Rusty Nail by J.A. Konrath

Author:J.A. Konrath [Konrath, J.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hyperion

CHAPTER 31

MS. PEDERSEN WAS painfully clear on prisoners’ rights to privacy.

“They have none. They’re prisoners.”

So Lorna Hunt Ellison stayed in isolation, and we raided her footlocker. We found some stinky clothes, a collection of empty candy wrappers, a faded Polaroid of a younger Bud standing in front of his ancient pickup truck, and two letters from Caleb.

I donned a single latex glove and appropriated the picture and the letters. They had no return address on the labels. The postmarks came from Detroit. The first relayed, in some of the worst handwriting ever, that Caleb was sorry he hadn’t written before, because he was busy, but he’d write more often from now on. It was dated eight years ago.

Apparently he’d lied, because the second letter was dated three months ago. According to the chicken scratches, Caleb’s PO had made him get a job and he was working at a car wash, but wouldn’t for very much longer because he was planning on killing the fat prick who ran it.

That didn’t make sense. I checked with Detroit PD, and according to them, Caleb Ellison didn’t currently have a parole officer. So was Caleb lying to his mother? Or did he recently do time under another name? And how could I find that out?

I put thoughts of Caleb on the back burner, threw the letters and the pic into a paper bag that Ms. Pedersen supplied, then used her office phone to call the Indianapolis PD. I talked myself up the chain of command, and eventually got a captain on the other end, a gruff-voiced woman named Carol Mintz.

“Talk fast, I’m busy.”

“You’re following the story in Gary?”

“The whole state is.”

“I’m here at IWP, and just had a heart-to-heart with Lorna Hunt Ellison, who was Bud Kork’s common-law wife. They lived together for more than a decade. She claims to know where more victims are buried, but there’s a catch. She wants to visit Bud.”

“That’s doable. The catch will be keeping the media out. I’m surprised they aren’t camped outside the prison.”

“I don’t think they know the link yet.”

“You want a piece of this?”

“No. But I’m in bed with the Feds on this one, and they’ll be in touch.”

“Great.” She said it like an expletive.

Ms. Pedersen showed me out, and we exchanged good-byes and I consulted the MapQuest directions I’d printed earlier, which would supposedly lead me from Randolph Street to Kellum Drive and the address of Mike Mayer, who supposedly rented the Titanium Pearl Eclipse supposedly seen fleeing Diane Kork’s house.

MapQuest did me proud. I went west on Washington Street, merged onto the expressway, merged off the expressway, and wound up in a pleasant little housing development filled with two-bedroom ranches on green-lawned quarter-acre lots. I parked in Mayer’s driveway and knocked on an aluminum front door.

No answer. Not too surprising, considering Mayer just rented a car in Chicago.

I had a few options. I could break into the house, breaking the law in the process. I could call Captain Mintz back, explain the situation, have the IPD obtain a warrant, and die of old age waiting to be allowed entrance.

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