are supposed to do.”
“You’d be surprised.”
They were quiet again and then Dr. Ewing stood. “Be patient, Caroline,” she said. “You know, sometimes it takes two sessions to repair a good brain.”
13
Figure 450,000 people in the greater Spokane area—counting from the city of Coeur d’Alene in the Idaho panhandle to the college towns of Cheney to the west and Pullman to the south and the town of Deer Park to the north. If roughly half those people are female, that leaves you with 225,000 males, half of whom would be between sixteen and fifty-five—the potential age range for a serial killer.
Dupree spun the notebook to face Pollard and Spivey. “That leaves 112,500 potentially viable suspects,” he said. Pollard looked over Dupree’s figures as if they were the work of a lunatic, but Spivey copied down the numbers in his own notebook. Dupree turned it a little more to accommodate him.
“Let me get this straight,” Pollard said. “You want to interview a hundred thousand guys?”
“No. I’m just sayin’ that in a city this size, it would be feasible.”
“Feasible.”
“Maybe feasible is the wrong word. But the way we’ve been doing it isn’t much better. Three weeks and we’re still chasingphone tips and going over field interview cards. Screw that. Let’s make a file on everyone. A hundred thousand suspects.”
Pollard looked as if Dupree were speaking French.
“Look,” Dupree said, “a serial killer can’t operate in a city too much smaller than Spokane. When’s the last time you heard of a serial killer in a small town? After the first murder, ol’ Andy’d trudge down to the barbershop, grab that weird Floyd the barber, and haul him off to a cell with Otis, and Aunt Bea would bring him sandwiches. In a big city, your suspect pool might be a million. A hundred thousand guys sounds like a lot, but if we get ten detectives doing ten a day? Shoot, in a hundred days we’d solve every crime in the city.”
Pollard kept searching for the joke; Spivey seemed to be actually thinking about it. When Dupree failed to land a punch line, Pollard threw his coffee back, squeezed the Styrofoam cup, and stood to leave.
“I’m worried about you, buddy,” he said to Dupree. “I gotta go interview the pawnshop guy. Looks like you ain’t gonna win that pot after all.”
Since Dupree had been assigned to head the serial killer task force, Pollard had been given his caseload, including the two Lenny Ryan murders.
Pollard left the cafeteria and Dupree looked over to Spivey, who was staring intently at the numbers he’d copied onto his notebook. “What about transient populations—a truck driver, or someone else from out of town?”
Dupree considered the kid. He had short, dark hair, a little curly patch in the front hanging over his forehead, and big, semicircle eyebrows that heightened his constant look of confusion. Dupree had complained about him to the lieutenant, who defended the kid by saying he had tested out of the park, the highest aptitude of any detective candidate, and had gotten A’s in college. The lieutenant said he was earnest and eager; if Dupree was more patient, he might even learn something from Spivey.
“We’re not gonna interview a hundred thousand guys,” Dupree said. “I was sort of…illustrating how tough it’s gonna be to find this guy.”
Spivey allowed his mouth to curl in a grin. “Oh, a joke.” He winked, as if he’d just help pull one over on poor Pollard.
Dupree stood, peeled off a dollar bill, and draped it over the uneaten half of his Danish. Spivey followed him out of the courthouse and across the small courtyard to the Public Safety Building. Inside, Dupree punched in the short code, the door buzzed, and they were in a hallway connecting the offices of the various detective units.
Behind Major Crimes was another coded door. Dupree entered the number and the door opened into a small conference room that had been turned into a command
“You’d be surprised.”
They were quiet again and then Dr. Ewing stood. “Be patient, Caroline,” she said. “You know, sometimes it takes two sessions to repair a good brain.”
13
Figure 450,000 people in the greater Spokane area—counting from the city of Coeur d’Alene in the Idaho panhandle to the college towns of Cheney to the west and Pullman to the south and the town of Deer Park to the north. If roughly half those people are female, that leaves you with 225,000 males, half of whom would be between sixteen and fifty-five—the potential age range for a serial killer.
Dupree spun the notebook to face Pollard and Spivey. “That leaves 112,500 potentially viable suspects,” he said. Pollard looked over Dupree’s figures as if they were the work of a lunatic, but Spivey copied down the numbers in his own notebook. Dupree turned it a little more to accommodate him.
“Let me get this straight,” Pollard said. “You want to interview a hundred thousand guys?”
“No. I’m just sayin’ that in a city this size, it would be feasible.”
“Feasible.”
“Maybe feasible is the wrong word. But the way we’ve been doing it isn’t much better. Three weeks and we’re still chasingphone tips and going over field interview cards. Screw that. Let’s make a file on everyone. A hundred thousand suspects.”
Pollard looked as if Dupree were speaking French.
“Look,” Dupree said, “a serial killer can’t operate in a city too much smaller than Spokane. When’s the last time you heard of a serial killer in a small town? After the first murder, ol’ Andy’d trudge down to the barbershop, grab that weird Floyd the barber, and haul him off to a cell with Otis, and Aunt Bea would bring him sandwiches. In a big city, your suspect pool might be a million. A hundred thousand guys sounds like a lot, but if we get ten detectives doing ten a day? Shoot, in a hundred days we’d solve every crime in the city.”
Pollard kept searching for the joke; Spivey seemed to be actually thinking about it. When Dupree failed to land a punch line, Pollard threw his coffee back, squeezed the Styrofoam cup, and stood to leave.
“I’m worried about you, buddy,” he said to Dupree. “I gotta go interview the pawnshop guy. Looks like you ain’t gonna win that pot after all.”
Since Dupree had been assigned to head the serial killer task force, Pollard had been given his caseload, including the two Lenny Ryan murders.
Pollard left the cafeteria and Dupree looked over to Spivey, who was staring intently at the numbers he’d copied onto his notebook. “What about transient populations—a truck driver, or someone else from out of town?”
Dupree considered the kid. He had short, dark hair, a little curly patch in the front hanging over his forehead, and big, semicircle eyebrows that heightened his constant look of confusion. Dupree had complained about him to the lieutenant, who defended the kid by saying he had tested out of the park, the highest aptitude of any detective candidate, and had gotten A’s in college. The lieutenant said he was earnest and eager; if Dupree was more patient, he might even learn something from Spivey.
“We’re not gonna interview a hundred thousand guys,” Dupree said. “I was sort of…illustrating how tough it’s gonna be to find this guy.”
Spivey allowed his mouth to curl in a grin. “Oh, a joke.” He winked, as if he’d just help pull one over on poor Pollard.
Dupree stood, peeled off a dollar bill, and draped it over the uneaten half of his Danish. Spivey followed him out of the courthouse and across the small courtyard to the Public Safety Building. Inside, Dupree punched in the short code, the door buzzed, and they were in a hallway connecting the offices of the various detective units.
Behind Major Crimes was another coded door. Dupree entered the number and the door opened into a small conference room that had been turned into a command
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