Murder by Candlelight (24 page)

"I'm not so naive as to
believe that so-called
talk
radio has fairness as a standard. And, in
particular, the Dan Jewell show. So I can
almost
believe you when you say you
were misrepresented." Scherer, at his prissy, lying
best.

To clarify the situation,
Z could have added that, though he'd told the truth about Scherer,
what had gone wrong was that Jewell had promised
not
to reveal it. On
thinking it over, decided this revelation would hurt more than
help.

"Mr. Slime," Scherer
minced, a disgusted reference to Jewell, "called my office, asking
for an interview for his Law Enforcement in Kansas City series.
Knowing
those
types, I naturally refused." The captain smiled evilly.
"Making me shrewder, media-wise, than you."

Z nodded.

Scherer was right.

"But, as I've said, that entirely
forgettable incident is not the reason I summoned you this late
morning."

"No?"

"No."

The conversation was about to turn
serious. Though how Z knew that, he couldn't tell. Something in the
feral slit of Scherer's mouth, the rigid set of shoulders, the
squinch of his narrow, rodent eyes.

"Before we begin, I think it only
fitting that I give you the chance to come clean."

"Clean?"

"Confession is good for the soul, as
the old saying goes." Putting his elbows on his fancy desk, the
captain tented his girlish fingers.

Z shrugged.

"No?"

Z shrugged again. The game -- whatever
it was -- had begun.

"Be advised that I am aware of your --
extralegal -- activities," Scherer started, sitting back, still
underplaying his attack. "Breaking and entering, for
one."

The captain was guessing. A good
guess, but just a guess.

"Attempting to corrupt police
officers."

He meant being a friend of Ted
Newbold.

"It's more than a little suspicious
that one of our ... how shall I put it ... less energetic
detectives manages to discover clues that others have failed to
find." He meant Z passing tips to Ted from time to time, tips
exchanged for "corrupting" favors.

"In countries where the police are
allowed, shall we say, more forceful procedures, men like you would
soon be off the streets." Scherer was beginning to warm himself
up.

"So you better not get smart with me,
mister. You better answer my questions and be quick about it!"
Launching himself forward, red-faced, the captain had gone from rat
to adder.

"OK." It paid to seem cooperative on
another person's turf.

"I'm ... sure." Scherer wasn't having
any of Z's helpful stance. "So, let me just ask, where you were
last night?"

The Q and A had begun.

That's what the cops called it. Q and
A: questions and answers. The trick was to have two or three
detectives ask the same or similar questions over and over in the
hopes of snarling up the suspect. Trap him into reversing himself.
According to the 87th precinct novels Z had read, a tactic that
worked pretty well. The only difference here was that Scherer was
doing the questioning by himself, Scherer always the one-man
band.

"Well?"

"Home."

"You say you were home last
night?"

"Yes."

"What time?"

"From nine until late
morning."

"It's late morning
now
."

"I just got here."

"Home from nine o'clock until
Detective Bayliss picked you up? Is that your story?"

"Yes."

"Anyone who can collaborate your
whereabouts?"

"Home alone."

"What were you doing?"

"Sleeping."

"No alibi," Scherer said, seeming to
be taking mental notes.

"So?"

"
I'll
ask the questions."

Z shrugged.

"You went to Northtown
High?"

"Sure."

"Were supposed to have been a big
football hero while there?"

Z shrugged.

"Had a lot of friends?"

"I guess." Though fewer
than most people seemed to think. People thought football players,
cheerleaders, musicians, and kids in the drama group had lots of
friends. But that wasn't the case. A lot of people said "Hi" to
"popular" kids; but you couldn't count any of them as
friends
. Of course Z had
what you could call "specialty" friends, guys he played football
with. As a sophomore, he'd tried to run track and had some "track"
friends. But as for "all-around" friends, he had only two. John
Dosso and Ted Newbold.

"Had some, shall we
say,
low
-
class
friends, even in high school, I'm told."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"You saying you didn't
know John Dosso,
allegedly
in the mob?" Scherer came down hard on
"allegedly."

"No."

"No, what?

"No. I'm not saying that.

"Dosso's dirty."

"Not in high school."

"Mr. All-American Boy."

Z shrugged.

"You know somebody named Lee
Dotson?"

"Who?"

"Lee Dotson."

Z might have heard the name, but
couldn't place it. "No."

"In high school?"

"Don't think so."

"Which is it? 'No', or
'Don't
think
so?'"

"May have heard the name. A long time
ago."

"In high school."

"Maybe."

"But not a close friend, is that what
you're saying?"

"Don't remember him."

"Didn't associate with him in high
school?"

"No."

"Or
after
high school?"

"No."

"Go out for a drink with him last
night?"

"No."

"Because you were alone at home." Said
as cynically as the captain's, Shirley Temple voice would allow.
"Except no one can collaborate your story about that."

"I was home."

"You wouldn't happen to know where Lee
Dotson lives, would you?"

Lee Dotson. Something about the name.
Z did seem to have a memory about a Lee Dotson in high school. A
little guy. Skinny. But they weren't friends. They might have
passed in the hall, going to class. But didn't play football
together. Z was certain the Dotson kid -- if Z had him right --
didn't play sports.

"Know where he lives?" Scherer
repeated.

"No." Something about the
name. And high school. Maybe, something
since
high school. ...... But Z
couldn't come up with a connection.

Until he'd gotten hung up
on the name Dotson, Z had been having as good a time as
anyone
being questioned
by a cop; a good time because Scherer plainly had nothing on Z,
meaning that Z could give truthful answers -- always the easiest to
remember -- and spit in Scherer's eye while doing so. But with the
name Dotson floating free in his mind, Z began to wonder if
Scherer
did
have
something that could be troublesome. If Z could only remember
....

Though Scherer was glaring at him,
there seemed to be no more questions.

"That it?"

"Just remember that I'm watching you,"
the captain shrilled. "There may be some who think you're Mr.
Clean, but I know better." Scherer gestured with his thumb. "Hit
the road!"

Scrambling up, Z was glad to do just
that!

Out the door, Z backtracked through
the governmental secretaries, then past the fine-paying line to get
out the back door. Only to stop at the pay phone just beyond the
building: used mostly to summon bail bondsmen.

Z dropped in his quarter and pushed
the buttons.

"Gladstone Public Safety."

"Ted Newbold."

"And your business ...?"

"Just get him, honey." Z was tired of
being nice to annoying people.

"WELL!" But she did as she was
told.

"Detective Ted Newbold."

"Teddy. Z."

"I'm pretty busy today,
Z." Passng Ted's office for the second time that morning, Z
knew
how
busy.

"Just a question. The name Lee Dotson
mean anything?"

"Dotson. Dotson." Ted's mind was so
rusty, it squeaked when turning over. "Oh, yeah."

"So?"

"Punk. Got himself killed."

"When?"

"Last night."

Z didn't like the sound
of
that
.

"He from our class in high
school?"

"Yeah. I think."

"Killed?"

"Yeah. Somebody broke into his place.
And when I say 'broke in' I mean broke in with a sledge. Then broke
his neck."

"You said, punk?"

"Con man. Gambler. Strictly small
time."

"Got a line on who snuffed
him?"

"It's Tabor's case." Said with
disgust. Ted didn't like the new hire -- probably meaning that
Tabor was more successful sucking up to Scherer than
Ted.

"But ...?" The police
department was so small, and murder so unusual in Gladstone, that
Ted should have heard
something
.

"Nothing yet. No prints that help. No
relatives. Lived alone in a crummy little house on North Georgia.
That's all there is."

"Killed. For sure?"

"The way I hear it, the punk's neck
was twisted so's he don't need no more rear view
mirrors."

"Tipped off about the
body?"

"No. Newsboy. Collecting. Saw the
broke door."

"Yeah."

"Why the interest?"

"Scherer pulled me in to ask me about
it."

"Good God, Z! You
involved?"

"No."

"Better not be. Scherer don't like you
as it is."

"Another thing he doesn't like is
detectives who sleep at their desk."

"What??" Detective that he was, Ted
would eventually figure out how Z knew that Ted had been dozing
off. It might take some time, but ....

"See 'ya."

The phone, having nothing better to
do, burped down Z's quarter as he hung up.

A second quarter had a cab coming. Z
deliberately brought and dropped. No chance of a cop ride
home.

* * * * *

Chapter 14

This time, it was at night, Z swimming
toward the surface from the depths of fitful sleep, trying to
escape from men in peasants' clothing. Men with pitchforks. Men
with torches. Z running for his life through an enchanted forest,
the ooze of the primeval floor sucking at his feet, slowing him
down. He was panting. Exhausted. Could hear the angry shouts of the
human pack, gaining on him, see the orange of torchlights reflected
from black trees, high above.

Night.

Evil.

He had done something evil but couldn't
remember what. It was only when he gathered himself to leap across
a forest rill that he realized what he was; saw his reflection in
an eddy of the slowly flowing stream; saw hair covering his face;
saw his long furry ears and pointed, black-leather nose.

A werewolf.

He was a werewolf! Chased by men determined
to put a wooden stake through his animal heart!

Because he had killed ....

Fighting clear of the dream's quicksand, his
mind popping to the surface, Z was panting, his heart pounding as
if he'd run a marathon.

Only a dream ... a dream ... already fading
....

Stupid.

Peasants with pitchforks chased
Frankenstein's monster; you drove a stake through a vampire's
heart; werewolves took silver bullets.

Dreams. So real at the time. So dumb, when
remembered.

The only remaining ... strangeness ... was
that Z's paralyzing dream had awakened him before the night had run
its course.

Meaning his dreams were getting worse?

Z lay there on the wadded sheet, trying to
cool down, wishing the thumping air conditioners in the living room
did a better job of pushing cold air down the hall into the
bedroom.

Except for the chugging old window boxes, it
was a quiet night. No wind. No rain.

No precipitation -- a TV word -- for ... Z
couldn't think how many days. But that was August in Kansas City,
temperature a hundred or more every day for two weeks, recurring
pieces on TV about the threat of heatstroke.