I hoped it involved them being reassigned.
"Vicky worked up a new profile of the suspect, and we're 77.4 percent sure that he's French Canadian, and most likely owns a horse."
"Our killer is a Mountie." Herb said it deadpan.
"A what? Hmm, that's good. We hadn't thought of that."
They looked at each other, and Benedict and I took the moment to do the same.
"How about the candy," I asked. "Did you get anything?"
"There have been over six hundred recorded cases of food tampering in the last fifteen years. More than two hundred of those were with candy. By limiting the search to individuals who used razor blades, fishhooks, and needles, we narrowed it down to forty-three cases. In only two reported cases had a perp used all three. Both in Lansing, Michigan. On consecutive Halloweens, in 1994 and "95."
I felt, for the first time in this case, the stirrings of excitement. This could be a solid lead.
"Arrests? Suspects?"
"None."
The hope leached away.
"Both times, a bowl of candy had been left at an unoccupied house. No prints, no witnesses, no confessions, just several dozen kids taken to the emergency room, and one terminal occurrence."
"Have you gone through the Lansing files, found anyone arrested there in the past who might be our man?"
"We've cross-referenced arrest records with anyone fitting our profile, but no one came up who was French Canadian. Several suspects owned horses, and we're checking them out."
Patience, Jack.
"How about apart from your profile? Anyone arrested in Lansing for kidnapping women? Raping stab wounds? Leaving notes for the police? Any unsolved murders that involved abduction, torture, and mutilation? This guy has killed before. You've pretty much confirmed he's been in Michigan. Did you follow up on any of this?"
"We're checking," the one on the right said, hooding his eyes in a manner that could only be described as sheepish. "However, if you could spare the manpower, we'd like to check out some local livery stables and investigate this horse angle."
I blinked. Twice. I was a deep breath away from spouting off, when a uniform knocked on my open office door. It was Barry Fuller, a large patrolman who used to be on the Chicago Bears. He was assigned to the Gingerbread Man task force, though in what capacity I'd have to admit ignorance.
"Officer Fuller." I bid him entrance, happy to be interrupted.
Fuller came in, giving the FBI a sideways glance.
"We...I took a call this morning." I now remembered that Fuller had been assigned to work the phones, sorting out fake confessions and tips. "It was Fitzpatrick, the owner of the second 7-Eleven. He wanted to add to his statement."
"Add what?"
"He remembers hearing an ice cream truck before he saw the body."
"Like one of those Good Humor trucks with the music?"
"Yeah. It was playing one of those pipe organ songs, he thinks it was "The Candyman.""
I rolled this around in my head. We knew the perp drove a truck. An ice cream truck would be practically anonymous; there had to be hundreds in Chicago. I turned to Herb.
"We need a list of all ice cream trucks registered in Illinois and Michigan. And we need to find out if any special kind of license or permit is needed, and check that list for priors; stick with assault, rape, burglary...don't bother with traffic violations. Then we need the list cross-referenced with Dr. Booster's patient list. And we need to talk with that kid Donovan, who found the first body."
"I did that," Fuller said. "I called him. He remembers hearing an ice cream truck as well. I've also gotten started on the DMV reports. The problem is, they only register make, model, and year. An ice cream truck is a Jeep, and there are thousands of Jeeps in Illinois. More in Michigan, I can guess. We can't break it down by drivers, because anyone with a standard class D can drive a Jeep. If the guy has a business license, it could be possible to find him through that, but that goes by village, not state. It could take weeks to check every suburb."
"What about companies that sell ice cream that have drivers?" Benedict was thinking out loud.
"There are six in Illinois," Fuller answered, surprising us. "I'm having them all fax employee lists as well as driver routes."
"Nice job, Officer," I told him. "We'll put someone else on phones, and you're in charge of gathering all of this information. I want a progress report every morning, and I'll need Donovan's and Fitzpatrick's depositions ASAP."
Since I liked initiative in my men, I also threw him a bone.
"There's an extra case file on my desk, go through it, see if anything shakes loose."
He grinned, I suppose from the opportunity presented to him, and then left. In two minutes' time, an ex-football player who walked a beat proved to be of more help than two federal agents with years of experience. It didn't surprise me.
"Maybe he's selling ice cream on horseback," Benedict offered to the Feebies.
"Parlez-vous Fudgsicle?" I added.
"His driving an ice cream truck does not preclude ownership of a horse," the one on the left said, "but we'll need time to assimilate this new data and consult with Vicky."
"Maybe you should do that."
"We are well aware of the fact that you don't like us, Lieutenant. But we're all trying to do the same thing here. We're trying to catch a killer. We do it by analyzing data and comparing it to thousands of other documented cases, in order to get a picture of the unsub. You go on the news and talk about bed-wetting and cowardice. To each his method."
Then they turned as one and left.
"Ouch," Herb said, "that was awful close to an actual insult."
"I may need a hug, Herb."
"I'm here for you. At least until Lunch Mates sets you up with someone. Did I mention how darling you looked in that sweater?"
"Aren't there any doughnuts left you should be attending to?"
Benedict's eyes lit up and he attacked the box. I washed down two aspirin with the last of my coffee, and then was forced to refill it with the sludge from the hallway vending machine. When I returned, Herb had valiantly triumphed over an eclair and had begun poring over the letters we'd taken from Theresa Metcalf's room. I sat down, stretched my leg, and attacked the appointment book.
It was a typical Day-Timer, every date in the month with a page of its own. There was an address book at the beginning, which was mostly blank except for a few unlabeled phone numbers that would have to be checked out.
Going page by page, I came across many notes and appointments involving her canceled wedding. She'd met with several caterers, bakeries, florists, photographers, etc. Again, all would need to be interviewed.
Every seven days she wrote down her work schedule, which hardly varied one week to the next. Birthdays for both Elisa and Johnny Tashing, her ex, were labeled in advance. There had been two dentist appointments and a doctor's visit, but it hadn't been to the late Dr. Booster's office. She'd also written in her dates with Johnny, which ended abruptly on April 29, when she wrote PIG! next to his name and underlined it.
Also in April were two meetings with someone named Harry. Just that name and a time -- six o'clock in both cases. Once was on the twentieth, and once on the twenty-eighth. Nothing else about Harry, or Johnny, from then until present.
I called up Elisa and asked if she knew anyone named Harry, from back in April. She said she didn't.
"Any mention of anyone named Harry in the letters?" I asked Benedict.
"Nope. But her ex-boyfriend had a real flair for the romantic. "Your breasts are like two ice cream scoops, and I want to lick them up.""
"Isn't that Shakespeare?"
"Yeah. King Lear."
"Does he seem like a wacko?"
"No more so than any other hormone-crazed guy who wants to get laid. He says "I love you" a lot, and it seems sincere. Most of these letters are from when they just started dating. They'd been going out for a few years."
I set the appointment book aside and dove into the canceled checks. There was a big stack of them, dating back to 1994. Luckily they were in chronological order.