The Ice Maiden by Edna Buchanan Page B

Dead files speak to them. If an old cold murder case still has a faint pulse, these guys can detect it. They can get into the minds of people they’ve never even met and do it better than anybody.”
    â€œThey deserve the recognition,” I said.
    â€œSure.” She sighed. “All I need is for my detectives to believe their own press, grow big heads, and turn into a buncha prima donnas.
    â€œBut all right,” she said, as though resigned. She leaned back and gave me the spiel. “Unlike other units, time works in our favor. Frightened children have grown up, once-intimidated spouses are divorced, lives have changed, or there’s been a death. We look at letters, leads from other sources, and requests from victims’ families, and we evaluate old cases. Team members read the files, reread them, and then vote on which have the best potential for closure.”
    â€œHow were the detectives selected?” I asked.
    â€œEach has his own story.” She narrowed her eyes slightly. “I’m sure you already know most of them.”
    She pushed back her chair abruptly and stepped to the window to stare out over the bleak rooftops of Overtown. “Hard to believe anything good ever comes out of there. But that’s where Sam Stone grew up. Where you come from doesn’t mean shit.” She turned to face me. “What matters is who you really are.
    â€œHe was hot for this job, wanted it bad. But they turned him down every time. Sure, he was a flashy patrolman, savvy and street-smart. But the brass said he was inexperienced, definitely not detective material.Everybody else up here had years of homicide experience.
    â€œAfter he gets turned down for the third time, he’s so pissed off on the way out that he rips an eight-year-old WANTED poster off the squad-room bulletin board. The damn poster had turned yellow. Hung there so long it left its outline on the board. The son-of-a-bitch in the picture was still wanted for murdering his wife. First degree. Man had a rap sheet longer than I am tall. For him, getting busted was a lifelong habit. How, Stone asks himself, could this asshole not be arrested in the eight years since he killed his wife? Something’s wrong here.
    â€œHe calls Records. They show nothing in their computer, but the warrants division still shows he’s wanted. Evidently, nobody ever bothered to send a copy of the warrant to Records. Or if they did, somebody slipped up and never filed it.
    â€œStone asks ID to transmit the man’s fingerprint classification to the FBI, asking if he’s been arrested anywhere since the murder. And guess what? The FBI responds with the news that the guy’s been arrested twenty-seven times under another name during the past eight years. Mostly minor; drunk driving, shoplifting, assault and battery. Most recent arrest? Six weeks ago, up in Ocala.”
    I took notes and watched her as she went on. K. C. Riley had always worn a world-weary veneer, as though shell-shocked and tempered by the brutality and tragedies encountered on the job. But she was different now, speaking freely, almost enthusiastically.Was it her current assignment—or a happier personal life?
    â€œStone calls the Ocala police chief,” she was saying. “Says, ‘Here’s the real name of a man you arrested three months ago. We want him in Miami for murder,’ he says. ‘Think he might still be up there somewhere?’ The chief calls back an hour later. ‘We’ve got him for ya,’ he says. ‘Come and get him.’”
    Riley slid back behind her desk, her features alight with approval. “When Stone was rejected again, he didn’t punch the wall, hit the bars, go home to kick the dog. Instead he got motivated, decided ‘I’ll show them!’ and found that fugitive in less than two hours with a few phone calls. Not bad, huh? It got him the job.”
    â€œGreat story,” I said.