Murder at Willow Slough (36 page)

“Maybe forever?” Kent tried to make his body not shake.

She glanced at the older officer, decided to ignore the question. “If he makes it through the next 24 hours, it increases his chance of survival. Then if and when the lungs begin to return to normal function and he starts to breathe for himself, that increases the chances of the other systems kicking in. If the central nervous system begins to recover, he wakes up from the coma, it’s possible he’ll be okay. Brain damage becomes the concern at that point, and it could be severe; but it’s too early to worry about it. He would begin a lengthy rehab, several months. Meanwhile we’re planning on procedures to perform these other functions for him. So focus on the next 24 hours, okay? One step at a time. He makes it that far, then we focus on the next 24.”

Kent listened. Good God, he could be a vegetable. The one thing worse than death.

It was unbearable; he had to switch. He tried very hard to remember his optimism. He had trained it all his life, it had always helped him. Would it now? Could he even find it?

He asked tremulously, “Is full recovery possible at all?” Then he had to look the doctor full in the face.

“If we did our jobs right, a full recovery may be possible sometime in the distant future. That’s what we’re hoping for. But we have to take it step by step. I’m not going to lie to you, most people in this situation do not recover. Nothing in his body is working right now. It takes an extraordinary person and set of circumstances. Maybe he’s that lucky one, I don’t know. But he’s young, that’s a big plus. Is he an athlete?”

Says he’s not, but… “You’re goddamn right he’s an athlete!”

Her eyes widened at his ferocity. “We thought so. Athletes are good at healing. So it’s possible the damage is reversible. We’ll have to wait and see. In the meantime, just because things look pretty bad, we don’t stop hoping.” Dr. Chen amazed herself, pulling for a patient so publicly.

Kent turned shuddering away.

The surgeon watched him get distance. She said to the senior officer, “When he’s stable, we’ll transfer him to IU, the rehab unit. They’re excellent.” Slaughter nodded. “I didn’t hear what all happened tonight. But tell him he saved the guy’s life, squeezing those arteries shut. Our whole staff is talking about it. Most people couldn’t do it, even if they had guts enough to try; just the physical strength it takes to hold on for a long time would be too much. He’s an athlete, too.”

“He sure is.” Slaughter hadn’t been able to save T.J. Williams once they got him to base camp from the Huey. God damn.

“That’s what saved him. Without that, a rocket couldn’t have gotten him here fast enough.”

Slaughter thanked her deeply, watched her walk away.

Kent he allowed to mourn by himself, hanging onto the bannister,

staring out windows into nothingness in the early-morning gloom.
***

Kent’s mother showed up. Campbell had called her, upset, but told her very little. Kent clung to his Mom, wept some, wouldn’t let her go, much less out of his sight.

Then he switched, standing apart outside the recovery room, working his duty weapon in and out of his holster, in and out, in and out, making sure it didn’t stick on the blood; almost hoping someone would try to get at Jamie again so he could fire and fire.

Slaughter didn’t take his eyes off him, but spoke softly.

Whatever it was, her only son was unhurt; but Martha Kessler knew this was major, catastrophic.

He’d always had a mysterious hole in his personality, something inaccessible that she’d never been able to reach; though he loved her like a six-year-old, completely. Now somehow that hole was revealed; but not knowing what it was about, she couldn’t say or do a thing to help him. She saw her son in abject misery, and heard herself mouthing clichés. What on earth was going on with him? How could she heal a hurt he didn’t know or wouldn’t show?

All she could do was watch as he worked his gun, in and out, in and out. All she could do was hold him, and love him, and pray.

39  

Jeans

The rookie arrived with Kent’s clothes. He changed in the bathroom, then handed the bag with his bloody jeans to his mother. Looked in her eyes and said, “Take these home for me. But don’t wash them, don’t touch them.”

“Why not?”

“They could be evidence.”

Neither of them was much experienced with his lying to her, but she said nothing.

The major came up. “Let me take you to breakfast. The rookie can stand guard.”

“What about Mom?”

“Police business. I’ll take her down when we’re done.”

They found the cafeteria. Coffee smelled good and bacon was frying somewhere, but otherwise the place was fluorescent as hell’s waiting room. They got some food, sat. The major said, “You’ll have to turn in your weapon.”

Kent pulled it out of his holster again, made sure it didn’t stick. “This one wasn’t fired.”

“A trooper who fires any weapon goes on immediate paid time off. You’ll have to see the shrink, too. You’ve been through a critical incident. Have you ever fired your weapon before?”

“No, sir.”

“How do you feel about it?”

Kent didn’t answer for a long time.Finally he said,“I feel fucking great about it. I don’t like killing people, but they were killing him, so I’m proud I fired. I’d do it again. I’d do it right now.” If this wasn’t the expected answer, it was pure honesty. “Please don’t send me away, chief. You can have my weapon, but there’s more investigating to do. Don’t put me on paid time off, let me finish the job. Let me run my investigation.”

Slaughter looked at him; still a police officer, even through this. There were regulations, but it was an enormous case, with 13 suspects and a task force led by a fine young trooper. The followup would take weeks. “I’ll find a way to get you away from this; but till then, and on to the end, you’re still my Commander.”

“Thank you, chief. Help me figure out the next steps. There’s a ton of work to do. The Justice Department, the FBI. Can you believe that fucking Carson, lurking in the trees?”

George sighed. “Not really.”

They designed a command structure, since so many officers statewide would be assigned to follow up leads. Kent looked at George. “But no Campbell.”

“Regs solve that one. She’s on paid time off.”

“She didn’t fire her weapon. She carried the fucking stretcher.”

“No Campbell. You’ll need a command center.”

Kent rubbed his face, suddenly very tired. “I’m not leaving him. We’ve got phones and modems. The hospital can find me an empty room.”

“You need distance, Kent.”

“Chief, of all the stupid things you’ve ever said, that takes the cake.” Kent chuckled bitterly. “I haven’t had distance since the day he walked in. And I ain’t gonna start now. You tried to warn me. Call him Foster, you said. Chief, I never have. He’s too smart, too much a leader, a little stud. You don’t dehumanize somebody like that. This CI ain’t no lowlife junkie you use and throw away. It’s Jamie. I’m proud I called him that.”

Having made his confession, he got more honest. “And I admit, he’s too damn good-lookin’. Pressuring me about bikini butts I never even looked at.”

Slaughter patted him. “It’s okay, son.”

“Once we got over being scared of each other, finally became friends, we’ve had so much fun. He ain’t always easy to be with. But his heart… is as golden as his hair.”

Slaughter sighed. “Will you get some sleep for me?”

“You wanna hear a crazy one? I’m almost afraid to sleep. Afraid I’ll lose him while I’m sleeping. Afraid I’ll never wake up.” Tears came again. “Or he won’t. God damn. Give me a pallet on the floor.”

***

The other guys came down to the cafeteria, everyone but Campbell. George waved them over, Kent stood up for them. “Sorry, guys. Some Commander I am, huh? Let my CI get wounded critically, then I go crazy on you.”

Bulldog sat. “You were just acting out what we all felt. I got in with the counselor and five minutes later I was crying. Don’t beat yourself up, Kent, you’re a great Commander. He’s holding his own. We finally got these guys.”

Dr. Steve said, “Till you brought us together as a task force, we had one thing in common before we even met.”

“Jamie,” Jack Snyder said. “He worked with everybody here.” Marie’s going to be so upset about this. He teared up, because he didn’t want her upset. Still, it’s justice for the Red-Haired Boy.

Hickman looked off. “I didn’t realize how much I admired him until this. He’s a hell of a man. I don’t care if he is a homosexual—no wait, by God, I’m going to learn to say it right. I don’t care if he is Gay, I’m glad we’re on the same team.”

Bulldog knew what growth that statement was. “I can’t believe it’s over, Barry. These victims can rest in peace.”

Kent said, “I’m going to pull it together, guys. Sorry I let you down. I guess I just needed to go off.”

Phil Blaney had a quiet instinct. “Better than keeping it all inside, Kent. Throughout this operation you’ve been cool as a cuke. Even when things fell apart, there you were, poised, calm, an ideal Commander. Issuing orders, going over all the possible things we’d find, making sure we knew our roles and the rules of engagement. Major, you made a great choice in this officer. Soon as I met him, when we talked on the phone even, I felt real comfortable. I’m proud to serve with you, Kent.”

Bulldog said, “Thirty years I’ve been in this business,and I was scared to death.”

Jack muttered, “We all were.”

Kent said, “You guys gave me everything I asked for. Thank you, all of you.” He looked at Doc, then said, “We signed a teamwork statement. So as your Commander, I’m deputizing each of you as Assistant Commanders for your jurisdictions; and ordering you to appear with me later on today in front of all the media. We’re going to celebrate what you men did. And we’re going to call the TV stations in Dayton, ’cause we’ve got two Ohio officers here. And the same with Chicago for Doc.”

Bulldog and Hickman smiled a little.

They got ready to break up. Phil said, “One last thing?”

“Prayer,” Bulldog mumbled. They stood, held hands, bowed their heads.

Phil said, “Each of you say the names of the victims in your jurisdiction. Major, you fill in any that aren’t represented here. Kent, you get the last one.”

So they prayed for them: Riley Jones. Kelvin Farmer. Barry Lynn Turner. Aaron Haney. Michael Cardinal. The Red-Haired Boy. Christopher Carnes. Buddy Trueblood. Brian Greene. Bobby Hanger. Wayne Allen Wilson. John-Mark Barnett.

“Glenn Archer Ferguson,” Kent said. “Jamie Foster.”
***

Back at Kessler Farms, Martha washed those Levi’s immediately. The bloodstains came right out, but she hadn’t noticed a spot on the crotch; it stayed discolored. She hung them on the line to dry. If they were evidence, he wouldn’t have sent them home.

She knew not to hang onto a gut-wrench, but to turn them right back into jeans.

40  

Dillinger’s Mother

Kent oversaw Jamie’s transfer from the recovery room to intensive care, and ordered the rookie to come back in a half hour. As nurses arranged their equipment Kent stood by the far wall, out of the way, where he could see the doorway and Jamie’s face. Kent’s emotions went numb.

Gradually, without thought, he decided that the one thing he could do for Jamie besides protect him was to finish the investigation, get to the bottom of the crimes; to bring him and all the others justice.

It felt so right that Kent gained a new reserve of energy. He would not sleep now, he would direct his investigation in these early, critical hours. There were search warrants to obtain on all the perpetrators; that meant awakening a judge. There were next of kin to be notified, a rookie job. There were mountains of evidence to obtain at the crime scene; he’d order Lt. Warnecke down from Lowell. The motel and the car would have to be gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Warnecke would need a battalion of assistants, therefore every crime scene specialist in the state would have to be called in. All these personnel would need special equipment in a volume seldom seen on a single case; the Quartermaster would have to coordinate that. Kent tapped Harvey, Slaughter’s assistant, as deputy commander for communications.

Lab technicians would be inundated, so they and all other personnel had to be notified that this case was the department’s highest priority. Potentially it could affect every post in the state, so the regional and post commanders would have to be briefed.

The rookie returned from break. Kent ordered him to bodyguard the witness. “If necessary, shoot to kill.” The rookie saluted, went outside to wait.

Kent leaned over Jamie’s inert body, whispered in his ear, “Gotta go, partner. Hang in there. I want to see your eyes open when I get back. I need you, partner. See you soon.” Kissed what remained of his swoop.

He found Slaughter. “Where’s the colonel?”

“I was afraid you’d ask,” the major muttered. “When he found out we made the capture he went to bed.”

“Sir, my task force just got bigger. I need Col. Potts’s assistance and I can’t wait until morning to get it. The entire command structure has to be briefed; that’s his job.”

“Do what you need to do, Commander.”

Kent respectfully awoke the superintendent and asked him to report to Shawnee Hospital. Then he turned back to Major Slaughter. “What is your role now, sir? I report to you as my superior, and as deputy chief, you oversee me and all other investigations.”

“Correct.”

“Seems like a waste of resources for you to go back to an administrative role when you’ve been so involved.”

“If you can use me in an active role, Commander, issue the order.”

“Most important role, sir, interrogating the suspects. I lost my partner tonight. How’d you like to do a little good cop/bad cop on nine surviving murderers?”

“At times your partner could be a very bad cop.”

“That’s what I need, sir, a cop who’s real bad.”

George Slaughter got ready for a barroom brawl.
***

Eight hours and one celebratory news conference later, Kent knew a great deal about this crime and a dozen others. Ford’s house was a treasure trove of evidence, thirteen sets of trophies, clothes, sextoys, driver’s licenses, the works. Jerry Lash kept an address book and a large collection of European boy pornography. All but two of the suspects’ homes contained evidence; but the two that didn’t were the two Kent most needed. He drove Slaughter to the home of Mrs. Frank Carson.

“Not police again,” she said bitterly. “You’ve already turned my house upside down. You’re not coming in here without a warrant.”

Slaughter said, “There’s no warrant, ma’am, but don’t think I can’t get one. I’ve got judges on standby.”

Kent said, “Ma’am, your husband was secretly involved in criminal activity. He shot at the state police helicopter. We returned fire.”

“For all I know he was there on official business. You can’t compel me to testify against him or to cooperate in any way, other than as ordered by a court of law.”

“That’s right, ma’am. I won’t press you, I know you’re in as much shock as anyone. All I want to do is talk, easy background questions, nothing a lawyer could object to. How long have you and Agent Carson been married?”

“Twenty-six years.”

Kent looked down, not at her. “Good years, I hope?”

“For the most part. We have three children.”

“And your youngest still at home. Having to face the kids at school. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sending her to school. She’s staying here with me. Maybe I’ll send her somewhere else.”

“He dishonored you and his own daughter, ma’am. I’m so sorry.”

Mrs. Carson cried dry tears. “Assuming he’s guilty.”

“He’s unquestionably guilty, ma’am. Don’t harbor the first doubt he’s not going to prison for the rest of his life. Ma’am, let me respectfully suggest that you need to start thinking of the future, for your own sake and for your daughter’s.”

“What am I going to do?” she asked, half-panicked.

Kent looked at the surroundings. “Nice house; an Agent-in-Charge. Do you and he save at all, ma’am?”

“As much as we can, with children to put through college. He’s very conservative with money.”

“Will you be able to get by without him?”

“I don’t know. He handles the money. I don’t know what we have, or what I’m going to do. Get a job, I suppose; doing what? I have a B.A. in art history and twenty years’ experience as a soccer mom. I’m sure Microsoft can’t wait to meet me.”

“No other tangible assets that you might sell if need be? A boat? A vacation home?”

“Why, yes, I hadn’t thought of that. The house on Lake Monroe.”

Slaughter all but sympathized with Dillinger’s mother.

Kent said, “Is it a good location, ma’am? There are upscale homes on Lake Monroe.”

“A very good location, 400 feet of lake frontage. I go there so seldom, it didn’t occur to me. It’s his place, a retreat from all his pressures as a Federal agent. He seldom invites me, only once a year.”

Southern Indiana bugs. “Monroe County or Brown?”

“Brown County.”

Kent smiled sympathetically. “Then ma’am, you’ll have nothing to worry about money-wise. Brown County has very expensive properties. I’m so glad for you and your children.”

“I suppose so. That would be a help, wouldn’t it, if I need to sell?”

“It would give you time to sort out any other assets you might have. You wouldn’t have to worry, with several hundred thousand in the bank.”

“Thank you, sergeant. With all the horror of this day, you’re the best news I’ve had.”

“Good luck, ma’am, we’ll go now. Best wishes to your family.”

“Thank you, sergeant, thanks so much.”

They left. Slaughter chuckled as he got into the squad car. “Get me to a doctor.”

“Why’s that?” Kent asked, driving smoothly away.

“I just developed sugar diabetes. Jeez, the broad even thanked you.”

“Brown County has doctors,” Kent grinned.

But so does Shawnee Hospital. His heart equatored. He phoned in for a report. Jamie was still unconscious, to be transferred tomorrow to IU Hospital’s rehab unit, Coma Central.

***

Brown County recorder, judge, warrant, and bingo: snuff films. Mutilations. Castrations on CD-ROM. Dismemberments. Contact lists, financial records, Internet footprints. Pictures of Carson’s own daughter being raped at three years old.

It wasn’t news to Kent that people could be evil; only in how they went about it. But this was as bad as it could get, worse than he’d ever seen.

He wondered again what kind of man Jamie was, to have unearthed all this.
***

Finally the sadness and exhaustion hit. He had a listless supper back at the hospital with his Mom, who brought suits and casual clothes. He listened to her advice about laundry. “If you wouldn’t let your dirty clothes build up so much, they’d be easier to handle, whether you wash them yourself or bring them to me. I don’t mind doing it, son, but eight or ten loads is a lot for anyone.”

He let her do her Mom thing, even took comfort in the mundanery of washday woes. “Thanks for bringing my stuff. Looks like I’m going to be down here for awhile. Could be weeks.”

“Then I’ll come down every night with food. You give me washing to take back, just don’t let it build up.”

“Mom, you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. How’s the victim?”

“Holding his own.” Kent shrugged at the handy phrase that meant not dead yet.

“Let go and let God, son.”

He figured he deserved a cliché back.

She too tried to comfort a hurt that wouldn’t go away. Finally, thanking her, he told her he was tired. “I know, I can see it in your eyes. Get some sleep, son. I’ll be back tomorrow night.” He kissed her, thanked her, told her not to worry, he’d be all right. They hugged and he went upstairs to Jamie, to sit in a chair all night, to sleep with him on the world’s worst camping trip.

***

He couldn’t sleep, though. Partly it was the chair, no position that felt halfway right. Mostly it was the situation, sitting with the body of a spirit he ached for, with no way of knowing whether he’d ever know the guy again.

At something past five it happened. The famed TV preacher, eyes ecstatic and advertisers lined up, had Jamie strapped to an electric chair, finger on the button, some wacko-sermon about Armageddon, the fall of the Soviet Union, America’s moral decline, the Year 2000, all prophesied in Revelation and all Jamie’s fault; and Kent was present as a police witness to the execution, armed and in uniform ’cause his Mom ironed his shirts; and he had his duty weapon and wanted to fire at the preacher, keep him from doing it. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his gun out of the holster, it was stuck, dried blood, and the preacher fingered the lever, and Kent wanted to shout, “No, never,” as the preacher smiled, “Two minutes to frytime.”

Kent woke up drenched in sweat, and there, in the little room in intensive care, lay Jamie and the ventilator, wihh, hooh, wihh, hooh, wihh.