The Unwilling(29)

Detective French got the call at home. “Ken,” he said. “Good morning.”

“Not so much.” There was crackle on the line, a radio patch. “You know the empty construction site on the edge of Highway 16? The developer who went bust last year?”

“A hotel, right?”

“Was supposed to be, yeah.”

“What about it?”

“I need you here.”

“Why?”

“Body. Female. It’s bad.”

“Hang on, hang on. Shit.” French trapped the phone between his ear and shoulder. He was making eggs. They were burning. “All right, Ken. Sorry. Tell me what’s happening.”

Burklow started with the boy.



* * *



French flashed his shield at the gate, drove into the old construction site, and saw a dark shape that evolved into a small kid with his knees drawn up, and his chin pressed into the bones of his chest as if he might never look up again. Exiting the car, French looked at the building, then back at the boy, taking in the sneakers, the T-shirt, the blown-out jeans.

“You okay, son?” The boy didn’t look up or speak. “I’m a cop, okay? I’m here to take care of you.” Still nothing, not even his eyes. Thirty yards away, Burklow stepped from the structure, and waved. French said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Facing his partner, it was hard to hide the anger. “That boy should be with an adult. His parents. An officer. Someone.”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?” Burklow looked away, and French caught all the signals. “It’s really that bad?”

“Have you had breakfast yet? ’Cause it’s like that.”

“Jesus. Okay. The boy called it in?”

“Kid stumbled into traffic, and a motorist almost took him out. Older woman. Grandmother. She got him out of the street and flagged down a patrol car. New guy. Dobson, I think. That’s him at the gate.”

“It’s a school day. It’s early. The kid’s what? Twelve?”

“Maybe. Maybe younger.”

“What’s he doing out here?”

“He’s not really talking.”

“No name?”

“Not yet.”

French looked around at the weeds and dirt, the windblown litter. “It’s pretty quiet out here, Ken.”

“I need you to see it first. I need that.”

French frowned as a pit opened deep inside. Burklow’s opinion mattered more than most, but rules existed for a reason. There should be other personnel on-site: detectives, technicians, chain of command. Ken had behaved like this only once before, and that crime scene had been so disturbing, they’d kept most of it from the papers, even from the victim’s family. “All right, partner. I’ll take your lead for now. Give me a second with the kid.”

French crossed to where the boy sat. Even standing, he could smell the child’s sweat; see dust in the creases of his skin. “How’re you doing, kid?” He knelt beside him. “Can you tell me your name?”

Nothing.

Silence.

“That’s fine. I run quiet, too. How about what happened? Can we talk about that? Or maybe why you were here?”

Still nothing.

Burklow was watching, shaking his head.

“Would you like to sit in my car? Air-conditioning. Cop stuff. It’s pretty cool.”

The boy shrugged

Progress.

French got the boy up and into the car. He showed him the radio, the spare cuffs, the shotgun locked to the dash. “Listen, son. I need to go inside…” The boy shook his head, terrified. “You’re safe here. Promise. All that…” He gestured at the building. “Whatever you saw, whatever is in there—it’s my problem, now. Okay? Not yours. Not ever again.” The boy looked away, trying not to cry. “You wait here.” French patted him on the knee. “We’ll talk more when I come back.”

The boy watched him go. Burklow was waiting at the superstructure, and French followed him into the shadows.

“Watch the vomit.”

French stepped over it. “The boy’s?”

“Mine.”

That one-word response spoke volumes. Ken was a twenty-year murder cop. He’d fought in Korea. Moving more deeply into the structure, he angled left at an elevator shaft. “That’s where we’re going. North stairwell.”

The stairwell shaft rose the full seven stories. Beyond it, red earth and scrub stretched to a distant tree line. Rounding a final corner, French saw blood on the floor, reddish black, mostly dry. Above it, the woman hung from chains tossed over a steel beam. His gaze went to the torn wrists first, and then the cloudy eyes. After that, he soaked it up like a sponge: the way she’d been tortured and ruined and cut. He tried to stay level, but Burklow was right.

It was bad.



* * *



French had to walk away. When he had himself under control, he returned to the scene and studied the body from top to bottom, shying from none of it, not the blood or the excisions, not the organs and bones, the bits of marbled flesh.

Burklow kept his distance. “Can you imagine the kid? Finding her like this?”

French circled the body. Silver tape had been twisted around the victim’s head to bind her mouth and keep her quiet. Parts of her had been opened up, and parts removed. Her toes grazed the floor, and he saw drag lines in the blood. The way she’d fought. The way she’d swung. “White female. Mid-to late twenties.” French sought comfort in the routine; couldn’t find it. “Jesus, Ken. I’ve never seen anything like this. Not ever, not even close.”