This place never changes either, Slore thought, while navigating his personal car into the reserved spot he leased next to the police department’s downtown headquarters. “I don’t think I’ll renew this spot next month,” he told the parking attendant, as he walked past the little wood security building. “The walk will do me good.”
The next few morning hours passed with Slore in a daze. Even though he went through the motions of work, he was having a hard time focusing his thoughts. About nine, he took an hour to go to the public library. The downtown city library was a nice walk from the PD and he just wanted out of the office. Because of last night, this was one of the few days his heart was not in his work. For over twelve years he had given his all to the department. Today he could not concentrate. In some strange way, he blamed the department for the trouble he was experiencing with Kelly. To get through the day, this morning became a time for pretending everything was okay. He hunkered over several books and newspapers in the library, shutting out the world for a little while.
After his walk back to the station, Slore rode the squeaky elevator up to the second floor detectives’ offices. When he pushed open the door into the Homicide Office, he stopped and looked around. Nothing had changed. Lucy Rodriguez was still busy at her desk near the front door. Hoffman had his size twelve boots resting on his desk, which sat behind Slore’s desk. When Hoffman saw Slore, he quickly removed his feet from the desk. Slore noticed that Grimes was not in his office next to the captain’s corner office. The door into the squad room was open. Not sure whether it was the aftereffects of last night’s drinking or the residue of spent emotions, he felt sick to his stomach.
Hoffman asked, “Sergeant… are you okay? Are you all right?”
“Fine, I’m okay. Too much partying last night.”
“We’ve identified the kid last night. The family has made a positive ID. Here’s all the info we have on him,” Hoffman said dropping the yellow sheet on Slore’s desk. “Lieutenant Grimes wants you to contact Intelligence first thing this morning and check on any cult activity.” Hoffman said stepping back into the hallway. He was the newest member of the Homicide Department and he seemed to be enjoying passing on the order from Grimes.
“Silas McGuire Clinton.” Slore read aloud from the yellow crime report. “Born April 15. What a day to be born. April 15 is a miserable day everyone hates… tax day. Well I guess there’s not too much you can do about it now, Silas. His father’s a Baptist minister. This should test his faith. Test it to the limits.”
“Sergeant.” Hoffman was back at Slore’s desk with a man and woman standing behind him. “Sergeant, this is Mr. and Mrs. Clinton. They want to talk with you.”
Mr. Clinton was the first to speak. “Sergeant Slore, I understand you’re the officer in charge of the investigation into my son’s murder.”
Slore hoarsely answered, “Yes, please sit down.” He quickly covered the crime scene photos and added, “I’m very sorry about your son. I’m sure he was a fine boy.”
“Yes he’s a… was a wonderful son,” Mrs. Clinton sobbed, as she stared down at the gray linoleum floor. “He was the son every mother dreams of having. When he was born, the doctors almost lost him. He was a blue baby.”
Slore felt a lump in his throat. He also gazed down at the floor. Mrs. Clinton continued, “Silas was baptized last year. He sang in our choir. He was taking piano lessons. He was very active and an absolute pleasure to be around. He had a big smile and went out of his way to help the elderly at church. You know… hold the door or help put their walkers away. He was our only child.”
Slore sat helplessly, wishing for a Kleenex to offer Mrs. Clinton. He felt vulnerable watching the tears fall in pools, staining her dark blue dress. Mr. Clinton held tightly to his wife and stared into a memory.
Mr. Clinton had a deep sadness in his voice when he spoke. “Sergeant, tell me the truth. Was our boy raped? Was his… you know, member cut off? I pray to God as we speak that’s not what happened!”
Slore knew there was no easy way to tell Mr. and Mrs. Clinton the truth about their only son. “I’m sorry, but yes, Silas was sexually assaulted and yes, his male organ was severed.” He could see Mrs. Clinton’s eyelids flitter. When he saw only white where her right pupil should be, he knew she was about to faint. “Mrs. Clinton, I know this is of little comfort for you, but I’m sure Silas did not suffer long,” Slore lied.
She jerked and her eyes opened wide. Slowly the color returned to her face and she said, “Thank you, Sergeant. I know this isn’t easy for you either. Please hurry. Catch that evil man before he hurts someone else’s precious child.” Mrs. Clinton seemed to have recovered from the shock and reached for Slore’s hand. “I’ll pray for you, Sergeant.”
Mr. Clinton appeared pale, as he silently helped his wife stand. He looked like a beaten man with nothing left to say. Slore knew these days would be the worst they would ever face. In some strange way, he thought the burial of their son would bring them some relief.
After Mr. and Mrs. Clinton left, Slore returned to the reports. Silently, he scanned the report he held in trembling hands. He was well aware that this yellow sheet of paper and all the other yellow sheets that lay in a file labeled SERIAL CHILDREN were the key to unlocking the Alamodome murders. One piece of the puzzle that bothered him was that neither of the dead children were from downtown or the east side where the bodies were found. There seemed to be no common denominator between them.
Later in the day, when the call came that another boy’s body had been found, Slore again felt sick in his stomach. Danny Kincaid became the third name on a folder. As he squatted by the boy’s naked body, Slore wondered, “How did he get you, Danny?”
If Danny Kincaid could have spoken to Slore, he would have told him that he loved the summer band program. He would have said, that yesterday he had played the kettledrum at a feverish tempo as he approached his big moment. The polished drum’s head vibrated as he struck it with felt-bound drumsticks. Two more measures to the crescendo. One, two, three, four, he counted. As the drum rose in momentum, Danny lashed his sticks at the number twelve brass cymbals with a mighty crash.
“No! No! No! Danny No!” Mr. Sanders shouted and waved his chubby hands in the air. Sanders had been band director of the Eisenhower Junior High School orchestra for twenty‑seven years. He knew the children called him Chunky. He had heard them laugh and say he was a chunk, not a hunk. Sanders was a five foot four inch block of flesh. “Danny, you’re supposed to lead the band, not follow.” The band director was in a tantrum-throwing mood, as he launched his baton at the music stand.
“Danny, the eight count, the eighth note here,” he screamed as he waved the sheet of music for Danny to see. “You set the pace, Danny. You must carry the tempo through the end of the measure.” Sanders continued to bellow, “Except for Kincaid, everyone else was perfect.” He was flailing his arms. His face was turning a basketball red and orange color. “Danny, this time try to concentrate. Do you hear me?”
Everyone in the next building can hear you, Danny thought as he nodded yes and looked down at the drum. Forty-one other eighth graders sat perfectly quiet and still, hoping they would not be the next casualties in the band hall. Danny wanted to say it was Mary Garcia’s fault. But he knew Mr. Sanders was in no mood to hear any excuses, even if it were true. Danny had watched, both the music and Mr. Sanders. He had counted every beat. Then on the sixth beat, he saw Mary Garcia open a valve on her trumpet and blow out spit. The spit splattered right on the floor just as the eight count approached. Way to go, Danny thought, I did a heck of a job to regroup my composure by the time I struck the cymbals. I could have puked all over this drum. How’d you like that, Sanders? It was so gross. Yuck, Mary’s dribbling gush from her brass horn, Danny thought as he slashed the air for the beat.
Sanders, was still in a huff. Danny kept his mouth shut, when Sanders knocked his baton off the music stand and onto the floor. “Pick that up for me,” Sanders told a young woman in the front row. Danny wanted to tell Sanders