The Night Shift(9)
“You can brief me on the way to the scene.”
“We’re going to the Dairy Creamery? I thought we’re limited to Blockbuster and Vince Whitaker.”
“We can’t do our job on Whitaker without seeing if there’s any connection to the latest murders, can we?” Keller gives him a knowing look.
Atticus looks at her with those enthusiastic doe eyes: “Sweet!”
* * *
Atticus says he can drive them. Keller agrees until he stops at a faded red two-seater convertible—an old MG Midget. She rests a hand on her belly and glances at him wearily.
“I think maybe we should take my car,” she says.
It takes Atticus a moment, then the light bulb clicks on. “Sure sure sure. How stupid of me.”
On the drive, Keller asks him to brief her on the Blockbuster file.
“You’re familiar with the case?” Atticus asks, as if deciding where to start.
“I remember it. I went to high school in Tenafly. I was a senior when it happened. Next to Columbine, it was one of those remember-where-you-were moments for me when I was a kid.” At the time, brutal murders at the edge of the millennium felt like the country losing its innocence. Back then, Keller’d had no idea that less than two years later, on September 11, 2001, it truly would become a new world.
While an intern at UCPO, Keller had heard about the Blockbuster case. By then, the search for Vince Whitaker had already gone cold. She’d never worked the investigation, and mostly did grunt work, making copies, getting coffee, filing paperwork.
She listens as Atticus gives her the basics. Vince Whitaker was arrested the night of the crime after he’d been seen at the Blockbuster earlier that night, his car later spotted in the lot at closing. Authorities also matched a print on the break room door to his index finger. It was thin, but under immense pressure, Hal’s predecessor ordered the arrest. A public defender got Whitaker sprung for insufficient probable cause, and Whitaker disappeared. A day later, in Whitaker’s locker at the high school, they found the murder weapon, an ordinary chef’s knife taken from the Blockbuster break room.
“That’s when all hell broke loose,” Atticus says. “The county prosecutor was forced to resign, and the public defender who represented Whitaker received death threats and basically was run out of town. And you all got involved with the manhunt.”
Manhunt is an overstatement, but Keller doesn’t say so. The FBI’s file includes reports of random sightings of Whitaker over the years, many abroad. But the Bureau hasn’t dedicated significant resources to finding him. The few leads, most the result of an old segment on Unsolved Mysteries, led nowhere.
“You’ve gone through all the reports and files?” Keller asks.
Atticus nods.
“Have you done any interviews?”
Atticus shakes his head. “The Whitaker file’s more of a hobby. My bosses say the question isn’t who committed the crime, just the location of the perp. They said I could go active only if I uncovered something significant to help track him down.”
“Well, let’s go uncover something significant, I guess,” she says, turning into the parking lot of the ice cream store.
“Awesome.”
Keller turns and gives him a look. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, I do. But can I give you some advice?”
Atticus nods.
“These girls had hopes and dreams, and their friends and loved ones are still coming to terms with the fact that they’re gone forever. And given their horrific last moments…”
Atticus looks at his lap, nods.
Keller stops at the choke point that leads into the lot. A uniformed officer stationed in front of a sawhorse approaches.
“Good crime scene control,” Keller says, more to herself than to Atticus.
“The CSU team’s solid,” Atticus replies.
The officer peers into the car. Before Keller displays her badge, the officer seems to recognize Atticus and moves aside the sawhorse.
Keller drives slowly, her eyes sweeping the area for security cameras. The Dairy Creamery is a stand-alone structure. To the west, at the far end of the large lot, is a strip of businesses. A State Farm insurance office, a pet store, a sandwich place.
“I gotta warn you,” Atticus says, “the lead detective, Joe Arpeggio, can be a bit, ah, difficult.”
Keller makes no reply. She’s been dealing with difficult men—a nice way of saying condescending jackasses—her whole life, starting with her father.
The pair make their way past the police tape. Before entering, they sign a log and slip on surgical booties, latex gloves, and hair covers. Inside they’re met by a tall man with a mustache in a polo tucked into his jeans. He has dark crescents under his eyes.
Keller approaches, sticks out her hand. “I’m Sarah Keller.” She deliberately uses her first name, not her title, and smiles. Always best to start out friendly.
“We’re glad to have you on board,” Arpeggio says, as he squeezes her hand too tight. Why did they always feel the need to squeeze so tight? Arpeggio nods at Atticus.
“Walk you through the scene?”
Keller prefers to take things in without commentary, but again, better to play nice.
“That would be great.”
Arpeggio steps carefully in his foot coverings along the checkered floor past the small circular tables and behind the glass case containing tubs of ice cream.