Wednesday, September 22, 10:30 a.m.
Olivia had hoped not to come back to the morgue today. She’d already had enough gut-churning for one morning. Feet like lead, she followed Noah through the hallways that seemed to grow narrower with each step.
Earlier this morning they’d met Ian in one of the offices up front to talk about Joel. This time they were going back to the autopsy suite. Somewhere in there, lay Kane.
Her heart pounding, she stopped, trying to slow her breathing. “Noah. Wait.”
He turned, surprised. “What’s wrong?”
It was humiliating, but somehow easier since she’d blurted it to Donahue that morning. “I’ve been getting panic attacks. Since the pit.”
Understanding softened his features. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. I just have to get through it on my own. But… this is harder than usual.”
“You know, you’re really hard on yourself. Do you think you’re the first cop this has happened to?”
“You?”
He nodded once. “Long time ago. You okay to go in now?”
“I have to be. How do you handle it?” she murmured when they were walking side by side. “When you get overwhelmed?”
“Therapeutic sex,” he said wryly. “I’m serious,” he added when she snorted a surprised laugh. “Sometimes you need to hold back reality for a little while.”
She thought about the amazing ride she’d taken with David that morning. Part of her had been feeling a little guilty for forgetting her grief for those few minutes. The other part of her knew it was silly and that Kane of all people would have told her that. But hearing it from Noah made it a little easier. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”
“Anytime.” Opening the door, he stuck his head in, then looked back. “Just Joel.”
He’d understood that, too, her fear of seeing Kane here. Like this. She drew a breath and made her feet move. Ian stood waiting impatiently.
“I’ve got an angry undertaker pacing out front,” Ian said. “We need to hurry.”
“What’s so important?” Noah asked.
“This.” Ian lifted the sheet, exposing Joel’s pelvis. “Right here. A needle mark.”
Noah winced. “He shot up in his groin? God. I hate when they do that.”
Olivia gritted her teeth and made herself look. “That’s usually a behavior for long-term IV drug users. Did you find track marks in other places?”
“No, I didn’t and I doubt he injected himself,” Ian said. “I found the binder from the pills in his stomach contents, like I told you earlier, but I started thinking after you left. The pills he swallowed to get that much binder in his stomach weren’t consistent with the high level of narcotics in his system. I figure he swallowed the first two, then the rest was injected. Given no evidence of prior IV drug use, and a couple pills already in his system, I doubt he’d have been able to access the femoral vein with a steady hand.”
“So somebody did it for him.” Olivia felt relief for the Fischers.
“I wonder if Joel was about to tell on the others,” Noah said. “They shut him up.”
“Something else,” Ian said. “Injected, it would have been a fast high and not the slower action of swallowing the pills. I don’t know how he managed to drive anywhere.”
Olivia frowned. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t think he drove his own car off the road,” Ian said.
“They would have had to put him behind the wheel, shove his foot on the gas, and put the car in gear from outside the car,” Noah said. “It’s been done.”
“Whoever did this had to be strong enough to put Joel in the driver’s seat,” she said.
“Or they could have shoved him over the gearshift,” Ian said. “When you know what you’re looking for, you see things differently.” He pointed out a bruise on Joel’s left hip. “Could have been from being thrown from the car. Could have been from the shift.”
“I think this will give the Fischers some peace, but worsen their grief, too,” Olivia said. “Someone murdered their son.”
Wednesday, September 22, 11:15 a.m.
Austin stood on a downtown Minneapolis sidewalk, at the large plate-glass window of a gym with televisions suspended from the ceiling. They had the closed-captioning going for the exercisers, who sweated on treadmills.
His face was all over the news. The arsonists had struck again last night. Four dead. So many hurt. This has to stop. I have to make this stop. Then the next story started and his blood went cold. A bomb-threat scare. At my school. An unidentified student narrowly escaped kidnapping. Police detective killed. An interpreter missing.
That the bomb threat related back to him, he had no doubt. Were they trying to kill him to keep him from talking? Were they trying to keep Kenny from talking?
A man identified as Captain Bruce Abbott came on the screen, a sign language interpreter at his side. Call us, Austin. You are in danger. We’ll keep you safe.
He dropped his eyes to the cell phone in his hand. Kenny had sent another text. Don’t trust the cops. Call me. I can hide you.
Austin knew one way to separate the truth from the lies. He opened the latest from Kenny’s new account. Here in TC. Scared. Where can I meet u?
He hit SEND before he could change his mind. Then started walking. He didn’t want to stay in one place, didn’t want to draw attention. Keep walking.
Wednesday, September 22, 11:15 a.m.
He’d had to exert a great deal of discipline this morning not to obsess over the silence of Austin Dent. Austin was still top of the news, so the police hadn’t found him yet. He’d sent one more text from Kenny’s “new” account. He hadn’t wanted to lay it on too thickly, but for God’s sake, where was the damn kid?
There had been heavy traffic all morning due to Detective Kane. Cops gathered here to soberly talk, to mourn. To wonder how it could have happened. Such a good cop. Such a nice guy. About ready to retire. Not fair.
Well, life isn’t fair. So get over it. He’d taken the next order when the cell phone in his pocket buzzed.
Austin. Finally. “Hey, Buster, I need to take a break. Can you handle things?”
“Sure,” Buster said, not looking up from the latte he was mixing.
The men’s room was empty. He checked his cell phone and smiled. Austin was back, in the Twin Cities. Very good.
Need to meet U, he typed. You’re in danger.
When? Where?
He was supposed to be Kenny, who was supposed to be at school, twenty minutes from downtown. 12:30, he typed. Will sneak away at lunch.
McD’s by school?
He frowned then. The McDonald’s was across from the sub shop, where he’d grabbed the interpreter. Too many cops looking for you. Library parking lot.
Okay.
Hide till then. Cops looking for you. They lie. Don’t trust them.
That should take care of Austin Dent until he could take care of him in person.
Wednesday, September 22, 11:20 a.m.
“Not home,” Olivia muttered, standing on Eric Marsh’s welcome mat.
“We could try for a warrant,” Noah said and she shook her head.
“Brian Ramsey couldn’t get me one last night for Joel and that was with proof he’d been in a fire. We’re not getting a warrant. Not unless we find something else.”
The apartment door to the left opened and a grumpy-looking old man stared out. “He’s probably at school. Some kind of engineering major. Whaddya want with him?”
“We want to talk to him,” Olivia said. “I’m Detective Sutherland and this is Detective… Webster.” She’d almost said Kane. “And you are?”
“Jed Early.” Early glared. “Comings and goings and goings-on. Give a kid that age an apartment and you’re just asking for trouble.”
“Who’s been coming and going?” Olivia asked.
“Kids. Mostly that Frenchie. Albert,” he sneered. “I guess they’re free to do what they want in their own place, but I should be free not to have to listen to it.”
“So Eric and Albert were…” Olivia said and Early nodded sourly.