Barry Friedman - Dead End (13 page)

Maharos’ weariness suddenly left him and he
breathed a little faster. “Sounds good to me. I’m sure I can get brighter ideas
watching you than from watching Frank Furillo.”

She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes
and a smile tugged at her mouth.

Rankins stepped back, cocked his head first to
one side then to the other then moved forward and brushed back a wisp of hair
from the face of the corpse. Needs more coloring. He touched the bristles of a
small camel’s hair paintbrush to the surface of a jar of pink rouge and lightly
stroked it on to the cheeks of the dead woman. With the tip of his little
finger, he spread the rouge so the edges faded into the pallor of her facial
skin.

“Good job, Jackson.”

He hadn’t heard Peterson come in, but nodded
without looking up. Although it was three years since he had begun working for
him, Ephraim Rankins still had to think for a moment when he was called
“Jackson.” Jackson Wiliams. One “L” in Wiliams. Seven letters in each name. He
picked the name because it sounded like “William Jackson”, his old asshole
buddy in Lima State. It was the name he gave Peterson when he was hired. Didn’t
want anyone to be looking up his past record. Even got a new social security
number to go with the name. Duane Jackson in Pittsburgh got that for him.

Jason Peterson placed his hand on Rankins’
shoulder, patted it gently. “Let’s take her in to the chapel. The family will
be here any minute.”

They wheeled the gleaming steel gurney on which
the casket rested, through the door of the embalming room, down a corridor and
through the double doors of a dimly lit chapel. A dozen rows of seats flanked
the maroon-carpeted center aisle. Two large baskets of gladiolas were already
in place at the front of the chapel; their sweet scent permeated the air. They
positioned the casket between the flower baskets.

Peterson glanced at his watch. “It’s quarter past
six. Why don’t you get your dinner, Jackson, then come back and relieve me
before you take off for the rest of the evening.”

Rankins left the mortuary and walked down Wales
Road. Three blocks east, he turned into Fern. Half a block from the building
where he had rented his apartment, he turned into a narrow alley. A row of
detached wooden garages faced the alley. He stopped in front of a garage that
bore a tarnished number 8, unlocked the door and pushed it up. A moment later,
he backed out his green van.

It was early evening on a mild day in late June
and there was little traffic on Massillon’s streets. He drove to the take-out
window of a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant on Lincoln Way and waited while
his order was processed. When the smiling young woman passed the sack through
the window, he placed it on the seat alongside him and drove along State Route
21 until he reached Massillon’s outskirts. A dirt road led to a wooded area
where he parked and ate while seated in the van. He followed his routine: a
bite, seven chews, swallow. Never varied.

You are
still one short of your quota
.

He half turned toward to the back of the van and
nodded. “I know,” he said.

The
other tribal leaders have presented their gifts. You are the only one—

“Look, I know. It has to follow the schedule,
right?”

Just so
you remember. You know the consequences—and the reward. Don’t forget the
reward. The voice taunted him.

“Yeah, yeah. Damned right, I haven’t forgotten.
Just so you don’t forget. You promised.”

There was no response and he turned to peer into
the back of the van, feeling the sharp pain in his back as he twisted. He
rubbed the part of his back, where the scar was, and relieved the spasm. He had
thought there would be no more pain after the operation, what was it—three,
four years now. Dr. Marino had said that removing the disk would take care of
the problem. Well, at least the leg pain was gone. But whenever he twisted a
certain way he still had sharp pain in the lower back. That would last forever,
he guessed.

It all started when he lifted that bag of feed.
The fat son of a bitch, Hamberger, didn’t care how hard he worked him. The bag
was supposed to weigh one hundred pounds. Shit, it probably was half again that
heavy. When he had tried to throw the bag into the back of the pickup, he felt
a searing pain in his lower back and down his left leg. He fell to the ground
writhing while Hamberger stood over him, prodding him with a foot, telling him
to stop faking and get back to work. Somehow he managed to finish out the day,
but when he tried to get out of bed the next morning, he couldn’t move.
Finally, he crawled out of bed and crept on hands and knees along the floor to
the phone. He called Hamberger to tell him he couldn’t come in to work but
would try to make it the next day.

“Don’t bother. You’re through. You can pick up
your check.” Hamberger had slammed the phone down so hard, Rankins’ ear rang.

Dr. Theodore Long at the Jefferson Medical Group
clinic gave him some codeine but it only helped for a short time. Two weeks
later he was no better. His left leg became so weak it would collapse under
him. Several times he almost fell while walking. Just as bad, was the pins and
needles sensation in the sole of his left foot every time he put it on the
ground.

“You’ve got a ruptured disk and you’ll probably
need an operation,” Long told him, and referred him to an orthopaedic surgeon
in New Philadelphia.

He asked, “How much is this going to cost?”

Long said, “You got hurt at work, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Workers’ Compensation should pay for it.
Haven’t you filed a claim?”

When Rankins said he didn’t know how to go about
filing a claim, Dr. Long told him he would have to do it through his employer.
He went from the doctor’s office to the feed store. He was limping badly and
his trunk listed to the right. Hamberger was behind the counter. He scowled
when he saw Rankins walk in. “I told you you’re fired.”

“I need some papers filled out so I can file for
compensation.”

Hamberger walked around the counter and stood in
front of Rankins. He lowered his face so that their noses almost touched.
“You’re a fake, a crazy goldbricking dwarf. Get the hell outta here before I
throw you out.”

Elsie Harrelson, the woman who owned the house in
New Philly at which he roomed, watched him limping around, finally asked him
why he wasn’t going to work. He told her what had happened.

She wiped her hands on her apron and gave a short
laugh. “Noah Hamberger won’t give you nothing. You better see a lawyer.”

She had a nephew who knew someone with a similar
problem. She called her nephew and was told that George Horner in Canton was
the best compensation lawyer around. She told Rankins, “Canton isn’t that far.
Why don’t you call this Horner and see if he’ll take your case?”

The 25-mile ride to Horner’s office in Canton, on
his black Yamaha motorcycle, was pure torture. While he waited in the lawyer’s
anteroom, he had to get up every five minutes and pace the floor to try to
relieve the ache in his leg. He filled out the blue Workers’ Compensation forms
the secretary gave him and, finally, she beckoned him into Horner’s private
office.

The lawyer looked up from reading the form
Rankins had filled out and saw the pain in his face.

He asked, “Have you seen anyone but this Dr.
Long?”

“No.”

“Would you like to see an orthopaedic surgeon
here in Canton, or would you prefer to be treated in New Philly?”

“Makes no difference to me. I just want to get
rid of this pain.”

Horner gave him Dr. Russell Marino’s name and
address. “Maybe he can see you today. I’ll have my secretary call.”

He was lucky. Marino had a cancellation and would
fit Rankins in.

Dr. Marino’s examination confirmed what Dr. Long
had told him. He had a herniated disk. “There’s a test we’ll have to do, but
I’m pretty sure it will show what I expect.”

The nurse gave him a requisition and directions
to the Stark Medical Imaging Laboratory. “After you finish the scan, go home.
We’ll get in touch with you and tell you what you have to do next.”

It was six-thirty in the evening by the time the
technician placed him on the examining table enclosed by a huge sewer pipe-like
tunnel for a magnetic resonance imaging study. It was all he could do to keep
from screaming with fear, confined in the apparatus. In spite of the air
conditioning, he was drenched with sweat by the time he emerged.

He ignored the red-labeled warning on the bottle,
“Do not drive after taking,” and gulped down two of his remaining codeine
tablets before he got back on his motorcycle to return to New Philadelphia in
the dark. He stopped four times along the way, got off the cycle and paced to
try to shake out the ache that drilled into his left leg.

For the next two days, he remained in his room,
lying on the floor on his back next to his bed. The only way he could get a
little relief from the pain was by putting his legs up on the bed in order to
flex his knees and hips.

Mrs. Harrelson was shocked to find him lying in
that odd position when she came in to tell him that Dr. Marino’s office was on
the phone.

He hobbled downstairs to the phone. Dr. Marino’s
nurse was on the line. “Your scan showed that you have a large disk rupture.
Dr. Marino has made arrangements for you to go into St. Agnes Hospital here in
Canton. Be there by three this afternoon.”

“Is he gonna operate on it?”

“He’ll let you know when he sees you tomorrow
morning.”

When Rankins told Mrs. Harrelson he was going
into the hospital, she told him he was in no condition to drive up himself.
“I’ll call my nephew and have him take you to Canton,” she said.

He put a few of his belongings into his beat-up
suitcase and waited until the nephew arrived in his pickup to drive him to the
hospital.

*
  
*
  
*

Rankins crushed the empty Kentucky Fried Chicken
bag and tossed it out of the window of his van. He drove back along State Route
21, past the mass of gray buildings that housed Massillon State Hospital, until
he reached the city. He was thinking about Jason Peterson. That slimy,
smooth-talking son of a bitch, he thought. He said all these nice things to
Rankins’ face, but in his mind he was probably thinking how he could screw him.

Watch
out for Peterson. He’s a slimy, smooth-talking son of a bitch. Says all these
nice things to your face, but in his mind he’s thinking how he can screw you
.

Rankins turned his head slightly and spoke to the
back of the van while he drove. “That’s just what I was thinking.”

He drove to his garage, locked up his car, then
walked back to the mortuary.

Peterson was waiting for him upstairs in the
office. He got up from his desk when Rankins came in. “I’ll grab a bite and be
back in about an hour. Some of the Prattle family are in the chapel. See if
they need anything.”

Rankins followed him with his eyes as he walked
out of the office. When he heard the downstairs door close, he took the small
bible out of his pocket and started to read.

Annie Maharos was unusually quiet as she sat
across from her father in Darrow’s restaurant. Al Maharos’ attempts to make
conversation with her were met with brief nods, shrugs or one-word responses.
He had just finished telling her about Karen Vandergrift. Annie had looked at
him with those big brown eyes; long eyelashes fanning while he spoke. Her mouth
was set the way Marcie’s was when she was peeved.

“Look, baby, I don’t like living alone. You know
that.”

“Then why did you leave Mom?” Her voice was
tight. Close to tears.

“Hey, wait a minute. You know better. It wasn’t
me that wanted out of our marriage. We went through that before, we don’t have
to rehash it now, do we?”

Annie’s head dropped. Her hair fell over her
eyes. “It’s only that—.“

He waited but she didn’t finish. He reached
across the table and put his hand on hers. “I want you to meet her, okay? Don’t
make any judgments until you have a chance to see what she’s like.”

Annie raised her head. Her eyes were teary.
“Sure, Dad. I want you to be happy even if it means I’ll be losing you.”

He smiled and shook his head slowly, “Annie,
Annie, how can you say that? You’re never going to lose me. No one is ever
going to come between us. Ever.”

Her lips quivered. “Promise you won’t marry her
right away.”

“I’m not going to run off and get married to
anybody—yet. Listen, I don’t even know if she’ll marry me if I ask her, which I
haven’t done anyway.”

He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and
handed it to her. She wiped her eyes, looked up at him and smiled weakly. “When
am I going to get to meet her?”

“That’s better. How about next Sunday?”

She bobbed her head up and down.

“How about some dessert?” He waved at the waitress.

Annie ordered a piece of dark Dutch chocolate
cake and was working to get the few remaining crumbs on her fork, while Maharos
drained his coffee cup. He said, “Come on, I’ve got to get you back to your
mother.”

They walked out of the restaurant, his arm around
her shoulders, her arm around his waist.

*
  
*
  
*

The detective squad room was its usual bedlam the
morning of June 30.

In one corner of the large room, divided by low
partitions into a dozen small cubicles, Detective Third Grade Schaeffer was booking
a twenty-five year old black man. He had brought the man in after he had been
caught in a closed liquor store, filling a pillowcase with bottles of Johnnie
Walker Black Label. He sat opposite Schaeffer in a straight-backed wooden
chair, his hands cuffed behind him. He shouted, “I want my lawyer. You
motherfuckers ain’t got no respect for a man’s rights.”

Schaeffer was pecking away at his computer,
looked up. “I read you your rights. You already called your lawyer. I don’t see
him running his ass down here at eight in the morning.”

“I ain’t answerin’ no more questions ‘till my
lawyer gets here.”

“No one’s asking you any questions. Anyway,
what’s to question? Why you were doing your Fourth of July liquor shopping at
four in the morning, in a store that closes at eight in the evening?”

In another cubicle, Detective Second Grade
Andrews sat with a two hundred pound woman in her late fifties, clad in a
housedress. One shoulder strap of the dress was completely ripped exposing a
bulging brassiere above and a slip below. She wore no shoes or stockings; her
feet were black with dirt. “Can you imagine, the son of a bitch was tryin’ to
rape me!” She shrieked. Andrews leaned away from the woman, trying to cover his
nose with a handkerchief. No, he couldn’t imagine anyone trying to rape her.

Two of the other three detectives on the day
watch were out responding to calls. Maharos sat at his desk, his feet up on one
of its corners. He was reviewing his notes on a stabbing homicide he had
investigated three months before. He was due to testify on the case in Mahoning
County Common Pleas Court at ten. Although he had to be present at that time,
he knew he’d be lucky if he took the stand by eleven. The lawyers’ motions and
their conferences with the presiding judge at the start of the day’s
proceedings could devour as much as an hour. More likely it would be close to
noon and, since the direct questioning by the district attorney and the
cross-examination by the defense attorney would undoubtedly take more than an
hour, his appearance would run up against the noon recess. He would have to be
back when court reconvened at two. Another day shot.

He had trouble concentrating on his reading. Last
night, he had phoned Marcie to be sure he could take Annie to meet Karen
Vandergrift Sunday. He had run into resistance from Marcie. It was Fourth of
July weekend; she and Sam had made plans for a Sunday picnic with the family.
He had a rare shouting match on the phone with his ex-wife, but they finally
agreed that Maharos would take Annie on Saturday instead. As things turned out,
it was just as well. Saturday was the Fourth of July and Karen had the day off,
otherwise she would have had to make complicated shift switches.

At nine-thirty, Maharos put on his jacket and
started out the door on his way to court. Halfway down the corridor, he heard
his name called. He turned to face Sandy Ehrlich, the Herald reporter.

Ehrlich said, “What have you got for me on the
Horner investigation?”

“Still working on it. Nothing new to report.”

“What’s the connection with Harwood in Canton?”

“I haven’t established that there’s any
connection.”

“How about the Graves case in Canton and the
Hamberger case in New Philadelphia?”

“Same answer.”

Ehrlich smirked. “How are you getting along with
Deputy Vandergrift?”

Maharos had been walking while Ehrlich at his
side, fired questions at him. He stopped and faced the reporter, bristling.
“Are you getting personal?”

“Not unless you are.”

Maharos smoothed Ehrlich’s tie, snugged the knot
close to the reporter’s chin. “My personal life is no concern of yours, do I
make myself clear?” He did not wait for an answer and walked off leaving
Ehrlich staring at his back. Just as he reached the door to the parking lot
Maharos turned. He was grinning. He called back down the hall, “You’re a good
reporter, Sandy. I respect you for that.”

It was three-fifteen when the judge leaned over
and excused Maharos. He had been on the witness stand from eleven-thirty until
twelve-fifteen. After the lunch recess, he returned but found that the lawyers
were closeted with the judge in his chambers arguing a plea-bargaining
arrangement. No agreement had been reached, so the legal maneuvering resumed.

Maharos smiled pleasantly as he passed the jurors
on his way out of the courtroom. Several avoided his glance; others sat
stone-faced with their arms crossed. The defendant glared at him when he
passed.

*
  
*
  
*

The sign on the door of the corner top floor
office in the two-story professional building on Boardman Canfield Road read:

Marc Sussman, PhD

Clinical Psychologist

In the lower corner of the glass panel was a
small sign that said:
 

Walk in. Please be seated

Maharos had made his appointment for five and was
five minutes early. No one else was in the small waiting room, furnished with a
love seat and two upholstered chairs. He leafed through a four-month-old copy
of People magazine while he waited. From an overhead speaker, an FM station
played music by Montovani. In three minutes, Maharos’ lids drooped.

At precisely five o’clock, he heard the sound of
a close-by corridor door close and moments later, the waiting room door to the
inner office opened. The face that peered out belonged to a fifty-year-old
rotund body wearing a rumpled shirt, the top button undone, the knot of the
orange and black tie pulled down. Marc Sussman’s smile showed teeth that were
encircled by a full dark beard and mustache. Thick eyebrows overhung his dark
eyes. With all that facial hair, none was left over for the top of his head. A
fringe of graying hair wreathed his shiny pate.

“How do you do, Alexander the Not-So-Great.”

“Same to you, shrinker-of-heads.”

Maharos followed Sussman into his office. He
glanced around at the cluttered cubbyhole. The single window was covered by a
thick, brown drape, a bookcase along one wall was crammed with books and bound
journals, the desk top was covered with papers, folders and stacks of unbound
journals. Maharos sank into one of the two upholstered chairs and motes of dust
rose from it and danced in the light from a desk lamp, the only light in the
room.

Maharos said, “I see your cleaning lady hasn’t
made it in again this year.”

Sussman shrugged, “You want a sharp office or a
keen mind? So, how’re things, Al?”

“Not too bad, Marc.”

“What do you hear from Marcie—and Annie?”

Sussman had counseled the Maharoses during their
marital problems. He was the psychology consultant to the Youngstown Police
Department, a relationship of twelve years. Old-timers thought it was bullshit.
They claimed they weren’t about to lose any sleep if they shot the ass off some
rapist or a knife-wielding junkie wired on PCP. On the other hand, even the
most hard-nosed admitted that the black-bordered plaque hanging in the
headquarters lobby included, in the dozen rows of photos, several of their late
comrades who had used their hard palates for targets.

“Marcie’s happy. Annie’s whatever a teenager is
supposed to be.”

“And you?”

“I’m doing okay.”

“Still eating and sleeping alone?”

Maharos grinned. “I didn’t come here to use your
couch for myself. Your sizeable bill goes to the city. I want your thoughts
about someone who’s going around juking some citizens.”

“ ‘Juking’? Who are we reading now, Leonard?
McBain? Or is this Youngstown P.D. new-speak?”

Sussman listened while Maharos told him about the
series of homicides. The psychologist scribbled notes in a long yellow pad on
his lap, occasionally grunting as Maharos talked. When he finished, Sussman
scanned his two pages of notes. Nodding, he said, “Heptamania.”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have to define it for you.”

“Hepta. That’s seven in Greek.”

“Smart lad. Heptamania is a syndrome that
describes someone who has a fixation on the number ‘seven’.”

“Why seven?”

“Seven is a very important number: seven days in
the week, you crap out—or win—with seven in dice, Rome was built on seven
hills, the guy in Grimm’s fairy tales wore seven league boots—“

Maharos broke in. “You sail the seven seas, drink
Seven-Up, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs—.“

“There you go. The guy you’re looking for is a
heptamaniac.”

“Guy?”

“Sure. You’ve heard me give lectures on the
subject. Serial killers are almost all white males in their early thirties with
histories of bad childhoods—broken homes, abandoned in infancy. This one has an
obsession-compulsion with the number seven. He commits his murders on the
seventh of the month, he delivers the deathblow by shooting them through the
seventh vertebra in the neck and the seventh vertebra in the thoracic spine. I
suppose if the lumbar spine had seven vertebrae instead of five, he’d shoot
them there too. He even delivers them to the place where he kills them along
Interstate 77.”

Maharos said, “Is heptamania common?”

“Well, there are a lot of people running around
who have an obsession-compulsion related to seven—they wash their hands seven
times, count to seven repeatedly throughout the day, chew each mouthful seven
times, and so on. But they’re otherwise normal—they don’t go around killing
people. In fact, they’re not even considered psychotic. Neurotic, maybe.”

Sussman stared at the ceiling in deep thought, tapping
his lips with his pencil. “I’m trying to think where I’ve seen a patient who
was a heptamaniac and who was also psychotic, a schizophrenic as I recall. It
might have been at Massillon State Hospital or Lima State, I’m not sure. I’ll
give it some thought. If I can remember I’ll let you know.”

Maharos started to get up. “Well, your profile is
a big help. I’ll have everyone in the department checking out the restaurants.
See who chews everything seven times.”

Sussman rocked back in his chair. “You know, there
are two things that puzzle me.”

Maharos sat back down.

“Most serial killers commit their murders at
random. They may have some pattern in selecting their victims, like erasing all
the prostitutes in the world, or homosexuals, or taking out the population of
priests. But for the most part they have no specific individuals in mind.
They’ll take anyone who fits their particular specialty. You’ve found a
connection between at least two of the victims, right?”