Louis set the article down. No mention of dear old Dad. He went through the remaining three articles. One was a follow-up that offered no new information. The second was a short story saying the “internal investigation” revealed no wrong doing on the part of the Loon Lake officers. The fourth article was an overwrought feature on teenage gangs, pegged to the Lacey kids. The headline was WHEN GOOD KIDS GO BAD. It was filled with stock quotes from psychologists and juvenile authorities speculating on the sources of teen violence. But the reporter had taken the trouble to track down Duane Lacey and ended her story with the neat coda: “For the Lacey children, the seeds of violence were sown in the home. Their father, Duane Lacey, is currently incarcerated in Marquette State Prison, serving the seventh year of his fifteen-year sentence for assault with a deadly weapon.”
Louis felt a tightening in his chest. Christ, why had no one told him about this? Gibralter had directed him to go through the case files but why in the hell hadn’t he thought of Duane Lacey as a potential suspect? And Jesse…he had been at the raid. Why didn’t he say anything?
Louis read again the last paragraph of the feature story. All right, it said Lacey was in prison. So had the fax from the department of corrections. But the fax could have been wrong. He knew prison records were routinely screwed up, especially computer records, which were often inputted by clerk convicts.
He had not double-checked it. Shit, what if the record was wrong?
He felt a trickle of sweat make its way down his back under his shirt. He glanced up at the clock. It was still too early. The DOC wouldn’t open until eight.
“Morning, Louis.”
Louis turned to see Dale coming in from the locker room, heading straight for the coffee machine. Dale started to the coffeepot. “Hey, how come you didn’t make the coffee yet?” he said. “But then again you don’t do such a great job anyway, no offense.”
Louis was silent. Finally, Dale looked up and saw Louis’s stony expression. “Something wrong?” he asked.
Looking into Dale’s pink face, Louis realized suddenly he was angry. He was angry at Dale. He was angry at Jesse and Gibralter. He was angry at all of them for not telling him about the raid on the cabin. And he was angry at himself for not double-checking.
“Louis? What is it?” Dale asked.
“Nothing,” he said, turning back to his desk. “I need a file,” he said.
“Sure, no problem,” Dale said cautiously, “Just let me get the coffee – ”
Louis spun around. “Just give me the keys. I’ll get it.”
Dale stared at him for a moment then reached in his pocket for the keys. Louis came forward to get them, almost grabbing them from Dale’s hand. He unlocked the cabinet and started sifting through the files. He couldn’t find the one for the raid.
“Where the hell is it?” he muttered.
Dale came up behind him. “Let me find it. What do you need?”
Louis turned to face him. “November, 1979. John and Angela Lacey. Those names ring a bell?”
Dale looked confused. “I’ll find it.” He held out a mug of coffee. “Three sugars. Hey, what happened to your hand?”
