Paint It Black (16 page)

Louis took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. There was too much information spinning in his mind. Did the killer stalk or was he an opportunist? Why did he paint them? Where did he live? What was his connection to Sereno Key? And why did he kill so viciously?

He rose, stretching his back muscles. He heard his bones crack as he made his way to the coffeepot. Wainwright was on a call on the south end of the Key, and Farentino hadn't shown up yet.

He poured a cup of coffee and stepped back to look at the bulletin board. Yesterday, they had moved it from Wainwright's office to a small adjoining conference room. That had been Emily Farentino's idea. She said she needed room for her files, room to work. So rather than let her share his desk, Wainwright had moved everything to the conference room. She had immediately taken over the table, spreading out files, photographs, and papers.

The bulletin board was still covered with the color-coded note cards. Wainwright dutifully kept it maintained. Emily ignored it, sticking to her carefully organized files. Officer Candy had walked in this morning and nicknamed the whole mess “the war room.”

Little did he know, Louis thought ruefully.

He stirred in three sugar packs. He took a sip, grimaced, and stirred in one more. His gaze drifted up to the photos on the bulletin board of the homeless man's pulverized face. The gruesome photo was becoming as familiar as his own face in the mirror. It was with him day and night. He stared at it now, his neck muscles tightening. Gone . . . just gone. No eyes, no mouth. It was as if the killer had wanted to erase him.

Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this. Not all the grisly pictures in the manuals, not the decomposed body found in a field that he had responded to back when he was a rookie. Not even what had happened in Michigan.

Was evil born or bred? He had heard other cops talk about it, but he had always figured it was something best left to shrinks and priests. But now, he found the question lurking in the back of his mind. The rational part of him, the part that had read all the books and heard all the experts, that part of him believed monsters were made, molded from shortcircuited brain chemistry and society's illnesses.

But after he had seen the homeless man's brutalized face, the other part of him, that vestige that still held all the primal fears and the dark terrors of childhood, that part of him was feeling the brush of something cold.

“Louis!” Officer Candy hollered from the front office. “I think you better come out here.”

Louis put the cup down and went to the door. The outer office was a square room with a couple of desks, a radio console, where the dispatcher sat, and a counter for complaints.

The double glass entrance doors were bleached with morning sunlight and all Louis could see was a giant silhouette against them. He knew who it was immediately and he tightened, adrenaline surging forward. But he didn't move.

The silhouette didn't move either.

He heard Candy's voice to his left. “Chief's five minutes away.”

Louis kept his eyes on the doors. “What about the sheriff's department?” he asked softly.

“Ten minutes.”

Louis squinted into the light, trying to decide how to play this. The dispatcher glanced at him and he motioned for her to stay still.

The silhouette shifted slightly and let out a breath that sounded like a heater fan kicking on.

“Levon,” Louis said firmly. “Levon, come over here. Nice and slow.”

Levon didn't move.

“Levon,” Louis said, “did you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Louis took a step toward a chair. “Levon . . . please.”

Levon hung his head, then started toward Louis. He had to turn to get through the doorway. Louis kept his hand on the chair, but moved behind it.

Levon came into the light of the office and Louis could see his eyes were swollen and his lips were cracked and dry. He was barefoot and moved as if his legs were made of lead.

When he got to Louis, he held out his wrists. Louis stared at them, then glanced backward for Officer Candy. Candy stuck a set of his cuffs in his hand and Louis snapped them over Levon's large wrists.

Louis looked up into Levon's face. The whites of his eyes bulged like Ping-Pong balls, but Louis wasn't sure if it was from drugs or fear. But he wasn't taking any chances.

“Levon, I have to put you in a cell. Do you understand that?”

“I hear ya.”

Louis took one arm and Candy hurried ahead to open all the doors. Levon moved along silently and by the time Louis got to the cell door, Candy was waiting.

Levon went inside and immediately lay down on the bunk, letting out a deep-throated groan. Candy closed the door and Louis followed him out. They closed the outer door.

“Shit,” Candy breathed.

Louis glanced at him. “Right.”

The front door opened and Farentino walked in. She wore white cotton pants that looked as if they had been wadded into a ball for weeks, and a purple shirt. She stopped short when she saw their faces.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“We have Levon Baylis in custody,” Louis said.

She swung her briefcase onto the counter. “Have you questioned him yet?”

“Waiting for Wainwright,” Louis said.

They heard the screech of tires outside, and seconds later the glass doors opened and Wainwright came in. He stopped short, glancing around.

“Where is he?”

“In the lockup,” Candy said.

“Anyone hurt?”

“He surrendered, Dan. Just like that.”

Wainwright hurried past them, and they followed him back to the cell block. Wainwright stopped in front of the cell. Levon was curled into a ball on the bunk. They could hear his labored breathing.

“Anyone Mirandized him yet?” Wainwright asked.

“No, sir.”

Wainwright began the speech. “You have the right—”

Levon let out a long, agonizing wail that ricocheted off the walls. Louis glanced at Wainwright. “Think he's sick?”

“You have the right to remain silent—”

“Ugghhgg!”

“Fuck,” Wainwright said.

“Berta!” Levon screamed. “Ber-taaaaa!”

Louis turned. “I'm calling Mrs. Tatum.”

 

 

They watched silently from the corridor, staring into the dimly lit cell. Levon had asked that the overhead light in his cell be turned out and at first Wainwright had objected. Louis had turned it off anyway.

Roberta had made them wait for Bledsoe before questioning Levon, and he now stood next to Louis in the corridor, his eyes wide as he watched Levon.

Roberta was the only one Levon had allowed into the cell. She stood facing him, shoulders straight, hands clasped in front of her.

“Levon,” she said, “it's Berta.”

He emerged from the shadows of the lower bunk, planting his feet on the concrete floor. He sat hunched and frightened, his bald head shiny in the thin light.

“Levon,” Roberta said again.

He lifted his face to hers. Louis thought he could see the dried streaks of tears on his cheeks, but wasn't sure.

“Why did you come here?” Roberta asked. “Why did you turn yourself in?”

“I'm guilty, Berta. You know I am.”

“Guilty of what?” she asked.

“Walter's dead. Walter's dead. I'm guilty.”

“Did you kill Walter?” Roberta asked.

Levon hung his shoulders, his long arms almost reaching the floor. “I must've.”

Bledsoe nudged Louis. “He's crazy,” he whispered. “No chair. Slam dunk.”

Louis shot him a look to silence him. He looked back at Roberta.

She was leaning over Levon now. “Don't say that if you didn't do it, Levon. You either did or you didn't.”

She took his chin and forced him to look up at her. “Tell me what happened to Walter,” she said firmly.

“I killed him. I beat him with these,” Levon said, holding up both fists. “I beat him with these. I'm sorry, Berta. I'm so sorry.”

Louis could see Roberta's body go rigid and he thought about intervening, but he waited.

“Why?” Roberta whispered.

Levon whimpered, choking on his words. “He was mean, Berta, mean.”

She smacked him lightly above the ear. “Tell me the truth. Can't you for once tell the truth?”

Levon recoiled, grabbing his head. “Stop it. Stop it! I'm telling the truth. I killed Walter. I killed him. I
know
I did it. I just don't remember.”

Louis let out a long sigh, glancing at Emily. She was watching intently, but was no longer writing in her notebook. Louis looked back at Roberta and caught her eye, motioning her toward the bars.

“Ask him about the others.”

“Not so fast,” Bledsoe said. “He confesses to the others, you'll fry his ass.”

Emily pressed forward. “I don't think he knows about the others, Mr. Bledsoe. He won't be able to tell us anything.”

Roberta eyed them hard, then glanced at Wainwright, standing by the edge of the cell, near the wall.

“You don't know Levon,” Roberta said softly. “He's a confessing fool. All his life, always taking the blame. For me. For our daddy. For damn near everything. What makes you think this will be different?”

“Because we'll know if he's lying,” Emily said.

Roberta moved away and walked back to Levon. “What about the others?” she asked.

“What others?”

“The others!” Roberta said loudly. “That man from Ohio and the homeless man! What about them?”

Levon's eyes took on a confused, empty look. “Did I kill them?” he asked.

Louis came forward. “Why did you paint them, Levon?”

Levon's vacant eyes shifted to Louis. “Paint? Paint what?”

Louis glanced at Roberta. “They were painted,” he said softly.

“Painted?” she said.

“I'll explain later,” Louis said. “If Levon did it, he would have known about it.”

Roberta's shoulders slumped slightly with relief and she moved to her brother. She pulled his head to her belly, and held his neck. Louis could hear his muffled whimpers.

Wainwright turned away. “What a crock of shit,” he muttered, moving past them. He shoved open the door to the office.

Louis and Farentino followed. Bledsoe stayed with Roberta. When Louis and Farentino went into Wainwright's office, he was sitting in his chair, staring at the wall.

“He seemed confused,” Emily said.

“That doesn't prove anything,” Wainwright said. “It could all be a put-on. He's a damn good actor when he wants to be. Believe me. Last time I had him in this jail, one minute he was making sense, the next he was tearing the toilet off the wall.”

“He's disturbed,” Emily said. “I'd like to find out more about his illness.”

“It's not an illness, Agent, his brain is scrambled,” Wainwright said. “And you know what makes this really tragic? He'll never see the chair or even a jail for these murders.”

“Mentally ill people don't belong in the chair, Chief,” Farentino said sharply.

“I suppose you think we should study them like goddamn rats in a lab?”

“In a hospital.”

“He confessed,” Wainwright said firmly.

“I'd hardly call it a confession,” Farentino said.

“He's guilty, I know the man. He's capable of extreme violence.”

“I'm not saying he's not. I just don't think he's our killer.”

“
Our
killer? Jesus . . .” Wainwright let out a low laugh.

Louis stepped forward. “Enough!”

They both stared at him.

“Listen to you, both of you,” Louis said. “We have a suspect in there. Let's deal with him. And each other, for Christ's sake.”

Wainwright was still staring at Louis. “Do you agree with her?” he asked.

Louis hesitated. “Everyone is a suspect until cleared,” he said. “Levon needs to be examined and—”

“Take a stand, Kincaid,” Emily said firmly.

Louis looked Wainwright in the eye. “I don't think Levon's the killer.”

Wainwright drew back, just a step. His eyes moved from Louis to Emily with a sudden coolness Louis could almost feel on his skin.

“We still hold him on the other charges—resisting arrest and evading,” Wainwright said in a tight whisper. “Is that okay with you, Agent, or do you want to send him home to Mommy?”

“Lock him up for the rest of his life, if you want. It's not going to make him guilty of these murders,” Emily said.

Wainwright shook his head slowly. “I need some air,” he said.

Louis waited until he had gone through the door before he turned to Emily.

“Why did you have to make it confrontational?” he said.

“What do you mean?” Emily said.

“We've got Levon. You could evaluate him, we could investigate Van Slate and anyone else. Why do you have to push so hard?”

“Someone has to,” she said.

“Get off his back, Farentino,” Louis said.

“He's in over his head,” she snapped. She started toward the conference room. “Maybe you are, too.”

Louis spun away in anger.

Damn her. Damn Wainwright. Damn Levon for not being the goddamn killer.

He drew in a breath, hands on hips. Shit, this was falling apart. Mobley was going to get the case by default if they kept this up. He went quickly into the conference room. Emily was sorting through some files.

“Hey, Farentino,” he called.

She looked up. “What?”

“Truce. Come to the Dodies' for dinner. That's where I'm staying,” he said. “Dan's coming. The Dodies would like to meet you.”

She stared at him. “I . . . I'm not good at parties—”

“It's just us, Farentino,” Louis said. “Just cops.”

Her small shoulders rose and fell. She looked out toward the outer office, shook her head slowly, and looked back at Louis.