Bleeding Out

Dorsey High since 1993. Davidson provided personnel records as far back as 1992. The rest were stored in the district office. Frank made a note to find out who could get her into those files over the weekend.

Davidson protested, but Frank and Kennedy remained behind after they cut the two men loose. The detectives spent the early morning searching through yearbooks for students who matched the perp's physical description. They wrote down vitals and ranked them. Kids with no extracurricular or bio info got highest priority. Moderate bios were second priority, and kids with extensive activities were rated third. Frank felt their guy would be engrossed in football and somewhat of a loner. She wasn't expecting him to be the homecoming king or class valedictorian.

Somewhere around two-thirty, Frank realized it had gotten awfully quiet. She looked up from her legal pad at Kennedy, asleep amid the wreckage of Davidson's desk. Frank watched her for a moment, then returned to her yearbook.

Frank had crashed at Kennedy's. After a three-hour nap and breakfast, Kennedy had insisted on helping Frank with the new leads. Driving to headquarters through a light rain, Frank tuned out Kennedy's chatter.

She felt closer to him. He'd tipped his hand at Dorsey and shown so much more of himself. She wondered where he was right now. Regardless, Frank was certain he was happy. Posing the girl had been huge for him. He'd revel in that for quite a while. It might even slow his spree a bit. Unaware that she was doing it, Frank slipped into a dialogue with him.

Were you a star on the field, or a failure? Were you the coach's golden boy? His whipping boy? Oh, I'll bet you were a star. You'd do anything he asked, wouldn't you? And you're doing this for him now. What happened when you had to leave him? Who was there for you? Was there just a big, empty hole inside you? Does this fill it up for a while?

'Frank?'

Kennedy's hand was on her arm as cars crept past the Honda. Frank gently pressed the accelerator, moving with the flow. Kennedy asked if she was alright.

'Yeah,' she answered, but Frank wasn't sure. She felt as if she'd been dreaming and had just woken up. It was hard shaking the sensation. Even as she kept up with the traffic, she sensed herself slipping back toward him.

Where are you? Tell me about you. Help me find you. I know you're close, I can feel you. I know you. Sometimes I think I am you.

'Frank?'

'What?' she snapped.

Startled, Kennedy snapped back, 'Where the fuck are you?'

'What are you talking about?' Frank said irritably.

'You're like a million miles away and you just about rear-ended that truck!'

Frank sucked in a breath. This wasn't the time or place. She promised herself she'd come back to him later.

When they finally got to Parker, Frank was grateful the homicide room was empty. Kennedy started in with the computers, and Frank took the phone books, preferring their clumsy familiarity to the cold austerity of computer terminals. Frank was tracking down Dorsey's previous coaches, and after a dozen calls she hit pay dirt. She hung up the receiver and slipped into her jacket, telling Kennedy she was going to Fontana.

'I wanna go.'

Frank knelt next to her, supplicating, 'We'd get a lot more done if you stayed here and worked on these.'

Kennedy was running their list of highest-ranked students, searching for priors, and then possibly re-ranking them according to the offense involved. It was tedious work. 'I know,' she said, reading the monitor. 'I still wanna go.'

'It'll be boring, probably pan out to nothing. I'd likely get you killed in a car accident.'

'Yeah,' Kennedy remembered. 'You be careful out there. Don't go zonin' like you did this morning.'

'Hey.' When Frank had Kennedy's full attention, she said, 'I really appreciate this.'

'Sure. Surf still sucks. I should move up to Oregon, they've got more sun.'

'Can I bring you back anything?'

'A Coke.'

'Got it. See you in a while.'

The phone rang and rang. Eventually Kennedy picked up. 'Where are you?' she whined. 'It's almost three and I'm starving. There's nothing around here but empty junk machines.'

'Listen. Have you run a kid named Clancey Delamore yet?'

'Hang on.'

Kennedy banged the phone down and Frank could hear papers being shuffled.

'Yeah, he's got nothing. So where are you? Christ, you better come back draggin' that sum-bitch, you been gone long enough. I got carpel tunnel settin' in.'

'Wha-wha-wha,' Frank said. 'Hang tight. I'll fill you in when I get there.'

Forty-five minutes later she and Kennedy were cruising through the rain to Clancey Delamore's house. Frank talked animatedly behind the wheel.

'So our guy this morning, Miller, he coached Delamore for three years. Said he was a great player, a tight end, but that he was super aggressive. He didn't seem to have any sense that it was just a game. Said a lot of his own teammates didn't want to play with him. Evidently he was pretty rough. Miller would warn him to take it easy during practice, but I guess he was still way too rough. Like his old man, according to Miller.

'Then they're in the middle of a conference game and Delamore goes ballistic on another player. He attacks him from behind after the ball is dead and just keeps ramming into him. Sound familiar? Now get this. As he's beating this poor bastard senseless, he's got a woody the size of a baseball bat. And later, when Miller's dressing him down, he gets a hard-on all over again.

'It totally freaked Miller out. He kicked Delamore off the team.'

Frank paused to check Kennedy's reaction. She was taking it all in. Then she asked cautiously, 'So why are we going to his place?'

'I called after I got done with the coach. Turns out he lives with his mom. I gave her a big song and dance about burglaries in the area—told her we're with Robbery. Told her we were tracking down a suspect known to habituate her neighborhood. Then I said that the department was offering to do free home security checks and we could come by if she liked. Check her locks, give her some safety tips and a sketch of the suspect, stuff like that.'

'And she believed you?'

'Hey. I was very convincing. One of my best roles to date.'

Kennedy asked, 'Why don't you just question him straight out?'

'One, we've got no real evidence that this is our guy. We're running purely on bones and possibles right now. Two, I don't want him to panic and start cleaning house. If he's got evidence around, I don't want him dumping it. And I don't want him running. I want him confident. I want him to think he's outsmarting us. Sooner or later it'll make him trip. Three, even if I did want to move on him, it's not my case anymore, remember.'

'So why are you tipping your hand at all?'

'I want to talk to Mom. Oh yeah, I left out another thing. One of the reasons she's letting us in is because there is no Mr. Delamore and Clancey works nights. I said, 'Oh, is he a cop, too?' and she said, 'No, he works at a bakery.' So sonny should be sleeping even as we speak, but I want to see what we can pull from the old lady, take a look around. With this security gig we can go all over—'

Kennedy interrupted. 'Except his bedroom, which is probably the best place to check.'

'I thought about that. I figure we can find out his work schedule and make up a reason to come back when he's gone.'

'Okay, so here's another question. Seeing as you've got no jurisdiction here, what the hell are you going to do if this kid does look good?'

Frank held up a pontifical finger. 'That bridge I will cross, if and when I get there. All I know is this is the best lead we've had yet. You still up for it?'

'You betcha, but I sure hope this goes somewhere soon. You gotta get a life back, Lieutenant.'