Free Revelations by Laurel Dewey
Authors: Laurel Dewey
out of her self-imposed mind fuck. “I’m good,” she said succinctly.
Bo searched his desk. “I got a fax somewhere around here from a profiler at Quantico…” Vi spotted the sheet on his desk and handed it to him. Jane immediately noted a strange apprehension in her movement as she put the fax in Bo’s hands. Bo pursed his lips as his eyes scanned the page. “Oh, hell!” he tossed the page toward Weyler, “I don’t have to read the goddamn thing again. See, I got it memorized. Suspect is a male
Caucasian, thirty-five to fifty-five years old, educated, social outcast, dissociative disorder due to early childhood trauma. Prefers to operate alone, rather than work with an accomplice. Based on handwriting, is exacting and seeks retribution for past wrongs. Likes order. Wants his message to be clearly heard. Has an overwhelming need to prove himself.”
Weyler finished reading the page. “You’ve still got a photographic memory, Bo.”
He turned his head slightly to Vi. “10-4. I sure do.” He shifted in his seat. “I called up the feller in Quantico and told him to let me know what kind of coffee the son-of-a-bitch likes so when I pick him up, I can have a cup ready.”
“I thought you liked Jordan Copeland for this,” Weyler asked.
“Oh, yeah. Trash Bag is definitely the numero uno pervert on my short list.”
“Trash Bag?” Jane said.
Bo leaned forward, looking weary as he explained himself. “I look at Copeland and I think of a trash bag…a big brown plastic trash bag. A human blivet… ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. A walking, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound dingleberry… a trash bag. It follows!”
Jane stared at Bo, speechless. Jake Van Gorden was a Juice Box and Jordan Copeland was a Trash Bag . The visuals were stunning.
“Vi, why don’t you set up the video of Trash Bag’s interview with me.” Vi worked her way around the crowded office to a small monitor near the file cabinet. Jane noted how antiquated the system was versus what Denver Headquarters had installed. “Beanie,” Bo said to Weyler, “you give her the background on Copeland?” Weyler nodded. “What the paperwork don’t tell you is the high and mighty son-of-a-bitch he’s become! He don’t talk like a common criminal. Nah, he’s educated . He got himself not one but two college degrees while sittin’ in his cell.”
“What in?” Weyler asked.
Bo leaned forward to make his exaggerated point. “Philosophy and esoteric psychology. Our tax dollars at work! When I got wind that Copeland was comin’ to live here two years ago, I ’bout shit a brick. In the five years he’d been out at that time, he’d lived in no less than six places. Got run out of all six places. One of the towns he lived in, a bunch of teenagers damn near beat the crap out of him. It almost became an annual event to kick Jordan’s ass. Can’t blame ’em. Nobody wants a goddamn child killer or ‘Chester’ livin’ ’round them?”
Chester was a word amalgamation of child and molester. “I didn’t know Jordan molested Daniel Marshall,” Jane offered.
“He didn’t,” Bo stated. “But you know as well as I do that child killers can graduate to molesting…especially when they’ve had thirty-four years to sit in a cell and think on how they want to get back at society.”
“So, Jordan picks a town known for its secrets, in hopes of getting better treatment?” Jane deduced.
“Maybe, but livin’ here ain’t no guarantee people like him will be safe,” Bo tartly replied. “I’m partly responsible for his two year streak livin’ here and not gettin’ a weekly beat-down. Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t like Jordan Copeland . He’s got a stink on him like cat piss on shag carpet. But my job is to protect the citizens of this town and that’s what I do. I’ve protected that child killer ever since he moved his sorry ass to Midas. People here keep to themselves but that doesn’t mean some citizens didn’t
Bo searched his desk. “I got a fax somewhere around here from a profiler at Quantico…” Vi spotted the sheet on his desk and handed it to him. Jane immediately noted a strange apprehension in her movement as she put the fax in Bo’s hands. Bo pursed his lips as his eyes scanned the page. “Oh, hell!” he tossed the page toward Weyler, “I don’t have to read the goddamn thing again. See, I got it memorized. Suspect is a male
Caucasian, thirty-five to fifty-five years old, educated, social outcast, dissociative disorder due to early childhood trauma. Prefers to operate alone, rather than work with an accomplice. Based on handwriting, is exacting and seeks retribution for past wrongs. Likes order. Wants his message to be clearly heard. Has an overwhelming need to prove himself.”
Weyler finished reading the page. “You’ve still got a photographic memory, Bo.”
He turned his head slightly to Vi. “10-4. I sure do.” He shifted in his seat. “I called up the feller in Quantico and told him to let me know what kind of coffee the son-of-a-bitch likes so when I pick him up, I can have a cup ready.”
“I thought you liked Jordan Copeland for this,” Weyler asked.
“Oh, yeah. Trash Bag is definitely the numero uno pervert on my short list.”
“Trash Bag?” Jane said.
Bo leaned forward, looking weary as he explained himself. “I look at Copeland and I think of a trash bag…a big brown plastic trash bag. A human blivet… ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. A walking, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound dingleberry… a trash bag. It follows!”
Jane stared at Bo, speechless. Jake Van Gorden was a Juice Box and Jordan Copeland was a Trash Bag . The visuals were stunning.
“Vi, why don’t you set up the video of Trash Bag’s interview with me.” Vi worked her way around the crowded office to a small monitor near the file cabinet. Jane noted how antiquated the system was versus what Denver Headquarters had installed. “Beanie,” Bo said to Weyler, “you give her the background on Copeland?” Weyler nodded. “What the paperwork don’t tell you is the high and mighty son-of-a-bitch he’s become! He don’t talk like a common criminal. Nah, he’s educated . He got himself not one but two college degrees while sittin’ in his cell.”
“What in?” Weyler asked.
Bo leaned forward to make his exaggerated point. “Philosophy and esoteric psychology. Our tax dollars at work! When I got wind that Copeland was comin’ to live here two years ago, I ’bout shit a brick. In the five years he’d been out at that time, he’d lived in no less than six places. Got run out of all six places. One of the towns he lived in, a bunch of teenagers damn near beat the crap out of him. It almost became an annual event to kick Jordan’s ass. Can’t blame ’em. Nobody wants a goddamn child killer or ‘Chester’ livin’ ’round them?”
Chester was a word amalgamation of child and molester. “I didn’t know Jordan molested Daniel Marshall,” Jane offered.
“He didn’t,” Bo stated. “But you know as well as I do that child killers can graduate to molesting…especially when they’ve had thirty-four years to sit in a cell and think on how they want to get back at society.”
“So, Jordan picks a town known for its secrets, in hopes of getting better treatment?” Jane deduced.
“Maybe, but livin’ here ain’t no guarantee people like him will be safe,” Bo tartly replied. “I’m partly responsible for his two year streak livin’ here and not gettin’ a weekly beat-down. Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t like Jordan Copeland . He’s got a stink on him like cat piss on shag carpet. But my job is to protect the citizens of this town and that’s what I do. I’ve protected that child killer ever since he moved his sorry ass to Midas. People here keep to themselves but that doesn’t mean some citizens didn’t