The tech was right, Decker saw when he followed Kittredge into the kitchen—there was a lot of pizza in the trash. Enough to feed everybody working the scene, and then some. The detective plucked one of the slices from the can—a slice that had no crust—and held the fragment from the box alongside it. The edges fit together perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle. “What the hell?” he heard Kittredge mutter, and then: “Oh shit. No, no, no. Please no.” Drawn by the stir of activity, Bohanan joined Decker in the doorway.
As Decker and the two techs watched, Kittredge reached into the trash can and fished out a navy-blue magic marker, along with a thin piece of cardboard stained with ink. The cardboard had been delicately and precisely incised with two stencil patterns. One was a bird—an eagle—its wings spread, its talons clutching an anchor and a three-pronged spear. The other stencil was a snake with a broad triangular head.
“We’ve got a problem here,” said Kittredge.
“A big problem,” said Bohanan.
Decker didn’t say anything. He was already gone, sprinting for the front door.
“LIEUTENANT!” DECKER HEARD CODY’S voice from the direction of the SWAT truck. “Hey, Lieutenant! Everything okay? What’s going on in there?” Decker didn’t stop to talk; he didn’t even turn to look; he just lifted a hand and kept running.
As he’d hoped, the keys were still in the ignition of Kittredge’s unmarked Crown Vic. You’d think a detective, a guy who’d probably spent years investigating robberies and auto thefts, would be careful with his keys. Or maybe, Decker thought as he slid across the ripped upholstery and cranked the balky engine, he’s hoping somebody will actually steal this piece of shit. Jerking the gearshift into reverse, he smoked down the driveway, nearly backing over a startled uniformed officer, who was half sitting on the hood of the patrol unit parked in the street. Decker gave a brief wave of apology and roared away, his right hand reaching for the radio as soon as he was traveling straight. “Dispatch, this is Lieutenant Decker. Can you give me a physical address for Dr. Brockton? Bill Brockton—William, maybe? The UT bone doc?”
“Stand by, Lieutenant.”
Decker was hurtling north, which was the only way it was possible to head from the dead end where Satterfield lived. In less than a mile, though—thirty seconds, at the rate he was going—he’d reach an intersection and have to choose: west, toward downtown and UT and most of the Knoxville suburbs, or east, toward Holston Hills and Seymour and Strawberry Plains. “Come on, come on,” he muttered as the stop sign loomed a hundred yards ahead. He considered stopping at the intersection and waiting for the answer, but if he was right—if Satterfield was alive and gunning for Brockton—there wasn’t time. Guessing, Decker took the left turn in a power slide, aiming the car west, envisioning its eight cylinders firing like the barrels of a Gatling gun.
“Dispatch to Decker.” Finally.
“Decker. Go ahead.”
“That address is 3791 Clifton Drive. That’s in Sequoyah Hills.”
“Can you give me directions from Kingston Pike and Neyland?”
“Stand by.”
Decker was less impatient this time; it would take five minutes to reach downtown, and another five from there to Sequoyah. By the time the dispatcher radioed back with directions, the Crown Vic was wailing along the river on Neyland, past the stadium and the basketball arena and the sewage plant. He killed the siren and the blue lights when he turned off Kingston Pike on to Cherokee—not out of respect for the fancy neighborhood’s peace and quiet, but to avoid announcing his arrival. He was swooping down the curving boulevard toward the riverfront when the dispatcher called him. “Lieutenant Decker, do you need backup? Is there a situation at Dr. Brockton’s residence?”
“Negative,” he replied at once. Backup and bureaucracy were the last things he needed. “I just need to drop something off. Hey, is there a patrol unit posted there?”
“Not anymore. Was, anyhow, till a few minutes ago. The watch commander pulled the plug once they got the ID on the suspect’s body.”
“Makes sense.”
A moment later, the radio intruded on him. “Deck, this is Hackworth. Where the hell are you, and why? Am I to understand that you’re no longer at the Satterfield house? That you’re en route to the Brockton house?”
This was trickier. Being evasive with the dispatcher was one thing; lying to the captain was another, far bigger thing. “Yes sir, I am en route there.”
“You? The whole team? What the hell are you doing, Deck? You’re supposed to be guarding the perimeter of the Satterfield house.”
“Yes, sir. My men are still on that. All over it.” He kept talking, improvising, not wanting to give the captain an opening. “It’s a personal errand, sir. Kevin took a class from Dr. Brockton a couple years ago.” That much was true. “The Doc was one of Boomer’s idols.” Also true. “I’m taking something over there, to the Doc. A memento, sort of. Something I think Kevin would’ve wanted me to do.” It was lame, but even that had some truth to it: safety; protection; justice—Kevin would certainly have wanted his big brother to deliver those things.