Season of the Assassin (13 page)

‘Jimmy?’ Natalie asked gently.

‘Oh, my. You take my breath away,’ I said, smiling. 

She knew I was stealing lyrics from one of her favorite songs. It was in that movie with Tom Cruise.
Top
Gun
.

‘You do the same for me,’ she said softly, and then she ran her fingernails gently through the hairs on my chest.

‘You are one hairy guinea,’ she teased. ‘Indeed…You want me to Nair off this shit?’

‘Not on your life, wop…Your pulse is racing. Did I do that?’

She had hold of my right wrist. As if she were a nurse, listening in on me.

‘I been taking my medication, Doc.’

Which reminded me to find out about those prescriptions for Theresa Rojas.

‘He’s been bothering you, Jimmy. Don’t lie to me.’

‘Lie to you about what, Red?’

‘Anglin. Everybody knows you’ve been a little tense over this guy.’

‘Sure. It’s nothing to worry about.’

‘You better have a checkup. Your pulse is irregular. I was a nursing student for a year. Remember?’

‘Really? It’s off?’

‘Not terrible. Just a little off. See the man, lover. Let go of this Anglin. Even if you don’t catch him, someone else will. All else failing, Jimmy, God’ll whack him Himself.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘Really believe what?’ 

‘Do you really believe God deals with the perps who come floating his way?’

‘Sure, Jimmy. We’re Catholics. You recall all that parochial-school stuff?’

God would take care of Carl Anglin. I said it over and over in my head, but it didn’t relieve the pressure. Now I could feel my heartbeat. Not a good sign. The blood-pressure medication must not have been working. Or it wasn’t a sufficiently high dosage.

Anglin had a hold of me, inside and out. I could feel his grip on my temples, inside my chest. It was a crushing embrace he’d slapped on me. Like a bear hug.

‘God will take care of Carl Anglin,’ I said out loud.

‘I’ll get you a couple of Tylenol,’ Natalie insisted as she crawled hurriedly out of bed.

[October 1968]

I feel them coming up behind me. I want to walk everywhere with my weapon drawn. The shrinks call it paranoia, but I think it’s plain, healthy fear. They’ve defiled my house, whoever the hell-they-are. They broke in to kill me or to scare me and they sure as hell accomplished the latter.

I install new dead bolts on all the doors. I have new clasps put onto the windows to keep them locked. But anyone in the police knows that locks won’t keep anybody out if they really want in. It’s like with car boosters. You can put an air-raid horn under your hood and it won’t keep them from stealing your automobile. It’s just that spending some money and time on security gives you a feeling that at least you’re trying.

Eddie hasn’t had the pleasure of an intruder, but I’ve got him wary. He’s sent his wife and kid to his mother’s until things calm down or until we grab Anglin.

I still tail Carl. I let him see me once in a while. He smiles at me when he catches a glimpse, but I don’t react with similar good humor. I just watch him to let him know we haven’t let go of him. The strange thing is that we haven’t heard from his lawyer about harassing him. He must still be amused by our stakeouts. He’ll get bored with our presence soon.

*

Andrew Callan’s death weighs heavily on me. I can’t dismiss him as a suicide, even if I were to set aside his sister’s plea. I don’t like his crime scene. It’s too organized, too clean, too readymade. Whoever prepared it was someone who understood Homicide investigative procedures. They laid everything out too neatly for us.

I go to our lab and ask them to reexamine the contents of Callan’s stomach. I ask them to look at his blood again. Even though this is a slightly unusual request, Dr Brisco humors me and says he’ll have a look, on his own time. I tell him not to mention the favor to anyone. Brisco eyes Eddie and me oddly, but he understands this is about the murder of someone from the Bureau, so he suppresses his curiosity.

‘What could they do him with that wouldn’t leave a trace?’ Eddie asks as we drive toward Anglin’s place to administer our daily dose of harassment.

‘Digitalis,’ I tell him.

Eddie nods. It’s true, sometimes it doesn’t leave much of a trace.

‘Curare. That native stuff they put on the darts in the jungle. It paralyzes the victim. Cuts off their air,’ I suggest.

‘Spooks doing spooks?’ Eddie asks.

‘Callan wasn’t a spook. He was just an FBI agent without any particular connections. He was disconnected on Anglin, that’s for goddamn sure.’

We head toward the murderer of all those young girls. It’s become something of a ritual for the two of us. 

Dr Brisco makes a personal stop at my office on his way to lunch the next day. He motions for me to come walk with him. Eddie is reading
Sports
Illustrated
in the shithouse in order to clear his mind for detective work.

We walk down toward the cafeteria. I stop at the soda machine and get us both Cokes. Brisco takes a sip, and then he indicates that we need to keep moving.

‘You aren’t wired, are you, Jake?’ he asks, smiling.

‘What’d you find?’

‘Just the slightest of traces. But whoever did the original autopsy — and it wasn’t me — missed it. Curare. That South American stuff that the Jivaro Indians use. Modern medicine uses it now, but the Indians originally employed it to stun their prey, whatever they were hunting. But if you use too heavy a dose, it shuts down the victim’s breathing so that you suffocate them. It leaves barely a trace of itself, Jake. The first M.E. might really have missed it legitimately. You have to be actively looking for it, it’s so easy to miss…Whatever. It looks like your man Callan was stunned with this stuff before he was fed the pills that supposedly killed him. In order to get curare into him, someone might have given it to him in a drink. Or they could’ve just barely pierced his flesh with a fine-point needle. I don’t know. We should probably exhume the remains.’ 

‘They cremated him three days ago.’

‘Then it’s lucky they held onto his blood, his serum workups.’

‘They seem to be very confident people, Doctor. They broke into a Homicide lieutenant’s house. They murdered an FBI agent. That’s just some of the small stuff they’ve probably done.’

‘Well, Jake, I don’t know what else to tell you, now that the body’s gone. We’ve got the blood, true, but we would’ve needed some more of Agent Callan to bring anything into a court of law. I’m sorry.’

Brisco takes another sip of his soda and walks away from me.

*

I tell Eddie about the doctor’s findings. He already knows about the cremation, so we’re left with our peckers hanging out in the wind. Which is becoming a familiar routine in this case.

‘Maybe God don’t want us to solve this one, Jake,’ Eddie laments.

I too am beginning to think cracking this case ain’t in the cards for either of us.

*

Jimmy’s letters talk mostly happy talk. He’s seen Bob Hope and some other USO shows last Christmas, and he’s looking forward to Hope coming back again. He hates the guy’s jokes, but his show reminds Jimmy of home. The broads that tour with the comedian are a little cheesy and they’re aging poorly, he writes, but it reminds of him of being a kid and watching Sunday-night television with Eleanor, and with me whenever I was home on that evening.

He’s definitely signing up for the second tour because the money will free him from college loans. I wrote him and told him I’d give him the cash — no repayment required — but he refused, saying he appreciated my gesture but he wanted to come out free and clear on his own. The second combat tour will pay his way.

This country is hanging out in the breeze, like my pecker on the Anglin case. It’s anyone’s guess which way we’ll blow. That’ll depend on the breeze. We’ve got hippies and yippies and dippies and shitbirds of every stripe, of every attitude and sentiment. We’ve got politicals and apoliticals and outright skullfucks who just want to get high and get laid. I can’t keep them all separate in my head. I can’t figure out who’s for real and who’s a lying sack of middle-class white kid with too much free time on his or her hands. I’ve given up trying to make the distinction. In my business everyone’s really equal. They look much the same when I arrive on scene. That gray pallor. That waxlike look. The smell comes on a little later, like rigor, but human rot is the most unique stink on earth. When we dig up some corpse or open a door behind which lies a victim, the reek immediately hits your nostrils. It’s at that point that you deny we are God’s finest creation. We sure are his smelliest.

Maybe all this signals the end of the world. Or perhaps it’s just my end, the end of my era. Frankly I’m tired, and like Scarlett’s boyfriend, I don’t much give a damn anymore. Except for the safety of my son, Jimmy. I want him to come home. I want his war to be over, and I don’t give a shit who wins the conflict. Maybe it’s time the country came down from the high we got from my war. Then we felt we could whip anyone — even after Korea. If Truman had let MacArthur drop those bombs across that Yalu River…

I’m just weary. My tiredness makes me depressed. And so does the booze. I may be an alcoholic, but I’m aware that the hooch is a depressant. I spend my off hours in a South Side saloon with a noble descendant of Plato and Aristotle. My wife does not share my bed any longer. My son who is biologically my nephew is in mortal danger in southeast Asia, fighting in a war I cannot comprehend, and my own life centers on catching a killer. A killer no one seems to want me to snag.

I drink, I sleep, I work. And in my nostrils I know it can’t go on like this very much longer.

I take my suspicions about Agent Callan’s demise to the head of the Chicago branch of the FBI, Dennis Murtaugh. He receives my information with a look of genuine shock on his face.

Murtaugh has a reputation for being straight, but I don’t know him personally. I’m wondering how all this crap and corruption could be going on around him without him being aware of it. But I understand how it’s possible.

‘Curare?’ he asks.

Eddie makes the leather of the chair next to me squeak. I’m a bit uncomfortable too, but I didn’t know where else to turn. I know my own brother coppers too well. I know about the power a dollar sign wields.

‘I know how it sounds, but there it is,’ I tell Murtaugh.

‘We’ll have to look into it,’ he says.

I sense I’m being dismissed.

‘This is an outrage. I want to thank you for coming forward, and I hope I can depend on your cooperation in the coming days, Lieutenant Parish.’

He stands up to shake hands. We’re out of his office in another ten seconds.

*

‘He either thinks we’re nuts, or he’s part of the whole deal,’ Eddie concludes.

‘I vote for we’re nuts.’

‘Jake, what’d you expect? This is all after the fact. The official Medical Exam said he died of an overdose of those goodies in his apartment. Now, in some clandestine meeting, another physician lays this curare on you. What’d you think Murtaugh was going to do?’

‘Slap my hand like my favorite uncle and tell me to have a nice day.’

I pull the unmarked squad car out into the city streets.

*

I can’t sleep at night because I hear noises in the house. So I buy us a dog. One of those border collies that are trained to herd critters on farms. They’re supposed to be extremely intelligent, as far as canines go, and they’re supposed to make excellent watchdogs.

So I buy a year-old pup that I name Sonny. He simply looks like a Sonny.

He’s extremely affectionate. Wants to nuzzle and kiss me all the time. Even Eleanor falls in love with this pooch. And he falls for my wife as well. Sonny is very territorial. He has pissed on every tree and bush around our bungalow, and he lets us know when anyone’s about. He’s better than any dead bolt, and he’s much better company. The only thing he can’t do is draw me an Old Style and a shot of Jim Beam.

So I’ve fallen in love with a dog. He gives me something to look forward to when I get home. Eleanor takes him everywhere with her, everywhere they’ll allow an animal, at least. And she’s written Jimmy about Sonny, too. Jimmy never had a dog when he was a child. When I write my son, I tell him I’ll get Sonny mated with some excellent bitch and he can have a pup of his own.

Sonny keeps watch for me now. He’s a very light sleeper. When I get up in the night, I never catch him zeeing out. He’s always alert when my eyes are open. Sonny’s a comfort. I’m becoming attached to him like he’s the son I never had.

*

I’m at the hospital ten minutes after I get the call. Anglin’s had a stroke, and no one knows how bad he is.

He’s at Christ Mercy. We were on the streets when we received the radio message.

‘Maybe the fucker’ll die,’ Eddie says, and smiles.

‘Without admitting what he did?’

‘There you have me,’ my partner concedes.

When we arrive at Emergency the doctor wants to know why we’re there. 

‘We’re friends of the family,’ I say, smiling ingratiatingly.

The doctor is not convinced.

‘You can’t see him.’

So I show him my badge, and so does Eddie.

‘You still can’t see him,’ the physician tells us.

‘I really don’t want to hold his hand. But if it looks fatal in there, I’d appreciate a moment with him before it’s too late.’

‘You want a confession from a dying man?’ the ER doctor demands.

‘Yeah. He’s killed seven young women. If he’s going to go, I want to put a period to his case.’

The physician stares at me and shakes his head.

‘I thought he was cleared of the charges.’

‘He was. I don’t care. He killed them.’

Suddenly the ER resident looks at me and sees something in my eyes. What I see in
his
eyes is a fear that somehow I’ll take out my obsession on him, instead of on Anglin.

‘All right. If he goes bad, I’ll let you see him before he checks out. I really shouldn’t…But all right.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ I tell him, holding out my hand. He shakes it very tentatively, and then he withdraws back into the room where Anglin lies. 

Two hours later, the doctor, Dr Arnold, reappears and tells us it was all a false alarm.

‘Food poisoning. No stroke. He ate some bad mayonnaise at a restaurant. He seized up from the pain, but it wasn’t a stroke…We’ll clean his insides out, and he’ll be fine.’

‘Can I see him after they purge him?’ I ask.

‘I guess so. All right.’

*

We wait another three hours and finally Anglin’s back in the land of the living, having had his stomach pumped.

‘Hello, Carl,’ I say.

He looks up blearily.

‘Jesus Christ. Get out of here, will you? I’m in no condition to — ’

Eddie’s outside the door. Standing guard.

‘You could relapse, Carl. Do you know how easily that could happen?’

Carl Anglin is a strong, lanky, athletic man, but he is very weak from the purge. He understands my threat, and he tries to sit up.