The Thackeray College predator.
The Gaynor murder had so completely taken over his day that he’d neglected to do anything following his chat with the college’s head of security. Clive Duncomb. “Asshole,” Duckworth said to himself behind the wheel of his unmarked car. Duckworth had left his business card with Duncomb and told him to e-mail him the names of the three women who’d been attacked. They needed to be interviewed by the Promise Falls police. But the day had gone by and no names, no e-mail at all from Duncomb. Duckworth could just guess what the ex–Boston cop thought of the local police. That they were a bunch of know-nothing rubes.
“Asshole,” he said again.
Duckworth called the station and asked to be put through to Chief Rhonda Finderman.
“Hey,” Finderman said, answering right away. “I was just about to check in with you.”
Finderman wanted to know what progress was being made in the Gaynor case, and apologized for not knowing much about it. “I’m on this national association of police chiefs that meets all the time, the mayor’s committee on attracting jobs, plus this task force with the state police about coordinating data. I’m up to my ass in administrative shit. So, Rosemary Gaynor. Someone killed her and kidnapped her baby?”
Quickly Duckworth brought her up-to-date. Then he told her about how Clive Duncomb, Thackeray’s head of security, didn’t think he needed to bother letting the Promise Falls police know they might be dealing with a possible rapist on campus.
“That horse’s ass,” Finderman said. “I’ve had the pleasure. We had lunch one time; he said he really liked my hair. Take a guess how that went over.”
“You know anything about him? Beyond his being a horse’s ass, I mean?”
Rhonda Finderman paused. “What I hear is he worked vice in Boston. And that he left. And brought along his new wife, who may have been someone he met in the course of his duties, if you get my drift.”
“The thing is, I’ve got my hands full, but we need someone out there, taking statements from the students who’ve been attacked, that whole drill. We need to find this guy before he ups his game.”
“I’m down two detectives,” she said. “I’m going to have to move someone up, temporarily at least.”
“Okay.”
“You know Officer Carlson? Angus Carlson?”
Duckworth paused. “I do.”
“Try not to gush.”
“It’s your call, Chief.”
“We were all young once, Barry. You telling me you weren’t a know-it-all when you started?”
“No comment.”
She laughed. “He’s not that bad. He presents this front of being a wiseass, but I think there’s more to him than that. We got him about four years ago, from Ohio.”
“It’s your call.”
“I’ll have him call you; you can bring him up to speed.”
“Fine.” There was still something else on Duckworth’s mind. “One other thing. I ran into Randy this morning.”
“Finley?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, him and Duncomb in one day. It’s like an asshole convention.”
“He called me directly after finding all these squirrels someone had strung up on a fence near the college. He said he’s running for mayor again, and he was looking for me to be a department snitch, maybe give him something to run on. I’m probably not the only one he’s asking.”
“He’s looking for something on me?”
“He’s looking for anything he can get on anybody. I think you’d be near the top of the list. So would Amanda Croydon.”
“The mayor’s squeaky-clean,” the chief said.
“Finley could find a way to make that negative.”
“He’s a weaselly son of a bitch,” the chief said. There was a long pause.
“You there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Rhonda said. “I’m just thinking about how he might go after me.” Another pause. “I think I run a clean department. Maybe he’ll go after something I did before this job.”
She’d come up through the ranks, becoming chief nearly three years ago after several years working as a detective, often alongside Duckworth.
“You did good work,” he said. “I wouldn’t want it getting back to you that an approach like that had been made, and that I hadn’t told you.”
“Appreciate it, Barry.”
Three seconds after he’d ended the call, another one came in.
“Duckworth.”
“Hey, it’s Wanda.” Wanda Therrieult. The medical examiner who would have conducted the autopsy on Rosemary Gaynor.
“Yeah, hey,” Duckworth said.
“Where are you?” He told her. “Swing by.”
He said he could be there in five minutes.
? ? ?
It was a cold, sterile room, but that was the way it was supposed to be.
The body was laid out on an aluminum table, draped in a light green sheet that matched the walls. Bright fluorescent lights shone down from the ceiling.