the pancake makeup market this morning, getting himself interviewed on all the local morning talk shows. Word has it that Good Morning America has a call in to him for tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, Christ,” Michaels moaned. Having gotten into bed at a little after three, he’d opted to sleep through the morning news. “And what does Mr. Hollywood have to say to the residents of our fine community?”
“Same old bullshit. He’s going to prosecute the Bailey kid as an adult and throw his ass in jail for the rest of his life. When pressed by the reporter, he said he would not rule out the death penalty.”
Michaels laughed. “Oh, right. He’s gonna find a judge that’ll fry a twelve-year-old:’
“He didn’t say he was going to,” Hackner corrected dutifully. “He said that he couldn’t rule it out.”
“Well, of course he couldn’t. He hasn’t had a chance to do a poll yet.” Michaels made no attempt to hide his disdain for Petrelli. While ambitious prosecutors normally made some pretense of denying their political ambitions, Petrelli had for the past five years made it known to the electorate that he wanted to be the next U. S. Senator representing the Commonwealth of Virginia.
The only cases he prosecuted personally were the ones that met the two-part standard of being both highly publicized and sure to win. Only when there were three eyewitnesses and a videotape of the crime would the public see J. Daniel Petrelli in the courtroom. Unless, of course, it was to claim credit for the hard work of one of his assistants in winning a more difficult case. Michaels could only imagine what Petrelli had had to say this morning. A central theme of his campaign rhetoric had been the loss of morality among young people. With elections only four months away, Petrelli could not have asked for a better platform from which to pontificate.
“I presume that he has been true to his form and set us incompetent flatfoots up to take the fall if something goes wrong?”
“Of course.”
“Of course. I swear to God, Jed, if one of my kids grows up to be an idiot, I’m gonna make her become a politician:’
Hackner smiled. “I guess your father had a different strategy.”
Even Michaels’s signature glare looked tired. “You’re getting pretty quick there, Patrolman-er, excuse me, Sergeant Hackner. Anything else?”
“Nothing good. Patrols are all looking for the kid; we got a better picture to work with by lifting it out of his fifth-grade yearbook.” He handed a copy to Michaels.
“Doesn’t look much like a murderer, does he?” Michaels commented.
“The good ones never do.”
The boy in the picture could have stepped off the front of a cereal box. This boy smiled easily, flashing blue eyes and sparkling teeth at the camera. Towheaded and athletic, the boy in the picture appeared not to have a care in the world. Such a contrast to the official photo attached to his Juvey file jacket.
Michaels sighed. “No, I suppose they don’t. By the way, who released the kid’s picture to the media?”
“Guess.”
“Petrelli?”
“I can’t prove it, but who else? I talked to one of his minions about it this morning and he got real defensive, babbling that the law allows the release of a juvenile escapee’s picture so long as certain criteria are met. Frankly, I lost interest halfway through the answer. One thing he never said, though, was ‘no.’”
Warren shook his head and handed the photo back to Jed. “Well, screw it. They’re the lawyers, I guess. Are the troops assembled?”
“Yep. All ready and waiting to be inspired.”
Together, Michaels and Hackner rose from their chairs and headed across the squad room to the small conference room, where three other division heads had gathered. Michaels marched to the front of the room and went straight to the point.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice. You all know by now that there was a murder at the JDC last night, and that the suspected killer is out there on the streets. The killer is a twelve-year-old boy.” As Michaels spoke, Hackner passed out copies of the yearbook picture.
“The press is already beginning to have some fun with this story,” Michaels continued, “reporting along your basic David and Goliath theme—SMALL BOY OUTWITS POLICE FORCE, you know the deal. I want to stress to each and every one of you that I want this case closed, and Nathan Bailey reincarcerated, today. Thus far, our searches and roadblocks haven’t turned up a thing. Sergeant Hackner will be getting the state boys involved in this after our meeting, but I personally would like this to be resolved while it is still a local matter. Frankly, I don’t need the shit that’s going to come down on us if we get beaten by that kid. Have I made my position clear?”
Heads nodded across the conference table.
“Good, then get your folks on the street motivated to catch him.”
With that, the meeting ended.
As Michaels traversed the twenty feet to the door, he overheard one of the division heads comment, “Sure is a cute kid.”
Michaels stopped in his tracks and turned to face the source of the comment. The patented glare was retuned and working perfectly. “I’ll remind you, Bob, that that cute kid murdered a fellow law-enforcement officer last night. If you do your job, he won’t have the chance to do it again.”
Chapter 8
Nathan awoke naked but warm under a downy comforter in the middle of a king-size bed. The sun shone through the open blinds at just the right angle to sting his eyes into wakefulness. The last time he looked at the digital clock next to him on the night-stand, it had read two forty-three. Now it was nine forty-eight. Annoyed that his rest had been cut short, he grumbled and rolled to his side, turning away from the invading rays of the sun and burying his head between two pillows.
Moments later, the room was filled with the sound of a disc jockey, blaring from the clock radio. Some chatter followed, which Nathan tried to ignore in an effort to recapture the peace of sleep. The content of the conversation drifted in and out of his consciousness, something to do with a health plan and taxes. Whatever it was, it sure sparked a lot of emotion, with people yelling at each other. Finally, enough was enough, and Nathan blindly slapped at the top of the radio until the noise stopped.
At peace once again, and in a quiet room, Nathan settled his head back between the pillows and waited for sleep to return. But it was too late. The spell had been broken. He was awake, and his mind was already beginning to fill with thoughts of what he needed to do to plan his escape.
Kind of hard when you don’t even know where you’re going.
Whatever he decided to do, he was going to have to think things through very carefully. The nervous, fluttery feeling returned to the pit of his stomach. The images of Ricky were lurking just behind a closed door in his mind. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have to look at them again.
He pushed the thoughts away. There was plenty of time to plan, he told himself, and God knew there was plenty of time to worry. He’d get to all of that later. The clock read ten o’clock now; there had to be some good cartoons on cable. Last night—or really this morning, he supposed—as he wandered into the master bedroom in the dark, the first feature he noticed was the enormous big-screen TV in the corner opposite the enormous bed.
Nathan found the remote on the nightstand and thumbed the ON button. The huge screen jumped to life with startling speed.
The channel was set on a news station, with the volume turned all the way down. Nathan looked down at the remote to figure out how to make the proper adjustments, and when he looked up again, he was greeted with a table-sized picture of himself glaring sullenly out of the screen. It was the picture they took of him when he was first arrested. He mashed the UP arrow on the volume control and left it there until the voice-over was plainly audible.
_ _ _ at large. Police refuse to speculate on a motive behind the murder, but sources close to the Braddock County Prosecutor’s Office advise that the age of the fugitive will have little effect on the manner in which the case is prosecuted?’
