The Man Who Killed His Brother by Stephen R. Donaldson

turned messy all of a sudden. Alathea needed help in the worst way. So I muttered curses at myself for a while, and finally managed to give Sergeant Encino his desk back. By the time Ginny arrived, I was standing at the counter where I belonged.
    She came in so fast that she almost hit me with the door. Her eyes jumped back and forth between Encino and me, trying to figure out what was going on. She was on the alert, ready to explode. But I didn’t say anything for a moment or two. I was so glad to see her that I wanted to hug her. Just having her there made me feel steadier. She’d know what to do, know how to cope.
    “All right,” she panted, out of breath from hurry and anxiety. “What’s going on?”
    It was still a tough question, but I could handle it now. “After we talked this afternoon, Sergeant Encino went through his files for the past couple years. He found six more young white girls like Carol Christie who ran away from home and later turned up dead. All seven of them were heroin addicts. In one way or another, they all died as a result of overdoses.” I faltered for a second, groping for courage, then went on.
    “According to the medical examiner, they all showed signs of ‘intensive sexual activity.’”
    That’s how the coroner put it in all seven reports. In each case, he’d concluded that these twelve- and thirteen-year-old girls supported their addictions by prostitution.
    Ginny took it in like a sponge. Whenever she’s listening really hard, she doesn’t react to what she hears—she just
concentrates on absorbing it. When I stopped, she asked in a flat voice, “Have you got the details?”
    I showed her my sheaf of notes.
    She nodded sharply, then turned to Encino. “Were these cases investigated?”
    “Of course. Yes.”
    “And?”
    He shrugged. “No connection was found.”
    “No connection?” she snapped. “They’re identical!”
    If he resented her attitude, he didn’t show it. “Drugs, yes. Prostitution, running away from home. But drugs are available everywhere. For a young girl to get drugs, she needs money. Especially for heroin. It’s common. What connection is there?”
    I said, “He’s right.” I didn’t agree with him, but he had a good point. “These seven girls lived in different parts of town. They went to five different schools. According to their friends, none of them knew each other. Their parents don’t have anything in common.” When I thought about it, the individual investigations looked pretty thorough. “None of them went to the same church or belonged to the same club or had the same family doctor.”
    Ginny didn’t even glance at me. “Who did the investigations?”
    “Detective-Lieutenant Acton,” Encino said.
    “All of them?” she demanded.
    He nodded.
    “Is he a good cop?” I asked.
    Encino thought for a moment. “He’s Anglo—but not like Captain Cason. He’s hard on drugs. It’s said he searches for the pushers who supplied these children.”
    Ginny started to ask another question, but I stopped her with a nudge. Policewoman Rand was coming through the door behind us. I didn’t know which racial or political faction she belonged to, but I didn’t want to risk getting Encino in trouble for helping us. In Puerta del Sol, the police department is like the city—so fragmented, broken up into groups that can’t stand one another, it’s a wonder they get any work done at all. About the only time I’ve ever seen
the cops stick together is when one of them gets killed.
    Maybe Rand was on the wrong side. Encino’s tone changed suddenly as he said, “No, it’s impossible. I’ve done everything I can. No more.”
    Two hints were more than enough for Ginny. “If that’s the way you want it,” she sighed in her aggrieved-citizen voice. “We’ll get a subpoena if we have to.” That was a nice touch. It kept Encino in the clear as far as Policewoman Rand was concerned. I liked it so much that I almost made the mistake of