 
### Parting Shot

By Mary BaŠe

Copyright 2013 Mary BaŠe

Smashwords Edition

Cover Image: Ron Chapple

Cover Background: Flickr / Chipmunk

*****

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, scanned or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without permission from the author. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Many thanks to Lynn Bain, my police academy buddy and fellow officer turned English Teacher whose assistance editing and revising were invaluable.

*****

It is easier to build strong children

than to repair broken men.

Frederick Douglas 1818 – 1895

*****

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1—Gun at the School

Chapter 2—The Shooter

Chapter 3—Shooter's Parents

Chapter 4—Snowstorm

Chapter 5—Ballad of John Henry Bollinger

Chapter 6—Chief Bronson and the Reason Why

Chapter 7—The DV

Chapter 8—The Educator

Chapter 9—The Innocent

Chapter 10—The Courageous

Chapter 11—The Motive

Chapter 12—Lucky Lady

Chapter 13—The Chase

Chapter 14—In Search of Elaine Maddox

Chapter 15—Coach Horatio Franklin

Chapter 16—Casey Family Partners

Chapter 17—Blue Honda

Chapter 18—Career Criminal

Chapter 19—Finding Elaine Maddox

Chapter 20—Recovery of the Innocent

Chapter 21—The Dolins

Chapter 22—The Interviews

Chapter 23—Car Prowlers

Chapter 24—Aztec Prodigy

Chapter 25—Lull Before the Storm

Chapter 26—Once a Cop Always a Cop

Chapter 27—Making Headway

Chapter 28—Mismatched

Chapter 29—Saving the Children While They Save Us

Chapter 30—Bounty Hunter

Chapter 31—Server of Justice

About the Author

*****

Chapter 1—Gun at the School

#

Mid-December, Monday 1455 hrs.

"Hey Sarge - There's a kid at school with a gun!"

My stomach lurched. I whirled my chair from the burglary report I was typing, snatched the keys to the maroon Crown Vic from the counter, threw on my leather jacket, and bolted out of the detectives' office. I was hot on the heels of my detective, Frank Kovitch, who'd just sounded that distressing alarm. We raced down the hallway and out the side door of Porterville's police department.

"Which school, Frank?" I dove behind the steering wheel of the unmarked car. "And please don't tell me it's the middle school. That's where my Jenny goes."

Frank jumped into the front passenger seat and yanked the door closed behind him as I turned the key in the ignition and gunned the V8 to life.

"Sorry, Sarge...But it's at the middle school," said Frank.

Shit. The thought of a gun at any school is horrific, but it's especially frightening when it's at the school where your only child is enrolled. Visions of Columbine played before my eyes.

The Crown Vic fishtailed in the mid-December slush as we slid around the left turn onto Main Street. Mouth dry and heart pounding, I urged the car across the two southbound lanes of traffic, through the center turn lane, and headed north.

Frank had flipped on the blue lights and the siren. "Fairbanks and Banjo are already on scene," he yelled at me over the siren, then called dispatch to let Melanie know we were on our way to provide backup.

Administrative Sergeant Arnold Fairbanks and Officer Tad Winfield, aka Banjo - nick-named for his musical instrument of choice - were the day shift officers, and the first to be dispatched. But the call of a gun at a school would reach the ears of every available cop in Lincoln County and send them hurtling our direction. Rapid fire voices on the police radio told us that deputies were already running code toward Porterville.

From two blocks away, we could see that the school had been evacuated. A horde of young teenagers milled about at the farthest end of the school's property and spilled over into City Park's soft-ball field. The closer we got, the more students we could see huddled together to keep from freezing in the icy, snow-laden air. Young teeth chattered from nerves and cold.

A sprinkling of teachers and staff formed a loose barricade around the middle school students.

We slid to a stop behind a marked police cruiser in front of the school. The cruiser was empty, but its driver's door stood wide open, emergency lights still rotating on its roof. Unconcerned exhaust fumes wafted lazily from its tail pipe. Passing the cruiser, I reached inside and cut the rotating lights, switched off the ignition, then pocketed the keys.

As I pulled my head clear of the car's door jamb and closed the door, my daughter, thirteen year old Jenny, and her best friend Cynthia, appeared beside me, practically jumping up and down.

"Mom! I knew you'd come!" said Jenny. "We think it's Clay Bernard who's got the gun. But we don't know for sure. This is really crazy!"

My daughter was safe! I breathed a huge sigh of relief and gave her a quick but mighty hug, at the same time placing a reassuring arm around Cynthia's shoulders.

"You two are going to catch pneumonia," I threatened. "Where are the officers who arrived in this car, do you know?"

"They're in the school someplace," Jenny said.

"Okay. You two get back with the other kids, as far from the school building as the teachers will let you. Understand?"

"We understand, Mom," Jenny pouted. She and Cynthia faded back into the throng of kids.

"Melanie, we're at the middle school." I spoke into the mic of my portable radio. "Any word from Banjo or Fairbanks?"

The dispatcher responded immediately. "About three minutes ago. Banjo called for Spokane PD SWAT, and they'll head our way when they clear their current situation. No further from him or Fairbanks," said Melanie.

At least we knew that Fairbanks and Banjo had been alive three minutes ago, but a lot can happen in three minutes. I considered using my cell phone to call Fairbanks but didn't want to give away his location.

I spotted Vice-principal Jeff Hornsby talking with a couple of teachers near the edge of the swarming evacuees. He gestured animatedly and pointed upward toward the second floor of the building. Elbowing my way through a gaggle of excited kids, I grabbed his sleeve.

"Where are the other officers?" I asked.

He stopped talking when he recognized me."Mrs. Schultz!" he exclaimed. "They're inside trying to talk with the kid. He's barricaded himself in a classroom."

"Any shots fired?"

"No. Nothing. The boy just showed up in his English class and started yelling and waving a hand gun. The teacher got everyone out of the room, including herself, then alerted the office. This has always been a good kid, though. I don't know what's going on with him."

"What's his name?"

"Clay Bernard. We've never had any trouble with him. Quiet kid; good grades."

"How do I find the other officers?"

"The kid's in room number 220. Go through the front door, down the corridor to the left. Go upstairs. At the top of the stairs turn right."

"Thanks. Have the kid's parents been notified?"

"Not yet. We evacuated everybody, so there's no one inside who can look up his parents' work numbers. We've called the district office. They're running down that information for us."

"Okay," I said. He held a cell phone in his hand. "Kovitch and I are going in. Call my phone so I'll have your number."

I recited my number and he dialed. Glancing at the readout, I saw his number appear and nodded.

I located Frank and waved him forward to join me. We maneuvered away from the throng and trotted to the front wall of the building against which snow had been tossed to clear the adjacent sidewalks. Stepping gingerly through the snow piles, we hugged the wall's relative safety as closely as possible. We dropped low as we passed beneath window sills, intending to stay clear of any direct visual from inside the school.

At the front entrance, I pressed the thumb latch on one of the two big double doors and pushed. The hinge needed oil and creaked ominously. Crap. So much for silent deployment.

Once Frank and I were inside the foyer, I closed the door as quietly as possible, held my portable radio to my mouth and said softly, "Fairbanks...Banjo. This is Schultz. Are either of you clear for traffic?"

The few moments of ensuing silence sent images of Fairbanks and Banjo lying dead in pools of their own blood. So when the radio finally crackled to life, I jumped.

"Sorry for the delay," Banjo said. "I had to duck around a corner here so I could answer you. The kid told Fairbanks that we'd better not call any more cops or he'd use the gun. Also..."

"Go ahead."

"...Fairbanks turned off his radio so the kid wouldn't hear it. He's trying to talk to the kid through the crack in the door. The dumb kid keeps pointing the gun first at the door then at his own head. Shit! We don't even know his name."

"It's Clay Bernard," I whispered. "Kovitch and I are in the front hall. Where do you want us?"

"Hold on a minute," said Banjo.

In the echoing silence Kovitch and I moved farther down the left corridor until the stairway came in sight. We crept up three steps then paused to listen. I pulled my Ruger and took three more steps.

Kovitch moved up, too, on the opposite side of the staircase, Glock in hand. We halted when Banjo's voice came over the radio.

"I don't know what Fairbanks said to him," Banjo said quietly. "But now the kid's crying. The gun's still in his right hand but he's got it resting on the bench beside him, almost like he's forgotten he's holding it."

"What kind of gun is it?" I asked.

"We can't see it that well. A kid we talked to said it was about a foot long, looked like ones he'd seen in Dirty Harry movies. Where are you?"

"We're at the top of the stairs, near...," I glanced around to get my bearings, "near room two-fifteen."

About seventy feet away, down the corridor and to our right, I could see Fairbanks with his back pressed against the wall on the hinge side of a classroom door. He clutched his Glock down by his right knee. His total focus was on the heavy oak door that boasted a translucent glass window with the numbers 220 stenciled in black. It stood ajar two or three inches.

I heard Fairbanks speak coaxingly to the crack in the door, but I couldn't hear what he said. About three feet away from me on my left, a secondary corridor entered ours. When Banjo stepped around the corner directly in front of me, I nearly pulled the trigger.

Banjo's hands flew into the air as he stared down the barrel of my .357.

"Sorry, Sarge," he stammered, eyes wide with surprise. "I didn't know you were this close."

"Shit-oh-dear, Banjo!" I gasped, my heart rampaging. "At this rate, I'm gonna kill you—either by accident or on purpose!"

Fury and silence are incompatible partners.

Fairbanks glared back in our direction with murderous intent of his own.

Meanwhile, Kovitch had ignored us and slithered along the wall, closing the distance to Fairbanks, his 9mm held in both hands, barrel pointed at the floor.

"Sorry, Sarge," Banjo re-emphasized in a whisper. "I think maybe Fairbanks is talkin' the kid down 'cause he doesn't seem so interested in shooting everybody now. Fairbanks had me call for Spokane SWAT, but they're in the middle of some hostage thing at a bank. As soon as they clear that, they'll be on their way."

"I don't think we can wait that long. Next time, let Dispatch know what's going on. Melanie didn't have a clue if you guys were dead or alive! And..." I whispered, handing him the keys to the cruiser downstairs, "You'd better be more careful when you exit a police unit or we'll end up on 'World's Dumbest Cops' when some kid decides to go joyriding."

Now, besides being nervous as a cat, I felt disgruntled and irritated. I moved away from Banjo to follow Kovitch along the corridor wall. Kovitch never wanted to upstage his sergeant, so with a "go on past me" motion of his head, he flattened himself against the wall, and I slid by him to hunker behind Fairbanks, who, out of necessity, had become the department's hostage negotiator.

"He says all the kids pick on him," Fairbanks whispered in my direction. "He says he's had it and isn't going to take any more shit. Says he's gonna shoot the next s.o.b. he sees. Didn't your girl, Governor Gregoire, sponsor a law against bullying? Thought we were done with this horseshit."

Governor Gregoire's law against bullying was indeed supposed to take care of this kind of horseshit. The law was a result of what happened after 14-year-old Barry Loukaitis walked into a junior high algebra class in Moses Lake, Washington with a hunting rifle under his trench coat. He opened fire, killing the teacher and two students and injuring a third. About five years later, the then-Attorney General of Washington State, Christine Gregoire, had backed an anti-bullying bill that had passed into law. From a cop's point of view, it didn't do much more than already-existent anti-harassment laws. But it provided the appearance that someone in government was listening to the plight of bullied youth.

However, the bill didn't prevent a similar event two years later in Spokane, 40 miles east of Porterville. A seventeen-year-old boy who had gotten bullied over the years made it all the way up to the third floor of Lewis & Clark High School with his .9 mm semi-automatic. He burst into an English class packed with students and the substitute teacher and ordered everyone out. Of course everyone happily complied. The terrified sub ran for the school office and sounded the alarm. The threat was "neutralized" by a member of Spokane's SWAT team. The kid lived, but lost an eye to the sharpshooter's bullet.

No one could believe it. Things like this just didn't happen to us. Until they did.

*****

Chapter 2—The Shooter

1513 hrs.

Clay Bernard told Fairbanks all the kids picked on him. But knowing that didn't begin to solve our current dilemma.

"What do you think Bernard's doing in there?" I asked Sgt. Fairbanks.

Fairbanks swung his head to look at me in surprise.

"That's his name?" he whispered. "Why didn't someone tell me?"

"It's Clay Bernard. If you'd communicate with anyone, maybe they'd share information with you," I whispered, tersely. "We weren't certain if the kid'd shot you dead or not, since nobody was talking to us."

"Couldn't break my concentration," Fairbanks whispered. "Got any ideas what to do with him? You're the best marksman we've got. Don't suppose you can get a bead on him from anywhere." My heart skipped a beat. I wasn't about to shoot some fourteen-year-old boy who was upset because the other kids were harassing him.

"Not bloody likely," I whispered back.

Now we began to hear sobbing sounds coming from inside room number 220. I felt an uncharacteristic tug on my motherly heart-strings. Armed suspects rarely had that effect on me, but this was a scared kid.

"Clay?" I called. The sobbing stopped abruptly. I held my breath. What was Clay thinking? Where was he pointing that damned gun? He'd heard a woman's voice call his name, when up till then he'd only heard gruff ol' smoky-throated Sgt. Fairbanks who didn't even know his name.

"Mom?" The boy's voice quavered. "Mom, are you here?"

"No, Clay," I called towards the crack in the door. "This is Margaret Schultz with the police department. Do you want me to call your mother and have her come here?"

"No! She'll be mad 'cause I took Grandpa's gun," he quavered. "Everyone will be mad. And I don't want to go to juvy."

"Clay, I'm not mad." It was only a white lie. "And I think when you explain to your mom why you took your grandpa's gun, she won't be mad either."

"Yes, she will. And Grandpa will just about kill me!"

"I bet your mom and your grandpa got picked on when they were kids," I ventured. "I know I did when I was your age. So they'll understand how it's made you feel."

"It's not the same. And no one's ever doing it again!" His voice, through the sobs, was tinged with desperate resolve. Maybe kids' teasing was worse these days than it used to be. I'd make a point to talk with Jenny about it.

"Clay," I said. "We want to help you, but we can't until you put down the gun. We don't want you to shoot us or anyone else. And we sure as heck don't want to shoot you."

There were some more wet-sounding snuffles as Clay thought this over. I didn't want to lose his attention, so continued yammering. "Clay, if someone has bullied or hurt you, we can charge them with a crime. But you have to tell us about it first."

Where was the gun? On the bench? In his hand? Pointed at the gap in the door? Aimed at his own temple? I formed my hand into a pistol shape and held it up for Fairbanks to see, then silently mouthed "Where's that gun?" Fairbanks shook his head and shrugged. Crap.

We couldn't stand there forever, so I risked it and slipped past Fairbanks to the gap-side of the door, my back crammed tightly against the wall on the other side. Clay hadn't shot me. But my armpits were prickly, my hands clammy and shaking on the Ruger's handle. I caught my breath and said, "Clay? You don't have to talk to me. You can speak with any officer you want. I happen to know that even the governor is on your side. You can talk to anyone that..."

Suddenly my feeble negotiating attempts were interrupted by a blast so deafening that my eardrums pulsated. Time was up.

Ruger clutched in both hands, I jammed my forearms through the three-inch gap. Followed by the rest of my hundred thirty pounds, the heavy door banging wide open and into Fairbanks. Weapon held above my head, I bodysurfed onto the floor just inside the classroom. I rolled onto my back then onto my belly again to gain distance. I thrust up into a low crouch, Ruger chest level in a death grip. Quickly, I scanned the room. Even my hair stood at attention.

Kovitch launched himself after me and dropped onto one knee, taking cover on the far side of one of those flimsy, metal teacher-carts on wheels. Great cover, Frank, I thought. No one will ever see you there!

Fairbanks scuttled sideways to the opposite side of the doorway, gun barrel sweeping from right to left then back again. We couldn't see the kid.

"Where is he?" Kovitch whispered hoarsely.

A large handgun, lying on the floor near the teacher's desk, looked as though it had fallen from Dirty Harry's hand. A wisp of smoke hung in the air just above it.

In a panic, my eyes explored the room again. Where was that kid?

Trying to hear something besides the pounding of my own heart, I caught a squeaky mewling sound from somewhere to my right. As I peered through the legs of classroom desks to see what was making the noise, the sound evolved into a full blown wail.

In a far corner of the room, curled up on the floor, lay the kid like a pathetic pile of rags. Small build, a mop of golden hair crowned the top of the rag pile.

Kovitch and I moved cautiously toward the kid, guns ready. Fairbanks took one slow step at a time while Banjo scooped up the revolver that the kid had been holding. No sense giving him a second chance to assassinate us.

Clay's head was buried in his parka. I crouched a few feet from him and saw no additional weapons on or near him.

Kovitch strode forward and grabbed the kid by the nape of his coat, picked him up and slammed him face-first against the whiteboard, pinning him there. I've seen the media call this sort of police response brutality, but they've never faced possible annihilation in the form of a powerful handgun wielded by an unstable kid.

"Spread 'em!" Kovitch growled and used his left foot to sweep the kid's right Reebok aside, nearly knocking him down. His left hand held the kid against the wall while he searched him with his right. Kovitch removed a handful of .44 caliber rounds from one of Clay's coat pockets and dropped them with a clatter on top of a nearby student desk. The kid had arrived at school with spare ammunition. He'd meant business.

The rest of the search produced an MP-3 player, complete with ear buds, and twenty-eight cents in change, all of which Kovitch placed on the desk along with the loose .44 rounds. He looked at me and nodded – no more weapons.

Kovitch handcuffed the kid and turned him around to face us. I didn't see any blood anywhere, but there was no question that the gun had fired.

"Clay," I said. "Are you shot? Are you injured?"

"It was an accident," sobbed the boy. "I didn't mean...mean for it...I didn't mean it to go off!"

"Clay, look at me," I ordered. But Clay wasn't having any of it. He tried to escape into the anonymous safety of his oversized coat but Kovitch's steely grip held him fast. Clay continued to blubber.

"You didn't shoot anyone, Clay," I said, hoping that was true. I only knew that the kid seemed unharmed and all four of us cops were still vertical. It was unlikely that anyone was left in the building, and it was also unlikely that the bullet had gone through the outside wall and struck anyone standing out there, but stranger things have happened.

"Clay, just look at me."

Clay raised his eyes above the security of his coat collar and got a fix on my face. The eyes were blue, but he had that wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look.

"It's going to be okay, Clay," I said, keeping my voice level. "You're safe and so is everyone else." I fought an urge to grab the kid and shake him until his teeth rattled. It would have been so easy to vent my spleen: So, kids make fun of you, ya' little bastard! You could have killed somebody—maybe my Jenny! You could have been killed! You caused an entire school to evacuate. We're going to charge you with every crime we can think of. And I hope your parents ground you till you're forty-five!

The kid kept sobbing, my weapon still trained on his sorry little punk ass.

Fairbanks updated Melanie: "We're code four. One in custody. One shot fired, but as far as we can see, no damage but a bullet hole in the ceiling."

While Fairbanks talked to Melanie, I holstered the Ruger. I stole a couple of minutes to turn my back and furtively heel-palm the tears off my cheekbones and wipe my hands down my blue jeans. I gave myself a stern talking-to about how the job wasn't quite done yet, so I'd have to hold off on showing how scared I'd been, a talk I'd perfected over the years.

I used my cell phone to call Hornsby and advised him what had transpired. Hornsby told me school personnel had reached Clay Bernard's parents and they were enroute to the school.

"Call them back," I said. "We're going to transport Clay to Porterville PD for an interview then take him to Spokane's Juvenile Detention facility, so tell the parents to meet us at the PD."

A glance out the window told me that the snow hadn't stopped and that it was almost totally dark – way past time for school to let out for the day. Many parents had already heard one way or another, that there had been a shooter at Porterville Middle School. They had raced to the school, located their child among the milling horde on the softball field, and whisked their teen away to the comparative safety of home.

"Sgt. Fairbanks," I said, beckoning. He closed the few short steps between us.

"I'd like you to be in charge of searching the school with the swing shift officers. You might want to have them start with the gym so that faculty and students who are still outside freezing their asses off have a warm place to wait until they can get rides home. Then search the rest of the school, top to bottom. I doubt that Bernard had any buddies in cahoots with him, but ya never know. I'll check the first floor as I go downstairs, but search it again in case I miss something on my way out.

"Kovitch."

"Sarge?" Kovitch looked my direction.

"Collect the immediate evidence, the .44 from Banjo, and the stuff Bernard had in his pockets, then escort him down the back stairs to the rear door. I'll go out the front way, grab the car and drive around to pick the two of you up. No sense in drawing any more attention than necessary."

"You got it, Sarge."

"Banjo, I have a job for you, too."

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, in the process of handing the .44 over to Kovitch.

"Before you turn the gun over, set it back down where you found it long enough to take a few photos. After we clear, don't let anyone in this room. Stay here yourself and see if you can't locate that bullet. If you find it, dig it out carefully, for evidence. Take some over-all photos of the room, and the hallway just outside. When you've done all you can, seal the room so we can come back later if we need to."

Now that everyone had a job to do, I made it back down the stairs, two at a time. On the first floor, all the classroom doors were closed as per the school's lockdown drill. One at a time I began to open them, checking cautiously inside for possible accomplices. If there were smaller closet-type rooms inside, I checked those as well.

I'd checked three classrooms and one janitor's closet—which was locked—when directly ahead, on the right side of the hallway, I noted that door number 118 was being jostled open slowly from within, as though someone was trying to carry something heavy through it. Instinctively, I pulled the Ruger from its shoulder holster and leveled it at the indecisive door, then stood silently waiting to see who would emerge. Someone's back appeared around the door's edge.

He was over six feet tall, wore tan Dockers, and a maroon windbreaker with white seam piping. He sported a brown head of hair to which I was about to add a few white ones. He held a large, heavy-looking cardboard box in his arms. Jenny's science teacher. What was his name? His bespectacled, craggy, forty-something face craned around to see where he was going, just in time to look down the barrel of my .357. I could go months without pointing my weapon at anyone. Today it seemed like that was all I was doing.

"Mr. Stevens!" I burst, the name popping into my brain.

"Shit!" he swore, nearly dropping the box.

"What are you doing in here? No one's supposed to be back inside the building yet!"

Switching from surprised mom to police sergeant, I added. "Slowly set the box down. Move away from it and the door. Keep your hands where I can see them." I didn't really think he had a weapon on him or drug paraphernalia in that box but I could apologize later if I needed to.

Andre. That was his first name. His glasses were so strong that they magnified his hazel eyes to about twice their normal size. Either that or he really was petrified. He had such a bushy mustache that it reminded me of a photo I'd once seen of Theodore Roosevelt.

"Mrs. Schultz!" he exclaimed.

I maneuvered my way around him and the box that was now standing open on the floor, and looked inside it. Just a pile of file-folders filled with papers.

With the Ruger still trained on Stevens, I took a quick peek inside the classroom; all clear. No friends of Clay Bernard had been holding their science teacher hostage that I could see.

Back out in the hallway, Andre Stevens was still bug-eyed. Maybe he didn't know that Jenny Schultz's mother was a cop. As this possibility dawned on me, I suppressed a smirk. Somewhat awkwardly with my left hand, I removed the wallet from my back jean's pocket then flipped it open so Stevens could study the badge and picture ID. But I wasn't quite ready to lower the weapon.

"I need you to turn and face the wall for me, now."

Stevens faced the wall, but he also placed his hands flat against it and spread his feet wide apart. I guessed that while he sat at home grading papers, he kept an eye on TV reruns of Law and Order. To not disappoint him, I holstered the Ruger and quickly searched his extra lean body. No weapons, just a humongous set of keys, a laser pointer, some loose change and an MP-3 player which I was guessing he'd confiscated from some student. I was happy to see it wasn't Jenny's.

"Sorry, Mr. Stevens," I said, continuing the pat down. "I'm not only Jenny Schultz's mom, but I'm Detective Sergeant Margaret Schultz, Porterville PD. Why are you in the building?'

"I had an awful lot to do," Andre Stevens grumbled in his own defense. "I made certain all my students were out of the building and safe outside, then locked myself in so I could keep working. I'm ex-military; I knew you guys had it under control." He continued bellyaching about how much he had to do, how the administration never let up, yada yada.

When I'd finished, Stevens turned to face me. Judging by the crick in my neck, he was even taller than I'd first gauged.

"You don't suppose your principal will get upset with you for remaining in the school, do you?"

"He'll be totally pissed," Stevens said. "But if I've learned one thing, it's that it's easier to get forgiveness than it is permission. Sorry for the extra trouble. But I actually got quite a bit done while you guys were up there with the kid. Who was it, anyway?"

"Clay Bernard. Student of yours?"

"Hell, yes. They're all students of mine if they live till eighth grade."

I was beginning to like Jenny's science teacher.

"Why don't you walk out of the building with me," I suggested. "Maybe the principal will think you were just helping the police. You know—good Samaritan and all."

"Well, I'll leave these here then," Stevens said, sighing resignedly. Using his foot and leg he pushed the cardboard box of files back inside the classroom. "I can see I'm not going to get any more done this afternoon. Maybe I can pick them up this evening. That means I'll be working until midnight. But it's not like that'll be the first time."

I waited while he detached the giant key ring from his belt, selected a key and locked the door.

*****

Chapter 3—Shooter's Parents

1600 Hrs.

"Look at this thing!" exclaimed Kovitch, staring at the .44 Smith and Wesson on the table.

The barrel alone was nearly nine inches long; the cylinder and frame of stainless steel. The grips were of black rubberized material.

"My Ruger's prettier," I commented. Kovitch ignored me.

"Did you know you can get one of these with an eleven inch barrel?" he asked. I rolled my eyes and suppressed a phallic symbol comment. Kovitch deserved my smart-ass attitude a lot less than other cops I'd worked with.

"When this baby's fired, the recoil alone is probably enough to slam a kid Bernard's size into a back corner," Kovitch purred.

Picking up the gun, I spun the empty cylinder. Kovitch had already removed the five live rounds and one spent cartridge before leaving the classroom. Hopefully Banjo'd find the other slug when he searched the room.

"Jeez, didn't Grandpa own a bigger gun?" I wondered.

"Guess not."

My desk phone rang. Placing the .44 back on the counter by Frank's computer, I returned to my own side of the room and lifted the receiver.

"Schultz," I said.

"Magnum, the boy's parents are here," announced Melanie's swing shift replacement.

"Thanks, Evan." I said, then turned to Frank. "Hey Kovitch, while I escort the parents back, put some chairs in the interview room, ok?"

I walked down the short hallway and opened the door to the front office. A man and woman stood at the dispatcher's window and turned when they heard me enter. The woman looked to be in her late thirties or early forties, the man possibly fifty.

She was about five foot two and very slender beneath her powder-blue, fitted, ski jacket. Her blonde, highlighted hair was cut in an expensive, smooth bob, long on the sides and front, shorter in back. One designer lock draped over her right eye. Her eyes - judging by the one I could see - were vivid blue, and sported dark blue eyeliner and lighter blue eye shadow that made them appear enormous. The bottoms of her tight-fitting black ski pants disappeared at the knee into the tops of black, gathered, soft leather, high-heeled boots. I had never looked that fashionable, even on a good day.

The man was about five-ten and solidly built and wore a red and black plaid jacket of the type I've always equated with the logging industry. Dark brown hair graying at the temples, and dappled with fresh snow flakes. The Forehead wrinkled into a scowl above his glasses' frames. His boots were rubber, much like mine. Since he hadn't bothered to tie them, the lace tips clicked against the wet tile floor every time he moved and threatened to trip him at every step.

Mrs. Bernard tossed hair from her eyes. Within seconds, it had slithered back down. I held onto the door with my left hand to keep it from closing, and extended my right.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bernard," I said. "Pleased to meet you, though I'm certain the circumstances could be better."

The male Bernard crossed the foyer first, boot lace tips clicking. He gave my hand a powerful but icy squeeze. I glanced past him, through the glass in the entrance door, to see that snow was now blowing at a forty-five degree angle from the southwest. More snow to shovel out of my driveway. Crap.

Tom Bernard muttered a perfunctory "Nice ta meet ya."

Eleanor Bernard's small, fine-boned fingers were encased in light-weight black leather gloves to match her boots, but I could still feel the cold in them as she briefly gripped my fingertips. She got straight to the point. "Where's my boy? Is he okay? I want to see him."

"We're going to see him right now, Mrs. Bernard," I assured her. "Clay's not injured, but he is upset, and rightfully so. We haven't interviewed him yet – needed you here before we could do that. And if you want an attorney, you can have one present as well. Please come with me."

I headed toward the interview room with the Bernards close behind. As we reached the end of the hall by the interview room, Kovitch was just carrying in the chairs. He nodded.

"Hi, folks. Detective Frank Kovitch," he said, placing the chairs beneath the edge of the table opposite from where young Clay was seated.

Mrs. Bernard hurried around the table and embraced her son. Clay ignored her and anxiously scanned his father's scowl.

Kovitch pulled one of the chairs back for Mrs. Bernard. "Ma'am?"

Reluctantly she released her son and moved around to where Kovitch held the chair. Then we all sat.

Trying to appear benign, I clasped my hands in front of me on the table and looked directly at Clay. "How do you feel now, Clay?" I asked. He gulped, then sat up as tall as he could. Like his mother's, Clay's blue eyes were almost electric in their intensity. It was no secret which parent he'd taken after physically. At about five foot one, a hundred and five pounds, he hung in that limbo that snags kids just before they hit their adolescent growth spurt.

"I'm okay," he mumbled, glancing covertly at his father. He was lying through his teeth, but the attempt was valiant.

"Clay, you know that bringing a gun to school is against the law," I said, watching his expression.

No one said anything.

"It's a gross misdemeanor, and if you're found guilty you could spend as much as a year in jail. Discharging a weapon within the city limits, whether it was accidental or not, could be another charge. Not to mention a reckless endangerment charge for endangering an entire school population." I didn't bother to mention that because he was a juvenile, the law would probably treat him more gently. "Before I ask for your side of it, Clay, I need to advise you of your Rights. You have the right to remain silent....."

I intoned the rest as if I'd advised people of their Miranda rights a hundred times before.

"I understand. Ask me anything you want," Clay told me. I slid the copy of Miranda Rights across the table to him and tapped with a pen on the line meant for him to sign. He pulled the paper toward him, and the room was silent except for the scritch-scritch sound of pen on paper as he signed his name. I'd taken a deep breath to ask my first question when Thomas Bernard interrupted:

"We'll let you ask Clay questions, as long as he understands the part about 'if, at any time he - or we - decide the questioning stops,' you'll stop asking him questions. No one's gonna bully our son"

Odd choice of words, Dad, I thought. My eyes jumped to Clay's face. He glared at his dad for a moment, and then looked away.

"I got it, Dad," Clay said coolly.

Fear and disdain at the same time – wonder why.

"Clay," I continued. "Where did you get the gun?"

"From my house," Clay mumbled, softly.

"Is it your grandfather's?" Tom Bernard interrupted. "You know you don't belong in Granddad's room. He finds out you took it, he'll wallop you."

Eleanor spoke up. "Thomas, leave the boy alone. Can't you see he's upset?"

And here I was thinking that, under the circumstances, the boy was keeping it together pretty well.

"I need you folks to just listen quietly so we can interview Clay," I said. Eleanor tossed her hair back from her face. Thomas folded his arms and leaned back in his chair scowling, then crossed his rubber boots at the ankles.

I started again. "Why did you take a gun to school?" Clay looked away from me and gazed at the two-way mirror to his right. After a few moments of silence, he shrugged, "I don't know."

"You told Sergeant Fairbanks at the school that kids were teasing you," I prompted. Clay's eyes teared-up again, and his hands resumed trembling.

"No-o!" he moaned, putting his head down on his arms where they were folded on the table top. He mumbled something else.

"I couldn't hear you, Clay," I said.

"I only wanted to scare them!" he lifted his head, his voice loud with angry frustration against my apparent deafness. "I wanted them to feel as scared and embarrassed as they made me feel! But that wasn't the only reason!"

His head plopped back down onto his arms. He continued to weep. I reached over and touched one of Clay's forearms. He jerked away from me.

"Can you answer a few more questions?"

Clay shook his head no, and though I waited quietly for a few minutes for him to get it together, that wasn't happening.

"Okay, Clay," I said. "We'll talk about this later." I turned to the parents. "Mrs. Bernard, I'd like you to stay here with your son for a few minutes while I talk to your husband in the next room."

Tom Bernard stood up, looking somewhat relieved to be escaping. He stepped outside the door with Frank and me. The three of us walked back up the hall to the detectives' office. As we entered, Bernard caught sight of the .44 still lying near Frank's computer. I was hoping he'd be able to identify it.

"Is that the gun?" he asked, incredulously. I nodded. "God damn it! What the hell was the kid thinking?"

I gestured for him to take a seat at the small round table next to the coat tree.

"Eleanor's dad owns three or four guns," he continued, pulling a chair toward him and wedging his backside into it. "He was in Nam. When he came to live with us six months ago, we insisted that he lock up those guns so the kids couldn't get near them. How in the world did Clay get the thing? Was it loaded?"

"It was loaded," Frank spoke up. "One of the rounds went off by accident while Clay had it in the classroom." He turned his head and nodded toward the pile of shells near the pistol. "He had six extra rounds from his pants pocket which suggests that he wasn't just bringing the gun for show and tell."

Mr. Bernard slumped back into the chair with one hand against his forehead and shook his head.

"Can you identify that gun?" "Does it belong to Clay's grandfather?"

"I'm not sure. I think he has a .45 and a .38, and something else, I don't remember what. You'd have to check with him. I have hunting rifles, not handguns. If Clay wanted to shoot guns, he's had the chance to go elk hunting with me. He refuses; says he doesn't want to kill any animals. At home the rifles stay locked in my gun cabinet and I'm the only one with the key...See?" He pulled a key ring from his pocket, held one key, and jangled the rest in my direction.

"The gun your son brought to school is a Smith & Wesson .44 magnum," Frank clarified.

"Can we take Clay home now?" asked his father.

"We have to have a mental health professional evaluate Clay to make certain he's not going to harm himself or someone else. I'm sure, as a parent, you'd be in agreement with that."

"Now, wait a minute. Clay's not crazy. He's just a mixed up kid who did a stupid thing. I think his mother and I can handle it," said Tom Bernard. "We handled his older sister when she was whacked out on drugs. She's straight now, by god!" I repressed the glare that struggled to show itself.

"Taking a gun to school isn't like shoplifting. We can't just release him to you. After the mental health evaluation, which may take a couple of days, we have to book him into Juvenile Detention in Spokane. He'll see a judge, and the judge will have ultimate say as to whether he can be released to your custody. We don't have the authority to make that decision."

"Frank," I said. "Would you call County Mental Health and see how soon we can get an MHP out here from Spokane?"

Porterville's St. Jerome Hospital was a good enough hospital but it had no psych ward or mental health professionals. Just like the jail – no room for women or juveniles.

"Sure, Sarge," said Frank, standing up from the round table. He flipped his cell phone open as he stood and stepped into the hallway.

"Eleanor is gonna have a fit," said Bernard. "She babies that boy something fierce. That's part of his problem. He keeps complaining that kids pick on him, push him around. I keep telling him, 'stand up for yourself. Be a man and do what you need to do.'

"At least there's one thing we don't worry about with Clay. He keeps his nose to the grindstone; almost all A's last report card. He's good at science and math. So was I when I was a kid. My folks never had money to send me to college. But here I am, got my own construction business, a handful of good, steady employees, and my own heavy equipment. Pulled myself up by my own bootstraps. We weren't any candy asses, like kids nowadays."

"Just what did Clay tell you about kids teasing him?"

"Oh, he just said that some boys were calling him names. One time he got shoved into a locker. He's such a little runt that they were actually able to get the door closed on him. And those lockers are pretty narrow."

"Did he say what sort of names they were calling him?"

"Naw. I didn't think to ask. Figured he'd tell me if he wanted me to know. If he didn't like the names he was being called, he knew what he could do about it. I taught him how to box in our basement once. Just between you and me, his boxing wasn't nothin' to brag about. But at least I taught him."

Inside my own head, I snorted irreverently and thought Once? You taught him to defend himself with his fists once? I'd done enough self-defense training, from formal Okinawa karate to the less formal women's self-defense techniques called Model Mugging, to know that doing something just once didn't pack it. You had to get the moves ingrained in your muscle memory. And you do that the most effectively while your adrenaline is pumping with something akin to terror.

One of my martial arts instructors once asked us: Who runs faster, the rabbit or the fox? After we mulled it over for a minute, he explained. The fox is only running after his supper; the rabbit is running for his life. The point was, you had to have the right motivation to learn anything well. And knowing that your father considered you a puny little wimp probably isn't that motivational.

Kovitch stepped back into the detective's office. Tom and I both turned our heads to look at him.

"No luck getting the MHPs to come out to Porterville from Spokane in this weather," said Kovitch. "We'll have to drive him in to Sacred Heart Hospital and have him evaluated there."

*****

Chapter 4—Snowstorm

1755 hrs.

MHPs had the option of looking out the window, seeing the snow piling up outside and saying, Oh, gee! It would just be too dangerous for us to drive in this weather. Cops, on the other hand, didn't have that choice. Like it or not, we were heading for Spokane.

After the Bernards left, I called home.

"Hi, Mom," Jenny answered cheerily. "I figured you'd be calling to say you wouldn't make it home for dinner."

"Hi, sweetie. Just making certain you're home safe."

"Oh, sure. I've been home a couple hours. Cynthia's dad insisted on giving me a ride 'cause he didn't want me walking home in the snow storm."

"Great. I was hoping that would happen."

"Mom, I was right, wasn't I? It was Clay Bernard who had the gun?" my daughter asked.

"Yes, you were right. Why did you think it might be him?"

"Some of the kids said maybe it was. I heard one kid say 'Hope he shoots the bastard.' Sorry, Mom, didn't mean to swear. But that's what the kid said."

"Who said that?"

"I don't know his name. He's a seventh grader."

"Who was he calling a bastard?" I pressed.

"Don't know, Mom. He was talking to some other kids. I don't think he knew I could hear him."

"Okay, Sweetie. Well, lock the doors. Feed Phantom. Do your homework. I'll be home as soon as possible. I'll have my phone, so call if you have a problem."

I flipped the phone closed and slipped it into the inside pocket of my leather jacket.

With keys to one of the marked patrol units in hand, I stepped through the side door into the parking lot. Icy crystals battered my face and plummeted into my mouth as I brushed the two inches of snow off the Impala's windows. This drive was going to be a bitch.

I pulled the Impala into the enclosed sally port and met Kovitch steering the kid one-handed toward the car's back door. He opened the door, placed one hand atop Clay's head and said, "Watch your head." With handcuffs on, he'd be uncomfortable in the back seat, but oh well. My sympathy for the kid had run out long ago. A police chief had once told me that if a person wanted sympathy, he should look in the dictionary between shit and syphilis. The man was a poet.

In the car, the arctic chill encased us. I cranked the car heater on full bore. The windshield wipers swiped at almost full speed and snow still dropped like a white pillow case between each swipe. I leaned forward to peer between snowflakes just to see the roadway. The travel portion was pure white; the surroundings even whiter. We were driving by Braille. At thirty or thirty-five miles per hour, this trip would take a while.

Not many cars were on the freeway. Most people had headed home right after work, but slow moving vehicle lights, fuzzy and white, came toward us on the opposite side of the median, and fuzzy dim red ones moved ahead of us at about our same speed. Every so often a big four-wheel-drive pickup or SUV—drivers feeling invincible—would fly past in the left hand lane, like now.

A big white Chevy Suburban rushed past and sprayed a wall of snow back across our windshield with a loud, slushy splat. "You dumb shit!" I muttered and drove blind for a couple seconds. I glanced guiltily back at Clay to see if he'd heard. Kids Clay's age used four letter words daily out on the playground, but there was still a motherly part of me that hesitated to cuss in front of them.

We hadn't gone another mile in the blinding iciness when up ahead and to the right, the gleam of red taillights pointed upward at a forty-five degree angle. Attached to the taillights were two big back tires, both spinning furiously. The Suburban that had just roared by us was stuck nose down over the edge of the embankment.

Much as I wanted to, we couldn't ignore the driver's predicament. Carefully, I eased the Impala onto the right shoulder and slowed to a stop. Flipping on the emergency overheads and rear flashers, I advised PPD dispatch what we were up to.

Tugging my stocking cap well down over my ears, I grabbed my mag light and climbed out into the driving snow. Frank had the privilege of scrambling down the embankment without me, while I shined the light in front of him in the deepening snow. As he reached the stuck Suburban, Kovitch yanked open the driver's door and started talking with someone, a favorable sign.

I brushed the snow away from the license plate and called in the number.

Frank shouted up the embankment, "Only one person and he's okay!" It didn't even look like the Suburban's air bags had deployed. A nice, soft landing, then.

"No injuries," I told Evan on the portable's mic.

A large man, less than six feet tall, but well over 200 pounds and swaddled in a navy pea coat, struggled out of the Suburban's driver's seat into the snow.

His round face was exaggerated by the fact that the only hair on his head was a reddish-blond fringe just above the coat's collar and over his ears. Snowflakes struck his bald pate, melting on impact. As the man clambered up toward the roadway, he managed to forward a friendly half-smile my direction.

"A lot slicker than I thought," he said sheepishly, as he waded up through the snow.

Oh, you think so? I thought caustically. Instead I said, "Yup, it's slick all right"

"Just trying to get back home. I live a few miles this side of Spokane and didn't want to be any later than I already am," he told me.

"Unfortunately, your little mishap will cost you the time you were trying to save," I said. "Why don't you climb into the front of the patrol car out of the snow? I can't put you in the back seat because we're transporting a prisoner. We'll call a tow truck and wait with you till it gets here. It's apt to take some time, since it's my guess that the tow companies are up to their eyeballs in slide-offs right now."

Kovitch had made it back to the car and scrambled into the back seat with the kid.

"Do you have your license?" I asked the Suburban's driver. He fished around and handed me an Idaho driver's license. William Jonas.

"You have Washington plates on your vehicle," I commented dryly. In spite of his friendly demeanor, there was something about this guy that had me on edge.

"Yeah. I've only just moved to the Spokane area from North Idaho. Haven't had a chance to get my Washington driver's license yet," he explained.

I radioed Evan to do a license check in Washington and Idaho. If this guy had a warrant, we'd find out about it.

"Go ahead with your drivers' check," said Evan, sounding cheerful. He could afford to sound cheerful; he didn't have to drive around in a snow storm, and assist dumb-shits who thought they'd never crash because they drove SUVs.

"When you've done that, get the next available tow company to send a wrecker out here."

"Copy," said Evan.

"I don't have any outstanding arrest warrants, if that's what you're checking on," William Jonas assured me.

"Well, Mr. Jonas," I said, "we check on everyone just as a matter of policy. I'm sure you're just fine. Anyone else you need to have us call for you? Your wife, maybe?"

"Nope, I'm not married. Just a foot-loose kinda guy." He looked at me and waggled his eyebrows up and down. Asshole.

The radio crackled and Evan said there were no warrants on the "footloose kinda guy" and that a tow truck was ten minutes away.

We were in luck this time; no hour's wait. That was good. I felt uneasy about Jonas, but couldn't really put my finger on why, other than I don't like being exposed to stupid just in case it's contagious. I decided that it was the "I drive a four-by-four so I can go anywhere" attitude that irritated me the most.

Jonas had looked around to say something to Kovitch in the back seat, and caught sight of the kid huddled in the far corner with his coat pulled up around his ears.

"Who you got back there?" Jonas asked. "Looks like a real desperado...Say, that's not the kid who had the gun at Porterville's middle school, is it?...I heard about all that on the scanner before I left work. Who is he, anyhow? Mayor's kid or something?"

"Oh, he's just a kid who had a bad day," Kovitch said casually through the screen that divided the front from the back. Me, I would have told ol' William to mind his own fuckin' business. Kovitch redirected the conversation. "So William, where do you work?"

"I work for the Post Office in Porterville as a Data Conversion Operator. You know what that is?"

"Can't say that I do," said Kovitch.

"Well, it means I use a computer to prepare mail for automated sorting equipment. I read typed or handwritten addresses from a letter image on the terminal screen, and then select and type essential information so an address bar code can be applied to the letter. Interesting, don't you think?"

He'd directed the last comment at me, nudging my arm with his left elbow. I leaned forward and wiped some fog from the inside of the windshield with a couple paper napkins that someone had conveniently left in the console and growled, "Sure. Why not?"

He looked back at Kovitch again.

"I'm good at the job because I don't miss a lot of details and I'm quick. It'd be a great job if I didn't hate it." He guffawed. "Football's my thing. I catch all the games on TV. I go to all the local games. When I can get time off, I even drive to Seattle for all the Seahawk games."

Kovitch was gifted at small talk, I had to admit, but I wished he'd stop encouraging William Jonas.

"How about them Cougs?" Frank asked, referring to Washington State University's football team to the south of us whose mascot was a mountain lion.

"Those, for sure, I never miss. In fact, for a guy who never made it through high school, I spend a lot of time hanging out at universities." He har-harred, again and continued. "Nope, I didn't like school much. They taught everything way too slow for me and I got bored. Having above average intellect has its drawbacks."

Being an egotistical asshole must have its drawbacks, too, I thought.

"I'll bet," Kovitch said as if he weren't being sarcastic. Give me a break!

This was beginning to feel like one of the longest ten-minute waits I'd ever endured. As soon as Butler's tow truck pulled in behind us, I jumped out of the car just long enough to let Kovitch out of the back seat. He was doing so well with Jonas, I didn't want to interfere.

Jonas climbed out of the front and he and Kovitch joined the tow truck driver to help him hook up the SUV so they could winch it out of the ditch.

Back in the driver's seat, I glanced at Clay. He huddled into the far corner and had renewed his sobbing, head pulled all the way inside his big black coat.

"Clay?" I asked. "Are you all right?"

As if being caught in the act of something forbidden, Clay went dead silent in mid-sniffle, and didn't respond. I decided to let it go. The shrinks would find out what was going on with him. Clearly, the kid was a mess.

Once the suburban was ready to go, the men shared sardonic Enjoy the snows, chuckled all around, and Kovitch hurried back to the patrol car. Brushing the snow off the top of his head and shoulders first, Kovitch reclaimed the front passenger seat. Jonas raised a hand our direction before he climbed back into his Suburban.

"Aren't you gonna wait to see if he gets out of there all right?" Kovitch asked.

"He'll get out fine," I growled. What was it about that guy?

*****

Chapter 5—Ballad of John Henry Bollinger

Since Clay had gone involuntarily to see the MHPs, he would be kept under surveillance and not free to leave the mental ward of the hospital for 72 hours, during which time he would undergo psychiatric evaluation.

When I called the Bernard residence to advise them that their son would be detained for three days, Eleanor Bernard was not a happy camper, but who could blame her? Thomas Bernard, on the other hand, said he felt it was for the best that his one and only son was being held to see if he was mentally stable.

*****

2047 Hrs.

The return trip from the hospital in Spokane through 12 to 16 inches of new snow was arduous but comparatively uneventful. Twice we pulled over to assist motorists who had slid off the roadway. Of course, in all that snow, we were soaked to the bone.

It was nearly nine p.m. before we pulled the Impala into a parking space at Zip's Drive In. So far, the traffic coming and going had kept the snow packed down somewhat. I'd called Jenny, who said she'd already eaten her dinner and was now settled in to work on an English assignment that was due tomorrow.

Once in a booth, I ordered a steaming mug of coffee a Belly Buster burger. My plan was to finish my meal, head home, get a good night's sleep and be fresh as a daisy tomorrow morning. I was finishing up the last of the fries, and wondering if I could get away with a soft ice cream cone - one of those vanilla-chocolate swirl things about eight inches tall - when my focus was caught by an older gentleman hobbling in through the glass front doors of Zips on a pair of crutches. He'd caught hold of the outer door, propped his slight, wiry body against it like a door stop, and then maneuvered himself around its edge. He hobbled the few feet through the foyer to the inner doors, and repeated the same deft performance. It appeared that he'd been getting around on crutches long enough to feel quite at ease with the procedure. He reminded me of my own father, who also used crutches.

Inside the fast-food restaurant, the man removed a well-worn fedora and slapped it against his thigh to dislodge the snow. As he did, his fierce blue eyes squinted around the room as if looking for someone in particular. He apparently had no need for glasses because his eagle eyes seemed to focus with clarity on everything he observed. His collar length hair and handle-bar mustache were pure white. His somewhat hooked nose gave him even more the appearance of an eagle.

Finally the searching eyes halted on Frank, lingered there as if to study him, then looked me briefly up and down. He began swinging himself between his crutches in our direction. His right leg, just below the knee, was missing. He halted beside our booth.

"John Henry Bollinger," his voice rumbled, as he held his right hand out to Kovitch. Frank half stood to shake the elderly man's hand and responded, "Frank Kovitch," in a manner betraying his confusion.

"My guess is," continued Bollinger, addressing me, "that you're this here lady sergeant they told me about." He let go of Kovitch's hand and reached for mine. His warm grip bordered on painful.

"Sergeant Margaret Schultz," I said, thinking there was something familiar about him. Without waiting for an invitation, Bollinger dropped the fedora from his left hand into the table. He transferred both crutches to that hand, and with his right hand he supported himself on the table edge so he could lower into the seat beside me. He took a long, carefully-considered time to arrange the crutches against the end of the booth. On the armpit end of one of the crutches, he repositioned the damp fedora. When he was settled to his satisfaction he said, "Clay Bernard's my grandson. I thought we might talk."

That explained why he looked familiar. There was a strong family resemblance between him, his daughter and his grandson.

So this was Grandpa, alleged owner of the notorious Dirty Harry gun. I'd pictured more of a reclusive, don't-get-around-much-anymore sort of codger, maybe a little senile, half-blind old geezer who stayed in his room at the Bernard's reminiscing about days gone by, the least of which was the Viet Nam war.

"You folks ran off with my grandson and my forty-four Smith and Wesson. I want to know when I can get 'em both back," he said, testily.

"You came all the way out in this snow storm to find us?" I asked, impressed. "Did someone drive you?"

The old man snorted. "Why should anyone drive me? I look helpless to you?"

"Er, no, sir!" I stammered. "Not helpless in the least. I take it that Eleanor and your son-in-law told you what happened."

"Damned rights they did. And they damn-well better. The girl is a twit and that husband o' hers is a half-wit. All he thinks about is running that damned construction business of his. He don't hardly pay any attention to that scrawny kid. To her, either, I don't reckon. I want to know from the horse's mouth what's going on. What did the boy do?"

"He showed up in his English class today with a .44 caliber handgun. He told us that it belongs to you," Frank told him. "Apparently, some kids have been teasing him pretty badly and he decided to scare them with it."

"Scare 'em!' Bollinger exclaimed. "Blow 'em to kingdom come, more likely. Did he shoot anybody?"

"Fortunately not," I said. "We got there before he had the chance. The weapon went off accidently, but no one was hit. The bullet just made a big hole in the ceiling of the classroom. Clay was more afraid that you would be mad at him for taking it than anything else."

"Well, hell, yeah, I'm mad! Damned fool kid. I showed him where the key to my gun locker was just in case we ever got a burglar in the house when his parents are gone. Don't like to see anyone helpless. I wasn't but a few years older than him when I signed up to be a soldier in Nam. There was a bunch of namby-pamby cowards who didn't think we even ought to be there. I wasn't one of 'em. My country needed me - I was there. Lost a god-damned leg because of it, and I'd do it again if I had to. Now, when can we get the boy back home?"

Kovitch and I exchanged glances.

"Mr. Bollinger," Kovitch offered, "It'll be at least three days. Clay needs to be evaluated by mental health professionals to make sure he doesn't have any mental..." Frank paused, searching for a word, "...components that made him act the way he did."

I was sort of glad that it was Kovitch who broke this news to Bollinger.

"You trying to say you think my grandson is crazy?" Bollinger snapped. "That's a bunch o' bull crap, if I ever heard it! Clay is as smart as a whip. He's a fuckin' genius on the computer and gets straight A's in all his classes. I keep offering to help him with his homework, but he don't need no help. He ends up explaining science and math to me, instead of the other way around. Even tries to get me to listen to that clap-trap whad-ya call 'ems - pomes, for Chris' sake. Stuff I never had to learn about 'cause I went off to defend my country, by God!

"If he took one of my weapons to shoot somebody, I'm guessin' they deserve it. Not that I approve of what he done. That's more his ol' man's style of reacting - going off half-cocked before he thinks a thing through."

"We don't think Clay is crazy," I appeased. "But nobody does a thing like that without motivation. It will help the prosecutor to know how to handle the case if she can have some idea of why he did it. And it will help his family know how best to support him."

"Well, I guess that's so," considered Bollinger. Index and middle finger smoothed the left side of the white handle-bar mustache while his thumb smoothed the right. "But I can guarantee that my grandson ain't crazy." Bollinger craned his neck around as though looking for something. "What's a man gotta do to get a cup of coffee around here?" Kovitch grinned and got to his feet.

"Coffee coming right up," he said, turning toward the counter. "How about some pie to go with it?"

"Naw," said Bollinger. "Don't need no pie; gotta watch my girlish figure, ya know."

"Did Clay ever talk about kids at school teasing him or harassing him?" I asked Bollinger.

"No, Clay never said much at all about other kids at school," said Bollinger. "Of course, I've only lived with the family for a few months. It took a while for the boy to warm up to me; something I don't foresee him doing with his ol' man, ever.

"Tom likes me about as well as I like him. I was only planning to stay at their place until I could find a cheap apartment of my own. Bad news is, all the places I can afford are dumps. And now, I've gotten sort of attached to the boy. I'd like to see him get a fair shake and don't trust my son-in-law to do that for him. Not the daughter, either. She's too flighty. Worries about her appearance more than anything else. You can tell by lookin', she didn't get her good looks from me." Bollinger smirked a little, but continued.

"She and Tom argue about her wanting to go into fashions, for Chris' sake. She wants him to move us all to a big city, Seattle or Portland, so there's more opportunities for her to start a fashion design business or some folderol. And of course, it'll be a cold day in hell when he agrees to leave his company and do that."

Kovitch returned holding our two refilled cups by their handles in his left hand and a brand new steaming cup for Bollinger in his right. He set the cups down and resumed his side of the booth. I mumbled "Thanks," and Bollinger raised his cup to Kovitch in a salute. There was a pause while the old man took a noisy slurp of the hot coffee. He grimaced and reached for a couple of sugar packets which he ripped open and dumped into his cup. He stirred, clinked the spoon against the cup's rim two or three times and placed it on a napkin.

"Why don't you think Tom Bernard will give the boy a fair shake?" I asked.

"Amongst other things, this past fall, the boy wanted to sign up for some debate class. His ma was all for it. She wants the boy to do "refined" things, she says. Whatever that means. But not his ol' man. Bernard used to be some hotshot football hero when he went to school. To hear him tell it, he was great at all sports. Said he thought playing football turned him into a man. Wanted his son to play football for the same reason. Eleanor and Tom went round and round about it, and finally, the boy stepped up and said he'd try playing football if it would make his dad happy. So he tried.

"You can see what a little runt he is. Takes after his ma on that score. I aint no giant, either, but that never stopped me from doing what I wanted. The middle school football coach didn't encourage Clay much. Clay says that coach even asked him one time if he wouldn't be more comfortable as the team manager. I overheard Clay mention that to his ol' man, and Tom threw a regular fit. So, Clay kept getting hurt at football, but he stayed with it. At least the kid's no quitter. In fact, he was just starting to show a little progress when this past season ended. Told me he hoped now maybe his dad would like him better."

"But you don't know how Clay gets along with the other kids, whether they tease him or not?" I encouraged.

"Naw. Like I said, he didn't talk much about the other kids. There were a couple of boys' names he mentioned, but I don't recall 'em, off hand. He never brought friends home during the time I've been around. Any idea when I can get back my .44?"

I shook my head. "Not for certain," I said. "But since there's no dispute about who fired it nor about who owns it, we should be able to release it fairly soon."

Bollinger swigged down the last few swallows of his coffee and wiped his mustache carefully, one side then the other, with the paper napkin which he wadded up and dropped beside the now empty coffee mug.

"Well, thanks for the java," he said. "I'll be heading on back to the house. When a fella gets into his seventies, he needs his beauty rest." He lifted the damp fedora from the crutch handle and fitted it meticulously onto his head. Though the snow storm had abated some, large snowflakes were still drifting down outside.

"Are you sure you can make it through all that snow?" Kovitch asked.

Bollinger hefted himself out of the booth and placed a crutch carefully beneath each armpit. He bent down to peer out the window and said, "You see that rig out there?"

Kovitch and I looked in the direction of Bollinger's nod. Across the Zip's lot was parked a hulking silver Hummer H2 with imposing black fenders.

"When Eleanor finally got me to agree to stay with them," explained Bollinger, "she made Tom buy that monstrosity so's I'd have something 'substantial' to get around in. Made him get it fixed up so's a cripple could drive it. Even has this electronic platform for when I'm using my wheel chair. She's flaky in a lot of ways, but she does try to take care of her own people the best she knows how. You can keep an eye out, if you want, so if you see me take a nose-dive into a snow bank before I get to the Hummer, you can give me a hand getting' back on my feet...Foot," he amended, as a statement of fact.

"We'll do better than that," I said, pulling my jacket on. "We have to leave anyway, so we'll walk out with you."

*****

Chapter 6—Chief Bronson and the Reason Why

Tuesday, 0728 hrs.

"What can you tell me about Clay Bernard?" I asked Jenny as she sat at the breakfast table the next morning.

"I only know him because he's in Mr. Steven's science class with me, Mom. Most of the time he's really quiet. He doesn't talk to hardly anybody."

"Do kids tease him?" I asked. I sat down with a plate across from my daughter.

"Kind of, I guess," Jenny said. She finished with the syrup bottle, set it down, and began to cut into the pancakes on her plate. "Sometimes Mr. Stevens will ask a really weird question about stuff that nobody's ever heard of. Most of us don't even know what he's talking about, so nobody says anything. Finally, Clay puts his hand up. I see kids rolling their eyes, and now and then somebody whispers 'showoff' or 'teacher's pet.' Mr. Stevens calls on him because he's the only one who has his hand up, and he always knows the answer.

"Sometimes Clay asks Mr. Stevens stuff, and Mr. Stevens says 'good question' and acts happy that somebody finally had a question. Then he tells Clay the answer and it's usually so complicated, nobody understands it. But sometimes even Mr. Stevens says he's not sure of the answer, and he'll have to look that up. Then the next day, he says he found the answer in a particular science book and he tells Clay what it is. It kind of makes the other kids mad."

Jenny stuffed a bite of pancake in her mouth.

"What else do you know about Clay?" I encouraged, pouring syrup on my own pancakes.

"I think he played football," Jenny said, "because some of the football jocks in class joked about how small and wimpy he is for playing football. As if they're such hotties. Cynthia and a couple other girls think Clay's real cute, but they don't want anybody to know because they're afraid the popular girls will laugh at them. But you know what? The same boys that make fun of him because he's small are nice to him when they want his help on their science labs. I hate kids like that. And I've heard that even some of the teachers get his help on computer stuff because he's real smart about computers. What's going to happen to him now, Mom?"

"I guess that will be up to the juvenile prosecutor, Sweetie," I said, mopping up syrup with a forkful of pancake and stuffing it home.

Jenny headed for her room to grab her backpack while I strapped on the Ruger and donned boots and jacket.

As I climbed into the pickup, a full moon like an iridescent saucer shone on the pristine snow that had stopped falling during the night. The temperature hovered at 26 degrees.

Jennifer jumped up into the passenger seat, stowed her backpack then buckled her seatbelt.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Ready, Mom. But don't forget to let me out at Belt Street."

She didn't want the other kids to see me dropping her off. I figured that if that was the worst I had to complain about with my teenage daughter, I was mighty lucky.

At Belt Street, I pulled to the curb. Jenny redeemed her backpack, said, "Bye, Mom. See you after school," bestowed a quick peck on my cheek, hopped to the ground like a little bird, and turned toward the middle school. I watched as she swung the heavy pack's left strap over her shoulder and began picking her way through partially packed snow.

At the PD I opened the sally port side door and trotted up the cement basement steps to the hallway that ran toward the dispatch center. Poking my head through the door, I called, "Melanie, I'm home!"

Melanie was on the phone and waved her hand at me to indicate that she would log me on duty. In the detectives' office, Kovitch was already seated at his desk, typing furiously on his computer.

"Oh hey, Sarge!" he greeted without pausing or looking up. I shucked off the down parka and hung it on the coat tree.

"Hey Frank," I said. "It quit snowing."

"Colder than a well-digger's ass, though," Kovitch said.

"What are you typing? The report of yesterday's adventures at the middle school, I would guess."

"That sharp, deductive brain of yours is why they gave you those sergeant stripes," he commented. "Is it time for coffee yet?"

"Jeez, detective," I said. "I just got here. Unlike you, I don't have a wife at home who gets the kids off to school in the mornings. Besides, I need to touch base with Bronson and look over the activity log from last night, unless you already know everything that went on."

"Oh, I know, but I wouldn't want to spoil any surprises for you."

"I'll just bet." I headed back into the hallway and turned left.

Chief Theodore Bronson was fifty-five years old, nearly six feet tall and heavy-set. He was balding, sported a neatly trimmed mustache and designer glasses, and, always aware of his public image, he dressed mostly in three-piece suits. Today, he wore a rich brown pinstriped suit, but without the jacket and tie.

He'd been Porterville's police chief for eight years. For his first twenty-two years he'd worked with the Thurston County Sheriff's office as a sergeant, heading several special units, then as a lieutenant in the detectives' office. When his first grandchild came along, Bronson knew it was time to move closer to the family. So when the position as Porterville's police chief was offered, he didn't hesitate.

Chief Bronson was good in a crisis. His pistons fired as if they'd been programmed, which after 30 years of dealing with just about every possible situation, they had been. That was a good thing since in the past few months Porterville had dealt with the strangling murder of local prostitute Trixy Morgan and an unrelated case of a serial killer, imported all the way from Alaska, who had hacked up hookers and fed their remains to a pasture full of pigs. On the upside, Porterville didn't have many prostitutes left to make the housewives nervous.

Otherwise Bronson was a worry-wart. He worried about all the details, and whether or not his officers were going to miss any of them.

As I entered Bronson's office he demanded, "Do we know why the Bernard kid brought a gun to school?" He hadn't even raised his eyes from the report he was reading. Good morning to you, too, Chief.

"He told us it's because the other kids were teasing him. Kovitch is typing up his part of the report right now. Have you gotten Fairbanks' report yet?"

"Not hardly," said Bronson. "He's got Banjo writing it. Knowing Fairbanks, he'll look it over and send it right back to Banjo for a rewrite two or three times. I don't have your report yet either. And it had better tell me why the kid brought a gun to school."

"Look, Chief. Clay's going through a psyche eval at the hospital's mental ward even as we speak. I trust the mental health professionals will be able to shed a little light on the why."

"And of course, they'll notify the media in a timely manner," Bronson glowered.

"The media?"

"I've already had one frantic parent call me this morning wondering why the hell her kids aren't safe at school any more. So you want the media to start making guesses as to why a 14-year-old brings a .44 Mag to school?...Or you want to wait around until MHPs release their information? They're not likely to tell the news anything; doctor-patient confidentiality and all that crap. We need to know what really went on in the kid's head before the media gets too creative with it."

"So, I haven't had time to write my report yet..."

"Well, when you do, be sure you include what made that kid bring a gun to school. We need to be able to head off the parents' concerns before they get out of hand. Next time, we may not be lucky enough to have the gun just accidently discharge with nobody getting hurt."

I started to say something, but changed my mind. "Yes, sir. Is that it?"

"That's it for now, Schultz. Get to work."

I had thought that Kovitch, Fairbanks, Banjo and I did a pretty fair job with the situation yesterday. It would have been nice to hear the chief say as much, but that wasn't the nature of law enforcement. If I was looking for an atta-girl, I'd have to wait for my retirement dinner.

At the dispatch center, I picked up the activity log and scanned it. A couple of domestic violence calls; no arrest made in one of them. In the other, the male half had been arrested and currently sat in cell three awaiting the arrival of Judge Buck.

"Going on vacation soon, Melanie?" I asked the dispatcher.

"Yes," Melanie smiled, excitedly. "I'm going to spend time with my parents and brother and sister over the Christmas holidays. Ron isn't real nuts about the idea, but I'm ecstatic. I haven't seen my brother and sister in a couple of years. And the kids are excited about seeing their grandparents and cousins. We leave Saturday."

I nodded and turned my attention to the daily activity log. There was a complaint of a weenie-wagger in a residential area. A young woman returning home from one of the bars, the guy standing on the corner sees her approaching, turns to face her, grins and gives himself a hand job. Pervert.

A couple of car prowler calls, but the would-be criminal was scared off by a marked patrol unit covering the area. Scaring you off is the idea, you little punk-asses.

"How about you, Magnum?" Melanie asked.

"How about me, what?"

"Any plans for Christmas?"

"Oh. Not yet. Both Kovitch and Jordan have put in for some time off. And who knows what will be going on around here by that time. Looks like patrol had a couple of DVs last night."

"Yeah," said Melanie. "We've been to both places on DVs before. Travis says there's a full moon."

"I guess maybe there is," I agreed.

I'd certainly responded to my share of domestic violence calls when I was working patrol, both as an officer and as patrol sergeant.

Melanie reached for the ringing 9-1-1 line, and I headed for my office.

*****

Chapter 7—The DV

0925 hrs.

Why would a 14-year-old bring grandpa's heavy artillery to school, I wondered.

I sat down at my desk with the intention of checking e-mails and picking up phone messages. Kovitch was still typing away on his computer.

Melanie's voice crackled on the detectives' office scanner and Kovitch and I automatically paused to listen. Fairbanks and Winfield were being dispatched to a domestic violence situation in the 300 block of Trimble Street. No known weapons, Melanie advised.

The Simpson house. Every cop in Porterville had responded at least once to a DV call at the Simpson house. And we always arrested one or the other of the blissfully married couple—sometimes both. One of them would do some jail time for assault, things would be quiet as they entered a contrite, honey-moon stage, and you'd see them walking down the street, hand in hand, gazing into each other's eyes. The next day the fighting would start all over again and you'd respond code-three to the residence

Kovitch and I grabbed our coats and headed for the back door where the Crown Vic was parked.

Three years back on a Sunday afternoon, dispatch got a call from a concerned neighbor that Bud Simpson was beating the crap out of his wife Joanna, on their front lawn. I was the only officer on duty. I pulled the patrol car up in front of the Simpson residence, no lights or siren. I climbed out in full uniform and could see Bud and Joanna seated on the lawn in front of their house. Everything looked peaceful enough. But there'd been a complaint, so I walked toward them, and introduced myself.

"I'm here because one of your neighbors called the department and said they thought they saw you two fighting."

They glanced at one another. Bud Simpson shrugged and said, "We mighta been play-rassling. Just horsing around." And since neither of them seemed upset or angry or injured, I took them at their word.

Shortly after I left, Simpson phoned the dispatcher and told her that he was going to "kill that god damn female cop if she ever sets foot on my property again."

Chief Bronson made a courtesy call, as he put it, on Simpson, and explained to him that he was not allowed to threaten any of Porterville's officers, or else he (Bud) would be dealing with him (Bronson), personally.

To my knowledge, Simpson never threatened to kill me again but he sure gave me the fuzzy eyeball every time he saw me after that. The really sad part was that this couple had a baby daughter who was probably about five years old by now.

Fairbanks and Banjo had parked around the corner, about three houses from the Simpson's, and walked in from there. I pulled in behind their cruiser, and Kovitch and I headed toward the house.

"Fairbanks," I radioed. "Status check?"

Unlike yesterday, the response was immediate. "We're inside," he said. "But I need you to interview the missus."

I rapped lightly on the front door, while Kovitch stood behind me. Through the frosted, opaque glass panes we could see the silhouettes of three or four people. We could also hear raised voices. No one opened the door for us, so we stepped in and took a quick look around.

Banjo was in the entrance hall with Joanna, Bud's wife, trying to get her to calm down so she could tell him what had happened. Farther inside, Fairbanks was standing in the dining room, talking to Bud.

Bud was waving his arms and yelling "...had about enough of the bitch!" and shot glares toward his wife. Now that I'd entered, Bud switched his scowl to me. I gave him a nod of acknowledgement then turned my attention to Banjo and a sobbing Joanna Simpson.

"Where's your daughter, Joanna?" I asked.

"She's at kindergarten."

Too often some little kid is standing there watching this garbage. It could break your heart. The Simpsons' daughter had missed this morning's event, but she'd seen more than her share during her few short years.

"Grab your jacket and come out on the front porch," I told Joanna.

She pulled a sweater from the coat rack near the front door and followed me onto the porch. "Here," I said, handing her a Kleenex. She looked older than I remembered and miserable.

"What happened this time?" I asked, sounding more bored than I had intended. Kovitch stood back against the porch railing and listened. I was vaguely aware that he would have probably sounded more sympathetic than I.

Had Bud punched Joanna in the face again? Or shoved her against a wall and cracked a rib? Maybe she'd dumped hot gravy in his lap or "accidentally" poured her gin and tonic in his laptop, as she'd done before when pissed at Bud.

"It all started last night after work," Joanna sniffled. "I'd had just a terrible day."

"Did he hit you or shove you this morning...Physically hurt you in any way?"

"No, not this morning. It started last night. I'd fixed a new recipe for dinner but he didn't like it. He got up and spat a mouthful into the sink. Said it tasted like puke. That made me really mad! I was sure he was going to hit me, so I shoved him against the stove to get him away from me. He started jumping around, saying I'd burnt him on the hot skillet on purpose."

"But he didn't hit you?"

"Well, he didn't hit me, but he grabbed me. See?" She pushed the sleeve of her sweater up high enough that I could see a large purple bruise just above the elbow.

"He grabbed your arm and caused that bruise? When did that happen?"

"Around six o'clock. He had gotten..."

"Excuse me, Joanna. This was six last night?"

"Yes, I just told you. He got mad at me because I needed to do something on the computer and he said that I'd lost a whole section of a user's manual he was writing for some software account he's working on. And I don't think I did. At least I didn't mean to. He got mad and grabbed me by the arm. He yanked me clear out of the chair and had his fist pulled back to punch me, but I got away and locked myself in the bathroom."

"Where was your daughter during all this?" I asked.

"At the dinner table. She had just wanted noodles with butter. But she got upset and started crying, so Bud sent her to her room."

"How come you didn't call last night?" I asked.

"Because I thought you'd arrest me for shoving him against the stove. I thought maybe you'd arrest him, too—'cause of this." She held up her bruised elbow. "And I didn't want you to call CPS. Angie gets so scared in those foster homes. And I don't want them to find out at work about any of this."

I was still trying to get the sequence straight. "So nothing actually occurred this morning? You are reporting what happened last night?"

"Y-yes," she sobbed. "Well, not exactly. I was so upset about yesterday that I called in sick to work. After I drove Angie to kindergarten, I came home and was starting to clean up the kitchen from last night. Bud yelled at me to keep away from the computer, because he said he was going to rewrite the document I'd lost and didn't want me fucking everything up again."

"But no assault occurred this morning—just last night?" I clarified.

"No, just last night."

"Okay," I said, feeling bemused. I left Joanna on the porch with Kovitch so she could get the sympathy she needed, and stepped back inside to talk with Fairbanks.

"He says that Joanna shoved him into the hot stove and he burned his back on the frying pan," said Fairbanks. "I looked at his back, and he does have a third-degree burn back there, all right."

I nodded. "Well, before the stove incident, she says that she lost some computer document he'd been working on. He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her out of the chair, with his fist pulled back, but she escaped into the bathroom. She's got a good sized bruise on her right upper arm consistent with being grabbed as she described. Did he also mention to you that all this occurred last night? The only thing that happened this morning, Joanna says, is that he warned her not to touch the computer again. It's been more than four hours. We could just refer it to the prosecutor. But you're calling the shots."

Fairbanks pulled off his navy blue Russian trooper hat and scratched his head, contemplating.

"Well, now he's pissed as hell at her for calling the cops this morning. My feeling is that if we don't take somebody to jail now, we're going to end up coming back here a little later for another fight."

"Let's just arrest his ass," I suggested. "And refer her to the prosecutor. That way, she's here to take care of the little girl when she gets home from kindergarten."

"Good plan," said Fairbanks. He turned back to where Banjo stood with Bud Simpson, and reached for his handcuffs. I stepped out onto the porch.

"Okay, Joanna," I said. "Sergeant Fairbanks is placing Bud under arrest for last night's assault. And he'll be referring you to the prosecutor for assault charges as well. I'm guessing the prosecutor will decide that shoving Bud into the stove was more an act of self-defense than anything. But who knows."

Joanna began to cry in earnest. I wished one or the other of the Simpsons would leave for good. Otherwise, one of them would eventually kill the other.

*****

Chapter 8—The Educator

1105 hrs.

Kovitch and I drove back to the police department. Fairbanks and Banjo had transported a handcuffed Bud Simpson to the station in the back seat of their patrol unit. Banjo booked him into jail cell number four. Judge Buck would be along later in the day, arraigning two or three defendants for the price of one trip into Porterville. There was a full moon, all right. Now, maybe I could check my phone messages.

"Hello...h'llo...Sergeant...Schultz..." the voice on the answering machine was scratchy, faltering, gender-indeterminate. "I...need someone to help." And the message ended abruptly. I listened to all my other messages. None were from the mystery caller. Other than the urgent tone in the voice, there was no way to determine what kind of call it was. I could get the phone company to track down the number, but that might take several days. Maybe they'll call back, I thought. I turned to my computer to check e-mail.

Kovitch had returned to his report writing. "I've got to get this finished," he grumbled, "so I can get on to other things." I left him typing and put my parka, stocking cap and gloves back on, and then detoured to the dispatch center.

"Melanie, someone left a really odd message on my voice-mail at about one a.m. Didn't leave a name or number, and didn't say what the problem was. I couldn't tell if the voice was male or female. If someone calls while I'm gone and the person hesitates to give you any information, would you just route it to my cell phone?" Melanie showed me a thumb up.

I headed for the middle school and parked at the curb in the bus zone. They wouldn't need the space for a few hours yet.

As I strode through the still creaky front doors, no one intercepted me, which was strange, since only a couple of the staff knew me. Two teachers glanced at me with mild suspicion but then smiled. One even said hi. How easy it was to gain access into a school while carrying a gun. I had one strapped to my left side.

In the office, several fidgety students, all pimples and lankiness, sat in chairs. As I approached the secretary, I overheard a young woman whisper to her that Mrs. Winston had her hands full today, what with all the kids who were freaked out by yesterday's gun incident.

Turning to me the secretary said, "Can I help you?"

"I'd like to see Mrs. Winston, if she's not too busy."

The secretary asked me to sit and wait, and only a few minutes later, a tall, slender, platinum-haired woman opened the door, looked around, and beckoned me into her office. Adults obviously took precedence over distressed teenagers.

"Hello," she greeted, extending her hand. "I'm Guinevere Winston, the school counselor." We shook hands. "Won't you sit down?" She swept her arm wide to indicate a large overstuffed chair at the side of her desk.

"Margaret Schultz," I told her, flipping open my badge case to show her my ID. "Porterville Police Department." When her face assumed a stricken look, I smiled warmly.

On top of her desk, directly in front of me, sat a large clear glass canister of individually wrapped candies. Motivators, bribes or rewards? If she offered me one, I'd take a round, red and white peppermint.

As I sat down, I said, "Mrs. Winston, I know this is a really busy and intense time for all of you. My own daughter, Jennifer Schultz, is a student here, so I think I can relate to the emotions everyone's feeling."

"Jennifer is a lovely girl," Mrs. Winston said, lowering herself into the swivel chair behind the desk. "She's smart and helpful, and we have very little trouble with her in school."

"Any trouble you do have her is probably related to her smart mouth. Don't know where she gets that."

"How is she handling this unfortunate situation?" Mrs. Winston said, ignoring my comment.

"Probably better than most kids. Because of the nature of my job, Jenny and I often talk about such possibilities. In fact, I have some good ideas about how kids should be taught to react if a gunman enters their classroom. So far I haven't been able to get anybody interested in listening." Guinevere Winston squirmed ever so slightly. "But that's not the reason I'm here," I finished. This wasn't the time or place to champion my ideas.

"What may I help you with, then?" She sounded like one of the stuffy English teachers I had in high school.

"I need to know whatever you can tell me about Clay Bernard, the boy who brought the gun to school yesterday."

"I can tell you very little," Mrs. Winston said, almost sadly.

"I realize there may be some things you need to have parental permission to talk about, but any information will help. The department is trying to make sense of the situation."

"As are we," said Mrs. Winston. Definitely a perfect-grammar English teacher. "All I can tell you is that Clay is a highly intelligent boy. Very computer-savvy. He's even fixed problems with my computer a time or two."

"Clay told us yesterday that kids teased him. Do you know anything about that?"

"He did come in here one time—sent by one of his teachers. I don't think he's ever personally initiated any contact with our counseling center. If I remember correctly, one of his classmates had written something on the whiteboard which was extremely distressing to him. He wouldn't tell me what it was; he only said it was embarrassing and made him very angry. We discussed the old adage, 'sticks and stones.' Of course, by now everyone knows that words can hurt you, very much indeed. But since he wouldn't confide in me, I didn't know how to help him."

"Which teacher sent him to you?" I asked.

"Well, let's see," said Mrs. Winston, turning to face her computer's monitor. She busied herself typing for a few moments, then looked at me. "It was his science teacher, Andre Stevens," she said. "Mr. Stevens called me and told me that, in between classes, he had left the room for a couple of minutes. In his absence, a student—he did not know whom—had written something vulgar about Clay on the whiteboard. Mr. Stevens came back in the room and read the board at about the same time as Clay.

"Stevens quickly erased it, he told me, but a few other kids were already in the room and he didn't know how many of them had seen it. I asked him what had been written and he said that if Clay wanted me to know, he would tell me. Mr. Stevens thought maybe I should call Clay to my office to see if he would talk about it. I did call him to the office and, as I say, he refused to speak of it."

"I'd like to talk with Mr. Stevens," I said. "When would be a good time to catch him?"

Mrs. Winston consulted a clipboard that hung on the wall to her left. "The second lunch bell will ring in three minutes. Mr. Stevens has hall duty during second lunch, but right afterward, he has his prep period. Let me see which room he is in..."

"I already know what room he's in. Thanks very much for your help."

The bell rang as I left the school office, and the atmosphere went from quiet undertones to instant mayhem: classroom doors burst open, young people laughed, shouted "Hey, Sarah, wait up!"... "Tommy! Save me a place at lunch, dude!"

Several kids were already staring at their cell phone screens and texting as they walked. It took maybe five seconds before a veritable tide of youth and exuberance swarmed about me, mostly ignoring me. One boy's shoulder bumped into me as he careened past but he paused to glance back and mumble, "Oops. Sorry."

The swarm began to thin as the kids arrived at prearranged destinations. I wended my way toward room 118, half expecting to see my daughter or at least one of her friends in the hallway, but I didn't. I did see Mr. Stevens, however. He chatted with a couple of girls as the three of them exited the science classroom. The girls waved at him, calling, "Bye, Mr. Stevens," and headed away from me toward the cafeteria at the far end of the hall. Stevens propped his door open, then stood just outside it. He had greeted a couple other young students before he even saw me approaching. When he saw me he said, "Mrs. Schultz...er... Detective..er ..Sergeant..eh. Nice to see you again."

"Don't worry," I winked at Stevens. "I won't pat you down for weapons today."

I stood beside him, my back to the wall.

"That's a relief," said Stevens. "That would be embarrassing out here in the hallway with my students passing by. How is Clay?"

"He's safe and well taken care of," I told him. "How are your students handling yesterday's events?"

"That's all every class wanted to talk about, this morning," Stevens said. "Several parents kept their students home from school. Of those kids who did show up, some were visibly shaken, while others seemed to take it in stride. Sort of like, 'if you're in school, that's just part of the curriculum.' Some kids have built-in cynicism. Especially the ones getting high-school age."

Just then a boy, small even for a middle-schooler, walked by, eyes downcast. He carried a backpack nearly as big as himself. With large dark eyes, he glanced up at Stevens as he passed, and a smile touched his lips.

Stevens said, "Hey, Roy. How are you today?"

The boy stole an uncertain glance at me, then looked back at the science teacher. "Fine, Mr. Stevens." He hesitated for a moment, but continued on down the hall. "Bye Mr. Stevens," he said.

"Bye, Roy," said Stevens. "See you in class this afternoon." Then, quietly to me, "One of Clay's friends. I'm a little surprised to see him today, but his parents may have forced the issue. They're pretty strict with him.

"Middle school is such a strange place. I've got students who are nearly as tall as I am. Other kids—like Roy—look like they are about nine years old. But I'm guessing that you're not here just to assist with hall duty."

"No. It looks as though you have that well in hand. I wanted to talk to you about Clay."

"I thought so. In..." Stevens peered at his wristwatch, "ten minutes, second lunch will be over. Then I have prep period. We can talk undisturbed, for the most part, then."

"Okay. I'm going to walk down to the cafeteria and see if I can find and embarrass my daughter. See you in ten minutes." Stevens smiled politely at my comment and I sauntered toward the double doors down the hall.

Two or three other adults I took to be teachers stood by classroom doors, obviously doing hall duty, too. They smiled at everyone who passed, including me. But no one said, "Hey, whatcha got under that big winter parka, lady? An Uzi? AK-47?"

I was getting pretty warm walking around inside with the big coat on, but I wasn't willing to remove it and have people see the Ruger in its shoulder holster. As I passed a heavy solid wooden side door that led to the back play yard of the school, someone banged on it from outside. Apparently they kept the side doors locked for security. Then a kid, also alerted by the banging, made a detour toward the side door and pushed the door wide open.

A boy, big enough to be an eighth grader, barged past the smaller kid, but apparently forgot that his shoes were snow covered, because when he stepped off the door mat and onto the hardwood of the hallway floor, his feet went out from under him. He landed ungracefully and comically on his back. Three or four other boys walked passed, laughed loudly, and one called, "Hey, Josh! Walk much?" and they laughed again.

It had looked so funny that I was tempted to laugh, myself. The boy picked himself up, face red, and growled, "Fuck you!" to the group. One of the hall duty teachers admonished, "Josh! Language!" in a voice more duty-bound than serious. I thought the eighth grader's response sounded appropriate under the circumstances, but maybe not coming from the lips of a fourteen year old.

Later, I considered the ease with which the boy had gained access to the building. It could have been anyone.

The cafeteria teemed with young people intent on finishing their lunches before the bell rang. But not so intent that they sacrificed laughing and talking and horsing around. A few sat quietly, texting.

Jennifer and Cynthia had just risen from the long lunch table to my left. They were folding up their brown paper lunch sacks, and chewing their final bites. I waited for Jennifer to see me standing there, which took awhile. When her eyes did fall on me, she did a double take, grabbed Cynthia by her wrist and both girls hurried over to me.

"Mom. Hi. What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Oh, just here to talk with one of your teachers," I said, intentionally not giving her a hug—wouldn't want to embarrass a girl on her own turf. But I watched amused as she digested that I was going to talk with one of her teachers. "Not about you," I assured her. "Just thought I'd say hi. Hi, Cynthia," I added.

"Hi, Mrs. Schultz," Cynthia said, smiling. I liked Jenny's best friend. Cynthia seemed to even out and calm Jennifer's wild streak, and she was almost always polite.

"Everything going okay?" I asked them both.

"Sure, Mom," said Jennifer. "But kids are sure talking about yesterday. I bet twelve kids asked me what happened to Clay, 'cause they know my mom's a cop."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing. I didn't think you'd want me to."

"Good girl," I said. "Well, it looks like you two are on your way to class or somewhere, so I won't keep you."

"Bye, Mom," said Jenny.

"Bye, Mrs. Schultz," said Cynthia as they strolled off.

The bell rang, and the entire school sprang into action: lockers slammed, books were dropped then retrieved, kids rushed past me at a sprint, even though from time to time a hall duty teacher would bellow, "No running!" After two minutes it eased off. Finally, as if by magic – silence. Once or twice I heard a teacher's voice raised loudly enough to be heard through the closed doors: "Okay, settle down! Let's get to work!"

I walked back to room 118, tapped lightly, and opened the door. Stevens was seated behind his desk, typing on his computer. From a small CD player, classical music flowed softly.

He looked up. "Come on in and have a seat." Since I didn't think the sidearm resting beneath my tweed blazer would cause him any alarm, I pulled off the over-warm parka and folded it across the back of a student's chair. Then I perched myself on the edge of a desk near the teacher's. Stevens clicked out of whatever document he had been working on, removed his glasses, folded them and tucked them inside his shirt pocket. He tipped his chair back to prop his feet on his desk, and linked his fingers together behind his head.

"My daughter, Jenny, is in your science class along with Clay Bernard," I began.

"Yes, second period."

"She tells me that some of the kids tease Clay about his size, for one thing."

"The bigger boys give him a hard time because he's small. But they also give him a hard time because he's smart. From a teacher's point of view, just give me a dozen like him. He keeps me on my toes. I have to keep abreast of all the science magazines just so he isn't asking me questions I can't answer. They think he's just showing off. I suspect that—as sort of a revenge—he is showing off."

"I spoke with Mrs. Winston when I first got here today," I said. "She says that a while back somebody wrote something on your whiteboard that embarrassed Clay. Would it help us to figure out Clay's mindset if I knew what had been written?"

"Don't know. It might. Some little turd wrote Clay Bernard sucks dick. I erased it, but some of the kids had already read it, including Clay. It wasn't a big thing—unless you're twelve or thirteen. He turned several shades of red while kids snickered at him which, of course, made him break into tears. Crying in front of the class was probably more humiliating for him than what was written on the board. I came down pretty hard on the entire class about it; gave them a good tongue lashing, the kind I used as a drill-sergeant back in the day. I was surprised that I didn't catch more flack from parents, since I chewed out all the kids. But they obviously hadn't heard that their little darlings were laughing at someone else's expense. Jenny didn't tell you that part, I guess."

"Nope, she didn't tell me about that," I said. "She'd better not have been one of them who was laughing."

"Naw, most of the girls just seemed stunned by the whole event. Later, I kind of felt bad about blowing my stack. But sometimes kids are so nasty to each other, it just makes me boil. At any rate, I knew the whole thing was embarrassing to Clay, including my dressing-down, so I called the counselor to see if she could get him to talk about it. I guess he wouldn't talk to her, much less tell her what was written on the board."

I sat quietly a moment. "Well, crap. Any idea why he took the gun up to room 220?"

"I wondered that, too. Have you spoken with the teacher yet?"

"Not yet. Who would it be, do you know?"

"Joanna Simpson. She teaches Language arts."

I guess my mouth must have dropped open.

"What's the matter?" Stevens asked.

"Ahh...I know Joanna," I stammered. "I had no idea that she was a teacher."

"She's pretty new. I think this is her first year as a full-time teacher. Talk about a rough first year—a kid brings a gun into your classroom."

Stevens didn't know the half of it. So Joanna's "terrible day at work" as she had put it, was the gun at school call. When she told me she was too upset to work today, I'd thought she'd only been referring to the fight with her piece of shit husband. Silly me.

I wondered if any of Joanna's fellow teachers had an inkling that her husband had been smacking her around for years. Domestic violence was a no-no in so many professions so probably they didn't. I reckoned I'd be speaking again with Joanna Simpson.

"By the way, I told admin that their school security sucked," said Stevens.

"What?"

"I told the principal that the security here at Porterville Middle School really sucks," explained Stevens. "If we had a decent security system, kids couldn't waltz in here with firearms and intimidate an entire school into evacuation. Do you know what we're supposed to recommend to our students in the case a gunman enters our classroom? Get this. We're supposed to tell them to get down on the floor or hide behind something. Like a desk. A few of our kids are too big to even think of hiding behind a student desk. As far as I can see, that just makes them easier targets—like shooting fish in a barrel. You're a cop; what can we do about security?"

"Well," I said. I turned my clasped hands wrong side out and cracked the knuckles. "As far as I know, this is the first time anyone in education has ever asked law enforcement for any ideas on security. You ever heard of the Burleson School District? I believe it's located near Fort Worth, Texas."

"No, can't say that I've heard of it," said Stevens.

"I hadn't either, until one morning a couple of years ago while I was fixing breakfast, Good Morning America came on with a story about the Burleson School District, and how they were learning lessons from the school shootings at Columbine and the Amish schoolhouse attack in Pennsylvania. So Burleson School District starts teaching their kids how to fight back. The plan was that if a gunman enters the classroom, every student would start throwing stuff, whacking him with everything in their reach—books, pencils, desks..."

"What an idea!" exploded Stevens. He slapped his desk top, tipping his chair forward so suddenly that I jumped. "Why didn't someone think of that before? It makes total sense!"

"That's what I thought," I said. "I've talked about it to more than one school administrator. They look at me like something nasty on the bottom of their shoe, then condescendingly explain to me that they would only be setting themselves up for a law suit. Now, listen to how this could pan out," I said leaning forward. There were only a few topics that revved my engine and teaching people how to defend themselves was one of them.

"You're a school kid. You look up. You see a man with a gun. You yell, 'Gun at the door!' and every student leaps to his feet, hurling text books, backpacks, desks and even themselves at the gunman, screaming whatever they want, but for all practical purposes: 'No! Get out! We refuse to be victims!'

"The shooter expects terrified defenseless kids! So what happened? Even if he manages to get a shot off, which may or may not hit anybody, he has just been struck in the face with an English Lit book, in the temple with a math book! A football player has just tackled him around the knees, he drops the gun, and the rest of the students dog-pile him!

"Now, this wasn't at all how the gunman had it planned. He counted on the students' having no plan. After all, no plan is what the majority of public schools have today."

I wasn't done.

"I can guarantee you that if my daughter is ever shot at school, and there is no plan better than the current one — then you'd better believe there will be a lawsuit!"

"You paint quite a picture, Detective." Stevens smoothed his expansive mustache thoughtfully. "I wonder how the Burleson School District is doing now."

"I don't know. I never heard any more about it. The idea might crop up again about the time another Columbine rolls around. And hopefully that won't be in Portersville." I stood up and reached for my parka. "You've been helpful regarding the issue of young Mr. Bernard. Thanks for your time."

Mr. Stevens stood and reached for my coat. It took a minute for me to realize that he was actually going to help me into it. As I stuck an arm through a sleeve, a book on one of Steven's bookshelves caught my attention.

"Is that a school annual?" I asked. Stevens followed my gaze.

"Yes," he said. "It came out last spring."

"I guess my daughter has one. She said all the kids had to buy them. Expensive."

Stevens laughed. "And they're disruptive. In my class, kids get their annual only for the day it comes out so their friends can sign it—that's it."

*****

Chapter 9—The Innocent

1530 hrs.

"No coffee break yet?" I asked Frank as he busily aligned a stack of papers on his desk.

"I even missed lunch," Frank bellyached. "Shuffling DV suspects from their jail cells back and forth into the judges' chambers for arraignments. Then releasing them. I just finished the paperwork and I'm more than ready for a break."

"Yeah, the system sucks," I agreed. "So am I correct in assuming that the judge gave Simpson another stern talking-to?"

"You are correct. Simpson's wife told the prosecutor on the phone that she didn't want Bud charged with anything. She, herself's got a court date next week. Talk about your revolving door."

My desk phone rang. "Detective Schultz."

"Magnum," Melanie said. "I think this might be the caller you wanted me to listen for from last night. Sounds young and scared. You want me to send it through?"

"Absolutely," I said. I eased my butt down into the swivel chair and grabbed a pen and note pad. My ear still pressed to the phone, I listened as Melanie disconnected and reconnected to another line. I could hear a new atmosphere and soft, youthful breathing.

"This is Margaret Schultz," I said, quietly.

"Missus Schultz?" the voice asked in a frightened whisper.

"Yes, this is Mrs. Schultz." I'd be whoever the voice wanted me to be.

"Are you a policeman...er...policegirl?"

"Yes, I am. How can I help you?"

"I might know why Clay brought that gun to school," the voice said.

"What..." I started, not certain I'd heard correctly.

"I maybe...might know why Clay brought the gun."

"Can you tell me?"

"Um...I can't right now," said the voice. There was a click as whoever it was hung up.

"Shit!" I said.

"What's the matter?" Frank asked.

"It's some kid who sounds like they're in trouble. Can't tell if it's male or female. They say they know why Bernard brought the gun to school." With an index finger on the button, I disconnected then dialed dispatch.

"Check your caller ID and see if you have the number of the call you just sent me."

"Local call," she said. "Unknown name, unknown number."

"Shit!" I spat again. "That just figures. Why don't you go ahead and take your break, Frank. It's about time for school to get out so I think I'll go pick up my daughter."

"Okay," Frank shrugged as he headed for the coat tree and grabbed his heavy coat. "I'm gonna eat while I'm at it. I'm starving."

It had started snowing again when I spotted Jenny and Cynthia talking with some other girls in front of the middle school. My thirteen-year-old didn't always appreciate it when I picked her up in the detectives' car, but at least she acted as though she knew me.

"Mom, can't I wait with Cyndi and get a ride home from her dad?" Jennifer complained when I pulled up alongside and told her to climb into the passenger seat.

"No, babe," I said. "I need your help on something at home, so I'll just give you a ride." Jennifer's eyes rolled back for a moment, but she turned to her friends and said, "Bye, you guys. I guess I've gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye, Jennifer!" Cynthia and a couple other girls called.

"Gonna help your mom catch bad guys?" one girl called, her voice acidy. I saw Jennifer stick out her tongue at the girl, then turn abruptly to face forward.

"Sorry, Honey," I said. "But I'm hoping that you can help me. Do you know where your school annual is from last spring?"

"Yeah?" suspiciously.

"Can you find it for me when we get home?"

"I guess. Why do you want it?"

"I want you to go through it and look for a photo of the kid you heard say he hoped Clay 'shot the bastard.'"

"Mom! You want me to be a nark?"

"Sort of."

"Okay," she shrugged cheerfully and grinned. "He's a seventh grader, anyway."

"So, if he were an eighth grader you'd refuse to help?"

"Maybe. Most of my friends are in the eighth grade."

"You have a discriminating sense of loyalty," I observed.

"Seventh graders are annoying. But not as annoying as sixth graders, I guess."

"You do know, young lady, that when you go into ninth grade next year, you'll be at the bottom of the pecking order again."

"Mom, I don't even know what that means."

In a few more minutes we'd made it home. I pulled into the driveway and could see by our old tracks in the unshoveled snow that no one had been in or out since we'd left early this morning. And now Mother Nature was in the process of endowing us with even more of the glorious white stuff.

I sat in my favorite living room armchair and watched Jennifer, who was perched on the sofa, page carefully through her school annual. Since last spring's sixth graders were the current seventh graders, I'd asked her to start there. A little impatiently, I checked my wrist watch. It was almost 1600 hrs. I'd be off duty in about an hour; then I'd start shoveling snow. If it got packed down now, it would freeze like cement and I'd never get it all up.

"Here he is!" Jennifer said suddenly, her index finger pressed down on a small photo surrounded by many similar photos. I got up and walked over to sit beside her. Keeping her finger pressed on the photo, she passed me the annual. I looked, then realized I'd seen this face today. He'd been walking down the hallway while I stood with Stevens during his hall duty. What had he called the kid?

I looked at the list of names on the side of the page—Roy Garrett. He looked younger and even smaller, but it was the same kid, same shy, sweet smile.

"And all you know about this boy is that he's a seventh grader at your school?" I asked.

"That's all I know, Mom...And please don't tell anyone that you used me for a nark."

"Honey, I won't breathe a word," I crossed my heart. "Thanks for your help. I've got to go back to work for a little while so, start your homework. O-o-r..." I hinted.

"Or what, Mom?"

"Or you could start shoveling the driveway..."

"Mom, watch me start my homework!" Jennifer said, leaping to her feet and rushing up the old stairway to her bedroom.

With a smirk, I redeemed my coat from the end of the sofa. While I was at it, I hung Jennifer's coat and scarf in the hallway closet, thinking I'd do that favor for her since she had 'narked' on a seventh grader as a favor to me. Then I climbed into the Crown Vic and drove back to the PD. The gently falling snow darkened the late afternoon sky. We could look forward to slick roads again tonight.

I notified dispatch. "I'll be clear of my residence and enroute to the station."

"Copy," said Evan. "But don't head in quite yet; I'm on the phone with a complaint that you may need to roll on."

I pulled to the end of the driveway and sat there, motor idling, windshield wipers swish-fwopping and waited. Two minutes elapsed while I tapped impatient fingertips against the steering wheel, the adrenaline level rising with anticipation.

Evan's voice called my number. I snatched up the mic and said "Go ahead."

"Respond to 322 Trimble Street. Ambulance has been dispatched to that location for a domestic violence victim. All units have been notified and are attempting to locate suspect Bud Simpson who has walked away from the residence. He is reported to be armed and dangerous at this time."

Jesus H. Christ!

I threw the Crown Vic into gear, pulled out of my driveway and headed toward Trimble Street. The emergency lights illuminated the late afternoon, snowy atmosphere with flashing blue.

One Superbowl Sunday, about three years back, an ambulance was dispatched to the Simpson residence for one of their domestic disagreements. It had been during halftime when Bud Simpson had punched Joanna in the face so hard that her eye socket had fractured.

After he was released from jail, Bud and Joanna had remained separated for several months and I'd begun to believe she'd finally had her fill of him. But somehow they'd again reconciled and all had been quiet for a few months. Bud had dutifully attended all the required anger management classes, and it had started to look as though the classes had actually done him some good.

But then we started getting the calls again, mostly from concerned neighbors who could hear the crash of furniture in the Simpson house, and two angry adult voices screaming at one another.

Because of the violence between the parents, someone had called Child Protective Services (CPS) more than once. The daughter was removed for short periods of time to a foster home, but was always returned. CPS was of the mind that all children needed to stay with their natural parents at almost any cost. I thought they were out of their ever-loving minds, but what did cops know about raising kids?

For the second time today, I pulled up behind a squad car near the Trimble residence. Swing-shift officers, Patrol Sgt. Samuel Bradbury and PFC Dave Travis were apparently already in the house.

"I'm on scene," I said into the car mic and bailed out.

As I walked up the sidewalk I heard the wail of an ambulance siren getting closer. I tried the door knob, found it unlocked and stepped cautiously into the foyer. Everything was quiet.

"Bradbury?" I called softly. "Travis? Where are you guys?"

Sam Bradbury poked his round, bearded face into the hallway from a bedroom.

"In here, Schultz," he said. The cloying odor of blood hung in the air. Joanna Simpson lay sprawled on a throw rug next to the queen-sized bed, blood oozing from a bullet hole in her black sweat shirt and one in her face. Her long hair spread around her head like a burnished copper halo.

"She isn't dead, but it's no thanks to Bud," Bradbury said. "Looks like a smaller caliber handgun did the damage. The five-year-old called 911 and she says to Evan, 'Daddy just shot Mommy.' Christ!

"Travis is with the girl in a bedroom down the hall. That asshole Simpson was gone by the time we got here. The little girl doesn't know which direction he went or whether he walked or drove away. Fairbanks and Banjo are out looking for him. We've called Lincoln County for any deputies they have available to help with the search."

Two EMTs arrived with the stomping of boots. Bradbury and I stepped away to allow them access to the unconscious, bleeding woman. Bradbury remained with them while I moved down the hallway to the second bedroom.

The five-year-old sat on her knees on a bed amidst an entire menagerie of stuffed toys.

Travis had pulled a wooden chair close to the bed so he could sit on it while he talked with her. "And what's that one's name?" Travis was asking the girl as she held up a stuffed monkey.

"This is Shine," she said, her blue eyes glassy with tears. She clasped the monkey to her chest and said, "Daddy helped me name it; we call him Monkey Shine."

Damp tear streaks ran down her cheeks. She wore jeans and a long-sleeved pink sweater that matched the pink hair band holding back the long sandy-red hair. Travis looked my direction.

"Hey Sarge," he said. "This is Angie. She was just introducing me to some of her friends. Angie, this is Margaret Schultz. I work with her at the police station."

The poor kid looked no different than the previous times I'd had to separate her warring parents. Just a little older.

"Hi, Angie," I said. Angie bowed her head shyly and didn't speak. Whenever I showed up at her house, one of her parents got taken away. I beckoned Travis to step over to the doorway with me. Turning so that my back was toward Angie I said quietly to Travis, "If you don't have any yellow crime scene tape in your vehicle, there's a roll in the trunk of my car. Let's start setting up our perimeter. Unless you have information I'm not yet privy to, close off the entire house including the garage. We can always narrow the perimeter if we need to, but we can't expand it. What has the Angie told you so far?"

"Nothing about the shooting. I didn't ask her any questions; thought it would be better if she didn't have to repeat things any more than necessary. I'll get started outside." He looked around me at Angie, "Bye Angie," he called. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay," Angie said in a lost little voice. Travis left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

I moved to the bed. "Sweetie, is it okay if I sit on the bed with you?" Angie nodded, but still didn't speak. Perching on the edge of the bed, I sat quietly for a moment then reached over and with a couple of fingers, pushed her hair back from her eyes. "Angie," I said. "Will you look at me?" Angie's brown eyes glanced at my face then looked quickly down again.

"The medics just got here to help your mommy. You did the right thing by calling 911. You were a very brave little girl." Still Angie didn't look up but began to tidy Monkey Shine's coveralls. When that was completed to her satisfaction, she began straightening his bowtie. "Angie, can you tell me what happened to your mommy; why you decided to call 911?"

Angie set Monkey Shine down on the bed so he could lean against her pillow and picked up a stuffed dog with floppy, dark-brown ears and a stubby, dark-brown tail.

"This one is named Barky," said Angie. She held the dog up for my inspection. I petted the toy dog.

"Barky's a nice name. I would never have thought to name a dog Barky." Which was the truth. Angie picked up a third animal, a black teddy bear with a ragged red bow around its neck.

"This one is Berry. I've had Berry for a long, long time. Mommy says Berry was my very first stuffed animal; that I got him when I was a baby. Berry's my favorite, but don't tell the other stuffed toys, please. I don't want their feelings to be hurt."

"I won't tell them, Angie."

"Daddy got really mad at Mommy," Angie said. I waited and watched Angie untie then begin to retie the red bow on Berry's neck. "Can you hold your finger here?" Angie asked. I placed my index finger on top of the knot she'd made. She looped the two ends of the red ribbon around my finger, waited while I pulled it carefully back out, and then finished snugging up the bow.

"Berry looks pretty," I said. Angie cuddled the black teddy bear to her chest and finally looked up at me.

"I could hear Daddy yelling, really loud. Mommy was yelling too, but she can't yell as loud as Daddy."

"Where were they when they were yelling?"

"Kitchen, I guess. I try to close my ears when they do that. I don't like it very much."

"I don't suppose you do. Where were you, Angie, when all this happened?" I asked. I held my breath and hoped that Angie hadn't witnessed the shooting.

"In here, playing with my toys."

I let my breath out a little. "Then what happened?" I asked. Angie shrugged and said, "I heard the gun."

"You heard the gun?"

"Yes; it made two loud popping noises. I was scared, but I opened my door just a tiny bit so I could peek out."

"And what did you see?"

"I saw Daddy holding the gun in the hallway by Mommy's and Daddy's bedroom. I'd seen it before in Daddy's drawer in the bedroom. He once told me that I was never ever to touch it, and I never did. He just leaned against the wall, and then kind of slid down to sit on the floor for a little while. Like he was resting. He was saying bad words and maybe he was crying. Then he got up and went outside. And I don't know where he went after that."

"Then what did you do, Angie?"

"I looked in Mommy and Daddy's bedroom." Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. "I saw Mommy just lying on the floor. She wouldn't move, even when I called to her. One time Mommy told me that if she or Daddy ever got hurt that I should call 911. So I ran to the kitchen where the telephone is and called."

Angie was crying in earnest now, rocking Berry, her face buried in his worn black fur. I pulled her to me and let her cry in my arms until she seemed to drift off to sleep. My heart ached for the little girl. I managed to pull the spare blanket from its folded position at the foot of Angie's bed and wrapped it around her, teddy bear and all. As I held her tight against me, her head drooped onto my shoulder. Picking her up, I left the bedroom in time to watch the EMTs pushing her mother down the hall on a gurney.

Bradbury opened the front door for the EMTs and then for me. When we were outside he climbed halfway into the back of the Crown Vic so that he could help me ease the little girl across the seat as comfortably and gently as possible. It was amazing that she could actually remain asleep through all that.

"I'll take Angie to Cardell's," I told Bradbury, closing the car door as quietly as possible. "She's given plenty probable cause for us to arrest Bud Simpson for first degree assault of her mother. You'll accompany Joanna to the hospital?"

"Of course," said Bradbury. "I got a couple photos before the medics arrived, and I'll get more of the scene now that she's been moved. I've got this end handled, Schultz. Travis is putting up the crime scene tape. If you want to take care of the kid then go off duty, you can get your evidence team here to dust for prints and the rest of it first thing in the morning."

"Nobody's located Simpson, I take it."

"Not yet."

"What did the medics say about Joanna?"

"They think she'll pull through, even with two bullet holes in her. She looks a mess, though. I'd better get to the ambulance before they leave without me. I'd hate for her to wake up and say something we can use against that asshole, while I'm out here shooting the shit with you."

Bradbury hurried toward the ambulance, where they'd just finished cinching down the gurney and were closing the back doors.

"I'll be enroute to Cardell's with a little guest for them," I advised dispatch. "Can you call ahead to give 'em a heads-up?"

"That's affirmative," said Evan. "Do you need Kovitch's assistance? If not, he's going out to help Fairbanks and Banjo search for your suspect."

"Tell him to help with the search, but I'll need him early tomorrow morning to look for more evidence at this crime scene. He'll need to get some rest in between."

I was already an hour late getting off duty, and wouldn't get home for another couple of hours – again. Crap.

*****

1810 hrs.

Georgina Cardell was in her mid-sixties, but still athletic enough to outmaneuver the antics of the foster children for whom she was often a last resort for shelter, food and a loving heart. Even before her husband had died two years before, the Cardell home had been a mainstay linking the community and law enforcement. Though state certified as a foster home, the Cardell residence also served as a shelter for women and children made homeless by any kind of disaster or emergency.

In her younger days, Cardell had been slender and nearly six feet tall. She still topped out at five foot ten, but the years had added bulk. Many a teenage boy, while trying to escape her discipline, had discovered to his dismay that the bulk was not all fat, but muscle used to wrestle him to the ground so she could sit on him and await whatever backup she'd summoned via the wireless phone she toted in her apron pocket.

After frequent contacts with her over the past eight years, there was no doubt in my mind that Cardell loved every child who had ever been placed in her care. If a kid needed a safe, warm bed, she somehow found space for him or her, so I knew she'd have room for a frightened little five year old.

When I pulled the Crown Vic to the curb in front of the Cardell house, the porch light switched on and shimmered brightly through the falling snow. Georgina's large form appeared silhouetted in the doorway. She held the door open for me as I carried the sleeping girl up the porch steps. Under the porch light, Angie blinked sleepily. Once inside, she gazed around in momentary confusion, and reached her arms out for Georgina. She'd been here before, and the familiar, matronly face was reassuring. Georgina spent several moments cooing to the little girl, then set her on her feet and led her by the hand into the brightly lit kitchen, where two other children sat at the table, eating hot dogs and drinking large glasses of milk.

Still holding Berry, Angie climbed up onto a kitchen chair and reached for a hot dog. Georgina poured Angie a glass of milk.

"Now, after you children eat your supper, we'll have story time," Georgina promised the three. Then to me, "I read to the children every night. I enjoy it just as much as they do. Even the teenagers like to be read to. I've had fifteen-year-old six-footers sitting amongst the little ones, fixated while I read Harry Potter aloud. Funny, isn't it?"

"You can read to me anytime," I offered sincerely. Georgina motioned for me into the living room with her so we could talk out of the children's earshot.

"What's the story with Angie, this time? Parents have another spat?"

"It's a little more serious, I'm afraid. We think that the father shot the mother. She's got two bullet holes in her. She's alive, but unconscious."

"Oh my land!" said Georgina, aghast. "Please don't tell me that little Angie saw it happen."

"I don't think she actually saw it happen, but she heard the shots and saw her father holding the gun. After the shooting, she saw her mother lying on the bedroom floor. She's the one who called 911."

"Oh, poor little angel! That man should be castrated! Do you suppose you could see to that?"

"Georgina," I said suppressing a smile, "if it wouldn't cause more trouble than it was worth, I would indeed see to it. Other officers are searching for the father right now. But don't open your door for anyone until you know who it is. Just in case," I warned.

"I never do," said Georgina. "And anyway, I've got my phone right here in my pocket, and I know how to get you people here on the double."

"I know you do. Call if you need anything."

*****

Chapter 10—The Courageous

2047 hrs.

At 9 p.m. when I pulled into the driveway at home, Jennifer was busily shoveling snow in front of the garage She propped the shovel handle against her shoulder and clapped her mittens together.

"Yay! You're home!"

She'd made tacos for dinner and kept the hamburger mixture warm for me on the stove. Knowing that I would prefer the pleasure of her company while I ate, she followed me to the house, both of us stomping snow from our boots on the porch. While I chomped tacos with shredded lettuce and hot sauce, Jennifer chattered about her day.

"Hardly anyone at school is talking about anything but Clay and what happened yesterday, and about how my very own mother was at the school talking to my science teacher and the counselor."

I held my breath, afraid that word had already gotten out that the English teacher whose classroom Bernard had barricaded himself in had been shot by her husband. But apparently the grapevine wasn't that high-speed yet. I sent Jennifer to finish her homework and I went back outside. It took about an hour to complete the shoveling.

Just as I came back through the front door the phone rang. In a hurry to answer it, I tripped over the cat which hissed in fright and raced all the way to the top of the attic stairs before stopping to eye me disdainfully

"Sorry, Phantom," I called, grabbing for the ringing phone on the kitchen counter. "Hello?"

"Hey, Maggie," came the voice of Michael Schultz, Jenny's dad. Michael worked as a federal law enforcement officer for the National Park Service based in the Colville forest nearby. Since we had actually met in the police academy—he was taking some specialized course and I was going through the basic police training—it seemed absurd that he would not understand my commitment to my career since it was identical to his. But after we married, he'd decided I should be a little more domestic—like hang-around-the-house, care-for-the-kids type domestic. He must have had me confused with someone else.

"Hi. What's up?" I asked, with my usual concoction of emotions where Michael was concerned.

"I just wanted to talk to you about the holidays." Here we go, I thought. "Are you taking any time off around Jenny's Christmas vacation time?"

"None planned yet, Michael," I admitted. "My detectives have asked for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off and..."

"...And, of course, you'll give them the time before you'll take it for yourself," Michael interrupted. He thought he knew me so well.

"Ah...yeah. Probably. They've both got young children at home."

"And Jenny is getting to be so elderly." Smartass.

"Jenny doesn't believe in Santa, any more, Michael," I defended. "Their kids do."

"Well, in that case, you won't have any objection if I book flights for her and me to Nebraska so we can spend the holidays with my father."

Of course I objected. I'd like to spend time with her myself, even if only for a few hours during her two-week Christmas break. But how could I be that selfish? Keep my daughter from a visit with her out-of-state grandfather and aunts and uncles who she so rarely saw so that I could enjoy a few renegade hours with her?

"I wouldn't like that very much," I said. "That leaves me all by myself for the holidays."

"It sounds like you've decided to work through them anyway," said Michael, logically. "Jennifer would just have to entertain herself every day until you got off duty. She's already told me that her friend Cynthia and her family are leaving town for about ten days, so she can't even hang out with her best friend. Why don't you invite Joe and Sylvia to join you? At least they can entertain one another while you're working."

"I could, I guess," I grumbled. Michael and his damned logic!

Joseph Russell Dolin, my father, lived in Olympia. He'd been a cop there for over 25 years before a 9mm round lodged in his spine and put him in a wheelchair. Dad now lived on disability in a nice little brick house in Olympia with his new wife. Sylvia was a nice enough lady. She never made the mistake of trying to replace my mother who had died when I was young.

Though the doctors insisted that my mom died of heart disease, I contend, even to this day, that she died of a broken heart when my oldest brother committed suicide. I was still angry at my brother for shooting himself. And since both mother and brother were gone, I couldn't even express to them how I felt—cheated of one, betrayed by the other.

"When would you be leaving for Nebraska?" I asked Michael.

"Jenny tells me that she gets out of school this Friday," he said. I could tell he was studying a calendar. "So, let's see...I'll try to make reservations for Friday the twenty-first. How does that sound?"

"Terrible," I said. "I don't like it even a little."

"I know, Mags. But Dad has been asking for several months when he can see his only granddaughter. He wants to see you too, though."

"Now you're really trying to make me feel good." What a shithead! Him, not me.

*****

Wednesday, 0830 Hrs.

When I walked into the station the next morning, I was still moping. It had been December 19th when my mother passed away. I was only fifteen. What a Christmas present that had been! It didn't help today's mood any that the sky was a dark, steel gray color. A snowstorm wasn't too far out. My thoughts must have shown on my face.

"What's a matter, Magnum?" Melanie asked through the open side of the sliding Plexiglas window as she buzzed me through the inner door. "You look unhappy."

"That's because I'm, I guess you could say, unhappy. Nice of you to notice." Feeling guilty for the unwarranted sarcasm, I walked into the com center and explained. "Michael's taking Jennifer to Nebraska for her Christmas break. Cripes, I hate that!"

"I'm sorry," Melanie sympathized. "That is a bummer."

"Oh, don't waste your perfectly good sympathy. People kind of regard me as a bah-humbug when it comes to Christmas, anyhow. But I do like having my only child at home for the holidays." I picked up the clipboard on her desk. "Anything interesting happen last night?"

As I began following my usual routine of scanning the activity log, Melanie's phone rang. "Porterville Police Department. How may I direct your call?"

I ran my finger down the list of last night's activities. Nothing earth-shattering on swing shift, other than the search for Simpson and Sgt. Bradbury's trip to ER with the unconscious Joanna Simpson, all of which I already knew.

There had been a couple more vehicle prowls on the south side. It appeared that Detective Jordan had gotten himself involved in a foot pursuit at about 2335 hrs. Even with his long legs, he'd not been able to capture the teenage sprinter he'd been chasing. Just as he was closing the distance, Jordan tripped and landed on his face. Jeez, Detective. Or should I say defective? Now, that kind of cheered me up!

Melanie's frantic hand gestures halted my visual scrutiny.

"Yes," Melanie was saying into the phone receiver. "She just walked in. May I say who is calling?" She listened earnestly, then placing her hand over the receiver, whispered. "It's that caller from the past couple of days. The one we couldn't tell if it was male or female? I think it sounds like a young kid. And he doesn't want to tell me his name. I'll send it back to your desk."

"I'm on it!" I said, dropping the clipboard. I barreled down the hallway and into my office just as my desk phone rang. I snatched up the receiver.

"Detective Schultz!"

Silence. Someone was breathing softly on the other end, and there was a fearful hesitation that was nearly palpable. "Hello?" I added, softening the pitch of my voice, hoping to ease the cop edges. Then I heard a young person's voice.

"De-tective Schultz?" the voice asked, timidly. "Are you Jenny's mom?"

"Yes, Jenny is my daughter." Hearing my child's name in this bizarre situation made me uneasy.

"Uhm," said the voice. "I want to tell something. Jenny is always nice to me at school. So I hoped maybe...maybe you're nice, too."

I was vaguely aware that Frank Kovitch had just entered the office. Seeing that I was busy, he said nothing. I raised a preoccupied hello hand at him.

"I'd be happy to talk with you," I said into the phone. I feared that if I didn't say the right words or sound quite 'nice' enough, the kid would bolt. I didn't want to screw this up. "Will you tell me your name?"

"Uhm. I'm Roy." The voice said. So the voice belonged to a young male.

"Hi, Roy. My first name is Margaret. Is your last name Garrett?"

"Yes, but...how did you know that?" He sounded alarmed. Crap. I was trying so hard not to spook him.

"Didn't I see you out in the hallway yesterday when I was visiting with Mr. Stevens...He told me your name."

"Oh."

"Roy, what is it you want to tell me?" I asked.

"Uhm...about something..." I could hear the boy swallow.

"About something that's frightened you?"

"Sort of."

"Roy, are you at school today?"

"No, I'm at home. I had a belly ache this morning and Mom let me stay home. I feel a little better now."

"Is your mom or dad there?" I asked.

"They're both working," he told me

"Is it something that involves your parents that you want to tell me about?"

"No, it's not about my parents."

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. If the boy was being abused or molested, at least it didn't sound like a parent was involved.

"Does it have anything to do with your friend, Clay?" I was beginning to feel like a contestant on a game show.

"Uhm. Sort of."

"Do your parents know about it?"

"No! I would never...no. They don't know. I don't want them to know."

"Would they get mad at you?"

"Yes...Well, I don't know, really. Maybe."

"But you do understand that at some point, whatever it is, the police would probably have to tell your parents about it. And I work for the police, Roy."

Roy sighed. "I know. I guess I was just hoping..."

"Well, can you tell me what it is?"

"My stomach feels better now. So can I just walk over to the police station and talk to you? I only live a few blocks away."

"Of course you can, Roy. I'll wait right here."

"Okay."

"See you in a few minutes," I told Roy, but he'd already hung up.

Kovitch, who had been listening to my side of the conversation, said, "What was that all about?"

I shrugged. "If this kid actually shows up here, we'll both know," I said.

"Well, did you see on the activity log that Georgina Cardell had a visitor at about two this morning?" asked Kovitch.

"I didn't get a chance to read that far. Don't tell me. Bud Simpson?"

"In the flesh," said Kovitch. "Since we'd checked all the bars earlier, we figured he'd been hanging at a friend's house while we were out hunting for him, because according to Georgina, he'd gotten a few drinks somewhere. So about 2 a.m., he's over at Georgina's pounding on her front door, demanding with slurred speech that she hand over his daughter. Of course, Georgina told him to take a long walk off a short dock and called 911.

"Graveyard officers showed up within three minutes of her call, but Bud had already split. They tried calling for Lincoln County's K-9 units, but they had their hands full on a search of their own. They still do, from the sounds of it. Our day shift officers are still trying to locate Simpson, but until we can get some info from Joanna, we've pretty much run out of ideas of where to look."

"What time did Detective Jordan go home?" I asked.

We didn't always have a detective on at night, but with all the vehicle prowls we'd had lately, we had thought it wise to have a detective moving around on the streets more-or-less undercover.

"I guess he got his scrapes and bruises cleaned up at the ER, came back here with a couple of bandages on his kisser, then went home just after midnight."

"Good – he got his beauty sleep then. Now, the two of you get over to the Simpson house and get that crime scene processing finished. Bradbury and Travis took care of the initial stuff, including a few photos before the Medics took Joanna to the hospital. We had Finnegan on stakeout after Bradbury and Travis went home, just to be sure that Bud didn't try to sneak back into the house. Keep your eyes open for some indication of who ol' Bud pals around with during those odd moments when he's not beating up his wife. We need to locate this guy. I'm going to wait here to see if my young friend, Roy, comes in. It won't surprise me if he chickens out."

"Okay, Sarge," said Kovitch, reaching for his phone. "I'll get Jordan on the horn and see how quickly he can get here."

*****

Chapter 11—The Motive

1015 Hrs.

"Didn't know you were planning on having a nose job. Must have been a cheap one." Kovitch said as Jordan walked into the office. Jordan sported a white, two-inch gauze square over his left eye and a fresh scrape on the left side of his nose.

"Yeah," I added. "Poor baby. Did you trip and fall trying to catch the bad guy?" He flipped both of us the finger and headed for his desk.

"That kid I'm waiting for should have made it by now, regardless of his short little legs." I commented.

But it was Jordan who fired, "Well, if anyone knows about short little legs, it would be you, Sarge."

Ok, I'd asked for that one. But five foot four's not so short.

During the time it took Kovitch and Jordan to get their evidence kits together and leave the station for the Simpson's, I checked e-mails and voice mails and jotted notes on pending follow-ups. I checked my watch again, not really too surprised that young Roy had failed to show up. The kid had sounded tentative at best.

I pushed away from my desk, put on my coat and stocking cap, and went out the side door for some air. The temperature had dropped, and a wind had kicked up.

I wandered through the side parking lot, where out-of-service patrol cars sat covered with snow. Checked my watch again.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a small figure seated against the base of one of the parking lot lampposts with his red coat's collar pulled up around his ears against the cold. No hat. He looked very lonely and forlorn, his brown hair buffeted by the icy gusts of southwest wind.

"Roy?" I asked, approaching gingerly. The boy rolled his brown eyes my direction.

"Hi. Aren't you cold? This wind is freezing." Roy stood erect, shivering visibly.

"Let's go in where it's warm," I suggested, half expecting him to sprint away. He shifted from one foot to the other in cheap athletic shoes. Without saying a word, the boy turned to follow me.

"Let's go in through this side door. That way no one will even know you're here."

I led Roy down the hallway to the detective's office, and motioned for him to sit at the small round table in the corner. Kovitch had left his full-length overcoat on the coat tree so I borrowed it and told Roy to wrap up until he got warm again. He reached for it, teeth chattering. I removed my own coat and hat and hooked them on the coat tree.

"I'm going to get us something hot to drink," I told Roy. "You just sit at the table and warm up."

In the com center I filled two mugs with hot water from the urn and spooned in some instant cocoa mix. "Melanie. Roy Garrett's in my office. Hold my calls unless they're urgent and let me know when Kovitch or Jordan head back for the station."

"You got it, Magnum," said Melanie.

I set a cup of steaming hot chocolate in front of Roy and held onto the other one as I sat across from him. "It's pretty hot, Roy. Just blow on it a little." He wrapped his small hands around the outside of the mug and dutifully blew on the surface of the drink. He wasn't shivering quite so hard now. But he wouldn't smile or even look at me. Since contacting a cop so far hadn't disintegrated him, he appeared a little more relaxed.

"Now what do you want to tell me, Roy?" I asked. "I don't think anyone will bother us for awhile." Roy took a noisy sip of the cocoa, but continued to stare into the mug.

"I...Uhm...," he said. More silence.

"Is Clay your friend?" I asked. He nodded, continuing the silence. That went well, I thought. "Now let me see. You're in the seventh grade and he's in the eighth. You probably don't have any classes together." He shook his head and took another sip. "Then how do you know Clay?"

"From football," mumbled Roy.

"Did you both play football this fall?"

He nodded. "Last year, too. Though sixth graders don't get to play hardly at all."

"Do you like football?"

"I did, but I don't now," Roy said, in a voice that barely concealed the fear and anger. He glanced at the open doorway. "I..." he stammered. "I won't play football ever again."

"How come? Tell me what happened that scared you about football."

Now I'd done it! The twelve-year-old, who looked no bigger than about ten, began to cry. I handed him a Kleenex from the packet I carried in my pocket. "It's okay, Roy. I'll just wait till you're ready." Roy's sniffles finally arrived fewer and farther apart. He blew his nose. He sipped his chocolate. His brown eyes met mine, and then dropped again. He was struggling, but then he began.

"Me and Clay and a couple other guys that turned out for football weren't very good at it," Roy said in a voice so soft I could barely catch the words. "So, coach said he'd give us special help." I waited quietly while Roy took another sip. "Some of the kids at school had told us that Coach was weird. But we didn't really believe them because he treated us really nice. After regular football practice, he'd have us come over to his place, just a few blocks from the school. We were either smaller or maybe not as coordinated as most of the other players and he'd show us videos of football plays that he said could work good for smaller kids. Then—right there in the living room—we'd practice the plays we watched. It was cool, 'cause our moms would never let us to play rough like that indoors. We even knocked over a couple of Coach's lamps once. But he never even got mad. We kinda started to do a little better at regular football practice. Clay got to quarterback a couple of times." Roy retreated into silence again.

"Are you talking about Coach Franklin?"

"No!" Roy said, looking startled. "Not Coach Franklin. Coach Bill. He's another Coach at school."

"What's his last name, Roy?"

"Uhm...I don't know. He just has everyone call him Coach Bill."

"Okay. I had assumed there was only one coach. What happened then?" He took another sip of hot chocolate.

"After awhile, Coach Bill would get one of us on the floor and start tickling us. Sometimes he'd touch somebody's...privates, you know?"

He was right—I did know. And I knew better than to allow him to speak any further, thanks to the Wenatchee Witch hunts and the ensuing Supreme Court decision.

"Roy, let's wait before you tell me the rest of the story. I will absolutely see that you're protected and that very soon you'll have someone to tell your story to. Promise. Did what you were about to tell me have anything to do with why Clay brought the gun to school?"

Roy's face showed an array of emotions, from relief that he didn't have to talk about the sexual abuse right now, to disappointment that he was not allowed to unburden himself, to confusion as to why he was being asked not to talk about it. He snuffled loudly, wiped some tears from his eyes, sipped his cocoa, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"I guess it had something to do with it. When he brought that gun to school, I was so scared! I even ran away for awhile. But I made it home before dinner so Mom didn't even find out. She made me go to school yesterday, even though I begged her not to. This morning I told her I had a belly ache. And that was true. I did. And I don't feel very good right now, either. Think I might puke."

Roy's face had turned pale green. I yanked Kovitch's—not my—wastebasket in front of him, barely in time. He was crying openly now.

I handed him some napkins to wipe his mouth. "It's okay, Roy. What Coach Bill did was wrong. He made you boys trust him, and then abused that trust. It's so common that it has its own name—grooming. Did you tell your mother or father?"

Roy shook his head. "I thought Mom would be disappointed in me. And my step-dad, we don't always get along."

"Your parents need to know what's going on so they can help you." Roy blew his nose on a tissue then nodded. He recited his mother's work number and sat beside me while I made the call.

Roy's mother told me she'd be there in fifteen minutes.

Still not certain that he wouldn't run, I showed Roy the bathroom so he could wash his face and regain his composure before his mother arrived. Gingerly, I emptied and rinsed out the wastebasket, sprayed it with Lysol, and returned it to its place—beside Kovitch's desk. Kovitch would never know the difference. His overcoat went back on the coat tree.

From a .44 magnum in a classroom to a child molester—what a can of worms!

*****

Chapter 12—Lucky Lady

Wednesday, 1120 hrs.

Adeline Garrett was a petite, feisty woman in her late thirties with dishwater blonde collar-length hair and snapping brown eyes. Her face was round and pretty. Beneath her charcoal gray wool overcoat, she wore a pale green waitress uniform. Her white work oxfords and shear nylons suggested that her feet and legs were probably cold.

"Is my son okay?" were her first words.

"Roy's okay," I assured her, shaking her hand. "I'm Detective Margaret Schultz, the one who called you."

I led her into the hallway, but detoured into Chief Bronson's office. Since he was meeting with City supervisors this morning at City Hall, his office was vacant.

"Mrs. Garrett," I started. I hated giving parents this kind of message. "Roy walked here from home this morning. He said he had stayed home from school because he wasn't feeling well."

"He told me that he had a stomach ache," said Mrs. Garrett. "What has happened? Why did he come here?"

"He came here because he wanted to report a crime. Roy has possibly been a victim of sexual abuse."

Mrs. Garrett blanched and slumped into one of Chief Bronson's chairs.

"Who's done this?" she asked. "Not his father..."

"No, not his father. Roy hasn't implicated any family member. He says that it's one of the coaches at school. But we can't jump to any conclusions until we investigate further."

"Oh, my god!" she breathed. "Where is Roy?"

"He's in my office. I wanted you to know what's going on. No sense in making him tell it more than necessary. Roy has been very brave, Mrs. Garrett. Will his father be supportive?"

"I...I think so. He's a long-haul truck driver, so he's gone a lot of the time. He's actually Roy's step-dad, but he's adopted Roy and he cares a lot about us." Mrs. Garrett removed a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. "Can I see Roy?"

"Of course."

As soon as Mrs. Garrett entered the detective's office, Roy jumped into her arms—he was still small enough to do that. I waited while they cried together, and surreptitiously wiped a couple tears from my own eye.

"What do we do now?" Mrs. Garrett asked me, holding her son close.

"I'll set up an appointment with the child interviewers at Casey Family Partners. They'll help us get the facts and we'll proceed from there. Depending upon what they learn, you may need to take Roy for a medical exam. But for the moment, just take care of your boy. He's a great kid." I wrote my cell number on a back of a business card and handed it to her.

"Please don't hesitate to call me, Mrs. Garrett, with any questions. I don't have many answers, yet. But I'll be happy to talk with you about anything."

When Mrs. Garrett and her son left, I felt drained, as though I'd worked a couple of days without a break, even though it had only been a few hours. Damn! I hated these kinds of cases.

I called Casey Family Partners and made an appointment for the Garretts for the next day at eleven. Then I called the Garrett's home phone number and left a message on the answering machine—they probably hadn't even arrived home yet. I told them I would meet them in Spokane at eleven. I'd wished for a distraction from my own domestic woes, so here it was, bringing to mind the old adage—be careful what you wish for.

*****

Wednesday, 1245 Hrs

I took a huge bite of my salad burger. It seemed a long time since breakfast so I was starving as usual. In the booth at Zips, Kovitch sat next to me with Jordan facing us.

"Crime scene looked pretty much like we thought it would," said Kovitch around a couple of French fries. "No surprises. And no reason to believe anyone besides ol' Bud shot her. Besides, with the little girl's testimony, we should have enough proof. Then when Joanna regains consciousness and is able to tell us what happened, we'll have plenty. However, there's no sign of the gun."

"We do know," added Jordan, refilling his coffee cup from the decanter on the table, "that the weapon is a .32 caliber, fired from a few feet away. I'd sure like to know where Simpson got a firearm. I also wonder how many times we've responded to DV's at that residence while that weapon was somewhere inside."

"He probably got it from some asshole on the street," retorted Kovitch. "What about you, Sarge?" He'd looked at me. "Did that kid ever show up?"

"Yup," I said, pushing my now empty plate back, and reaching to refill my coffee mug. "He sure did." Then I proceeded to tell them Roy's story

Just then Melanie's voice crackled through my portable radio.

"Hey, Magnum. Bradbury wants to know if you are about clear from there."

"I can be. What's he need?"

"The hospital advised him that the DV victim from yesterday is now conscious. He's just gotten off duty so requests that you go to St. Jerome Hospital and see if you can get a statement from her."

"Copy," I said into the radio. "I'll be headed that direction in about five."

"Jordan and I'll go back and start logging in the evidence that we collected this morning from the Simpson residence," said Kovitch. "Then we've got a couple of case files to deliver to the prosecutor in Spokane, so we'll be out of Porterville a couple of hours."

It's not pretty what a bullet wound can do to a woman's face, even when it's a relatively small caliber. Joanna Simpson's left cheek bone was bandaged, and bruising around both eyes gave her the look of a run-over raccoon. She lay on her back, eyes swollen closed, head slightly elevated by a couple of pillows. One bare shoulder showed beneath the hospital blankets, the other supported a snug gauze wrapping, which I assumed was part of the bandaging around her lower right ribs from where they had removed the second bullet. A clear plastic drip bag hung suspended from a pole, with a long slender plastic tube taped securely to Joanna's left arm.

"Hello, Joanna," I said. Joanna's eyes peeped open as well as they could. She looked like she hurt a lot. "It's Margaret Schultz, from the police department."

"I know," she said, weakly. "The nurse told me you were coming."

"I won't be able to stay long. But I need to ask if you remember what happened to you."

"Bud..." She began to cry. "...Bud was so angry. They told me I'd been shot. But I can't remember; he must have shot me." She cried some more then asked "Where's Angie? Is she okay?"

"Angie's fine. She's over at Mrs. Cardell's. She's spent some time there before, I think." Joanna nodded, and closed her eyes again. "We haven't found Bud, yet. Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Does he have any friends in Porterville where he might stay?" Her eyes opened again and she tried to focus on my face.

"Maybe Jeff..." she mumbled.

"Jeff? Jeff who? What's his last name?"

"Jeff Fredericks," she said.

Fredericks! I mentally winced. Now I knew where Simpson probably got the handgun. It made sense that Simpson and he were buddies. They were both assholes. Jeffery Fredericks was a name well-known to Porterville P.D. He was what we called a Stat Five meaning that we kept a close eye on him because sooner or later he was going to screw up. We'd gone to his place two or three times on DV calls when he'd used his mother for a punching bag. She'd gotten smart somewhere along the line and left the state to live with a sister.

Fredericks had also done some prison time for burglary a few years back, refining his criminal techniques. We suspected him of a couple of recent residentials but had no proof. In one, a number of firearms had been stolen. If we could locate the gun that was used to shoot Joanna, we might just clear up those burglaries as well. We also believed Fredericks was dealing drugs to some of the local teenagers but couldn't quite nail him on that. A real gem.

"Anywhere else Bud might be hiding out?" I asked Joanna.

"I...I don't know. I think maybe he has a girlfriend."

Oh great. This guy just kept getting better and better.

"Do you know her name?"

"No. I don't know..." Joanna's eyelids began to droop.

"What caused Bud to get so mad at you?" I asked.

"He was mad because I called the cops yesterday morning and he went to jail for what happened the night before. And because," Joanna hesitated. "...and because when he got released from jail I told him that I'd had it, that I was taking Angie with me to Oregon to live with my parents. I'd never seen him so angry!" Joanna sobbed. Her eyes slipped shut, then struggled open again.

"He...he slapped me across the face, and I remember running from the kitchen into our bedroom. I was so afraid Angie would hear the yelling and get scared. She was just in her room. But Bud shoved open the bedroom door before I could get it locked. Then I only remember blinding pain. I blacked out, and woke up here."

Crying seemed to cause the poor woman even more pain, but I had one more question.

"Okay, Joanna. I know this is hard for you. Of all the classrooms at Porterville Middle School, is there any reason you can think of why the Bernard kid would have brought a gun into yours?"

But before Joanna could even register what I was asking, a nurse bustled in, gripped my upper arm, and escorted me toward the door of the hospital room, much as I would have done with a two-bit trespasser.

I felt guilty for pushing Joanna to tears while she lay in such pain, but was sure there was still more information locked up in that head of hers. I felt doubly guilty because it was only yesterday morning that I'd wished she would see the light and leave that creep, Bud. I'd gotten my wish, but her decision had bought her two bullets; it was pure luck that she was still alive.

*****

Chapter 13—The Chase

Wednesday, 1450 hrs.

Melanie's voice brought the car radio to life again.

"Porterville dispatch to all available units. Respond Code three to Rockview Daycare at 1623 Sherman Avenue. Attempted abduction in progress. That's Rockview Daycare, 1623 Sherman Avenue. Units to respond?"

Fairbanks came on the radio and said he was headed that way with the chief riding shotgun, then Banjo radioed to say he was on his way. I told Melanie that I, too, was enroute.

I was only six blocks from Rockview Daycare. At Hanford, a major thoroughfare, I sped southbound, the back end of the Vic fishtailing in the inch of fresh snow.

"Also," continued dispatch, "our on-scene complainant states male suspect, driving dark blue minivan, is attempting to get a five-year-old female into the van. Standby..."

Melanie was obviously still on the phone with the complainant who was feeding her ongoing information. After a few moments she resumed transmission:

"Complainant states suspect confronted an older woman outside the daycare, shoved her to the ground, took the child and now is westbound on Sherman Avenue toward Hanford Road."

Damn it all to hell!

As I slowed the Crown Vic for the red light at Chestnut at Hanford, a dark blue minivan careened north on Hanford, heading straight for me, contrails of fresh snow in its wake. Shit! Shit, shit, shit!

Sure enough, the van blew the stop light and roared past me. As it flew past, I looked across into the driver's window. It was Bud Simpson all right; no sign of the child. She was probably bouncing around loose in the back of the van. Goddammit! I flipped on my overheads and hoped that the idling motorists would stay right where they were, that they'd just continue watching all the excitement...and not pull out in front of me.

I made a snow-swirling u-turn, swerved then fishtailed, and headed northbound. Snatching up the mic, I yelled, "I'm behind that minivan, northbound on Hanford from Chestnut. He's got a pretty good head start since I had to make a three-sixty to get after him."

"Copy," said Melanie.

The next voice was Chief Bronson's. "Did you get the license number?"

"Shit, no, Chief!" I said, wincing at my own untimely expletive. "I'm too busy trying to not hit anybody. I'll try to catch up in a minute."

"Copy, Schultz. If you're able to get the plate number, then back off. We don't want to endanger that child. It's not like we don't know who's got her."

"Copy Chief," I said, focusing on the minivan. I didn't dare take my eyes off it, because that's when you lose fleeing suspects—when you take your eyes off, even for a second. At 3 p.m, it was already getting dark, so visibility was low. And I didn't want to rush up on the minivan and motivate Simpson to take evasive action that would cause a collision.

Simpson bombed through another red light, this one was at Oak Street. It was a miracle that no one had broadsided him yet. But as I approached the Oak Street intersection, I saw the miracle. Blue and red lights rotated on top of a green and white sheriff's cruiser parked smack-dab in the middle of Oak Street to my left, and was keeping westbound traffic at a standstill. To my right, in the middle of Oak Street on the eastbound side, stood a very large man in full Lincoln County Sheriff's uniform. He waved a red-tipped flashlight in one hand and his hat in the other, causing all eastbound traffic to slow to a stop.

My old friend, Sgt. Paul Truman, LCSO, was holding back the traffic, making it possible for me to close my distance from the minivan. As I slipped and slid past him in the snow, he grinned at me and waved his hat around in circles in a big hello. I doubt that he saw it, but I grinned back.

With that kind of encouraging backup, you just had to try harder. I eased my foot down into the accelerator, and the Ford slowly closed the distance to the back end of the minivan. I could almost read the plate now. It looked as if Simpson intended to get to Highway 9-14 which generally stayed in better travel condition during snowstorms than Porterville's city streets.

"Melanie," I said. "I'm gaining on the van...First three of the license..." I pushed the accelerator a little harder and read, "Adam...Ida...Union...Six, five, three. Washington State. And it's on a Honda."

Just as I finished, the minivan veered right and sped onto an onramp. There was no way, at the speed I was now traveling, to make the turn behind the van without losing traction, so I removed my foot from the accelerator and allowed the Crown Vic to begin slowing itself down. I flipped off the siren and emergency lights.

"Minivan is heading east on Highway 9-14." I said into the mic. "It's in your jurisdiction now, Truman."

Before Truman could answer on his car-to-car, I turned the radio volume down a notch. Paul Truman had the loudest radio voice I'd ever encountered. And he never disappointed me.

Even with the lowered volume, his voice boomed, "I copied your transmission, Schultz. I'm switching to County frequency to get some deputies on it. Then I'll be contacting your complainants for suspect details." And he was gone.

I made a right turn into Safeway's parking lot, flipped a u-turn, and headed back toward Porterville's downtown. But I wanted to know more about the minivan. "Melanie, did you get a registration back on that van?" I asked.

"That's affirmative," said Melanie. "Adam Ida Union six five three comes back to a red 1998 Ford Explorer, registered to Elaine J. Maddox, Enumclaw, Washington."

Crap. I was certain I'd read that plate correctly. And it had definitely been on a dark blue Honda minivan, not a red Explorer.

"Copy. Will you see if you can find a phone number for the registered owner, then call her to find out if someone's stolen her license plates?"

"Copy," she responded.

"Chief, what's your location?" I asked Chief Bronson. His voice responded almost immediately.

"We've circled back to the daycare. Fairbanks is taking the report from the complainant," he said. "If you want to contact us here, Banjo is headed out code one to Highway 9-14, to see if he can locate your van." Oh. All of a sudden it was my van.

When I finally reached Rockview Daycare, Truman's cruiser was parked at the curb, and he was standing in a little group with Chief Bronson, Sgt. Fairbanks and a young woman who I took to be the complainant. Nearby, the red flashers of an ambulance winked back and forth. Seated on the back bumper of the boxy emergency vehicle was Georgina Cardell. A boy of about four stood close to her knee. I'd seen the boy at her house the night before while delivering Angie. A medic was wrapping an Ace bandage around her left wrist. I changed direction, and walked toward the ambulance.

"Georgina! You were injured?"

Georgina looked more angry than injured, so that was a good sign.

"That...that..," she stammered, searching for an adjective less profane in the presence of an attentive four-year-old. "...that...Bud Simpson!" She spat the name like a vile taste. "I always try to make my foster children's visits as normal as possible. I even drive them to their usual kindergartens and daycares. But this afternoon as I arrived to pick up Angie and little Sammy here, I see that Miss Reubens is allowing Bud Simpson to take his daughter away in that van. I knew he wasn't supposed to be doing that, so I walked up to Miss Reubens and told her the police were looking for the man, and he should not be allowed to take Angie. He overheard the conversation, grabbed Angie and put her in the van. I hurried over to stop him, and he shoved me down on the sidewalk. The snow actually broke my fall a bit, so I merely sprained my wrist as I went down. Miss Reubens, of course, used her cell phone to call 911. I'm all right. I'm just so furious...!"

"I'm sorry this happened to you, Georgina," I said. "You got caught in the middle of it. That's not supposed to happen."

"It's also not supposed to happen that children get caught between two crazy parents," said Georgina. "Were you able to stop him?"

"Not yet. But we will."

I headed over to the small group of people that contained Rockview Daycare's supervisor, Miss Reubens, and halted beside Paul Truman, who stood about six-foot-four, three-hundred pounds, and always made me feel short. Which I hated.

"Thanks for the assist," I said, looking up at him. He had a light brown, big bushy cop mustache and grinned from under it as he looked down at me through his wire-rimmed spectacles. The trooper hat he'd been waving in the air earlier was now clapped back on his head, loose ear flaps keeping his ears toasty.

"Ah, Magnum, there you are." his voice resonated. His big, gloved right paw dropped to my shoulder in greeting. "You know I'm always there for you. Only it sounds like you got the wrong license number. Make me work that hard and that's the best you can come up with?"

"Oh, it was the right license number, all right. That, I'm sure of. So your deputies haven't spotted the minivan out in the County yet? Typical. I'm just happy nobody crashed into anybody else."

"Yeah, me too," said Truman. And we both turned to the little group.

"I know Bud Simpson," Miss Ruebens was saying. "He's picked Angie up from daycare many times. I had no reason to keep her from going with her father. Though I don't recall seeing that van before." Miss Ruebens was in her mid-thirties, slender, attractive, with shoulder-length blonde hair. Her hands were plunged deeply into the pockets of her forest green coat, and her shoulders were hunched against the cold.

"It's not your fault," Fairbanks consoled. "We knew that the little girl went to kindergarten, but we didn't know she came to this daycare afterward. Otherwise, we could have given you a heads-up."

"Once, a couple of weeks ago," Ruebens continued, "when Angie's mother came in to pick her up, we noticed that Joanna was wearing sunglasses, trying to hide a black eye. I mentioned it to her, but she just shrugged and said it happened when she was inner-tubing in the snow with Angie. She said that she'd accidently run into a fence post. She's a school teacher, for goodness sake. I never would have believed she was being abused at home. This is just so terrible."

"Well," said. Fairbanks, reaching into an inside pocket for one of his business cards. "If you happen to see that van around again, or any sign of Bud Simpson, please give us a call."

Miss Ruebens accepted the card. "I'll do that," she said.

*****

Chapter 14—In Search of Elaine Maddox

Wednesday, 1705 hrs.

Kovitch was grumbling as he and Jordan sauntered into the office. "Just my luck to be in Spokane when Simpson escapes."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's all I've heard since we left Spokane. Screw it. I'm gonna go home and sleep!" Jordan yawned and headed back out the door.

The printout Kovitch held made it obvious he'd stopped at dispatch on his way to the office. "Elaine J. Maddox - Enumclaw, Washington. How does this Maddox fit in, do you suppose?"

"I don't know how Maddox might fit," I shrugged. "Melanie and Evan both tried to track her down in Enumclaw, with no luck.

"But when I spoke with Joanna this afternoon, she said she thought maybe Bud has a girlfriend. She also said that maybe he was hiding out at Jeff Frederick's place." I considered for a minute. "Let's go for a ride, Frank."

"Whatcha got in mind this time, Sarge?" Frank asked. "It's after five o'clock. Don't you ever go off duty?"

"You know I do," I said, zipping up my parka. I pulled the stocking cap down over my ears. At this rate, I'd have hat-hair until spring. "I just want to go past Fredericks' residence. Let's see what he's driving these days. It'll only take a minute, and then we can call it a day."

Frederick's rental house sat well back from the street in the deepening winter shadows. No light shown from any window. At one time the house had been a fashionable, rambling, ranch-style house with an attached double garage. It still rambled and still had the attached double garage, but fashionable would be a stretch.

Winter was this house's best season. Apart from the patches of black tar paper where shingles used to be, snow covered the roof. Mercifully, snow also covered the lawns which Fredericks never watered nor mowed. Several large mounds of snow in the front yard resembled snow sculptures of different model cars because that's what they were. The garage doors were both tightly closed and the driveway empty. Except for a set of fresh tire tracks in the snow that led from the street and disappeared into the garage door on the right, that was it. No footprints in sight.

"What time did it stop snowing, Frank?"

"I don't know. Maybe thirty minutes ago?"

"Maybe," I agreed. "And look at those tracks. They must have been made just after it stopped snowing. They're totally clean."

"So?"

"So, why aren't there any lights on inside? Whoever drove the vehicle into the garage is just sitting in total darkness? It's only six. It's dinner time, not nighty-night time."

"Maybe," said Frank. "Or maybe ol' Jeffery is getting lucky. You don't need lights to get laid. In fact, some people prefer it without lights, though I don't know why."

I shot a look at Kovitch. "TMI, Frank," I snapped. Shifting into drive, we cruised past Frederick's house and circled the block. Peering between trees and around other houses, we tried to see the house from every angle. Not a light on anywhere. I guess Kovitch had a point. Maybe Fredericks was inside 'getting lucky.' A nauseating thought, if you knew much about Fredericks.

"Sgt. Schultz," said Evan on the car radio. Frank grabbed the car mic and said, "Go ahead for Schultz."

"Just received a call back from one of the messages the day shift dispatcher left on answering machines this afternoon. A guy named Maddox says he'll be home for the rest of the evening if you still need to reach him."

An older male voice on our office landline said, "Elaine?...Yeah. Elaine's my kid. Well, not really a kid; she's twenty-nine or thirty by now. Elaine Janet Maddox. Her mom's been gone since Elaine was twelve. Come to think of it, I haven't seen Elaine in five or six months. We're not the closest of families, I guess you could say."

"Do you know what kind of vehicle Elaine drives?" I asked Arnold Maddox, a machinist who had explained that he works for a company just outside of Enumclaw, Washington.

"Hey, you kids!" Maddox had tried, ineffectively, to muffle his shout. "Knock it off! I'm on the goddamn phone!" Then he was back. "Dang kids. Second family. I think I'm too old for this BS, but it's a little late to worry about that now." He chuckled. "What did you ask? Oh, yeah. Elaine's ride. Last I knew, she had this older Ford Explorer. Red, I think. Mileage was gettin' up there. It was pretty old when she bought it. Hold on a minute." He muffled the phone again.

"I told you kids to shut up! I'm on the freakin' phone here! Where's your ma, anyhow? Jeez-us H." He directed his attention back to me. "Sorry about that. Last I heard, Elaine had a job waitin' tables over in... let's see...well, over in you guys's neck of the woods. Hadleyville, Ritzville or some-such ville. She usually calls around Christmas time. You want I should have her give you folks a call? Hey, she's not in any trouble, is she?"

"No, that's all right Mr. Maddox," I said. "I think we'll be able to find her. You've been great help. Goodbye now." I hung up, perhaps a little abruptly, but I didn't see any point in Mr. Maddox starting the holidays concerned that his grown daughter might be in trouble with the law.

I turned to Kovitch. "The last vehicle Elaine Maddox's father knew her to drive was an older red Ford Explorer." We high-fived each other. Now, all we had to do was find Elaine.

Before going off shift, I picked up the radio. "Sgt. Bradbury, would you stop by the station for a couple of minutes?"

*****

Bradbury was older than I by fifteen years. He stood about five foot nine, and was in good shape, round being the shape. He wore a full, but neatly trimmed brown beard, with a streak of gray below his lower lip. The ragged mustache almost hid the amused smirk that often lurked around his mouth. His blue eyes and memory were sharp - he heard and remembered every word anyone said. He seldom spoke but when he did, it was for one of two reasons. The first was to tell you how he felt about any democrat who might be in office. The second was to give you a hard time about something with his keen and cutting sense of humor. He liked to rile a person sufficiently to get them to own up to what he really wanted to find out.

Because Bradbury didn't enjoy driving, any officer who happened to be on duty during the same shift as Bradbury usually found himself on chauffeur duty.

In the middle of a sentence Bradbury could drift off to sleep, and if something woke him suddenly, he'd continue the same sentence right where he'd left off. No one knew how he was able to do that.

When he went with an officer on a call, he always stood back to let the officer handle it. But if some guy you needed to arrest was doubling up his fists and raising his voice, Bradbury would unobtrusively set his ticket book and flashlight on the hood of the patrol car and remove his glasses. Carefully he would fold the glasses and tuck them into his shirt pocket and close its flap for safekeeping. Then he was ready for whatever, including a knock-down, drag-out fight.

Five minutes after my request, Bradbury and Travis banged in through the side door from the parking lot. They stamped the snow off their boots with a great deal of commotion. Travis said he had to go to the can, and we heard the two men clunking their boots along the hallway in opposite directions.

"You rang, Sergeant Schultz?" The ghost of a smirk played tag with Bradbury's mustache.

"I did. Joanna Simpson thought there's a chance that Bud's hanging at Jeff Fredericks' place. We drove by there a few minutes ago. No lights on, no foot prints leading in or out of the house. But there are fresh tire tracks going into his double car garage. We're watching for that Honda minivan or possibly a red Ford Explorer belonging to an Elaine Maddox. So, can you and Travis keep an eye on the place tonight; see if anyone shows up there or if any lights go on?"

"Happy to, young lady," said Bradbury. "Now don't you think it's high-time you went off duty?"

It was, in fact, high-time.

*****

Thursday, 0730 hrs.

"Tomorrow's only a half-day at school," Jenny called from the bathroom.

I could see her brushing her hair upward into a ponytail. "...then Dad's picking me up at about two. We have to be at the airport at three. Are you going to be okay with this, Mom?"

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" I said innocently from my bedroom. I checked the Ruger's cylinder, spun it with my thumb, saw that all five .357 rounds were intact, snapped it back into the frame, then sheathed it in the holster strapped under my left armpit with a little more oomph than necessary.

Sure. Why not? I loved being all by myself at Christmas time while my one and only child celebrated the holidays with her father several states away.

"I'll have plenty work to keep me occupied," I said. "Besides, somebody's got to stay home and feed the cat."

"Oh, Mom," Jenny chided. "I made you something really pretty. But you can't open it until Christmas Day. Promise?"

"Promise, My Lovely," I said, folding my arms. I leaned against the bathroom door jamb and smiled at her as she pulled her hair tight into an elastic band. "Now, get your coat and let's beat-feet."

*****

Thursday, 0800 hrs.

A gorgeous Sunrise this morning: in the southeast, neon pink against the dark and silvery morning clouds with evergreen trees on the horizon forming a jagged, black silhouette along the skyline. Above that, the sky appeared clear with scattered clouds. And Zip's reader board said 17 degrees.

After dropping Jennifer off a block away from the middle school, I drove directly to the station. I always arrived with a sense of anticipation. Though what actually occurred on a daily basis sometimes made me question my sanity.

After depositing my coat, hat and boots in the office, I trotted back up to dispatch for my usual perusal of the night's activity log.

Travis had arrested a drunk driver who had blown a .15 on the BAC. He was back in a jail cell, sleeping if off—the prisoner, not Travis.

Officer Nickolas Peabody had arrested two minors for possession of under 40 grams of weed. He'd called both sets of parents who liked nothing better than to be rudely awakened at two in the morning so they could drive to the police station in the bitter cold to pick up their darling little potheads.

Officers had responded to a barking dog complaint and two loud music complaints. No entries involving Detective Jordan. It was either too chilly for our young car prowlers, or they'd been spooked by Jordan's lanky pursuit of them the night before. No one had located Bud Simpson. I hoped that little girl was not out in the cold somewhere.

I headed back to the detective's office. Bradbury had left a note scribbled on the front page of a yellow legal pad.

"Schultz,

As per your request, we drove past Fredericks' house several times on swing

Shift, then started helping Dave with his DUI. I passed your request on to

Finnegan on graveyard shift. Told him to leave you a message.

Keep me posted.

Bradbury"

Kovitch walked in as I listened to voice mail and checked e-mails. An e-mail from Finnegan popped up.

"Sgt. Schultz," the e-mail read. "Drove back in the alley of Fredericks' house at 0400 hrs. without vehicle lights. A bathroom light was on. As I passed, light went off. Nothing else.

Finn"

Kovitch read the e-mail over my shoulder. "Well, what do'ya' know?"

"We need to contact whoever's in that house," I said, getting up.

We bundled up, headed out the side door and warmed up the engine of the Crown Vic. Someone was taking pains to hide their presence in Fredericks' house. Bud Simpson? Elaine Maddox? Or just Fredericks, himself, not necessarily noted for his cooperation with law enforcement.

*****

Thursday, 0835 hrs.

Just as we had done last evening, we drove slowly past Fredericks' rental. In the light of day, it was plain to see that no tracks, tire or otherwise, marred yesterday's snow—except the one set we'd seen last night leading from the street into the right half of the double garage. The drapes in the big living room window were dawn tight. Most of the other windows were guarded by pull-down shades.

I parked the Crown Vic around the corner, and Kovitch and I walked to the house, up the long sidewalk to the front door, snow crunching beneath our boots as we broke through the expanse of unmarred crust. Kovitch pushed the doorbell and we heard a ding-dong reverberate inside the house.

I got a sense of something or someone scurrying behind the door. We looked at each other and Kovitch's eyebrows lifted. He pushed the bell again. Silence holding its breath. Then wood creaked as though a weight shifted just on the other side of the door. Kovitch pressed the button one more time, letting it drag out. Still nothing. Whoever was in there had no intention of opening the door.

I pulled a business card from my pocket and lodged it in the gap between the screen door and its jamb. Maybe I could get someone to call, out of curiosity if nothing else. We crunched back to the car. As I glanced back toward the house, one of the drapes moved ever so slightly back into place.

At the station, I spent the next half-hour calling restaurants in Porterville and Hadleyville to find out if any of them employed a waitress named Elaine Maddox. One did.

Grandpa John's Restaurant and Lounge in Hadleyville had hired Elaine Maddox for the past eighteen months to wait tables and tend bar. Elaine was on her days' off, the woman who answered the phone informed me, and wasn't expected in until Friday at five p.m. No, she could not give me Elaine's phone number or home address, because it was against their policy. I could be anyone, she pointed out, just posing as a police detective. No, she couldn't let me speak with the manager, because he didn't come in until noon. I said thanks and hung up.

I checked my watch. Time to go Porterville Middle School and get a line on a child-molesting football coach. Then I had to be in Spokane by eleven for the interview of Roy Garrett at Casey Family Partners people.

"Hey Kovitch," Isaid. "Would you call Hadleyville P.D. and see if they could run down an address or phone number for Elaine Maddox?"

Kovitch said he was on it.

*****

Chapter 15—Coach Horatio Franklin

Thursday, 0915 Hrs.

Vice-principal Hornsby stood up from behind his desk as I entered his office at Porterville Middle School. Idly, on the drive over, I'd been wondering at the irony of the school's initials: PMS.

"Detective, nice to see you," said Hornsby. "And not, this time I hope, for a crisis at PMS." I chuckled inwardly at the initials I'd just been contemplating, but said nothing as we shook hands. "Sit down, won't you?"

I sat.

"How can I be of help today?" he asked.

"It's about your football coach."

"Mr. Franklin? Good man. Good coach. Teaches history, too, you know. All the kids really like him."

"Not Mr. Franklin. A boy from this school came to me yesterday and said that a football coach whom everyone just calls Coach Bill molested him."

"Who is the boy making these allegations?"

"His name is Roy Garrett," I told Hornsby. "And I can tell you right now, we rarely have kids who actually seek out law enforcement with such information. I have no reason to doubt that he's telling the truth. In..." I consulted my watch, "...about ninety minutes I'll be meeting Roy and his mother at Casey Family Partners in Spokane for his interview. I thought it important that I let you know that this is going down."

Hornsby reached for the phone and pressed four buttons. The phone ring, once, twice, three times. Apparently someone picked up, and Hornsby said, "Coach Franklin? Can you walk down here to my office for a moment? Yes, it's important. Okay. I'll see you in a minute or two." He looked at me. "He'll have to get another teacher to stay with his students while he's out of the room. A teacher can't just leave a class of twenty-eight twelve and thirteen year olds on their own, you know."

I, in fact, hadn't known because I'd never thought about it. But the concept was rather terrifying.

Coach Horatio Franklin, built like a retired professional football player - big, powerful, out of shape - appeared to be in his early to mid-fifties. Being a full-time teacher would explain the out-of-shape part; just when would he find time to work out? His clean-shaven, craggy face was ruddy, as though he spent long hours outdoors in all sorts of weather. He had luxuriously thick hair peppered with gray and pale blue—somehow sad—eyes. He spoke with a slow deep bass rumble like well-modulated thunder. Hornsby introduced us. We shook hands, and all three of us sat.

"Coach Franklin," said Hornsby. "I've got some bad news. It seems that Coach Bill may have molested one of our students."

Franklin looked absolutely desolate. "Coach Bill," he rumbled softly. He leaned his elbows on his knees, huge hands dangling between, and appeared to have forgotten momentarily that we were present. Then he raised his eyes. "He's the assistant football coach. His name is William Jonas. He was in charge of coaching junior varsity."

Holy crap! I'd met William Jonas Monday night; he was the asshole Suburban driver we'd helped get back up the embankment off I-90 eastbound, at about milepost 396. I knew there was something about that guy!

"Sergeant Schultz?" said Hornsby, seeing how distracted I'd become. "Are you okay?"

"Y...yes. Sorry. But I think I've met William Jonas. Heavy-set man, balding, works for the Post Office here in Porterville?"

"That's him," said Coach Franklin.

And now, I remembered that Clay Bernard's grandfather, John Bollinger, had told us that Clay had tried playing football this past season with something less than success. I wondered if Clay and Roy had both been junior varsity. Both victims of a child molester?

"Coach Franklin, what about Clay Bernard?" I asked. "Who was his coach?"

Franklin shook his head. "That Bernard kid was way too small to play football for varsity. My big guys would have creamed him. He insisted on playing, so I sent him over to play with the younger, smaller kids where I figured he wouldn't get hurt so bad. Wait, you're not thinking that...could that be the reason he brought the gun?"

"Clay told us that he brought it because some kids were teasing him, so I'm not sure yet what we have," I said. "So far, we have one kid who says that Coach Bill would get one of them on the floor and start tickling him. Sometimes, according to this boy, Coach Bill would 'touch somebody's privates.' The boy, Roy Garrett, will have his professional interview later today, and we'll have to see if Clay will talk about any molestation. He's not nearly as forth-coming as Roy and hasn't said much of anything. At least not so far."

"I had a bad feeling about Jonas," intoned Coach Franklin. "But I just couldn't put a finger on it. I knew he was giving two or three of the boys some extra help, showing them football plays where their size and strength wouldn't be so detrimental, but...Lord, I feel terrible about this."

"Well," I said, "Don't beat yourself up about it. It could even be a false alarm. But I'll need all the information the school may have on William "Bill" Jonas. And, of course, keep this confidential until we know for sure what's going on."

"Absolutely," said Coach Franklin. "I sure hope it's a false alarm. I've never had anything disreputable happen within our football program since I've been in charge, and I've always fostered trust between coaches and players."

Vice-Principal Hornsby spoke up. "Coach Franklin, why don't you go on back to your classroom. I'll locate the information on Jonas for the detective. Thank you for your help."

I stood to shake hands with Coach Franklin, noting how dwarfed my hand felt in his large paw. I stood up taller and intensified my grip. It didn't help any.

"Thanks, Coach," I said. "And maybe it'll turn out to be nothing." But somehow I doubted that.

After Coach Franklin left, Hornsby shook his head. "We try to be so careful about the people we hire. I've been here eighteen years and, like Coach Franklin, I've never had an incident like this happen here at Portville Middle School. We always check references of anyone who will likely come into contact with our kids. Now that I know who, exactly, we're talking about, I think I personally called the last school at which Jonas was an assistant coach. He came highly recommended by their school personnel. They said that he definitely knows his football. And they'd never received any complaint against him."

"Unfortunately, I don't think any place is immune," I said. "And the fact remains that just because that last school had never received a formal complaint against Jonas doesn't mean he didn't do anything. Usually, young people are too afraid to say anything to anybody about such assaults.

"The best thing we can do, assuming this is no false alarm, is get enough evidence to convict this...(I tried to clean up my language a bit when in contact with kids and those who worked with kids)...child molester and send him to prison for a long time. Now, if you can find that information, it would really help."

While Hornsby turned to his computer to see what information the middle school had on Assistant Coach William Jonas, I walked to the window overlooking the school yard and, turning my back to Hornsby, pulled out my cell phone and called Porterville PD dispatch center.

"Melanie," I said. "Would you find the information on that motorist assist we had around nineteen hundred hours on Monday night. It was a white Chevy Suburban."

I waited while she located the call. When she said she had it in front of her, I said, "Use Jonas' Idaho driver's license to run a NCIC III check and to hold on to the information until I get to the station."

I turned back to Hornsby, who handed me a paper that said that Jonas had previously worked for the U.S Postal Service in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. He had volunteered as a football coach at Kootenai Valley Middle School for a year prior to his transfer to the U.S. Postal Service in Porterville, Washington. His residence, however, was listed as a P.O. box out in the county.

"I believe," frowned Hornsby, "that during football season he stayed in an apartment here in town. Let me call the office to see if they have an address of his apartment. I don't seem to have that in my information here."

I waited while Hornsby made his call. When he turned back, he looked perplexed and shook his head.

"I guess we don't have it after all," he said. "We just had a cell number, which is how we contacted him when we needed him. I can give you the number..."

*****

Thursday, 1005 hrs.

The moment I reseated myself behind the wheel of the Crown Vic I put the Bill Jonas's cell phone number to good use. Jonas answered after one ring. "Hi, Detective. I'm at work right now, but, sure. I'll meet you at your car for a quick question. I'm due for a break, anyway. What's this about?"

"Just some follow up," I said, not wanting to tip my hand.

It took about five minutes for me to drive from PMS to the USPO. I parked across the street and waited with the motor idling so it would stay warm and cozy inside.

Moments later, there he was, bundled in the same navy pea coat he'd worn last Monday when we'd called the tow truck to get his SUV back up the embankment. I beeped the horn, he looked in my direction, saw the car with me behind the wheel, and broke into a big grin like we were old friends. My stomach turned, but I waved him over, motioning for him to climb into the front seat.

"Why, Sergeant," Jonas gushed. "To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?" He dropped his sizable butt into the front passenger seat.

"Don't get too excited yet," I said, gritting my teeth. "Go ahead and pull the door closed. I need to talk with you for a few moments."

"So serious Sergeant. Have I done something illegal?"

"I'm thinking maybe you have," I said. "And because of that, I'm going to advise you of your Constitutional Rights before we even begin."

Jonas scowled, no longer quite as friendly. "What's this all about?" he demanded.

"Mr. Jonas, this about the possibility of you touching young boys inappropriately. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you."

"Now hold on a minute!" interrupted Jonas.

A jolt of anger surged through me and I turned to face Jonas. "No! You hold on a minute!" I commanded. "I have a job to do and fully intend to do it. So, I'd appreciate it if you don't interrupt me until I'm done."

I finished advising him of his rights and asked if he understood them. He mumbled, "Of course I do! This is all a bogus bunch of bullshit. Besides, how can I expect to be treated fairly when you're so obviously hostile toward me"?

"For some odd reason," I said, "child molesters are not my favorite people, and isn't it a good thing that you can't be convicted by my attitude? In fact, we have to have evidence sufficient to prove your guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. My current attitude doesn't mean squat to a judge and jury. It just means that you and I are probably not going to be pals."

"Well, fuck you, lady," snarled Jonas. "I'm not saying another word to you without an attorney." He reached for the door handle. I hit his door lock from my side so that his door wouldn't open.

He yanked on the handle. "Goddammit. Why are you trying to do?"

"I'm not quite finished," I said. "When I'm finished you can leave. Just a word of advice. Make certain you do not contact, in any way, shape, or form, any of the boys you coached for football at the Porterville Middle School this fall or I'll arrest you for witness tampering. Do you understand?"

"I understand your words perfectly," snapped Jonas. "But you're not in a position to tell me what I can or can't do. I done nothing wrong. Now let me outa here or I'll have you up on false imprisonment charges!"

I hated that he was right, and hit the unlock button so the next time he yanked on the handle it opened so readily he nearly fell out. Ha.

Learning to control my wrath when it came to dealing with certain types of criminals was a fault I was working on—Chief Bronson's orders. He claimed that more criminals could be captured with honey than with vinegar. This was one of the skills I had yet to master.

The National Crime Information Center, or NCIC III, is "a computerized index of criminal justice information, i.e. - criminal histories, fugitives, stolen properties, missing persons, made available to all law enforcement agencies," twenty-four seven. I'd seen really long reams of paperwork spew forth from the police printer with NCIC III's on some career criminals. But the one on William Samuel Jonas was disappointingly brief. The only illegal thing we could prove against Jonas, at this time, was that he'd not obtained his Washington State Driver's license in a timely manner.

That, and...

I compared the two documents. The date of birth on the Idaho Driver's License and the NCIC III criminal history check was11-06-63. The date of birth Hornsby had handed me was 12-06-63. A misprint by some overworked, distracted school secretary or intentionally provided misinformation?

*****

Thursday, 1045 hrs.

It looked like the best part of today, believe it or not, was going to be the weather. Though the temperature was in the low 20's, the sun shone in a clear blue sky. The roads were more than likely in good shape, but the sunshine meant the air would warm up just enough so that some of the snow would melt. Then when the sun went down around three or three-thirty, the melted snow would freeze, ice would form on the roadways, and we'd have black ice. But, for the moment, I was looking forward to the bright, sunny forty-five minute drive into Spokane.

I pulled out my cell phone and speed-dialed Frank Kovitch.

"Kovitch," he announced after the third ring.

"Hey, Frank," I said. "Were you able to get any info from Hadleyville P.D. on Elaine Maddox?"

"That's affirmative, Sarge. Got an address and phone number in Hadleyville. I tried to call her, but no one answered the phone. I talked to Braddick, and he drove by her apartment building and knocked on her door. Couldn't get anyone to come to the door. Says he's seen her a few times when he's gone into the restaurant. Cute gal, he says. I guess he'd notice, since he's single again."

"Braddick's single again? I thought he just got married about six months ago."

"He did. Apparently that one didn't work out, either. Anyhow, he says Hadleyville P.D. has been called to Maddox's apartment several times over the past few months. She likes to party and isn't always discriminating about who she parties with. Neighbors object to the loud music and rowdy late-night voices, especially when Maddox gets blitzed and starts dancing topless out on her front porch. But I guess she hasn't done that since the weather turned cold."

"Ah, that's too bad, Frank," I sympathized. "At any rate, I'm off to Spokane to Casey Family Partners. I imagine you're busy logging in the Simpson crime scene evidence?"

"I'll get right on it, Sarge," said Frank. "Catch you when you get back."

Good boy, that Frank. He knew how to pick up on subtle hints. I turned the key in the ignition and the big engine roared to life.

*****

Chapter 16—Casey Family Partners

1130 hrs.

When I arrived at Casey Family Partners, Roy Garrett, looking smaller and more frightened than ever, and his mother, again in her pale green waitress uniform, already occupied a couple of the chairs that lined two walls of the waiting room. The rest of the chairs stood empty. A vacant reception desk sat off to the left. Mrs. Garrett's round, brown-eyed face was etched with concern, and something else—guilt maybe?

I clasped Adeline's cold hand for a moment, and smiled at Roy. "Hey, Roy. Are you doing okay?"

He looked at me, large brown eyes dark with dread. "I guess," he said, timidly.

"Nervous, I'll bet," I said. Roy looked down and nodded.

The receptionist entered through a hallway door, caught sight of us, and moved behind the desk.

"I'm so sorry to keep you waiting," she said in a kind voice. "This must be the Garretts." She glanced at Adeline and Roy.

"I'm Detective Sergeant Schultz," I told her. "And this is Adeline and Roy."

"Oh, yes, Detective. I believe you were the one who called to set up the appointment. I will let Ms. Mendoza know you are here." She picked up a phone and punched one digit.

Yolanda Mendoza appeared immediately. She was a striking Latina, with only a faint hint of a Hispanic accent. She introduced herself and explained that she had a Master's degree in child psychology and that she was currently working on her doctorate. She told us that she had interviewed many children for Casey Family Partners.

She seemed so young that I would have bet that I'd probably interviewed about as many child victims as she had, back when they used to let me. But she had a warm, reassuring smile for Roy, and you could almost see the boy's tension ease.

"If you'll excuse Roy and me for a few minutes, I'd like to speak privately with him before the formal interview begins," she told us. She and Roy disappeared behind a door marked "Ms. Mendoza."

After about ten minutes, Mendoza reemerged. "Roy confided in me that one of the reasons he'd gone to speak with the Sergeant at the police station was because he was afraid of what you, Adeline, might think of him. Sometimes it's easier for a child to say things to a stranger than it is to their mother, so please don't feel too badly. Once the interview is over, I'll summarize whatever Roy tells me during the interview, but I'll spare you any 'irrelevant' details."

"I understand," said Mrs. Garret. "I'll just wait in that lounge over there while you interview Roy."

I perched on a metal folding chair in a small room that doubled as an equipment storage area. It wasn't that they were putting me into storage but that it had been the most convenient place to install a two-way mirror. The room was in the dark. Through the glass the interview room looked cozy with plush, blue carpeting, not only on the floor but on a terrace that had been built as a platform for a plywood playhouse with a red, carpeted roof. The playhouse looked large enough for several children at once. A scattering of soft-looking pillows and some stuffed animals lay on the floor.

As soon as I got settled, Yolanda and Roy entered the room through its own doorway. Roy looked around uneasily. Under different circumstances, a twelve-year-old might disdain such childish things as playhouses and stuffed toys, but under these circumstances, such an environment probably looked comforting. Mendoza walked to the edge of the two-way mirror, flipped a switch on her side, and I could hear the sounds coming from the room. Roy's eyes fell on the two-way mirror in which he could only see his and Yolanda's reflections and that of the room behind them.

"Is that a two-way mirror?" he asked, voice coming loud and clear through a speaker near the window on my side.

"Yes, it is," Mendoza admitted. Roy fell silent.

"Sergeant Schultz will be the only person on the other side of it, Roy. It's important for her to listen for specific legal aspects of what you may say. If someone is hurting you, we want to stop him. That's what police do. And she needs that information so that we can help you feel safe again. Is that okay?"

"I guess," I heard Roy say, unhappily.

"Roy, why don't you sit anywhere that looks comfortable while I get my paperwork in order." Mendoza perched on the edge of the blue carpeted terrace, crossed her legs and began shuffling through some papers on a clipboard. She had, among other things, the brief report I'd written regarding my original conversation with Roy.

Roy looked around at the playhouse and stuffed toys. He wandered to the far end of the terrace and idly picked up a brown teddy bear that wore a blue t-shirt.

"I had a bear like this," commented Roy. "My mom gave it to me when I was little. Except it had a red t-shirt."

Roy replaced the bear, walked to the doorway of the playhouse, and looked inside. He picked up a Raggedy Andy doll, set it back down then picked up a stuffed rabbit, looked at it then replaced it as well. "Do kids even younger than me have these things happen to them?" he asked. Mendoza looked up at Roy, and setting the clipboard aside, folded her hands atop her crossed knee.

"Yes. Even little babies, sometimes. That's why we have all these stuffed toys in here. Sometimes kids like to hold them. But you don't have to be little to hold them. I have a teddy bear that stays on my bed at home. Sometimes I still hold it just because it's soothing."

"Even babies?" Roy asked, incredulously.

"I'm afraid so," said Yolanda.

Roy turned his face away from Yolanda, and in doing so, inadvertently turned it toward the two-way mirror. "Even babies," he murmured. His face flushed with sudden anger, brown eyes flashing. He swallowed hard, then sudden tears welled up, extinguishing the blaze. Furtively, he wiped the tears away and turned back to look purposefully at Yolanda.

"Can we please do this now?" he asked. He walked back to where he'd left the teddy bear, picked it up and sat there on the blue carpet terrace, holding the bear against his chest. Yolanda walked over, sat about three feet from him, and refolded her hands in her lap.

"Roy, when you spoke with Detective Schultz you told her that you and a couple of other boys were getting some extra help from your coach; that he would have you come over to his house and practice football plays. You said he didn't even get upset when you'd play football in the living room, is that right?"

I saw Roy nod and begin studying his shoes.

"You told her that sometimes he'd get into tickling matches with you and the others and that he would touch somebody's privates. Am I still right?" Again a nod from Roy. He was memorizing how his shoes laces crisscrossed. "What else happened?"

Roy looked up, his eyes drifting to the left corner of the ceiling.

"Coach would just say, 'oops, sorry' when he touched one of us. So at first we figured the touching had been on accident. But later, when we'd leave Coach's house, Clay, Rafe and me would talk and find out it happened at least once to each of us. But actually he did that to me two times. It didn't hurt us or anything. It was just sort of embarrassing."

"Did you have all your clothing on when he touched you?"

Roy winced, his face reddening.

"Yes, of course!"

"Did Coach say anything else when he touched you?"

"No, only...Coach got me and Clay and I guess Rafe to promise never to tell anyone about things that would happen when we went to his place. It's not like we were going to. It was too embarrassing. And I don't know how the kids at school found out what was happening at Coach's house, but they started talking about it. Kids started calling me and Clay 'gay' or 'fag' writing embarrassing things on our lockers.

"Clay and me and Rafe would talk about it, and Rafe and I kind of thought everything was our own faults, 'cause nobody had forced us to go to Coach's house. But Clay didn't agree. He called Coach a Judas. He said that Coach was a traitor like Benedict Arnold. He said that me and him getting teased all the time was all Coach's fault. He said it was wrong for Coach to touch kids that way and that somebody ought to just shoot him."

I was busily jotting notes.

"A couple of times, as a break from football..." Roy said, "...Coach showed us some other videos he had. They were kind of about sex. My Mom would have had a fit, but Coach said it didn't count as sex because there were no girls; that for real sex, you had to have girls, he told us. When boys did it, it was just for fun and that nobody cared because nobody could get pregnant. That used to make me feel really uncomfortable, so I'd get all quiet and go sit by myself. A time or two one of the other boys who I didn't know very well would say something like, 'What're you, a faggot?'"

'Coach really got pissed whenever they said stuff like that and kind of stuck up for me. He told them that such things were not for us to judge, and told the others to just leave me alone about it. It didn't make any difference if people were homosexual, he said. But now, I'm scared that maybe I'm..." Roy swallowed hard and stopped talking.

"It's okay," Mendoza finally said. "That's not even a concern for you right now."

"But kids at school teased me and Clay."

"I know. Kids can be really cruel. It's from ignorance. They really don't know what they are saying." Roy kept talking, telling Mendoza all the details he knew and I continued jotting. Finally Roy stopped talking again and went quiet, reviewing his shoelaces.

"Then what happened, Roy?" Yolanda prompted.

Roy turned his face from Yolanda, resting his cheek on the top of the teddy bear's head. I couldn't see his face this time, but thought he must be fighting tears. He was rocking himself back and forth almost imperceptibly.

"Nothing," said Roy, "to me. But Coach would take Clay into a back bedroom. Rafe and me just stayed in the living room with the other boys and watched football videos and ate the pizza Coach bought for us. Clay wouldn't talk about what happened in there. Rafe and me, we wouldn't ask him either."

"How many other boys were there, Roy? Do you know their names?"

"There were three or four. And I only saw them there once or twice. I don't even remember their names because they didn't go to our school. They might have been from over at Hadleyville or Spokane. I'm not sure."

"Ok, Roy. Let me make sure I understand everything you've told me. Two times Coach showed you, Rafe and Clay and the other boys some sex videos with just boys, no girls. And two times—you don't remember if it was on the same days as the videos—Coach touched your private parts with his hand through your clothes and made you feel uncomfortable. Am I getting it right?" Without raising his head, Roy nodded. "And two other times that you know of, Coach took Clay into a bedroom. How long would they be in there, do you think?"

Roy sat up and shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe an hour. Then they'd come out of the bedroom and we'd all leave Coach's house and go home."

"And would Coach say anything to you before you left?"

"Tell us not to tell anyone. He said he'd get in trouble and wouldn't be able to give us special football training any more. We honestly were getting a little better at playing football. And it was neat to belong to our own group."

"We're almost finished for today," said Mendoza. "You've done really great. But I need to talk with Sergeant Schultz for just a minute to see if she can think of any more questions, okay?"

Roy nodded.

I met Mendoza in the hallway outside of the interview room.

"We've got two counts of indecent liberties with Roy, based on his own testimony as the victim," I said quietly to Yolanda. "He's a solid little witness, but I obviously don't intend to hang him out to dry all by himself. We need more evidence so it's not just a kid's word against a grown man's. We need the corroboration of the other boys, for one thing. And I'm sure the other two, Clay and this kid, 'Rafe,' are victims in their own right. I don't think we need any more from Roy right now, though. What a trooper!"

*****

Chapter 17—Blue Honda

Thursday, 1511 hrs.

Yolanda Mendoza, Adeline Garrett and I met in Yolanda's office while Roy waited in the small lounge. After Mendoza summarized the interview, I told them that I was probably going to charge Coach Bill with child molestation, indecent liberties, and child porn and maybe even rape of a child with Clay. But, I had to track down the other boys who'd gotten "extra help" with football. Extra help all right.

"The dirt bag should be shot," adjudged Kovitch as I explained the results of the interview to him and Jordan. I didn't point out that Clay might have already thought of that.

"Only shot?" countered Jordan. "He should be castrated...Then he should be drawn and quartered."

"Then can we shoot him?" begged Kovitch.

"With a missile launcher," responded Jordan.

"But before we can do that," I intervened on Coach Bill's behalf, "We need more evidence. Sometime tomorrow, a juvenile judge will either release Bernard to his parents' or, depending on what his mental eval looks like, send him to juvy until he stands trial. And I need to find out who this kid, Rafe, is. I'll get on both of those, first thing in the morning. But speaking of investigations," I said, addressing Jordan, "Are you going to spend another shift skulking about in the cold night air watching for your car prowlers?"

Jordan had removed the bandage from above his left eye to reveal a healing, scabbed-over abrasion. It matched the one on his nose, but covered more territory.

"Why? Do you want to help me, Sarge?" Jordan grinned maliciously. It seemed that he was still aggravated because Kovitch and I had given him a hard time for falling on his face and losing the car prowler two nights earlier.

"Just wondering because I thought maybe you could kill two birds with one stone and hang out in the vicinity of Fredericks' place. I still want to know who's hiding in there."

"Probably just your fertile imagination, again," grumbled Jordan.

"All right, fine!" I fired. "Kovitch, come with me. Let's go back to Fredericks' house. Bud Simpson has got to be hiding someplace, and so far, Fredericks is the only Porterville name we have. Want to come, Jordan? We may find time to stop for coffee, later."

"Naw, I've got plenty to finish up here." Jordan swiveled back to his computer as we headed out the door.

The forecast said it wasn't going to snow for a day or two, just get colder than a well-digger's nuts, and so far, they'd been dead-on accurate. If I'd been scheduled to work night shift, you can bet I would have gone home for my long johns.

I climbed behind the wheel of the Crown Vic, and Kovitch went around to the passenger side. I started the engine and waited like a genteel little lady while Kovitch took the scraper out of the glove box and scraped the frost off the windshield. The City's automatic street lights had almost all turned on by now, and traffic was moving along smoothly but cautiously, still on its good behavior since the snow storms of the past couple of days. We drove out of the parking lot, turning left toward the south side of Porterville.

I expected that Jennifer had gotten her usual ride home from school with Cynthia's father and that I'd soon be home having dinner with my daughter for the last time before she took off for the holidays. I idly wished I'd had the time to go to the grocery store to get something special for this last evening before my self-inflicted holiday solitude, but realized it was a little late for that. Nor had I gotten Jennifer's Christmas gifts wrapped. She'd have to take them in their original JC Penney and Circuit City packaging. All that kind of made me feel bad.

Because I was busy mentally beating myself up, it took me a minute to focus on the older model, red Ford Explorer that drove directly in front of Kovitch and me. And its Washington plate—AIU563. If someone had switched the plates from the Explorer onto the Honda van, they'd now switched them back where they belonged.

The lone female driver, silhouetted through her back window, had shoulder length hair. I glanced over at Kovitch. He, too, seemed to be analyzing the vehicle. He returned my glance.

"Let's just see where she goes," I suggested quietly, as though afraid the woman in the vehicle in front of us could hear me. Kovitch nodded. I let Crown Vic ease back to give the Explorer some space. The woman glanced in her rear-view mirror, gave her hair a pat, then refocused on the road before her. Almost immediately, she looked in the mirror again. I let the Vic drop back even further. That seemed to do the trick. She appeared to lose interest.

The Explorer pulled into the Safeway parking lot and parked. We drove past Safeway's lot and turned into the driveway of the defunct service station next door. I cut the headlights as we rolled to a stop. Crisp snow crunched beneath the Vic's tires. We sat and watched the Explorer.

A tallish, maybe five nine or ten and slender woman climbed out of the Explorer. She wore a full length dark green winter coat and a brown handbag hung by a strap from her left shoulder. Her curly, shoulder-length hair bounced against the upraised coat collar. Her pale features were pretty and youthful. I wondered if this was Elaine Maddox, the topless front porch dancer from Hadleyville, and what—if anything—she had to do with Bud Simpson and his five-year-old daughter. We watched as the woman entered the store. And then we waited.

*****

Thursday, 1730 hrs.

Twenty minutes later, the woman came out hefting a brown paper bag in one arm. A loaf of bread peeked from the top. She opened the passenger door of the Explorer, positioned the bag on the front seat, closed the door, circled around the hood, unlocked the driver's side and slid in. She started the engine, pulled back out onto the street and drove past our location with not so much as a glance.

We followed from a respectful distance. The Explorer drove on, then took the next off ramp leading to SR 9-14. I did the same.

"Frank, call dispatch on your cell and advise them what we're doing."

"Sure, Sarge, happy to...What is it we're doing again?"

I shot Frank a sidelong glance. "We are following a possible accomplice in the attempted murder of Joanna Simpson." I reached over and pressed a button on the car to car radio.

"Truman - are you on the air?" I said on the county frequency.

"At your beck and call," erupted Truman's thunderous baritone. Holy shit, that man had lungs!

Kovitch yelped, "Ach! My ears!"

"Sorry," I muttered apologetically and quickly turned down the volume.

"Go ahead," said Truman, now at a more reasonable decibel.

"I'm following a red Ford Explorer going westbound on SR 9-14. License number Adam Ida Union six five three. That's the plate that was on the dark blue Honda from the other night. Are you anywhere in our area?"

"I can be in your area in a couple of minutes. You aren't running code, are you?"

"Nope. Just following at a nice leisurely pace. We got on at the Hanford Street on ramp. It looks like there's a lone woman driver. She's moving with caution; it's icy out here. Just wanted you to know we'd be poaching in your jurisdiction again."

"Ordinarily," said Truman, "I'd say happy hunting. But since it's you, Schultz, I'd better get turned around. Trouble has a way of turning up wherever you are."

"Suit yourself," I finished. "If we follow her as far as Hadleyville, you can buy us coffee."

I hung up the mic and settled in. Just in case the Explorer's driver was still a little nervous, I dropped back farther, but kept the vehicle's taillights well in sight. By now, it was totally dark. SR 9-14's rush hour traffic provided the only light.

Glancing at the rearview mirror, I saw headlights coming up behind me, faster than was prudent on the ice. My first thought was that it was Truman rushing to the rescue. I grabbed the mic and keyed it. "Truman, is that you roaring up behind me?"

After a couple of seconds, Truman responded.

"That's negative. I got detained. Came up on a car facing the wrong direction on the westbound shoulder. The driver claims he was traveling west when a dark colored van passed him on the left. He says the van was headed straight into an oncoming car, so it swerved back in front of this guy, which caused him to hit his brakes, which made him do a one-eighty and slide to a stop facing the wrong direction. Now, he's all shook up. Go figure."

"Thanks for the short version," I said gritting my teeth, as I watched the approaching lights in the mirror. "But now I think I've got his speed freak on my butt."

With the steady stream of oncoming cars, and the road so icy, no one would be so stupid twice in a row, right?

I turned on my right turn signal, hoping that if the driver behind me knew I was pulling over, he wouldn't try to pass me in the oncoming lane. I began moving onto the right shoulder, letting the weight of the Vic slow it down. We were doing only twenty-five miles an hour, when a blue Honda mini-van zipped past us. We couldn't see the driver, and no one appeared to be in the passenger seat. I decided right then to get me one of those Honda vans—it drove great on snow and ice!

"I'm pulling back onto SR 9-14 behind your suspect van," I yelled into the mic. Kovitch braced both his hands against the dashboard. "I don't believe...Nope, there's no rear license plate on the van. The plates are probably back on that Explorer I was following earlier."

I'd be damned if a mini-van was going to get the best of a Ford V-8 detective's car, ice or no ice, so I pressed down—gradually—on the accelerator.

Kovitch snatched the mic from my hand and switched channels. "Porterville, this is Kovitch. We're westbound on SR 9-14 at about milepost 16 in pursuit of a dark blue Honda minivan, no visible plates."

"Copy," said Evan. "Should I advise County?"

"Go ahead and advise them," said Kovitch. "But I think they already know. We're in contact with them."

For the second time in two days I was trying to stop that damned Honda minivan in rotten road conditions. This time I intended to stay with it. For right now, I had to assume that the driver was wanted for questioning in the attempted murder of his wife. And I hoped to God that a little five-year-old girl wasn't aboard.

The driver of the minivan had either decided he was going too fast for road conditions, or he had just figured out he'd flown past a cop car, because he started to slow down. We closed the distance. I flipped on the dash's portable rotating lights and the wigwags in the grill. Kovitch rested his left hand on the shotgun.

The van eased over to the side of the road. Kovitch said into the mic, "Porterville, it looks like the van is pulling over."

"Copy," said Evan. "Van is pulling over."

Then Truman's booming voice exploded from the radio.

"Nine-zero-nine and Nine-Twelve" (using our official call numbers) "I'm right behind you." Sure enough there were headlights once again in my rearview mirror, but this time it was the good guys. Truman advised his own people: "Lincoln County dispatch, I'll be out with Porterville at SR 9-14 approximate milepost 17 with that reckless minivan."

As we stopped behind the van, Kovitch released the shotgun and stepped his right foot out the opened the passenger side door. I pulled the Ruger from under my left armpit, and grabbed the mic for the outside loudspeaker. Making a V shaped barricade for myself with the car door and the Ford's chassis, I aimed the barrel of the Ruger through that V at the van's driver door. Grasping the loudspeaker mic, I announced, "Porterville police! Driver, roll down your window!"

I could hear the faint whir of an automatic window being lowered. Then I remembered to turn on the spotlight and aim it into the back windows of the van; couldn't see anyone else in the van—no small child, thank heavens. One male driver. If the driver looked back my direction, the spotlight would blind him. At about the same time, I was aware of Truman's cruiser pulling in behind me, but offset to the right so his headlights would light up the right side of the van.

"Driver, turn off the ignition." I more sensed than heard the engine's sudden silence. "Driver, slowly remove the keys from the ignition and throw them out onto the roadway." Keys jangled as they hit the icy blacktop. So far, so good. "Driver, let me see both your hands out the open window, and open the door using the outside handle." The driver's door began to open.

"Now, slowly, step from the vehicle but do not turn around." A tall slender male figure emerged, wearing a black winter jacket with the collar up around his ears and a red ball cap; he faced forward as instructed and raised his hands. I still couldn't see his face.

"Slowly," I continued, "walk backwards toward the police car." For the first time, the man spoke.

"You want me to slip and kill myself on this fuckin' ice?" he yelled back, not moving. It didn't sound like Bud Simpson.

"Better you than me. Now, start walking backwards toward the patrol car." He took two tentative steps, one foot slipped, and he nearly fell. "Fuck!" he yelled. "You want me that bad, come and get me!"

"You were driving on that ice like a bat outa hell, now suddenly you can't walk on it?"

"Fuck you, lady!"

Truman was edging up on foot from her cruiser, Glock held carefully down by his side so he wouldn't shoot Kovitch who was standing with the shotgun pointed through the V on his side of the Ford. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Truman and Kovitch exchange gestures and whispers and begin moving toward the van. It seemed unlikely, because of the angle, that the van driver could see the approach of the two men. But I thought I'd better keep making enough noise on the loudspeaker to cover the approach of their boots crunching on the ice and snow.

"No, fuck you!" I yelled. "Now listen carefully. I need you to slowly back toward the sound of my voice. Do it now." Since he wasn't budging, I got going again. "Back up asshole. You need to start walking backward, now. If you fall, you fall. Apparently you think you can drive a lot better than you can walk. Let's just find out."

Truman and Kovitch had reached the right rear fender of the van. Kovitch peered through the windows and shook his head. They were close enough now that I got a little more smart-ass. "Don't make me come up there!" I threatened.

Truman availed himself of this opportunity to move directly into my line of fire. He pointed his Glock at the back of the man's head.

"Have it your way, ass-wipe," said Truman in a growling voice that needed no loudspeaker. I could see the guy jump, startled by Truman's surprisingly silent approach. "Turn around slowly," Truman demanded. The man began to turn, hands still raised. Kovitch stepped out and aimed the shotgun at the man, racking one into the chamber—a sound that can freeze the blood in your veins.

Truman holstered his Glock and moved toward the man. In a flash he had the man's face and chest squashed up against the side of the van, pinned there with one mighty paw. He checked the waist band of the man's blue jeans inside his unzipped coat, squeezed the coat pockets, then pulled a set of handcuffs from one of the pouches on his ample Sam Brown duty belt.

I'd moved forward as well, Ruger pointed down and took a squint inside the van. A child seat rode on the bench behind the front passenger seat, but no child in it. Truman told the man to place his left hand behind his back, which he did. Truman shoved the man's heavy coat sleeve nearly up to his elbow and ratcheted on one of the bracelets. Then he told the man to give him his right hand that was planted on the top edge of the van. The man hesitated.

"Get that hand down here!" ordered Truman.

I don't know what the guy thought he was doing. It looked like he tried to back fist Truman in the face with his still free right hand. The sudden movement evoked a reflex that left the man face down on the icy pavement with Truman's knee sunk into the middle of his back, his left hand still gripping the handcuff around the man's left wrist. The man squealed, "You're fuckin' killing me!"

"Dumb shit," Truman grumbled. He yanked the man's right arm back and finished the cuffing process. Truman stood up and threw both hands into the air as if he'd just broken the all-time record for bulldogging.

I'd holstered the Ruger and moved in close. Squatting on my haunches, I removed the man's ball cap and used my small Mag light to illuminate his features.

"Well, if it isn't Jeff Fredericks. Hey, Jeff. How ya doin'?"

"Fuck you," greeted Jeff, amiably.

*****

Chapter 18—Career Criminal

Kovitch handed me the shotgun. As he and Truman escorted Fredericks back to Truman's cruiser, they slipped on the ice every other step. All three barely managed to stay upright.

I returned to the Crown Vic, jacked the live round out of the shotgun, fit it into its elastic cuff on the stock, then locked the shotgun into its upright bracket between the two front bucket seats. Officers wanted to keep a live round in the chamber; Chief Bronson was concerned that a shotgun could accidently discharge. The chief won.

I slippery-slid my way up to the Honda van and activated its emergency flashers. The movement of traffic from both directions had ebbed some, but not subsided. I didn't want some driver to claim he hadn't seen one of the three vehicles pulled off to the shoulder of the road, even though all three were lit up like Christmas trees.

Kovitch joined me at the van and said that Truman had run a driver's check on Fredericks and there were no outstanding warrants. He said Truman was in the process of issuing Fredericks a criminal traffic citation for reckless driving and another for third degree assault on a police officer. Though Fredericks hadn't landed the back fist, it had surprised Truman enough to piss him off.

Our search of the van came up with nothing but cigarette butts in the ash tray and empty Pepsi cans littering the floor behind the driver's seat. Paperwork in the glove box and the VIN identified the owner of the van as James W. Burton from Omak, Washington. The plates that should have been attached had expired three months ago.

By the time we finished, my teeth were chattering. Kovitch and I carefully picked our way back along the icy blacktop to Truman's cruiser. We had decided that Kovitch would climb into the Vic and do some checking on the Honda on Porterville's frequency. That way Fredericks wouldn't overhear any information - like for instance, maybe the Honda was stolen, even though the owner wasn't aware of it yet. Those things happened more often than you'd think.

I was jubilant to find that Truman had the heater cranked all the way up. As I slid into the front passenger seat next to him, he continued filling in the blanks on a citation form clipped to his ticket book. Under his elbow on the console was the paperwork for booking Fredericks into Lincoln County Jail. I took the liberty of turning off Truman's scanner. Fredericks didn't need to hear Kovitch's transmissions. Truman gave me a quizzical look, but said nothing.

Truman turned to Fredericks and boomed into the back seat, "What the hell were you thinking out there, man? Didn't you see that car back there that you forced into a one-eighty spin? There was a man, woman and two kids in there. You could be facing vehicular homicide charges instead of just reckless driving. I can't believe those people got by without a scratch, no thanks to you. I guess their guardian angel was working overtime. So what's the story?"

I could hear Fredericks mumble something too quietly to be heard over the heater fan and the engine noise.

"Speak up, Fredericks. Nobody can hear you over the racket in here," Truman said.

"I said...," Fredericks' voice rose considerably, tinged with anger, "...I was trying to catch up to that bitch."

"And which bitch might that be?" Truman rumbled.

"That bitch in the Ford Explorer. Maddox. She's supposed to my girlfriend, but there she is, running off to help that fucker, Simpson. I finally see her driving out of Porterville headed towards wherever the hell she's got him hid out, and then you pricks stop me."

"I thought Simpson was a friend of yours," I pointed out, loudly.

"I thought he was, too. That punk-ass. Then he gets hisself into a little tiff with his ol' lady, and Elaine is like, 'Oh, you poor sweet man. Let me help you.'" Frederick's mocking falsetto was almost funny. "And off they go, sneaking away in my van while I'm at work."

"Are you aware that the little 'tiff' as you call it, was attempted murder?" I asked the man seated behind me. There was a moment of silence as Fredericks digested this.

"Naw, I didn't know that," he said, sounding only the slightest bit contrite.

"He got the gun from you, didn't he?" I went on. Fredericks sat quietly for a few more seconds.

"He borrowed a gun from me a long time ago. Said he needed it for self protection."

"What kind of gun?"

"A Beretta 3032 Tomcat. Sweet little piece. Now, that's another thing he ripped off from me. Hey! I want to press theft charges!"

"You knew he wasn't allowed to own or possess a gun; he'd already been arrested—more than once—for domestic violence."

"That's bullshit, man. A person has a right to protect himself and his family. You can't deprive somebody of that."

"A lot of people agree with you including the NRA." I said. "By the way, whose van are you driving? It's nice. I might want to buy one."

"That's my van!" Fredericks snapped. "I bought it fair and square."

"Where are the license plates, then? And why isn't it registered in your name?"

"I just haven't gotten to it yet. I been busy."

"How long have you had it? You were supposed to change the registration within 15 days."

"It's been...I don't know—awhile. I don't remember."

"You didn't steal that van, did you, Jeff?"

"Fuck, no! Anyone who says I did is a goddamn liar!"

"Got a bill of sale?" interjected Truman. Fredericks muttered something.

"Speak up, Fredericks!" roared Truman.

"I said 'not yet,' for Chris-sake!" snapped Fredericks.

"Then who..." I cut Truman off. "...is James Burton?"

"Who?" queried Fredericks.

"James W. Burton," I reiterated, carefully enunciating each syllable. "From Omak, Washington. Don't tell me you don't know him."

"Oh. You mean Walksalot."

"Did you say walks a lot?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yeah. The W stands for his Injun name, Walksalot," Fredericks clarified.

Truman guffawed. "Yeah. He walks a lot--because you've got his fuckin' van!"

Okay, it was funny, and I had to laugh. But Fredericks just cursed.

"The fucker owes me some money, okay? Until he pays up, the van is mine. We got a deal."

I jumped and slammed my elbow into the arm rest as someone knocked loudly on my window. Thank god it was only Frank. I pressed the window button, and the glass purred down.

"Kovitch, you scared the crap out of me."

Kovitch grinned from ear to ear. "I didn't mean to, Sarge. But that jump was awesome." Since Truman was guffawing as well, and even Fredericks wore a satisfied smirk, I guess I'd have to own this one.

"Okay, okay. That was funny. So, what'cha got?" Rubbing my elbow where I'd whacked it against the arm rest, I waited with annoyance for Kovitch to stop laughing. Finally he was able to speak.

"I had Evan call Omak P.D." he said. "They know the registered owner, James Burton, real well. He's half Colville Indian, and I guess the guy's got quite a rap sheet. The officer Evan talked with said they all wondered where Burton's Honda minivan was these days. Burton just told them that he lent it to a friend, namely Fredericks, here. So, other than the fact that the license is way expired, there's no crime as far as we know."

"I guess I can write Fredericks a ticket for expired plates and failure to display plates, then," said Truman, grinning. "Add that to the criminal reckless driving charge and third degree assault on a police officer."

"You motherfuckers'll nickel and dime a man to death," Fredericks moaned from the back seat. "That's government for you."

"Now, Jeffy," said Truman in a hurt voice, "We only do it because we love ya."

"Fuck you," said Jeffy. Truman guffawed again.

"Where are the license plates that are supposed to be on the van, Jeffy?" asked Truman.

"Fuck you," said Jeffy.

"Well, I'm freezing my ass off out here," said Kovitch. Then to me, "I'll wait for you in the car."

The few cars moving slowly on SR 9-14 cast eerie shadows as their headlights flickered intermittently into the interior of Truman's cruiser.

"Fredericks," I said. "Did you know that yesterday Bud Simpson used your van to snatch his little girl from her daycare, and attempted to take her from her legally appointed foster home?"

"Now, that wasn't no crime," said Fredericks, defensively. "That's his own damn kid."

"Legally appointed foster home," I reiterated, emphasizing legally. "I just wanted to know if you knew it."

"I figured it out later, what with a goddamned baby seat left in my van. Hey, and I never gave him permission to use my van! I want him charged with car theft!"

"I guess we've ascertained that you don't owe any more loyalty to Bud Simpson. He's got your gun, seduced your girlfriend and now he's taken your van without permission. So why don't you tell us about him taking the kid."

"I don't know nothing about that. All that was done while I was at work. I get back from work and that bitch and him has run off. She was keeping her piece-of-shit Ford SUV in my garage, stays at my place on her days off, and sometimes during the week. She's got a place in Hadleyville, or so she says. But she's never give me that address, so that's why I was hot on her trail, the little whore. She and me are going to have this out."

"Not today, Fredericks," said Truman, who had finally finished filling in blanks. "We've got to get you back to the jail. I'll call a tow company to get that van off the road before somebody rear ends it. But you'll be a guest of Lincoln County tonight."

*****

Chapter 19—Finding Elaine Maddox

Friday, 0535 hrs.

I had set my alarm for five a.m. but couldn't get my eyes to open until thirty minutes after I'd smacked the life out of the poor snooze button two or three times. I was up, dressed, and having eggs, sausage, and wheat toast with my daughter by 0730 hrs.

I'd finally rolled home by 2100 hours the night before. Jennifer had eaten her dinner and was watching Casa Blanca on Turner Classic Movies. She had thrown together one of her favorite meals, tacos, and made sure there were leftovers enough for yours truly. Sometimes I wondered which of us was the caregiver.

We finished watching the movie together over bowls of Rocky Road ice cream. I made certain that she had packed the new iPod, the gorgeous new winter parka, and the - I hoped - fashionable tops I'd gotten as her Christmas presents, with a stern admonition not to open any of them until Christmas. She didn't seem to mind that I hadn't had the time to wrap them in fancy paper. At least she'd have gifts from her mother to open under Grandpa Schultz's Christmas tree in a few days.

She gave me a a box about nine by twelve inches and wrapped in poinsettia paper and tied with red ribbon. She made me promise not to open it until Christmas Eve.

"I made it myself, Mom. I hope you'll like it."

Of course I would like it.

*****

Friday, 0810 hrs.

A block away from Porterville Middle School, I pulled the Silverado over to the curb, shifted into park and turned to look at my daughter.

"I'll try to be home to say goodbye before your dad picks you up," I said. "But in case I can't make it..." I reached for her and hugged her enormously. "Love you, Baby," I said.

"Love you too, Mom. Bye." With the exuberance of a fourteen-year-old, she grabbed her backpack from the back seat and hopped down onto the snowy sidewalk.

So far, it was another cold but clear day. If the conditions held through the weekend, my daughter and her father would fly to Nebraska in good weather. I watched her sashay toward the school, backpack jauntily flung over one shoulder. She turned and waved then continued on.

Damn. I furtively wiped the tears off my cheeks. For Pete's sake, police detectives don't cry. But I already knew that that wasn't true.

*****

Friday, 0820 hrs.

After Kovitch and I left Truman to transport Fredericks into Spokane, we drove slowly back to Porterville. Once at the station, since we were wired anyway, we'd gotten some of the required paperwork out of our hair. Then we'd both headed home.

But now I stormed passed Melanie, greeting her with a solitary wave, not in the mood to let anyone know how I was feeling and stomped my way down the hall to the detective's office. Neither Jordan nor Kovitch had come in yet. I didn't know how Jordan had fared, nor in fact, whether or not he'd decided to lay in wait for his car prowlers again. I sort of left that up to his discretion. He was a grown man, and didn't need his sergeant playing mommy.

I almost managed to tiptoe unobserved passed Bronson's office. Almost.

"Schultz, get in here!" Bronson roared. I sighed and made an abrupt right turn into his office.

"Good morning, Chief. How are you?" I said, wondering to what I owed such an early morning roar.

"Did you or did you not say the word 'shit' on the air Wednesday while trying catch that minivan?"

"I did, sir. I apologize. And, might I add, you have an awesome memory."

"Don't try to butter me up," he grumbled. "I just listened to the audio tape of your pursuit. You know that sort of language is not appropriate on the air. Every other household in Porterville has a fucking scanner. What kind of impression on our populace do you think you're making when you use four letter words?"

"Not a very good one, sir. And again, I apologize."

"You say the same goddamned thing every time you swear on the air. Can't you get a handle on it?"

"I will absolutely work on it, Chief."

"Now, bring me up to date on what you've done about finding Bud Simpson. It's my understanding that Joanna Simpson is going to be released from the hospital in a few days, and we want to make sure he isn't of a mind to try and finish the job."

"Yes, sir. We might know where he is. Kovitch and I are going to take a run into Hadleyville. He could be staying with Jeff Fredericks' girlfriend who lives there. Or if not, she may know where he is. Truman arrested Fredericks last night on reckless driving and assault third degree. The dumb shit took a swing at Truman, and it wasn't even a good swing."

"Well, at least you weren't involved this time. That's a switch." Bronson pulled a pen from behind his ear and tapped it against a report that lay on his desk. "And what's going on with this child molest case? This coach is not still working at the school where he can present a threat to more kids, is he?"

"Absolutely not, sir," I said, wondering why Bronson was in such a testy mood this morning. But then again, he was always in a testy mood. "He's a part time football coach who is only at PMS during football season. I'd like to try and get a couple more witnesses interviewed before we arrest him. I believe the boy, Roy Garrett, is telling us the truth, but so far, he's the only one who's come forward. It sounds like Clay Bernard, the kid who brought the gun to school on Monday, may also be one of the coach's victims.

"And, Chief, you were absolutely right. We did need to dig deeper as to why he brought the gun. Ironically, he brought it into Joanna Simpson's classroom. I didn't even know that she had gone into teaching."

"Yeah, I'd heard that part. I guess she's only been teaching for a year or so," affirmed Bronson. "So that happened in her classroom? That is a bit too coincidental. Any possible connection?"

"I don't know if the room choice was random or not. Wondered that myself. I'll look into it. Anything else, Sir?"

"Yes. Why the hell are you sir-ing me to death this morning?"

"Just trying to stay on your good side, Chief."

"Why? What have you been up to?"

"Chief, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just showing you well-deserved respect, sir."

"Cut the crap, Schultz, and get to work."

"Yes, sir."

How to Drive Your Superior Officer Crazy sounded like a pretty good book title for after retirement. But so far all I had accomplished for the day was to get depressed about being alone for Christmas and annoy Chief Bronson. Perversely, the latter had lifted my spirits considerably.

I deposited my coat and stocking cap on the coat tree in the corner of the detective's office and headed up to dispatch to glance over the activity log from the rest of last night's shifts.

"Good morning, Magnum," sang Melanie. "I thought maybe you were in a bad mood or something when you came in." I picked up the radio log clipboard and leaned my back side against Melanie's counter a few feet from where she sat wearing her headset.

"Actually, I was in a bad mood," I confirmed. "But Chief Bronson cheered me up."

"Isn't he a doll?" Melanie said perkily.

"Absolutely."

I scanned the log. Bradbury and Travis had completed their periodic bar checks by walking in, greeting patrons, checking young-looking people's ID to see if they were at least twenty-one. At the Longbar they'd located two nineteen-year-old college girls carrying fake IDs. Bradbury and Travis had cited and released them then driven them back to their apartment. The thirty-something bartender was warned that he needed to be more diligent about checking IDs.

After midnight Nick Peabody and Stan Finnegan went to a couple of loud party calls, a barking dog call, and a suspicious person call. They issued several Driving too Fast for Conditions tickets and took two traffic collision reports, both involving the inability to stop on black ice.

Detective Jordan had, in fact, been out on foot patrol again last night, first lurking around City Park, near the schools and then on the south side of town, hoping to catch car prowlers in the act. He had spotted two cars parked on a south side street, with windows smashed and stereos gone. It had probably occurred during the time he was skulking about City Park.

Jordan had awakened the car owners and interviewed them.

"When do you leave to visit your folks?" I asked Melanie.

She beamed up at me. "Tomorrow afternoon," she answered. "I'm really looking forward to it. But I hope the mountain passes aren't too bad. Ron has been grousing for two days about all the snow. For awhile I thought he'd just refuse to go. But he hasn't done that yet."

"Well, if I don't get a chance to tell you Merry Christmas, Melanie, I'll say it now. And stay safe on those passes."

"Merry Christmas to you, too, Magnum. I wish you were going to have a better one."

"Thanks, but I'll probably get so busy I won't even notice. Give the kids a hug for me."

"You bet I will," responded Melanie.

*****

0855 Hrs.

I checked e-mail and voice messages and had a phone message from the mother of Joanna Simpson, who said they had flown in from California and were at the hospital with their daughter. Naturally, they wanted to know if we had located their granddaughter yet. They wanted a call back.

I called the hospital and was connected to Sarah Anderson, Joanna's mother. "Hi Mrs. Anderson. This is Detective Schultz. I just wanted to let you know that locating Angie is high on our priority list. I'll be sure to keep you updated on anything we find out. And I wouldn't worry too much about Angie. She's with her father, so she's probably quite safe." To circumvent any further conversation, I promised Mrs. Anderson that I would come in to the hospital later today.

While I was on the phone, Kovitch came into the office and unburdened himself of coat, hat and gloves.

"Good morning, Frank. Why don't you bundle back up again? We're driving to Hadleyville to see if we can't locate Bud Simpson and his daughter."

Kovitch sighed and shrugged back into his coat. I felt like such a meany that as we headed out Hanford Road toward Hadleyville I pulled through McDonald's drive-through and bought us both steaming hot cups of coffee to go.

*****

Friday, 0940 hrs.

Though it wasn't particularly balmy out, the sun had warmed the streets enough to melt a lot of the black ice, so the drive to Hadleyville, usually a ten to fifteen minute drive, was refreshingly uneventful. We drove directly to Hadleyville's police department. Their dispatcher, Alice, recognized us from previous visits, and had no hesitation about calling Officer Braddick in from patrol. Ten minutes later, Officer Marty Braddick walked through the door and noisily stomped snow from his feet.

"Mornin,' Porterville P.D.," said Braddick, shaking hands first with Kovitch then with me.

Braddick was not a tall man, but sturdy and powerful from hours on cross country skis. His bullet proof vest and winter coat made him appear even sturdier. He'd removed his navy blue ball cap with the embroidered silver police badge stitched to the front, so his half inch long, baby-fine, reddish blonde hair made him look bald at first glance. With his friendly blue eyes, dark eyelashes and eyebrows, and tanned face, women flocked around his striking, outdoorsy presence. I thought he looked like a raccoon with his white eye rings from the snow goggles he wore.

"Braddick," I said. "Good to see you."

"Schultz, you and me, we got to stop meeting this way," he winked.

"Is there any other way?"

"I reckon not. Whatcha got for me today?"

Kovitch spoke up. "Remember when I called and asked you about Elaine Maddox? She may be aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice."

"No foolin'?" said Braddick. "Cute little ol' Elaine? I was considering asking her out."

"No fooling, Braddick," I affirmed. "We're looking for Bud Simpson. He's got quite a record of DV in Porterville. Last Tuesday, we believe he shot his wife not just once but twice, then fled the area. Luckily, the wife didn't die and is recuperating. Their five-year-old daughter was actually the one who called 9-1-1. But then the next day Simpson showed up at his daughter's daycare, knocked down her foster mom, and took off with the little girl. We have reason to believe that he may be hiding out at Maddox's place."

"Well, that's the shits!" said Braddick, looking truly disappointed. "I can tell you that she works at Grandpa John's Restaurant and Lounge."

"Yes, we know. She's supposed to be back to work this evening at five. But we thought you might go with us to her residence here in Hadleyville. Simpson and the little girl may be there."

"Let's do 'er," said Braddick, clapping his ball cap back down onto his pale hair.

Braddick climbed into his Hadleyvillle patrol unit, and Kovitch and I followed in the Crown Vic. He led us around town for several minutes, and then drew our attention via his car-to-car radio to a house on the right.

"That's her place with the red door," announced Braddick. "I'll drive on past, turn the corner and park around the block."

The house with the red door was a narrow, two-story white clapboard affair, with an attached single car garage to the left. No one had bothered to shovel the driveway, but the snow was packed down solid from tires running back and forth. From the street, there was no way to tell if a vehicle was in the garage or not. A wide front porch stretched across the full width of the house. Several steps led up to the porch, but no railing.

I shook the uninvited image of a topless dancer from my head, and followed Braddick's car past an older brick house with an unshoveled sidewalk and several folded newspapers accumulated on the porch.

Braddick led us almost to the alley that ran behind the two houses before he pulled to the curb. I slid in behind him and set the hand brake.

We knew Elaine would recognize Braddick, especially in uniform. She'd never met either Kovitch or me, plus we were wearing civvies. However, if Simpson were inside, he knew both Kovitch and me on sight.

I pulled the hood of my parka up over my head, but left the long zipper halfway down for easier access to my Ruger. I folded my arms across my chest to keep too much cold air from sifting through, walked back around the corner, and picked my way through the snow to the front of the brick house.

I walked with purpose up the steps to its wide, railed-in porch. Gone for the Christmas holidays, I thought with a small twinge of envy. I rang the doorbell which sounded a muffled, ding-dong from inside. I waited. No one came to the door except that ghost of emptiness which hovers, shadowlike, over houses that are truly unoccupied.

I waited a few more seconds, then, lifting my feet high to march over the accumulated snow in the side yard, walked around to the right side of the brick house. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I peered into a darkened dining room window. Still empty. Could I help it, since I was on that side anyway, if I just happened to also glance into the side garage window of the white clapboard house? And there it sat: a red Ford Explorer.

Facing the clapboard house, I veered left so as to approach the garage out of direct sight of the garage's window. From that angle, I could peer into the garage without being silhouetted. I saw that the Explorer's passenger side front door was standing wide open, and on the floor near it, a stack of suitcases, bags, and blankets looked ready for loading. Was Elaine Maddox leaving town? I needed more info.

Not trusting that Maddox didn't possess a scanner, I called Kovitch on my cell instead of the portable. Very faintly I could hear the theme song from the TV show, Cops, coming from the far side of the brick house's garage - Bad boys, Bad boys, Whatcha gonna do... - Kovitch's ring tone.

"Hello," Kovitch said.

"Frank," I said as softly as possible. "Maddox's Explorer is in the garage. It looks like she's getting ready to leave town. I'm going to see if I can hear anything inside the house. Put your phone on vibrate and you and Braddick position yourselves closer to the house, just in case I get myself in a jam."

"Crap, Sarge," Kovitch protested. "Are you sure you know what you're doing."

"Absolutely not," I whispered. "Just do it."

"Yes, Ma'am!" Kovitch's voice saluted.

I retraced my footprints to the brick house. Just in case anyone was watching, I walked back up the steps of the porch and rang the doorbell again. The ding-dong echoed. I walked back down the snow covered walk, made a left turn and headed toward the front porch of the clapboard house.

Tugging my parka hood a little farther forward, I climbed the steps onto the porch and stood between the window and the door. Closed drapes in a large front window to the left suggested that this was the living room. Several cardboard boxes were stacked on the porch just below the window. The smaller-sized window on the right was most likely a bedroom. Since most garages opened from the kitchen, I guessed that the kitchen was at the back of the house, beyond the living room to the left. I stood quietly and tried to hear any sounds coming from inside the house.

A man's voice said, "I'll get it, Babe." For a second I feared he meant he'd get the door. But when a female voice called, "Just be sure it's wrapped well. It belonged to my grandmother," and I realized with relief that everything isn't about me.

The woman's voice called, "Angie, do you have your toys packed?"

I couldn't hear any response made by a small voice, but then the woman said, "Okay, honey. Bring them out here, because we're almost ready to go. I think you're going to like Grandpa Arnie. He's got a couple of kids just a little older than you; you'll have a brother and a sister. Isn't that great?" I still couldn't hear her voice, but had to assume Angie Simpson was inside the house somewhere.

Then I heard the man's voice say something that I couldn't understand, followed by the woman's voice which said, "Okay, just a minute." Footsteps approached the front door and the woman's voice said, "I'll get another box."

Just as she yanked open the door, I poised my knuckles as if set to knock, and I don't know which of us looked more startled as I came face to face with Elaine Maddox. She cried out, "Oh, MotherofGod!" and her expertly manicured right hand went to her throat.

Elaine Maddox stood a slender and shapely five foot eight. She wore skin-tight jeans and a sunshine yellow, bulky-knit sweater with a V-neck that made a picture frame for her ample cleavage. Shoulder length, blonde, stylishly curled hair, large brown eyes, and perfectly applied makeup completed the picture.

"I-I'm sorry," I stuttered, not having to put on an astonished act, "I was just about to knock. I'm looking for the people who live next to you in the brick house. They don't seem to be home. Do you have any idea when they'll be back?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," said the woman. She fanned her face with the same hand that had gone to her throat.

"Well," I persisted, my heart thudding. "I've traveled a long way to visit them for the holidays. Do you at least know how long they've been gone?"

The woman leaned out of the door, and craned her neck up the street then down the street and asked, "What did you do, walk? I don't see a car."

"Oh, my no," I answered. "My car is parked around the corner. I was hoping to surprise them. But instead, I guess they've surprised me."

"I don't even know their names," Maddox confessed. "Generally, I work nights and sleep during the day, so I don't get to see much of the neighbors. But I haven't even seen a car around that house for a couple of weeks."

"How about your husband?" I asked, pressing my luck. "Would he know?"

"No, he wouldn't know anything," she said, quickly, glanced toward the kitchen doorway. "He just..." She halted, and then finished, "He wouldn't know the neighbors either."

Just then five-year-old Angie stepped into the living room from the hallway to my right. Under one arm she carried a box containing a Barbie doll that wore a long ball gown. In the other hand she had a white plastic grocery sack containing a ball, a teddy bear (trying to replace her beloved Berry?) and some other small toys. Her brown eyes gazed directly into mine and registered instant recognition. In a voice as clear as a bell she asked, "Are you here to take me back to my Mommy?"

Shit. I'd almost pulled it off.

Suddenly, silhouetted in the kitchen doorway, stood Bud Simpson, mouth hanging open. His left arm cradled a miniature cherry-wood grandfather clock complete with pendulum. Elaine's grandmother's clock?

The parka's hood hadn't fooled Bud, either. My left hand was in my coat pocket grasping my cell phone. I pondered what to do with my right hand, reach for the Ruger? Not with Angie standing ten feet from me, and likely to move where? Toward the known safety of Daddy? Instead, I waggled my right fingers in a silly little wave.

"Hey, Bud," I greeted. I could sense Elaine's surprise as she looked from him to me and back again.

Bud's long-sleeved, red plaid, flannel shirt was tucked neatly into faded blue jeans, no belt. I speculated whether or not he was carrying that sweet little Beretta 3032 Tomcat. I couldn't see any signs of it, and my guess was that he wasn't. He would shoot his wife in the heat of rage, but he'd probably be careful around his five-year-old daughter.

My left hand fumbled with the cell phone, trying to pry it open inside the pocket. Speed dial for Kovitch was—what? Five, I thought.

"Could I speak with you out on the porch for a minute?" I said to Simpson.

"What's going on, Bud?" asked Elaine.

"Nothin', Honey," said Bud, setting the clock down on the surface of the small desk just inside the living room door. When he looked at me again, the surprised look had been replaced with that fuzzy eyeball look that he usually reserved for me. Some women found his darkly handsome bad-boy appearance appealing; I found it menacing, but that's because I knew what he was capable of.

"I just need to talk with this lady for a minute, Honey," he explained.

As he started toward me, I backed further out onto the porch, making room for him. Now that the gesture could be camouflaged by our repositioning, my right hand slid inside my coat and gripped the Ruger's walnut handle. My left thumb pressed the cell phone button I hoped was 5, and I heard a muffled, electronic peep. Removing my left hand from the coat pocket, I allowed it to float there, about waist level.

Hopefully, Kovitch or Braddick could see what was going on because I wasn't sure if I'd hit the five. Bud followed me onto the porch, and pulled the front door closed behind him. Elaine's face appeared almost immediately at the window, a manicured hand pushing a gap in the drape closest to the front door. Did she think I was the wife, another girlfriend?

My best leverage was the fact that his new lady, Elaine, was watching the proceedings from her front room window. Bud fixed me with a malevolent look, but that wasn't new.

"Bud Simpson," I said, "I'm placing you under arrest for the attempted murder of your wife, Joanna Simpson. Turn around and place your hands behind your back."

He stared at me for several seconds then slowly began to turn and place his hand behind his back. I scanned his body for any shapes that might be a concealed weapon.

"Put the backs of your hands together," I said. Where were Kovitch and Braddick, for Christ's sake? I wished I hadn't told Kovitch to set his cell phone on vibrate.

Once more, Simpson did what I told him. One-handed, I applied the cuffs first to his right wrist, then to his left, feeling my anxiety begin to ebb at the ratcheting sound around that second wrist. Bud started to turn back around, and I had just gotten my left hand to his right elbow in escort position, when the front door was flung open from inside. Damn! The mama bear!

Snarling, Elaine sprang at me from behind. The impact of her body knocked both of us down the stairs. I think I said, "Holy shit!" but can't recall for certain. The untrammeled eighteen inches of snow beside the steps cushioned my fall. I cushioned Elaine's.

Though she struggled to stay on top of me, I managed to rotate to face her and clamp my left upper arm tight against the Ruger just in case she might want to shoot me with my own weapon. Elaine pulled back a fist to punch me in the face. My right hand went around her throat, and I hung on for dear life. I turned my head to the right, hoping to elude the incoming fist, but it struck solidly into my left temple and cheekbone area.

For a few seconds, bright lights accompanied sharp pain, and then without warning, I heard Kovitch's voice roar affectionately, "Get the fuck off my sergeant!"

I felt her weight lifted cleanly off me. Unexpectedly, Elaine was vertical; hissing and spitting and wrestling around with Kovitch. She kept trying to punch him, too, all acrylic claws and spitfire. Somehow I scrambled to my feet, and joined in.

I latched onto Elaine's right arm with both of mine and hung on, but all three of us fell in a tangle of arms and legs.

It didn't take long to wrestle Elaine face down in the snow. With my weight pinning her right arm, Kovitch maneuvered her left behind her, trapping it against the middle of her back with his left knee. Deftly, he handcuffed both her wrists, double locking them so they wouldn't get too tight. Schmuck. The tighter the better, as far as I was concerned.

I climbed to my feet, and we raised Elaine out of the snow. All three of us stood there panting. Elaine had snow up her nostrils and embedded in her blonde hair. A glob of it was wedged inside her v-neck sweater. Maybe that would cool her off!

Braddick waited patiently on the porch, one hand on Simpson. Kovitch sported a set of fingernail welts on his right cheek.

"You saw her!" rasped Elaine. "That bitch tried to strangle me!"

"Not until after you knocked her off the steps," defended Kovitch. "So now, you're also under arrest for third degree assault on a police officer."

She was still struggling, but by gripping both her upper arms from behind, Kovitch maintained control.

"Police officer?" queried Elaine, in a raspy voice.

I was gratified to see that I'd throttled her well enough that her voice was a little hoarse, and those red finger marks along her esophagus just might turn into bruises. The pinky and ring finger knuckles on her right hand were reddened and already swelling, thanks to my face.

"Yes. Police officer," confirmed Kovitch. "Nine times outa ten, Maddox, it's gonna be a cop who carries handcuffs and say things like 'you're under arrest.'"

Elaine was settling down. In fact, tears began to well up in her eyes.

The left side of my face hurt. When I gingerly raised a hand to check it out, I discovered blood coming from my left nostril.

"Hold onto her," I told Kovitch, dabbing at the blood with a Kleenex I'd located in a pocket. "I'll get the car."

I went around the corner and climbed into the Vic. Before starting the engine, I examined my face in the rearview mirror. She'd landed a good one: the bleeding had stopped, but the area around my left eye was red and puffy. A black eye was definitely in my future.

I made a u-turn, drove back around the corner, and parked on the wrong side of the street in front of the house. Braddick was already escorting Simpson toward the car. He patted him down for weapons and had him fold himself into the cramped space behind the Plexiglas shield. I whispered to Braddick, "Well, are you still going to ask Elaine out on a date?"

"You're kidding me, right?" he mumbled back. I took that as a no, but maybe he meant the opposite; guys sometimes like feisty women. He walked off to get his cruiser, and I joined Kovitch and Elaine.

"I thought she was Bud's wife," she whined to Kovitch. "Bud told me his wife is a real bitch, that she's mean and nasty. I was just trying to help Bud."

"Bud's wife," I interjected, "is in the hospital recovering from two bullet wounds, complements of Bud. As far as I can see, we're doing you a favor; you might have been his next victim."

"You're a lying bitch!" she snarled.

I gave up on her and climbed the steps into the house. Kovitch started walking her toward Braddick's Impala for the ride to the Hadleyville jail. It was Braddick's jurisdiction, so he got the pleasure.

*****

Chapter 20—Recovery of the Innocent

Friday, 1157 hrs.

Angie wasn't anywhere in the kitchen or living room. I walked down the hallway at the right side of the house past two bedrooms. The third door was closed, so I turned the knob and entered cautiously.

"Angie?" I called. The closed curtains and no light made it difficult to see with my one good eye slowly adjusting to the dimness and the other nearly swollen shut. That eye hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

Angie sat on the floor beneath some hanging pants and dresses in a wardrobe with no doors. She clutched the brown teddy bear from her toy sack. She glanced up as I entered the bedroom, but didn't stop fussing with the bear's yellow bowtie.

"I like Berry better," she told me, referring to the black teddy bear with the red bow to which she'd introduced me on the day her father had shot her mother. "But I had to leave him home. This one is nice, too, though. Auntie Elaine bought him for me. I haven't decided what to name him, yet."

"Maybe your Mama can help you decide on a name," I suggested, moving across the room to sit on the edge of the bed near the closet. I now had Angie's full attention.

"Mama?" she asked, her blue eyes fixed hopefully on my face. She stood up and walked to stand beside me.

"Yes. Your Mama is getting better all the time. And your grandma and grandpa are with her. She'll probably be able to come home from the hospital soon."

"Does your eye hurt a lot?" she asked. She touched my left cheek bone with two butterfly-gentle fingertips.

"Just a little." Even with the gentle touch, I winced.

"Did my Daddy hit you?" she asked solemnly.

"Oh, no, Honey," I said. "This was sort of an accident."

I supposed you could view it as sort of an accident; I'd accidently struck Elaine Maddox in the fist with my face. Since so far Angie seemed to have developed the knack of sheltering herself from the brutality she'd witnessed in her young life, I didn't want her to lose the knack.

"How about you though? Are you okay, Angie?"

I touched one of her hands in sympathy and she grasped mine trustingly and nodded.

"Can we go see Mommy?" she asked.

"Real soon, Honey," I promised.

My cell phone rang. I dug it from my coat pocket and answered. It was Kovitch.

"Hey, Sarge. Maddox just signed a permission form for us to search her house for the .32 that Simpson used to shoot Joanna. She said that she thought it was in the bedside stand in the master bedroom."

"Hang fire a few minutes while I made a call," I told him.

"Hello," said Georgina Cardell's cheery voice.

"Mrs. Cardell, this is Sergeant Schultz. We've located Angie Simpson over in Hadleyville. She's safe. But my car is being used to transport...someone back to Porterville." I wasn't sure how to word it since Angie was standing right beside me. "Are you free to drive over and pick Angie up and maybe me, too?"

"Why of course I can, Magnum," said Cardell. "I'm so glad you've found her. I'll just bring little Cooper with me and drive on over. It will only take a few minutes. What is the address?"

I gave Georgina the address and directions on how to get here. "Oh, and Mrs. Cardell?"

"Yes, Dear?"

"When you come, can you please bring Angie's black teddy bear? She's been missing it."

"Yes, of course. Bye-bye then."

Angie smiled broadly.

I called Kovitch back. "Go ahead with our 'passenger'. Mrs. Cardell is coming from Porterville to gather Angie and me. In the meantime I try to locate the item we discussed in our earlier conversation."

"Is Daddy going to jail?" Angie asked after I'd returned my cell phone to its pocket. It must have seemed to Angie that one or other of her parents headed off to jail every time I was around.

"Yes, Honey," I admitted. "Detective Kovitch is driving him to Porterville. But Mrs. Cardell is on her way to pick us up. Isn't that nice?"

"Um-hum," agreed Angie. "Then can we go see Mama?"

"Then we will go see Mama."

In the master bedroom, Angie dogged my every step. I could barely see out of my left eye now, and a headache was starting to develop. But that didn't stop me from locating the Beretta in the bedside stand, just where Elaine had said it would be.

Angie showed me the drawer in the kitchen where the plastic bags were kept. I pulled out a quart storage bag, returned to the master bedroom, and held the baggie inside out to lift the firearm. Once at the station, I would have it dusted for latent prints, and fully expect to find only Bud Simpson's. Or maybe one of Fredericks' leftovers.

*****

Friday, 1305 hrs.

It was about one in the afternoon when Georgina's Ford Taurus eased to a halt in front of Elaine's house. She looked down at a note she held in her hand then back up at the house number. She climbed from the driver's seat opened the rear car door and, after she released the buckles of his car seat, the little four-year old boy hopped out into the snow. He sported bright blue rubber goulashes and a winter coat which looked too big for him. Georgina grabbed his hand in her left one and they headed toward the front porch, stepping carefully through the snow.

Georgina had Angie's black teddy bear tucked beneath her right arm. She paused about midway to the front porch to scrutinize something on the ground; maybe drops of blood, scuff marks, or face-plant marks, or maybe all of those. When I opened the door, she let out a little cry of dismay.

"Oh, my goodness, Maggie! Look at your poor face! What's happened?"

Before I could answer, Angie spied Berry beneath Georgina's arm and bombarded her. "Gina! You've brought Berry! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Georgina lowered her bulk so the little girl could wrap her arms around her neck. When she straightened again, Angie perched against her on one arm and held Berry. After a proper hug, Georgina placed the girl on her own feet again.

"Can you and Cooper play on your own for a minute?" She asked Angie. "I want to get an ice pack for Maggie's face," she said.

"It's okay, Georgina," I objected, anxious for us to be on our way.

But Georgina would have none of it and marched into the kitchen and opened up the refrigerator door just as if it belonged to her. In the small compartment she spotted a bag of frozen peas which she snatched out and began smacking against the kitchen counter. In a drawer she located a clean dish towel, folded the bag of peas inside it and placed it in my hand, with orders to hold it on my eye.

"Let's just hope it's not too late. You should have gotten an ice pack on that right away," Georgina scolded. "Oh, and by the way. There's a large storage bag of marijuana in the fridge. See?"

She reopened the refrigerator door and pointed toward a quart-sized plastic bag stuffed full of green, leafy material. Georgina Cardell never ceased to amaze me.

"Okay, Georgina. I'll let Braddick know so he can come back later with a search warrant. Now, can we go home?"

Georgina said we could now go home, but first, with one hand holding the frozen peas to my swelling eye, I used the other to call Braddick.

"Hey, Schultz," he greeted. "I just got Elaine booked all comfy in a jail cell. But I don't know if assault third degree will stick, since Elaine claims she didn't know you were a police officer when she smacked you. She's now claiming she was just defending 'her man' against some crazy female that came on their property to assault poor ol' defenseless Bud."

"I didn't need to identify myself to Simpson," I fumed. "He knew I was a cop, the jerk. And Elaine should have known; she watched me put the cuffs on him. But what I called to tell you is I found the pistol right where Maddox said it would be. And a bit of frosting on the cake: Georgina found a quart baggie of marijuana in the fridge, so I expect you'll want to get a search warrant for the rest of house."

"Excellent work. I'll send an officer over to maintain chain of custody while we get a search warrant signed," said Braddick.

Ten minutes later, a Hadleyville officer whom I'd never met showed up. I was happy to see him, since by now I had a full-fledged throbbing headache.

With the two children in child seats and belted safely into the back of the Taurus, and me in the front passenger seat, holding peas to my face, Georgina made the fifteen minute drive back to Porterville.

*****

Friday, 1415 hrs.

Georgina dropped me off at Porterville PD then took the two children to St. Jerome's hospital for a quick reunion between Angie and her mother. I had no way of knowing if the grandparents were still there or if their situation was such that they could take charge of their granddaughter. They were, I surmised, checked into a hotel. And though our crime scene investigation was complete and the crime scene tape removed, it would not be pleasant for her parents to take Angie back to the Simpson house while Joanna's blood still soaked the carpeting in the bedroom.

As for my own self, my first thought was to get enough Tylenol in me to quell the headache. Still holding the package of softening frozen peas to my left cheek bone, I had Melanie buzz me in through the hallway door just as she was vocalizing, "Magnum! What happened to your eye?...You're carrying a bag of peas!"

"Just needed some vegetables, Melanie," I said and finished the trip to the detective's office where my desk drawer held a large bottle of Tylenol. I'd go back later and apologize for sounding rude.

One day my dentist's office had called to remind me that I was due for a cleaning and advised me that if I had sensitive teeth to go ahead and pre-medicate with 800 milligrams of Tylenol. Since this was hurting a lot more than a teeth cleaning, I popped six of the tablets, and washed them down with the half cup of cold coffee that sat on my desk from this morning.

I sat gingerly in my chair and leaned my head back, the still-cold bag of peas pressed to my eye, and waited for the Tylenol to take hold. Five minutes later, Chief Bronson came in carrying one of those blue ice packs. Wordlessly, he exchanged the ice pack for the bag of green peas and sat down across from me in Jordan's vacant chair. The limp bag of peas he plopped onto Jordan's desk.

"Kovitch brought Simpson in about thirty minutes ago," said Bronson. "He told me what all happened over in Hadleyville, how you took one in the face from Simpson's girlfriend. I hope all you wanted for Christmas was a shiner." He tossed me an impish smile.

"Thanks, Chief," I muttered.

"There wasn't any sense in booking him in here, since we were just going to transport him to County jail, so Kovitch hauled his ass straight in. He'll advise him of his rights and interview him there. I didn't think you'd mind, since you've probably seen enough of Simpson to last you. Did you find the weapon?"

I was still wearing my parka and pulled out the plastic bag containing the Beretta and dangled it at him. He took it and said, "Good girl."

The Tylenol finally seemed to be working, so I pulled the ice pack away from my face.

"What time is it?" I sat up suddenly.

Bronson checked his wrist watch and said, "Fourteen forty-eight. Why? You got a hot date?"

I collapsed back into my chair and said "Damn! Michael and Jennifer should be arriving at the airport right now. They're leaving to spend Christmas with his family in Nebraska."

"Where does that leave you for Christmas?"

"Probably right where I am." I sounded whiny and really didn't give a shit.

"Well, for right now, why don't you run past the ER. Have them look at your face, make certain you don't have any injuries more serious than the obvious. Then go home. Tomorrow's your day off anyway. I'll log this little piece into evidence for you," he said, holding up the Beretta.

*****

Chapter 21—The Dolins

Saturday was my normal day off, but Bronson knew as well as I that I'd be coming in to work. There were just too many loose ends. Besides, other than nursing a black eye and feeding the cat, what else did I have to do?

I idly wondered if it would be considered stealing if I didn't return the peas and the dish towel that Georgina had pilfered on my behalf at Elaine Maddox's. Since I didn't think that either of us had intended to deprive Elaine of her peas or dish towel, I decided that we had not, technically committed a crime. For some reason, this made me feel better. But for now, I had to apologize to Melanie for being so rude on the way in, and to ask her if she thought a person could re-freeze thawed green peas.

"I apologize for being such a smartass about the peas, Melanie," I told her after walking to the dispatch center, "but I was in a hurry to get some pain killers." Melanie turned with a smile, but then caught another glimpse of my eye.

"Oh, poor Magnum. I'll bet that hurts. You don't have to apologize. You should just go home. Are you going home?"

"I'm going home," I assured her.

"Oh, Magnum," she said, as though just remembering. "Did you listen to your voice mail? There's a message from Clay Bernard's family, a Mr. Bollinger? He wanted you to know that Clay had been released from Sacred Heart's Psychiatric unit, and he'd been arraigned in juvenile court, but that the judge wouldn't let him go and sent him to juvy instead. He wants to know if there's anything you can do to help get the boy out of there."

"I doubt it," I said. "I still haven't had a decent interview with Clay, so maybe I can do that tomorrow. Aren't you, Ron and the kids leaving to visit your parents tomorrow?"

"We sure are, and I'm so looking forward to it."

"Then I'll wish you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year," I said.

Melanie rose from her chair, and gave me a cautious hug as though I were very fragile, which, right then, I sort of was.

"Merry Christmas, Magnum. See you next year."

Extricating myself from Melanie's grip, I told her to give Ron and the kids a Christmas hug from me, then I left, headache almost gone. But not the depression.

*****

Friday, 1545 hrs.

Out of stubbornness I didn't stop at the ER as Bronson had suggested. I felt exhausted and dispirited and just wanted to go home and pout about life in general. And all I was getting for Christmas was a big fat shiner.

The house seemed empty and lonely. Not to mention cold. I turned up the heat and fed Phantom, who rubbed against my legs. At least somebody was home and happy to see me. As kitty munched away on her Iams, I smoothed her long white fur while static electricity made her hair stand on end and crackle.

A good long look at my face in the bathroom mirror told me it could have been worse. The swelling had diminished some, thanks to the bag of pilfered peas. Around my left eye, a reddish-bluish bruise was forming. But it wasn't my first black eye and probably wouldn't be my last.

It hurt to the touch. So don't touch it, dummy, I thought. A few moments spent hoping Elaine Maddox had broken her damn knuckles on my cheekbone made me feel better.

After eating, I washed up my few dishes and put them away, then Phantom and I settled on the sofa for some mindless television.

*****

Friday, 1930 hrs.

Suddenly I sat bolt upright. Razor-sharp claws dug into my lap and launched the startled cat across the room and into the kitchen somewhere. The ringing of the telephone had jarred both of us from a sound sleep.

Tripping over the coffee table, and smacking my right hip against the corner of the dining table, I made it to the phone on the end table by the big arm chair. Too late, And I realized that I'd slammed the receiver against my left ear which unfortunately, is mighty close to my left cheekbone and swollen eye.

"Oow!...fuckin' A!" I yelped as pain shot through my entire nervous system. "Hello!" I must have bellowed my pain into the receiver.

There was an uncertain pause at the other end and, as I waited for someone to speak, I proceeded massaging my free palm against my right thigh. Damn! Those cat scratches burned like fire!

"Margaret?" said a sedate, quiet voice. "I hope I didn't call at a bad time

Crap. I liked my step-mother a lot and here I was using the F word at her.

"I'm so sorry, Sylvia." I cringed out the words in both pain and mortification, pretty sure that explanations were in order.

"I had fallen asleep in front of the tube...with my cat on my lap. When the phone rang, it terrified the cat who used my legs like a launching pad with her claws. When I leaped up, I slammed my knee into the coffee table and crashed my hip into the dining table. When I grabbed the telephone I whacked myself in my very recent black eye."

I paused to breathe and eased into a seated position on a dining chair so I wouldn't pass out. "And how's everything up your way?"

For a moment, I feared that I'd shocked Sylvia into silence, until my father's unbridled laughter informed me that he'd either been listening on speaker phone or on the extension in the other room.

"Damn it, Dad, stop laughing at me!" I whined. Of course that netted a renewal of the hilarity from Joseph Russell Dolin. In the background, Sylvia's softer tones reasoned with my father not to laugh at his only daughter who was obviously having a difficult time. My eye throbbed in agreement.

"I'm sorry, Baby," my dad said, trying to get it together between bouts of hooting. "You just made it sound so funny. Now, what's this black eye stuff? Who punched you? You want I should come over there and take care of things for you?"

"Oh sure; what're you going to do, run her over with your wheel chair? Besides, it's already taken care of; she's been arrested for third degree assault."

"That's my girl," said my father. "But seriously, are you all right?"

"I'll be fine, Dad."

"Put a raw steak on it," he advised.

"Isn't that just an old wives' tale?"

"I don't know," said my father. "It's worked for me more than once. Now, the reason we called is that Michael phoned us last night. Decent man, Michael. Wish you two would get back together."

"Now, don't start."

"Okay, okay. Anyhow, Michael told us that he's taking Jennifer to Nebraska for Christmas and that you'd probably just bury yourself in your work and totally ignore the holidays. That's just not right, Kitten. We don't like you to be all by yourself at Christmas time. That's family time. So, Sylvia and I thought that, if it wouldn't be an imposition, we'd just drive over there and spend Christmas with you. How's that sound?"

It sounded wonderful! It had been several months since I'd seen my father and step-mother. I was usually too busy to visit with them much even when they did come to Eastern Washington. And this time probably wouldn't be any different. But that never seemed to bother them, probably because my dad had been a cop himself for so many years and understood what it was like.

"That would be awesome, Dad!" I said. "When will you get here?"

"Oh, we thought we'd drive up on the 23rd. Is that okay?"

"That's perfect! Make certain to let me know when you leave so that I can kind of know when to expect you."

"We will certainly do that, Kitten. Now, put a raw steak on that eye, and let's be careful out there."

"Sure, Dad. I'll look forward to seeing you both."

Suddenly, I felt better than I had in three days. I wouldn't be alone for Christmas after all. And the dumb idea about the steak even sounded good. One raw steak was left in the fridge, so I patted the blood off with a paper towel and headed for the couch where I lay down and eased the steak over my left eye. Watching television from this position was out of the question, so I just listened to a rerun of Ghost Whisperer until I dozed off.

When I awakened, it was going on eleven p.m. and Phantom was happily licking the raw steak. I took a couple of Tylenol and went to bed.

*****

Chapter 22—The Interviews

Saturday, 0910 hrs.

My makeup skills being minimal, an attempt to disguise the black eye made me look like Bozo the Clown. So I gingerly washed it all off, then donned the largest pair of sunglasses I owned. They hid the bruising fairly well, but the day was overcast, so I felt like I was walking around in a dark cave.

As I sat checking e-mails at the police department computer, Jenny called.

"Hi Mom! We're in Nebraska and eating breakfast with Grandpa."

"Hi Sweetie. I'm glad you made it. You'll be happy to know that Grandpa Joe and Sylvia are coming to visit for Christmas, so you don't have to worry about me being by myself."

"Yay! I'm so happy," chirped Jenny. "Daddy and I decided to call them and let them know you were going to be by yourself, just in case they could drive over."

"I know," I said sheepishly. "I guess I should thank the two of you for cooking that one up."

"You're welcome, Mommy," Jenny warbled, obviously pleased with herself.

"Pass on my regards to Grandpa Schultz and to your father. Kiss, kiss."

"Will do, Mom. Kiss, kiss."

It was a little past nine on Saturday morning as I parked in one of St. Jerome's Hospital emergency parking slots. I took the steps two at a time and walked directly to Joanna Simpson's room. Joanna was sitting up in bed, pillows stacked behind her. Angie sat beside her. The two shared a coloring book and box of crayons. Seated on two chairs against the far wall were a couple who I assumed were Sara and Phillip Anderson, Joanna's parents. The woman was busy knitting and the man craned his neck to watch a football game on the television to his left. I rapped lightly on the heavy hospital room door. All heads swiveled my direction.

With a big grin, Angie slipped off the bed and skipped to where I stood. She hugged my waist wordlessly.

Walking over to the couple, I said, "Hello. I'm Detective Margaret Schultz."

The two stood and introduced themselves. I'd been correct in my assumption. "We're so happy to finally meet the nice police detective who is working Joanna's case," Phillip said, as we shook hands.

They peered curiously at my sunglasses.

"Yes, this is a black eye I'm hiding under here. I'm not really very handy with makeup."

They smiled, but politely let it go at that.

"How's our girl doing today?" I asked, nodding towards Joanna.

Phil sat back down and reverted to his absorption with the game.

"She's doing better and better," Sara told me. "She still gets tired pretty easily, but I think the doctor's going to release her maybe as early as tomorrow as long as Phil and I can stay with her for a while. She's not supposed to do much moving around yet until her doctors are sure her wounds are healing as they should."

"We absolutely don't want anything to go wrong," I agreed. "But actually, I came in this morning because I've got a few more questions for Joanna."

"Yes, we can understand that." Sara turned to Angie. "Angie, dear. Let's you and me and Grandpa go down to that vending machine and get some hot chocolate, okay?"

Angie popped back up on the bed long enough to give her mother a peck on the cheek, then popped down again. She skipped to her grandfather's chair, took one of his large hands into both of hers and began hauling him to his feet.

"C'mon, Grandpa," she said. "Grammie says we can go get some hot chocolate now."

Finally, giving up on his ball game at the insistence of his granddaughter, Phil Anderson hove to his feet. A tall, lean man, he removed his wire-rimmed glasses, folded them, tucked them neatly into his shirt pocket and said, "Well, if you will excuse us, Detective, my granddaughter has decided she needs some hot chocolate, so I'll have to be going."

When the three had gone out the door, I turned back to Joanna. She gave a little smile. One of her eyes was blackened, too. We could have been the shiner twins, I mused, save for the gauze bandage covering the bullet wound in her cheek.

"What happened to your eye?" she asked. "And it won't do any good to tell me you bumped into a door. I've used that one, and no one ever believes it."

I removed the sunglasses mostly because I was sick of the dark cave effect.

"Oh, my! That looks as bad as mine," said Joanna. "Does it hurt?"

"It's not too bad now. I got it from someone who didn't want to be arrested."

"Not Bud!"

"No, not Bud," I confirmed. "It was someone else." I wasn't willing tell Joanna that Bud was in the process of leaving town with another woman when we caught up to him. Joanna merely nodded.

"That last time you and I talked, you told me that you thought Bud shot you because you told him that you were leaving him once and for all; that you were taking Angie and going to Oregon to live with your parents."

"Yes. I was sure things would get better between us when I got a good teaching job and could help with the expenses," she said. "I studied hard at the university to get my degree, and then worked for a couple of years as a substitute teacher until I finally got hired full time at the Middle School this fall. I was so proud of myself, and I thought Bud would be proud of me, too, maybe treat me better. But it just seemed to make him angrier." Tears began to well. "I finally realized that it didn't matter what I did; he just had to control me. And if the only way he could control me was to kill me, then that's what he would do." I handed her the box of Kleenex from the little rollaway table. She pulled one out and dabbed at the tears and blew her nose.

Then she seemed to sit up straighter on the bed. "I don't even know why I'm still crying about it. When he shot me, I didn't die physically. But he sure killed any love I might have still had for him."

"He'll be going to prison. You won't have to leave your job to go to Oregon unless you really want to."

"But look at me!" she cried. "I look so awful. The school won't want me back like this, a bullet hole in my face! I'd frighten the children!"

"You'll heal. If you end up with a scar, you can tell your students that the scar is your badge of courage. It took a lot of courage to make that decision. You have every right to feel proud of yourself."

"Like the Red Badge of Courage," said Joanna, holding her head up. "That's on my students' reading list for next semester." Joanna blew her nose again and dropped the tissue over the edge of the bed into a trash can.

"Then that would be appropriate, wouldn't it? But I wanted to ask you,Joanna, can you think of any reason why Clay Bernard would have brought that gun specifically into your classroom?"

"N-no, I...can't think of any reason," she said. But there was a slight hesitation, a lack of conviction in her voice.

"How well did you know Clay?" I pushed.

"Not real well. He was in my English class. A bright student, though he didn't ever talk much. Very good with computers. My classroom computer crashed a couple of times this fall, and he stayed after school helping me get it back up and running again. I was so grateful. I don't think I could have done it without his help. Of course, during football season, he couldn't help me because he was so busy. But when I had some computer glitches after, he was right there to help."

"You hesitated a little when I asked if you could think of a reason for him bringing the gun into your classroom. Why the hesitation?"

Joanna frowned. "I honestly don't know. But..."

"But?" I encouraged.

"Once when he was helping me with the computer, I was reaching way under the desk to get at the power strip, when my sleeve got caught on something, pulling it clear up to my shoulder. Clay saw it and he asked me why I had such a nasty bruise on that arm. I didn't tell him that my husband had struck me, but he must have figured it out, because he said, "You should leave that asshole.

"I swear I never said anything about my husband hitting me. Clay just seemed to know. I was so embarrassed and made him promise never to tell anyone. Then after he brought the gun into the classroom, I just had this crazy notion that Clay was bringing the gun to me so that I could protect myself from Bud. But that couldn't be the reason, could it?"

"I don't know," I said. "But it's not a bad theory. Was that the only unusual feeling you got about Clay? Did he ever say anything else that struck you as odd?"

"I can't think of anything," Joanna said.

So much for Joanna getting any hints of Clay's abuse; she'd had enough abuse of her own to contend with.

*****

Saturday, 1105 hrs.

Perched on a straight backed chair near a small table inside one of Lincoln County Juvenile Detention's interview rooms, I waited for Clay's arrival from his cell. Someone had tried to camouflage the austerity of the room by adding a large, fake, potted plant to a corner of the room. It didn't work.

The door into the interview room opened suddenly, and a cheerful guard in his twenties ushered Clay in. Neither the guards nor the inmates wore any sort of uniform.

Clay actually looked quite a bit better than when I'd last seen him. His face was practically acne-free. His shirt was neatly tucked into his blue jeans, he had no belt, and he wore a navy blue hoodie, zipper open like a jacket. Though there was a slot for a string around the edge of the hood, the string itself had been removed. He studied me with an odd expression until I remembered the sunglasses.

I removed them and placed them on the table, revealing the shiner. Most adults would have commented, but Clay pretended disinterest.

"I...uh...," I felt compelled to mention it. "Had a little run in with someone who didn't like me very much."

"Sergeant Schultz." said Clay, taking a seat in the other straight backed chair near the table. "I wasn't sure that it was you with those glasses."

"It's me. How are they treating you in here?"

Clay shrugged. "It's okay."

"Clay, I never did get to talk with you much on...was it only this past Monday? You were understandably upset. I thought maybe by today you'd be up to talking about what happened that afternoon."

"Not really." Clay looked down at his Nike's.

"I met your grandfather." Clay said nothing. "He's a nice man, and he sure seems to care a lot about you. He wondered if there was anything I could do about getting you out of here." More silence. "It would help if you could tell me why you took your granddad's gun into Mrs. Simpson's classroom on Monday. I can't help you get out of here if you won't talk to me."

"Maybe I don't want out."

How do you respond to that statement?

"You know who else I met?" I asked. Silence and a shrug. "Well, okay, since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you. I met your friend, Roy Garrett." A flash from the vivid blue eyes told me that I'd struck a nerve. "Roy actually came to the police department, on his own, to talk to me," I said.

"So?" asked Clay.

"So, Roy told me some things about when you and he were playing football this fall." Clay appeared to grow smaller in his chair and studied his feet. "Did something happen to you that you didn't like?" Though I waited several minutes, Clay said nothing. I forged on.

"I think maybe someone hurt Roy. And I think they hurt you, too. No one blames you or Roy, but we can't help you or protect you unless you talk to us. You wouldn't have to talk to me about this. You could talk to a professional interviewer, someone who understands because he or she has talked to dozens of kids who've been in your shoes. Would you consider that?"

Though he still didn't say anything, Clay at least appeared to be listening, thinking.

He probably did feel safer locked in the juvenile detention center. His judgmental father wasn't here. Neither was Coach Bill nor other kids teasing him.

"Clay?"

"Yeah," he said, "I'll do it."

I was so busy trying to think of other convincing arguments that I almost missed his abrupt agreement.

"That's good, Clay. Was that the reason you brought the gun to school, because the kids were teasing you about what was happening to you? Were you planning to get even?"

Clay shook his head. "Naw. I had Granddad's gun in my backpack because I was going to go find Coach Bill after school. Some kid in Mrs. Simpson's room saw it and tried to steal it. I got it back from him and that's when Mrs. Simpson looked up and saw me with it and started sending all the kids out of class. I didn't mean for all that to happen. When I realized it looked like I meant to shoot people at school, I got really scared. Kids that bring guns to school for that reason are real losers."

"So did you intend to shoot Coach Bill?"

Clay's newly found tough exterior began to crumble, and tears filled his eyes.

"I think I meant to," he said. "Somebody needs to stop him. He hurts kids! He hurt Roy and he hurt me! I think he hurt Rafe, too. But I'd already decided I couldn't go through with it when stupid ol' Rafe grabbed the gun out of my backpack. I got it back from him but by then everybody had decided I meant to shoot kids like those guys at Columbine!"

There it was. And there was Rafe again. Clay rubbed tears from his cheeks with the heel of his hand, trying to regain that tough exterior.

"What's Rafe's last name?"

"I don't know," said Clay. "He's this skinny Hispanic kid that we just met this year. He's always taking stuff that doesn't belong to him. He's got this real long last name that nobody can remember. I guess Mrs. Simpson would know, because he's in her class with me."

"Clay," I said, "I'm going to make an appointment for you at Casey Family Partners. Those are the professional interviewers I told you about. That will mean that someone will pick you up here and make sure you get there at the appointed time. Will that be okay?"

"Do my parents have to know about this?"

"Sorry to say, they do, because you're a minor." Clay turned his face away from me and looked especially troubled.

"I'll try and talk to your father and explain things to him."

"It won't do any good. He doesn't listen."

"Even to another adult?"

Face still turned away, tears dampening his cheeks, Clay shrugged.

*****

Chapter 23—Car Prowlers

Saturday, 1600 hrs.

The day had remained clear and cold. But as evening approached, you could feel the bite of impending snow in the air.

I went home for a quick lunch, then hurried back to the police station. I phoned the hospital, but Joanna Simpson wasn't available to come to the phone, so I decided to catch up on paperwork.

Evan was the only person in the station when I arrived. Travis and Banjo had just begun Saturday swing shift, and were out on patrol competing to see who could pull over the most violators during a shift. The scanner let me monitor the traffic stops they made as I worked.

I left a message on the Casey Family Partners voice mail that requested an appointment as soon as possible for Clay. They would get the message first thing Monday morning. Or maybe sooner if anyone came in over the weekend to check voice mails. I wanted to make certain all our evidentiary ducks were in a row before we made any more moves on the suspect, although he was probably already spooked since I'd locked him in the car with me. The last thing we needed was for him beat feet out of state before we could charge him.

I heard Evan greet Jordan as he buzzed him through the front door.

"Hey, Jordan!" I greeted him. He'd removed the bandage from his forehead and wore black shirt and pants so he would be harder to spot skulking about in the dark.

"Hey, it's our bright and shiner sergeant! Ooh. Did I say shiner? I meant shiny."

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "I know what you meant. Do you have any new strategies to try with your car prowlers?"

"Nope. Same strategy. Drive around, check out likely cars, come back on foot and sneak around in hopes of catching the little bastards in the act."

"What time were you aiming to get out there?"

"Oh, probably around twenty-hundred hours. Until then, I've got some paperwork to wrap up. This is your weekend; why are you still here?"

"My daughter's off with her dad, and tons of work to catch up on. Besides, it's looking like the school shooter case is evolving into a child molest case with more victims still out there. It makes me real nervous knowing that asshole is still at large. Though with football season over, I'm hoping his access to kids is limited."

"Child molesters can always locate kids," commented Jordan-the-cynic. And of course he was right. It made a person want to go directly to Jonas's place, slam him against a wall, cuff him, then tie him to the back of the patrol car and drag him to jail. It was dangerous to wait; but it was also dangerous to move too quickly.

Between five-thirty and six o'clock, four of Porterville's reserve police officers showed up at the station dressed in full uniform, as they always did. Travis and Banjo picked up the two who were still required to ride with a full time officer. The other two reserves were veterans and partnered up in another of our patrol units.

*****

Saturday, 1935 hrs.

I was just completing some approvals of recent reports when I noted the growling of my stomach. My little farm-house home, the company of my furry white friend, and food were sounding mighty attractive. In fact, I was contemplating what to fix for dinner when Dave Travis's voice on the office scanner caught my attention.

"9-0-4, Porterville," said Travis.

"Go ahead," responded Evan.

"Yeah, ah...you might advise Jordan, if he's still in the office, that there are three or four male juveniles out here who keep ducking out of sight every time they catch a glimpse of the patrol car. I've been trying to get close enough to see if I recognize any of them."

Jordan, who had been pecking away at his computer with both index fingers, grabbed his portable. "Where are they?" he asked Travis.

"Last we saw them, they were in the area of Main and Third. But they're on the move."

"Copy," Jordan said. He jumped up, shrugged into his dark, wool jacket and blue plaid ball cap and pulled the ear flaps down over his ears.

"Wait," I said, getting up and heading for the coat tree. "I'm about done here. I'll go with you."

Jordan had parked his '84 Mustang on the street instead of in the police lot, so that it wouldn't be identified as a cop-related vehicle. He climbed in behind the wheel, and I waited beside the passenger side door for him to reach across and pull up the door lock, then clambered in. After the Silverado or even the Crown Vic, Jordan's Mustang felt low to the ground and skittish. I called Evan on my cell phone to avoid transmitting our business for everyone's scanner to pick up.

Jordan drove to Third and Main, but we saw no suspicious juveniles. We continued cruising around. First the city's main downtown streets.

Even though it was cold and wintry, the parking lots of the six or seven restaurants in town were relatively full. That meant that after dinner people would switch locations for karaoke and drinks, maybe a little dancing. It would be busy.

Here and there a car horn blared with annoyance or tooted a friendlier how ya doin? Street lights illuminated the snowy boulevards. Oncoming headlights made me squint as vehicles eased by, and then left trails of red lights visible in the Mustang's rearview mirrors. Many were driven by young people undoubtedly hoping to encounter friends who knew where the night's best parties were.

Jordan drove slowly into the residential areas where we scrutinized streets and alleys, and listened to the night sounds with the Mustang's windows rolled down a few inches.

These were the quieter streets. Lights glowed warmly in a few homes and music or television programs could be heard drifting from some. In one front yard, three or four children were having a snowball fight.

As we drove into one of the wealthier neighborhoods, here and there a car had been left out of the garage or parked on the street—choice cuts for kids on the lookout for something to steal and sell for drug money. The little assholes could pop the door lock, rummage through the vehicle, steal everything of value, then leave the car trashed in record time.

Sometimes that nice new stereo system would be stripped out as skillfully as varicose veins by a surgeon. Wallets, checkbooks, items from the console—and you were well on your way to being a victim of identity theft. If you only forgot to lock the car, the little shits at least saved you the time and expense of replacing a broken window.

On Arbela Street, we turned off all the Mustang's lights and crept slowly, radio volume turned low, at about ten miles an hour. Jordan let the car roll to a stop and placed his index finger to his lips.

*****

Saturday, 2000 hrs.

Sixty feet ahead of us, parked on the left hand side of the street, was an older model white GMC pickup; about ten feet behind it, a newer model forest green Honda Accord. Both the Honda's front doors stood wide open. A small light flitted about inside the Honda. One slightly built, shadowy figure fumbled around on the driver's side. Another dark form was apparently going through the glove box; we could just make out the bobbing of his head. The two were so engrossed, neither had heard the approach of the Mustang. A third shadowy figure stood at the back bumper of the Honda, watching nervously in the opposite direction.

Jordan eased the Mustang's gear shift into park, switched off the ignition, and the engine silenced. He pocketed the keys and as quietly as possible both of us opened our car doors then pushed them gently closed.

Careful to step only in existing tire tracks, Jordan moved toward the GMC's passenger side, I toward the driver's, trying to stay close to the sides of the large pickup and not caste any shadows. As we flanked the GMC, the lookout spotted us. A young male voice split the quiet.

"Let's get outta here!"

At least the boy on the driver's side heard him, and jerked his head from inside the vehicle, managing to bonk his noggin on the Honda's ceiling. He cursed, looked frantically around, caught sight of me, and bolted toward downtown, fast on the heels of the lookout.

I'd chased a lot of people in the snow and ice lately. But with a vehicle. I took off on foot and prayed I wouldn't pull a "Jordan" and land on my face. I hoped that my almost daily jogs would make me a match for a young teenage hoodlum, even though I was at least twice their age.

My sudden dash into action nearly ended as quickly as it began as my foot slipped on the packed snow. I caught my balance and kept moving.

"Police officer! Stop!" I yelled. Yeah—like that was going to happen.

I managed to keep one of the two running boys in sight as he headed east on Arbela. Little shithead. Just wait until I caught him!

Even though he slipped and slid as much as I did, the little asshole ran like a freakin' gazelle.

He was losing me when he tried to change directions and his feet flew out from under him. He floundered into a snow bank that a city plow had thoughtfully created along the curb. He scrambled back to his feet but slipped and started to fall again. He caught his balance and continued east on Arbela. But he'd sacrificed just enough time for me to close the distance.

I don't much like football, but there's definitely a time for a well-placed football tackle. I launched myself at the kid's retreating back and knocked him flat into the snow with me on top.

"I told you to stop, you little asshole!" I sputtered through a face full of snow. My entire body weight rammed down onto his shoulders, pinning him. I maneuvered my right knee into the middle of his back, and he let out a squawk.

"Get the fuck off me, bitch!" he screeched, a difficult thing for him to do with his face planted in the snow. So I responded appropriately, "I'll...get...off...you, punk-ass, when you're cuffed and stuffed...Ya little snot-nosed bastard!"

Since my right hand was busy shoving his head into the snow, I reached my left behind me and grabbed the handcuffs tucked in my belt. During the transfer from left to right hand, somehow the cuffs pressed into his left ear. This may have hurt some, because the kid squawked again and tried to flail. I shoved his face deeper into the snow. With my left hand now free, I groped around until I located his left arm, levered it up behind him, and pinned it against his back with my knee. Much to his face's relief, I ratcheted one bracelet around his left wrist.

"Now, put your right hand behind your back."

"Fuck you!" the kid blubbered.

"Have it your way!" And I drove my knee into his back with more force. He screeched and couldn't seem to get that right hand back there fast enough. There was a grand sense of satisfaction just hearing that second bracelet ratchet around his other wrist. Now he could try to get up and run if he wanted to, but he wouldn't get very far. I sat still for a few moments, panting for breath, with him still confined beneath my knees

"I'm too fuckin' old for this shit." I muttered to no one in particular,

The kid had suddenly turned docile and worked to catch his breath. I looked around to get my bearings and wondered what had happened on Jordan's end. It seemed I'd chased the kid for about a block before he started slipping and sliding, then about a half block farther before I was able to catch up to him. I couldn't see Jordan anywhere, but did see revolving blue and red lights about a block back.

I hauled the kid to his feet. We both slipped in the snow but managed to stay upright. Gripping his right upper arm, I began to escort him back to where the emergency lights revolved.

Travis and a reserve officer, whose name evaded me at the moment, stood near the car, talking with Jordan. Someone occupied the back seat. When they caught sight of me and my little friend, Travis said something to the reserve officer and nodded in my direction, which sent the reserve tromping toward me in big rubber boots.

He was a little heavy set, always wore a pleasant expression, and was a dependable reserve who worked as a lineman for Porterville Power and Light. Every Saturday night for the past three years, come rain or shine, he had signed on duty with Porterville PD to "give something back to his community." I suspected he just liked chasing bad guys.

"Hey, Sergeant Schultz," he greeted me. Fogerty. That was it. James Fogerty. We hadn't worked together often, but I liked what I knew of him.

"Hey, Jim. So you came out to play in the snow with us tonight."

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, as he gripped the kid's left upper arm in escort position. Suddenly weary, I was happy to let someone else take over.

*****

Chapter 24—Aztec Prodigy

Saturday, 2055 hrs.

Travis and Fogerty transported the two car prowlers back to PPD in the back of Travis's patrol car. The lookout had made a clean getaway, but if we were lucky, one of the other two would rat him out. I rode back with Jordan in the Mustang.

"That kid who was busy pulling the contents out of the Honda's glove didn't even see me sneaking up on him. I even watched as the kid took out and examined each paper with his little flashlight.

"When you took off after the kid who'd been in the driver's seat," Jordan continued, "the kid in the passenger side cranked his head around in that direction just in time to see you booking on by. That was just long enough for me to get beside the car door. You should have seen the look on his face as it dawned on him that he'd been made. I know I must have been grinning from ear to ear. 'Gotcha, you little shit!" I says to him. 'You're not getting away this time.'

"I yanked open the door, grabbed him by both the shoulders of his jacket and lifted him clear out of the seat. 'You're under arrest for vehicle prowl, second degree,' I tell him. Then the kid whines, 'But this is my uncle's carro, Señior,' he tells me.

"'Your uncle's car,' my ass' I say to him. But just in case, I had Evan landline the Honda's registered owner. The guy and his family had driven their SUV out of town for the Christmas holidays, but left in such a hurry that he forgot to park the Honda in the garage. Luckily, his home phone is set up so that it switches over to his cell phone. He tells me that he doesn't even have a nephew, much less one with a Mexican accent. Too bad the lookout got away, but maybe one of these two will talk. Honor among thieves, right?"

Jordan was mighty pleased with himself, after finally catching his car prowlers, and I couldn't say I blamed him.

*****

Saturday, 2120 hrs.

This was Jordan's case, and he certainly deserved all the credit for the collars, but, even though my ass was really dragging by now, I stayed to help with some of the follow-up. Besides, I was curious to know more about the little punks who had wreaked such havoc in Porterville for the past few months.

The kid I'd caught was fifteen-year-old Justin Sweeney, a freshman at Porterville High School. He already had a pretty long rap sheet for a kid so young. I'd personally arrested him a year or so earlier for shoplifting, then a few months after that for Minor in Possession of Alcohol. He'd had run-ins with several other of Porterville's officers. And over in Hadleyville, he'd gotten drunk and disorderly and been arrested for malicious mischief.

To save Jordan the trouble, I called Sweeney's parents at home. They were in the midst of a party of their own; laughing and talking with the clink of glasses in the background. Mrs. Sweeney, who sounded sober, said that Justin was supposed to be staying the night at a friend's house, but she agreed to drive to the police station and pick him up. That was after she asked if we couldn't keep him locked up overnight to "teach him a lesson." This wasn't the first time I'd been asked that question, and the answer was always no, we did not have facilities at Porterville's jail to accommodate juveniles. And even if we did, as a juvenile, he was still his parents' responsibility.

The name of the Hispanic boy was Rafael Esteban Rodriguez-Villaverde. And when you asked him his name, he recited the whole thing. He was indeed from Mexico—Cuernavaca, as it turned out, about 53 miles south of Mexico City. He was fourteen and small, boasted a head of luxurious, curly black hair, had a dark complexion and dark eyes that snapped with cunning intelligence.

While Jordan conducted the formal interview of Sweeney, I decided to chat with Rafael until it was his turn for the arresting officer's interview.

"Es verdad, Señora," Rafael said to me, as we sat at the round table in the detective's office. "It is true. I am descended from the Aztec emperors. I know it is so because my abuelo, my grandfather tole me it. Mi abuelo is still in Cuernavaca. I will go back there myself when I have thee dinero. My father and mother, most of the year, are in Mattawa. You know Mattawa? The turn off is near Vantage, Washington where the wild horses of iron race upon the mountain. You have seen these horses, verdad? My parents work in orchards around Mattawa until the weather gets too cold. I don't like it in Mattawa so I don't live with them."

"But where are your parents right now?" I asked.

"Quien sabe? Who knows? They travel around. We have relatives just across the border in Nogales. Maybe they are there. I'll go to visit them in Mattawa when they are there this summer. I have many brothers and sisters, too."

"But who takes care of you in Porterville, Rafael?" I asked.

Rafael thumped his chest with a small, chocolate-colored fist. "Rafael takes care of Rafael," he assured me, machismo burbling out of him. "Who else?"

"But you go to school," I said, trying to piece together this cocky young muchacho's story.

"Claro. Of course I go to school. You think that Rafael Esteban Rodriguez-Villaverde does not value thee education? Mira. One day Rafael will be a famous attorney. You do not get to be a famous attorney without thee education."

"For the prosecution," I suggested, wryly.

"Maybe I prosecute for awhile; maybe then I defend. Quien sabe?"

"Rafael," I said, bringing us both back to the task at hand. "What responsible adult do you live with?"

"I already tole you, Señora; Rafael is responsible for Rafael."

"Let me put it another way," I said, patience wearing thin. "You are under arrest for vehicle prowling, a gross misdemeanor. That means the court can keep you in juvenile detention for up to a year. If I don't have the name of your legal guardians, when, or if, you are released to await trial, you will be sent to a foster home until we can contact your parents."

Rafael dropped his eyes and his shoulders slumped, the bravado temporarily diminished. Now he was a young Hispanic boy, alone and devoid of his well-practiced macho façade.

"Tia Anita," he muttered. "Sometimes I stay with my aunt. She is my father's sister. She enrolls me in school and pays for things from the money my father sometimes sends. But she is very busy so I don't see her all the time. Por favor, Señora. I have been to foster homes. No me gustan. I don't like them."

"Then tell me Tia Anita's last name," I said. "And where does she live?"

"Anita Anaconda Rodriguez de Hernandez lives in Hadleyville. She works at the mill en la noche, in the night. In the morning she works waiting tables at a restaurant." As he recited his aunt's impressively long name, some of the bravado crept back into his demeanor.

"But me, Señora? Rafael knows how to ride a bus. I also know how to drive a car, but you don't want to know that. The bus is how I get to school in Porterville because my friends leeve here, and to Spokane because I can make a living there as a delivery boy. I tole you, Rafael takes care of Rafael.Why do you not believe me?"

"Anita...what was the rest of your aunt's name?" I tried to repeat the name but had already forgotten half of it. Rafael sighed.

"Gringos are muy estupido. Anita Anaconda; it means golden flower in Azteca. Is a beautiful name, no? Tia Anita Anaconda Rodriguez de Hernandez. Rodriguez is my father's name, too. And my name. Gringos don't like to say long names. That is why at school my friends call me Rafe. Es mas facil, easier, my friends say."

I had begun to wonder if this atypically outspoken caballerito might not be the Rafe I'd been looking for in connection with Coach Bill.

"Rafe?" I ventured. "Which of your friends call you Rafe?"

"Oh, Jason, and Shane and Juan and Ricardo. Ricardo, he calls himself Rick, but I call him Ricardo." There were only a handful of Hispanics in the Porterville school district. By and large, local law enforcement had little contact with them.

"How about Clay?" I asked.

Rafael eyed me suspiciously. "Why do you ask me about Clay?" he wanted to know.

"You know Clay Bernard, don't you?"

"Si. I know Clay Bernard. He brought a gun to school. I was there. Later, I saw you there, tambien, Señora."

"Well, you're one up on me, then," I said. "I don't think we've ever met."

Rafael shrugged. "I was hanging with all those kids freezin' our asses off outside. I saw you and I saw su hija, your daughter, come and talk with you. And then you went into the school."

"You were the one who tried to take the gun out of Clay's backpack."

"A gun makes a man mas importante," said Rafael, as if that were explanation enough.

"A man with a gun only thinks he's important," I rebutted. "But it's illegal for a boy to be in possession of a handgun—ever."

Rafael shrugged. "I thought Clay might try to shoot somebody, so I tried to take the gun away, but he got it back. So what? Rafael did nothing wrong."

"Who did you think he might try to shoot?" I asked.

"Nadie. No one, Señora. Or maybe everyone. Who knows? Some muchachos were mean to Clay. They called him names. It wasn't right. Maybe he should shoot them. Then they respect him. Every man deserve el respeto."

Rafael's hard-line sense of street justice chilled my blood. This was gang mentality.

"Any of those boys you can name in particular?"

Rafael crossed his arms and turned his head to stare at the large map of Porterville which filled one wall of the detective's office.

"Did you know Coach Bill Jonas?"

He turned back to me.

"Esto es un puto pendejo!" Rafael spat, his dark eyes flashing fiercely. "He is an asshole whore-man." That may have been a rough translation of Rafael's Spanish expletives, but there was no mistaking the boy's contempt.

*****

Saturday, 2125 hrs.

Just then Jordan stuck his head through the doorway of the detectives' office.

"I'm done with Mr. Sweeney," he announced. "And his mother has just arrived. Now it's time for me to chat about the iniquities of car prowling with Mr. Villaverde."

"Detective Jordan, may I have just a few more moments of Rafael's time? Then you can get on with your interview."

Jordan looked at his watch. It was close to 9:30 p.m.

"You're the sergeant," he agreed with an edge, and moved down the hallway toward the lobby where Mrs. Sweeney was waiting to take her son home.

"Rafael?"

The boy's arms were locked across his chest, and he scowled at his scuffed Adidas.

"Que quiere usted?" he grumbled, not bothering to translate for me this time. He seemed to know what was coming.

"Did Coach Bill do something to you that you didn't like?"

"He teach me how to play football. That is all. I am soccer player, so football is very easy for me. Pero the other boys, they are a lot bigger than Rafael. They like to run me over; they laugh; they call me 'whet-back.' Los pendejos!"

"Did Coach Bill ever touch you in a way he shouldn't?" I asked. His answer was very matter of fact.

"Sí. Pero you think that is the first time Rafael ever get groped? Is not so bad. It happen to me before I leave Mattawa. One of my tios—uncles— he mess with me. I tole him to stop, and when he wouldn't, I ran away to Tia Anita. But Coach Bill, I think, does more than grope to Clay because one day when we leave Coach's house, Clay es muy enojado—very much angry. He won't tell anyone why. Then on another day he bring la pistola—the gun. That is all I know."

"Rafael," I said. "We can put Coach Bill in jail for touching you, and maybe whatever he did to Clay. But we'll need you to testify in court. Would you be willing to tell a judge what happened to you?"

"They can put a man in jail for just touching a boy?" Rafael sounded astonished.

"Absolutely. It is called child molestation. It's a felony, a big crime."

Rafael thought quietly for a few moments.

"My uncle in Mattawa tole me that this is a way that boys learn about sexuales—the sexual. How they learn to be men."

"I suppose it is one way to learn," I said through clenched teeth, suppressing a jolt of anger. "But it's not a good way. Children can be damaged for the rest of their lives when they are touched inappropriately by adults. That's why we have laws against it. These laws try to keep kids like you and Clay safe."

I was appalled at how streetwise yet naïve the boy was. He had no clue how difficult it would be to become a lawyer with his criminal history.

I also wondered what kinds of deliveries he made in Spokane.

Before leaving the station, I briefed Jordan on what I had learned from Rafael Esteban Rodriguez-Villaverde.

I was ready for a day off.

*****

Chapter 25—Lull Before the Storm

Sunday, 0900 hrs.

I hadn't bothered to set the alarm, but Phantom's purring, like a miniature John Deere Harvester, woke me. As I opened one eye, a pair of emerald green ones gazed back. My kitty needed her breakfast, even if it meant waking her human from a much needed sleep.

"Hey, Kitty," I murmured. I rubbed her head and scratched her ears for several moments to the music of her friendly greeting before she decided she'd had enough of these niceties and jumped off the bed. With her tail curled like a white question mark over her back, and flaunting her kiss-my-butt attitude, she trotted out the bedroom door and down the hallway toward the kitchen.

It was freezing outside the covers. I'd been so exhausted the night before that I'd neglected to turn the thermostat back up after I came home.

Shivering, I pulled on my bathrobe and sheepskin slippers. They helped, but not enough. I scurried to the living room and turned up the thermostat.

The sky outside the living room windows was leaden gray with snow falling heavily. If I were lucky, I could just stay home and read one of the many books stacked on the end table.

Phantom trotted back out of the kitchen to see what was keeping me. She began to emit musical little mhr sounds, and rubbed up against my calves in an attempt to trip me and send me to the hospital in retribution for my obvious neglect. I managed to retain my balance without stepping on her.

"Okay, Phantom. I get the picture." Turning from the snowy tableau outside the window, I headed into the kitchen with kitty right at my heels.

Since I obviously couldn't be trusted, kitty wasn't about to lose sight of me until her dish was full. After one bite, she dismissed me with a wave of her tail.

Sunday morning TV provided noise in the empty house. While the coffee brewed I located the laundry basket, full of clean laundry which had been scooped out of the dryer...when? Last week sometime? The week before?

The phone rang as I started on breakfast. It was Nick Peabody, one of the on duty officers.

"Sorry to bother you at home, Sarge," Peabody started.

"It's okay, Nick. I really like being bothered on my time off."

"I can tell you're lying, Sarge," said Peabody.

"Of course I'm lying. What is it?"

"Well," said Nick, "there's an older gentleman named Bollinger at the station here. He says that he wants his revolver back. Says you took it away from his grandson who had it at school earlier this week. He says you'll probably remember him."

The image of a white, handlebar mustache and startling blue eyes behind the wheel of macho silver Hummer H2 made me smile. I liked the guy.

"Yup, I remember him," I told Nick, experiencing a small flood of relief; this would be an easy fix. "No one was hurt during the incident, and we've got plenty of photos of the gun in the classroom. Since there's no argument as to who brought the gun to school, we're not likely to need it as evidence. Bollinger's a Viet Nam vet and I'm pretty certain he has no criminal history. But have dispatch run an NCIC III on him. If there's nothing that strikes you as hinky there, go ahead and release the weapon to him. Oh, and tell him to keep the key to his gun cabinet away from kids from now on."

Apparently, Peabody had called me in Bollinger's presence and he was overhearing the conversation because Bollinger's voice rumbled in the background:

"Just tell her she danged well better believe I learnt my lesson," he said.

I raised my voice intentionally for Bollinger's sake.

"Mr. Bollinger, Clay's got an appointment for an interview with a special counselor on Monday. He says he'll tell the counselor what happened to him."

"I think I already know what happened to him," Bollinger intoned gruffly.

"Uh...Sarge," said Nick. "Do you want to speak with Mr. Bollinger yourself? I'm feeling kind of like a fifth wheel, here."

"No, you're doing fine, Nick; it's my day off. Tell Mr. Bollinger that I'll talk to him soon. And tell him...Merry Christmas."

"Yeah, yeah, Merry Christmas," I heard Bollinger grumble crossly.

"Okay, Sarge. Thanks," said Nick.

I probably shouldn't have said Merry Christmas to Bollinger. Merry Christmas was better said to people who stood a good chance of actually having one.

By noon it was no longer snowing. The sun even threatened to come out. But now it was so late in the day that the hazy disk of it was edging toward the southwest horizon.

The calendar hanging on the kitchen cupboard caught my eye. With something still nagging at me, I looked up at it. Jeez. I hadn't even flipped it over from November. As I folded up the colorful picture of a food-filled cornucopia to reveal a snowy view of Mount Rainier and the month of December, it hit me! Dad and Sylvia were due to arrive on the 23rd! Ohmygod, that was today!

I grabbed my cell phone and dialed my dad's mobile phone number. He answered after three rings with, "We're about three hours away, Kitten."

"Dad!" I exclaimed. "You said you'd call before you headed out!"

"Did I?" he said, innocently. "I guess maybe I did. Well, we left a couple of hours ago. It was a little touchy going over Snoqualmie Pass with the snow and all, but we drove slowly and, with this new van of mine, we made it just fine. We'll probably stop in Moses Lake for a bite of lunch. Sylvie's whining about her stomach running on empty."

I listened as Sylvia objected that it was really Joe who was whining, and my dad laughed.

During the next two and a half hours I managed to complete three loads of laundry and clean the litter box, vacuum the carpets, change the beds. And I ran to Safeway since there was next to nothing to eat in the house.

Even though it took just minutes short of an hour to complete the grocery shopping and pull back into my driveway in the Silverado, there was a newer model black and tan front-wheel drive Dodge Caravan parked in front of my garage. Dad had bought the van a couple of months ago and had it rigged out with hand controls so he could drive. He would ever allow Sylvia to chauffeur him everywhere. He'd always been independent and that wasn't about to change because of some dirt bag's ill-placed bullet.

I pulled alongside the van and looked in to see Sylvia's smiling face. Sylvia's salt and pepper hair hung in a stylish, collar length pageboy, and her eye makeup looked fastidious behind wire rimmed glasses. She looked warm and comfortable bundled in a white parka with fur trim around the edge of the hood. Dad sat behind the wheel and bent forward to look across Sylvia at me.

"Hey, Kiddo!" he greeted, beaming. "Nice to see you could make it!"

I hopped down from the pickup and trotted through the ankle deep snow to Dad's side of the van, hoping he wouldn't forget that he uses crutches.

Dad reminded me of John Henry Bollinger; crutches, and that same stubborn, independent attitude.

Dad had a little gray at his temples, but otherwise his hair was still a thick, unruly mane of dishwater blond, which made him appear younger than his sixty-one years. His brown eyes twinkled with good humor. And of course, like the cop he still was at heart, he maintained a neatly trimmed mustache which—except for a few new gray whiskers—grew in a darker brown than his hair,

He'd gotten the driver's door open and was reaching for the crutches stored lengthwise back into the middle seat area.

"Here, Dad," I said, reaching toward the crutches. "Let me help you with those."

"Oh, I don't need your help, darlin'," he said. And to prove it, he shoved one end of a crutch down into the snow. "You Eastern Washington folks got quite a lot of snow around here," he commented, as he began to swing his legs around in the driver's seat.

"You should have been here before Jenny and I shoveled the driveway."

I gripped his left upper arm to help him, in spite of his objections. By now Sylvia had met us on the driver's side. We had a group hug and headed for the front door. I still held Dad's arm just in case, while Sylvia, out of habit, held his other one. If he fell now, we'd all go down in a snowy heap.

I unlocked the front door and fumbled on the wall for the light switch since it was totally dark by now. Once Dad was settled into my favorite arm chair I went back out to haul in the groceries and help Sylvia carry in their suitcases.

*****

Chapter 26—Once a Cop Always a Cop

Monday, Dec. 24th, 0910 hrs.

Clay's interview at Casey Family Partners was scheduled for 10:30 a.m. One of the personnel from juvenile detention would bring Clay over, and I would meet him there.

After a meal of spaghetti and meatballs, Dad, Sylvia and I had visited late into the night, so when I went into work, my butt was dragging. Maybe cops weren't ever meant to be totally rested ever.

Chief Bronson, Kovitch, Jordan, Bradbury and Fairbanks all had today and tomorrow off. It seemed that no one was going to be around Porterville PD except Finnegan and Peabody. And Rick the dispatcher. And me. Chief Bronson obviously never considered who would be left in charge when he approved all those other requests for time off.

After thumbing through the three reports left by Kovitch and Jordan, I greeted Rick, our most recently hired dispatcher. He had the least seniority, so he got the shitty shifts.

Ricardo Jorge Gutierrez, aka Rick, came from Nogales, Arizona. He was twenty-five and six foot-two of slender muscularity, had gorgeous, black wavy hair and dreamy brown eyes, and with a sexy accent to boot. He taught Salsa classes through Porterville Parks & Rec. And no, he was not gay, according to his girlfriend.

Rick was articulate enough that, while the male officers didn't call his accent sexy, neither could they find serious fault with it. And he was a very capable dispatcher.

"Ricardo, como estas?" I asked, pretty certain that my Spanish was at least that fluent.

"Bien, Querida," he said, without losing a beat. He always called me that. Go figure.

"What's going on, anything?"

"No, nada. It's very quiet so far. You have to work today, too, eh?"

"I chose to," I told him. "Kovitch and Jordan both have little kids at home, and my 'little kid' isn't so little any more. Plus, she's with her dad in Nebraska for Christmas this year."

"You are all alone for the holidays, then," Rick said, more a statement than a question.

"No, fortunately, my parents came over from Thurston County. If I can't be with Jenny for the holidays, they are next best. And I haven't seen them in quite a while. We had a wonderful visit last night, so I didn't get my beauty sleep."

"Querida, you are always beautiful."

"Has anyone ever accused you of being a terrible flirt?" I asked.

"Si`, Si`. Maria'lena, she may have mentioned it once or twice," Rick winked, referring to his gorgeous Latina live-in who was a hair stylist at a local beauty shop.

I grabbed the activity log clipboard off the com center counter and began my routine perusal of the entries made since I got off Saturday night.

After I'd gone home exhausted, Detective Jordan had continued the interviews of both young car prowlers. Rafael had refused to tell Jordan the name of the lookout after carefully explaining to him that real men did not rat out their compadres. Apparently, being no real man, Justin Sweeney had told Jordan that he'd be happy to provide the name of the third boy, as long as Jordan would include in the police report that Sweeny did so with the noble intent of assisting law enforcement. Sweeny told Jordan that the other kid was Robin Hudson.

Jordan released Sweeney to his parents, and an hour or so later, Rafael's aunt, Anita Anaconda Rodriguez de Hernandez, had gotten off work at the Hadleyville mill and driven to Porterville to pick up her nephew.

At half-past midnight, Jordan had gone to the Hudson residence, awakened Robin Hudson's dad, who, lo and behold, found no13-year-old in bed where he belonged. Mr. Hudson promised that when his sorry-ass kid got back home he would deliver him to the police department, that is, if the kid survived the tanning Mr. Hudson planned for him.

All the college students were gone for Winter Break and most families were staying home preparing for Christmas. So during day shift, there were only a few traffic stops and calls to help folks who had slid off the roadway or gotten stuck in snow banks.

Back in the office, with a cup of last night's warmed over coffee, the color and consistency of tar, I looked over the reports written by Kovitch and Jordan, wrote my own, and added Rafael Esteban Rodriguez-Villaverde to the list of witness/victims in the child molest case. Then it was almost time to head into Spokane for Clay's interview.

I snatched up the telephone on the first ring. "Yes, Rick?"

"Querida, es tu padre on the telefono. He wants to speak with you."

"Okay, thanks.

Hi, Dad," I said. "What's going on?....Am I busy?... Kinda. In a few minutes I'll be driving into Spokane for an interview of a child victim at Casey Family Partners...No, the kid is coming from the Detention Center so I'm not transporting him there. He's the one I told you about who brought the gun to school....

"I know there are no Christmas cookies, Dad. I haven't had time to do any baking. I....What?....Yes, I know the cat gets up on the counter. Just have Sylvia pick her up and set her on the floor a time or two. She'll catch on...Oh....Sylvia wants to bake some cookies? That would be great! But I doubt that I have any ingredients around....She wants to go buy some...Cool. Hey, Dad, why don't I swing by on my way to Spokane and pick you up....I know Sylvia wants you out of her hair while she's baking. But I also like your companionship ....Okay then. See you in about five minutes."

I hung up, climbed into my parka and boots, and stopped at the com center.

"Rick, I'm heading into Spokane for a victim interview. Keep a lid on it, won't you?"

Rick was on the radio taking information from Finnegan on a traffic stop, so he just waved a hand my direction.

The sun was actually shining through the clouds and it was 22 degrees. As I pulled the Crown Vic into my driveway, dad stood waiting on the front porch, his breath misting from his nostrils when he exhaled. He had on big rubber boots, a heavy plaid mackinaw with fake-fur collar and a lined ball cap with heavy, fake-fur ear flaps pulled down.

I helped him into the car and said, "So, Sylvia's going to make some of her world famous cookies, huh, Dad?"

"You betcha. She likes to stay busy. But she doesn't like me underfoot when she's doing it. She'll drive the van into town in a bit to get some ingredients, and I think she's going to pick up some food for tonight's supper and tomorrow's Christmas dinner. You didn't have many groceries."

"Sorry, Dad. I got so busy that you almost just had a can of soup for dinner last night."

"Oh, also...," my father said, opening a flap of his big coat to show the shoulder holster under his right armpit, "I'm packin' heat. Didn't think you'd mind."

Being a retired cop, my father was entitled to carry a concealed weapon. Since he'd been a cop for so many years, it was a good guess that he still carried the weapon just about everywhere.

I smiled. "I assumed you were packin', Dad."

When I was about eight, Dad would take me and my brothers out to the dump to plink away at tin cans. By the time I was twelve, my brothers had developed other interests, and since Dad figured that I'd graduated from tin cans, he took me to an indoor firing range called Sharp Shooters. Not your run-of-the-mill father-daughter activity I guess, but it helped to cement our relationship and make me the good marksman that I am.

Once on the road Dad said, "Now, tell me about this big case we're working on today." Once a cop always a cop, I thought.

"This is a child molest case with at least three victims..."

I explained how Clay had brought his grandfather's .44 to his English classroom with the intent to go after school to the post office and off the SOB who was molesting him. I added the part about young Roy coming to the police station to tell "Jenny's mom because Jenny was nice to him and he thought her mom might be nice, too," and then telling me what he knew. I told him about Rafael Esteban Rodriguez-Villaverde, the little macho car prowler. About how he had seen the gun in Clay's backpack and grabbed it, thinking a gun would make him more of a man. More respected. And that all three had been victims of a child molester named William Jonas, aka "Coach Bill."

I noted that the more I talked, the deeper Dad's scowl became.

"Dad?" I asked, wondering why he seemed so distracted. He nodded, acknowledging he was still with me.

"I'm just thinking that this is sounding familiar," he said. "Since my retirement, I've kept in pretty close contact with some of the guys I worked with who're still on the department. I'll go down to Zip's and have coffee whenever a couple of them are free to take a break. They keep me abreast of what's going on in Thurston County. What you're telling me sounds like a case they were working on a couple of years back. This guy was an assistant football coach and among his middle school football players, rumors flew around that this assistant coach was groping some of the boys. But they never could get any of the kids to open up about it. After the coach moved, even though they still wouldn't say anything about it, the ball players sort of breathed a collective sigh of relief."

"You're thinking maybe Thurston County's molester is this guy?" I asked. My dad shrugged.

"Stranger things have happened," he said. "The name William Jonas doesn't ring any bells, but the MO sure fits."

"Maybe when we get back to the P.D., we can call over to Thurston County and see if they have any more information."

We talked about my brother the lawyer, who was too busy making money in Denver to come to Washington to see dad, and about George Rooney, my nemesis. I hadn't thought about Rooney in months and tried never to think of him. Thanks, Dad, for bringing up a chapter in my life I had hoped was closed and sealed.

Rooney had popped into my life when I was up to my ass in alligators solving the Trixy Morgan Murder several months back. Rooney was about my dad's age, rugged looking and hard as an old TV cowboy. He had ice-blue eyes, and slicked back, black hair streaked with silver. He was over six feet tall, square and muscular, like an in shape heavy-weight wrestler.

He was an ex US Marshall turned bounty hunter, the Pacific Northwest's own version of Dog, the Bounty Hunter minus the charm. Rooney had been thrown in jail for charges ranging from soliciting hookers to possession of under 40 grams of marijuana, and his arrestees often seemed to incur mysterious, unexplained injuries during their apprehensions. They 'accidently' struck their heads on a coffee table or against a doorway or 'accidently' fell down an entire flight of stairs. Interestingly enough, they always resolved to be more careful in the future.

Rooney was an enigma. On one hand, he seemed a treacherous man, who would just as soon knife you as look at you. On the other hand, he was almost genteel, concerning himself with what was proper language for "a lady," at one point criticizing my usage of the F word.

Though I would never admit it to my dad or any other living being, George Rooney intimidated me, not only because he seemed able to see right through me with those eagle eyes, but because he had a knack for showing up at unexpected moments.

George Rooney may have kept me from exterminating a serial killer whose head I was about to bash in with my boot heel. The killer, now in the State prison, had been the most evil human being I'd ever encountered. If he'd died from a fatal axe kick to the temple, I would have saved tax payers thousands of dollars which was now being spent on paying for a roof over his head, three squares a day, library, weight room, and TV privileges.

"Dad," I said, "I don't know why you'd think I'd stay in contact with Rooney. He's a total asshole and to my knowledge he is long gone, hopefully out of state."

*****

1023 hrs.

We arrived at Casey Family Partners with just a few minutes to spare, and soon after, Clay showed up with his escort, a twenty-something kid in a green ski jacket, wearing a laminated ID card attached to a lanyard that identified him as Juvenile Corrections Officer, Jason Renaldo. When Dad and I entered the waiting room, Renaldo gave us a look of passing interest until he noticed Clay gazing at me with recognition.

Jason looked at my face and stood up. "Sergeant Schultz?" he asked. I held out my hand and we shook

"And you are," I looked again at his ID card, "...Jason. This is my father, Joseph Dolin. He's just along for the ride. My step-mother kicked him out of the house so she could bake cookies in peace," I smiled. I turned to Clay and said, "Hi Clay. Heck of a place to be on Christmas Eve, don't you think?"

Clay half stood, a hint of his good upbringing , and nodded in our direction.

Jason and I chatted about how it was Christmas Eve, and if we had real jobs we'd probably be home right now instead of still working.

Yolanda Mendoza, dressed in a black skirt, black medium heels and an attractive black sweater with delicate embroidery of a Christmas tree in reds and greens, stepped around the oak door which demarcated her inner sanctum. She smiled sweetly and said, "Hello, there. This must be Clay."

She looked at the 14-year-old and I saw him blush as his blue eyes dropped under the warm gaze of the pretty Latina with the long dark lashes.

Clay's interview took two, torturous hours. As my dad paged through magazines in the waiting room, I perched on a straight backed chair behind the two way mirror and took notes for the report I would later have to write.

According to Clay, Coach Bill not only fondled him in the back bedroom while the other boys remained watching videos in the living room, but ultimately sodomized him. From Clay's demeanor during the interview, the act had been the ultimate in degradation and humiliation. That was why, by his own admission, he had brought his grandfather's gun to school. He planned to have it with him after school when he went to the post office in search of the man who had violated him. Misguided, but justice nonetheless.

I watched as Clay struggled, unsuccessfully, to fight off tears of emotional pain and anger, and was grateful that a professional counselor was at the helm. Since no one was looking, I wasn't concerned with my tough-cop image and went through two Kleenex. It made me almost glad to have inherited the outcome of the Wenatchee Witch Hunt. Yolanda was definitely better suited to her job than I would have been; I just wanted to castrate Jonas, and if he bled to death during the process, oh shucks. Had I been in charge of the interview, I would have gotten all the pertinent information all right, but I wouldn't have been able to say the things clinically designed to start Clay on his way to healing.

Yolanda made certain that Clay understood that he wasn't the only young person such a thing had happened to and that she spoke on a daily basis with young people who had been assaulted, some to a lesser degree and some to a greater one. She made sure he knew that none of what had occurred to him or the other boys who went with him to Coach's place was his fault; that it was all the fault of Coach Bill. She did say that no matter how upset Clay was, however, it had not been his job to mete out justice to Coach Jonas—that was law enforcement's job. So, he was responsible for taking the gun to school and he would have to deal with the prescribed consequences. She emphasized that that was why the police sergeant was on the other side of the two-way mirror, gathering the evidence needed to charge Coach Jonas with the appropriate crimes. Clay glanced self-consciously toward the two-way mirror and nodded.

Yolanda had good news and bad news for Clay. The bad news was that as soon as they were finished with the interview, Clay would need to return to Juvenile Detention with Jason Renaldo. The good news was that as soon as they could process the paperwork, he would be released into the custody of his parents so that he could spend Christmas at home. He would not have to appear in juvenile court on the weapons charge until after Christmas break in January. This almost brought a glint of excitement to Clay's eyes. Almost.

1320 hrs.

Listening to children disclose victimization by assholes takes a lot out of a person. I was starving. After leaving Casey Family Partners, Dad and I drove straight to the nearest Perkins Restaurant and ordered one of their Grand Slams with three eggs, hash browns, sausage and pancakes.

While we sipped hot coffee, I used my cell phone to call Gill Benson, a buddy of mine from police academy days. He was a sergeant with Spokane's Police Department who usually worked the downtown district. I frequently called him when I was in Spokane to see if he had time for coffee. More often than not he was too busy. But when he could get away, he made a habit of sharing information with me about what was happening in Spokane, and I told him anything I thought might be of interest in Porterville. When we were in the academy together, he'd had a crush on me, but he was now sporting a wedding band and his relationship with the attractive blond he'd married appeared stable and committed. So I was pretty sure he wouldn't think I was hitting on him. The cell phone was on its fourth ring.

"Yeah!" said the voice on the other end I recognized as Gill's. He sounded annoyed and short tempered. "What is it?"

"Gill, it's Magnum Schultz. I was going to see if you were free for coffee, but it sounds like you might be busy."

"Oh, Schultz. What a coincidence. I'm talking with a kid from your neck of the woods. He's a little shithead so I thought you might know him."

"Gill, you charmer, you. Who is it?"

"Ray-fee-el somethin' or other, a long-ass Hispanic name. Caught him in possession of a felony amount of weed. He's busy giving me the runaround as we speak. He thinks he's a hotshot descendent of Aztec emperors or some such crap. Like that should impress the hell out of me. I'm impressed all right. I'm about to choke the living shit out of him."

"Gill, my dad and I just ordered breakfast. How long do you think you'll be tied up at your current location?"

"Longer than I like. I've got a couple other little turds here who I need to chat with before I can decide who to let go and who to keep. And no, I don't think you know the others. They're from Spokane. O' course I shouldn't say that; you might know 'em, since they're all shitheads. Where you calling from?"

"Perkins."

"It's one-thirty in the afternoon!" objected Gill. "Why don't you eat a lunch like everyone else?"

"Because I wanted breakfast," I defended, snootily.

"Well, I'm only a block or so away from Perkins, Post and Third Street. If this doesn't take too long, I'll swing by.

"And for the record, Rafael lives in Hadleyville with an aunt. So, technically he's not 'one of mine.' He just goes to school in Porterville."

I didn't like the fact that I'd guessed accurately about Rafael's trips into Spokane. Rafael did take care of Rafael, all right. But if he was dealing drugs or transporting them for other people, he could kiss his dreams of being an attorney goodbye.

"...Bill Jonas," Benson was saying.

"What?" I asked incredulously. I'd been elsewhere in my brain right then, so the name was out of context, and took me by surprise.

"Oh, this other punk, Lassiter, lives over in Hillyard and got expelled from a north side high school. He hangs around downtown Spokane at the skateboard park with the dropouts who still have friends going to school at Lewis and Clark High School. And he peddles drugs around there. Apparently, he don't much care who he burns. So he tells me that he and Ray-fee-el were in the process of taking this marijuana to Bill Jonas who lives somewhere out in the County but works in Porterville. Such loose lips will get Lassiter killed one of these days. At least your Porterville boy knows when to keep his mouth shut."

"He's not my Porterville boy," I insisted, but had to hit the pause button on my bad temper. The waitress had just arrived beside our table with a gigantic breakfast balanced in one hand and a huge club sandwich with potato salad in the other. That deserved a smile.

I pulled way back in the booth so she would have plenty of room to set down the plates, and said to her in my most charming voice, "Thank you so much."

"Gill," I said in the phone. "My food's here. Stop by if you get a chance."

"I'll give you a call when I'm done," Gill said, and hung up.

*****

1446 hrs.

We satisfied our hunger and then some, and headed for the car. Still no word from Gill. Apparently, he wasn't going to make it. We sauntered—or in my dad's case, hobbled—out to the Crown Vic. We had just gotten our seat belts fastened, when my cell phone rang.

"Yes," I intoned, preparing to be a smartass.

"Schultz!" Benson's voice exploded. "Look out your side window, for Chris-sake!"

I glanced out the driver-side window just as a kid wearing a black hoodie fled past on foot, running out of the parking lot and toward the intersection.

"It's your Porterville kid! He's under arrest for felony drug possession! Get 'im!"

I snapped the cell phone closed and threw it into the seat between my father and me.

I started the engine and swung the Crown Vic clear of the other cars in the parking lot, just barely. We bottomed out noisily as I dove out of Perkins driveway, realizing that very moment that I'd swerved onto a one-way street going the wrong way. At least I could still see the kid booking it as fast as his short legs would go. I hoped he'd slip on some ice, but business owners fearful of litigation had done a thorough job of clearing their sidewalks, so that wasn't happening.

"Don't take your eyes off him, Dad," I hollered. "I gotta drive this thing and try not to kill anybody."

Dad grabbed the microphone and said to our dispatcher, "We're chasing a fleeing juvenile down Third Street in Spokane." That was, of course, all the information he possessed. But since Rick already knew we had signed out at Perkins, it was sufficient. Rick copied Dad's transmission and told him to go to Spokane's frequency so we could communicate directly with Spokane, which was more than Gill Benson had had time to do.

"Channel 3, Dad," I said, and out of the corner of my eye saw my Father turn the frequency knob to three.

I could see headlights and windshields of three or four cars approaching head on, so I activated my headlights and the emergency lights on the dash. The more attention I drew to my stupid move the safer we'd be from a collision. As cars evaded left and right, I felt like Moses parting the Red Sea!

"Damn you, Gill! What have you gotten us into, now?" I muttered, and realized that once again I would take Chief Bronson's heat for being a "shit magnet."

My father pointed quickly to the alley on the left and hollered, "He went there!"

I turned the steering wheel sharply to the left into the alley and caught sight of our runner. He'd almost reached the end of the block. Where the hell was I? Then I heard Gill's voice take over on the air; at least he knew where I was. Sort of.

"Porterville unit is westbound in the alley off Third Street between..." he faltered. Come on, Gill. It's your city! "...between Hamilton and Regal!" he finished.

That probably helped the Spokane units know where I was but it didn't mean a thing to me. I just kept chasing Rafael Esteban Rodriguez-Villaverde. God, that kid could run! I prayed there were no bums hanging out in the alley this afternoon, but any bum worth his salt would be at the Gospel Mission where it was warm and he could get a free Christmas Eve dinner.

My left front fender smashed into three garbage cans, scattering them with great clatter and crash. I accelerated, trying to gain some distance on that fleet little muchacho. To attest to his mother's thorough training, Rafe quickly looked right then left before dashing across another street and into the next alley. I looked both ways, too, observing that this was also a one-way street but going the opposite direction of the one I'd just abandoned. I can't say that either the kid or I could have stopped if cars had been going by right then.

I bombed across the street behind the kid and entered the adjacent alley, vaguely aware that emergency lights of a Spokane City patrol unit were now flashing about a block behind me. Most likely it was Gill, since he'd already been close by.

Suddenly, the runner veered left, deeply bent his knees and jumped high into the air, catching the bottom rung of a fire escape ladder. Up he scrambled like a chimpanzee, not missing a beat.

"If you think I'm chasing you up there, you little bastard, you got another think!" I hollered at the kid as if he could hear me. I braked to a halt, skidding only a few feet in the packed down snow.

Even as I flung open the driver's door, preparing to make a liar out of myself by chasing the kid anyway, I heard a shot and saw a bullet plink into the hood of the Crown Vic grazing a six-inch, silvery, diagonal streak in the maroon paint.

"Holy shit!" I avowed, ducking back inside the car for cover and reaching for the .357 at my left side. I had halted the car directly beneath the fire escape ladder up which Rafael had so adroitly scrambled. The trajectory of the bullet implied that the shooter was someone other than Rafe, especially since I could see that he was still climbing rapidly, empty handed, upward between the second and third floors of the building. I was aware that my father had pulled his Sig Sauer .9 mm from beneath his coat and was peering furtively around at the surrounding buildings. Another shot rang out, the bullet ricocheting off a concrete step sending shards of cement flying.

"Let's get outa here," I said, reaching around with my left hand to the gear shift and throwing it into reverse. Looking over my right shoulder, Ruger still clutched in my right hand, I gunned the Crown Vic back through the alley somewhat awkwardly. At the street I cranked the Vic around the corner to the right, hoping not to swing too soon and smash the front fender into a wall. I hoped we were out of sight of the alley shooter. Unfortunately, I was once again facing oncoming one-way traffic, which was finding it necessary to swerve around the big maroon car. Not only that, but a little old lady, arms filled with Christmas packages, was staring, in wide-eyed terror at my father from not two feet away. Good ol' Dad, Sig Sauer in hand, barrel aimed upward, hooked his left thumb accusingly at me, his own daughter.

"Her fault," he yelled to the woman so she could hear him through the partially rolled up window.

Since my emergency lights were still activated, traffic continued to flow around me.

Gill's vehicle sat across the street in the mouth of the alley we had just come from.

I grabbed the mic from my father. "Porterville to Spokane City, we're being shot at by someone in the alley; two shots fired!"

"Porterville," Spokane's dispatcher responded immediately, "Spokane copies your transmission; gunfire in the alley. Patrol units to respond?"

Benson answered. "I've got a visual of the Porterville unit. I heard the gunfire, but couldn't see where it came from. As far as I can tell, no one was hit.

Three other Spokane units responded that they were headed our way and would be cordoning off the area.

Gill climbed from his vehicle and left it where it was, emergency lights flashing. He dashed across the street to where I was waiting outside the Vic.

"So, you never saw anyone shooting?" Benson asked quietly. I shook my head no.

"It wasn't the Hispanic kid, is all I know," I said. "He was using both his hands to climb the fire escape."

"Yeah, I'd already patted him down for weapons," said Benson. "He didn't have any on him. He went up the fire escape?"

"Yup," I said.

"Goddamn it," Gil stifled his annoyed expletive. "These are all old, low-rent apartment buildings for three or four blocks along here, a few with open store fronts. They've been renovated about a dozen times, so there are probably no reliable floor plans. Who knows what window he coulda went through. As for the shooter, we'll wait for backup, then search the alley. Could you tell what kind of weapon it was?"

"Small, I'd say," I said. "Although when someone's shooting at me, it sounds plenty big enough."

"Sounded like a nine-mil," said my dad through the window he'd lowered.

"Gill, this is my father, Joe Dolin. He was a cop for a lot of years over in Thurston County. Now retired."

"The Joe Dolin?" said Benson, looking impressed. "I didn't know you were related to a legend..."

My dad smirked and said, "You talking to her or me?"

"You, sir," said Benson, reaching through the window to shake my father's hand. "I mean, everyone in Lincoln County has heard your name attached to one story or another."

"Lies," said my dad. "All lies. I never did half of the crap they pinned on me. It's just when I got shot and decided to retire, the stories just kept getting bigger and better every time they went around."

"Well," said Benson, "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

The entire conversation held an unreal quality, with a gunman hiding somewhere close by.

I turned to see two Spokane City patrol units, no lighting of any kind, pull in silently behind the Crown Vic.

*****

1536 Hours.

One uniformed officer per cruiser jumped out, drew their duty weapons and, crouching low as they passed the mouth of the alley, ran to join us.

In a quiet voice, Benson said, "This is Johnson and this guy is Winchell. Let's not call in SWAT quite yet. They just told me that two more units are parked around the corner at the far end of the alley. No one will be able to get out that end without being seen."

Weapons drawn, we started a sweep down the alley, me next to Benson on the left side; Johnson and Winchell took the right. Dumpsters and trash cans ran the length of the alley, but Benson was tall enough that he could open the dumpsters and look inside with little trouble. I checked the doors; most were locked.

We'd worked our way through about half the alley. At the next doorway I turned the knob and the door started to open. I caught Benson's eye and beckoned him with a head toss. When he'd moved next to me, I threw the door open hard enough to slam it into wall.

With drawn guns, Benson went in high; I crouched and went low, flashlights on opposite walls to light the interior. Empty. We were in a small entryway with three doors, most likely the back doors of old apartments. I tried the door knobs. All were locked from the inside.

A strip of light showed beneath the third door. From inside we could hear a muted television. Someone was watching the evening news. In Spanish. As we listened, pots and pans rattled, and someone rummaged through a utensil drawer then slammed it closed. A woman's voice hummed a song. I rapped lightly on the door with two knuckles. No more humming; just the television in the background. After a moment or two, the woman's voice came from the other side of the door.

"Quien es?"

"La policia, Señora," I said, hoping that another female voice might reassure her.

'Nadie esta aqui," she said. Then in broken English, "No one but me ees here. No puedo abierto la pruerta. I not open thee door for nobody I doan know."

"I don't blame you, Ma'am," I said. "Do you know if anyone is at home in the other two apartments?"

"No. Nobody leeve in there. Pleese go away."

"A short while ago, Señora," I pursued. "Did you hear gunshots in the alley?"

"No. I hear no-thing. Pleese go away."

"Ma'am," I said, trying a long-shot, "Do you know a 14-year-old boy named Rafael?"

"I have three cousin se llama Rafael. No one of them has fourteen years."

"Sorry to disturb you, Señora." I said to the door. I looked at Benson and shrugged. We walked back out into the alley.

Johnson and Winchill were standing on their side of the alley, watching as we re-emerged, relieved neither of us had been shot or stabbed or blown up.

We had just resumed our alley search when a shot zinged into the bricks close behind my head. Before we could react to the first one, a second shot exploded from farther behind us down the alley. Benson and I scuttled behind a nearby dumpster. Johnson and Winchell scrunched well back into a recessed doorway. Then silence.

"Anyone hit?" Benson yelled. Since no one volunteered that they were, we looked back the way we had come and wondered how the hell we had missed finding the shooter before he got another chance to kill us. It was dark enough now that we could see very little but shadows and darker shadows. We stayed put, fearing that if we turned on a flashlight we'd betray our positions and give the shooter a third chance.

But then we heard a muffled groan from only about fifteen yards away. A male voice whined, "Oh, my arm..." And some empty paper boxes which had been set out as trash began to topple over with movement.

I switched on my flashlight and aimed its beam towards the sounds. A couple of long legs with blue jeans and highly polished brown leather boots were protruding from beneath the mound of trash. The male voice groaned again and he said, "Holy son-of-a-bitch, that hurts!"

I crawled over to see what was what, with Benson covering me.

A young black man, mid-twenties, wearing a nice leather jacket (except for the bullet hole and blood seeping from the upper arm) was beginning to sit up. He was groping around on the ground next to him. "Where's my fucking piece?" he whined.

"What piece?" Benson called. "You see a gun there, Schultz?"

"Not yet," I said. "But if he's the shooter, who shot him?" This new realization made me even more nervous. Had there been two shooters? Maybe the black guy had accidently shot himself? In the upper arm?

From another doorway, thirty or so feet back the way we'd come, a familiar voice said, "It was me. And don't worry. He's only got a flesh wound."

"Dad!" I exclaimed. "How the...?"

I swung my flashlight beam directly into Dad's face where it peeped from around the edge of another recessed doorway. He squinted one eye and held up his left hand to block the bright light.

The other three cops grabbed the wounded shooter and located the .38 Smith he'd dropped when my dear ol' dad shot him. They would take him by the emergency room later to treat the "flesh wound."

I hurried back to my father. He had holstered his Sig Sauer and was leaning on one crutch against the door frame. The other crutch he'd propped in a corner of the doorway to free up his gun hand. He looked pretty pleased with himself.

"Dad! Why in the world did you follow us? You knew how dangerous this could be."

"Well, that's pretty obvious, isn't it?" he said.

I helped him redeem his crutch from the corner. He tucked it under his gun arm and slowly began to maneuver out of the doorway and into the alley. Now that he'd used up a good dose of adrenaline, he discovered that his stealthy trek from the Crown Vic down the alley had been tiring. Saving his daughter from being shot in the back of the head and apprehending a potential killer with his unflagging marksmanship probably hadn't been all that restful, either.

I helped him back to the car and got him settled in the passenger seat. We watched as Johnson and Winchel, one on either side of the arrested shooter, followed Benson back up the alley. They patted him down a second time, then placed him in the back seat of one of the patrol cars. One officer would take him to the hospital for medical attention then to jail to be booked.

Benson climbed into the back seat of the Crown Vic to get out of the cold while he interviewed my dad.

"After you all started on your alley search," Dad told him, "something just didn't feel right. So I climbed out of the car to add an extra set of eyes. At least there's still nothing wrong with them. I just kinda tucked myself back against the wall on the left side over here. I knew there should only be four shadows moving around back there. When you two disappeared through that doorway, I coulda sworn I saw another shadow drop down off the fire escape. I thought it was probably just that fool kid we'd been chasing earlier, except he looked bigger. So I started moving along the wall as quietly as an old guy on crutches can. I figured after you came back out that door, you weren't going to be worried too much about what was behind you, since you'd already searched there. So I just kept edging closer to get a look. O' course nobody thought to leave me a portable radio. That would have helped..."

"You weren't supposed to leave the car, Dad."

"Yeah, yeah. Well anyway, when that shadow stepped out away from the wall. I could see the glint of a gun in his hand, and he was pointing it directly at your backs. That's when I drew my weapon. I didn't have time to yell a warning. I had to fire. Who is that guy, anyway?"

"We've already I.D.ed him," responded Benson. "He's got numerous felony warrants and apparently was determined not to go back to prison. When he saw Magnum coming after the Hispanic kid, he got paranoid and thought you-all were coming for him. I told him that everything isn't about him, but he didn't care to hear that." He chuckled.

"I'm just mighty glad you came into the alley after us," Benson continued. "Still it was a damned fool thing to do, so don't do it again."

"Well, not tonight I won't," promised my dad. Seated comfortably in a warm, safe environment, he yawned a long cavernous yawn that made his eyes water. "Now, can I go home and spend the rest of Christmas Eve at my daughter's house? I'm beat."

"Absolutely," agreed Benson. "But don't think I won't be telling this story around the precinct! It's my turn to claim one of the stories linked with the legendary Joe Dolin from Thurston County."

"I guess you can, son," said my dad. "Maggie, take me home, will ya?"

*****

Chapter 27—Making Headway

Christmas Day, Tuesday 0930 hours.

When we arrived home on Christmas Eve, Sylvia had a supper of hot chili and fresh corn bread waiting. Dad was so tired that he went to bed right after eating which gave me a chance to visit with Sylvia.

"Joe's health isn't as good as I'd like," she said. "He's often depressed. Of course, by his disability, but even more, because he can't work in law enforcement anymore. He works hard not to let this show. And I think it wears on his physical health.

"But you know, even though your father's escapades of the last few hours might have endangered his physical health, they were an absolute boon to his mental and emotional well-being. So I won't chastise him too severely about such a risk."

I was again reminded about why I was glad that Sylvia was in Dad's life. She was still head over heels in love with him after sixteen years, and while I suspected that my father would never love anyone as he had my mother, he thought the world of Sylvia. For her, that seemed to be enough. If there were angels in this world—and many people believe there are—I was pretty certain Sylvia was one of them.

Before going to bed, I warned Sylvia that since she and Joe were sleeping in my usual bed, that she was apt to be awakened by a big white cat purring in her ear. Her response was "How lovely!" The amazing thing was that when Sylvia was in command of the kitchen, and I readily deferred to her when they visited, Phantom did not get on the kitchen counter again until they left!

After breakfast the next morning, Dad, Sylvia and I sat around the kitchen table sipping coffee and chatting. We oohed and aahed over the Christmas presents we'd bought for one another. Jenny called from Nebraska to tell me that Michael's father had insisted that they all go to early Mass before they could open their presents.

Finally, she said, "But Mom, I want to know if you opened the present I made you."

"Of course I did," I said. "Very impressive the way you turned one of my old uniform shirts into the front of a sofa pillow, complete with black tie and gold tie tack across its front. And even sergeant's bars on the collar. Wow! It's a masterpiece!"

Satisfied that I'd truly appreciated her gift making efforts, Jenny bubbled on about the presents I'd sent for her to open: the iPod, the gorgeous new winter parka, and the tops that she could wear with her brand new blue jeans. "I just love them! I will look so hot!"

"Hot" was not my plan when I bought her the tops, and those ninth grade boys had better keep their eyes to themselves.

Jenny talked to Grandpa Joe and Grandma Sylvia, but none of us mentioned how Grandpa Joe had saved my ass.

*****

Tuesday 1225 hours.

Shortly after noon I headed for the station. I was the only brass in charge of Porterville P.D. Rick was again on-duty and said "Felice Navidad, Querida!" in a cheery voice.

"Merry Christmas to you, too, Ricardo!" I said. "Was Santa good to you?"

"No sé. Maria'lena and I, we will wait until la noche to open our presents. Her parents will be able to join us then. And you?"

"Yes, Santa was very good to me," I said. "My father gave me a new holster for the Ruger, which I needed badly. And Sylvia gave me some new nighties. To tell the truth I needed those badly, too."

"And when will you hold the fashion show, Querida?" Rick leered dashingly.

Into my head popped a ludicrous image of me in a black lace nightie with the shoulder holster strapped on. "Oh, about the twelfth of never, if you happen to be around then," I responded. Not in the mood for Rick's flirty teasing, I turned attention to the clipboard with the current activity log. Clever boy; he picked right up on my attitude, shrugged and turned back to his computer monitor. I leaned against the counter and began scanning the newest pages of the log.

Travis and Winfield had traded their shifts with Finnegan and Peabody, so were currently on duty.

Chief Bronson had come into the office yesterday while I was in Spokane, hung around thirty minutes, then left.

Rick glanced over at me as I was contemplating this entry and said, "El Jefe ask me to know why you were chasing bad guys out of jurisdiction again. He say, 'Schultz don't think we have enough criminals in Porterville, she have to go pooching?"

"I think he meant poaching, Rick, not pooching. It means when you hunt wild game out of season with no license," I explained. Sometimes Rick's English made us laugh. But I suspected it was often intentional; he knew darn well what a poacher was.

"Sí, sí. That is what I said—pooching."

'Uh...It's not important, Rick," I said. "Was Bronson mad at me?"

"No, I don't think he is mad. He jus' make the small talk with Finnegan and Peabody when they come to PD and write reports. And he keep looking at the clock like maybe you show up any minute."

"Ok. Maybe I'll give him a call a little later just to wish him Merry Christmas."

Rick shrugged, "Ok."

According to the activity log, Finnegan and Peabody had made numerous traffic stops during the course of the late afternoon, but things seemed to calm down as people settled in to celebrate Christmas Eve with their families. There were several Christmas Eve parties and the officers responded once to a loud music complaint.

Someone was playing Hark the Herald Angels Sing on their outdoor speakers at midnight. And a next door neighbor had just gotten all the kiddies to settle down in their little beds, when they were re-awakened by the loud music. Finnegan managed to get the two neighbors to call a truce - it was Christmas, after all. They even shook hands on it, one agreeing to halt the loud Christmas music until seven a.m. and the other agreeing to forgive him for waking up the kids.

Peabody, on the other hand, had been dispatched to Adeline Garrett's home. It seemed that at approximately 1500 hrs., Roy had been approached by a man he called "Coach" who was driving a large white SUV, and who wanted Roy to come to his house just for a minute and get the Christmas present he had for him. I wondered if this was the reason Bronson had been so anxious for me to get back to Porterville from Spokane yesterday.

According to the log entry, Roy had told Coach that he couldn't go because he had to get straight home to his family for a big get-together. Adeline told Peabody that Roy was out of breath when he got home, so presumably had been running. Peabody had driven around looking for a big white SUV, couldn't locate it, and then referred the information to me.

Even though it was Christmas Day, I called Mrs. Garrett at her home. She answered on the third ring. I apologized for calling on Christmas, but told her I had just learned of the incident with Roy and "coach."

She said, "Oh, Margaret. I didn't think I'd hear from you until tomorrow, and I didn't want them to disturb you at home, but Roy was pretty upset about seeing that man again. He said he thought the man would be in jail by now, even though I told him that these things take time."

"They do take time, Adeline. In fact, yesterday morning I attended an interview of another of Coach's victims. If there are other victims and witnesses out there, I want them to speak up so that Roy isn't one small boy against a grown man in court. But with yesterday's interview, with Roy's and Rafael's corroboration, I think we've got a much stronger case."

I didn't mention to her that Rafael had escaped from Spokane police yesterday. Her knowing about that would not make anything easier.

"I'm so glad to hear that," said Adeline. "I'll tell Roy that it's just a matter of time."

"Yes, do that. But could you ask Roy if he knows where Coach Jonas was living here in Porterville during football season? No one at the school seems to know."

Adeline said, "Just a minute," and I heard her muffled voice as though she'd placed her hand over the receiver. A couple minutes later Roy's young voice came on the line.

"Sergeant Schultz? I went to Coach's house. I know where it is."

"It was a house, Roy, not an apartment? Do you know the address?"

"Yes, a house. But I don't know the address. We used to walk there after school. Do you want me to show you where? I could show you where."

"Roy, is that something you want to do on Christmas Day?"

"I will be happy when Coach can't hurt kids anymore. That would be a good Christmas present.

"Mom, can I go with Sgt. Schultz and show her where Coach's house is?"

Again, I was filled with admiration for this courageous boy.

"Of course, Roy. Does she want to take time on Christmas Day to do that?" I heard his mom say.

"Yes, she does!" Roy responded for me.

But he was correct. Yes, Sgt. Schultz did want to take time on Christmas Day! If she could locate the crime scene where Coach Jonas had been molesting children that would be one more important step closer to nailing the bastard.

"I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes," I told Roy.

Adeline and a man I presumed was Roy's stepfather stood in the doorway as I pulled up in front of the Garrett household in the Crown Vic. They watched as Roy trotted down the sidewalk toward the unmarked car. He pulled open the passenger side front door then turned to wave and called, "I'll be home in a while!" The two adults waved back. A tall Christmas tree loaded with colorful lights and tinsel was visible through the open front door of the Garrett residence so I said, "Your family has a beautiful Christmas tree."

Roy pulled the car door closed and nodded. "Mom loves Christmas and so every year we have to have a gi-normous Christmas tree. It's pretty fun decorating it."

"Did you get everything you wanted for Christmas?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Yeah, I guess," he said, shrugging, and fell silent

"Now, where is this house?" I asked.

"I can find it easiest if you drive to the school first."

I made a u-turn and drove back several blocks the way I'd come, turned left at Sherman Street then drove a few more blocks.

Porterville Middle School looked lonely and barren with no kids, no school buses and no cars in the parking lots. Two boys about Roy's size were struggling to dribble a basketball on a paved court even though it was largely covered by snow.

"Do you know those kids?" I asked Roy. He shook his head.

"I see them at school," he said. "I don't know their names. They're sixth graders."

I remembered that it's not expected that you know anyone in a grade lower than yours.

"Where do we go from here?" I asked.

"Just go straight," Roy said. We went about two blocks. Roy started fidgeting and hunkered down into the car seat.

"Make a right here," he said, as we approached another intersection. At this point, only Roy's eyes were above the window sill.

"Are you afraid that Coach will see you?" I asked. "I don't think he stays in Porterville this time of year."

Roy glanced at me then back out the window.

"He wanted me to go to his house with him so he could give me a Christmas present," he reminded me. Had that meant that Coach was still living in the Porterville house or had he intended to take the boy to his residence out in the county?

"There it is!" Roy said, pointing out the window without sitting up.

I looked where he pointed. The house he seemed to be pointing at was a dilapidated rancher that sat well back from the street. Its olive green paint was peeling at least to halfway down to where the white rockwork began. Numerous missing shingles exposed the patches of black tar paper beneath. I aligned my vision with Roy's and followed his gaze carefully.

"That house right there?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes, that's it," Roy seemed positive.

But this was Jeff Frederick's rental house!

"That house right there?" I said again, doing some vicious pointing of my own. Roy looked at me as if I were losing it.

"I've been there several times," Roy assured me. "That is Coach Bill's house."

"Was he the only one who lived there, do you know?" I asked.

"He told us that he had a roommate, but we never saw anyone," Roy said. "Do you think Coach is there right now?"

"I don't know, Roy," I said. "But I'm taking you back to your house so I can try to find out. You've been a terrific help. And you're still the bravest boy I've ever met."

*****

Christmas Day, 1405 hrs.

I dropped Roy at his home, and even though Adeline hollered at me, "Do you want to come in for pumpkin pie and ice cream?" I hollered back that I'd have to take a rain check. Then I drove back to Jeff Fredericks' house and parked on the opposite side of the street about a half block away and cut the ignition.

There did seem to be a couple of lights on in the house this time. Maybe a lamp behind the living room drapes and one in a corner bedroom. I opened my cell phone, looked in its address book and called Travis.

"Hey, Sarge. What's up?"

"Hi, Dave. I need the most recent info that patrol has on Jeff Fredericks. What's he been up to?"

"Well, let's see," said Travis. "He got arrested for reckless driving and 3rd degree assault by Lincoln County 226. You were there if I recall correctly. He bonded out of jail, then paid the fine to get his van out of the tow yard. I do believe he's now sporting new license plates on it. Hold on. I've got the number written down someplace."

I could hear Travis shuffling around and wondered idly if Fredericks had actually made a trip to Omak to get James Walksalot Burton's signature on a bill of sale. Or had he just forged one in order to save himself the drive?

"Here it is," Dave said. "587 William-John-William."

I transferred the new info into my own notepad.

"I don't see the van here," I said.

"Well, if it's not there and it's not in the garage, he's slipped off somewhere without my permission."

"Lights are on in the living room and I'm guessing in a corner bedroom," I said.

"Yeah. He's been leaving lights on when he's gone just to throw us off."

"You haven't seen Maddox's red Explorer around lately, have you?"

"Naw. I hear he wasn't about to take her back after her fling with Bud Simpson. He said he wouldn't hang with any woman who had such little regard for the institution of matrimony. That seemed more important to him than the fact that Simpson tried to murder his own missus. How's that black eye, by the way?"

"It's getting a little greenish around the edges," I grumbled. "But the swelling's almost gone. Have you ever seen a white Suburban over at Frederick's place?"

"No, can't say that I've seen that." I heard Travis turn the phone away while he consulted with someone in the passenger seat, probably Banjo. I heard the two men talking for several seconds then Travis was back.

"Banjo doesn't remember a white Suburban per se, but he says Fredericks kinda keeps one side of his garage available for 'guests,' as he puts it. Hospitable fella."

"So it would seem. Well, okay. Thanks, Dave. I'll talk with you later. Maybe for coffee. Is there any place open on Christmas Day?"

"Yeah. I think Zips is open. And of course the convenience stores."

"Okay. Later, then."

I sat watching the still house for about ten more minutes before my eyelids tried to sneak closed for a quick afternoon nap. I shook my head vigorously and took a look at my watch—1512 hrs., twelve minutes after three p.m. If Jeff Fredericks were home enjoying Christmas Day, he certainly was doing it quietly. Time to head for the station to update my child molest case against Bill Jonas. What did a child molester do to celebrate Christmas, I wondered. Oh, yeah. He tried to locate past associate children to give them Christmas gifts.

I grabbed my cell phone again and dialed a number in speed dial then held the phone safely away from my ear. After two rings, the huge voice boomed, "Merry Christmas, Schultz! What the hell are you disturbing my holiday for? Ho, ho, ho!" Truman's sense of humor.

"I'm working, Truman."

"On, Christmas Day? Schultz, you gotta get a life!"

"Well, excuse me for living, but the graveyard's full," I pouted. "And I didn't mean to interrupt your family's celebration."

"Of course you did! But that's okay. I'm over at my brother's house and his wife's yammering was starting to wear me down. That's why I never got married."

"You never got married because you haven't found a woman deaf enough to be able to stay in the same room with you when you're talking."

"C' mon, Schultz, that's harsh," said Truman. But he'd gotten the hint and lowered his volume somewhat. "What can I do for you today?"

"Well, since I'm working, I thought maybe you'd be working, too," I said. "Are you familiar with the name William Jonas? He lives out in the County somewhere but all we have for him is a post office box."

"William Jonas...ah...Nope! Can't say that rings a bell. You want I should call the sheriff's office to find out?"

"If you don't mind, that would be awesome," I said, feeling a little guilty for bothering him with work related favors when he was trying to enjoy some time off with family.

"I really don't mind. My three nephews have been trying to get me outside all afternoon so they could skunk me in a snowball fight and I was running out of excuses. You got a full name and DOB on Jonas?"

I gave him the info I'd collected at the motorist-assist a few nights before.

"I'll call you back in a few," said Truman, hanging up.

I snapped my cell phone closed and dropped it into my inside coat pocket. It was beginning to get cold in the Crown Vic so I turned the engine on again to get some warmth.

*****

Christmas Day, 1447 hrs.

The temperature was dropping. I didn't have a thermometer but I could feel it. There was snow on the air for sure. I hadn't seen any movement in or about Fredericks' house since I arrived. I called Dad. "Hi Dad, whatcha doin'?

"Watching A Christmas Story. What about you? Chasing guys through alleys again?"

"No. I'm staking out a house where our child molester might be staying, and there's nothing going on so I'm bored."

"One of the joys of police work."

My cell phone beeped, telling me that I had a call waiting. I excused myself to my father and answered the call from Truman.

"We don't have much on this guy," said Truman, remembering to modulate his voice. "We've got an address on Spotted Road, out there between you and Hadleyville. Got a pen?"

I said I did and he gave me the address. When I glanced up again, something caught my eye.

I slid down in the car seat, just like Roy had a little earlier today, eyes peering between the dashboard and the top of the steering wheel. A blue Honda van had just pulled up into Fredericks' driveway.

"Hold on, Truman," I said. "Fredericks' van just pulled into his driveway. Lemme see what's going on."

"You're watching Jeff Fredricks' house? I'm not going nowhere, Schultz," Truman assured me.

I could see more than one head in the van. Someone was in the driver's seat, someone in the front passenger seat, and someone small and wearing a stocking cap was in the far back.

Fredericks emerged from the driver's seat, and a petite, pretty woman with shoulder length black hair tied back with a red Christmassy bow stepped down daintily. It apparently hadn't taken too long for Fredericks to get over Elaine Maddox. The third person clambered agilely over the center seat of the van and opened the sliding door on the passenger side.

"Well I'll be damned," I breathed. "The one and only Rafael Esteban Rodriguez-Villaverde."

"Who?" I heard Truman ask.

Besides the navy blue stocking cap, the boy wore the familiar baggy, black hoodie that hung almost to his knees. He pulled a couple of well-used paper sacks, poor man's luggage, from inside the van and bounded up the sidewalk to the front door, where he waited impatiently for the adults. He danced around, either cold, nervous or he had to pee badly.

Fredericks strolled to the door, oblivious to the boy's discomfort. He unlocked front door and Rafe disappeared in a flash. Fredericks stood to one side and let the woman enter the house before him. I wondered if she might not be Rafe's aunt from Hadleyville. She was about the right age and appeared Hispanic.

"Schultz! What's going on?"

"Rafael Villaverde. He's a little 14-year-old Hispanic kid that Gil Benson arrested for felony marijuana possession in Spokane, yesterday," I said into the cell phone, watching as the front door of Fredericks' house closed. "He runs like a freakin' deer. He ran from Benson, then got away from me up a flippin' fire escape. It never occurred to me that he would be acquainted with a long-time Porterville Stat-Fiver like Fredericks."

"You want me to come over there and help? It'd be a pleasure to shake down Fredericks, again. I'm starting to miss him."

"It's Christmas, Truman. You sure you wanta do that?"

"Not a doubt in the world. If you've got twenty minutes to sit and wait, I'll be the fat guy driving the black Jeep Cherokee," said Truman.

"Bring it on, Fat Guy. Sorry, but I don't think we can turn this into an exigent circumstance. Rafael is just not a danger to anyone enough to barge in without a warrant. If that's Rafe's aunt in there, once we tell her why we want the nephew, she may just turn him over to us. My impression is that she's a law abiding citizen. I'll get Travis or Banjo to sit on the house until you get here. If he runs again, we'll need all the help we can get. Time for me to get busy updating reports. I've managed to put those off all afternoon."

And I actually did get about an hour's worth of paperwork done before all hell broke loose.

*****

Chapter 28—Mismatched

1612 hrs.

Writing my reports while Travis sat on Fredericks' house seemed like a pretty good deal to me. So I hadn't been paying much attention to the scanner when Travis said to dispatch, "Truman just arrived. We're going up to the house on foot."

After a period of silence, Travis again called dispatch. "Villaverde took off out the back door. A white Suburban picked him up in the alley."

Apparently Jonas had a Christmas present for Rafe, too.

I stopped typing and grabbed my portable radio. "If that was William Jonas's rig, he's been warned not to come near those kids. Find them!" In my panic, I hadn't bothered to announce who I was, but they knew.

I pulled on my parka as I took off out the side door to the Crown Vic. The snow was coming down steadily, but wasn't sticking yet.

I started the engine, clicked on the car radio and heard, "Travis to Schultz."

"Go ahead!" I yelled, as if taking voice lessons from Truman. I wheeled the car out of the parking lot and headed toward Fredericks' house.

"Don't get in too big a hurry," said Travis. "It seems this all happened fifteen minutes ago. Fredericks didn't think it was any big deal so didn't bother to mention it to the kid's aunt until we showed up at the door asking to see the kid. So then she finds out about the kid bailing at the same time we do. We don't even have a direction of travel at this point. Also..."

"Go ahead with your 'also,'" I snarled, pulling to the curb until I had enough information to decide which direction to go.

"I guess Fredericks wasn't expecting a social call from the cops on Christmas day," said Travis, "because when he opened up the door, Truman sees an extra-large sandwich baggy of weed spread out on the coffee table with some papers and a bong, along with another little stash of some mystery white powder."

"Crap," I said philosophically. "I take it that you're still inside the house?"

"That's affirmative. I'm standing by here with Fredericks, the kid's aunt and Truman to see what you want us to do."

"Standby," I told Travis and sighed.

"Banjo," I said. Banjo answered immediately.

"Have you been monitoring the latest traffic?" I asked.

"That's affirmative," said Banjo. "And I've been watching for a white Suburban at the eastern SR 9-14 onramp. Nothing, so far."

"Copy, continue your surveillance... Central Dispatch," I said.

"Go ahead for Central Dispatch," Evan answered.

"Put out an All Points Bulletin for....standby," I said, and fished in my pocket once again for my faithful little notebook, thumbed through to the correct dog-eared page, and keyed the mic.

"Central Dispatch, the APB's for a white Suburban, license plate—Washington State, Lincoln nine, seven, two, five, six, Tom. Registered to William S. Jonas. Date of birth, eleven, zero six, sixty three. Also in the vehicle is a fourteen-year-old male juvenile. It's believed the boy has been taken without his guardian's permission and could be in danger from this man."

"Copy," said Evan.

As Evan changed to County frequency and began to put the information out to all law enforcement in Lincoln County, I pulled back onto the roadway and headed toward Fredericks' house.

*****

1734 hrs.

"I'm glad you're here," I said to Truman, whose imposing figure filled the center of Fredericks' living room. "That way I don't have to disturb you on Christmas day. Oh, wait. I already did," I grinned.

The blank looks on Truman's and Travis's faces suggested that I was the only one who saw the humor. Fredericks sat scowling and the Hispanic woman looked upset and confused. Tears ran down her cheeks.

I turned my attention to Anita Anaconda Rodriguez de Hernandez. "May I speak with you in the kitchen?" I asked. Anita nodded and turned toward the kitchen door.

We sat at the kitchen table laden with a large platter of crackers, sliced cheese, various meats and snack veggies. There were bags of chips and little dishes of dip. I was feeling quite hungry by now but somehow didn't feel welcome to dive right in.

"Anita. How well do you know William Jonas? You may know him as Coach Bill."

"He ees my...em," Anita struggled with her English. "de mi sobrino, my nephew's coach at the...em... escuela...es-school. He sometime...pagar...to pay Rafaelito for trabajar...for to work. Rafael seem to like heem mostly. But sometime...I doan know. He doan always like heem. But he no talk to me about."

"Typical fourteen year old," I muttered. "There may be more to it than that." I didn't know how close Anita Hernandez was to her nephew, and almost hoped they weren't very close. "Two of the other boys Rafael played football with have told us that they've been sexually molested by Coach Bill. Because of that, we're worried about Rafael's safety."

Anita's face paled. "Oh no! Otre vez, no! Not again. He have uncle in Mattawa who molest heem. That ees why he leeve with me now! Pobrecito...." She wiped away tears with fingertips of both hands.

"The State can press criminal charges against Coach Bill, Anita. But do you think Rafael would testify against him in Court?"

"Yo no se, Señora. He very much like thee dinero he get from working. He want to be abogado, a lawyer, when he grow up and he know he need lots of money."

"What kinds of jobs does Rafael do for Coach Bill?" I asked.

"Yo no se. Rafael just say he 'delivery boy,' so I doan think much about it."

"Did it occur to you that he might be delivering drugs for or to Bill Jonas? And that now it looks as if you're involved because you're here with Fredericks' who is obviously into drugs. He's probably going to jail based on what's on the coffee table right now. And in your possession too..."

"I no do thee droogs, Señora. No me gusta. I no like." And Anita began to cry harder.

I patted her hand. "Lo siento, Anita." And I really did feel sorry. My sense was that Anita truly was innocent and just trying to get along in life. I doubted that she had been smoking any of Fredericks' pot or using any other drug as she didn't seem anything other than normal, though god knows the place reeked to high-heaven of marijuana. By the time we were through here, we'd all have that sickening sweet odor clinging to our clothes. We'd find out what the white powder was in the smaller baggie on the coffee table, but I was pretty sure it wasn't powdered sugar.

Back in the living room, Fredericks seemed unusually laid back and easy to get along with. His eyes were glassy, his speech ever so slightly slurred. I hadn't even heard any four-letter words out of him. Based on his reaction to the stuff, maybe we should legalize it.

Fredericks claimed he had no idea that his sometimes-roommate, William "Bill" Jonas, was a pedophile; had he known, the man would never have stepped foot inside his house, he assured us, let alone bring some of his young ball players over for 'special coaching.'

He said he hadn't thought much of it when he went into the kitchen to get himself another beer and encountered Jonas and the boy just heading out the back door. Jonas always came and went out that door.

In fact, it was through his roommate, Jonas, that Fredericks had recently been introduced to Rafael's aunt, Anita. He'd met her at a run-down apartment building in Spokane just this Friday evening. As it turned out, she was in Spokane looking for her nephew and was staying the night with a girlfriend. It had been the friend whose voice I'd heard on the far side of the apartment door the night Dad shot the Spokane drug dealer. The drug dealer my dad wounded? He was the boyfriend of the friend. Small, small world.

Fredericks told us that before he left with Rafael, Jonas had said, "Merry Christmas, Fredericks. Looks like you're happy with the present I gave you: getting you together with that little fox. I've got a Christmas present for the boy, too. I'll take him to get it and bring him back shortly." Where had I heard that before?

Fredericks was so relaxed from the pot he'd smoked that he readily admitted that Jonas and he were drug dealers. "Jonas watches the mail at the post office for packages addressed to me. They have drugs in them that I sell in Spokane. I needed a runner, so Jonas told me about this kid that kid lives on the streets, has street smarts and knows when to keep his mouth shut. He said the kid sometimes stays with an aunt in Hadleyville and has no connections in Porterville, so we could use him for deliveries and he would't be traced back to me. The kid turned out to be Rafael and Anita turned out to be his aunt."

Fredericks assured us that he never sold drugs in Porterville. "A dog never soils his own crate," he'd guffawed. He was right about dogs, but I didn't believe it of drug dealers. Too many hints over the years suggested he was the source of a lot of the drugs in Porterville. We'd never been able to catch him, until now.

Travis and Truman arrested Fredericks and started collecting the evidence strewn around the living room. I'd have to get a search warrant for the rest of the house and the garage – and miss Sylvia's Christmas dinner.

Truman called some of his cronies, on-duty road deputies at LCSO, and had them drive out to William Jonas's residence. They saw no white Suburban anywhere on the property and the house was dark and totally quiet. Jonas had taken off with Rafael to an unknown location, or he was hiding.

*****

1912 hrs

Travis transported Fredericks to Porterville City Jail and booked him in on drug charges, while Truman transported Anita Hernandez in his Jeep Cherokee to her home in Hadleyville. Finnegan and Peabody had come on duty, so Finnegan took over for Banjo watching the Fredericks' house in case Coach Bill returned with Rafael. Unless he could talk Peabody into trading with him, Finnegan would have to stay there until graveyard shift officers came on duty. We wouldn't be able to find a judge until late tomorrow morning, so it was a hurry up and wait situation.

Back at the station, I typed up a search warrant affidavit for Fredericks' house, garage and van, pausing to make two phone calls.

The first was to Dad and Sylvia to explain why I still hadn't made it home for Christmas dinner. "No problem," said Sylvia. "We knew you were tied up at work, so we went ahead and ate. But there are a ton of leftovers just waiting for me to reheat."

The second call was to Bronson.

"Merry Christmas, Chief!" I said sounding much cheerier than I felt. I was tired. I was hungry. And, I had missed Christmas dinner with my family. "I heard you came into the station yesterday."

"Merry Christmas yourself, Schultz," said Bronson. "I was not happy that you weren't within your own jurisdiction yesterday, when one of your molest victims was in danger."

"Sorry, Chief," I said. "But I had to be present for the interview of the Bernard kid. He was a victim, too, you'll remember."

"I understand that," said Bronson. "But if you'd just come straight back home you'd have been here when that asshole tried to pick up the Garrett kid. Instead, you're off chasing other people's drug dealers. That's why Spokane has a police department, you know, so they can take care of their own damn drug dealers."

"Sorry, Chief," I mumbled again. But what I actually meant was, sorry you're all pissed off about it, I couldn't help it, and I didn't do it on purpose.

"Well, did you take care of it? The Garrett boy, I mean?" asked Bronson. "His mom was upset that you weren't here when they needed you."

"Yes, I took care of it," I said, starting to lose patience. But, now I had to tell him that Jonas had kidnapped one of the other witness/victims. I took the coward's way out and tried to ease into the bad news with good news.

"The good news, Chief, is that we finally busted Fredericks for drug possession and, by his own admission, dealing. And as it turns out, it was related to yesterday's incident in Spokane."

"And the bad news?" he queried, thereby effectively dismissing my exonerating lead-in.

I sighed. "Chief, the bad news is that Bill Jonas has taken off with Rafael Villaverde to an unknown location."

"You mean that Hispanic kid who was also one of the victims of your child molest?"

"That's the one," I confirmed, and waited to get yelled at again. But instead I got treated to a hefty serving of silence.

"Chief?" I finally said.

"Just go home, get some dinner and some sleep. You've got plenty to do in the morning," he said and hung up.

"Yes, Sir," I said to dead air. I spent a minute or two sulking about how no good deed ever goes unpunished and how patently unfair the world is. As another female officer once said to me when I was bemoaning how unfair something was, "Magnum, the fair comes to town once a year." And that was the end of our discussion on fairness.

*****

Chapter 29—Saving the Children While They Save Us

0705 Wednesday morning.

I'd put on a pot of coffee, then showered. By then the coffee was ready and orange juice and a bowl of Cheerios made my breakfast. Outside the kitchen window the thermometer said 18 degrees. I climbed into long johns, then blue jeans and a long-sleeved turtleneck sweater. An extra sweat shirt, my shoulder holster and a warm navy pea coat completed the stylish ensemble. My rubber Sorels somewhat detracted from the stylish effect, but what choice did I have if I didn't want my feet to fly out from under me on the ice? Nor did the stocking cap do much for my reddish-brown curls. Did I mention that I had not gone into law enforcement because I admired the wardrobe?

Since I hadn't made it home until nearly 9:30 the night before, I would have expected Dad and Sylvia to head for bed before I got home. But they are much nicer than I would be. Sylvia reheated some sliced ham, sweet potatoes, and mashed potatoes and gravy, and chopped up a fresh salad for me. The glass of white wine on top of the excellent food almost knocked me out at the dining table.

*****

0833 hrs.

When I arrived at the station, Jordan and Kovitch were on duty and raring to go since they'd had a couple days off.

"We caught Judge Buck at his kitchen table, and he signed the affidavit and search warrant," said Jordan. Soon after they gave me this information, they headed for Fredericks' house to conduct the search. I stayed at the station.

Last night's activity log showed nothing new since I'd gone off duty. No hits on the APB we'd sent out.

Back in the Detective's office, I stared blankly at the tall stack of paperwork on my desk. I was restless; something disturbing flitted in the back of my mind, but it wouldn't sit still long enough to catch it. Maybe I needed more caffeine. Starbucks wasn't far from the PD.

I threw on the pea coat and left the station through the side door. Kovitch and Jordan had their hands full searching Fredericks' house, so I headed for Starbuck's without calling them. I rolled into the drive-thru in the Crown Vic, ordered a 20-ounce Vanilla latte, double shot, cruised right back out again, and headed for SR 9-14.

When Lincoln County deputies had checked at Jonas's house last night, nothing and no one were there, but I figured it wouldn't hurt for me to take a peek at the place that William Jonas called home. He might have returned after the deputies had checked, knowing that cops would show up, find nothing, then just leave.

Every time I left jurisdiction it upset Bronson, so I kind of forgot to mention to dispatch that I was taking a quick little ride out into the county. Though brittle snow and ice rimmed the edges of SR 9-14, the travel portion of the roadway was bare and dry.

I plucked my faithful little notebook from my inner coat pocket and found Jonas's address again. Six miles out on SR 9-14 then a right turn on a side road called Canyon Lane. Sun reflected off the fields of snow so I slipped on some sunglasses. Sunshine always made me feel cheerful.

Several miles of snow-covered wheat fields then Spruce trees and Bull pines led me to Canyon Lane, marked by a sign, pale green with age and weather. I couldn't remember ever having driven out Canyon Lane, so I'd get to educate myself about Porterville's surrounding terrain. Now it should be only three miles to the Jonas house.

Apparently, the county didn't maintain Canyon Lane the way they did SR 9-14. After about a mile, the Ford began crunching along through iced-over ruts.

Bronson would not be happy with me if I got stuck out here and he had to foot the bill for a tow truck into the County to tow me out of a snowy ditch. He'd probably opt to leave me out here until Spring. But with no wide spot to turn around, I had to continue driving even as the snow grew deeper and deeper.

The road wound farther back into the forest. No warm, melting sunshine had penetrated these thick, overhanging branches. Even the temperature dropped. Jonas's house was probably a wonderful place to live during summer's heat, but this time of year, you had to take it on faith that the sun was still shining somewhere above those trees. The deputies who had come out here the night before hadn't mentioned that they'd been driving four-wheel-drive vehicles, but that was about all they drove this time of year.

As I approached a sharp curve in the road, I didn't dare slow lest I get bogged down, so I stayed firm on the gas pedal. But the big rear-wheel drive vehicle couldn't hold the road and slid sideways down an embankment into a snow bank.

"Shit!" I moaned. "Bronson will have my ass – again."

Alternating the gear shift between reverse and drive, and rocking the car forward then back, got me no traction. I was big-time stuck!

Off to my left sat a small log cabin that had to be Jonas's house. I stepped out of the Crown Vic into a foot of snow and, lifting one foot after another, trudged toward the house. No white Suburban. Maybe I could just check out the house, see if there was some clue to where Jonas may have taken Rafe, then give Kovitch a furtive call on my cell phone and have him bring out the department's Chevy Tahoe to save my sorry butt.

I made a short cut to the log house through the trees, which brought me in from the back side. The actual driveway circled around to the front to a clearing. A second building, large enough to hold the Suburban, had been hidden from view until I was closer to the house.

Every sense went on alert. I stood still and listened. Somewhere in the woods a woodpecker made his rat-tat-tat on a dead tree. To my right, a crow sat on top of a spruce tree and examined me with a critical eye, then cawed.

But there were no human voices, no muted radio or stereo, no motors running. No smoke rose from the chimney. So unless Jonas turned on some electric heat, anyone inside the house had to be mighty cold. I had forgotten my gloves. I breathed into my palms to warm them, and pulled my hands up into my sleeves the best I could.

As stealthily as possible with snow crunching at every step, I approached the closest window and tried to look inside. Too high off the ground. I glanced around and saw a log about a foot and a half tall and maybe ten inches wide, only a few feet away. I rolled it to the base of the window then set it upright. I stepped, first one foot then the other, gripping the window sill with my fingertips, then unbent my knees slowly.

A large rock fireplace with remnants of a fire stood against the right wall. In front of it was a large, round oak table with the remnants of a meal still in place. A door straight ahead of me and to the left was closed. To my right, just beyond the fireplace, a crack of daylight shone across the worn red and white checkered linoleum and onto a throw rug. Someone had left in a hurry.

I stepped one foot down, and the log flipped over and threw me to the snowy ground on my ass.

I clambered to my feet, grateful that no one, to my knowledge, had witnessed my undignified dismount, and rubbed my wet, chapped, icy hands on my pea coat.

Listened again. Not a sound except the crow laughing at me.

Convinced now that no one was in the house, I made my way around to the front door. It was standing ajar by about an inch. My hands were stiff and numb, but I managed to pull the Ruger from its shoulder holster. Gripping it with both icy hands, I shoved the hinge side of the door, pivoted the door and my body into the great room of the log house, making a sweep of it with both the gun barrel and my eyes. Nobody in sight.

Only two other doors led from the great room. One stood wide open, obviously a large bathroom. The other, the one I'd seen through the window, I guessed was the bedroom. I worked my way around the perimeter of the room to the bathroom door, and looked in, carefully nudging the shower curtain aside with the barrel of the Ruger. Empty.

Moving to the other door, I turned the knob and kept the Ruger ready. I slammed the door inward and it struck the wall with a resounding bang. This room was darkened, the shades on the three windows pulled down. I felt along the wall just inside the doorway and flipped the light switch. I blinked for a moment, saw no one, then I realized there was a small form beneath the piled quilts on the four-poster bed. You could just see the top of a black, curly head poking out the top.

I pulled back the covers, Ruger trained on the form. Rafael Villaverde lay beneath the pile of blankets. Alive, but his hands and feet were tied together with plastic flex-cuffs. He was wearing the same black hoodie, and his eyes were like saucers.

"Señora!" he gasped. "Tengo mucho frio! I'm cold, and I don't know why he leave me aqui all alone! We were beezniz partners. Los compañeros. Entendiste? "

"I understand, Rafael. Your so-called business partner abandoned you. Are you hurt?"

"No, no hace dolor. I'm not hurt. But Coach Bill, he promise we are los compañeros. So why has he leeve me here? Is he come back for me?"

"I don't know, Rafe." Rafael's predicament, like every molest victim, went way beyond the pain of sexual assault and entered the realm of violated human trust.

My icy hands shook as I excavated to the bottom of my jeans pocket for the small knife I always carried. I would like to have added "for just such emergencies" but never could have contrived preparing for an emergency like this nightmare.

I pulled the knife from my pocket and cut the flex cuffs from Rafe's small wrists and ankles. What if Jonas never came back? Had he left the boy to starve or freeze, whichever came first?

The thought of Jonas returning gave me a jolt. If he hadn't meant to leave the boy for good, he could be returning at any moment. If the Suburban was hidden in the garage, where was the man, himself? And what would he do if he caught me freeing his young captive?

Speak of the devil and he's sure to appear, was a saying of which Sylvia was fond. It popped into my head as did the sound of a high pitched engine revving outside. Something I'd heard before but couldn't place. Chain saw? Something bigger but just as throaty.

Rapidly, I moved to the bedroom window, lifted the window shade enough to look out, but could see nothing but snow and trees. The sound seemed to come from the front of the house. I moved quickly from the bedroom, across the great room and pulled aside a front window curtain, staying well back so as not to be seen myself.

"Coach's snowmobile, maybe," said Rafael, following close behind me, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and trailing after. "He keep one in the shed. When we practiced football, he promise when we get enough snow, he give us a ride sometime."

"You're right, it's a snowmobile," I whispered. "He's got a little trailer hitched on behind that seems to be loaded with gear. Did he mention taking you anywhere?"

Rafael shrugged. "No, Señora. No dice nada. He say no-thing to me. He jus' leave me early este mañana, tie me, so I cannot go away."

Outside, Jonas cut the ignition of the snowmobile. I pulled the Ruger from its holster for the second time today.

"Go back into the bedroom," I whispered, urgently. "Get under the bed. Don't come out unless I tell you to."

Rafael's eyes had widened. When a firearm made an appearance, Rafael was all about respect. He nodded and scurried for the bedroom, with a prompt, "Sí, Señora. Como no!" And the bedroom door slammed behind him. Jonas, in the process of removing his snow goggles, heard the door slam. He stopped still for a moment and listened. When he heard nothing else, he swung his leg off the snowmobile and pulled off his right mitten so that he could reach into the pocket of his coat. His hand rested inside the pocket as he started up the steps to the porch.

"Rafe?" Jonas called, from the far side of the door. "Is that you? You were supposed to stay warm in bed while I got the supplies so you wouldn't get cold. How did you...?"

Jonas didn't finish his sentence, because he was busy slamming wide the front door.

I stepped out to the middle of the great room in plain sight and took a police firing stance, aiming the Ruger with both hands right at Jonas's head.

"Make my day, asshole." I'd always wanted to say that. "Sergeant Magnum Schultz," I announced, "Porterville Police Department. Remove your right hand from your pocket slowly. If you're holding a gun or anything that resembles a gun, I'll drop you!" I promised, my index finger beginning to squeeze on the trigger ever so slightly.

"Coach Bill!" Rafael's voice rang, as he raced from the bedroom toward the man. "I knew you'd come back for me! Compañeros de los negocios! Beeznez partners, verdad?'

Rafael would have thrown himself gratefully on Jonas but Jonas grabbed the boy by the shoulders, lifted him off his feet and threw him into me, causing me to stumble backwards and fall against the kitchen table then onto the floor. The Ruger discharged and for a horrific moment I thought I'd shot the boy.

Rafael had landed on top of me, both of us stunned. He remained there for a moment, totally confused. Coach Bill most likely had molested the boy, but in Rafe's mind, a promise to make him a business partner set him aside from the other molested boys. Both of us heard the snowmobile engine spring to life.

"Are you shot, Rafe?" I cried, rolling out from beneath him. "Please be all right. I didn't mean to shoot you."

"No, Señora. Today I am not shot," he assured me. "Maybe another day, but not today." His voice did not sound like a frightened child but like a sad old man. We both climbed to our feet. I hurried out onto the front porch in time to see Jonas disappearing northeast into the woods on his snowmobile, the small, skied trailer skipping along behind.

Vengeful fury brought the Ruger back up, and I sighted down the barrel bringing the back of Bill Jonas's head perfectly in line for a shot. My trigger finger squeezed as I considered. I could kill the bastard right now. He would never ruin another child's life again. The sense of justice it would bring was overwhelming.

At the last possible moment, I raised the barrel a couple of inches and the hammer fell. I watched as a tree branch above Jonas's head shattered. The branch, about three inches in diameter, dropped onto Jonas, nearly knocking him off the snowmobile. The snowmobile swerved and the branch bounced off the trailer and toppled off to the side. I should have shot the bastard! The man deserved to be dead!

"Jew miss heem on purpose, Señora," Rafael said wisely, looking up at me. "You did not want Rafael to see you keel a man today." He was partially right, but that wasn't the only reason. It was one of those things I'd have to think about when I had more time. Right now there were things to be done. I re-holstered the Ruger.

"Come on, Rafe," I said, grabbing his wrist and leading him toward the garage. The two of us lifted the big, metal sliding door and sure enough, the white Chevy sat sedately inside.

"Coach Jonas, he keep thee keese over thee vizor," Rafe confided. I glanced down at him, suspiciously. Had he switched allies so easily, or was he just anxious to get someplace safe and warm, and using me to accomplish that goal? The kid's survival instincts were incredible.

I opened the driver's door of the Suburban and climbed up into the seat. Ran my hand over the driver's sun visor, and down fell a set of car keys. I wouldn't have to call for the Tahoe after all.

Rafe clambered up into the passenger seat. While I waited for the engine to warm up a bit, I cranked the heat up to high. If I was this cold in my warm Pea coat, Rafe had to be freezing. Having long ago dropped the trailing blanket, he was again wearing only that baggy black hoodie.

I pulled out my cell phone and speed-dialed Kovitch. He answered after the second ring.

"Sarge! Where the hell are you? We found a ton of drugs in Fredericks' house. We called you to come down and see for yourself - and maybe help a little? - but you weren't answering your phone and nobody knew where you'd gone."

"Sorry, Frank. But I've located Rafael Villaverde. He's safe. And I'm bringing him in. We'll be there in about 45 minutes. Call his Aunt Anita and tell her. Also, call Lincoln County and have them change their APB reference Bill Jonas, adding a red snowmobile towing a small trailer. We've located the Suburban. But Jonas could circle back to get it, so don't have that info removed. I'll tell you all about it when I see you."

"So, Sarge, what I think I hear you saying is that you're outa jurisdi..."

I hung up, pretending I hadn't heard Frank still speaking. No need for any more questions. I backed the Suburban out of the garage.

"Señora, are we stealing Coach Bill's carro?" Rafe asked, incredulously, but with a gleeful hint of conspiracy.

"What?!" I said, aghast. "No! No, Absolutely not. I just need to borrow it for a few minutes."

"Sí, Señora," said Rafe, knowingly. "We only 'borrow' the car."

Had this kid ever been innocent, I wondered.

The big four-wheel-drive vehicle muscled us through the foot-deep crusted snow like a hot knife through ice cream. We wound our way down the driveway to Canyon Lane and turned right. Five minutes later, we could see the tracks where the Crown Vic had slid off the roadway and down the embankment. I drove past it a few feet, then shifted into reverse and backed down almost to the Ford's rear end.

I hopped from the Suburban and slid the rest of the way down to the Ford, where its driver side fender rested fully buried in a drift of snow. I popped the trunk, rummaged around until I found a yellow nylon tow strap. While Rafe stayed in the Suburban with the heater running, I fumbled around between the Crown Vic's back end and the Chevy's trailer hitch until I thought I'd assembled a viable tow rigging, then tapped on Rafe's passenger window, which he dutifully rolled down.

"Okay, Rafe. Have you ever driven a car before?" I asked.

"Claro, Señora. Rafael is a good driver. Muy bueno. You want Rafael to drive? He can drive like the wind."

The bravado was definitely back.

With Rafael behind the wheel of the Crown Vic and me in the driver's seat of the borrowed Suburban, we pulled the Crown Vic backwards out of the snow bank. I locked the Suburban and left the keys safely above the visor. "See Rafe, we can't be too careful; car thieves are everywhere." He just nodded his head.

Rafe wanted to continue driving the Crown Vic, even though he could barely see over the steering wheel. But I was done breaking the law for today, and shoved him over into the passenger seat. The snow-covered road was still dicey, but we made it to SR 9-14 with no more problems.

*****

Chapter 30—Bounty Hunter

Friday, Dec. 28th, 1030 hrs.

Two days earlier, on Wednesday, about three p.m., I'd driven back to Porterville PD with Rafael in the front seat. Yes, he was still a fugitive from justice as per Spokane City, but we had bonded—partners-in-crime, I guess. I'd called Gil Benson as soon as we'd gotten out of the dense wooded area, and told him he'd need to meet me in Porterville to pick up his juvenile prisoner.

Our first stop in Porterville had been Zip's, where Rafe and I sat in a booth and each ordered an eight-inch tall soft ice-cream cone, swirled—half vanilla and half chocolate. We'd just commenced licking, when Benson's Spokane City police cruiser swung into the parking lot. He strode in, ordered a cup of coffee and sipped it while we finished our ice cream.

Once outside, I stood by while Benson patted down his young prisoner, preparing to seat him in his backseat. Before Rafael climbed in, however, he'd turned to me and extended a confident right palm.

"Mucho gusto, Señora," he'd said shaking my hand. "It has been my pleasure to working with you. Vaya con dios. Go with God." Rafael—still full of surprises.

Rafael, the 13 year old whose blood ran with that of Aztec royalty, a kid who spoke out with orgullo del raza—the pride of his race. Rafael knew that drug dealing could jeopardize his chances of becoming an attorney, but he met this knowledge with such certainty that he'd attain his goal, that I was very close to believing he was right.

But I wondered if Rafael could be trusted to testify against Jonas. Probably; if it would be to his benefit. He would wear the label of a victim, a survivor of child abuse. Something in Rafael's Aztecan genes grasped this. I decided, then and there, that if I ever need a hard-nosed, relentless, shark of a lawyer years hence, Rafael Esteban Rodriguez Villaverde, descendant of Aztec Emperors, would be my man.

On Thursday Chief Bronson had yelled at me, again, for "committing law enforcement out in the County just as if I belonged there." He awarded me three day's suspension, without pay, scheduled to begin right after I wrapped up the William Jonas case. His "award" definitely made me repent for poaching on someone else's turf.

Jordan and Kovitch, over coffee at Zips (Jordan had even sprung for the coffee) had wanted to hear the entire story of how I'd had a pedophile in my dead-on-balls-accurate gun sights and then, apparently for no good reason, intentionally missed the shot.

"I woulda killed the son-of-a bitch," said Jordan.

No, you wouldn't," said Frank. "I've seen your shooting scores."

"Fuck you," said Jordan.

"No, fuck you," countered Kovitch.

"Oh bullshit!" I intervened. "Neither one of you could have known what you'd do until you were in a position to do it. Besides, his back was to me. Who shoots a person in the back?"

"Well, no one shoots a person in the back," said Jordan. "But ya can't classify a pedophile as a person."

I'd halfway completed the affidavit for arrest charging Coach Bill Jonas with the sexual assault of Clay Bernard, Roy Garret, and Rafael Villaverde and with the abduction of Rafael. The prosecutor might not like the abduction charges, but it was worth a try.

Kovitch poked his head through the door. "Guess what?"

"I give up. What?"

"They caught the son-of-a-bitch!"

"Jonas?"

"Yeah, and guess who took him into custody?"

"Who?"

"Your buddy, the bounty hunter."

I spun around in my chair to stare at Frank in disbelief.

"George Rooney? No possible way in hell! How in God's name did George Rooney get involved?"

"Apparently," said Frank, "Jonas jumped bail over in Thurston County on a drug charge and the bail bondsman called in your friend Rooney to go find him. Also, Thurston County detectives have witnesses prepared to testify that Jonas fondled some young football players over there."

"How in god's name did they find that out so quickly? I haven't even finished up the probable cause affidavit."

"You might want to ask your dad about that," said Kovitch. "Didn't you say that he stays in pretty close contact with some of the guys over there?"

When something simply blew Dad away, he used to say, "Well, cut me down and call me shorty!" And the thought of George Rooney reappearing definitely blew me away. Was he the only freaking bounty hunter in Washington State?

I began with Kovitch's suggestion to ask Dad.

"Oh, hi, kitten," my dad said when he answered. He and Sylvia had decided to stay a couple of extra days so they could visit with Jennifer when she got home tomorrow.

"So, Dad. Have you been in contact with your buddies in Thurston County lately?" I asked.

"Hey, yeah. I meant to tell you about that. Remember, I was telling you about the incidents in Thurston County that sounded similar to the child molest case you were working? You mentioned that when we got back to Porterville, we should call Thurston County and see what they had. It was obvious that you were up to your ass in alligators, so I made the call for you.

"Thurston County didn't have any new info, but they sure as hell wanted to find out why I was asking. So I told them about your young victims and your prime suspect, William Jonas. They started doing some checking and what do you know! They had a William Jonas in their system who had jumped bail on a felony drug arrest a couple years back. The only discrepancy was in the date of birth.

"One of Thurston County's detectives wanted to get a line on the football coach who was supposed to be the molester, because one of their victims was his nephew. That detective told the bail bondsman, and the bail bondsman turned the case over to a bounty hunter. Pure coincidence that George Rooney took the case. I'm loving all this; gets the old blood pumping again! So how's it going on your end?"

"Dad, you wouldn't believe it if I told you," I said.

After I hung up, I called Paul Truman, LCSO. "Morning, Truman. I heard Lincoln County has Bill Jonas in custody. Is this true?"

"Well, Schultz, I don't know off hand," he yelled, "but I'll call the jail and see if he's been brought in, and if so, by who."

Ten minutes later he called back. "Schultz!" he roared. "Your source was correct. Rooney brought Jonas in last night for jumping bond on a drug warrant. I guess he wanted the guy to have a nice, comfy jail bed to sleep in. Rooney's scheduled to pick him up in about thirty minutes to take him back to Thurston County on their warrant. Aren't you working a child molest case against Jonas?"

"Yup. Three victims. Is there any chance you can get Rooney to bring Jonas by Porterville PD so I can read him his CR's, and see what he says. And let the asshole know that I plan on being his worst nightmare? Then I don't know if we'll let him go with Rooney or not. I'm thinking that their bond jumping warrant may just be a way to get Jonas back over to Thurston County so they can investigate their own child abuse complaints."

"I'll have the jail give Rooney the message to call you before he takes off with Jonas. Will that suit you?"

I said that it would suit me fine.

Then I called Adeline Garrett, Eleanor Bernard, and Anita Hernandez and informed them that Bill Jonas was in custody.

******

1224 Hrs.

I finally finished the affidavit and faxed it over to Judge Buck's office along with the arrest warrant. It would be nice to have the warrant in hand by the time Rooney showed up with Jonas. Losing the finder's fee wouldn't make Rooney very happy, but tough shit.

The landline rang.

"Hey, Magnum," Evan said. "That guy, George Rooney, is here. He says he's got a prisoner you wanted to talk to."

My instructions were to have him call just before he left the jail, and here he was. Damn him! Why in the hell did he intimidate me? And still no word from Judge Buck. Without a warrant in hand, I had no authority to hold Jonas.

"Okay, Evan. I'll be right up."

I got up and walked down the corridor to the foyer.

Rooney was about my father's age. His black, 1950's, James Dean hair was slicked back and streaked with silver. Not white—silver. Over six feet tall, square and muscular, Rooney was a good-looking man, in that sleazy, bad-boy sort of way. He turned when he heard the door open, straightened up from where he'd been leaning on Evan's counter, and made a clicking sound out of one corner of his mouth. His ice-blue eyes bored straight through me with an expression I couldn't read. He acknowledged my extended right hand with a curt nod and a smirk.

"Schultz. How are ya?" he asked, making no move to shake hands. "So you're the one who's going to slow me down today. I was hoping to get Jonas to Thurston County before it gets dark. Don't really want to wrangle a jail cell in Ellensburg for him."

"I'm fine. And you?" I said, withdrawing my hand.

Rooney yawned. "Pardon me," he said. "I didn't get a lot of rest last night. You know how it is when you have to sleep in a strange bed."

Strange bed? He'd probably found one of Spokane's hookers to his liking, I thought. What an asshole!

"I assume you want me to bring this guy inside so you can do your thing," Rooney said. "You got any kind of backup here, just in case?"

"Kovitch is downstairs." I turned to Evan. "Would you call Kovitch up here?"

When Kovitch arrived, Rooney didn't hesitate to shake his hand. What an asshole!

We walked out to the PD's side parking lot to Rooney's brown, beat up '67 Ford Bronco. He'd faced the Bronco to the building, just to the right of the out-of-service patrol units which we always parked facing the street for quick egress. Coach Bill was propped on a mattress behind the driver's seat, arms handcuffed behind his back to the side strut of the Bronco's roll bar. As he looked toward Kovitch and me, he exposed a black eye very comparable to my own of a few days back, except that the skin had been split, and blood seeped through the gauze bandage someone had applied to his face.

Rooney saw me observing the injuries and stated, "He slipped while I was trying to get him into the Bronco and smacked his face on the roll bar. Clumsy dirtbag."

I recalled similar wounds on the face of another man Rooney had taken into custody not too long ago. Rooney owned a firearm or two but favored brass knuckles.

Rooney had climbed into the vehicle through the driver's side door so he could unlock Jonas's handcuffs. As Kovitch and I assisted Jonas from the passenger side, he seemed almost happy to see us. With his good eye, he glanced from one to the other of us.

"It's you," he said. "I was beginning to wish I'd made out my wi..."

A gun shot rang out from someplace nearby and just above Jonas's injured eye a nickel-sized hole appeared and filled with blood which rushed down the side of his face. Rooney took cover inside the Bronco and Kovitch and I dropped onto our haunches and drew our weapons, not knowing from where the shot had been fired.

Jonas just dropped.

"Over there!" said Kovitch, nodding toward the steps of the public library directly across the street from our location.

A hulking, silver Hummer H2 with imposing black fenders was parked at the curb about fifty feet to left of the library's sweeping staircase. On the sixth step up from the bottom stood an elderly gentleman wearing an overcoat and a fedora. He supported his slight weight on two crutches, both tucked beneath his left arm. In his right hand he held the Dirty Harry gun. His arm slowly drifted down from its horizontal position, as though the gun had grown too heavy. A wisp of smoke floated from the barrel in a leisurely fashion. That quickly, it was over.

*****

Chapter 31—Server of Justice

As we watched, John Henry Bollinger calmly lowered the .44 Smith to his right side, then opened his hand and allowed the weapon to slide gently to the step beside him. By the time we'd reached his side, Bollinger had repositioned one of the crutches beneath his right arm, and patiently awaited our astonished arrival. His blue eyes met mine with a tormented and sad expression.

"Just savin' the tax payers a little dough," he murmured. "A .44 round costs a whole lot less than a full-blown goldarned felony trial. Now, my grandson won't have to testify; he won't need to see that son-of-a-bitch ever again. And neither will those other poor kids."

*****

1512 hrs.

The medics had pronounced William "Coach Bill" Jonas dead at the scene. I called in Detective Jordan to conduct the crime scene investigation. He dubbed it a 'no brainer," which it was, except for the unusual circumstances. Chief Bronson had heard the gun shot from his office inside the P.D. and had raced out waving his Glock. So notifying him was simple.

When Jordan had taken all the photos he needed, made all the measurements, and interviewed the witnesses—Kovitch, Rooney and me—he collected the Dirty Harry gun in a plastic evidence bag and sealed it. Hendricks Funeral Home transported the body. Fire department personnel hosed the bloody blacktop clean, completely obliterating the ugliness represented by Bill Jonas. Except for the legacy he'd left for his victims.

Just before George Rooney drove off in his Ford Bronco, he leveled his icy-blues at me and winked. "See you later, Toots." I swallowed hard and hoped the heck he was just using an old phrase. Asshole.

Kovitch and I took John Bollinger into custody for the murder of Bill Jonas. We did not handcuff him, rationalizing that Bollinger needed his hands free to manipulate his crutches, which was true. But even more, there was an unspoken sense of respect for him and what he'd done. We couldn't condone it, but justice had indeed been served.

And now we sat with the elderly server of justice in the interview room of Porterville P.D. He'd dropped his fedora onto the table and cooperated with Kovitch, first with one arm then the other, as Kovitch helped him out of his overcoat. He propped the crutches in a nearby corner, then eased himself into a chair.

"S'pose I'll be spending the rest of my days in the pokey," Bollinger said, thoughtfully. His right index and middle finger smoothed the left side of the white handle-barred mustache while his thumb smoothed the right. "No reflection on you folks; I know you woulda done your best to bring that child molester to justice. But this way, we'll all be sure that no fancy-shmancy attorney can get him off on a tech-no-cality. Of all the fellas I shot in Nam, most likely not a one of them deserved it as much as this Bill Jonas. Did I tell ya that I was a sniper in Nam? Crack shot, they said. It was easier when I had the use of my legs, but I still got the eye for it, don't ya think?" Bollinger was even more like my dad than I'd originally thought.

Kovitch snorted at Bollinger's understatement. "No, doubt about that, sir," he said. "You still got the eye."

Bollinger's mustache twitched in a slight smile. "No doubt about it," Bollinger repeated. "Now. Don't you cops have to read me my rights or something? I seen that on Law and Order."

Advising him of his rights, since we had witnessed the act, was only a formality, but we advised him anyway.

There was also no doubt that John Henry Bollinger had saved a lot of money for the tax payers and a lot of trauma for some kids. Too bad he would likely have to sacrifice the rest of his days to accomplish it.

There is the law. And then there is justice. The two don't always mesh.

###

About the Author

From 1981 until 2002 Mary BaŠe worked as a small-town police officer in Eastern Washington State. In 2002 she retired from law enforcement and went back to school for a BA in Education after which she taught Criminal Justice at a Spokane high school. In 2007 she conceded that she and the education system did not see eye-to-eye and turned her full attention to her karate school in Cheney, Washington, where she continues to teach one night a week.

In 2013, her police academy buddy and fellow officer turned English Teacher, Lynn Bain, said, . "Mary, maybe we should collaborate on books. You have good ideas and I have editing skills." Mary said, "Done deal!"

For more information on this author and to see what else she has written, go to:

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MHBase>

Watch for other titles by Mary BaŠe at Smashwords. Here is a sneak-peek from the prologue of her next book:

I planted my size 13 boot into the door at about latch level. With an explosive crack, the flimsy wood shattered. One more kick and the door slammed inward, crashing against the wall. Cheap-ass bastard couldn't even buy a decent door. I hated guys that didn't bother to take care of their families.

Since he hadn't seen fit to come answer the door when I knocked, he was now in a position to stand up so fast that the table and two chairs to tipped over into a jumbled pile along with his toast, scrambled eggs and...Was that bacon I smelled?

"I knocked," I told him. "Maybe you didn't hear me."

He was a kicker and a squirmer, the little shithead. Even as I pressed his face into the side of the refrigerator, he squawked and thrashed around. I was having a struggle getting the handcuffs off my belt.

"This is going to hurt you more than it does me," I warned.

I anesthetized him with a right hook and he slumped to the floor. By the time the wife raced into the kitchen from another part of the house, wearing a pink bathrobe and her hair up in foam rubber curlers, I had the handcuffs ratcheted around his wrists and he was starting to regain consciousness.

"What have you done?" she shrieked. "Leave him alone!"

"Ah, stop whining," I said. "I didn't even use the brass." I was, of course, referring to the set of brass knuckles which resided in my right hip pocket.

Apparently, she didn't get that I'd already cut her punk-ass common-law hubby a significant break. She tried to interfere with me taking custody of him, so I gripped both of her upper arms, lifted her off her feet, and set her into the kitchen chair that was still upright.

"Shut up, Ellen," I told her. "It's what you get for hanging with an asshole like him. He's got several felony warrants."

"H-How do you know my name?" she stammered.

"I do my homework. George Douglas Rooney, Ma'am. Bounty hunter."

I extended my right hand, but for some reason she declined to shake. I shrugged, then lifted Jason Freebase Miller to his feet. Since he was still groggy, I assisted him to the door.

"Sorry about the door, Ellen," I said. I propped Freebase up against the door jamb long enough to extract a hundred dollar bill from the wallet in my other back pocket. "But this'll give you a chance to buy a better quality one. Try Home Depot or maybe Lowe's. Get one that takes at least three kicks to bust down."

She stared at the hand containing the money like I was offering a rattler. I sighed and tucked the bill under a can of coffee on the counter beside the door.

"You have a nice morning, now." I said.

*****
