'That's possible, but I doubt it. Too conspicuous.' He brought his seat back into its upright position. 'Someone could have seen him carrying something. Another thing, in a lot of houses, kitchen ovens are set up high and built in. In a situation like that, how would he kill the children? In the photos, all of these are the big old- fashioned ovens.'
'He had a lot of checking out to do when he visited the families, didn't he?'
She looked at his profile. He didn't say anything. She slowly slid all the photos back into the envelope, each of them marked. She slowly lined up all the pages and carefully placed them back into their folders. He'd given this a whole lot of thought. On the other hand, so had she. She still wanted to see the computer analysis. Then again, she hadn't demanded to see it either.
The flight attendant announced that they were beginning their descent into Chicago and for everyone to put away any electronic equipment. Savich fastened his seat belt. 'Oh yes, our guy did a lot of checking.'
'How did you even remember my question? It's been five minutes since I asked it.'
'I'm FBI. I'm good.' He closed his eyes again.
She wanted to kick him. She turned to look out the window. Lights were thick and bright below. Her heart speeded up. Her first assignment. She wanted to do things right.
'You're FBI now too, Sherlock.'
It was a bone, not a meaty bone, but a bone nonetheless, and she smiled, accepting that bone gladly.
She fastened her own seat belt. She never once stopped looking down at the lights of Chicago. Hallelujah! She wasn't going after bank robbers.
5
CHICAGO WAS OVERCAST AND a cool fifty degrees on October eighteenth. Lacey hadn't been to Chicago since she'd turned twenty-one, following a lead that hadn't gone anywhere, one of the many police departments she'd visited during her year of 'mono.'
As for Savich, he wasn't even particularly aware that he was in Chicago; he was thinking about the sick little bastard who had brutally murdered three families. Officer Alfonso Ponce picked them up and ushered them to an unmarked light blue Ford Crown Victoria.
'Captain Brady didn't think you'd want to be escorted to the station in a squad car. This one belongs to the captain.'
After a forty-five-minute ride weaving in and out of thick traffic, everyone in the radius of five miles honking his horn, he let them off at the Jefferson Park station house, the precinct for what was clearly a nice, middle-class neighborhood. The station house was a boxy, single-story building on West Gale, at the intersection of two major streets, Milwaukee and Hig-gins. It had a basement, Officer Ponce told them, and that was because it had been built in 1936 and was one of those WPA projects. When there'd been a twister seven years before, everyone had piled into the basement, prisoners and all. One nutcase had tried to escape. There had been little updating since the seventies. There was a small box out front holding a few wilted flowers and a naked flagpole.
Inside, it was as familiar as any station house Savich had ever been in-a beige linoleum floor that had been redone probably in the last ten years, but who knew? It still looked forty years old. He smelled urine wearing an overcoat of floral room spray. There were a dozen or so people shuffling around or sitting on the long bench against the wall, since it was eight o'clock at night. At least half of them were teenage boys. He wondered what they'd done. Drugs, probably.
Savich asked the sergeant on duty where he could find Captain Brady. They were escorted by an officer, turned wary after he'd seen their FBI badges, to a squad room with several offices in the back with glass windows. The room was divided off into modular units, a new addition that nobody liked, the officer told them. There wasn't much noise this time of night, just an occasional ring of the phone. There were about a dozen people in the squad room, all plainclothes.
Captain Brady was a black man of about forty-five with a thick southern drawl. Even though there wasn't a single white hair on his head, he looked older than his years, very tired, lines scored deeply around his mouth. When he saw them, his mouth split into a big smile. He came out from behind his cluttered desk, his hand out.
'Agent Savich?'
'Yes, Captain.' The two men shook hands.
'And this is Agent Lacey Sherlock.'
Captain Brady shook her hand, gave her a lopsided grin and said, 'You're a long way from London, aren't you?'
She grinned back at him. 'Yes, sir. I forgot my hat, but my pipe's in my purse.' She hadn't realized that Savich even knew her first name.
Savich was studying the computer on the captain's desk.
Captain Brady waved them into two chairs that sat opposite a sofa. The chairs were surprisingly comfortable. Captain Brady took the sofa. He sat forward, his hands clasped between his knees. 'Bud Hollis in St. Louis said you had followed this case since the guy killed the first family in Des Moines and the DMPD had asked the FBI to do a profile. He said I should get you here, and that's why I e-mailed you. He, ah, appreciated your ideas even though they didn't get him anywhere. But you already know that. The guy's a mystery. Nothing seems to nail him. It's like he's a ghost.'
Captain Brady coughed into his hand, a hacking low cough. 'Sorry, I guess I'm getting run-down. My wife chewed me out good this morning.' He shrugged. 'But what can we do? We've been putting in long hours since the guy killed the family three and a half days ago. He did it right at six o'clock, right at dinnertime, right at the same time he killed the other two families. Sorry, but you already know that. You got all the police reports I sent you yesterday?''
'Oh yes,' Savich said. 'I was hoping you'd contact me.'
The captain nodded. 'Bud Hollis also said you had a brain and weren't a glory hound and did your investigating with a computer. I don't understand that, but I'm willing to give it a try.
'I still wasn't sure bringing you here was such a good idea until five minutes before I e-mailed you. Thank you for coming so quickly. I thought I should talk to both of you for a few minutes before I introduce you to the detectives on the case. They're, ah, a bit unhappy that I called you in.'
'No problem,' Savich said and crossed his legs. 'You're right, Captain. Neither Sherlock nor I am into glory. We just want this guy off the streets.'
Actually, Lacey wanted him really badly. She wanted him dead.
'Unfortunately we don't have anything more than we did when I e-mailed you this afternoon. The pressure from the mayor's office is pretty intense; everyone's hiding in the men's room because the media's been on a tear since the first night it happened. They haven't let up. Do you know that one station got hold of the crime scene photos, and they splashed them all over the ten P.M. news? Bloody vultures. They know all about Des Moines and St. Louis and that the media there had called the guy the Toaster. Got everyone scared to death. The joke in the squad room is that everyone is throwing out their kitchen appliances. You've read all the files from all the murders, haven't you?'
'Yes. Every one. They were very complete.'
'I guess it's time to cut to the chase, Agent Savich. Can you help us?'
'Both Agent Sherlock and I have just a few questions. Perhaps we can meet with your people and get the answers. Yes, Captain, there's not a doubt in my mind that we can help you.'
Captain Brady gave Savich a dubious smile, but there was a gleam of hope in his tired eyes. 'Let's get to it,' he said, grabbed a huge folder from his desk, and walked to the door of his office. He yelled out, 'Dubrosky! Mason! Get in the conference room on the double!' He turned back to them and said, 'I hate these modular things. They just put them in last year. You can't see a soul, and chances are the guy you want is in the John.' He glanced at her. 'Well, or the girl, er, female officer you want is in the women's room.'
Evidently neither Dubrosky nor Mason had gone to the John. They were already in the conference room, standing stiff and hostile, waiting for the FBI agents. Captain Brady was right about one thing-they weren't happy campers. This was their turf, and the last thing they wanted was to have the FBI stick their noses into their business. Savich was polite and matter-of-fact. They looked at Sherlock, and she could see that they weren't holding out for much help from her. Dubrosky said, 'You don't expect us to be your Watsons, do you, Sherlock?'
'Not at all, Detective Dubrosky, unless either of you is a physician.'
