“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I might ask you the same,” Duke said.
“Oh, I thought I’d look through that database of phone tips Helen keeps to see if there are
any license numbers in there. It’s the craziest thing. In order to look up a
report in the Sheriff’s Department’s traffic division, you have to know the
license number. And the license number is what I’m trying to find.”
“I hear ya,” Duke said. “I’m running into the same
Catch-22. We publish these composite drawings to help people recognize the
suspect, but when the suspect doesn’t match the drawing, I say it’s time to
change the drawing!”
Becky went to her desk and was silently perusing the
database while Duke made some adjustments to an enlarged copy of the police
artist’s sketch. After a few minutes, he
got up from his desk and took his drawing to Becky.
“Okay, you’re a woman,” he said.
“Glad you noticed.”
“I mean, you use makeup to accent and define, right?”
he continued. “I mean, I’ve read how models can create the appearance of high
cheek bones by the way they apply blush.”
“I’ve read that too. Ends up looking like a lot of
blush, if you ask me.”
“Well, I’m wondering if facial hair might do the same
thing for a man. I mean, could a goatee make a man with a round face seem to
have a square jaw?”
“Sure, that’s why a mustache or a beard is such a
good disguise. It changes the whole face.”
“But is it possible that you would notice the effects
without noticing the hair? I mean at night, dark hair on a dark face.” He threw
two sketches onto Becky’s desk. One was
the untouched sketch of the Cornfield Killer that they had been running in the
paper. Next to it was Duke’s modified
version, a rounder face, all shaded gray with a pencil and then a goatee shape
shaded just a bit darker. Becky twisted her head from side to side examining
the sketch.
“Well,” she said. “You’re a better writer than
artist.”
“I’m going to send a copy to Elizabeth,” Duke said,
picking up the sketches. “It’s worth a try.”
“So what makes you think the guy has a goatee?” Becky
asked.
“Oh, it’s a long story. It’s just that this guy,
Malcolm Jones—”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard you talk about him.”
“Well, I met him the other day.”
“And he seems suspicious?”
“No, not really. He seems, I don’t know, hardened
from prison, but strangely detached. Like nothing’s real to him.”
“Maybe he was on drugs.”
“Maybe . . . .” Anyway, what’s this license number
you are looking for?”
“Well, it seems Natalie Conley was harassed months
ago by a guy in a black pickup who had been hassling folks out on Davis Road.
She reported it to police, with a license number, but they never did anything.”
“And she doesn’t still have the number?”
“No, it got pitched. I mean this was way back in
June. The night of the refinery explosion, actually.”
“The night the sisters were killed,” Duke added.
“Well, yeah, I guess that’s right.”
“So you can’t get the number from the police report?”
“It was called in, so the information was transferred
to a traffic report, filed under the license number.”
“But it was on the phone log?”
“Just the incident report, not the license number.”
“Wait, a minute. I covered cops the next morning.”
Duke turned and ran across the room. He moved the cardboard cutout of himself
to one side so he could open a file drawer in the credenza behind his desk.
Becky rushed to his side and looked over his shoulder
as he opened a drawer full of reporter’s notebooks.
“Alter Ego here guards my stash,” Duke said, as he
fell to his knees and began rifling through the notebooks.
“But you’re
not allowed to keep those.”
“I’m not allowed to do a lot of things,” Duke said,
snatching a couple of books from the drawer. “These are from that week. Let’s
see, I remember starting a new book for the cops beat because I didn’t want it
to get mixed up with some other stuff .
. . yep, this is the one. OK, what did you say was the report number?”
Becky ran back
to her desk for her copy of the phone log.
“I can’t believe
you write down every report. We wouldn’t have used a harassment complaint like
that.”
“I know, but names, addresses, phone numbers, license
numbers . . . I always make a note of them. Never know when—here it is!” He
held out the notebook for Becky to see.
“MBL 376.
That’s the license number?”
“Yeah, and now to get that number translated into a
name and address.” Duke turned to his phone and began punching numbers. He schmoozed one person after another,
talking baseball scores and weather, until finally he was transferred to
someone he called George.
“Just a little favor, George,” he said, and then
waited on hold for a few minutes. “Uh-huh,
uh-huh,” Duke mumbled as he made notes on a fresh page in his notebook.
“Bingo!”
“Listen, George, transfer me to Coleman—he’s going to
want to hear this. Well, call him at home. I’m telling ya, this is it. Call
Stephens, too. You’re going to want an arrest warrant. I’ll be there in ten
minutes with all the particulars. Just do it, George, believe me. This is it!”
Duke turned to Becky with a huge smile.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Your black truck is registered to somebody named
Edward Simms,” Duke said.
“Eddie Simms?” Becky exclaimed.
“You know him?”
“Well, sorta, but he doesn’t seem like—”
“Well, he’s probably not, ” Duke said, pulling a
bright orange index card from his pocket and tossing it on the notebook. “The address George gave me for that truck is
the same as the one the parole office gave me for Malcolm Jones.”
