A Perfect Evil Part 11

But still, the boy cried, a high-pitched whine that made him grimace. He felt the explosion racing up from his stomach. He must control it. Calm, why couldn't he just remain calm? Yes, cool and calm.

"I wanna go home." The wail grated.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it! Shut up, you f.u.c.king crybaby."

CHAPTER 26.

Christine's article in the evening edition hit downtown Omaha's newsstands at three-thirty. By four o'clock, newspaper carriers tossed the rolled-up Omaha Journal Omaha Journal onto porches and lawns in Platte City. By four-ten, phones started ringing nonstop in the sheriff's department. onto porches and lawns in Platte City. By four-ten, phones started ringing nonstop in the sheriff's department.

Nick a.s.signed Phillip Van Dorn the task of adding more phones and phone lines, even suggesting to go as far as commandeering the county clerk's office down the hall. This was exactly what he had hoped to avoid. The frenzy had officially begun, and already Nick could feel it churning up his insides.

Angry citizens demanded to know what was being done. City Hall wanted to know how much the extra personnel and equipment would cost the city. Reporters badgered for an interview of their own, not wanting to wait for the morning press conference. Some were already camped out in the courthouse lobby, restrained by manpower better used on the street.

Of course, there were also leads. Maggie was right. Matthew's photo jogged plenty of memories. The problem was sorting the real leads from the crackpot ones-although Maggie insisted the crackpot leads could not be thrown out entirely. Tomorrow Nick would even send someone to check on Sophie Krichek's story about an old blue pickup. He still believed it would be a waste of time. Krichek was just some lonely old woman looking for attention. But he didn't want anyone thinking he hadn't checked every lead, especially Maggie.

"Nick, Angie Clark has called for you four times." Lucy caught up with him in the hallway, obviously irritated with being the messenger for his love life.

"Next time tell her I'm sorry, but I just don't have time to talk."

She seemed pleased and started to walk away, but spun back. "Oh, I almost forgot. Max is on her way down the hall with those transcripts from Jeffreys' confession and trial."

"Great. Tell Agent O'Dell, would you please?"

"Where do you want me to put them?" She skipped alongside him as he made his way to his office.

"Can't you just give them to Agent O'Dell?"

"All five boxes?"

He stopped so suddenly she b.u.mped into him. He grabbed her by the elbows as she teetered on her two-inch spiked heels.

"There's five boxes?"

"You know Max. She's pretty thorough, so everything's labeled and cataloged. She said to tell you she also included copies of all the evidence that was entered and logged, as well as affidavits from witnesses who didn't testify."

"Five boxes?" He shook his head. "Put them in my office."

"Okay." She turned to leave, then stopped again. "Do you still want me to tell Agent O'Dell?"

"Yes, please." Her distrust, contempt-whatever it was-for Maggie was beginning to wear thin.

"Oh, and the mayor's holding on line three for you."

"Lucy, we can't afford to hold up any of those lines."

"I know, but he insisted. I couldn't just hang up on him."

Yes, he was sure Brian Rutledge would have insisted. He was a royal pain in the a.s.s.

Nick retreated to his office. Behind closed doors he plopped into his leather chair and uncinched his tie. He wrestled with the collar b.u.t.ton, almost ripping it off. He dug a thumb and forefinger into his eyes, trying to remember how much sleep he had gotten since Friday. Finally, he grabbed the phone and punched line three.

"Hi, Brian. It's Nick."

"Nick, what the h.e.l.l's going on over there? I've been on hold for G.o.dd.a.m.n near twenty minutes."

"Don't mean to inconvenience you, Brian. We're a little busy."

"I've got a crisis of my own, Nick. City council thinks I should cancel Halloween. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Nick, I cancel Halloween and I look like the G.o.dd.a.m.n Grinch."

"I think the Grinch is Christmas, Brian."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Nick. This isn't funny."

"I'm not laughing, Brian. But you know what? I have a few more serious things to worry about than Halloween."

Lucy peeked in from behind his door. He waved her in. She opened the door and motioned for the four men following her to set the boxes in the corner under the window.

"Halloween is serious, Nick. What if this nut ends up pulling something when all those kids are out running around in the dark?"

Rutledge's whiny, tin voice grated on Nick's nerves. He smiled and mouthed "thank you," to Maxine Cramer, who had hauled in the final box. Even at the end of the day and after hauling a box halfway down the hall, her royal-blue suit held its sharply pressed seams. Her blue-gray, salon-permed hair matched her suit, not a strand out of place. She smiled back at Nick and nodded, then made her way out the door.

"Brian, what do you want from me?"

"I want to know how G.o.dd.a.m.n serious this thing is. Do you have any suspects? Are you making any arrests in the near future? What the h.e.l.l are you doing over there?"

"One boy is dead and another is missing. How G.o.dd.a.m.n serious do you think this is, Brian? As far as how I handle the investigation, it's none of your f.u.c.king business. We need this phone line open for more useful things than rea.s.suring your sorry a.s.s, so don't call again." He slammed the phone down and noticed O'Dell standing in the doorway, watching him.

"Sorry." She seemed embarra.s.sed to have witnessed his fury. Twice in one day. She must think he was a madman, a raving lunatic, or worse, simply incompetent. "Lucy told me the transcripts were in here."

"They are. Come on in. Close the door behind you."

She hesitated as though a.s.sessing whether it was safe to be behind closed doors with him.

"That was the mayor," Nick explained. "He wanted to know if I'm going to have an arrest made by Friday, so he won't have to cancel Halloween."

"What did you tell him?"

"Pretty much what you just heard. The boxes are here under the window." He rolled his chair around to point to them, then kept it there to stare out the window. He was tired of cloudy weather. Sick of rain. He couldn't remember the last time there'd been a full day of suns.h.i.+ne. It was as though all of Sarpy County were trapped under one of those gla.s.s globes. The kind you shake and it snows. Only here, you shake it and the clouds rolled in, over and over again-the same clouds, rounding the globe and pa.s.sing over again.

O'Dell was on her knees. She had several box lids off and files scattered on the floor around her.

"Can I get you a chair?" he offered, but made no motion to leave his own.

"No, thanks. It'll be easier this way."

She looked as though she had found what she was looking for. She opened the file and began scanning the contents, flipping pages, then settling on one. Suddenly, her entire face went serious. Her eyes darted over the page. She sat back on her feet.

"What is it?" Nick leaned forward, trying to see what had grabbed hold of her so intensely.

"It's Jeffreys' original confession, right after his arrest. It's very detailed, from the kind of tape he used to bind the hands and feet to the carvings on the hunting knife he used." She spoke slowly, continuing to scan the doc.u.ment.

"Okay, and Father Francis said Jeffreys hadn't lied. That means the details are true. So what?"

"Did you realize that Jeffreys confessed to murdering only Bobby Wilson? In fact," she said, flipping through several more pages, "in fact, he was adamant about having nothing to do with the other two boys' murders."

"I don't remember hearing any of that. They probably thought he was lying."

"But if he wasn't?" She looked up at him, her brown eyes haunted by something more than the file she held.

"Okay, if he wasn't lying, and he did kill only Bobby Wilson..." Nick didn't finish. Suddenly, he felt sick to his stomach, even before Maggie finished his sentence.

"Then the real serial killer got away, and he's back."

CHAPTER 27.

Christine hoped Nick didn't detect the relief in her voice when he called to cancel dinner. If this new lead panned out, she'd be working late to claim yet another front page on tomorrow morning's paper.

"Can we do it tomorrow night?" he asked, almost apologetic.

"Sure, no problem. Is something big going down tonight?" she added, just to push his b.u.t.tons.

"This newfound success of yours is ugly on you, Christine." He sounded tired, drained of energy.

"Ugly or not, it feels wonderful."

"So this number the paper gave me, it sounds like a cellular?"

"Yep, just one of the perks of my new, ugly success. Look, Nick." She needed to change the subject before he asked where she was or where she was headed. "Can you please bring your sleeping bag tomorrow night when you come over? Remember, Timmy asked if he could borrow it for his camping trip?"

"They're going camping on Halloween?"

"They'll be back Friday night. Father Keller has ma.s.s. Remember, for All Saints' Day? Will you remember the sleeping bag?"

"Yes, I will."

"And don't forget Agent O'Dell."

"Right."

She turned the corner into the parking lot as she flipped her cellular phone closed and shoved it into her purse. Nick would be furious if he knew where she was.

The four-story apartment building looked run-down. The bricks were weathered and chipped. Rusted air conditioners hung out windows, clinging to rickety brackets. The building looked out of place in an old neighborhood of small, wooden-framed houses. Despite being old, the houses were well kept. Their backyards were filled with sandboxes, swing sets and huge old maples perfect for tree houses and hammocks.

The air filled with the smell of burning wood from someone's fireplace. A dog barked down the street, and she heard the tinkling of a wind chime. This was Danny Alverez's neighborhood. Danny's s.h.i.+ny, red bike had been found leaning against the chain-link fence that separated the apartment's parking lot from the rest of the neighborhood. It was right here that the horrors of his last days began. Here in a place he had come to take for granted as safe.

Inside the main entrance a heavy metal trash can held open the security door. It overflowed with cigarette b.u.t.ts falling onto the floor. Christine stepped carefully.

The elevator smelled of stale cigarettes and dog urine, and she eyed the stained carpet. She pushed the b.u.t.ton for the fourth floor, stabbing it two, then three times before it lit up and the doors whined shut. The elevator rattled, shook and wheezed. She started to push the open-door b.u.t.ton when the elevator finally started up slowly. Pulleys ground and whined.

She hated elevators. Hated small places. She should have taken the stairs. Her eyes searched for the emergency phone. There wasn't one. Seconds flew by and the light above showed only that she had reached the second floor. She punched three, hoping to cut short her trip, but the b.u.t.ton crumbled into pieces. Frantically, she picked up the bigger pieces and began replacing them into the frame like a puzzle. Two stayed, one fell down into the hole, the others fell back to the floor. The elevator jolted to a stop, and finally its doors screeched open. Christine squeezed through before they were completely open.

She stopped in the hallway, leaning against the dirty wall, waiting to catch her breath. The light was dim, the carpeting filled with more stains. Again, the smell of dog urine mixed with the scent of old, musty newspapers and someone's burnt dinner. How could anyone live in a hole like this?

Apartment 410 was at the end of the hallway. A hand-braided welcome mat lay outside the scratched and battered door. The mat was clean, spotless.

Christine knocked and held her breath to avoid the hallway's suffocating odors. Several locks clicked inside, then the door opened just a crack. A pair of hooded and wrinkled blue eyes peered at her through thick gla.s.ses.

"Mrs. Krichek?" she asked as politely as possible while holding her breath.

"Are you that reporter?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. My name is Christine Hamilton."

The door opened, and she waited for the woman to back out of the way with her walker.

"Any relation to Ned Hamilton, owns the Quick Mart on the corner?"

"No, I don't think so. Hamilton is my ex-husband's name, and he isn't from around here."

"I see." The woman shuffled away.

Once inside, Christine was accosted by three large yellow and gray cats rubbing against her legs.

"I just fixed a pot of hot chocolate. Would you like some?"

She almost said yes, then saw the steaming pot on the coffee table where another large cat helped itself to several licks off the top.

"No, thank you." She hoped her voice disguised her disgust.

Other than the cats, the apartment smelled much cleaner than the hallway. The ammonia of a hidden litter box was obvious but bearable. Colorful afghans and quilts were draped over the couch and a rocker. Green plants hung above the windows, and crocheted doilies dotted an antique buffet and secretary's desk. Both tops were filled with black-and-white photos of servicemen, a young couple in front of an old Buick and three colored photos of a little girl at various stages of her life.

"Sit," the old woman instructed, backing herself into the rocker. "Oh, the pain in this shoulder," she said, rubbing the bony k.n.o.b sticking up through her sweater. "Such pain I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy."