You Can't Stop Me. Max Allan Collins

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ gets to us all, J.C. Just tonight, for example, you screwed me over….”

      Harrow had no response to that.

      Byrnes threw up his hands. “All right. I’m tired. You win. I’m going home and see my wife and two daughters, who are just fine, thanks so much for asking. I’ll let Nicole know that you have a new segment host.”

      “Thanks, Dennis.”

      “You’re welcome, J.C.” He beamed at his star. “Screw me again, and you’ll find out just how amoral a scumbag I can be.”

      Chapter Seven

      The room was stuffy, the weather warm for May, the humidity heavy, the smell of rain hanging in the still air as the Messenger (as the killer thought of himself) found the spot on the videotape and cued up the ending of Crime Seen! yet again. He had not prayed in years, but he did now. Maybe, finally, someone was getting the goddamned message!

      “Recently, a member of the Crime Seen! staff found what she thought might be a clue tying another crime to the deaths of my wife and son.”

      Watching in his living room, the Messenger smiled.

      “Next season,” Harrow was saying, “we will be following this clue, and working hard to uncover other evidence, in a concerted, focused effort to track down the killer or killers of my family….”

      About damn time, the Messenger thought.

      “And we’ll be doing it right on this show. You will be with us every step of the way—helping us track down the murderer of my wife and my son.”

      He took in Harrow’s words like clues that each needed close examination, and he wondered if it was possible that after all this time, the dumb shit-kicker he’d transformed from a retired county sheriff into a national celebrity was finally, finally getting a clue himself.

      If so, maybe there was even more work to be done than he had planned on.

      That was all right. He had been waiting years for someone to raise the stakes, and, thus far, no one had. He had sent message after message over the last ten years, and, until now, no one had discerned their meaning.

      It wasn’t as if Harrow had been the first. Far from it. By August of 2002, the Messenger had already delivered two other communications without anyone understanding what he was up to; and since Harrow’s family, there had been more.

      Many more.

      He wound the tape back slightly.

      Harrow said, “You will be with us every step of the way—helping us track down the murderer of my wife and my son.”

      If you’re smart enough, he thought, going back to his plans for his next message. If you can read the writing on the wall….

      Chapter Eight

      First thing Saturday morning, J.C. Harrow was on UBC’s small corporate jet, heading to Waco, Texas.

      He hadn’t slept well. On some level, he supposed, he had won, but Byrnes had been right to liken what his host had done last night to hijacking the show and blackmailing the network. Had he gone to the exec with his “catch a serial killer” road-trip concept, Harrow might have been embraced as a visionary…or rejected out of hand.

      And he had not been experienced enough in the business of show to calculate the odds. Just going for it, on live television, seemed the best way to acquire the wherewithal to track down the bastard who had stolen Ellen and David’s lives.

      So he had stooped to commandeering his own program, and putting the man who’d hired him in a hell of a spot with the network. Now, on the Cessna, he sat with the other three passenger seats unoccupied, the two pilots his only company. He didn’t mind the solitude—it helped him get the bad taste out of his mouth, over how he’d gotten here; and he could study the files of the team he hoped to assemble—hard copy in manila folders, not his laptop. He was no Luddite, but he preferred the Old School approach; he still chose a morning paper over a news website.

      When he got to Waco, he learned from his PD contact that Laurene Chase—the best forensics investigator in central Texas and maybe the entire state—was working a crime scene; he would not be able to talk to her until the next day. That was disappointing, but he was okay with it—he was still prepping, and one thing that TV and law enforcement had in common was that solid preparation was key to success.

      After a solo dinner, Harrow spent the evening in his room going over the files. The names he was considering were all people he knew personally, professionally, or by reputation. They were not in every case the number-one person in their fields, but all were eminently qualified and, more importantly, were people Harrow felt he could work well with, and trust.

      He started with a baker’s dozen files; when he was finished, he had a smaller stack, and began to make a list on a yellow pad.

      Laurene Chase was at the top. In descending order came Michael Pall, a DNA scientist with the Oklahoma State Crime Lab; chemist Chris Anderson from Meridian, Mississippi; Billy Choi, a tool mark and firearms examiner from New York; and computer forensics whiz Jenny Blake, Casper, Wyoming.

      The taller stack of files had other strong possibilities, and he would not be distraught if he had to return there. In any case, he would have a better chance of making this work with a dependable number two who would keep her head when all about them, especially her emotionally invested boss, might be losing theirs.

      The biggest liability would be if he was unable to assemble the right team—and the chemistry between team members was something that could not be predicted. A second major liability was himself—no police department anywhere would dream of assigning a crime scene analyst to investigate the murder of his own family.

      He’d already heard from Carmen that this morning’s media outlets were rife with editorials and interviews with experts condemning his participation—on MSNBC, a retired LA detective turned bestselling author said, “I’ve heard of having a fool for a client, but this is ridiculous.”

      Beyond any ethical or practical concerns, having such an emotionally involved crime scene analyst on the team was one thing; having that analyst head up the team was another. It could easily be a recipe for disaster…which was why his choice for a second in command was key.

      The first name on his list.

      Laurene Chase.

      By mid-morning Sunday, Harrow found himself leaning against a rented Lexus at the far end of the parking lot of Our Savior Baptist Church on the northeast side of Waco. He blew out a ribbon of smoke from his second cigarette. The sun was bright but pleasant, the temperature in the mid-seventies, Harrow enjoying a breeze. Spring in Texas included the scent of flowers Detective Harrow couldn’t identify, though the evidence was pleasing enough.

      These days, Harrow was smoking again, but out of a sort of half-assed respect to his late wife, he tried to keep the habit at bay. He wore a navy blue polo, jeans, and black Rockys, the cop shoes he seemed to have worn every day of his adult life.

      As the congregation emptied out of the brick church down wide cement stairs, Harrow stubbed the cigarette out under his toe, then stood a little straighter, searching for his friend. This was a mostly African-American congregation, СКАЧАТЬ