I turned to Bobby Petino, who was still pacing a rut in Fescoe’s carpet behind me.
“We need search warrants for Crocker’s and Fitzhugh’s homes and offices, Bobby. You think you can help us out? Don’t let these two walk.”
Chapter 113
Nora eased into Crocker’s apartment with her gun in hand, turned on the lights, slapped the warrant down on the hall table, then checked off what she saw in the one-bedroom apartment.
No visible computer in the main room.
Windows closed.
Air conditioning on.
Apparently no one home.
“Don’t be sorry, Justine,” Nora said over her shoulder, answering Justine’s apology, delivered on the way up in the elevator. “I’m not the one going down. I can’t speak for you, but seems like little Nora is the low man on the totem pole. I’m just your whatchacallit. Pawn. Clear,” she said.
Justine entered the apartment and followed Nora into the kitchenette, the bedroom, the bath.
Nora cleared all the rooms and closets, then put her gun away.
“Nobody here but us chickens. You take the bedroom and the bathroom,” Nora said. “Shout if you find anything.”
Justine stood in the bedroom doorway, studying the place. The room definitely showed an active brain. It was painted dark blue and had woodwork in different neon colors-pink, green, yellow-and orange baseboards and moldings. There was a California King platform bed for the young killer.
His books covered the full range of human knowledge, from arts and sciences to politics and ecology. His nightstand held a flashlight, an unopened box of rubbers, ChapStick, TV remote control, batteries.
There was a desk, and Justine went to it. No computer on the surface. The drawer was locked.
She took a pair of scissors out of the pencil cup and pried the lock as quickly as a B and E artist could. That was probably illegal, but what the crap? She’d bashed in his car window. That had to be worse.
Crocker’s desk drawer was a disappointment, though. Six Krugerrands in an empty paper clip box. A baggie with some loose dope and rolling papers. The rest was office supplies. Not even any photographs.
Justine closed the drawer, went to the dresser, and opened every drawer.
She was looking for evidence of heinous crimes or the slightest memorabilia of those crimes: newspaper clippings or a notebook with handwritten notes or souvenirs. Anything.
Crocker took souvenirs from his victims, but unlike many trophy hunters, he had hidden them, then sent snarky, nose-thumbing e-mails to the mayor that led to the whistle-clean artifacts that proved nothing.
Surely, with all his pride in his success, Crocker would have kept something. Or was he just too damned smart?
Nora came into the room, and she and Justine flipped the mattress, revealing a clean box spring, no pockets cut into the fabric.
Nora said, “I never met any guys this clean.”
Justine went to the closet, reached up, and tugged on the light pull, a doodad attached to a chain.
Crocker had six dark suits, six sport jackets, and several blue shirts, all hanging from hangers. Shoes were lined up neatly under the clothes. She checked pockets and felt inside shoes. And the longer she searched, the greater was the cold feeling of defeat.
Had Christine been wrong about Crocker? Was that possible?
Had Justine forced the girl to create false memories? Justine reached up to turn off the closet light, and that’s when it clicked.
Crocker, that fool. He’d never expected anyone to look for it. Why would they? It had happened five years ago.
Justine shouted for Nora, and she appeared almost instantly.
Justine’s heart was doing a happy dance, and her blood was pounding so hard in her ears she could barely hear her own voice when she said, “Nora. Tell me I’m not seeing things. Tell me I’m not making this up.”
Chapter 114
Justine leaned back against the wall of “the box” and watched Nora Cronin doing her fearless, practiced interrogation.
Across the table from Nora sat Rudolph Crocker. He had sutures in a couple of places on his face, but otherwise he looked almost happy, as if he were enjoying the hell out of being the center of attention.
When he looked at Justine, he grinned as if to say, “You’re in trouble, lady. Look who I got on my side: Beri Hunt, criminal-defense attorney to the stars.”
Beri Hunt looked the way she looked on TV: early forties, short dark hair, and porcelain white skin. Her suit was of fine summer-weight gray wool, and she wore a strand of gray Pacific island pearls at her throat.
Hunt had already told Nora and her superiors up the line that yes, they could get away with holding Crocker for interfering with the police. But as soon as Crocker was arraigned on this little misdemeanor, bail would be posted and her client would be out. At the same time, she’d be preparing lawsuits that would bring everyone involved in the arrest down. She’d smiled nicely as she said this.
Nora said, “Mr. Crocker, I apologize again for the injuries you sustained, but you understand, we thought you had a gun in the front seat.”
“Right. But I didn’t have a gun, and we’re going to sue you for unlawfully assaulting me, right, Beri? We’re going for millions.”
“Rudy, let the lieutenant talk. We’re just listening to what she has to say.”
“It’s Rude,” said Crocker. “My nickname.”
“You also understand, don’t you, Mr. Crocker,” Nora continued as if Rude hadn’t spoken, “that once we were inside that van, we saw some very disturbing decor.”
“Nothing in that van is admissible,” said the attorney. “My client was not armed. And you had no cause to search the vehicle. What else have you got?”
“Let’s talk about the van, okay, Ms. Hunt? It was lined with construction-grade black plastic, and the toolbox we found inside there was full of electrodes and clamps. So we’ve gotta ask what those tools were for.
“Any reasonable person, especially one who has seen the bodies of thirteen dead girls and has seen how they were killed, might think that the van was lined with plastic so as not to get any bodily fluids on the interior when your client tortured and killed another young girl.”
“I just like to keep the van in mint condition for resale,” Crocker said, but his smile was gone, at least temporarily.
“Don’t say anything,” Hunt said. “This detective is firing blanks in the dark.”
“Well, I have some live ammo now,” said Nora. “And it’s getting nice and bright in here.”
She opened the folder in front of her and turned the top sheet around so that Hunt and Crocker could see the report from Private’s lab.
Hunt put on her glasses. “This is a DNA analysis,” she said.
“That’s correct,” said Nora Cronin. “You don’t have to answer any questions, Mr. Crocker, because I’m not asking a question. I’m letting your attorney know what we have so she can defend you from the charges we will be making against you.
“This report positively matches your DNA to the DNA found on Wendy Borman’s shirt.”
“I’m sorry,” said Hunt. “Who is Wendy Borman?”
“Tell her, Mr. Crocker. Never mind. I’ll do it. In 2006, a seventeen-year-old girl named Wendy Borman was Tasered on the street. After that, Mr. Crocker held her under the arms and his friend Mr. Fitzhugh took her by the
