“So you probably know how this all ended. The case was open and shut. Mannion got twenty-five to life in Rahway.”
“What happened to this girl? This Stacy Paris?”
“You just found the body, what, an hour ago? I’m still working on it.”
“And the big question,” Broome said.
Erin smiled. “You want to know when this murder occurred?”
“And I thought I was the trained detective.”
“March eleventh, eighteen years ago. And, yes, it was Mardi Gras. Or I should say it was the morning after. See, that’s the thing. Mardi Gras was actually March tenth that year, but our boy Gunther’s body was found after midnight.”
“So technically speaking it was not Mardi Gras.”
“Exactly. And that happens with a few of the missing people cases too. It makes it harder to see the pattern.”
“So we need to look at murders or missing people on or around that date—and we need to look for people murdered or missing at or around that park. That area was pretty remote. A body could be there for days or even weeks.”
“I’m on it,” Erin said.
Broome stared, chewing on a hangnail.
“That’s disgusting,” Erin said.
He kept at it. “This Mannion guy.”
“What about him?”
“If we’re right about this pattern, about there being some—I don’t know—Mardi Gras killer or whatever the hell he is…” Broome stopped. “Mannion’s been serving, what, eighteen years for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Let’s not jump the gun, Broome.”
“Detective?”
Broome started at the voice. He turned to see Del Flynn and his loud Hawaiian shirt. There had to be at least ten gold chains around his neck. Broome spotted a gold Saint Anthony medal, a gold ship anchor, and a gold mud flap–like silhouette of a curvy girl. Variety pack.
“Mr. Flynn?”
Goldberg was standing a few feet back behind him. Del Flynn, Broome had already been reminded several times, possessed beaucoup bucks. The mayor and several other muckety-mucks had called, as though the Atlantic City Police Department had a VIP line for missing people. Then again, maybe it did, who knew? Broome didn’t hold it against the man. If your son vanishes, you go all out. You don’t hold back. Broome got that.
Broome introduced Flynn to Erin. Erin nodded and then put her head back down. Erin had never been good with the families of victims. “They’re broken,” Erin had told him before. Broome looked now into Flynn’s eyes and thought “shattered” was more accurate. “Broken” suggested something clean and all the way through and fixable. But what happened to them was messier, more abstract, filled with shards and no hope of recovery.
“Did you find something new?” Del Flynn asked.
“It’s too early to tell, Mr. Flynn.”
“But something?”
The desperation in his voice was more than just audible. It was a living, breathing horrible thing. It filled the room. It suffocated all around it. Broome looked for Goldberg to step in. Goldberg looked right through him.
Flynn reached out and grabbed Broome’s arm with a little too much force. “Do you have any children, Detective?”
Broome had been asked this more than once during his years in law enforcement. He always found it borderline patronizing—really, it made no difference—but again, seeing that shatter, he got it. “No, sir, I don’t. Detective Anderson here does though.”
Yep, Broome had tossed his lovely ex under the bus. Flynn’s eyes moved toward Erin. Erin kept her head down. After a few uncomfortable seconds, Broome mercifully moved between them.
“Mr. Flynn,” Broome said, “I assure you that we’re doing all we can to find your son. But if we have to stop to provide you progress reports when we’re trying to work, that’s going to slow us down. You see that, right? I could spend time investigating clues and searching for your son. Or I could spend it filling you in on every development. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I want to help.”
“Then let us be, okay?”
Flynn’s shattered eyes flared at that—a brief flash of anger before the destruction flooded back in. Goldberg stepped in now. “I think, Detective Broome, that what Mr. Flynn is asking—”
Del Flynn put his hand on Goldberg’s arm, stopping him. “Later,” Flynn said. He started down the corridor. Goldberg threw one final glare at Broome and turned to follow him.
“I thought Goldberg was going to perform a sex act on that guy,” Erin said. “Flynn must have serious juice.”
“Don’t care,” Broome said. “Can you get me the number to Rahway Prison?”
She typed into the computer. It was late, but it wasn’t like federal penitentiaries had business hours. Broome called the number, told the dispatcher he was calling about a prisoner named Ricky Mannion. He was told to hold.
“This is Corrections Officer Dean Vanech.”
“My name is Broome. I’m a homicide detective with ACPD.”
“Okay.”
“I’m calling about one of your prisoners, guy named Ricky Mannion.”
“What about him?”
“Do you know him?”
“I do.”
“Does he still claim he’s innocent?”
“Every day. But you know what? Almost every guy in here is innocent. It’s amazing, really. Either we are all totally incompetent or—gasp oh gasp—our houseguests are full of crap.”
“What’s your take on him?”
“Meaning?”
“Is Mannion more persuasive than most?”
“About being innocent? Who the hell knows? I’ve seen guys in here who could put De Niro to shame.”
Talking to this Vanech guy, Broome could see, was going to be a waste of time.
“I’d like to come up and visit Mannion first thing in the morning,” Broome said. “That okay?”
“Well, let me check his social calendar. My, my, the First Lady was forced to cancel, so Mannion is free. Shall I pencil you in for seven-ish?”
Everyone was a wiseass.
Broome made the appointment. He was hanging up the phone when something caught his eye. He turned his head and saw Cassie rush into the station. She spotted Broome and rushed toward him.
“There’s a problem,” Cassie said.
“GOT IT.”
As Ken promised, the cell phone number quickly told all.
“What happened to this girl? This Stacy Paris?”
“You just found the body, what, an hour ago? I’m still working on it.”
“And the big question,” Broome said.
Erin smiled. “You want to know when this murder occurred?”
“And I thought I was the trained detective.”
“March eleventh, eighteen years ago. And, yes, it was Mardi Gras. Or I should say it was the morning after. See, that’s the thing. Mardi Gras was actually March tenth that year, but our boy Gunther’s body was found after midnight.”
“So technically speaking it was not Mardi Gras.”
“Exactly. And that happens with a few of the missing people cases too. It makes it harder to see the pattern.”
“So we need to look at murders or missing people on or around that date—and we need to look for people murdered or missing at or around that park. That area was pretty remote. A body could be there for days or even weeks.”
“I’m on it,” Erin said.
Broome stared, chewing on a hangnail.
“That’s disgusting,” Erin said.
He kept at it. “This Mannion guy.”
“What about him?”
“If we’re right about this pattern, about there being some—I don’t know—Mardi Gras killer or whatever the hell he is…” Broome stopped. “Mannion’s been serving, what, eighteen years for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Let’s not jump the gun, Broome.”
“Detective?”
Broome started at the voice. He turned to see Del Flynn and his loud Hawaiian shirt. There had to be at least ten gold chains around his neck. Broome spotted a gold Saint Anthony medal, a gold ship anchor, and a gold mud flap–like silhouette of a curvy girl. Variety pack.
“Mr. Flynn?”
Goldberg was standing a few feet back behind him. Del Flynn, Broome had already been reminded several times, possessed beaucoup bucks. The mayor and several other muckety-mucks had called, as though the Atlantic City Police Department had a VIP line for missing people. Then again, maybe it did, who knew? Broome didn’t hold it against the man. If your son vanishes, you go all out. You don’t hold back. Broome got that.
Broome introduced Flynn to Erin. Erin nodded and then put her head back down. Erin had never been good with the families of victims. “They’re broken,” Erin had told him before. Broome looked now into Flynn’s eyes and thought “shattered” was more accurate. “Broken” suggested something clean and all the way through and fixable. But what happened to them was messier, more abstract, filled with shards and no hope of recovery.
“Did you find something new?” Del Flynn asked.
“It’s too early to tell, Mr. Flynn.”
“But something?”
The desperation in his voice was more than just audible. It was a living, breathing horrible thing. It filled the room. It suffocated all around it. Broome looked for Goldberg to step in. Goldberg looked right through him.
Flynn reached out and grabbed Broome’s arm with a little too much force. “Do you have any children, Detective?”
Broome had been asked this more than once during his years in law enforcement. He always found it borderline patronizing—really, it made no difference—but again, seeing that shatter, he got it. “No, sir, I don’t. Detective Anderson here does though.”
Yep, Broome had tossed his lovely ex under the bus. Flynn’s eyes moved toward Erin. Erin kept her head down. After a few uncomfortable seconds, Broome mercifully moved between them.
“Mr. Flynn,” Broome said, “I assure you that we’re doing all we can to find your son. But if we have to stop to provide you progress reports when we’re trying to work, that’s going to slow us down. You see that, right? I could spend time investigating clues and searching for your son. Or I could spend it filling you in on every development. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I want to help.”
“Then let us be, okay?”
Flynn’s shattered eyes flared at that—a brief flash of anger before the destruction flooded back in. Goldberg stepped in now. “I think, Detective Broome, that what Mr. Flynn is asking—”
Del Flynn put his hand on Goldberg’s arm, stopping him. “Later,” Flynn said. He started down the corridor. Goldberg threw one final glare at Broome and turned to follow him.
“I thought Goldberg was going to perform a sex act on that guy,” Erin said. “Flynn must have serious juice.”
“Don’t care,” Broome said. “Can you get me the number to Rahway Prison?”
She typed into the computer. It was late, but it wasn’t like federal penitentiaries had business hours. Broome called the number, told the dispatcher he was calling about a prisoner named Ricky Mannion. He was told to hold.
“This is Corrections Officer Dean Vanech.”
“My name is Broome. I’m a homicide detective with ACPD.”
“Okay.”
“I’m calling about one of your prisoners, guy named Ricky Mannion.”
“What about him?”
“Do you know him?”
“I do.”
“Does he still claim he’s innocent?”
“Every day. But you know what? Almost every guy in here is innocent. It’s amazing, really. Either we are all totally incompetent or—gasp oh gasp—our houseguests are full of crap.”
“What’s your take on him?”
“Meaning?”
“Is Mannion more persuasive than most?”
“About being innocent? Who the hell knows? I’ve seen guys in here who could put De Niro to shame.”
Talking to this Vanech guy, Broome could see, was going to be a waste of time.
“I’d like to come up and visit Mannion first thing in the morning,” Broome said. “That okay?”
“Well, let me check his social calendar. My, my, the First Lady was forced to cancel, so Mannion is free. Shall I pencil you in for seven-ish?”
Everyone was a wiseass.
Broome made the appointment. He was hanging up the phone when something caught his eye. He turned his head and saw Cassie rush into the station. She spotted Broome and rushed toward him.
“There’s a problem,” Cassie said.
“GOT IT.”
As Ken promised, the cell phone number quickly told all.
