Cut to the Bone(43)

He finished the news section with the obituary for Frank Mahoney III, grandson of a popular dentist who decamped from Springfield in the 1970s for Holbrook, Arizona.

The write-up included a black-and-white photo from a 1969 feature about Springfield businessmen who sponsored youth baseball. Grandpa Frank was one of them. He was the spitting image of his dead grandson. It prompted a pang of sympathy. For the victims, and for himself. Like the bran and skim milk, these stories were little reminders he wasn’t getting any younger.

Dismissing the thoughts as maudlin, he turned to sports for the preseason reports. Springfield High football looked awfully impressive. Maybe the Senators would catch fire this year. . . .





7:37 a.m.

“About time,” Gene Mason growled.

“What’s that, Chief?” his secretary asked, poking her head through the door.

“Nothing, nothing,” he said, motioning for her to ignore him. “I was yelling at the feds again.”

She smiled sweetly, went back to her typing.

Mason had been trying to log onto NCIC since Saturday. First the site was down for maintenance. Then it plain didn’t work. Monday, he telephoned the help desk. Whoever answered said there’d been a glitch and “it’ll be up and running by noon today.”

Which it wasn’t.

But all of a sudden it was, and he started trolling for matches.





10:30 a.m.

“I’d put one team here,” Emily said, trying not to limp as she walked along the main gate of the State of Illinois Justice Center in Naperville. “Another there, two more there. Then bring in every water cannon the Fire Department can spare.”

Marty added the recommendations to his notes. “That’s it?”

Emily mulled all the ways a protester could climb, tunnel, or sneak through the towering fence around what used to be the Greene Valley Landfill. Nodded. “No way they’ll get past.”

“They do,” Marty said. “Covington hangs Cross from the nearest tree.”

Emily knew about the ugly argument on I-55 because Branch told Marty, and Marty told her. “He’s still miffed about a difference of opinion?”

“Of course,” Marty said. “Covington’s a zealot because of his brother and sees disagreement as treason. But once Trent’s buried, he’ll be all smiles again.”

“God save us from political manic-depressives,” Emily said, rolling her eyes.

“Amen,” Marty said. “As long as you’re chatting up The Big Guy, ask for a thunderstorm. Intelligence predicts 10,000 protesters. Be nice to cut that in half.”

“That’s your secret weapon?” she asked, amused. “A rain delay?”

“Getter hail than lead.”

Several weeks ago, Cross asked Branch to walk the grounds of the Justice Center and poke holes in the master security plan. He also asked his two other captains, Annie, the county bomb squad, and the sheriff. All quickly complied.

Then he approached Marty.

“Find something so obvious it’ll get my ass fired for negligence,” Cross explained between bites of orange beef at the Chinese Kitchen.

“Hell, that’s no incentive,” Marty snorted. “You only got half an ass to fire.”

“Said pot to kettle,” Cross said. Marty had a bullet scar on his own right cheek. “So, you going to help me? Or do I tell everyone you cried like a little girl when the paramedics swabbed you?”

“I did not!”

“Well, no. But everyone will believe it anyway because it’s funny.” He swallowed some tea, patted his lips. “Besides, Emily’s working the witness room Friday. You’ve got a vested interest in making sure no one gets past that fence.”

“All right, all right,” Marty grumbled, spearing a pair of General Tso’s shrimp. “But only because you’re too damn dumb to do it yourself . . .”

He’d been putting it off, though. Too busy before the shootings, then finding the cop-killer was more important. But today his thinking was muddy, his eyes sandblasted. He’d stayed up most of last night reviewing field notes and lab reports. It was slow, tedious slogging, made worse by the fact the baby kept intruding, its barely formed lips begging, “Save me!”

The shower at six and triple espresso at seven didn’t help. By nine, he needed fresh air.

“Got to do something for Ken,” he’d said to Emily. “Want to take a drive?”

“Can we put the top down and sing Beach Boys songs?”

“We can take my unmarked and listen to the police scanner.”

“Sold,” she’d said.

“You might be interested to know that Annie’s recommendations match yours,” he said, bringing his head to the present.