“What’s more fun than rousting police?”
“They don’t know we’re police.” Decker turned off the motor.
“They’ll know as soon as we come out.”
“Yes, they will.” Decker opened the door.
They were immediately engulfed by screams of “murderers,” “sickos,” “psychos,” and a lot worse. All this without having shown their badges. But as long as it stayed at the verbal level, Decker was fine. He, being tall and remarkably strong for his age, could have forged through the group, but instead he turned to address the irate mob.
“We’re detectives. We’re investigating the disappearance of three students who went to college here ten years ago. We found remains up in the hills, and one of them may have practiced shooting at the range. We’re trying to find out what happened to these poor guys. If it was one of you, we’d do the same thing. All we’re trying to do is give the parents some answers.”
One of the women—a curly-haired redhead with a mass of freckles who appeared to be about nineteen—spoke. “Zeke Anderson?”
“Exactly,” Decker said.
“We spoke to his parents on Sunday,” McAdams said. “They’ve been wondering about their son for ten years. Think about how your parents would feel if it was one of you.”
“Two other students that went missing with Zeke,” Decker said, “we talked to their mothers yesterday. They’d like to bury their children, but first we have to find them. We’re still looking in the woods for bones, but it’s a slow process. We’re here because we’re following up on a lead.”
The redhead put down her sign. “Good to see the cops doing jobs other than shooting unarmed African Americans.”
“Thanks, I guess.” Decker smiled. “If you’ll excuse us, please.”
The attitude disarmed them, and the group parted like the Red Sea to allow them passage. The gun range was housed in a brick building—rectangular and big enough to accommodate indoor shooting. The entrance was two double glass doors—bulletproof—and once inside, Decker could hear the muted pop, pop, pop of discharging weapons.
McAdams paused before walking up to the front desk. “I understand what’s going on with the kids. I’m still a student myself, and college is an angry time. But all this protesting is a colossal waste of time. It has nothing to do with the outside world.”
“At least they’re protesting weapons instead of words.”
“Yes, you’re right about that. Man, you should see the babying the administration does, even at the law school. Great legal minds shouldn’t need grief counselors when the candidate of their choice loses. It’s appalling.”
“Life will thicken their skins. Either that or they’ll be perpetually unhappy because no one gets their way all of the time.”
“Some people do,” McAdams said. “It’s called ‘to the manor born.’ And yes, I’m speaking about myself.”
“You could have coasted.”
“I still do, actually. In the recesses of my mind, I always have that safety net. That privilege of ‘I really don’t have to do this.’ Not like some of these working-class kids who go into the police academy as their career to put bread on the table. I’ve had opportunities that most people can’t even fathom. Specifically, how it feels to not need money.”
“Self-awareness is good, but I’ll tell you this, Harvard. Wealth doesn’t mean you haven’t paid your dues. A bullet doesn’t know the difference between rich or poor.” When McAdams colored, Decker laughed. “I’ve embarrassed you. That’s a feat.”
“You didn’t embarrass me,” McAdams said.
With that, Tyler turned and walked away. Decker smiled, shook his head, then followed him to the front desk, which was enclosed with glass except for a metal grate where sound could come in and out. The young man behind the partition was blond with a sunburned complexion and a short haircut. He had a thick neck, thick arms, and a broad chest. He could have come directly from a farm in the Midwest, except he had a British accent that made him sound aristocratic. “I see you made it past the mob.” He rolled his brown eyes. “Every day they hassle me. I’m a student just like they are. This is part of my work-study for my scholarship. I need a job to satisfy the school visa, or else I get sent back. I once tried to explain that to their leader, but to Neda I’m just a stupid, dumb hick from the hinterland. Not that she knows what the hinterland is. Instead, she keeps telling me to go back to Iowa. I’m not even sure where Iowa is.”
“It’s in the middle of the country,” Decker said.
“Do I sound like I come from Iowa?” He exhaled. “Anyway, you’re not here to listen to my woes. How can I help? I’m Boyd Evans, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Boyd.” Decker introduced McAdams and then himself. “We’re working on a ten-year-old cold case. We think that one of our victims may have practiced shooting here. He may have kept a gun locker. We know you keep records. We’re wondering if they go back that far.”
“I’m not sure. Most of the entry and exit logs are handwritten into binders, but the gun-locker rentals are computerized. I don’t know if they go back ten years. What’s the name?”
“Bennett McCrae.” Decker spelled it and gave him the approximate date.
Evans pressed some buttons on the keyboard. “I don’t see it . . . but it’s a long list of names.”
“Mind if I take a peek?” Decker asked. “I know what I’m looking for.”
“You’ll have to sign in.”
McAdams said, “Happy to do that.”
“I’ll need ID. Your badge numbers will do.” The men took out their IDs. “Do you have weapons on your person?”
“We’re police, Boyd.”
“Sorry. You still have to check your weapons in through the steel box. You can pick them up in the gun-locker room.”
“No problem.” Decker took out his Glock. McAdams carried an S&W .38 snub-nosed revolver. After stowing their guns in metal boxes and getting tickets for the pieces, the men passed through the metal detector until they were on the other side of the glass. Looking down a long list of names, Decker didn’t see Bennett McCrae’s name. But Max Velasquez had rented a locker. Three months after the boys disappeared, the box and its contents were seized for failure of payment.
McAdams said, “Wither you go, I will go.”
Boyd looked up. “Excuse me?”
“He’s quoting the Bible,” Decker said. “This student—Max Velasquez—what kind of paperwork do you have on him?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea.”
“Do you know what they might have done with the contents of the box?” Decker asked.
“Not specifically, no,” Evans said. “I know when a locker is seized, the lock is broken and an inventory is taken. I think they try to contact the owner.”
“How? By phone or mail or . . .”
“I don’t know.”
“What about the entry and exit logbooks? How far do they go back?”