Repressed Page 8

  Morrison paused, hand over the files. Reynolds. Executive. “Clean as a … what?”

  “Also, that fuckstick clown group was popular in the early nineties. Now they all live up on the east coast. Two of them own some fucking auto-body repair shop. They all have alibis for Acosta and Reynolds, no clown tattoos on anyone’s stomach, and none of them remember any particularly crazy letters or renegade fans. Nice enough people if you can believe that shit.”

  “You’ve been busy.” Morrison watched the sandwich disappear incrementally. “Now, about the whales—”

  “You got the nanny thing figured out?” Petrosky said around a bite of egg muffin. “When does Bell start?”

  “How’d you—”

  Petrosky set the paper sack on the desk and Morrison eyed the grease stains seeping through the bag like blood through a gurney sheet. “Looked at your files,” Petrosky said, digging into the sack and producing a hash brown patty.

  “Bell was unavailable.” Morrison watched Petrosky’s face, but nothing changed.

  “Alyson Kennedy’s a good second.”

  No way Petrosky could know that one—Morrison hadn’t marked it down anywhere. “You talked to Shannon.”

  “Shannon called a week ago just after she got Kennedy’s application. Asked if I knew her from the hospital since I’m often over there harassing the shit out of people. Her words not mine.” Petrosky eyed his potatoes like they owed him money. “Before she switched to pediatrics, Kennedy worked in the morgue for a little bit. I remember her from that.”

  Autopsy nurse turned nanny. Interesting choices. Not that it was more interesting than his own life decisions. “And the verdict?”

  “Met her a few times. Good at her job. Thorough. I’m sure she’ll be good with Evie too.”

  So Shannon had vetted her choices before she even gave them to him. Knowing he’d recheck. No wonder she had been so confident—not that he should have expected less. Lawyers. She really was back to her old self. The tension in Morrison’s shoulders eased just a little.

  “She left already?” Petrosky shoved the packet of fried hash browns into his mouth.

  “Yeah.”

  Petrosky raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m all right.” But the pit in his chest told him that wasn’t completely true. It would be about time for Evie to eat. If they were home, Shannon would be nursing her, and then he’d burp Evie and change her diaper, and she’d giggle and look at him with those excited baby blues like he was the most awesome person on earth.

  Morrison nodded to the remains of the breakfast burger. “Those things will kill you.”

  “I’ve lived long enough.”

  “Give us a few more years, eh? Let Evie get old enough to call you Gramps.”

  Petrosky shoved the rest of the egg muffin into his mouth and wiped his greasy fingers on a takeout napkin. He was aiming at nonchalant, but the twinkle in his eye gave him away. “You want to drive in case my heart gives out on the way there? I hear you even get free leave if your partner bites it.” Petrosky’s keys jangled as he held them up. “But I’ll see if I can hold out until we find this fucker. I want to be the one to leak his list of charges to his prison mates.”

  12

  The colorful pictures that had been in the windows of Acosta’s school the day of the murder had been replaced with children’s art projects: crayon crosses and construction paper cut-outs with “Dylan” scrawled across the top. A shrine to the dead boy. Inside, the halls were still buzzing with the same nervous energy as the day they’d interviewed Acosta’s classmates. But now, the gut-wrenching sadness in the air was stronger still, wrapping him like a mournful blanket.

  Petrosky sat across from the principal’s desk, Morrison next to him. They’d already spoken to Acosta’s father and the families of those the boy hung out with on a regular basis. All of them were devastated. All of them were shocked. None of them had a thing to tell them outside of Mr. Acosta, who apparently thought that Dylan's mother should bear the blame for letting the kid play video games. Petrosky figured the funeral would be a fucking combat zone for Acosta’s parents even after they found that the online gaming accounts Acosta interacted with were registered to his school buddies. Careful parents. But if his killer was an older brother of one of those kids, or another dad …

  They’d look at everyone, like always: parents, teachers, siblings, coaches. But that wasn’t feeling right, not with the manner of the killing, not with the rapist’s DNA match on Reynolds, and especially not with the place they’d chosen to attack Acosta. If the attackers had known the kid, they’d have brought him somewhere more private, unless the exhibitionism was part of the draw. More likely, the killer had watched Acosta and attacked opportunistically as he’d done with Reynolds. A stranger, or close to. And to find him, they needed all the help they could get.

  The principal answered Petrosky’s questions with a drawn mouth. Her suit was pressed, her makeup neat and her black hair was slicked back in a tight bun, but her eyes were bloodshot. Lack of sleep? Probably. Someone had just raped and murdered a little boy on her watch. She wasn’t to blame, but it was better for media ratings to sensationalize the event and the media had done just that, thanks to a leak from one of the parents. They’d also leaked the fact that the boy had been sexually assaulted, something responsible news outlets generally didn’t disclose. Morrison bristled. At least they’d managed to keep the stomping a secret. So far.

  “You said one of your students saw a bike from the classroom window?” Petrosky said. “An adult bike not belonging to staff?”

  The melancholy on her face hardened into resolve. “None of our staff bike to school, so it doesn’t belong to any of us. And only one boy saw it. I’ve talked to every teacher here, students who were with Dylan earlier in the day, even the janitor. We are not taking this lightly, detectives, I can assure you.” Her words were tight, defensive, but after the news reports claiming that the school allowed Acosta off the property to be attacked by a child killer … She had every right to be.

  “No one suspects you’re doing anything less than your due diligence, Dr. Goldstein,” Petrosky said, and her shoulders relaxed some at the words. The media had definitely been getting to her, unless it was just her own guilt. Morrison made a note.

  She nodded. “Good. Hopefully he’ll be able to tell you something. I want to see this bastard brought to justice.”

  Before he does it again, Morrison thought, but no one had to say it. Behind Principal Goldstein, a child’s squeal split the room, along with the muffled thunk of balls on pavement. Morrison peered out the window into the brilliant sun and watched a little girl run after a ball. Teachers paced the grounds, their heads jerking this way and that, watching for a monster in the shadows ready to claim someone else’s baby. The girl just grabbed the ball and laughed. Probably around ten years old. But give Evie five years and she’d be in school too, no more nanny, no more days at home, just his little girl flying off on her own to a place where any terrible thing could happen to her and there would be nothing he could do to stop it. Morrison touched his phone, felt the familiar weight in his pocket. Shannon couldn't magically transport herself from Detroit to Atlanta—it’d take her at least five or six hours to reach her halfway-point hotel in Kentucky. She’d call when she stopped for the night.

  Petrosky opened the file folder, and Goldstein’s eyes widened when she saw the glossy prints. He held out the composite drawn after the Zachary Reynolds attack. “Does he look familiar?”

  “You have a mug shot? A suspect already?” She leaned toward them, squinting at the image, and her face fell. “No, I’ve never seen him.”

  Of course Goldstein wouldn’t know him. No one had seen the suspect around Zachary Reynolds’s school either.

  She glanced back into the folder as Petrosky flipped half a dozen pages from the file. He tapped the top sheet. “I’ve also got some pictures to help us identify the bike your student saw. Did he say where he noticed it?”

&
nbsp; “The rack.”

  Morrison thought back to his initial trek around the school. He hadn’t seen a bike when he’d arrived on the scene and it wasn’t in any of the crime scene photos. Their killer must have ridden off on it, maybe while Acosta lay dying. But they had two suspects—so had the men agreed to meet? Or had their bike-riding boot-wearing murderer happened upon Acosta’s attack and decided to join the fun, much to the pedophile’s chagrin? But no … what were the odds that some psycho would just accidentally come upon another crime, happen to have the tools in hand—or on his feet—and decide to kill someone? Impossible. Morrison shook the idea from his head as Petrosky tapped the bike photos and looked at Goldstein pointedly.

  “You need Dimitri,” Goldstein said. “I’ll send the aide to get him out of class.”

  Four bicycle shops all had the same thing to say about the blue ten-speed bike Dimitri had identified: common, found everywhere from toy stores to big box stores to specialty shops. No way to track it, especially since he could have purchased it anytime. Unless the suspect decided to just brazenly ride by the school, it was another dead end.

  Petrosky and Morrison spent lunch at a Thai restaurant, poring over the case files and calling professional and amateur clowns in the metro Detroit area. Neither Acosta’s mother nor Mrs. Reynolds had been aware of clowns at any birthday parties that their children had attended, but the classified ads had given them a few hits and a list for follow-up, as had the party rental places.

  Two dozen clowns later and they were no closer to anything pertinent. Almost all of the clowns had alibis—turned out most worked day jobs so their whereabouts could be easily verified.

  Petrosky set the phone aside and shoveled spicy chicken into his mouth. “Goofy red-nosed motherfuckers.”

  At least they could say they’d been thorough. Past cases had been closed with crazier theories, but the birthday clown angle didn’t feel right to him anyway—not that his gut had never been wrong. Morrison picked at his noodles and prawns and tried not to worry too much that Shannon still had not called him back.

  13

  The first tattoo shop smelled like rubbing alcohol and reefer and someone’s flop sweat. The reek was probably the skinny dude already sitting in the chair, wincing as another tattooed man ran a buzzing needle over his rib cage. The tattoo artists had nothing to share: no knowledge of the tattoo itself or the demonic clown group that had inspired the images. Morrison thought more highly of them for it. The second tattoo shop yielded more blank stares.

  On the way to the third parlor, Morrison turned up his phone so they could listen to the lyrics of The Lion Tamer, a song which glorified the dismemberment of a goat—tuneless rapping over a background of tinny circus bells and whistles. Morrison frowned, imagining the type of person who would listen to this garbage and be inspired. But had it inspired him to kill?

  Petrosky flicked it off. “Shit’s gross, but nothing on the kid angle. The murder thing though … that’s something.”

  Something, but not a direct link, not that he’d expected to find a song about stomping children to death. He winced, turning his face to the window so Petrosky couldn’t see. “It’s all like that—mostly just circus nonsense. Clowns as executioners, heavy on the violence. I printed the lyrics for the file, but this was the closest it got to the sexual assault angle because in verse two they … uh …”

  “They fuck the goat.”

  “Yeah.” Morrison stared at Petrosky. “You listen to it, Boss?”

  “Guessing. Probably the only way they get any ass. Kill it and take it. Force it. Fucking pussies.”

  Shannon hated the word pussy and would have flipped him off. Fuck you, Petrosky. Morrison coughed but held his tongue.

  Petrosky kept his eyes on the windshield. “So call me a misogynist, Morrison. Go right ahead. I can already hear your wife in my brain.”

  “Glad I’m not the only one.” But Morrison finally smiled.

  “Tell her to get me a better word for shit like this, and I’ll stop saying it.”

  “No way I’m getting in the middle of that. Tell her yourself.”

  Petrosky squinted out his side window and swung into a strip mall lot. “Fucking pussy,” he muttered.

  The third tattoo shop had a door so white it looked like someone bleached it daily. Inside, the parlor was one large room with a cream-colored microsuede sofa near the door, the couch flanked by end tables made of clear glass. Along the right wall ran a long counter with a six-foot curtain of beads behind it, covering what was probably the back room or office. In the main area, half a dozen stations with black leather reclining chairs waited for clients, almost like a hair salon. Clean. Modern. Comfortable.

  They sifted through the books on the glass coffee table: realistic drawings, pop art, some images that looked like watercolor paintings, everything in between. Lots of real art, too, not just cartoon knockoffs. Some of the pieces were utterly tragic, though he tried not to consider the circumstances that had led to their creation. Morrison was staring at a photographic memorial tattoo of a little girl when Petrosky grabbed the book, slammed it closed, and tossed it back onto the table with the others.

  The beaded curtain rustled with a sound like a rain stick and Morrison looked up to see a bald man covered neck to wrist in ink. “Can I help you guys?” He eyed the closed binders, then looked at each of them in turn, as if trying to guess who he’d be tattooing. “I can sketch you something original if you’ve got an idea.”

  “Nothing for us today.” Petrosky flipped open his badge and approached the counter. The man appraised the shield with eyes as green as the dragon that snaked from wrist to forearm.

  “What can I help you with, officers?”

  “You are?”

  “Randy. The hired help.” His lip ring glinted when he smiled.

  Petrosky pocketed his badge. “Looking for a guy with a tattoo.”

  “Well, that narrows it down.”

  Petrosky dealt him a withering glare. Randy’s smile fell.

  “He’s a bad, bad man.” Petrosky pulled out Zachary Reynolds’s drawing of the tattoo and slid it across the counter along with a copy of the album cover. Morrison looked away from the gory image.

  “You seen a tat like this?”

  Randy glanced at it and his eyes lit up, hot and wild. “Hey, Drake!” he called to the curtain. A burly man with a dark ponytail and intelligent brown eyes sauntered out toward them. T-shirt, but no ink on his arms. Or neck. Or anywhere else Morrison could see. Odd. Maybe he was new.

  Drake studied the photo. “That guy. Been years though.” He shook his head. “That fucking guy.”

  “Want to tell us about that fucking guy?” Petrosky said.

  Drake shrugged. “Not a lot to tell. He was kinda quiet, didn’t talk much to me. He liked Jenny’s work over mine. She said that he was nice—used to tell her jokes and shit.”

  “So he’s a regular,” Petrosky said.

  “Was.” Drake nodded along with Randy the dragon boy, and Petrosky put the pictures away.

  “Any distinguishing characteristics outside of the tat?”

  “Not really.” Drake shrugged a shoulder and the muscles in his arm coiled, then stilled. “Skinny. Kinda dorky, but in a way that seemed like he didn’t really know it. More awkward—bland. Not really someone you’d notice walking down the street.”

  Awkward. Unassuming. Bland. They’d said almost the same about Jeffery Dahmer and that guy kept his victim’s severed body parts in his freezer in case he got hungry.

  “Eye color?” Petrosky said.

  “Can’t recall.”

  “Hair?”

  “Brown? Lighter than mine though, and kinda scraggly. Over the ears but above the shoulders.”

  That might be useful if he hadn’t dyed it. Or shaved it. Across the counter, Randy’s head shone in the fluorescents.

  “How tall was he?”

  “Shorter than me for sure. Just a few inches taller than Jenny.”

  P
etrosky’s eyes narrowed for a beat, then relaxed. Drake’s description was confirmation that their shorter, sneakered suspect, the man who had raped Zachary Reynolds and Dylan Acosta, had always been a scraggly, weird-looking dude. But why the rapist was fighting with the killer at the scene—that was eating at Morrison. Unrest between the suspects meant the killer could just as easily have murdered the rapist too. Maybe he already had.

  Petrosky produced the composite sketch of Zachary Reynolds’s attacker, and Drake nodded.

  “Yep, that’s him.” He studied the ceiling. “Been awhile. Two, three years, maybe.”

  If their rapist was still alive they could flip him on the murderer, but … They could be searching for another corpse. Not that dead rapists were a bad thing. Morrison noted Drake’s statement and the pen tore a hole in the sheet. He flipped to a new page.

  Petrosky nodded to the credit card machine on the counter. “How’d he pay?”

  “Cash, I think.” Drake squinted. “We just really started taking cards in the last year or so.”

  “Keep records? Consent forms? Maybe a copy of a driver’s license?”

  “No consent forms from that far back. And we just check their license to make sure they’re over eighteen.”

  “You get his name from the license?”

  “Sorry, man, can't remember his real name. We called him Mr. Magoo, on account of he couldn’t look me in the face, stared everywhere else. Seemed to see Jenny just fine, though.” He bristled on the last sentence.

  Petrosky leaned an elbow against the counter. “Jenny your girl, Drake?”

  “She’s a girl who married me, yeah.” Drake’s chest puffed up as he straightened his shoulders. Proud. Morrison pushed an image of Shannon’s face from his mind—she’d surely call soon.