The City PI and the Country Cop (3 page)

“When we catch him, we’ll ask,” Slater
replied sardonically.

Teague looked at the pictures of the second
boy, and then, reluctantly, at those of Chris.
If you had
listened to me…Damn it, Chris. You didn’t deserve this. None of you
did.
“All right. How does the murder of the kid in Faircrest
differ from these?”

“For starters, there were no cigarette
burns.”

“Info that wasn’t given to the press, you
said. So the fact there weren’t burns fits with the Faircrest
killer being a copycat, not the original killer—or he’s his
student.” Teague frowned at that last thought. “I presume the
detective in Faircrest…What’s his name?”

“Hoyt Newman.”

“I presume Detective Newman agrees there
might be a copycat at work.”

Slater snorted. “Newman doesn’t agree that
the murder has anything at
all
to do with our serial killer.
As far as he’s concerned it’s coincidence and nothing more despite
the fact that the victim was found in a dense forested area along
the river just outside of town, hogtied, sodomized, and
hanged.”

“Literally hanged?”

“Yes. He wasn’t on the ground the way these
victims—” Slater tapped the file, ‘‘—were when they were
discovered.”

“Another variation. Still, that doesn’t mean
it isn’t the original murderer. If he is in his fifties or older he
might not have the strength to semi-hang the victim several times
before going for the
coup de grâce
.”

Slater smiled. “
Coup de grâce
. I like
that. And you have a valid point. That takes a fair amount of
muscle.” Slater drummed a tattoo on the table. “I don’t like the
idea of an apprentice.”

Teague snapped his fingers. “Apprentice.
That’s the word I was trying to think of. Be that as it may, if he
does have one, why wait twenty-seven years to start up again?”

“Perhaps he was in prison. Or he moved on to
somewhere else and started over. Although if that’s the case he
also changed his MO. I’ve run everything through the NIBRS data
system and came up with no true matches. The closest, although
Newman would disagree, is Lee Grimes. That’s the name of the kid
whose case he’s handling.”

Changing the subject somewhat, Teague asked,
“What are the chances I can talk to the detectives who handled
these three cases?” He pointed to the file.

“Slim to none, unless you like to travel or
have an in with God,” Slater replied. “Two of them are dead and the
third one retired and moved to Florida.”

Teague chuckled. “Isn’t that what all
retirees do? Do you have a phone number for him?”

“I’ll check when I go back to the station in
the morning.”

“Thanks.”

“What are your plans now?” Slater asked.

“Spend the rest of the night going through
all the information you brought me. If you come up with a number
for the detective in Florida I’ll call him. Then I’m going to head
to Faircrest.”

* * * *

By the time Teague had finished reading
through the file on the serial killer murders he was even more
disgusted and dismayed than he had been originally.

He put you through hell, Chris. You and the
others. How can someone be so full of hate that they’ll torture and
kill an innocent kid? Okay, perhaps innocent isn’t the right word,
all things considered. But none of you were really criminals and
you weren’t harming anyone. You were just doing what it took to
keep body and soul together the best that you knew how.

Setting the file aside, Teague started off
into space, remembering the last time he’d seen Chris. They were in
Teague’s car, in the lot outside the bus station. Chris was hyper,
talking about his future.

“I’m going to go to, maybe Los Angeles. See
if I can break into the movies.”

“Porn movies,” Teague replied, laughing when
Chris flipped him off. Then Teague sobered. “I wish you’d stay
here. I can get an apartment with the money I’ll make working for
Mr. Graham at the hardware store. Hell, I can pick up extra cash at
the Creamery in the evenings. I bet Ms. Alison would hire you
there, too.”

“Not happening,” Chris had stated. “I’m over
it. There’s no future here and besides which I want to get as far
away from family as I can. Yeah, Mike’s a good guy but he doesn’t
get it. This town is so…small town.” He gazed out the car window
for a long moment before turning back to Teague. “You need to leave
too before you turn into Mr. Graham or some other tired old man.
That’s all there are here, Teague. Old, tired people who don’t know
there’s a world out there if they’d only explore it. That’s not
going to be me. No way, no how.”

Teague wanted to hug Chris at that point and
tell him it didn’t have to be that way. But he was tired of arguing
with him. He knew he’d never win. “Take care of yourself,” he said
softly. “And keep in touch.”

“Yeah. Will do.” Chris glanced around before
leaning in briefly to brush a kiss over Teague’s lips. “I promise.”
Then he was out of the car, his backpack swinging over his shoulder
as he almost ran into the bus station.

* * * *

That was the last time I saw you. You
never did keep your promise. You just…vanished. How the hell did
you end up here, and dead?
Teague opened the folder, taking out
the picture the coroner had taken of the then unidentified teen who
was Chris Frye.
So young. So beautiful. Well, not in this photo,
but you were. Once. I’m going to find the bastard who killed you,
Chris. Somehow, I will.

* * * *

Teague woke when Slater called early Saturday
morning to tell him that there was no phone number available for
the ex-detective who had handled the murder in Laport. Teague
thanked him for looking, and for all his help, telling Slater he’d
keep him appraised about anything he leaned after he got to
Faircrest.

“Good luck with Newman,” Slater said with a
dry chuckle. “It will be interesting to see if you can convince him
his victim fits the pattern, and that it could be the same killer
involved in his case as in my cold cases…”

“Or an apprentice or a copycat. Yeah. Well,
all I can do is try.”

“If you manage it you’re a better detective
than I am, even if you are private.”

“We’ll see what happens,” Teague replied
before hanging up, smiling at the ‘private’ comment. He was glad
Slater had decided not to hold that against him, although he knew
the reason why.

He showered and dressed, then packed up
before going down to get breakfast in the motel’s dining room. By
nine-thirty he was on the road. After having to take a slightly
longer route to avoid a construction zone, he figured he’d still
make Faircrest by five, barring bad weather.
At least it’s only
September. Rain I can handle. Snow I’d just as soon pass on, even
if it is highway most of the way.

It wasn’t until the highway began heading
south-west two hours later that he really felt he was in the
mountains that he’d only seen from a distance previously. Four
hours later he was driving on a two-lane highway that ran between
high, rocky cliffs on one side and a rushing stream on the other.
Towering pine trees dwarfed the few cars on the road and there were
times—like when he’d pass a small side road—that he was tempted to
turn off and explore the surrounding territory. Only common sense
and the need to make Faircrest before dark descended kept him going
forward.

He left the mountains, entering an area with
low foothills off in the distance, fields between them and the
highway. Around four-thirty he drove through a small town that for
a moment he thought was his destination until he saw a highway sign
telling him he still had another twenty miles to go.

“I was right,” he said as he drove into
Fairfield and checked the time. “Five almost on the dot. Not bad
for someone who’s never done any mountain driving.”

He drove down Main Street and found a motel
about a block away from the river that ran through the town. He
checked in, went up to his room to unpack, then decided to explore
the business district before finding somewhere to eat supper. It
didn’t take him long to figure out there wasn’t much to the
Faircrest downtown other than motels, fast food places, and a
plethora of small shops that catered to tourists passing through.
He did find the police department, housed in a fairly modern
building across the street from City Hall.

With that finished, he finally went looking
for a restaurant that served more than burgers and fries. Luck was
with him, he decided, when he spotted a place tucked off Main
Street with a patio to one side. After finding a parking spot in
the restaurant’s lot, he went inside, asking the hostess if he
could sit on the patio. There was a table available, and a nice
waitress who handed him the menu and took his order for coffee.
When she returned, he asked for her recommendations and after she
suggested the surf-and-turf or the pepper steak, he chose the
steak.

While he waited, he watched the people
walking by. Some were obviously tourists, families, or couples,
checking out every shop they passed. The rest were, as far as he
could tell, locals who knew where they were going.
Probably home
for the day or to the local bar.
He’d passed a couple of bars
and seen that they were well populated, even though it was early
evening.
Not much else to do if you live and work here, other
than hit up a bar or a club.
That made him wonder if there were
any gay bars in town. He used his phone to check online and found
that there weren’t, although there was The Red Calf, which was
listed as a lounge that was ‘gay friendly’, according to the site
he was on. There was also a park that was a popular cruising spot
after dark, according to another site. That piqued his interest.
Not that he’d go there for that reason, but it was certainly
somewhere a homeless kid in a small town might try to find someone
who’d pay him for a quick blowjob.
Somewhere the killer might go
to, looking for his next victim. Presuming he’s still in the
area.

After finishing his meal, which was as good
as the waitress had said it would be, Teague paid his bill, adding
a sizable tip, and went back to his car. Since the park was on his
way back to the motel, he decided to check it out. It was along the
river, with a couple of picnic tables visible from the road and a
large parking lot. Darkness had fallen by then, and the park was
empty with the exception of a few people down by the river’s edge.
Mostly lone men, Teague noted, although there was one male/female
couple and a family with two small children that the parents were
obviously trying to herd toward one of the cars in the lot. As
Teague slowly drove by the park, he saw one of the single males
approach another one and begin talking.
True, they could be old
friends, but their body language says otherwise.
He continued
on rather than waiting to see if his conjecture was correct.

Back at the motel, he got ready for bed, and
called the front desk, asking for a wake-up call for eight the next
morning. Then he settled down to reread the file Slater had given
him, studiously avoiding looking at the pictures again. He didn’t
need the images of the dead boys invading his dreams if he was
going to be alert and calm for his talk with Detective Newman come
morning.
And that’s presuming he’s willing to see me.
He
knew that even with Slater’s giving the detective a heads-up that
Teague wanted to talk to him, Newman could decide that wasn’t going
to happen.

* * * *

Well, that went better than I expected. At
least he’s willing to meet with me.
Not, Teague knew, that
talking with Detective Newman would necessarily lead to the man’s
sharing any information with him.
He probably wants a
face-to-face so he can warn me about sticking my nose in where it
doesn’t belong.

Still, they
were
going to meet, at the
Faircrest police department. Teague dressed accordingly in dark
slacks and a blue dress-shirt. He considered adding a tie, but
decided that probably wouldn’t impress a small town cop.

Teague entered the building, stopping at the
front desk to tell the female officer manning it that he was there
to see Detective Newman. She made a call then told him to have a
seat. “He’ll be down to get you soon,” she said with a bit of a
smirk.

Wondering what that was all about, Teague
crossed to the bench along one wall to wait. Twenty minutes later
he knew why the woman at the desk had reacted the way she had. He
was about to call it a day, figuring the detective was blowing him
off, when the door at the far end of the room opened. A tall,
dark-haired man entered. He glanced at the desk clerk, she nodded
toward Teague, and the man crossed the room to where Teague
sat.

“Mr. Donovan? I’m Detective Newman. If you’ll
follow me.” The man didn’t smile. In fact his lips were drawn
together in a tight line as he turned and swiftly headed back to
the door he’d come through.

“Oh boy,” Teague muttered under his breath as
he went after the detective. They walked down a long hallway to a
flight of stairs and from there they went up to the second floor
hallway. Newman opened a door halfway down, leading the way into
the almost empty squad room—a fact that didn’t surprise Teague
since it was Sunday morning. When they reached a desk along one
wall Newman indicated with a gesture that Teague should sit in the
chair beside it.

“I should preface this by telling you,”
Newman said as he sat, “that I don’t appreciate Detective Slater
foisting you on me.”

“Understandable,” Teague replied. “I’d
probably feel the same way if I was in your shoes. Did he tell you
why I’m interested in the case you’re handling?”

“The one involving the kid, Lee Grimes, who
was tortured and subsequently murdered? No, he didn’t.”