But things wouldn’t go to shit. Decker felt confident about the takedown plan. A quarter-mile up the road, a truck—a bucket truck labeled KNOXVILLE UTILITIES BOARD, with big KUB logos on the doors—was parked at the mouth of a dirt side road, beneath a power line and transformer, awaiting the green light from Decker. On his signal, the two men in the truck, wearing KUB coveralls, would pull up to the house in the bucket truck and fire up the chain saws, then start hacking branches off the best-looking tree near the power line. If Decker’s own behavior as a property owner was typical—and he felt pretty sure it was—the suspect would come racing out the door, mad as a hornet, by the time the first limb hit the ground. The Primary Team would swarm out of the woods and take him down before he had any inkling what was happening.
The plan was rock solid; bureaucracy was the problem. Noon had come and gone without the warrant, and so had another two hours, as Decker’s spotters had kept watch on a curtain-shrouded house on a dead-end street, where nothing moved except falling leaves, plunking acorns, and a few squirrels. The one consolation was that they had music to pass the time: 1970s rock-and-roll wafted faintly from inside the house—Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon first, followed by Led Zeppelin. Even so, as the autumn leaves had corkscrewed down, Decker’s boredom had spiraled upward. So had his stress, the two contradictory moods rising side by side, like a pair of vultures carried aloft on powerful, parallel updrafts.
The arrival of a vehicle, therefore, was welcome news. It meant that finally something was happening, even if it was just some lost driver turning around at the end of the cul-de-sac.
“Talk to me, Mac.” Decker radioed the spotter, wishing his view wasn’t blocked by the corner of the house. “What kind of vehicle?”
“A piece-of-shit Ford Escort,” McElroy answered. “Held together by pink Bondo and gray primer and Domino’s Pizza signs.”
“He’s ordered a pizza?” Decker rolled his eyes in disgust. He saw his afternoon and evening—his whole life—stretching before him, a vast, unbroken plain of boredom and inactivity. Then he had an inspiration, and switching frequencies, he radioed Captain Hackworth, the watch commander, with a question to which he already knew the answer. “Hey, Cap, has that warrant come through yet?”
“Not yet, Deck.” Hackworth sounded as frustrated as Decker felt. “I told you, you’ll hear the minute I hear.”
“Question, Cap. We’ve got a pizza delivery going down right now. Can we go in? Call it ‘exigent circumstances’?” It was a legal loophole, an end run around the requirement for a warrant.
There was a pause before Hackworth answered. “Who’s delivering it?”
Decker was puzzled by the question. “Uh, Domino’s,” he said. “What the hell’s that got to do with it?”
“Not the brand, Deck; the person. Man or woman?”
“Oh, sorry. Dunno. Let me find out.” Switching to the team’s frequency, Decker called McElroy. “Hey, Mac. The pizza guy—male guy or female guy?”
“Can’t tell yet,” the spotter replied. “Still in the car. Bad glare and dirty windows.”
Decker switched back to Hackworth. “Don’t know yet, Cap.”
“If it’s a woman,” said Hackworth, “and she goes inside, she might be in imminent danger. That would let you go without the warrant. Risky, though—might turn into a hostage situation. Or worse.”
“Got it.” He switched back to McElroy just as he heard the faint thud of a car door slamming.
“Lieutenant?”
“Go ahead, Mac.”
“The pizza guy? Definitely a guy. Or a chick with one hell of a beard.”
“Got it,” said Decker, feeling both relieved and disappointed at the knowledge that they’d have to sit tight until the warrant came through.
“He’s ringing the doorbell now,” McElroy narrated. “Front door’s opening.” Led Zeppelin’s volume ratcheted up a notch. “I see the suspect. Talking to pizza guy. Pizza guy’s going inside. Door’s closing.” The music softened and blurred again.
“Can you hear anything?”
“Nah. The music’s drowning ’em out.”
Decker cursed their lack of gear. If they had parabolic microphones, McElroy would be able to pick up every word that was spoken, even from across the road. “Okay, keep watching, Mac. Tell me everything you see.”
“Roger that.”
Two faint songs later—“The Battle of Evermore” and “Stairway to Heaven”—Decker radioed Hackworth again. “Cap? Deck here.”
“Go ahead, Deck. What’s happening?”
“That’s the thing, Cap—nothing’s happening. Pizza guy’s been in there a long damn time.” Decker checked his watch. “Eight minutes. Shouldn’t take but two, three minutes to pay for a pizza, right? Five, tops.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Hackworth said. “What if our guy couldn’t find his wallet? What if he’s writing a check, and the Domino’s dude has to get a license number? What if they’re just feeling chatty?”
“What if this creep swings both ways?” countered Decker. “What if he’s killing the pizza guy right now?”
“I never heard of a sex killer who went after women and men,” said Hackworth. “They like one or the other. Women, nine times out of ten. Anyhow, we got nothing on the suspect that suggests the pizza guy’s at risk.”
It wasn’t what Decker had wanted to hear, but it was what he’d expected to hear. He was pretty sure, even before he radioed, what Hackworth would say. He was also pretty sure, despite his chafing impatience, that the watch commander was right. A moment later, McElroy’s whisper proved it. “Lieutenant? Pizza guy’s coming out.” A minute later, the Bondo-patched, primer-splotched car was gone.