Lisa Miscione - Angel Fire

He walked into the small precinct house and was greeted by a burly, redheaded desk sergeant who eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m Jeffrey Mark,’’ he said, flashing his private investigator’s identification out of habit. “I’m here to see Chief Simon Morrow.’’

The desk sergeant never took his eyes off him as he picked up the phone and dialed.

“There’s some private investigator here to see you, Chief.’’ He paused. “Okay.’’ He said to Jeffrey, “What is this regarding?’’

“Just tell him Lydia Strong asked me to talk to him about Lucky.’’

The sergeant repeated the information into the phone and paused before putting the receiver back in the cradle. “Have a seat. He’ll be right with you.’’

“Thanks, I’ll stand.’’

When Morrow walked out from a door behind the desk, he did a double take as he recognized Jeffrey. But he recovered nicely and offered his hand. Jeffrey took it and felt that his grip was strong but somewhat clammy. He thought Morrow was sober; his eyes were clear and his breath smelled of peppermint and coffee. But he was definitely guarded, looking Jeffrey up and down uneasily.

“Agent Mark, what can I do for you?’’

“I’m not with the FBI anymore, Chief. I have my own investigation firm now.’’

“Then what brings you to New Mexico?’’

“I was wondering if you have a few minutes to talk to me about your missing-persons cases.’’

“What’s your interest?’’

“Let’s just say I know a thing or two about missing persons and would like to offer my help.’’

Jeffrey was a man’s man, most often liked and trusted right away. His manner was understated, respectful. But his handshake was steel, and his eyes revealed a hard edge other men immediately recognized. He was amiable, but not to be fucked with.

“Well, I don’t know how much there is to look into.’’

“Really? Well, you have four missing people, one of them presumed dead. Is this normal for your jurisdiction? Or maybe some of these people have turned up safe and sound. Or maybe all you have in the barrio is a prostitute killing.’’

Jeffrey’s not-so-subtle reference to Morrow’s unpleasant past caused him to flush. He felt his cheeks burning. Morrow remembered that Jeffrey had treated him with respect in St. Louis, but brought him down just the same. In fact, their first meeting had been eerily similar to this one. Morrow had knots in his stomach.

“Come with me,’’ said Morrow, leading Jeffrey to his office.

Seated, Jeffrey waited while the chief got him some coffee. The office was a mess, files stacked in every corner, a half-empty cup of coffee and a stale Danish on the desk, an ashtray piled high with cigarette butts. The blinds over the windows behind the desk were covered in a thick layer of dust and hung unevenly. The white walls were gray with age. A typewriter sat by the desk on a rickety old table. Jeffrey rose to look at it; he hadn’t seen one quite like it in years. This thing must be an antique, he thought as he fingered the round black keys. It wasn’t even electric.

As he was inspecting the typewriter, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. It was a photograph, a picture of a mutilated German shepherd. The dog had been sliced open from stem to stern. Its body cavity looked to have been partially gutted and the ribs had been sawed off.

He looked up to see Simon Morrow standing in the doorway, a cup of coffee in each hand.

“Lucky, I presume,’’ Jeffrey said, raising the photograph with a slight smile.

“Yes,’’ Morrow answered, clearing his throat. He handed Jeffrey a cup and seated himself behind his desk, the old chair creaking beneath his weight.

“I have to admit, Morrow,’’ Jeffrey began, “when Lydia Strong told me of her suspicions about some of the recent events down here, I was skeptical that there was anything to worry about. The crimes seemed rather random, petty. The missing persons seemed like typical runaways. But looking at the facts, an arson, the mutilated corpse of the dog, four people missing now – one of them presumed dead if the paper is to be believed – I’m starting to wonder. Some would say these are classic indicators of a maniac on the loose

– possibly even a serial killer.’’

“Maybe. But nothing until the murder, or supposed murder, this morning really clinched it for me. Look at it from my perspective. As far as the arson goes, out here, there are a lot of old structures, like the barn, that are burned down by kids making mischief or by people trying to defraud insurance companies.

“The seventeen-year-old girl who went missing has run away from various foster families three times. The missing couple – well, people take off. It was suspicious, they took nothing with them, but that’s not a crime. Besides, I figured if something had happened, the husband probably killed his wife, hid her body, and ran off. He’d been beating her for years. We’ve brought him in at least a dozen times over the last five years.

“But around three a.m., when we got the call from Maria Lopez’s apartment building, I started making connections. I mean, four people missing in a town this small – it means something. I’m just not sure what. I’m not sure I’m ready to say there’s a serial killer out there. That’s why I haven’t called the FBI. I don’t want to involve them unless I have to.’’

“What about the surgical-supply warehouse and the dog?’’

“The supply house seemed strange. I mean, whoever did that stole enough stuff to set up a small hospital. And it seemed even stranger still when the dog turned up.’’ He motioned to the picture still in Jeffrey’s hand. “But there was no evidence connecting those events. Either thing could’ve been kids, pranksters.’’

“You must have some pretty sick kids in this town.’’

“Hey, don’t you read the news? Kids in a rural area are restless, looking for kicks. More and more there’s a lot of methamphetamine around – that’s some dangerous shit, turns normal people homicidal. I guess Nintendo doesn’t cut it anymore.’’

They laughed. Like people laugh at a funeral, uncomfortably, hushed.

“So what are you thinking now, Chief?’’

“I don’t know. I’ve got detectives and Forensics from State at the crime scene right now. They’ll be here by noon with whatever they’ve gathered. I just don’t know. After what I saw this morning, I’m starting to think something very ugly may be going on. But I’m really reluctant to call in the feds. Things always get messier when they’re around. No offense.’’

“None taken. I know what you mean; it’s part of the reason I left to start my own firm. Too much bullshit from the top. I started to worry more about public relations than about doing my job,’’ he said, partly to put Morrow at ease, to create a sense of camaraderie, and partly because it was the truth. “I think you can avoid calling them in. After all, the only reason to do so would be if you can’t solve the case yourself, if there is one.’’

“That’s true.’’

“Whatever your opinion of Lydia and of me, you must be aware of our track record. If you let me take a look at your files and let me know what the guys from State find at the scene…If there really is a serial offender, maybe we can give you a hand. The feds never have to be involved until it’s over. Until your department has solved the case. We’re ghosts, me and Lydia, you never even have to let anyone know we were here.’’

“Why are you interested in this?’’

“Let’s just say I’m doing a favor for a friend. And in doing so, I could do a favor for you and your department. It wouldn’t be the first time since I started my firm that I’ve worked with the police – confidentially, of course. Otherwise I have a good contact in the Behavioral Sciences Department who I’m sure would be happy to give his opinion if I called.’’