The Boys of Truxton

Sheila found herself drawn closer to the classroom window and saw two men in cheap, off-the-rack suits hauling the new prisoner out of the rear of the car. The boy’s wrists and feet were manacled, the chains around his ankles forcing him to take slow, measured steps.

Outside, the sky suddenly turned dark as night as a dense curtain of snow descended on the compound. Sheila’s gaze remained on the new prisoner as he was led across the courtyard, coming ever closer to her window. He was, she now saw, both man and boy. Seventeen she guessed. Maybe eighteen? He was tall— towering a good head above his escorts— and broad shouldered. His skin was smooth and the color of cafe au lait. His features were striking, and in them she felt she could read the genome of global humanity; the high cheekbones of an Ethiopian, the large, doe-like eyes of a Latino. And there Western Europe was etched, too, maybe northern or central Europe. Thinly dressed, he seemed impervious to the biting wind.

Suddenly, as though sensing her eyes, the boy stopped, bringing his guards to an abrupt halt, and turned her way.

Sheila quickly pulled back out of sight, but not before their eyes had briefly locked.

***

Book I

Chapter 1

February 18, 2000

Syracuse has finally warmed after a long cold snap, and the daytime temperature hovers near 40 degrees. For the first time in a month the skies are clear and the day is strikingly bright. The snow banks left by the previous week’s storm are slowly sinking and the melt runs down the streets, pooling at a low place in Erie Boulevard. A dark green TransAm with wide mag rims plows through this small lake without hesitation, throwing up a high wake. Inside the car, two young heads bop to the beat of Jadakiss.

The plastic collar around the car’s steering column has been cracked open, exposing the pin that locks the ignition and transmission, and the steering wheel moves freely in the gloved hands of the driver— a tall, mixed race teen. In the bucket seat beside him sits an overweight, dark-skinned sixteen-year-old. Both teens are dressed in heavy Avirex jackets.

In East Syracuse, a well-heeled suburb of older, stately homes, eleven-year-old Lily Krause is nearing the end of her violin lesson. Dressed in the school uniform of nearby Bishop Hill Academy, a blue pleated skirt with a white blouse, she purses her lips in concentration as she negotiates an intricate passage in the new Bach sonata she’s just begun learning.

At the same moment, a Syracuse police officer, parked out of view in a clump of evergreens on Erie Boulevard, spots the TransAm approaching his position. Officer Tim Bacon gets a quick glimpse of the driver and passenger in the front seats. The car is traveling relatively fast, fifty-five in a forty mile an hour zone, and Bacon pops his car into gear to give chase. Just as he’s pulling into the roadway, a late model Audi whips past doing a good seventy. Shifting his attention from the TransAm, Officer Bacon flips on his lights and hits the gas, accelerating with a roar as he chases after the speeder.

The TransAm driver spots the patrol car and is about ready to make a run for it when he realizes the cop has shifted targets.

The patrol car flies past the TransAm and a short distance later the Audi’s brake lights flash on, Bacon’s cruiser is right on its tail. The TransAm glides by in the passing lane, the boys’ eyes fixed tensely forward, careful not to stare.

A few minutes later, the TransAm slowly meanders up and down the tidy streets of East Syracuse. The radio has been turned low and the two pairs of eyes in the front seats check out the fancy houses, one after another.

Lily has finished her lesson and carefully tucks her violin into its case.

Bye, Mrs. Dietershagen! she calls out from the hallway as she slips into the pink down coat that she got for her birthday last week.

Mrs. Dietershagen stands at the door watching Lily walking down the flagstone path to the street. Just as the girl reaches the sidewalk, the souped-up Pontiac comes up the street. It catches the music teacher’s eye. The car and its occupants seem out of place in the neighborhood, and she can’t help but notice how the vehicle slows and the boys in the front seats turn to watch Lily. The woman feels a twinge of apprehension, but, as the car resumes speed and disappears down the street, her concern abates. She takes a deep breath of the brisk air, then steps back, sealing the door behind her.

Lily continues down the block. At the corner she turns right and proceeds up the street, oblivious of the car trailing her at a distance. The auto creeps up, slowly closing the gap. A minute later the girl, hearing the sound of the engine, turns to see the large green sedan inching along a couple of yards behind her. She picks up her pace, keeping her gaze ahead.

The car starts to move faster.

Lily runs across the street clutching her violin.

The car follows her, cutting over into the on-coming lane. Then, with an abrupt scream of the engine, it jerks ahead, hits the curb and mounts the sidewalk right in front of her. The passenger door pops open and a big man leaps out and lunges for her.

Lily drops her violin and lets out a shriek as hefty arms reach around to grab her.

As the fat man drags her back to the waiting car, Lily frantically lashes out, raking her nails across his face.

You lil’ bitch! the man cries out, twisting her wrist so hard it snaps with a pop and Lily suddenly goes limp in his arms.

Two houses away, Tom Klein, an insurance agent who sells annuities out of his home, hears something and looks up from his phone conversation. Through his office window he catches a glimpse of a heavyset black kid stuffing a pink bundle into the rear seat of a green car with flashy wheels. An instant later, the car takes off in a squeal of tires. Klein notices a black case lying on the edge of his neighbor’s lawn and dashes out in his slippers across his snowy yard. He picks up the case and opens it. Nestled inside is a half-sized violin. Lying a short distance away is the pink hood to a child’s coat.

That same night, February 18, 2000, as local and State Police scour Syracuse and surrounding counties for signs of Lily Krause, sixty miles to the west, in a lab on the University of Rochester campus, the body of a young but prominent researcher is discovered by his fiancée.

***

Chapter 2

Nick Dunbar, a senior detective in Syracuse’s Juvenile Division, slams the sole of his beefy hand against the steering wheel of his car as it stands stalled in the middle of Route 690, close to the Teall Street exit.

For the second time in less than a week his lousy Taurus has let him down. On Monday, fortunately, he was on a straightaway and had enough momentum to pull it off the highway and onto the shoulder. He’d had it towed to Mano’s Ford. The guys at the dealership ran it through the diagnostic computer. Their system for solving problems seemed so sophisticated that he found himself wishing they had something like that in police work— a device with sensors that could pinpoint where things in the city were going bad. And, boy, they were certainly going crazy these days. Syracuse was getting to look more like the war zones of Detroit and L.A. than the tranquil town it had been when he was growing up. In those days it was a small city ringed by farms set on undulating hills. The drugs he knew about then were mostly to be found in the pharmacies.

It was the Ford’s computer, a chip on the fritz, they told him at Mano’s. They put in a new brain, charged him seven-hundred-and-fifty dollars, and he was supposedly back on the road.

It is two days later, and the car sits blocking traffic on 690. So much for sophistication. He turns off the ignition, waits a minute, then cranks the engine. It stubbornly refuses to catch on. Finally, he reaches down and yanks the hood lever, thinking that he can’t do much worse than all the experts.

He checks for a break in the traffic, and then cautiously opens the door. As his feet hit the ground and he lifts the bulk of his body out of the car, bolts of pain shoot up from his knees. The old injuries give him no peace. Another five years as a detective and he can retire on half salary. He’s seen enough to burn out a dozen men, he thinks, moving to the front of the car where he lifts the hood and peers in at the engine. The guts are a tangled spaghetti of wires, pipes and hoses. When he was a kid growing up on the family farm he could fix just about any motor, the old tractor, the hay truck, his first Chevy. Then they were simple. Nowadays they’re purposely designed to stump the average mechanic.

Dunbar is a powerfully built man with skin the color of eggplant— a hulking figure with solid chest and broad shoulders. A large potato nose squats in the middle of his broad face and his skull is shaved to a shiny finish. The muscles of his shoulders and back form a continuous piece, giving him a neckless appearance. When he speaks, his words come slow and measured, his voice a profound bass. To most everyone in the department, even on the streets, he is known as Shrek, a nickname once bestowed on him by his buddy Steve Lichtman, a Monroe County detective who knows some Yiddish and liked the movie. It’s neither a term of endearment nor derision, but rather seems to hit the mark; anyhow, he’s come to accept the name, almost like it.

Dunbar leans in, bringing his upper body under the hood to get a closer look at the engine. As he jiggles the injectors on the fuel injection, the teens in the TransAm approach, creeping along 690 in the heavy traffic created by the bottleneck.

Both kids spot the silver Taurus.

Oh, shit, Shrek! cries the driver, as he takes in the lower half of the detective’s body.

The fat kid shoves Lily down to the floor, his foot pressing on her back.

They all know Dunbar—enough to stay clear of the man. Among the homeboys and gangbangers his name is synonymous with heavy shit. The crackheads and dealers, the burglars and armed robbers— all have Shrek stories to tell.

The driver’s gaze sweeps in all directions, looking for an out as traffic slowly flows around Dunbar’s stalled car. The only escape is to drive across the median— which is sure to catch attention.

It could be water in the gas tank, thinks Shrek as he sets the air filter back into place. Or maybe the fuel filter? He tries to remember when it was last changed.

The jake’s got his head down again, says the fat kid in the backseat. Just keep goin’.

As they reach the Taurus, the cop’s ass is sticking out as he gropes through the guts of his car.

Suddenly a woman in an Explorer behind the teens angrily honks as someone tries to jump into her lane.

Shrek pulls out from under the hood as the woman honks again, and he turns to look at her just as the TransAm is slipping past behind him. By the time he turns his head, the TransAm is clear of him and picking up speed down the highway.

Finally he calls Cooper.

Think you could give me a lift home? I was just heading to Karina’s gymnastics meet and …

Why don’t you get rid of that old piece of shit, says his partner of eight years. He’s halfway across town. Of course picking him up is not even a question. He admires the man, even if he is a gruff, stubborn pain in the ass.

"Ford? Hey, Shrek, you know what that stands for? Cooper asks as Dunbar stands in ankle deep slush. Found On Road Dead."

Very funny, rumbles Dunbar, Just get your ass over here. I got a tow truck on the way and I’m freezing my nuts off.

***

Chapter 3

Hey Shrek, we got a major problem, says Cooper on the phone, minutes after dropping him at home. Looks like a little girl got dragged into a car over in East Syracuse. He pauses for a moment. I don’t like the sound of this. She’s eleven. About the age of… of… he stammers, well what Natalie was, you know. And I was thinking, maybe you want to let me and Klimmer work on this. I can pull him off the-"

Forget it, says Shrek, just come and pick me up. And make it fast.

It’s an eleven-year-old girl. An insurance broker who saw something odd had called in, explains Cooper filling him in as they race back to the Public Safety Building. He found a kid’s violin case. There was a name in it. Parents didn’t even know their little girl was missing till our people called. It looks like a Juvie case. Kids in a pimped up car. Could be one of our frequent flyers. But like I said, maybe you want to step aside on this one and…

His jaw set, Shrek silently shakes his head. Cooper, of course, knows the story of Shrek’s older sister Natalie. If anything, Cooper tells himself, what was done to her is motivation enough for his partner to take on this case.

By the time they make it back to the office, the place is hopping— people rushing around, officers working the phones, off-duty cops being called back in. Krindell, the press liaison officer, is talking to reporters. It’s already on the news and the first leads are coming in. Chief VanSickle and one of his deputy chiefs are milling around, looking over shoulders as officers categorize tips.

VanSickle pulls Shrek aside as Cooper hurries off to talk to one of the potential witnesses to the kidnapping.

It’s one of yours. We’re pretty sure, he says running his hands through his mop of silver hair. Kids, two of them. They were cruising the neighborhood. The little fuckers looking for a target of opportunity is my bet. The Chief snarks back a wad of mucous into his mouth, gives a disgusted look, then swallows it. He’s got two granddaughters not much younger than the victim. Do whatever you have to do. Whatever resources you need… you know… He doesn’t need to go on.

Shrek turns and walks down the hall and opens the door to the conference room they’ve appropriated for interviews

Okay, let’s just backtrack a little, Cooper urges Mrs. Dietershagen as Shrek steps in.

The woman’s eyes are red and her hands tremble uncontrollably. The violin teacher looks distinctly out of place in her pleated wool skirt and angora sweater. Probably’s never set foot in a police station in her entire life, thinks Shrek.

It’s like I told the other policemen, she dabs her eyes with a crumpled tissue. Oh, I just keep thinking about that poor child! she shudders. And her mother and father, my God! I can’t even imagine… she breaks into tears, …what they must be going through.

Please, Cooper coaxes. Just one more time.

The car. With those fancy wheels. It was dark green.

And?

There were two boys in the car.

Did you see what they looked like?

They were African-American. But it was quick and I wasn’t really paying that much attention.

Shrek stands leaning against the door, listening. In a sense Cooper was right. The mere mention of an abducted eleven-year-old has triggered the memory of his big sister, dragged into a car by some older boys and taken for a ride. He thinks of Natalie today. It’s been over a month since he and Hillary have seen her.

Go on, urges Cooper, catching Shrek’s eye. "What about skin color?

One boy was very dark…

Like me? injects Shrek leaning in.

The woman is taken aback by Shrek’s sudden presence. Well, she collects herself, swallows, Yes. No. Not quite as…

Shrek notices the way she avoids staring at his face. It’s ebony dark, which is fine with him. Not much of a plantation blend here.

But he was on the far side, and I didn’t really get much of a look.

And the boy in the driver’s seat?

Light skinned. He could be… she doesn’t know what appropriate word to use, especially in Detective Dunbar’s presence. Mulatto, she finally blurts out.

What were they wearing? probes Shrek.

She shakes her head and starts to weep again. I’m so sorry. I’m worthless.

No, says Shrek coming close and placing his hand on hers. You’re helping us. Trust me. He sees the way she looks down at his big, broad hand resting on her vein-lined, pale skin. Looking up, she smiles at him through her tears.

Did you notice any kind of colors on them? continues Cooper.

Colors? At the time it didn’t really register… The woman closes her eyes in concentration. Then rubs her temples as if trying to summon the memory. The driver. I think maybe he had a light blue jacket.

Cooper and Shrek trade looks.

"If you saw them could you maybe identify them?" presses Cooper eagerly.

It was all so fast and confusing. I’m afraid I wasn’t really paying attention.

We’ve got a book of photos and… Cooper begins and Shrek, moving out of the woman’s line of vision, signals a no with a wag of his index finger. They’re pushing too hard. The woman is terrified. Throw open a whole book she’ll just end up getting confused. They’ve got to narrow it down, he thinks, so that they can show her a six-pack photo lineup.

***

Chapter 4

It is close to eight PM and the evening now stretches endlessly for Bill and Caroline Krause who sit by the phone in the kitchen waiting for a call that fails to materialize.

Their daughter’s lab puppy keeps circling around, sniffing the shoes and pant legs of the two Syracuse police officers who hover close. The pup then trots out to the living room to follow the State BCI man as he paces back and forth.

An open pan of meatballs sits on the stove, cold and untouched. A dripping faucet falls in and out of synch with the tick of the kitchen clock. The phone is tapped. Area agencies, from the Sheriff’s office to the village and town P.D.’s have been put on alert. The FBI has been given a heads-up. Half the city’s off-duty cops have been pressed back into service, not to mention the Onondaga County Sheriff’s department.

In addition to questioning Mrs. Dietershagen, the music teacher, and Klein, the insurance man who first found the violin, the police are working the streets of East Syracuse, going door to door.

If this is a kidnapping for money, asks Bill, who has been staring out the window at the frigid night, how long does it usually take, you know, for them to contact the parents?

The two cops turn to look at him. The taller of the pair is thin and fine-boned, a blond man with a downy mustache and small but penetrating blue eyes. His name is Chris Cooper and, since his arrival, he has said little and appears to defer to his partner, a heavyset black man with short neck and a head shaved so smooth it glints in the overhead light. Both men are detectives assigned to the Juvenile Division. Apparently the police believe the kidnappers are teens.

There’s no hard and fast rules, says the big detective with the broad shoulders and muscular arms. When he speaks his voice is uncommonly deep. Even before he introduced himself as Detective Dunbar, Bill had recognized him. Years ago Nick Dunbar was a regular fixture in the sports sections of the papers, his big-headed, broad face frequently on television. A star fullback for Syracuse University at about the same time Bill was studying accounting, Dunbar was destined to be drafted for the likes of the Dolphins or the 49ers. There was talk of a million-dollar contract. Then Dunbar hit some bad luck. Got washed out somewhere in his junior year when his knees gave out. When he entered the Krause home it was, in fact, his labored, limping walk that Bill first noticed. From S.U. football star to Syracuse cop. Must have been a bit of a letdown.

Every case is unique, Dunbar is now saying, every one different. But we’re doing everything humanly possible. We’ve got lots of eyes out there looking. Shrek wants to hold out some hope, but knows he needs to be excessively careful not to raise expectations. Watching the Krauses twist in the wind is painful. The trick is to keep them from going down the path of thinking what could, at this moment, be happening to their daughter, because he remembers all too well the sickening feeling. Eleven years old. Those bastards!

As chief investigator for the case, he’s sure as hell going to keep his fingers on the pulse. The only problem is, so far there is none— not so much as a single beat— which is what makes this so unnerving.

Yes… Yet somewhere, somehow, somebody besides the two teens has to know something. To Shrek this abduction smacks of impulsiveness. Unless the kidnappers were surveying the area for a week, there’s no way they could have known that Lily would be walking on that specific street at that precise time— which makes this situation all the more dangerous.

A few minutes before eight, Shrek calls his wife at home to explain why he missed Karina’s meet."

Yes, I know. Cooper called me, says Hillary, surprising him. Are you sure you want to handle this case?

I think I know what I’m doing, he says, irritated that Coop would involve his wife.

At 8:20 Cooper gets a call on his cell and steps out of the kitchen to take it.

A car has been found. A late model TransAm reported stolen earlier in the day. It matches the description that Klein had given to the police. It was discovered abandoned in an alleyway in the city just off Salina Street. The car has been impounded and is being flat-bedded to the police garage for analysis. There’s blood in the back seat. Some shreds of clothing. White cotton material. Maybe the girl’s blouse. A clump of dark hair, long strands that might match Lily’s braid.

Cooper goes back into the kitchen and summons Shrek, then motions to the BCI man to join them. In the living room they confer in hushed voices. Mention of the car’s make triggers a momentary thumping of blood in Shrek’s ears.

In the process of the abduction, the girl has been injured. Shrek continues to silently take it in. The urgent question is whether the girl is still alive? What miserable lowlifes could do this to a child? That the perps are young and black just spells more trouble for the community. Last week there was a crazy shooting in a Chinese restaurant. Two jumpy kids marching into the Asian Garden and blasting away before the proprietor could open the register, blowing away the owner and leaving the cook with a bullet in his head. Yet again, the media is going to be all over this. It seems as if everything he’s been doing to build good relations in the community keeps getting torn down.

The TransAm, of course, is the first good, tangible lead they have. The forensics people are already on their way to the police garage. In short order they’ll be sifting through the interior, taking prints and vacuuming up fibers and hair. With a little luck they may be able to lift some skin cells with prints, which could yield critical DNA.

***

Chapter 5

Shortly before 9:00 P.M. the phone rings in the Krause home, shattering the silence. All three cops leap to their feet as Bill lurches for the phone.

Wait! Shrek holds up a hand as he shoves a pickup into his ear. Let it ring.

Cooper is immediately on his cell phone, whispering in the doorway as the BCI man grabs the other earpiece.

Okay, Shrek nods. Take a deep breath first. If it’s them, go slow.

Finally Bill Krause is given the nod to pick up the receiver.

Hello? Bill’s voice quivers. Caroline bites down on her fist, trying to muffle her weeping.

On the other end there’s a lot of crackling, a hum, but no human sound.

Hello? says Bill. "Hello? Hello?" His tone keeps escalating with each frantic try.

From the other end comes a garbled voice that sounds like it’s echoing down a long tube.

I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you’re saying. Please…

The signal keeps breaking up. A cell phone going into a dead area, thinks Shrek, trading a look with the BCI officer just as the call drops off.

This is maddening! says Bill slamming down the phone.

It rings again and Krause lurches for the phone before they can restrain him.

The voice is clearer now, though choppy. You hear me? asks the male voice.

Yes. Yes!

Ten Gs, or it’s a rap for tha lil’ bitch. You got it?

Of course. Money. Yes! Whatever you want!

Sensing the tension, Lily’s pup dashes to Krause, jumps up and starts barking. Cooper grabs the dog as Shrek mouthes keep him on, to Lily’s father,

Just tell me what to do, the man chokes on his words as tears course down his face. "Just please don’t hurt our baby. She’s just a little…"

Caroline, who can no longer help herself, starts to wail.

Get tha fuckin’ money.

Then the line goes dead. Shrek watches as Bill Krause replaces the receiver and sits forlornly wiping his face with his sleeve.

The BCI man’s cell phone chimes at his waist. He unclips it, listens, then looks up. We may have a tower fix.

That’s something, mumbles Shrek as Cooper stands there still holding the dog by its collar.

***

Chapter 6

The State forensics people are winding up as Shrek and Cooper arrive at the garage. It’s pushing 10 PM and they haven’t had a bite since lunch. It’s been an insane day. Shrek’s Juvie division has been running three other cases. A drug-related robbery and a homicide on the Southside. A botched stickup of a gas station in which the attendant was shot in the groin. And that shooting last week in the Chinese place. On the drive to the garage, he and Cooper are informed that the cook has just regained consciousness and fingered the pair from a photo line-up. Klimmer and Santini, two junior grade detectives in the division, finally know who they’re looking for and now it’s just a matter of nabbing the perps. At least that’s off Shrek’s plate while he concentrates on the Krause kidnapping. Given the velocity of electronic news, Syracuse is probably going to make the national media on this one— especially if it goes on for any length of time. Just what this declining city needs, he thinks as they enter the garage. It feels almost like Natalie is looking over his shoulder, watching, waiting to see what he’ll do.

Shrek approaches the man in the lab coat bent over the Pontiac’s dash. What have you got, Fred? The broken window on the driver’s side of the car catches Shrek’s eye. Another tech is working the back seat, sucking up fibers.

I’m picking up some good prints, says Fred Hooks from the State Police Lab, as he comes out of the car, his head of unruly red hair standing up on end. I should be able to lift some skin cells. And we got lots of hair, fibers—the whole ball of wax. He snaps off his gloves, then lifts his glasses and rubs the reddened indentation on his nose. I’ve still got to establish a baseline, subtract out all the knowns. The car’s owners, the…

While Hooks speaks, Shrek is on one knee leaning in through the driver’s door. He studies the steering column. How fast d’you think you can get me a match on the prints?

Soon as I know what to run on AFIS, responds Hooks, referring to the automatic fingerprint identification system linking localities with the FBI database. Give me a couple of hours and with luck…

The garage, though heated, is nevertheless cold and damp and Shrek’s knee aches as he wiggles his bulk into position. As he wedges himself in tight to look at the cracked column, he thinks about the little girl. The night is brutally cold and he hopes to hell they’re holding her in a warm place— if she’s still alive. Hey, Hooks, can I borrow your light? he calls out.

The light flashes on, startlingly white and brilliant.

Anything interesting? asks Hooks, coming around the other side to take a look.

Cooper pushes in tight behind Shrek. Their heads are so close in the tiny space, they can feel the warmth of each other’s breaths.

Take a gander at this, Coop, Shrek says to his partner. He shifts aside so Cooper can squeeze in for a better look.

Looks like they broke it from behind, observes Cooper.

Yeah, and look at these marks.

Where’s the rest of this column? Shrek asks.

Cooper blows on his hands as Shrek takes the jagged piece of plastic from Hooks.

Looks like some kind of sharp instrument, remarks Hooks. Maybe a knife or…

Cooper and Shrek make eye contact. Nah, a chisel, mutters Cooper.

Hooks’ questioning alternates from the one Juvie detective to the other. You guys got a name, huh?

Derek Gibson, intones Shrek, his voice echoing in the cavernous garage. "Just the way his big