TWENTY-THREE
Stay with it, Behr urged himself early Friday morning as he humped up Saddle Hill, a road-salt-and-book-filled pack on his back, for his first rep. The middle of his week had consisted of further attempts to chase down Rooster ’ s real name, an address, or known associates. He ’ d come up empty as a bucket from a dead well. He ’ d put the question out to friends and acquaintances all over town and wondered which of them might come through with something. He ’ d toted Paul along for several hours over several evenings, and they ’ d gone through the bars in Hawthorne, where parolees and future cons drank, and the West District, where it was only safe for them because he used to patrol there, but even so, he didn ’ t linger for long. Nothing had come back to him, and the only conclusion Behr ended up with was that this Rooster kept to himself. He was on the verge of begging out of taking Paul along after the first few nights, feeling uncomfortable about having his employer watch him fail so consistently. Then, when he ’ d been dropping him off, Paul turned to him and thanked him. He ’ d said, “I appreciate how hard you ’ re trying, Frank. I know you ’ re doing everything you can. I ’ ll see you tomorrow.” The acknowledgment meant more to him than he would care to admit. He realized that he didn ’ t mind having Paul along with him. Beyond that, he liked it sometimes. Even when they weren ’ t talking, just having another body along for the ride tempered the isolation of the job. He also realized that though in the beginning finding the boy was his sole motivation, after these weeks with this staunch father, Behr knew he was doing it as much for Paul, so that he should at least know some peace.
Stay with it, Behr urged himself again on his second and third trips up the hill. For some men it was the stock market or the box scores, for others the racing form, some even found it with the weather channel, but most men, Behr thought on his way back down, engaged in the habitual consumption of some form of information. They weighed this data and considered the ramifications of it in quiet, almost Talmudic study. The result was a mastery of certain facts and sometimes a glimpse at an order, or an understanding of the larger world beyond the numbers. Behr ’ s vice wasn ’ t rotisserie league sports but rather the weekly arrest reports, the rundown on all police apprehensions that had been made, their locations, and the pertinent details. He used to read the sheets on a daily basis when he was on the force, compiling his own knowledge and sense of the city, like an instinctual human crime-tracking computer. Now the daily approach was impractical and there was little point to it, but he hadn ’ t been able to give it up altogether. He had a buddy, a young cop named Mike Carriero, who fired him a once-a-week fax through which he sifted like a medium. He still felt connected to the dark web of crime in the city when he did, as he considered the potential relationship between car thefts on the north side, drunk-driving stops on I-74, and domestic disturbances down in the mobile home parks by Stringtown. Over the course of working on the Gabriel case, however, nothing he ’ d seen on the reports seemed to hold any kind of correlation. Besides Ford ’ s killing, only the body in the park, which had quickly proved to hold no connection, and the recent beating of a female cop, had even proved newsworthy.
Stay with it, he urged himself on trips four and five up the hill. Now he referred solely to the run. Thoughts of the case momentarily dropped away as his lungs burned and his legs sizzled and he fought for the will to continue. No matter how many years he trained and to what degree of shape he banged himself into, this question never went away: Will I continue? He fought against it anew each time he worked out. As he crested the hill on his sixth trip up, he stopped. Not because the answer to his question was no this time, but because Terry Cottrell stood there waiting for him. Behr gave him a nod and proceeded to double over and suck wind for a minute. He stood up when he was able, a question on his face.
“I got something last night, Big,” Terry said without much crackle in his eyes or voice, which wasn ’ t a surprise considering that Behr had given him a few hints about the case he was working. “Had to give it to you straight, baby. Face-to-face.”
“You know to find me over at Donohue ’ s.”
“Not a friendly joint for me to wander into by myself.”
“Come on, Terry, it ’ s fine and you ’ re not shy.”
“Whatever, bro. Anyway, I might could ’ ve got a last name on the dude with the Rooster tag and that ’ s Mintz,” Terry said. Something about the name felt awfully familiar to Behr. “And I don ’ t know where he is, but I found out what he does.” Cottrell stopped talking, not the type to pause for effect, seemingly unable to say the rest.
Behr stood there sweating, his heart pounding. “Fucking tell me, Terry. Don ’ t make me beat it out of you.”
Cottrell ’ s face grew more serious. “Dude ’ s a handler. They also known as ‘ breakers. ’ ” His words caused Behr ’ s sweat to go cold. “I ’ m sorry, man.”
Behr was already unclipping his pack belt and shucking the shoulder straps. The thud of the heavy pack hitting the ground covered his “Thanks.” He was already sprinting for home. He knew where he ’ d seen the name.
“You have to take the day off,” Behr told him when he called at 7:15A.M. “The morning at least, if I can get things set by then. You ’ re coming along with me.” Paul could practically hear Behr ’ s mind churning through the phone.
“Okay,” Paul said, mentally noting the appointments he needed to reschedule or cancel.
“And wear what you usually wear when we ’ re riding. Don ’ t suit up on me.”
“All right. Where are we headed?” Behr didn ’ t answer for a moment. Paul could hear him breathing, low and measured.
“Marion County Jail.” Behr hung up.
Paul hadn ’ t expected that answer, just as he hadn ’ t expected to ever visit County. He stood in front of his house dressed in navy chino pants, hiking shoes, sweater, and windbreaker. He didn ’ t know what was coming, only that it was unusual and important. That much was clear from Behr ’ s tone. He guessed that whomever they were going to see in lockup knew something about Jamie, and he tried to keep his hope in check. It was surprisingly easy to do now that he ’ d seen what was behind his worst fears in the middle of the night. The reality there leered at him from the darkness. It stripped the meat off the bones of his expectations and had sucked the marrow from all he ’ d planned in life.
Behr rolled up and he got in. The inside of the car was brisk, the leather seat stiff and cold beneath him. Behr ’ s hair was still wet even though his place was a good half-hour drive away. He wore jeans, work boots, and a thermal shirt that was stretched tight over his forearms. Paul stayed quiet during the ride. Behr was far away; there was no one really to talk to. Finally, Behr turned toward him and said, “Rooster ’ s real name is Garth Mintz.”
“This is about Rooster?” Paul asked, anticipation flooding his chest.
“Yeah, it is,” Behr said. Paul puzzled over the ramifications of this news. They covered a few miles and were in the heart of downtown before he spoke again.
“What ’ s the deal with him?” he asked.
Behr ’ s hands clenched the steering wheel and his eyes didn ’ t leave the road. “In child trafficking docility is at a premium. For obvious reasons. Drugs are often used. But over the long term they cause sickness, you know…” Behr said, his tone strangely academic. “One method is to send in an adult who ’ ll…commit…acts…until there ’ s very little will or resistance left. They ’ re called ‘ breakers. ’ That ’ s what Rooster does.”
Paul felt he ’ d had a railroad spike nailed through his chest and into the car seat.
“But we don ’ t know if he ever met Jamie?” Paul heard the meek, horrible plea in his own voice.
“No, we don ’ t.”
Sights and sounds became muted and washy as they drove down Alabama past the blond-stone jailhouse. They circled on one-way streets around the fortresslike building for a little while — Paul lost track of how long — and they eventually found a spot and parked. Paul wondered if he was in some kind of shock, or if he was actually more acutely focused on the reality at hand than usual and this was what extreme clarity felt like.
They entered the building through the service entrance on Delaware, held open by a man in a custodial uniform, and a strong smell, foreign and unpleasant, hit Paul with force. He followed Behr, their shoes squeaking softly on polished linoleum. They passed through a door into an employee area, Behr entering without pause. Behr shook hands and then shared a back-patting hug with an older gentleman who had brilliantine-slicked steel-gray hair and emanated an odor of tobacco. He wore a brown sheriff ’ s uniform with a name tag that readSILVA. Behr and Silva stepped away from him a few feet and had a short, quiet conversation.
“Couldn ’ t believe it when you called, Frank,” Silva said, his voice rough with past nicotine. “The guy ’ s in
