A Killing Fair (23 page)

 

Chapter 35: A State of Chassis

W
hen my life gets hectic, I often think of the last line of Sean O'Casey's classic Irish play Juno and Paycock. The drunken Captain Boyle, whose neighbors call him a “paycock” because of his flamboyant strutting manner, closes the show with this observation: “The whole world's in a terrible state of chassis.”

“Chassis” is, of course, Captain Boyle's pronunciation of “chaos,” which was the state my whole world was in on the Wednesday following my encounter with Erik Erickson on the Parkside Players stage.

The day began with Martha dropping me off at the police station shortly before 8:00 a.m. to deliver a copy of the Erickson tape to Detective Mike Reilly. Instead of thanking me, Reilly gave me a bilingual (English and profane) lecture on the foolhardiness of accosting a murder suspect sans police backup.

Al was planning to pick me up in front of the building when I was finished with Reilly, but before I could make the call I was accosted in the hallway by Detective Lieutenant Curtis Brown.

To say that Brownie was rip-shit would be an understatement. Had I not been wearing a cast on my ankle he probably would have thrown me bodily into his office. As it was, he invited me to join him there in a tone that said I had no choice but to accept. Once we were inside, Brownie slammed the door like a clap of thunder, stomped around his desk and stood behind it glaring at me for a full minute before he said, “I'm not sure I'll ever talk to you again.”

“All I can say is, I intended to ask you for backup but you were away on vacation somewhere,” I said.

“Vacation hell,” he said. “I was in Duluth burying a cousin who died way too young of Lou Gehrig's disease.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Of course you are. That's the standard line we all use. Now getting back to the subject at hand, namely your idiotic move on a suspected killer and the suspected killer's subsequent escape to God knows where. Did it ever occur to you that there are other officers in the homicide division of the St. Paul PD?” The color of Brownie's face progressed from bright crimson to deep maroon as he spoke.

“It did,” I said. “But I have much less faith in them.”

“Faith? You don't think they're capable of arresting a suspect?”

“I was looking for a special setup. I wanted to get a confes­sion without any TV microphones around.”

“God damn it!” he yelled, pounding the desk with his fist. “Is getting a fucking scoop all you ever think of?”

“Pretty much. I'm always thinking about bringing a criminal to justice but I'm always looking for a way to do it ahead of everybody else.”

“Oh, my god, talk about competitive. If you were an athlete you'd be sneaking around on steroids sure as hell.”

“I always stay within the law,” I said. “I just push the envelope a little too far sometimes. Like yesterday.”

“It'd have served you right if Erickson had bashed your head in,” Brownie said. “I'm not sure I'm sorry that he didn't.”

“You'd miss me if I was gone.”

“Like a flaming tooth ache I'd miss you. All you do is fuck up my work. We should have Erickson standing in front of a judge this morning but instead we're looking all over hell for him.”

“Does his wife know where he might go?”

“She has no clue. She's just hoping he doesn't come back to whack her. We've got a twenty-four-hour watch on her.”

“What about Scott Hall?”

“What about him?”

“What if Erickson still wants him dead?”

“Jesus, I hadn't thought about that. We'd better put a watch on him.”

“See? What would you do without me to help?”

“I'd live with normal blood pressure for one thing. Okay, I'm glad the son of a bitch didn't kill you, but the next time you call my private line looking for news I'm going to remember how many times you've gone out on your own and left us to chase a killer on the run.”

“It hasn't been that many.”

“Do you want me to run the list?”

Three others came quickly to mind. “Not necessary. I con­cede that even once is too much.”

“I wish it was only once. Now get your ass out of here before I find a way to put it behind bars. An obstruction of justice charge might stick, you know.”

“I'm on my way,” I said. “Can I ask one quick question?”

“No,” Brownie said. “What is it?”

“Who do I talk to about a kidnapped cat?”

“What do you mean a kidnapped cat?”

I explained Sherlock's desertion and described the anonymous phone call that I was certain came from Willow. Brownie had heard all about Willow's attack on Al. He referred me to Detective Aaron Goldberg, who was handling the search for Willow.

“Please don't take that woman on without backup,” Brownie said as he pointed me down the hall toward Goldberg's cubicle. “She sounds more dangerous than your play director friend.”

“She's a hell of a lot nuttier,” I said. “Not to worry: I'll be super careful with Willow.” Well, I really thought I would be.

I learned from Goldberg that they'd located Willow's residence—an upstairs apartment in a private home seven blocks from Al's house. The cops had searched the apartment, confiscated Willow's laptop and put a twenty-four watch on the house. At first the house's owner, who occupied the ground floor, objected to the constant presence of two police officers, but when he heard about Willow's knife attack on Al he offered them coffee and doughnuts.

Goldberg and I worked out a plan whereby I would call his office immediately when Willow contacted me. Under no circum­stances was I to meet with Willow without police backup. “That means no, never, no way, nada,” Goldberg said. “Understand me?”

“I understand,” I said.

“Good. I've heard about you from homicide.”

“Don't believe everything you hear.”

“Normally I don't, but when Brown gets so worked up that his face turns purple, I believe what he's saying.”

I tried to imagine Brown turning purple. It was not a pretty picture.

By the time I called the paper to ask Al for a ride, he was out on an assignment. I took a cab to the Daily Dispatch and clumped off the elevator with all the grace of a drunken three-legged mule on my walking cast. Work stopped all across the newsroom and a cacophony of voices rose to question me. The general gist of the questioning was, “What damn fool stupid thing did you do this time?”

“Later,” I shouted above the din. “I've got a great story to write. You can read all about it when I'm done.”

The phone call I was waiting for came just as I was des­cribing Ernie's efforts to hoist the rigging off my ankle. “I've got your cat,” Willow said. “And if you want him back you'll do what I tell you.”

This was a delicate moment, a time that called for a calm, cool response and smooth diplomacy. So I said, “Listen you crazy, whacked-out skank, if you harm one hair on that cat I'll wring your scrawny neck with my bare hands like a farmer strangling a chicken.”

At the next desk, Corinne Ramey looked up and stared at me with eyes so wide I could see white all the way around.

“My, my, the writer certainly has a big vocabulary,” Willow said. “If that's your attitude, I'll hang up and you can say goodbye kitty.”

This called for additional diplomacy. “How did you get him, you loony creep?”

“The cops are watching Al's house, so I went to your apartment, the one you've apparently moved out of, to persuade you to have Al talk to me. I saw your lost pussy signs, and lo and behold, there he was sitting by the back door of the building, waiting to be let in. He's very friendly. I didn't have a bit of trouble scooping him up, but he did squirm a little when I stuffed him into the saddlebag on my bike.”

My blood pressure was slowly returning to normal. “All right, you crazy bitch, what do you want me to do to get him back?”

“You could be more respectful for one thing. But the main thing is to bring your friend Al to meet with me so I can apologize.”

“Do you think an apology is going to keep you out of jail?”

“No, but it will make me feel fulfilled,” she said. “Then I'll leave St. Paul and you'll never hear from me again.”

“Is that a promise or another one of your nut cake tricks?” I said.

“Swear it on a stack of Bibles. You'll get your cat and I'll get my goodbye hug.”

The thought of Al having to hug that psychotic maniac was repulsive, but I forged onward. “Do you have a time and place picked out?”

“Como Park, a bench thirty steps west of the conservatory, at 11:30 tonight. And no cops. If I spot a cop, my pussy is out of there and your pussy is dead meat.”

“No knives,” I said.

“The only knife I own got stuck in Al's camera bag.”

“We'll be there.”

“Remember, no cops or no cat.” The line went dead.

I started to call Goldberg, but stopped after punching the first four numbers. Goldberg would flood the park with cops, and Willow, who was as clever as she was crazy, would surely spot at least one. She would disappear, and so would Sherlock Holmes. I had to discuss the battle plan with Al before making any calls.

 

* * *

 

We decided to meet Willow without a police backup. Even if she had another knife, she couldn't attack two of us simultaneously. Al agreed we couldn't risk losing Sherlock to Willow if she smelled a cop anywhere in the park. As defensive insurance, I pulled an aluminum softball bat out of my closet and Al borrowed a can of pepper spray that Carol carried in her purse.

Oh, yes, Carol. And Martha. We had to tell them where we were going. We also told them that Goldberg had instructed us to call him when Willow contacted me. We didn't tell them whether we had or hadn't called Goldberg. Call it a sin of omission.

We arrived in the park half an hour early so we could watch for Willow from behind a flower garden near the designated bench. I had a tough time dragging my cast across several yards of grass-covered lawn, but I would have walked through acres of cactus with my both legs cut off at the knees to bring Sherlock back into my arms. When we reached the flower bed, we hunkered down and waited. The light of a nearly full moon darted in and out behind a moving parade of clouds, giving us the illusion of flowing spotlights interspersed with theatrical blackouts.

Looming over us was the dome of the sprawling Marjorie McNeely Conservatory, where an entire acre of lush fauna that wouldn't survive outdoors in a Minnesota winter was thriving under glass. The conservatory was opened adjacent to the Como Zoo in 1915 and maintains six indoor gardens and three outdoor gardens, including the one we were hunkered behind.

At 11:28, a figure appeared from behind a tree near the conservatory and walked slowly to the bench. It was Willow, wearing the full-length black dress she'd had on when she tried to stab Al. What looked like a gray book bag hung from her left shoulder and she was carrying a dark plastic garbage bag in her right hand. There was something bulky in the garbage bag. That something had to be Sherlock. Could he breathe in there?

With Al leading, we emerged from the flower bed and walked toward the bench. Willow stood facing us as we approached. “Have a nice time snuggled together in the bushes?” she said. “I saw you come in and do your little hide-and-seek stunt.”

We stopped walking when she spoke. “Good for you,” Al said. “Before we come any closer, do you swear you don't have another knife?”

“On a stack of Bibles, like I told your buddy,” Willow said.

We moved forward, and when we were about ten feet from Willow she dropped the garbage bag and reached into the shoulder bag with her now empty hand. The hand emerged holding a small dark object.

“This time I've got a gun,” she said.

 

Chapter 36: Cat Out of the Bag

A
small, dark pistol was pointed midway between us. I took a step to the side.

“Stop,” Willow said. “Get back where you were. If you spread out I'll just have to shoot quicker.”

I took the requested sideways step, but moved half a step closer to Willow in the process. I didn't have any idea how I could jump her, especially dragging a cast, but I was playing all the angles.

“Now what?” Al said.

“Now we carry out my original plan,” Willow said. “I told you I was going to leave St. Paul. And so are you. First I shoot you, then I shoot myself and we entwine our spirits together in heaven for an eternity of love. Poor unlucky Mitch here has to stay alive and take his cat home to Mama.”

“If you shoot Al there's no guarantee that he'll go to heaven,” I said. “He's done some real badass sinning in his life.”

“Anyone as creative and sensitive as Al is sure to have a place reserved in heaven,” she said. “I'm not worried about that.”

“Maybe you should worry about yourself,” I said. “I'm not sure murderers are all that welcome in heaven.”

“This is for love, not a criminal killing. I've prayed about it for weeks. God tells me over and over he has a special place for lovers.”

I saw movement in the plastic bag on the ground beside Willow. “Maybe it's a special hot place,” I said.

“Maybe you shouldn't tempt me to include you in the trip to heaven with your smartass remarks.”

“Maybe if you kill me it isn't about love any more. The Bibles in that stack you just swore on say, ‘Thou shalt not kill,'”

More movement in the bag. A rustling sound and the head of a cat emerged. Willow looked down when she heard the sound and Al and I both made our moves.

I don't know how I did it dragging the cast, but I got to Willow first. Maybe it was the half-step advantage or maybe it was a higher level of adrenaline. Whatever propelled me, I slammed into her and we fell to the ground with me on top. The gun went off and my ears began to ring like church bells but I felt no pain. Then Al was stomping on her hand and kicking the gun away.

Willow tried to sink her teeth into my shoulder and I punched her in the side of her face. Al kicked her in the exposed side of her head and she went limp. I rolled off her and sat up. I saw Sherlock Holmes sitting on his haunches, looking on with what appeared to be feline approval. His captor must not have been feeding him properly.

Willow moaned as we rolled her onto her belly. I took off my belt and wrapped it tightly around her wrists while Al was calling 911. Willow tried to roll over but I pushed her face into the grass and sat down on the small of her back. “You're going somewhere, crazy lady, but it won't be heaven,” I said.

As I sat on Willow, the moon broke through a large open space between the clouds, providing enough light for me to see my legs. I was wearing my oldest trousers with the right leg split to fit over the cast. Through the split I could see a dark streak across the white cast, about halfway between my ankle and my knee. I touched it with my hand and felt a jagged gash that ran the width of the cast. “Guess where the bullet went,” I said to Al.

He looked where I was pointing. “No shit?” he said. “It was that close?”

“It was.”

“We're going to catch holy hell from the cops, especially when they see that.”

“The cops I can handle. It's the holy hell from Martha that I'm worried about.”

“Oh, god, yes,” Al said. “Carol can't afford to divorce me but Martha could break off your engagement.”

“I don't want to think about that,” I said with my eyes turned up toward the moon.

“It's too late to start thinking now,” Al said with his eyes on the road, looking for flashing lights.

“Mmmf,” Willow said with her face still flat in the grass.

Sherlock Holmes climbed onto my lap and began licking my face with his sandpaper tongue as we heard a siren wailing in the distance.

 

* * *

 

We did catch holy hell from the cops. Willow was taken to Regions Hospital to have her cheek x-rayed where Al had kicked her. We followed a squad car to the station where we were split up and interrogated in separate rooms. The interrogators in both rooms were not complimentary when we told them that we had decided to meet a mad woman in the dark of the night without backup.

On the way to the station, I phoned Martha on her cell. She and Carol were both waiting up for us at the Jeffreys' house, and I told her we had captured our quarry and retrieved our kidnapped kitty with minimal collateral damage. Martha asked what I meant by minimal collateral damage and I explained that my cast had acquired a crack. I thought it best not to tell her that the crack was left there by a passing bullet. Ever the diplomat, I.

On the way to Al's house, he asked, “By the way, what were all those badass sins you told Willow I committed?”

“Merely words of fiction to dampen her desire to kill you,” I said. “I'm sure you're as pure as the driven snow.”

“You're right. I've been told more than once that I seem to be driven. Is that a good thing?”

“Depends on where you're being driven to.”

When we finally got to the house at something after 2:00 a.m., the women were so excited to see Sherlock Holmes that they forgot to ask about the crack in the cast. They also talked as if they assumed the police had been on the scene from the start, and we saw no reason to clarify the sequence of events. I would have to be extremely careful how I described Willow's capture when I wrote the story a few hours hence.

 

* * *

 

We caught holy hell from the police again in the morning. We were summoned to the station where first Detective Aaron Goldberg and then Detective Lieutenant Curtis Brown chewed our butts up one side and down the other. We heard a lot of “if you ever do anything like that again” and “we'll throw your ass in jail next time” before they told us to get the hell out of their sight.

“The fact that they followed ‘don't do it again' with ‘we'll throw your ass in jail next time' leads me to believe they doubt our ability to refrain from taking action when we believe it's required,” Al said.

“Our record speaks for itself,” I said.

“And they don't like what it's saying.”

I was getting into Al's car when my cell phone rang. It was Don O'Rourke.

“You still at the police station?” he said.

“Just leaving,” I said.

“Don't. You're going be working there for the next three weeks. Augie Augustine has decided it's time to get some help before another lost weekend. He's checked himself into Hazelden.”

“I'm here for three weeks?”

“It's a good place for you. Maybe you won't be able to try to get yourself killed for three weeks.”

“What about my story from last night?”

“You can write about last night's craziness from there. Oh, and go talk to homicide and get a statement. Your play director/square dancer buddy was picked up this morning in Duluth.”

“In Duluth? How'd they find him there?”

“The knucklehead ran a red light with a squad car sitting on the other side of the intersection. You'd think a guy would drive a little more careful when there's an APB out on him.”

I almost blurted out “carefully,” but I remembered it was Don, who could do no wrong grammatically. “Yes, you'd think so,” I said.

“What was that all about?” Al asked when the call ended.

“It was Don with the final piece of the pie,” I said. “The killer is in custody, the crazy woman is in a padded cell, Sherlock Holmes is safe in our new home, and all's right with the world.”

 

 

The End