Archer
ARCHER
“ D on’t even ask me about Booth.” Fletch stomps through the war room door and slams it shut behind him, only to stop and stare at the wall I’ve already prepared. At the photographs of little girls a mere one year older than his own daughter. The case files a single phone call with Sophia-the-one-we-don’t-ask-favors-of provided. She had them already, I suppose. Compiled, alphabetized, and loaded into zip files. So attaching them to an email and sending them to me is a small favor at best.
I hope.
“Uh…” Stunned, Fletch searches the room. “Not Booth?”
“Booth is old news. Moving on.”
“We got a new case?” Confused, he hobbles to the table and picks up one of the files from the early two-thousands. Aysha Quintana. “You jumped into the cold cases already? What the fuck, Malone? Give a man time to get his breakfast sandwich down before you start on your shit.”
“Not a cold case. Well…” I turn and pick up my third coffee. Fourth ? “It’s a cold case, though it’s not ours. But I think we caught a break on the Danika Smith case. We can discuss that one, too.”
“Danika?” He sets Aysha’s file down and plants his hands on his hips. “I’m so fuckin’ confused. You’re not running a cold case, but you are, but Danika Smith is a twenty-three-year-old missing person’s file we were working on, what…” He checks his watch, though fuck knows why. “Eighteen months ago? We say the boyfriend did it, but the evidence isn’t there, so he walks, and she’s still missing. But you’ve also tacked pictures of little girls on the wall, none of whom are Danika, and I just…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’ve had too much caffeine, bro.”
“Danika is our file,” I agree, sipping and knowing he’s right. I’ve had too much . “We couldn’t press charges because we never found a body, and the dude’s alibi was too tight. We’re heading to Copeland Correctional in an hour or two,” I check the clock on the wall and nod, “as soon as the warden calls and confirms the meet, to talk to a guy about her missing body.”
“He knows where it is? How’d you find him?”
“Warden found us, actually. I got here and had a message in my inbox, so I’m setting that up. But in the meantime: Janiesa Sawyer,” I turn and tap the girl’s photograph on the board. “Five years old. Little girl was snatched out of a park in New York earlier this month.”
His eyes narrow, then widen. Narrow, then squint.
“Since when are we crossing state lines and running cases that have absolutely nothing to do with us?”
“Since now, except we’re not running the case. In fact, head investigators have no clue we possess these files.”
“Oh, good.” He yanks out a scarred faux leather chair and slumps to take the weight off his bad leg. “So we’re actively looking to annoy some folks. I love when we do that.”
“Diane Philips.” I point at her next and watch as the lights finally flicker on in his mind. “I’ve mentioned her before.”
“Little girl was taken in…” He counts back in his mind. “Ninety-something.”
“Taken in ‘98. Dumped in ‘99. Lorni May was picked up in ‘99 and dumped in 2000.”
“A new case every year for seventeen years,” he confirms. “Yeah, I remember now. Never caught. Now he’s quiet.”
“ Was quiet.” I point to Janiesa again. “Until January eleventh this year. Seventeen days ago, this little girl was taken and hidden somewhere, and as it stands, no one has any fucking clue where that stash house is. Lead detective has an entire task force at his disposal, plus the now-retired former lead detective to draw upon. They’re running a tight ship, as far as I can see, but the girl is still missing, and no one has turned up a lead yet.”
“And so…” He scrubs a hand over his stubbled chin. “We have so much free time, you figured you’d volunteer our services?”
“No. But my wife is currently brewing a stomach ulcer and a lot of bad ideas, since these cases, this guy,” I hold his stare and wait for him to understand, “made her who she is today. Every spare minute I have between now and when that cocksucker is behind bars, I’m spending it looking at these files and searching for a break in the case. Figured, since you’re on the bench and all that…”
He rolls his eyes and leans forward to snag a file. “The FBI should be on this one. You know that, right?” Still, he sets his ankle on the opposite knee and rests the manilla file on his thighs. “Maybe you should call Micah and see what information he has, considering his, uh…” He clears his throat, “connections.”
“FBI is running their own case. NYPD, too. It’s a race to see who gets the collar.”
“And now you wanna strap up and run, too?”
“No, I just don’t want Minka to kill herself obsessing over it. Danika’s file is up to date and not moving until we’re done at Copeland Correctional. I’m hoping we’ll get enough to close it up, but for the next hour or two…”
“Free time.” He flips to the next page and scans the contents. “January eleven, every single year. Then a few years off, and now he’s back, again, on January eleven. That date has to mean something.”
“Yep.” Blindly, I point to the board where I’ve already written it down. “No one in the files yet has a significant January eleventh. School teachers, swimming instructor, school teacher’s husband, grocery store clerk, bank teller, newspaper delivery boy. And more. None of them have a birthday on January eleven. No wedding anniversaries. No ‘ this is the date we bought a house ’ or ‘ this is the date I lost my job. ’ No one lost a kid or a spouse or a parent on January eleven. Detective Lowe ran every motherfucker he could think of and put it in his notes. ”
“And Lowe himself?”
I breathe out a soft chuckle and point next at a file Soph put together specifically for me. “Clean as a whistle. Not the squeaky-clean one might consider fake. But the clean that comes substantiated with good work, solid arrests, a few medals for bravery, and absolutely no weird bank transactions. He also doesn’t have a birthday, death day, anniversary, kid’s birth, or any other event on January eleven, except, of course, the seventeen cases that popped up year after year throughout his career. I’m not convinced he’s involved in any way except professionally, and by the looks of the notes, I’d say he did his damned best to find these babies. Even when the cases got cold, and even when the brass told him to back away and focus on something else, he kept working them in his spare time. He had, and still has, a wife and three kids. His oldest is a girl who was also five when the first was taken.”
“Maybe that’s why he kept at it,” he mumbles. “Hit a bit close to home, and the guy knew how it would destroy him if it was his daughter who was missing. Didn’t break the marriage?”
“Not as far as I can see. Same wife this whole time and had two more kids over the years. He’s made himself available to the current detectives and did so on January twelfth.”
“The day after Janiesa went missing?”
“Must’ve seen it on the news and saw the similarities. Went down to his old precinct first thing the next morning and got back to work. He’s retired these days, which means no badge, no gun, and no collar. But he wants in, and they’ve welcomed him.”
“And the lead detective now running it?”
Intuition niggles somewhere in the depths of my stomach, tickling and demanding a little more attention. But I turn the pages and shrug. “Would have been eight when the first girl went missing. Probably not too young to remember all the news coverage.”
Minka remembers, and she was five.
“Probably old enough to imprint on his mind and lead him toward becoming a cop. Soph sent over a file on him, too. Seems clean, no janky arrests, no needlessly fumbled cases, no connections to organized crime. ”
Fletch chokes on his spit and shakes his head when I glance across. “You mean, like, your family?”
“Or someone my family knew.” I ignore his jab and go back to reading. “He’s been on the force about as long as we have, worked his way up. Had a partner, who went on to retire. Works mostly alone now, but nowhere in the dossier does it hint at ‘ can’t work on a team ’.”
“Kinda like if one of us were off the job. We’d work alone, rather than take on someone new. Doesn’t mean we can’t get along with other fuckers. Just that we choose not to.”
“Basically.” I come to the last page and close the file, exhaling a tired sigh and switching it for a new folder. “Those girls were just babies, Fletch. They must’ve been terrified.”
“Do you ever wonder what people say about us when they’re pulling our files?” He peeks up in my peripherals and waits for my eyes. “You, especially. We sit here and question the detectives on this case: financials, family ties, case load, close rates. All that shit. We wanna rule them out, first and foremost, right? Make sure the dude we’re meant to trust is trustworthy. But someone reading your file would see exactly who you’re related to: incriminating as fuck. They’d see your bank balance: suspicious as fuck. They’d see your solve rate is pretty damn good, above average, at least, all the way up to the Vigilante, and then suddenly you fumble: that looks suss. Even my file: drug-addicted baby momma, broke, except when I’m not, and the times I’m not, the money comes directly from a mafia kid’s bank account. Best friends with you , and daily charges on my card that tie back to a bar owned by the mafia heir.”
“I wouldn’t trust you.”
He chuckles. “Now we’re asking these hypothetical people to trust us. But the paperwork doesn’t support it.”
“I’m not asking anyone for anything.” I set my file back on the pile and slide my hands into my hair, scratching my scalp to work through the frustration sizzling in my blood. “I already have a partner who knows everything about me, one who will walk through every door I do and will take a bullet for me.”
“I mean, I don’t want to,” he clarifies playfully. “I would if I had to, but I’d prefer not to. That shit hurts like hell. ”
“I have a captain who has my back. Sort of. He’d toss me to the sharks if the waters got a little bloody.” I scoff, almost as though to imply my words are a joke. They’re not . “But until then, he knows me and where I come from, and he gave me a badge and a gun anyway. My lieutenant goes to bat for me, though it could harm his own career. And I have a wife whose job sits pretty fuckin’ high on the totem pole of Copeland City. Everyone else can suck their own dick because I have nothing to prove to them.”
“Sure. But say another cop is working a case, and that case overlaps with us somehow. They run your name and find your seedier connections. You think they’ll shrug their shoulders and think, well, he seems like a nice guy ?”
I drop my hands and chuckle. “Nope. But that’s a them problem. And none of my business. If you’re worried my sullied past is infringing on your career advancement, feel free to put in for a transfer.”
“Shut the fuck up.” He closes his file with a heavy slap of paper. “Don’t get your panties in a twist because I’m asking hypotheticals. I knew who you were back at the academy. Didn’t like you then, don’t like you now. But I’ve got your back, and you’ve got mine. That’s enough for me.”
My phone rings in my pocket, vibrating against my thigh, so I snatch it out and turn it right-side up to read the screen. “Copeland Correctional.” Accepting the call, I set the phone on speaker and place it on the table. “This is Detective Malone.”
Curious, Fletch leans on his elbows and turns his ear toward the phone to hear better.
“Malone,” a man’s older, gruffer voice rumbles through the line. “This is Warden Conroy. Thanks for getting back to me after my email.”
“Thanks for sending it. The inmate available to talk today?”
“Sure is. He was in the infirmary after the, uh…” Conroy clears his throat. “Incident. But docs have cleared him to go back into circulation. If you’re ready to drive out, we can be ready to provide you a space to talk to him.”
“Excellent.” I scoop up the phone and nod toward the door to get Fletch moving. “We’re on our way. We really appreciate your assistance on this, Warden. Danika Smith’s case has been a thorn in our sides for too long.”
“I saw the news coverage.” He exhales noisily, shifting in his seat so the movement of the phone creates static on our end. “She looked like a real sweet girl. As soon as my inmate told me what he knows, I figured we might’ve been on to something.”
I circle the table and leave behind the Diane Philips files. Aysha Quintana. Lorni May. Those three, and so many more, who never had a chance to grow up. Crossing the threshold and waiting for Fletch to do the same, I close the war room door and turn toward the escalators.
“We’ll see you in a bit, Warden. You’ve done a good thing today.” I end our call and glance across at Fletch. “I haven’t made contact with Danika’s parents yet.”
Quickly, he darts to our back-to-back desks and snags his coat, plus mine, then he jogs to catch up and tosses mine. Shrugging into his own, he fixes the collar and chews on the inside of his cheek while he thinks. “Probably best we don’t call till we know what we know, right? Inmates are notorious for selling information to cops, even if they get nothing for it except a day of entertainment and a break in monotony. Who is the guy, and what’s he in for?”
“Tarran McDermott.” I recite the name I’ve already pulled a rap sheet for. “Fifty-three years old. He’s in for a good long while after murdering his daughter’s boyfriend.”
Gritting his teeth, Fletch steps onto the escalator a single beat ahead of me. “Yikes. Daddy doesn’t share well?”
“Boyfriend tuned the girl up. Busted her face open, swelling on the brain, broken arm…” Not entirely different from the injuries his ex-wife recently died from. “She was in a coma for a few days until things settled. Boyfriend skipped town immediately after the alleged assault.”
“Alleged?”
“Well… He never admitted to it, the cops didn’t have a bunch of proof, and he ended up dead before it could go to trial. But the reports say concerned neighbors found her inside her apartment, beaten and bloody. Witness statements say they saw the boyfriend run, and that was only after they heard loud shouts and a scuffle between the pair. Boyfriend took whatever cash he could find and bolted. Cops were lo oking, but I guess they were too slow. Tarran lacked patience, hunted the guy down, and pried his skull open with a tire iron.”
Again, Fletch grits his teeth. “Ouch.”
“He didn’t resist arrest, confessed to what he did, told the story to the judge with pride, and accepted his sentence with a smugness in his expression. Some news outlets called him a psychopath, others said he was a hero. Either way,” we step off the escalator and move toward the front doors to collect a car. “He has never shown remorse for his actions, but his daughter—who is now married and has a little girl of her own—brings him cookies and cake once a week. He’s met his granddaughter through the glass, and gave his blessing when the guy asked to marry her. He has a life behind bars now and doesn’t seem to make too much of a fuss.”
“Until now?”
I pull a set of keys from my pocket and slip into the driver’s seat to start the engine. “He was earning privileges in prison, working the laundry room and all that shit, till yesterday.”
“So what happened yesterday?”
“Well…”
A lden Conroy is a decent warden, as far as I’m concerned. He runs his prison above reproach, his guards do the job without any of the power trip bullshit common within correctional facilities, and his inmates are looked after the way the state intends for them to be.
Better yet, he provides me and Fletch a meeting room, instead of two-inch-thick plexiglass and a crappy little phone to speak through. Thankful, I pull up a chair at a steel table bolted to the floor and study the inmate cuffed to it. His knuckles are torn up and bloody. But the rest of him… spotless.
His eyes are a glittering blue, his skin a sun-kissed olive, though I doubt he gets a hell of a lot of time outside. He holds my stare while Fletch comes around to sit on my right, and nods when I set a pen and pad of paper down in preparation to use it.
“Mr. McDermott.”
“You can call me T.” His tone is steely and hard. Gritty and rough. “Or Tarran. My father was Mr. McDermott.”
I settle back in my chair, resting my hands in my lap and crossing my ankles beneath the table. “Alright, Tarran. I’m Detective Malone.” Then, I tilt my head to the right. “Detective Charlie Fletcher. We understand you formally requested, via your warden, a meeting with us today because you have information regarding an ongoing case we’re running.”
“About the girl.” He settles back, too, though only as far as his chains allow. “Danika Smith.”
“What is your relationship with Danika Smith?” Fletch speaks almost in monotone. Hard. Bored. Interested, and yet, not overly eager for whatever payoff Tarran represents. “You’ve been in here a while. How’d you meet her?”
“I have no relationship with her.” He slides his gaze across to my partner. “I’ve never met her. She’s dead.”
My stomach jumps, because although we can make a pretty fucking educated guess and assume she’s dead, no body means no confirmation. No confirmation means…
“She’s a missing person,” Fletch inserts. “What information do you have that could prove otherwise?”
“Got a new celly about six months ago.” He glances over my shoulder and eyes the guard posted in the corner of the room. “Could I get a cup of water? I’m pretty thirsty.” Then he brings his focus back to me. “Dude is one of those obnoxious motherfuckers. The kind who constantly thinks they’re kinda special, ya know? Like everything they do deserves a trophy and every thought they have needs to be heard.”
When the guard sets a Styrofoam cup on the table, Tarran drops his chin in thanks.
“I’m not saying a dude can’t speak or nothing. But there comes a point where I don’t give a fuck if you shit gold and feel the need to blow glitter to celebrate. ”
“Colorful analogy.” I steeple my fingers and flick my thumbs. “So this guy…? What’s his name?”
“Theodore Bukowski. T,” he rolls his eyes. “Then Buke, when I let him know I’m the only T in that cell.” His bright blue eyes search mine. “I saw him on the news awhile back, ‘cos his girlfriend went missing, and everyone figured he was probably the one who did it. Saw you on the news too,” he adds dryly. “Lead detectives. But you couldn’t find the body, and the evidence wasn’t there to nab him for it.”
“His alibi was tight,” Fletch counters. “Worked at the steelyard, punched in at his normal starting time, punched out again eight hours later. Danika went missing during those hours, and, if not for her parents’ insistence, one could wonder if she just up and ran away. Maybe she didn’t wanna be found.”
“But her parents have been on the news too,” he reasons. “They’ve cried for her and begged for something more than ‘ we have no clue where she is. ’ It’s been over a year since her disappearance, and Buke has been in here for half of that, so if she was running away just to get away, you’d think she’d call home to let them know she’s okay.”
“We can think things all we want,” I argue. “But without proof, all we’re doing here is hypothesizing. Do you have something new for us, or did you just want to bring her file back to the top of our piles to get more eyes on her?”
“Why’d you put Buke in the medical wing?” Fletch’s eyes drop to Tarran’s scabbing knuckles. “What beef did you have?”
“Except for the fact he was annoying as fuck?” He picks up his water and takes a slow sip. “We had no beef. I didn’t even realize he was the guy from the news at first. He was just another face in a sea of faces in here. Just another dude screaming about how he didn’t do nothing, and the cops set him up. Aggravated assault or some shit.” He lowers his water and shrugs. “I dunno. It’s hard to take the word of weasels like that, but according to him, he and his pal had a disagreement that ended with him putting the guy in the hospital. Buke was innocent, of course, and on the way outta town when the cops pulled him in. They had proof this time, so they tossed him in here. Still waiting for final sentencing.”
“And then you just…” I drop my head to the side. “Shattered his skull for fun? ”
“No permanent damage to his head.” He spins the cup between his fingers. “I left him coherent enough to form thoughts and make a statement for when you needed it. But I fixed him up, for sure.” Proud, just like he was in his own trial, his lips curl into a soft smirk. “He’s the type of guy whose parents probably gave him a ribbon for coming last and argued with the teachers over every bad grade. Like their baby boy could do no wrong. So even though he was in here and claiming he was innocent of the assault on his friend, the nights can get pretty long, and I don’t talk much at all. So I guess he figured I wanted to listen.”
I sit tall again and snag my notepad and book. “What did he tell you?”
“About a girl he used to date.” His jaw clenches, the muscles rippling in his cheeks and rolling beneath short stubble. “This chick he’d seen maybe two or three times before. She hadn’t jumped into bed with him yet, so he called it Pussy Power.” His smirk drops away to disgust. “Like her not giving it up on the first date was some kind of fuckin’ challenge. He put on his best face and wooed her for a couple of weeks, picked her up for their latest date, and then he took her to a hotel room and fucked her brains out.”
“Which hotel?” I tap the end of my pen against the paper. “Did he say?”
“Yeah. Sundowner, out by the interchange. Room three-three-seven. He gloated because she wasn’t all that keen on banging yet, but he kept plowing her with alcohol during dinner, and I guess he got her to agree to something. Took her to the room, did whatever he did, with or without her consent?—”
“Did he say it was consensual? Or not consensual?”
Tarran shrugs. “His story kept changing. Kinda gloating about how he convinced her she wanted it, but also told me about how he dropped some shit into her drinks. He said she was into it in the room, begging to suck his dick, but also told me how she wasn’t eager, and they played a game of tie me up, strap me down .”
My hand moves furiously fast, jotting down every detail he feeds me.
“What else did he tell you?”
“He said how they fucked for hours and hours and hours, even though she wasn’t conscious for most of it. He joked that he’s fucked a corpse before, as in,” he firms his lips when I glance up, “her. But when I asked him point-blank if he stuck his dick in her while she was dead, he didn’t really commit.”
“Did he say that he killed her?” Fletch questions. “Specifically?”
“Yeah.” He chews on the inside of his cheek, rage bubbling in his eyes. “He said he tied her up and put a rope around her neck. Thought he was some kind of king, like he’s the leader of bondage or some shit. Sometimes, he said she wanted it; other times he said how he took charge and made her do it. Wrapped her up nice and tight, basically put her in a fuckin’ noose, and went wild every time she blacked out. Eventually, she didn’t wake up again, and that’s when he realized what had happened.”
“He said all this?” I demand. “The ropes? The room. The fact he tied her up, and eventually, she didn’t wake again? He said those words?”
“Yep. He made her his fuck doll while her skin was cold. Literally disrespecting a corpse. Then he left her there on the bed and took a shower. He slept beside her. Woke up, fucked her again. Went out and got breakfast. Fucked her again.” His cheeks turn a sickly shade of green. “He knew what he was doing, and he was getting off on the fact she couldn’t say no. He was hard because he’d killed her, and that felt really fucking good.”
Shower. Sleep. Breakfast . I write my notes, though everything Tarran says contradicts the alibi Bukowski still has. The time cards are pretty damn hard to dispute, so…
“Did he say what he did with her body after all this happened?” Fletch’s shoulders bunch with adrenaline, the stretch of his holster an audible crackle that lets me know he’s pissed. “Dumped her somewhere, obviously.”
“Yeah. He buried her a little bit outside the city. He said he wrapped her in the bedsheets, then in the shower curtain. Put her in his pickup, swung by his place to get a shovel, drove her out of the city, and dumped her near a bunch of trees. Then he came back and went to work.”
“So he told you all this just… because he could?” Fletch confirms. “Because he was bored?”
“It started ‘cos he was bored.” His smug smirk slides back into place. “ It kept going because, for the first time in six months, I was actually paying attention to him. I asked questions. I was fuckin’ rapt in every word he spoke. He felt like a god because I let him talk, and I absorbed every detail. It only took me a minute to realize who he was talking about, and then for me to realize he was never gonna volunteer this information to the cops. But he wanted me to know because he knew I was in for killing someone, too. Like it was a fuckin’ bonding experience. I knew I had one shot to get all the details, so I asked about the hotel and the room and the girl. I asked about the ropes and how many times he got to fuck her. I asked him to describe where he dumped her, and I nodded and called him a fuckin’ genius when he told me how he had his buddy at work time him in and out like usual.”
Fuck me. I write that down, too.
“Buke’s alibi was tied up in his work schedule. He bragged about it. I knew you’d need it to solve this case, so I crossed my t’s and dotted my i’s. Lied and told him how I used to hang out just outside the city limits with my pals. Ride motorcycles and shit on the old dirt tracks out there, and that’s how I got him to tell me where she is. And then…” He opens his hands and sits back again.
“And then what?” I search his eyes. “What?”
“Then I smashed his fuckin’ face in, broke his hands, perforated his scrotum, stuffed his ass with his own pillow, shattered his teeth, and kept his brain still functional, so when he sits trial for that poor girl’s murder, he can’t get sent over to some low security fuckery and fed pudding for the rest of his days.”
Exhaling, I set my pen down and glance up at the spotted, water-damaged ceiling, following the brown stains and counting the rings of repetition. Not just one leak. Not even two or three.
I think of Tarran’s own version of vigilante justice, too, and consider, for just a minute, leaning across and shaking his hand. But I lower my head instead, and look at Fletch, whose eyes glitter with ‘ let’s go get her ’ energy. Then I turn to Tarran and push my pen and paper his way. “Can you draw a map that’ll lead us to her?”
“Yeah.” He snatches his supplies and flips to a fresh page. And though he sketches, he dips his chin toward the guard. “Fighting in here means a man is apt to be punished. I’ve been on pretty good behavior since I arrived, which means I’ve yet to miss my daughter’s weekly visits. But now they’re saying I have to go into the SHU because I hurt that asshole.” His hand stops, and his eyes flicker up to mine. “This information isn’t in exchange for special treatment. You get it free and clear, no matter what. But if you can have a word with the warden about letting me see my baby girl this week, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll talk to him.” I turn and meet Fletch’s gaze. Because fuck yes , we’ll put in a good word for the guy seeking justice for a brutalized girl. “We’ll see what we can do.”
“Thanks.” He goes back to sketching. “I don’t regret what I did, though, and if I miss this week, Janelle will understand. She’ll know what I did was right.”