Part 20 (1/2)
”Hold on to it,” Thinnes told him. ”Someone'll be by later to pick it up.”
His next call was to Ballistics. As soon as he said, ”Thinnes, Area Three,” the tech told him, ”We're working on it, Detective. Check back this afternoon.”
”You're not working on anything of mine,” Thinnes said. He'd gotten the ballistics report for the Wilson case the day after the autopsy. ”I wanted to ask you to check an old open case as soon as you get time.”
”What?” He sounded tired.
Thinnes gave him the number of Ferris's John Buck case and said, ”The MO matches that John Doe we had recently. Maybe you could compare the slugs and see if we've got the same shooter.” He gave him the John Doe case number.
The tech sighed. ”Yeah. Okay. We'll get on it.”
”Thanks.” Thinnes put the tox report into the Uptown Indian's case folder and went out to talk to the state's attorney.
Ferris was gone by the time Oster showed up. ”What're we doin' today?” he asked. Neither of them commented on the fact that they weren't scheduled to be in for hours and, consequently, weren't on the payroll.
”I was about to bring the commander up to speed on the Wilson and Bisti cases.” He meant the commander of Area Three detectives.
”You want me to come?”
”Not unless you want to.”
”Not particularly. You got something else for me to do?”
”Feel like going Downtown?”
Oster shrugged.
”I need an old case file from Records.” He gave Oster the case number.
”Yeah, okay. I'll do that. You want I should ask about the tox report on Wilson?”
”They'll fax it to us when it's ready. It isn't as if we don't have enough to hold him on without it.”
”Then why am I going all the way Downtown for one lousy, old case report?”
”I'd like you to personally take it up to Fingerprints and have them run the victim through NCIC.”
”Why?” He meant, Why, when that's been done already, or should have been?
”It was Ferris's case.”
”Say no more.”
”Same MO as our Uptown Indian.”
Thinnes spent exactly twenty minutes with the CO, then had the next two hours free. He and Swann went to lunch at a sit-down restaurant where they could get a steak sandwich and a beer. They were in good spirits when they got back. Oster, on the other hand, came back from 11th and State looking so dragged out that Thinnes was sorry he'd sent him. He had a McDonald's bag with him that he put on a table and tore open. He got himself coffee before he started in on his Big Mac.
Swann hung up the phone and finished jotting something on a piece of paper. ”Hey, you guys know there was such a thing as a Navajo Tribal Police?”
Thinnes was getting coffee. ”No,” he said, ”but it makes sense.” He brought his cup over to where Swann was sitting.
”He sounded like he knew what he was doing. Use-ly, when you're dealin' with some podunk sheriff's department, you got a better chance of gettin' somethin' from Deputy Dawg than from Deputy Redneck.”
”An Indian tribal police force probably doesn't have any rednecks.”
”That'd explain it.”
”How 'bout you guys just cut the c.r.a.p,” Oster said. He glared at Swann. ”Just tell us what you found out.”
Swann gave him a what's-with-you look, which he ignored, then shrugged. ”The s.h.i.+pping company you asked them to check out-near Farmington-from the phone number you found on your victim, the Uptown Indian? Officer Tso told me, as far as he's been able to find out, it's legit. According to the owner, they haven't s.h.i.+pped anything to Chicago in the last two months. They do send art supplies to Wisconsin. Regularly.”
”What kind of art supplies?” Thinnes asked.
”According to the s.h.i.+pping manifests, clay, clay slip, glazes, and botanical dyes. That kind of stuff.”
”He give you the address?”
”Yeah.” Swann handed Thinnes the paper.
”I don't suppose they're missing any citizens?”
Swann shook his head. ”None matching your Uptown Injun.”
Forty-Four.
Sat.u.r.day morning Rhonda had to work, so Thinnes's hopes of a day alone with her were dashed. He followed her around the house until she was ready to leave, then asked Rob if he'd like to go to Wisconsin. Rob wasn't interested; Thinnes left alone.
Before hitting the highway, he stopped in at headquarters and went over the Uptown Indian file. In case he'd missed anything. And out of habit.
When he went back out to start his Chevy, it gave a discouraging groan, followed by the stomach-churning click of a dead battery. d.a.m.n! He spent the better part of an hour trying to get the car started, borrowing jumper cables and b.u.mming jumps. It was freezing; the car kept dying. Finally, he gave up and went inside.
”What d'ya 'spect?” Mike asked, when Thinnes called. ”Gotta get serviced now 'n' then.”
Thinnes arranged to have the car towed to Mike's shop, on Fullerton, and left the key at the District Nineteen desk. He'd just walked back into the detectives' squad room when the sergeant said, ”Phone for you, Thinnes.”
He picked it up and said, ”Area Three detectives. Thinnes.”
”John,” a familiar voice said.
Thinnes racked his brain for a name to put with the voice. Jack Caleb!
”Rob told me you'd gone to Wisconsin for the day. I was going to leave a message.”
”My car broke down,” Thinnes told him. ”Looks like I'll have to go another time. What can I do for you?”
”Would you like me to drive you?”