With her key he let himself into Mitchell's place. She needed a good decorator Methodically he checked the coat closet. Other than a trifolded flag on the shelf, it was empty. Her kitchen cabinet was filled with boxes of Pop-Tarts, her freezer with microwave meals. She needed a good nutritionist more than a decorator.
Her bedroom was a mess, blankets in a pile on the floor. But interestingly, a box of condoms sat opened on the night-stand. Her closet was such a mess, there was no way to know if she'd taken clothes or not. Frustrated, he returned to the living room. A pile of mail covered a lamp table. Greedily he searched it. The only thing remotely personal was a postcard with a crab on the front. "Dear Mia, wish you'd come with us. Miss you. Love, Dana." Dana? A friend with whom Mitchell might stay?
He opened the lamp table drawer and pulled out a photo album with a grin. He'd struck gold. He lifted the cover and sighed. Mitchell was no more organized about her photos than she was about anything else. None of the photos were put into the plastic sleeves. It was just a pile, as if she threw everything in here with the plan to someday do it right. How had she ever managed to get as far as she did?
On the top of the stack was an obituary she'd ripped from the paper without even trimming the edges. He fought the urge to trim them himself and read it. Her father had died three weeks before. Interesting. She was survived by a mother. More interesting still. She'd come to heel if her mother were in danger.
He kept searching. Lots of kids' school pictures. And a wedding picture. Mitchell in pink with a tall redhead in white lace. On the back it said "Mia and Dana." Bingo. But Dana who? And where would he find her? Ask and you shall receive. Under the wedding photo was an invitation.
DANA DANIELLE DUPINSKI AND ETHAN WALTON BUCHANAN
request your presence… It was completely intact. He smiled. Shed been a bridesmaid so there d been no need to send in the RSVP. He pocketed the card and the obituary. Dana Dupinski lived a good half hour from here. He'd better hurry.
Saturday, December 2, 6:45 p.m.
"Talk," Spinnelli said from the head of the conference table. They'd regrouped, Reed and Mia, Murphy and Aidan, and Miles Westphalen. "What do we know?"
The table was again full, this time of paper. After more than seven hours of phone calls, faxes, and e-mails, they'd been able to put together a great deal of Andrew Kates's past. Reed was energized. They were closing in.
"We know where Andrew Kates has been," he said, "where he's likely to go, and importantly, why ten is the magic number."
Mia stacked her notes. "Andrew and Shane Kates were born to Gloria Kates. Aidan tracked Andrew to the Michigan juvie system who faxed us copies of their birth certificates. No father listed for either boy. Andrew is older by four years and served time in Michigan juvie for stealing a car when he was barely twelve. Nobody there remembcicd him, but it's been about ten years."
"Is that the count to ten?" Westphalen asked and Mia shook her head.
"Be patient, Miles. This took us seven hours. You can listen for ten minutes."
"Sorry," Westphalen mumbled, properly chastised and Reed swallowed his smile.
"Anyway," Mia said. "I talked to the head caseworker for the juvie facility. She didn't remember him, but she looked up his file. He was a model resident. Claimed he'd been forced to steal the car by his mother to feed her drug habit. Gloria Kates had a yellow sheet full of drug possession charges, so this was probably true."
"Obviously he got out," Spinnelli said.
"Yeah." Reed took up the story. "When Andrew got caught stealing the car, his mother Gloria skipped town, leaving him to hold the bag."
"Which would explain his hostility against women," Westphalen said. "Why hasn't he gone after her?"
"Because she's dead," Reed answered. "Heroin overdose, a few months later."
"So he has to go after substitutes," Westphalen mused. "Interesting."
"It gets better," Reed promised. "When Gloria left, Andrew went to juvie and Detroit placed Shane with his maternal aunt, Mary Kates, in Springdale, Indiana."
"The Thanksgiving night fire," Spinnelli murmured.
"Yes," Reed said. "I talked with the sheriff and the fire chief there about the Thanksgiving fire. The chief said they found gas cans in the backyard, but no eggs or evidence of solid accelerant. Just a gas and match affair. No fingerprints, no nothing. The sheriff said the aunt and her common-law husband Carl Gibson were found dead in their bedroom, close to the window. Their legs were broken so they couldn't get away."
"Same as the Atlantic City rape victims," Aidan said.
"And some of our victims," Reed agreed. "Nobody in Springdale was sorry or surprised to see it happen and the locals are having trouble making any headway on the case. Gibson had a history as a child predator. He was out on parole."
Westphalen nodded. "Ah. This makes sense."
"When was Gibson arrested?" Spinnelli asked.
"I checked out Gibson," Murphy said. "He had no complaints on his record when Detroit social services first placed Shane. The first charges were filed on behalf of Shane Kates. Gibson pled out, but later he was nailed for molesting two other kids."
"That's the trigger," Westphalen said. "Gibson molested Andrew's brother, then nearly ten years later this boy at Hope Center, Thad, is molested. That same night Gibson and
Andrew Kates's Aunt Many die. But ten years is a long time for such rage to lie dormant."
"That's because you got ahead of our story," Mia said. "Be patient. Miles."
Westphalen grimaced. "Sorry. Please continue."
Reed nodded. "Okay. Shane was molested by Gibson at some time during the year he was there. Based on Gibson's profile, probably multiple times. He's a sick bastard."
"Was," Mia corrected. "Now he's a dead bastard."
"Was," Reed echoed. "Shane would have been seven or eight at the time."
"Same age as Jeremy Lukowitch," Murphy noted and Mia nodded, troubled.
"I don't know what to make of that. Maybe that's why he didn't hurt Jeremy, just his mother. Sorry, Reed. Go on."
"Andrew was in juvie a year. When he got out, he was placed with his aunt, but before the first sundown, Andrew took Shane and ran away. They were picked up by Indiana police a few days later, but Andrew told them what Carl Gibson did to Shane and since the aunt had permanent custody of both of them they were put in foster care in Indiana versus being sent back to Detroit. That's when the first charges were filed against Gibson."
"It was hard to place two brothers together," Mia said, "especially with one of them having a juvie record. The local social services agency couldn't place them, so they transferred the case to Chicago who had a lot more homes available. Penny Hill was their caseworker. She placed them with Laura Dougherty who had developed a reputation for success with troubled kids. And she was willing to take them both."
"What did Laura Dougherty do that was so bad that Kates tried to kill her three times?" Westphalen asked.
"That took a little more digging," Mia said. "The DCFS manager didn't know and Penny Hill didn't write it in the file. I finally had to drive out to see Mrs. Blennard, their old friend. She remembered Shane. He was beautiful, blond and blue-eyed. At one point, Laura had considered adopting both boys, then Shane started in on one of the younger boys who was only five." She looked resigned. "Shane fondled him."
"The abused became the abuser," Westphalen said and held up his hands when Reed frowned. "It happens, Reed. However you choose to explain it, it happens."
"Well, it happened with Shane Kates," Mia inserted when Reed would have responded. "When Laura brought Penny Hill back to discuss it, Shane started breaking things on the sly. He blamed this younger boy, but Mrs. Dougherty didn't believe him."