“Sorry I’m late, Captain,” he mumbled to Powell, who nodded.
“That’s okay. We’ll go ahead and get started now. Does everybody here know each other?”
We all looked around, checking faces. Detective Danielson, a recent transfer to Homicide from Sexual Assault, was new to the unit, but not to the department. Everyone else was pretty much a known quantity.
“Good,” Powell continued, “I’ll make this quick. As of now, you are all, with the exception of Detective Lindstrom, part of what will be known as the Weston Family Task Force. For the time being and until further notice, each of you is assigned to this case on a full-time basis. All direct contact with the media is strictly prohibited. Information on this case is to be filtered through Lieutenant McNamara here or one of the other Media Relations officers. All of it. Do I make myself clear?”
We all nodded. It was business as usual only more so.
“What about me?” Big Al interjected.
“I’m coming to that, Al. Detectives Beaumont and Lindstrom were the ones originally assigned to this case, but due to the identity of the victims, and since Detective Lindstrom especially has very close personal connections to the Weston family, we’ve been forced to make some changes in assignments. Detective Beaumont will still be officially assigned to the case, but his area of responsibility will focus primarily on the second boy-John Doe for now, a victim who is evidently not a part of the Weston family proper.”
“Wait a minute…” Big Al began, but Powell silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand.
“Obviously, this case will be conducted under intense media and public scrutiny. We can’t afford any screwups or any appearance of ignoring due process. Everyone in this room knows that as soon as a police officer is killed, there’s an automatic assumption among the media and among the population at large that the entire department turns into a bloodthirsty vigilante committee. Considering your personal relationship with Ben, Detective Lindstrom, I’m sure you can understand why I deem it necessary to remove you from the case. It’s no reflection on your professionalism, Al, but you’ll be assigned alternate duty for the time being. Any questions?”
If Big Al had questions, he wasn’t able to voice them. His face flushed a brilliant red from the top of his shirt collar to the roots of his hair while an incredible array of emotions marched in rapid succession across his broad features.
“No…sir,” he stammered at last. “Can I go now?”
“Sure,” Powell returned sympathetically. “That’s probably a good idea. Take the rest of the day off too, why don’t you, Al. Get some rest. I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow.”
To the captain’s credit, I knew he had wanted to speak with Big Al prior to the meeting. A private conference in advance might have spared the detective the public humiliation of being pulled from the case in a roomful of his peers. By coming late, Big Al himself had robbed Captain Powell of any more diplomatic alternative.
Without another word, Big Al stalked out into the night, slamming the flimsy metal door behind him. The rest of us waited in uncomfortable silence. I don’t think there was anyone in the room, with the possible exception of Paul Kramer, who thought Captain Powell was doing the wrong thing, but we all wished it hadn’t come down quite the way it had.
Kramer started to make some off-the-wall comment, but Captain Powell’s reprimanding stare shut him up. “As for task force organization,” Powell continued, “With this many victims, we’re going to need a clearinghouse for personnel and reports both. Sergeant Watkins from Homicide will be taking over as director. He will be assisted by Detective Kramer, who has in the past shown a certain facility for organization and reports. Detective Kramer will work directly under Sergeant Watkins and help delegate assignments.
“We want this thing handled, people. We want it handled right, and we want it done soon. Any questions?”
Paul Kramer favored me with the smallest of smirks. It was lucky for him that Big Al Lindstrom had already left the room.
CHAPTER 5
When the meeting broke up, Janice Morraine and I left the Mobile Command Post together and walked back through the early-morning darkness toward Ben Weston’s house, where Janice’s crime scene investigators were still hard at work.
Long before anyone ever heard of DNA fingerprinting or even just plain fingerprinting for that matter, a smart French criminologist by the name of Edmond Locard came up with the theory that bears his name. Locard’s exchange principle says, in effect, that any person passing through a room will unknowingly leave something there and take something away. This principle forms the basis for most modern crime scene investigation.
Criminalists, as they’re called these days-the term “criminologist” evidently disappeared right along with Edmond-take charge of the hair and blood samples, semen and saliva traces, fingerprints and clothing fuzz, carpet lint and dust balls that often form the backbone of evidence in today’s criminal prosecutions. Forever focused on physical minutiae, criminalists are a tightly knit group. Without necessarily saying so, they generally look down their collective noses at mere detectives who specialize in the inexact and somewhat messy study of such unscientific things as motive and opportunity.
My opinion is that we’re all fine as long as everybody sticks to his or her own area of expertise. It’s probably a safe bet that I’ll never write a scholarly treatise on the technicalities of DNA fingerprinting, which Janice Morraine could do in a blink, but as far as I’m concerned, she’ll never make detective of the year either. Don’t misunderstand. I like her, a lot, but not when she veers into my territory.
“What exactly went on between Detective Lindstrom and Ben Weston?” she asked as we walked along. “Did they ever have a falling-out?”
“You mean a fight?”
“Yes, a fight. Did they quarrel about something?”
“Not so far as I know. How come?” I wondered. “What makes you ask that?”
She shrugged. “After what happened in there…”
“After what happened? You mean after Captain Powell kicked Lindstrom off the case?”
“Yes well…”
For a moment, I thought she didn’t understand exactly why that had occurred, so I tried to clarify. “Powell pulled Big Al because he and Ben Weston were good friends, had been for years. No other reason. So why are you asking me about a fight?”
“I was just wondering,” she said innocently.
It used to be when a woman gave me that kind of ingenuous nonanswer, I fell for it and really believed they were “just wondering,” but I’m older, now, and wiser. Janice’s bland response put me on notice that something was up.
“Look, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck yesterday,” I told her. “This is your old pal J. P. Beaumont, remember? What gives? What are you driving at?”
“I think a cop did it,” she blurted.
My jaw dropped. “A cop? Killed all these people? You’re kidding!”
We had stopped on the front porch just outside the door. “I am not kidding,” she declared. “Didn’t you see how the girl was tied up?”
Actually, I hadn’t. For one thing, during our initial kitchen walk-through, I had been on the wrong side of the body. Then, once we discovered Junior in the linen closet, Big Al and I hadn’t stayed around long enough to see anything more before racing off to the department with the child in tow.
“Flex-cufs,” she informed me. “The girl in the kitchen was bound with Flex-cuf restraints, the very same brand all you guys at the department use every day.”
Although metal handcuffs are still more commonly used, Flex-cufs are a high-tech, lightweight substitute. I think of them as a variation on a theme of plastic tie-ups for garbage bags or maybe a hospital ID bracelet for two hands instead of one. Once you put the plastic coil through the hole and tighten it down, the only way to take it off again is to cut it off.
But from this one small piece of evidence, Janice Morraine was making a very premature, very shaky assumption. “Let me get this straight. Because of the presence of Flex-cufs, you’ve decided that the killer is most
