The Chemist, page 19
part #1 of The Chemist Series
At that moment, Sid Draymus was extracting the backup disc from the digital recorder. He placed it in a plastic cover and slipped it into a manila envelope, sealed it.
"Same old, same old." Sid barked it out like a robot, nervously wiping his palms on his pants. "Watching paint dry. For the most part."
"I hear that." Torrence was busy with the log-in sheet.
Moving across the room, Sid said, "Gotta drain the lizard." As his coworker shrugged, he added, "A heads-up…might have a glitch with unit thirteen, there. Been acting weird."
"The ghost in the machine." Torrence laughed, making a waggle with his fingers.
"Yeah. A ghost." Sid closed the door behind him.
——
Cale and Staszak arrived together at Bellin Hospital's third floor ICU. Maggie was already present, sitting in a molded plastic waiting room chair. She had one arm draped around Janet Dooley's shoulder. The women appeared distraught, bleary eyed, and Cale couldn't help but envision the worst. Especially with Janet looking so pale and holding a crumpled handkerchief the way women did at funerals.
Seeing their approach, Janet rose. Staszak gave her a hug.
"We got a status?" Cale asked, searching Maggie's bleary eyes.
"Out of surgery twenty minutes ago," Maggie said. She touched the scarf at her neck with her fingertips. "In recovery. The worst is over, they're hoping."
"The bullet went clean through his shoulder." Janet reported this like it might be the most wonderful news of the day.
Staszak moved up to the door and peered in through the small window. Without turning, he asked, "Can we go in? Maybe? See how he's doing?"
Before anyone could comment the door swung open, and Staszak stepped back in surprise. A red-haired nurse with freckles issued them a stern look. She blocked the door with a less-than-inviting expression. Cale displayed his credentials. With a cursory nod, she agreed to let them all inside together. But only for a minute.
Holding open the door, the nurse warned, "He's weak." She handed them each a blue face mask as they filed into the room.
Janet moved like a specter to Slink's side. She leaned in close and kissed his cheek through her mask. This prompted an admonishing glare from the nurse. Pulling back, Janet knuckled the tears from her eyes.
A moment later, Slink's eyes blinked open. He studied them like an amnesia victim gathering his bearings.
"Hey, bucko. Howya doing?" Staszak said, his voice a bare whisper.
"Okay. I guess." Slink's rasp was sandpaper. "They tag the shooter?"
Typical cop, Cale thought, guessing it's what he'd ask if their situations were reversed.
"Captured our desperado in a garage a few blocks away," Staszak reported.
"Guess my disguise didn't fool him." Slink attempted a sheepish smile.
"World's gone insane," commented Staszak, giving them all a glance. Who shoots a Culligan Man?"
Cale noted Slink's drooping eyelids. He calculated the effort his partner was employing at keeping them open. "Our hunch is Paprika's bag man," he said. "Dropping a payoff. We pulled ten-Gs from his jacket pocket."
"Along with a dime of smack," Staszak added, frowning. "Wrong place, wrong time, amigo."
"Story of my life."
Janet sniffled and grasped her husband's wrist, careful of the IV line. Cale glanced over at Maggie. She stood inside the room like a shadow, not close to her cheery self. When he caught her eye, she looked away.
The nurse coughed. With her eyes, she again cautioned Janet to stay clear of the bed. Slink focused his gaze on Cale. "You find it?" he asked.
Cale understood he meant the flash drive. He nodded. "We got Lester's fat butt nailed to the wall."
The nurse frowned at Cale. Her patience thinning, she motioned them all toward the door.
As they were leaving, Slink called in a gravel voice, "You like that Royals bet?"
Cale winked. "Sure loser, if I ever saw one."
Slink’s eyes closed, and Cale watched him fall into a sleep any infant would envy.
——
Driving herself home, Maggie's jittery thoughts kept sliding from Slink to Cale to Janet, before returning back to her own miserable situation. Thoughts of Sanchez, the visitation room, the threatening blade. Her stomach lurched, and she considered pulling the Mazda to the side of the road.
Instead, she soldiered on, working her way through an emptiness beyond anything she had ever before experienced. Even worse than when her parents had died, she decided. That, by now, was a blurry childhood memory. Akin to a bad dream.
The incident with Sanchez was fresh, raw like a wound. She imagined her recovery would come in steps. Like the grief stages people went through. First the denial, then pain and anger; then the guilt and remorse. All one day at a time, like an infant learning to walk.
Right now—this moment—what she needed more than anything was a hot bath and some sleep. Could she act normal until morning? Could she make it through the night?
Without breaking down completely?
Something inside her, some survival instinct, had already made one important decision. She would keep what had happened with Sanchez to herself. At least for now. She hadn't been physically harmed. She was intact, had suffered a few surface scrapes and bruises, which would heal in a matter of days. Her desire, for the most part, was to put the ordeal behind her as soon as possible. Lock it in a box. Move on.
And yet, while the physical evidence of the assault would fade with time, she couldn't help wondering about the mental side of things. Could she work through that part on her own, as well? Move beyond the psychology of the trauma?
If she was strong enough, she could do it, she told herself. Just make believe it never happened. Out of sight, out of mind.
——
After dropping Staszak back at the station, Cale wheeled the Bronco around, headed for home. He couldn't remember a more stress-filled day, topped off, of course, by Slink's shooting. He felt bone-tired. He desired nothing more than to get home with Maggie, open a beer, light the fireplace, and put this dreadful day behind them like a bad dream.
Maggie had arrived home first, and the house lights were on. Her car would be tucked inside the garage, so Cale decided to leave the Bronco on the apron off the driveway. In case he needed to get anywhere fast. He hoped to God that wasn't the case. Not on this night.
Changing into jeans and a sweatshirt, Cale grabbed a bottle of Michelob Ultra from the refrigerator. He joined Maggie in the family room, where she had taken the liberty of dishing them each a plate of cold pasta salad. Hank was at her feet, and she picked him up and put him in her lap. He settled in, purring.
Maggie had also changed clothes, donning loose gray sweatpants and a knit turtleneck. Cale sat beside her on the couch, and they ate in companionable silence, each lost in private thought.
"Chloe called," Maggie said, after an extended beat. She spoke without facing him. "Says she's sorry she couldn't have been more help."
Cale nodded absently.
Maggie pushed the pasta around her plate with the fork, disinterested, staring out into space. "She can't just turn it off and on, you know." She reported this in a sober tone, turning his way. "Not like some water faucet."
Cale nodded, chewing his food. "Slink's wiry, but he's tough as nails." After a beat of silence, he glanced at her profile in the shadowed room. "You doing okay?" he asked.
"It's just, you know…this day." She lowered her eyes without looking at him.
Cale leaned over and kissed her on the temple. Maggie winced, but covered her reaction by reaching for his bottle of beer on the coffee table. She took a drink.
"Want your own? I'll get you one."
"No. Thanks." She set the bottle back on the coaster.
Most evenings, Cale imagined he would comment on her jumpiness, be suspicious of her quick, darting moves. On this night, however, his mind was like a hamster running a wheel. He was focused on Slink's shooting—his idea, his brilliant plan—and how he had almost gotten his partner killed.
His eyes came back to Maggie. "An inch here or there," he said, with remorse. "Maybe that bullet goes right through his heart."
"Don't even say that."
"That's life for you—game of inches." And then you die, he thought darkly.
They'd had enough bleak thoughts for one day.
Maggie rose, shooing Hank away. She began gathering up their plates. Cale guessed that her need was to keep moving, stay busy, as if the routine might render some normalcy to the events that had transpired.
Deciding it wasn't a bad idea, he reached for the remote. Flicked on the television. He wondered if the local newshounds were reporting what they knew on the afternoon's shooting. Lester Paprika—publicity pimp that he was—was likely holding a news conference. Already pontificating about harassment, police brutality, blah-blah-blah.
"Go back," Maggie said, pausing with the plates in her hand. "Channel Seven. I think I saw Renee Douglas."
He flipped back through the channels, stopping when he spotted the serious face of the blond-haired local news reporter. She sat regally at her anchor desk. Behind her, a bold caption read: "Another abducted woman."
Staring at the screen in disbelief, Cale sucked in a breath. "Of all the…Christ! You've got to be kidding me!"
Maggie shushed him.
Douglas was saying aloud, "…Feared today that yet another female has been abducted in the Green Bay metro area. The family of twenty-three-year-old Shirley Koon has decided to go public with the announcement. Instead of waiting for local authorities to…"
Cale was no longer listening, his eyes transfixed to the screen. The TV feed flashed to an outside shot—maybe live—of the downtown police headquarters. Captain McBride was departing the back-exit doors, shaking his head, sweeping through a gauntlet of reporters armed with cameras and microphones.
"Tell me this isn't happening," Cale whispered out loud, shaking his head.
Cut back to Renee Douglas at her anchor desk: "Captain Leo McBride had little to say concerning this most recent disappearance. It is feared the crime may be linked to the string of missing young women, which has plagued the Green Bay area since last spring.
"McBride did indicate, however, that an official statement would not be issued until tomorrow morning, when it is hoped that more information can be gathered by investigators."
"Aw, Christ!" Cale said, flicking off the TV. He tossed the remote toward the loveseat across the room, where it missed and bounced off an end table leg.
From the safety of the loveseat, Hank gave him a wide-eyed stare.
"Think it's the same guy?" Maggie asked.
Before he could respond, Cale’s phone chirped. He grabbed it from the coffee table, listened, then said, "Got it. On my way."
Maggie searched his eyes. His mood was sober. She trailed as he moved from the room, down the small set of steps. Cale grabbed his jacket from the hallway closet. He put on his holstered gun, which he'd earlier set on the kitchen counter.
He imagined Maggie didn't want to spend the night alone—tonight of all nights. He understood, however, that she recognized the necessity of him having to venture out on this chilly, fog-filled night. His job; his case.
"Be careful, won't you?" She moved in close and gave him a tight embrace.
Cale held her and stroked her hair. "You going to be all right, Maggie May?" Stepping back, he stared into her glistening eyes.
She smiled gamely. "Nothing a bath and some sleep won't fix."
With Hank's unyielding stare, and Maggie's soulful eyes locked on him, Cale stepped into the cool grit of evening air.
——
The door closed, and Maggie turned, pressing her back against the solid wooden structure. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest, pounding a jerky beat. Tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes, trickles of warm rivulets flushing her pale cheeks.
Learning. To. Walk.
CHAPTER 37
Cale awoke Thursday morning, and if he'd ever felt more exhausted, he couldn't remember when. In his dream he'd been climbing a cliff of craggy rocks, each crest higher and steeper, each handhold more precarious. He’d crawled into bed sometime after three a.m. Now, upon waking, it felt like he hadn't slept more than an hour all night.
Victim Number Five.
"Sorry." Maggie was standing at the window across the room, where she'd been peeking out between the blinds. "I didn't mean to wake you."
“You didn’t.” Cale’s voice was dry. "Got to get up anyway."
She was dressed in jeans and a high-necked sweater. Maggie had cancelled her morning appointments, she reported, and was headed to the hospital to sit with Janet. To Cale, her demeanor was aloof, her tone almost cordial, the way you'd speak to an aunt you hadn't seen in years. When he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes, she told him that she was fine. Yet her pale countenance reminded him of a vampire's victim.
"You guys find anything last night?" she asked. When he studied her, she glanced back out the window, as if she might be spying on elves lurking in the trees.
Cale shook his head. "Same as the others. Nothing. Nothing relevant, anyway."
They agreed to meet later at the hospital. As soon as he could break away. With a new missing victim, Cale was uncertain how this day's schedule might unfold.
He watched as Maggie drifted from the room, silent as a spirit.
——
In spite of Cale’s caffeine overload, the drive to work took forever. He pictured the station in chaos. The day commander would be barking orders to street cops and other subordinates down the food chain. Tempers short. Stress dripping from the walls.
On the other hand, perhaps it would be the opposite. Morgue-like silence. Everyone focused, preparing for a hurricane while the higher-ups decided how to handle the negative publicity certain to flood their way.
Victim Number Five.
Cale had spent the better part of the night at the scene of the suspected crime. A spacious, suburban shopping mall. A credit card transaction had been traced back to an Old Navy store inside. The last place the missing woman had been spotted. Other than this meager lead, the remainder of the night had proved fruitless. The missing female's vehicle was nowhere to be found, no sign of it in the parking lot anywhere. No crime scene, no witnesses, no clues. An all too familiar refrain.
"This BS is getting old," Staszak had growled, tossing an empty coffee container into the backseat of his boat-sized Buick. He’d slammed the door and driven off into the wee hours' darkness.
No argument from Cale. Without any sign of the missing victim, there was not much else for them to do. Following his partner's lead, he’d slid inside the Bronco and headed for home.
——
In the station house now, moving down a hallway, Cale paused outside the door of an interview room. He peered in through the small observation window.
Anton Staszak, freshly showered and dressed, was conversing with a tall, handsome woman. She possessed dark hair, pinned back, streaked with wisps of silver. The woman sat at the table with her hands in the lap of her flowered peasant dress, staring at the burly detective through tinted eyeglasses.
Cale drew the impression of an artist. She emitted an aura of calm and quiet solitude, and he found himself impressed with the lady's demeanor. Her face bore an almost religious stoicism, and he guessed she was someone who had witnessed cruelty in the world yet had chosen to forgive it. His rap on the doorframe was gentle, and he entered with his Starbucks cup in hand.
Staszak introduced him to Samantha Koon, mother of the newest victim, Shirley Koon. He brought Cale up to speed on what they'd gone over regarding her missing daughter.
Shirley Koon was employed as a blackjack dealer at the local Indian casino. Yesterday had been her day off. She’d had plans to visit the shopping mall, and afterwards meet her mother for a late lunch. She had failed to show—unusual for an otherwise dependable young woman.
Mrs. Koon was forthright with her answers, and the detectives found her solid and credible. Her daughter didn't do drugs or alcohol, and had no emotional problems. The girl's biological father, a long-haul truck driver, had abandoned the family ten years ago. Relocated to Alaska. Hadn't been heard from since. There were no violent boyfriends or ex-husbands in the picture. No psych history. No tapped-out bank accounts, and no recent patterns of erratic behavior from the missing young woman.
"Any of her friends hear from her?" Cale asked, hearing his voice echo off the room's bare walls. These days he felt like a parrot. Same questions over and over. Made twice as annoying by the same weary responses.
"Shirley spoke to three of her close friends yesterday," Mrs. Koon reported. "I talked to them. They all said the same thing. Nothing dramatic or unusual going on. As far as any of them could tell."
Samantha Koon's large chestnut eyes were glazed, but she steeled them on the detectives.
Cale considered what the newest abduction location might reveal about the perpetrator. The shopping mall was on the city's far West Side. The previous abductee—Cindy Hulbreth—had been taken on the East Side (they surmised), somewhere near the Speedway station. Opposite sides of town. The trio of kidnappings last spring had occurred at a variety of different sites. No discernible pattern. Unless, of course, their perpetrator was altering his abduction points.
Either way, it amounted to the same thing. A random geographical profile of no particular use.
Staszak's notebook was filling with information, and Cale assumed Samantha Koon must be tiring of the questions by now. Especially if she'd achieved the same lack of sleep that he had. There was one question, however, he couldn't resist asking.
"Why did you go to the press, Mrs. Koon? Instead of calling us direct?"
Cale watched a determined look take hold in the woman's eyes. "I figured you'd put me off." After a beat, she added, "Wait forty-eight hours? Then file a report?"
"Not in this case," Staszak said. "Any victims fitting the abduction profile are priority-one status.
"Detective Staszak's right," Cale seconded. "We would have responded right away." He wasn't sure that she believed him, but it was true.
