The Deepest Wound (Jack Murphy Thriller #3) - Rick Reed Page 0,54

Jennifer Mangold said, and whispered, “Did you talk to Rothschild?”

“I capped him with my nine,” Jack said, pretending to hold a gun gangster style, and then blew the smoke from the barrel.

“Forget it,” she said. “You’d better get in there.”

Jack followed Liddell into the office to find the chief sitting on the front of his desk. Captain Franklin was seated in the corner. The chief was dressed in a dark suit and tie instead of his usual police uniform dress blues. The flat-panel television mounted over the credenza was tuned to Channel Six and Claudine Setera’s perfect face filled the screen. She was wrapping up a news report.

“Take a seat,” Chief Pope said. The camera angle changed to allow the viewers to be reeled in. Claudine turned to look in the camera. “To date, The Cannibal has claimed five victims, one male and four females. Three of the victims’ bodies have not been found. Police have been unable to establish a connection between any of the victims.”

“Chief, I think my partner has something you both will want to hear,” Jack said.

Their attention turned to Liddell.

“We can’t go to court with this, but I think I can prove Jansen gave all this to Claudine Setera,” he said.

“Walk with me,” Pope said.

They discussed Liddell’s information as they made their way downstairs to the classroom where the news media were set up and waiting.

“I knew Coin when I was still a rookie cop on motor patrol,” Pope said, and chuckled at his detectives’ look of surprise. “Of course, he was a lot cheaper back then.”

“His information has always been good, Chief,” Jack said.

Captain Franklin held up at the bottom of the steps, his hand on the doorknob. “I believe Jansen did give us up. I just don’t think the information is enough without Claudine Setera or Jansen admitting that he gave her the information. And I don’t see that happening, do you?”

Liddell ground a huge fist into his palm. “Give me ten minutes alone with him, Chief.”

Pope said, “I don’t want to suspend Jansen. I want to fire him! And press criminal charges of obstruction of justice!”

He straightened his tie and made his back ramrod straight. “First the deputy chief goes to the newspaper,” he said, “and now this. Sometimes I wish I was back on patrol.”

Franklin looked at his watch and said, “It’s time, Chief.” He opened the door so they could go face the stirred-up media horde.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The two men had met at the Rescue Mission this last winter. Despite the vast difference in their ages they had become steadfast friends.

Norman was nearing seventy-five. His wife’s long illness had eaten up their meager savings, and the year after she passed away, his job had been outsourced. He had lost his wife, his life savings, and his job in less than year, so being homeless wasn’t much of a hardship for him. He had survived the next twelve years doing odd jobs. There wasn’t much call for a sixty-something tool and die man. His hair was thinner now, but it was still there, unlike his teeth. He had rheumatism in his right hip, and his toes felt numb most of the time—he blamed all that on too-tight shoes and old age. Everything he had would fit in a small garbage bag, and though it wasn’t much, it was enough. He didn’t take handouts, except for the use of a bed at the mission.

Norman’s buddy, Tom, was barely twenty-three, tall and muscular with a scarred face and forehead that looked like he’d survived a fire. He was home from Iraq—ex-military—and had been staying at the Rescue Mission for the best part of a year, but he wouldn’t talk about his past. In fact, he didn’t talk much at all. Norman suspected his hitch in the Army had messed him up in the head. But Tom had a good heart, and would work sunup to sundown.

They had spent the winter helping out around the shelter, doing what work they could find downtown—shoveling snow, hauling trash—whatever it took to get by. But when summer came Norman did what he had done his whole life. Fish. Today was the first time he’d asked Tom to go with him.

Norman kept a small wooden skiff hidden near the Pigeon Creek overpass on Maryland Street. Early this morning, before the sun came up, Norman and Tom had made their way on foot the mile or so from downtown to the creek. Norman was relieved to see the skiff hadn’t