The Dark Country (6 page)

But this case was beginning to get to her. And that was surprising. Because ever since that first story about her in the
National Enquirer
had started the flood of requests back in '71, after she had phoned in her premonition about the killer of the student nurses in Ohio, she had seen it all, every kind of crime, and all of it was distasteful.

Yet . . . she wondered if she had been wise in picking this one, after all. There would be others in Santa Mara, other ways to help an old friend. A hit-and-run manslaughter, say. Or a gas station holdup, a liquor store shootout, a beating in the park. That sort of opportunity came up all the time.

But this.

There was, she couldn't help thinking, something truly nightmarish about it.

"So what were you getting at, Polly," said the Chief, taking a seat across from her at the interrogation table, "when you said there was another one?''

"Oh, there is," she said.

"Same M.O.? I mean—"

"I know what you mean," she said calmly. "Another body, female, buried in the same area. But he didn't use a gun this time. In fact, I'm not too clear on just how he did it. But she's in the same general location. You'll find her, I see it."

"Well, if there was one more unidentified on the list, we'll know about it soon enough. Meanwhile, I'd better get another team over to the Point. Is it our friend in the red shirt again?"

"Yes."

The Chief sighed and leaned back, like a man who has done an honest morning's work, and lit up one of the Viceroys. "Polly, I just don't know. I don't know how you do it."

"Neither do I, Jack," she said, reaching for the pack.

"Maybe I should say I don't know
why
you do it. I mean, what's in it for you? You know I can't pay more than your plane ticket—the Commission won't go for it. Of course I could pay you out of my own pocket—"

"Nonsense," she said. "I wouldn't hear of it." She frowned. "How can you smoke these, Jack?" She broke off the filter. "It does have its rewards, though."

"What? Donations, that sort of thing?"

"Oh, some of the families try to pay me, but I send it back. And some money does come in the mail. And if it doesn't have a return address, I guess I have to do something with it, don't I?'' She smiled and picked tobacco from her lip with a long red nail. "But it's not that much, really. Not as much as the magazines seem to think."

The Chief shook his head. "So. How about some lunch for now, Polly?" he said.

"Why certainly, Jack." She gave him a long stare. "As long as I'm here, I'm at your service."

"Right," said the Chief. He stood. "There's a coffee shop on the mall, or—"

"What's your office like?"

"I could have it sent over, sure. But—"

"I'd prefer it," she said. "That way we'll know as soon as anything breaks."

Hl .studied her. "You're a pro, aren't you, Polly? A real pro."

' 'Why, thank you, kind sir. I guess I just like to be where the action is."

"You'll get your action, all right," he said. "There'll be fireworks all over the place when we get him. //"we get him." "Oh, we'll get him," she said. "I can promise you that."

The afternoon crept by.

Then, a few minutes after four o'clock, the Chief shouldered his way into his office and locked the door. He turned to find her still sitting there, dragging on an unfiltered cigarette.

"This one is going to be a tough nut to crack, Polly," he said. His voice was hoarse.

She waited.

He leaned over the chair, his heavy arms supporting his tired body. "How do you figure it?" "Figure what?"

"We go through his apartment top-to-bottom—but there isn't a God damned thing, right? No bloody clothing, no muddy shoes, no diary, nothing. A big fat goose egg. So we're interviewing the people in the building, running the names in his little black book. But he's a smoothie, you know what I mean? One of those professor characters. Ronald Wilson Claiborn, Ph.D. Moustache, sideburns, you've seen the type. Lots of connections in the right places. Won't say word one till the ACLU gets here. The ACLU! Hell, he's gonna be talking false arrest, a press conference when he gets out, the whole bit." The Chief groaned. "Christ!"

"You're not going to cut him loose, are you, Jack." She said it as a statement.

There was an awkward pause.

"I can't hold him more than seventy-two hours, doll, you know that. Not unless we get another break."

"I'm sure this time, Jack," she said. "Don't look at me like that. What about the red shirt?"

"I'm not looking at you any way," he said wearily. "Yeah, we found the shirt. So what? The lab won't get anything. It's

been to the cleaners at least once—still in the plastic bag. Do you know how many red Pendletons there are in Santa Mara?" He shook his head. "So what else do I have? The way things stand now, I can't make a case. It's circumstantial. Or not circumstantial enough. Besides, no court in this country is going to swear in your testimony. I need this conviction, Polly."

Yes, she thought. So do I. How lucky for you, then, and for me, of course, that I'm able to give you just the kind of man you've secretly despised for so long: a college professor, an intellectual. The kind of suspect you've always wanted so badly to nail.

"I told you where to find the other body," she said with irritation.

His head continued to shake as he rested his huge buttocks on the edge of the desk. "Billy's team turned it up, all right." "But what?"

"But we can't make the ID. It's too decomposed. Hell, we can't even make the dental charts." "And why not?"

"Because we can't find the head." "Okay, okay," she said sharply.

Circumstantial, she thought. I should have known. You want circumstantial? I'll give you circumstantial.

"Set up your tape recorder again, Jack. I'm going to give you what you need."

A body. The body of a woman. The nude body of a young woman. The body quivering under the eucalyptus trees as the head is taken from it.

"That's right," said the Chief, after she had told them. "Then what? What does he do with the knife, Polly? Hide it? Does he forget to wipe it off? Or drop something? Yeah, that would do fine. A button, keys—anything. And what about the gun from the first time? Try, baby. For god's sake, try!"

She let his voice slip away in the mist and peered deeper into the vision. A figure running at the edge of the scene, scudding frantically down an embankment slick with putrefying leaves. But that would do her no good now; she let go of the image.

"The apartment," she whispered, trying hard to get there. The pink apartment. Number six. She searched, allowing her

mind to drift above the floor, above the rug like a disembodied eye. "Yes, I see ..." The Chief breathed heavily.

"I see ..." She forced herself to explore the dark corners and hidden places, directed by memory, though it had been such a long time. Then she said, "Yes. There, in the closet."

"But we checked—"

"Behind the paperbacks . . ."He used to do that years ago, toss his overshoes into the closet after a camping trip, and it was still there. "Mud. From his heels." The same kind? Yes, they would say that. They would be able to "prove" it somehow. Because they had to.

The Chief positioned the microphone closer to her. He held his breath.

"In . . . the alley. Empty cartons. Not empty. Yes. I see ... a shirt." It was another Pendleton, the one he had been wearing when he cut himself on a fishing trip, and he had finally thrown it out. And it was red. The only color he ever bought. She had been safe in saying that. She hoped the blood type would match. With any luck it would.

"That's it, Polly! Talk to me, babe. We're almost home."

The tape recorder hummed in the small room. Her hands tightened on the arms of the chair. She stiffened, pressing forward. The sounds in the next office, the rumble of traffic on the other side of the barred windows became the roar of the earth as it buckled under the rains and began to move, disgorging its dead, but she fought it back. Her hands went to her ears.

"No," she said.

Then her hands fell to the table once more, her fingers twitching. Slowly she regained control.

"The car. Black. Under the floorboard. The mat. Look there. See ..."

"What, Polly?"

"Leaves." Yes. Only one, but it would have to do. A single eucalyptus leaf carried on his shoe from somewhere and knocked loose by the pedal, slivered there under the edge who knows how long ago. But it was the same kind. It would do.

There were more details, like the fishing knife that had cut him accidentally, in the tackle box of the boat locker at the harbor, stained with his own blood. Again she hoped it would turn out to be the same type as the girl's. But already she had the feeling; she knew. It always worked out.

Finally she lowered her head. When she raised it again, the office was alive with activity. The Chief was snapping his fingers, spitting orders into the phone, hustling his men out the door. She rubbed her eyes.

"You did it, doll," he said. He winked at her.

She rose unsteadily.

"You're not leaving yet," he said. He sounded surprised.

"I have to," she said. "I've got a plane to catch. To Denver. They need my help. A child was strangled there last month and they don't have any leads, none at all."

"Hold it right there," said the Chief.

He left the office for a moment. She heard a muffled conversation, the sound of a locker clanging open. She thought she felt the ground begin to shift under her feet, far beneath the floor and the concrete foundation of the building, but she pushed it out of her mind.

"Here you go." The Chief thrust a carton of Lucky Strikes into her hands. "You know you deserve a hell of a lot more," he told her. "And you know I know it, too. Don't you, babe?" He reached into his coat for a check. It was already made out. He tried to fold her fingers around it.

"You know me better than that, Jack," she said. She pushed his hand away.

They walked together down the hall.

"Don't you even want to see him?" said the Chief.

"Who?"

"The creep. Aren't you curious, at least? Or is it already over for you?" She hesitated.

The Chief led her into a darkened room. When her eyes had adjusted she made out a row of seats, and a pane of glass that took up most of one wall. She reached for a cigarette with shaky fingers.

He stopped her hand. "Two-way mirror," he said.

She looked through to the man on the other side. He was seated at a table in a straight-backed chair. Tweed jacket, rust-colored wool tie loosened at the collar. He was being questioned by two detectives. His expression was serene and self-assured, as always. Even more confident than she remembered, in fact.

But that will change soon enough, she thought.

"That's him," said the Chief. "That's Claiborn."

Well, so long, Ronnie, she thought. Do you even remember me? You'll probably never know. If you do find out, you should be grateful, for in a way I've saved you. I've stopped you from treating anyone else the way you treated me so long ago. In a sense I've helped you, more than you know, more than you'll ever know. In the darkness, she blew him a kiss.

She went back out into the hall. The Chief walked her to the lobby.

"I reckon it's so long, then, till next time," he said. "Can't truthfully say I hope to need you again, Polly. It's always good to see you, though, you know that. What's next for you now? After Denver, that is?"

She sorted through her purse for her notebook.

"Oh, there was a kidnapping back in Rochester," she said. "And that terrible business in Kansas. And then, let me see, there was that funny drowning down in Malibu. Have you heard about that? I don't know if I can schedule them all. Chances are I'll be out to the Coast to see you again soon enough. Just wait and see."

The police station was now busy with noisy activity, switchboards and teletypes banging away full force.

"Listen," he said, "I could call the press in for you—set it up in a few minutes. All it takes is a couple of phone calls. That way you'd at least get some publicity out of this." When she didn't say anything, he said. "But I guess you don't need it, do you? And knowing you, Poll, I'd guess you don't want it, either."

"Justice," she said, "is its own reward. That and being able to do a favor for an old friend. ..."

She walked to the street. The night was coming fast. As she stood at the curb waiting for her police escort, she thought she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. But it was only the persistence of the vision: a lonely figure scrabbling down a hillside, frightened by the sudden realization of what he had done. She saw him clearly now for only an instant, like the glimmer of the first star of evening that disappears when you stare too long at it.

He was young, a poor Mexican or Puerto Rican by the looks of him, and his trousers were filthy with mud as she had said. She had told the truth about that part. But that was all. He had no car waiting, no apartment to go to; his shirt was blue denim,