started with Acosta—this type of rape-homicide was usually committed by a sexual predator, escalating when the mere act of assault no longer thrilled him.

  “How was your ex with Dylan?” Petrosky said. “Any changes in their relationship or Dylan's behavior?”

  Morrison touched his pen to the notepad. He’d been in enough interrogations with Petrosky to know what he was getting at—whether her ex had been inappropriate.

  "Once we divorced, Glen really started spending more time with Dylan.”

  Morrison wrote Glen Acosta next to ex-husband and waited.

  “Dylan … loved him,” she said to the table. “He never complained, ever.” She looked up at Petrosky and blinked rapidly to clear the water from her eyes. “That actually pissed me off a little, that my ex was always the good guy.”

  “Inappropriate behavior toward Dylan or other boys?”

  Her glassy eyes squinted at the ceiling, then settled on Petrosky. “Never. He even coaches Dylan's little league team. Coached.” Her voice cracked and Morrison could almost hear her heart breaking. “Glen’s an asshole to me, but you’re wasting your time. You find the bastard that did this.”

  “We’ll do our best, ma’am.” Petrosky leaned toward her, voice softer now. “Did your ex have any nicknames for Dylan? Maybe his number one kid, anything like that?”

  The bloody #1 carved into the child’s side was seared on Morrison’s brain too. He could almost feel the blade against his skin. He tightened his grip on his pen, hoping Acosta’s mother knew something about the number—if she did, the killer probably knew the boy or his family.

  “Nothing like that. My ex isn’t very … creative.”

  Petrosky leaned back, hands clasped on the desktop. “What about other people who spent time with your son? Pastors, coaches, teachers? Anyone Dylan seemed uncomfortable around?”

  “You think Dylan … knew the person who did this?”

  In the other case they'd found—Zachary Reynolds—the victim hadn’t known his attacker. But here there were two suspects instead of just one, and Acosta’s killer would have a different pattern from the pedophile who’d raped the boys. Acosta probably knew at least one of them if the suspects lured him off the playground instead of waiting for him to wander into the woods of his own accord.

  “We don’t know, but those who hurt children often groom them for a period of time.”

  Petrosky didn’t correct her assumption about "the person" who'd done this and Morrison was thankful for that. She didn’t need to find out today that a pair of men had brutalized her child.

  “I always told him not to talk to strangers. I thought that’d be enough.”

  Kids were rarely attacked by strangers. Again, neither of them said a word to correct her.

  “Does your son have a computer?” Petrosky asked.

  “Of course. They need it for school.” Her chest puffed up just slightly, like her guilt was boiling over into defensiveness.

  “We’ll need access to it, in case he was communicating with someone online.”

  “He wasn’t communicating with anyone,” she said. “I would have known.”

  “What about online gaming?” Morrison’s own voice sounded oddly hollow against the cement walls. Not every interaction would be saved as an email or readily available on a laptop or iPad, but if Acosta’d been using the web to communicate with the men who’d attacked him, Morrison would find it.

  Petrosky glanced back, nodded, and turned back to Lancaster.

  “No.”

  “None? At all?” Petrosky cocked his head.

  “We don’t let him play those grown-up games. There are kids in his class who were getting into trouble with that.”

  “Trouble like how?” Petrosky asked. “Strangers contacting them or—”

  “No, just … there are some vile games out there.”

  Morrison leaned back against the wall and focused on the pad as Petrosky nodded his agreement about the video games, probably building rapport—he doubted Petrosky had ever actually played one.

  When Petrosky stilled she said: “All he does is some block building game. You have to be online, he said. For some of it. And I guess … he did talk to his friends on there. But just his friends, I made sure.”

  Morrison made a note.

  “We’ll need those passwords too,” Petrosky said. “Whatever user names he has.”

  “But it’s just … I’ve read articles. Those games are good for his brain. Were good for …” Her breath came out rapidly and the walls reflected it back like a shockwave of regret.

  “Did you read about the six-year-old child who was lured from her home and kidnapped after playing a game like that?” Petrosky had obviously decided that Tara Lancaster wasn’t providing him with answers fast enough—or that she was stonewalling him, even if she was in denial. Probably the latter, based on the harshness in his voice and the set of his shoulders.

  Lancaster’s jaw dropped and she made no effort to close it.

  Petrosky leaned across the table. “It’s not the game itself,” he said more softly. “The people who victimize children—these guys know how to find kids. They usually pretend to be other kids. There’s no way you’d know. It’s not your fault.” Petrosky pulled out a photo from Zachary Reynolds's case file, a composite sketch of the guy who'd raped Reynolds. The guy whose semen was also found in Lancaster’s son. "You ever seen him before?"

  She squinted at it and shook her head. "I don't think so."

  "Are you certain?"

  "As certain as I can be about anything right
now."

  Petrosky shifted in the seat, grunting faintly with the effort. “Do you have a boyfriend? Babysitters? Anyone who had regular contact with Dylan?”

  She shook her head again. “No boyfriend and no sitter. I work at the bank—I drop him off for school and pick him up after. No one else is around, usually. Just at baseball, but you’d have to ask Glen about that.”

  True, there wouldn’t have been a lot of time for a predator to take Acosta aside during a game—let alone actually abuse him between innings. But to groom Acosta, to connect with him, a ballgame was prime abuser territory. Maybe an assistant coach. Another father. A man who wouldn’t stick out at a little boy’s baseball practice.

  “Dylan does … did … spend time with friends. Sleepovers or mall trips with his friends’ older siblings, that kind of thing. He was small, but he was almost twelve, so I guess he was … pulling away a little bit. Didn’t tell me as much anymore.” Her eyes filled, then dripped down her face onto the table. She sniffed.

  “I’ll need those names also, ma’am,” Petrosky said.

  “They wouldn’t have hurt Dylan. They have kids too.”

  Half of their solved cases ended with the arrest of a family friend, one with children themselves. Morrison pressed his lips together. No reason to point it out—any correction would be taken as an accusation right now, and she’d already go home wracked with guilt. And if the agony that still tinted Petrosky’s eyes like sorrowful watercolors was any indication, the heartbreak would never leave.

  Morrison and Petrosky left the interrogation room with a list of contacts from Tara Lancaster. Five stops, to start with. Five times they’d have to see the anguish in Acosta’s friends, in other parents who were overcome by horror thinking that it could just as easily have been their child. Though maybe in one they’d see the twinkle of remorse or feel the niggling of guilt like gooseflesh on exposed legs. That’d be good—but it was hard to say whether it was likely. Not only did they have two perps, not typical for this type of case, but they had one rapist and one murderer—maybe. Acosta may have known one and not the other, or they both might have been strangers to the boy.

  Outside the precinct, the sky was bright and blue and still, not even the hint of a breeze. Petrosky’s car stunk of old grease and cigarettes. Gross, but somehow welcome, like coming home to a dirty house that was still comfortable because it belonged to you. Morrison rolled the window down anyway—even home needed to be aired out, especially since Petrosky was already pulling a smoke from the pack on the dash as he put the car in gear.

  They’d start with Dylan's father. Petrosky had called him from the interrogation room after Lancaster left and agreed to meet him in a bar after work. Morrison’s heart rate climbed at the prospect—Petrosky and liquor, addicts in their place of addiction. But when Petrosky caught Morrison’s stare, he’d leveled a glare so fierce Morrison felt like an ass for even considering it.

  Sobriety was a daily battle, but not necessarily a difficult one, at least, not every day. Maybe Petrosky’d found a way to make his days easier while Morrison had been changing dirty diapers. He seemed fine, or as fine as he’d ever been. Petrosky had always worn his grouchiness like a badge of honor, possibly because he hated most people but more likely because he was protecting some soft spot inside from harm. God knew the man had been through enough.

  They were halfway to the lot exit when a figure crossed the road from the neighboring prosecutor’s office. As tall as Morrison himself at well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a blond crew cut, Roger McFadden—Shannon’s ex-husband and lead prosecutor and incredible asshole—had a nose that would always be a touch crooked after connecting with Morrison’s fist. Too bad his ego still wouldn’t accept that he was less than perfect. Roger walked directly toward them and Petrosky didn’t slow—a game of douchebag chicken. Roger’s suit was as impeccable as was his gold watch, probably the one Shannon had given him for their second anniversary. They hadn’t made it to three. It shouldn’t have annoyed him, but every hair on Morrison’s arms stood up at the sight of the gold glinting in the morning sun.

  Petrosky slammed on his brakes at the last possible moment, the front bumper practically kissing Roger’s pants. A part of Morrison was disappointed that Petrosky hadn’t mowed him down.

  “Well, well, you’re back,” Roger said. His eyes bored through the windshield as he leaned toward them, hands on the hood, and Morrison immediately regretted rolling down the window. The corner of Roger’s mouth turned up. “And how’s my lovely wife?”

  Roger would spend a lifetime seeking reinforcement, burning for Shannon to say “I was wrong, you’re worth it, you’re better.” And yet if that were ever to actually happen, he’d reject her as he had when he’d been married to her. Winning was all that mattered to Roger.

  “Shannon’s doing just fine.” Morrison said, working to keep his voice even.

  Petrosky puffed on his cigarette and grinned. “Better watch it, Rog, before he breaks your nose again.”

  The smug smile slid from Roger’s face. “Not if he wants to keep providing for his lovely little family. Even if he is sloppy seconds.”

  Morrison’s fists clenched but he forced his face to remain placid. He could almost hear the ocean in his head, settling with each breath he took: stormy waves of rage and anger calming to a tumultuous lapping, easing to a gentle whoosh of salt on sand. Peaceful. He smiled and chuckled, making sure Roger saw it.

  Roger’s face twisted with anger—the man hated nothing more than to be the butt of someone’s joke.

  Petrosky stuck his head out the window. “Move, fuckhead!”

  Roger squared his shoulders and held his ground.

  Petrosky jerked the wheel to the right and Roger leapt out of the way as Petrosky swung around him and sprayed his suit with gravel and dust. Morrison kept his eyes on the side-view mirror, watching Roger frantically brushing at his suit and muttering what were probably curse words under the squeal of the tires as Petrosky turned onto the main road.

  “Once a dick, always a dick,” Petrosky said.

  Morrison dragged his eyes back to the front windshield, his smile still frozen on his lips. He itched with the desire to smash his knuckles into Roger’s stupid face. Again.

  “He’s just pissed that Shannon’s always loved you.” Petrosky ashed his cigarette out the window and shoved it between his teeth again. “Even when she was married to him.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true,” Morrison said, but he felt suddenly lighter.

  9

  The Reynolds family lived in Rochester, a forty-five minute drive from Detroit, in a two-story colonial in a neighborhood where children still rode bikes without looking over their shoulders, and the stray dog wandering in your yard belonged to someone you knew so there was no need to be cautious about approaching it. Ironic that they were going to visit a kid who knew just how easily the illusion of safety could be shattered. It had been five years since Zachary Reynolds’s attack, but hopefully they’d get something they could use.

  Mrs. Reynolds answered the door wearing a white turtleneck and a gold treble clef on a chain over her heart. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown freckles over the bridge of her nose. The living room was warm, with worn leather sofas and oak end tables, but there was nothing to indicate people actually lived here. No toys. No books. Just baubles and vases on the shelves flanking the fireplace.

  She gestured to the couch. “So how can I help? You said you may have some new information about my son’s … attack?” She smoothed down her pencil skirt and sat across from them. Feigning composure. But the subtle quiver in her hands gave her away. “I didn’t know they were still looking at his case.”

  “We may have a related crime,” Petrosky said, his face still and watchful as a lion sizing up prey.

  “This is about that boy. The one they found … murdered behind the school playground.” Not a question. Her mouth tightened—it could have been her kid dead on the ground. Almost had been. She w
rung her hands.

  Morrison set the case file in his lap and pulled his notebook from his back pocket: Reynolds, mother. The mere process of scratching ink on the pad relaxed his shoulders, though he had no real reason to be tense to begin with. Roger must have gotten to him more than he’d thought.

  “Why do you think the cases are related, Detective? Because of the … rape at school thing?” She dropped her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  And because of the DNA at the scene. Then there was the T-shirt around Acosta’s neck, tied just like the one that had strangled Reynolds. But Petrosky didn’t elaborate.

  She clutched her necklace, stopping short of touching her throat. “You think he tried to kill my Zach, too?”

  “I think he wanted Zach to be quiet,” Petrosky said. “Or he managed to stop himself.” But it wasn't the shirt around the throat that had killed Acosta. Leaping from rape to stomping a kid to death—or allowing it—was a stretch. And from the struggle at the scene … it didn’t seem like this rapist had been ready to take that step. So who had? Morrison tried not to picture the gaping holes in Acosta’s back, tried not to imagine the sound of his last breaths as they were reduced to a bloody gurgle.

  “You think he’s escalating?” she said.

  Petrosky raised an eyebrow. “Ma’am?”

  “My shrink, he tells me about this stuff. I mean, I ask and he answers.” She reached for a box of tissues on the end table, thought better of it, and smoothed her skirt again. “I read a lot too. Real crime. Books on these … pedophiles. Trying to understand what Zach went through. What he’s still going through.” She wrung her hands again, then looked Petrosky in the eye. “Ask your questions. It’ll be easier for me before he gets here.”