There was an edge to the cold air the next morning as John sat on the end of his bed lacing his too tight dress shoes. He felt like crap, he'd only gotten a couple of hours sleep and that combined with all the driving in the last few days meant he was beat but the job especially this job couldn't wait.
Over a breakfast of cold pie left from the night before John and Bill decided in the end to call on the victims' families first and tackle the Sheriff later. It would give them the chance to check out the locality in daylight and to get a feel for the case without being influenced by the police investigation.
Ryan Vincent, the second victim had lived along a wide leafy street in a small but pleasant two storey house. The tight collar of the button down shirt dug into John's neck as they walked up to the front door. He ran a finger around between the skin and the stiff material but it didn't help. He still felt like he was being strangled. On the other hand Bill looked like he'd been born in a collar and tie and the dark jacket sitting smartly on his shoulders hung crease free making him look every inch the agent he was impersonating.
John checked the notes. The boy's body had been found on the edge of a protected swamp area to the north of the town two days after he'd been reported missing by his father.
Mr Vincent opened the door; he looked the same as the photo John had seen except that the man standing before him looked wretchedly tired and John felt a deep sympathy for him, father to father. Loss was hard but to lose a child in this way must be unbearable.
Bill flipped out his badge.
"FBI…I wonder if we could ask you a few questions."
The man looked bewildered as if Bill's words didn't make sense. He glanced behind him as if looking for some kind of affirmation but then he nodded and backed away holding the door open for them.
"Oh…yes, yes come in."
Mr Vincent led them into a large comfortable living room with two chairs and a sofa, a TV and in the corner a chest of toys spilling its contents haphazardly over the floor. A large yellow dump-truck lay on its side next to several cars and a ragged looking rabbit.
John blanched a lump forming in constricting his throat. Sammy had been pestering him for a truck exactly like the one he was now staring at. It was like a blow to his stomach and John had to forcibly wrench his attention away pushing back the picture of Sam's hopeful hazel eyes before he could regain his composure.
A thin but attractive woman joined them, Mrs Vincent, the mother John presumed.
"Are you up to answering a few questions." Bill was sympathetic but there was a firmness that implied that they didn't really have a choice.
"We told the police all we know." Mr. Vincent looked at his wife but she kept her eyes down fingers entwined in a tissue.
When was the last time you saw Ryan?"
"It was about four," It was Mrs Vincent that answered in a wavering thin voice, "He'd not long got home from school and I was…" she dabbed at her eyes with the scrunched tissue and swallowed hard before continuing, "I was in the kitchen. I saw him riding his bike, it was red, he got it for his birthday last month." She swallowed again. "We told him he could ride it in the yard but he was not to go on the sidewalk with it."
"He's a…" Mr Vincent stopped himself, " …was a good boy, he wouldn't have gone through the yard gate…not without telling us…he wouldn't."
"And you saw no one else?" Bill turned his attention back to the mother. She shook her head. "Not in the yard. Mr Forester came home from work, I think I saw his car. He's our next door neighbour."
"And there's no reason or anybody you can think of that might have wanted to hurt Ryan."
Again the boy's mother shook her head, shoulders shaking, as she pushed the tissue up under her nose.
"No." Mr Vincent put his arm around his wife and John caught Bill's eye communicating that it was probably time to leave.
"Before we go Mr Vincent, I wonder if my partner and I might take a look around your yard."
Leaving his wife Mr. Vincent rose and showed them through the kitchen to the back door. Bringing up the rear John glanced around. It felt to him like the life had gone from the house. It looked like a home, all the component parts were present but they lay discarded, discontinued and John doubted if they would ever be taken up again.
Yellow tape was threaded across the entrance gate, torn now and flapping in the light breeze. It was the only indicator that anything untoward had happened in the tidy, worn garden. John descended the three steps from the porch to the grass, eyes scanning for details, any small anomaly, which might give them a clue as to what had happened to the boy. A soccer ball lay abandoned to one side and a bike, presumably Ryan's was propped up against the chain fence abandoned, front wheel bent at an awkward angle.
John found nothing, the ground was too dry and too disturbed to decipher any prints and anyway a dozen fat cops had probably trampled it with size 14 boots. Satisfied that he'd missed nothing he turned back to find Bill alone on the porch.
"Anything?"
Shaking his head John joined his partner and rather than go back through the house they rounded the corner and followed a narrow paved path between the houses back to the car.
Opening the passenger door John paused noticing a green Ford parked in the driveway of the next door house. "Maybe we should go see Mr Forester, the neighbour." It seemed prudent to talk to the only other person who could have seen Ryan before his abduction. Bill nodded his assent and John let the car door swing shut.
The owner of the Ford turned out to be a very personable widower, his house was immaculate and he offered them tea. Bill declined for both of them getting right to the point asking if the neighbour had seen anything on the day Ryan went missing.
"No not really." The man sat on the very edge of the chair as if he was afraid to crease the cushioned seat.
"How do you mean, not really?" John wanted qualification, 'not really' in his book meant the man had seen something. "Mr. Forester what did you see?"
"Only the Patrol Car but that's always cruising past. It's part of Sheriff Johansson's initiative to 'Stop Crime before It Starts'." He emphasised the last phrase and John got the impression that it was a slogan that the residents of Nelson heard a lot.
"How often do they drive by?"
"Couple of times a day but they don't always come down the street."
Mr. Forester had nothing else to add and declining the cake offered they left him straightening the cushions where they'd sat and drove back into town.
They fared no better interviewing the other victims' families. No one had heard or seen anything untoward, no strangers had been seen, either on the day or in the days or weeks previous to the abductions and none of the children had expressed any fears or worries.
John came away thoroughly depressed how the hell were they going to find who or what killed these kids without even the sniff of a clue.
"Follow my lead." Bill lowered his voice as they approached the heavy glass doors of the Sheriff's department past two large posters showing a cheerful, grinning Sheriff, no doubt Johansson, shaking hands with a young girl and declaring that he was 'The man for the job.'
Looking up John noted that the structure was large, old, maybe turn of the century and brick built. At some point, probably in the 60's, it had been modernised with new toughened glass windows and an entrance, which lent itself more to a shopping mall than a municipal building.
Shivering in the air conditioned coolness of the interior John waited impatiently for the receptionist to look up, he was already fingering the small leather case which held his fake FBI badge. He'd impersonated officials before but had always pulled up short at being a G-man. Earlier he'd been fine, in front of civilians, but here in the 'Lion's Den' he felt uncomfortable. Bill it seemed had no such qualms and confidently announced himself and John as Agents Stengal and Mantle respectively; John prayed that no one was a baseball fanatic.
Apparently Sheriff Johansson was busy. The middle-aged woman behind the desk informed them of the fact, although she barely acknowledge their presence, only looking up from her computer monitor when Bill declared that he would wait.
Ignoring her irritated protests Bill strode across to the row of leatherette covered chairs and sat. John followed sinking down next to his hunting partner scanning the immediate area checking the entrances and exits in case they needed to make a swift escape.
The main access through which he and Bill had come was to his right and on the far wall facing him in marked contrast to the bright modernist main entrance were two dark old-fashioned doors. One had a brass plaque announcing it was a 'Conference Room' and the other was ominously blank. Two other, similar doors to his left, flanked the grand staircase which flourished its way upwards, separating into two after the initial rise and continuing higher in opposing branches. It was all very impressive for such a small town.
The receptionist had been busy and John had barely had time to make a mental map of the Foyer when a broad, red-faced Deputy, as his badge declared, approached them.
"Agents Stengal, Mantle?" Both John and Bill rose.
"Deputy Moines." They shook hands each in turn. "Sheriff Johansson is busy right now."
"So we were told." Giving nothing-away Bill stood his ground.
"I'm here to see if I can facilitate you in some way."
The Deputy said the word 'facilitate' as if it was something unsanitary. John wanted to punch the man's damned depreciating face in. His hand curled but Bill carried on as if the officer hadn't given the word any emphasis.
"You can by letting us talk to the organ grinder."
Bill's face remained expressionless as if he hadn't insulted the man. Face to face the Deputy and the seasoned hunter remained locked until John saw that discretion reminded the local official that his remit was not to aggravate the visitors but to placate them.
"As I said the Sheriff is busy, dealing with a rather pressing matter…"
Bill interrupted. "Six dead children is rather more than a pressing matter don't you think?"
There was no answer to that and the Deputy admitted defeat with a "I'll tell the Sheriff you're waiting," as he walked away.
Five minutes later they were in the Sheriff's office facing the man himself over an ornate and clutter free desk.
"FBI, Agents Stengal and Mantle." Both John and Bill showed their fake ID's, flipping them open and closed with practised dexterity.
Sheriff Johansson didn't offer his hand or offer a seat to the two hunters but he did rise from his leather chair. He was slender with light brown hair greying at the temples. The almost handsome face was pleasant but devoid of expression, however the slight press of the lips gave away that the Sheriff was far from happy. John put him in his late forties and despite being smaller than Bill and John he radiated authority. It filled the room intimidating the silence before he spoke.
"What can I do for you gentlemen?"
It was an innocent enough phrase, a pleasantry which no doubt tripped off his tongue as easily as 'good morning' but there was a guarded look in his eye and John decided that Sheriff Johansson was not as outgoing or friendly as the election posters outside the building declared.
Bill came straight to the point. "I want to see all the documentation pertaining to the Child Homicides. Then I want you to brief me on any developments."
For a moment the Sheriff's poise was ruffled. He'd obviously been expecting Bill to ask a few desultory questions before honing in on the details. The hunter's demand to see the actual files wrong footed him. Recovering quickly Johansson leaned forward and pressed a button on the intercom panel.
"Deputy Moines."
"Yes Sheriff." The sound was tinny but clear.
"Can you bring all the doc…."
"With copies." Bill interjected.
The Sheriff eyed the implacable hunter. "…the documents, with copies on case 49…in to my office asap."
"Yes Sheriff." The voice at the other end, unmistakably Deputy Moines, was full of question and twenty minutes later when he brought in two folders both neatly labelled he was unable to stop himself glancing furtively at John and Bill. John enjoyed the man's predicament. The Deputy obviously liked to 'be in the know' and it was killing him to be excluded.
All parties waited for Deputy Moines to leave and then following Bill's lead John settled himself into one of the stiff upright chairs arranged in front of the imposing desk. Johansson had re-seated himself leaning back, hands clasped in front of his lean body, composure restored.
Bill thumbed through the folder stopping to read at several points before looking up directly at the Sheriff.
"Is there any indication of a link between the victims besides the …way they died?"
"Nothing."
"Were there any similarities in the way they were abducted.
"No, One was taken from her bed. One was on the way to school as far as we can make out she was walking with her friends and one of the mothers. One minute she was there and the next gone, no one saw anything. One was playing in his back yard on his bike."
The Sheriff was confident, almost smug John thought as Johansson continued list the disappearances.
"Another was also in the back yard but it was a different time of day and we know for a fact that he regularly squeezed his way out through a gap in the fence. I'd talked to his mother only the day before after one of my officers found him wandering down by the lake. The other two disappeared on different days in different parts of the town. One was shopping downtown with her mother and the other was at the park with a sitter. So no I'd say there were no links."
"How can you be so sure."
"Because Agent Stengal I know how to do my job."
Bill refused to be intimidated.
"There must be some common elements in a community this small."
"Well there are the obvious connections. They all went to the same school but then so do 614 other elementary kids."
"Were any of them particular friends?"
"Sally Kemble and Naomi Richards were. They did the usual rounds, went to each other's houses, the park … but there's no indication that the three boys and the other girl were anything more than acquaintances but as you said it's a small town, everybody knows everybody."
"What about their parents?"
"The parents are distraught." Indignation blazed in the Sheriff's eyes.
John bit his lip knowing that at least to be true having spent the morning experiencing the painful distress of the grieving parents but then again someone clever enough to kidnap six children and not be seen could easily lie their way through a simple interview. You don't need to be an Oscar Winner to squeeze a few tears and look sad.
"I've no doubt they are." Bill said evenly. "But we have to consider the possibility that any of them..."
"Just what are you implying…"
"That." Bill stared the man straight down. "Should be obvious….even to you."
John studied the Sheriff carefully while Bill continued to throw questions. There was something about the man that set his hackles rising. Johansson was lying, he was sure but John couldn't pin down about exactly what. The answers the Sheriff gave were what John expected, straightforward and truthful to the facts but the Sheriff was giving no more. He was being deliberately circumspect.
It was that caution that John found strange. He'd come across inter-departmental rivalry before, where certain sections of the Law Enforcement community withheld information from what they saw as outside interference it wasn't uncommon but in cases like these where children were involved, usually the barriers came down and jurisdiction wasn't a problem. It could be that Johansson couldn't get past the FBI 'muscling in' on his case but John wasn't convinced.
He still wasn't convinced when Deputy Moines still oozing charm and political correctness showed them out.