Free Blood Innocents by Thomas H. Cook

guardedly, “my children are twins. They’re sixteen. They’ll both be off to college next year. Very expensive, as I’m sure you know.”
    Reardon said nothing.
    â€œTell me,” Mr. Van Allen said, “do you think we’ll break this case?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Reardon replied. Most of the time he did not know, could not know. “There are no weapons and no witnesses.” There was no need to hold back information now. He suspected that at that moment Van Allen knew as much about the case as he did.
    â€œI see,” Mr. Van Allen said.
    â€œLike I said, not much to go on.”
    â€œNo, it appears that way.”
    Suddenly, Mr. Van Allen slapped his legs and stood up. Reardon recognized it as one of his son Timothy’s new gestures. “Well,” said Mr. Van Allen, “I just want to personally express my gratitude and the gratitude of my family for all you and your colleagues are doing for us and the Children’s Zoo, and, I might add, for the City of New York.”
    It must have been a line he had said a thousand times, Reardon thought. It had been delivered like the concluding line of a campaign oration.
    Reardon stood up. “Sure.”
    Mr. Van Allen thrust out his hand again and Reardon shook it.
    â€œThanks so much,” Mr. Van Allen said.
    Reardon nodded and moved toward the door.
    â€œPoor fellow,” Mr. Van Allen said wearily.
    â€œWho?” Reardon asked quickly. For a moment he thought the “poor fellow” was himself.
    â€œThe guilty party. The man who harmed those innocent deer.”
    Reardon nodded once more and left the room the way he had come.
    Outside he waited in a narrow hallway for the elevator. The walls were decked with portraits of bearded men in stern black suits and women in dresses with lace sleeves. Porcelain vases rested on the two tables standing on opposite sides of the room. Reardon could not guess how much the tables and vases must have cost, but standing near them made him nervous. He wondered if Timothy could stand in such a room without fear or self-consciousness, without being afraid that with any move or gesture he might send some irreplaceable artifact crashing down on the marble floor. He wondered if his son had come that far and lost that much, but, finally, he could not blame him if he had.
    When the elevator door opened and Reardon stepped into the car with Steadman, he felt as though as had been released from prison.
    â€œDid you see Mr. Van Allen?” Steadman asked immediately.
    Reardon nodded.
    Steadman pushed a button and the elevator began its descent. “Nice place they got, huh? Did you see the aquarium they got?” Reardon noticed that there was some delight in his voice, as if it were his own aquarium.
    â€œNice people, the Van Allens,” Steadman said, “real nice to everybody.”
    â€œYeah.”
    When the penthouse elevator door opened Reardon found himself staring almost eye to eye with a young man who bore a striking resemblance to Wallace Van Allen. Reardon stepped aside, following Steadman into the lobby. Without a word, the young man leaped past him and into the elevator. Reardon turned for another look as the door closed.
    â€œWho’s that?” he asked Steadman.
    â€œDwight Van Allen, Mr. Van Allen’s son.”
    â€œWhere’s his sister, the daughter?”
    â€œShe’s a weird one,” Steadman replied with visible caution. “She spends a lot of time in the park.”

6
    WEDNESDAY
    The next morning Reardon looked up from his morning coffee in the precinct house to see an enormous man looming over his desk. He looked like the sort of man who never brought good news to anyone, whose complaints and irritabilities were always as exaggerated as himself.
    â€œHarry Bryant,” the man said.
    He was one of the largest men Reardon had ever seen. His arms hung massively from his shoulders, and each hand looked large