The Empty (28 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Charles Chambers had made a call to his old buddy, Hal Holmberg, at Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, after which Holmberg had made a series of calls, and then—finally!—after nearly three hours, he’d gotten back to Charles. “Yeah, Homely, what did you find?” said Charles as he picked up the phone.

Holmberg snorted derisively at the use of his old nickname. “You were right, Chuck. There was a suspect apprehended this afternoon near Sahara and Nellis. And, yeah, we ran his prints against those taken after the attack on the paramedic. They’re a match. It looks like we can tie this guy to the string of weird murders, too. I haven’t seen him myself, but from what I hear, he’s a real lunatic. The mayor scheduled a press conference for three o’clock to announce the capture.”

“Any idea who the guy is?”

“Nah.”

“He didn’t carry any ID?”

Holmberg snorted. “ID? The only thing he had on was one of those silk Hawaiian shirts. Apparently that was all ripped up and covered in blood. The guy’s a real freak, Chuck. I bet he’d make Dahmer or Bundy seem stable.”

“I need to see him.”

“Not a chance, buddy.”

Charles massaged his forehead with thumb and forefinger and closed his eyes. “Listen, Hal. This guy is somehow connected to Julia’s disappearance. I’ve got to talk with him.”

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “You don’t know that, Chuck. You don’t even know for sure that Julia’s actually missing. She’s probably just off trying to get her head on straight.”

Charles shook his head, even though Holmberg couldn’t see this over the phone. “No,” he said with some edge to his voice. “Trust me, Hal. She is missing. She’s been abducted, and I’ve got to get to her before something terrible happens.”

“Listen, all you have is a bunch of wild suppositions you’ve tied together based on rants from nerdy kids on the internet.”

Charles felt like screaming at his old friend. He didn’t have time for this. Taking a deep controlling breath, he said, “Yeah, and yet it all fits. Think about it. This guy’s fingerprints match those of the patient that attacked the EMT. All of the names fit together. Julia went to meet with a Donald Baker because she thought he’d have insight into what this guy had done to her patient. The guys on the internet claim Baker came into town to find a killer rogue. They also claim he’s associated with someone named Tresset Bremu. When I called Baker’s hotel room, the kid who answered said Baker had taken Julia with him to see Bremu. Yes, the fringe stuff is wacky, but the core elements all fit. I’m guessing they’re all connected to some crazy cult or radical movement.”

“You think our guy is this rogue Baker is after?”

“Absolutely. He’s probably some random cult member that flipped from some drug-induced mind control mumbo jumbo and this Baker’s worried he’ll expose the group for what it is.”

“I don’t know on that one, Chuck. Seems like you’re filling in your own gaps. From what I hear about this guy, he’s some kind of freak. But listen, I still can’t help you. The suspect has killed a cop; he’s terrorized the city over the past week. This is a big media story. The only people getting to that guy now are the DA’s office and his own attorney.”

* * * *

Charles would almost certainly lose his license over this. He’d tried more legitimate channels, had attempted to call in every favor owed in an effort to be assigned as the killer’s public defender. But this was a high-profile case. No judge would assign the biggest murder case of the decade to a guy who cuddled up next to a 1040 form every night. So Charles had gone the not-so-legitimate route. No one knew who the killer was. His fingerprints didn’t match any within the national database. He had no identification, had refused to give his name or any other pertinent information. So, Charles made up a name for him, claiming to be the “family attorney,” and demanding to see his client. He knew the ruse wouldn’t hold. At some point, the man’s true identity would come out and the whole charade would tumble around Charles’ ankles. But, he didn’t actually want to defend the guy. All he needed was to see him once, to talk with him, to find out where Baker had taken Julia. After that, the pieces would fall where the pieces fell. Charles didn’t have time to waste while the system determined that Julia was actually missing. She could be in real danger, and every hour that went by was an hour that made finding her alive and unharmed less likely.

The Clark County Detention Center was a large, block-like, six-story building located in the heart of downtown Las Vegas only a couple of miles up from the northernmost part of The Strip and only blocks from the Fremont Street Experience. It was unlikely that many tourists knew how close they were to murderers and rapists, robbers and addicts, and this was probably for the best. Las Vegas was, after all, a city dependant on tourism. Upon entering the building, Charles met with some opposition. Playing dumb to the fact that his “client” had not yet revealed his name to the authorities, he’d produced his business card and requested an audience with the prisoner. Of course, he was denied.

“Look,” said Charles to the jowly gray-haired desk sergeant. “My client’s name is Jake Miller.” He’d borrowed the name from his second cousin, an actual client should someone choose to check. “Will you please try again? I’m certain he was brought in this afternoon.”

The man looked up at Charles through tired gray eyes, exhaled through his nose, and typed the name into his computer once again. “We don’t have him,” said the sergeant.

“Yes you do,” said Charles. “Listen, this is the guy accused of the murder spree. The mayor’s giving a press conference concerning his arrest in another hour. I’m the family attorney, and have been sent here by the suspect’s very concerned parents to insure that my client’s rights are not violated. As such, it is impetrative that I consult with Mister Miller prior to the public announcement of his arrest.”

The sergeant gazed at Charles for a long moment, his rheumy eyes seeming to scrutinize him. If he was anything like most law enforcement officials, he wouldn’t be a fan of defense attorneys—especially one defending an alleged cop killer. “Word is your client’s whacked,” said the dreary man.

“Well, thank you for that astute professional diagnosis,” countered Charles. “But even mentally ill suspects are entitled fair representation.”

A snort, a grumble, and the sergeant picked up the phone receiver.

The battle did not end with the desk sergeant, but Charles continued to hammer his way through the hierarchy, claiming his client was entitled to meet with his attorney prior to the scheduled mayoral press conference, that his rights were being violated, and any delay could give the defense means to have the charges dismissed. The district attorney’s office felt his claims were weak, but apparently not so weak as to prohibit him from seeing the prisoner. Using the press conference as a time-sensitive event had been his salvation. If the authorities had had more time to consider the situation he’d surely have been booted out and instructed never to return.

Instead, Charles now sat in a small bleak room on a molded plastic chair staring at an equally bleak room on the opposite side of Plexiglas. The air was somewhat stale and slightly chilly, which, in the Las Vegas summer, could be considered a welcome change. But Charles liked the heat; it made him feel alive, on edge. Cool air caused him to feel tight and off his game. In truth, it wasn’t the air conditioning that bothered him, but rather the fact that this was taking so blasted long. Julia was missing. He was convinced she was in danger, and here he sat waiting on bureaucracy to plod along. He was fidgety, nervous. Every few seconds he looked at his watch, not so much checking the time as releasing pent up energy.

Charles rose, moved away from the counter with its clear impenetrable shield. He crossed the room, once, twice, pulled the chair out, sat, glared at his watch, and rose to repeat the process. How could he have let Julia go? If he hadn’t been so stupid, if he’d been the husband he was supposed to be, she would have confided in him concerning this patient. She may have sought his legal opinion. Maybe she would have brought him with her to meet Baker. Charles was ready to scream. What was taking so long?

He turned toward the Plexiglas barrier. The door was just closing in the adjoining room.

A room that was no longer empty.

Charles couldn’t help but gasp at the sight of his “client.”

The man Charles had dubbed Jake Miller was no longer naked, but wore prison orange. Seeing the suspect, the way he flayed about, hopping and stalking, Charles wondered how anyone had managed to get him dressed. “Jake” was a man of about five foot ten or eleven, and was thin to the point of emaciation. There was a lump on the left side of his chest, almost as if he had one female-like breast. There were random patches of hair on his nearly bald head, one here, another there. These stuck out at impossible angles. The man’s skin was pale, nearly blue. Charles could actually see the veins of the prisoner’s neck and face.

The face!

The forehead sloped back as might a German shepherd’s. As to the ears: one was slightly elongated—both were vaguely triangular with wiry strands of hair poking this way and that. The man’s nose seemed at a loss for definition. It just seemed a blob of malformed flesh above the slightly cleft mouth. There were no discernable lips, and the mouth itself seemed to pull back into a tight grimace revealing a set of teeth, some broken, many uneven, and all of which seemed unnaturally long. The man’s cheeks were mismatched. One was high and bony; the other seemed devoid of structure, as if, perhaps, there was no bone beneath.

Recovering from his initial shock at the grotesque sight, Charles stepped forward, watching the inmate lope from one end of the room to the other and back again. There was a microphone setup and he could hear the man grunt and jabber in a high breathy tone as he paced and spun and hopped. His movements were awkward, an exaggeration of the type Charles had seen with long-term drug addicts or alcoholics. But there was a strange sense of something else as well, perhaps an unusual center of gravity, the way he leaned, almost hunching. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and surely this contributed to his awkward gait. But even so, the desk sergeant’s taunt, “Word is your client’s whacked,” rang in Charles’ mind.

“Hello,” Charles said, as he stood staring at the grotesquely odd man. “Hello,” he repeated, this time louder and accompanied by three sharp taps to the Plexiglas.

The inmate did not respond, but simply pivoted this way and that, grunting and jabbering, spittle dangling from the corners of his mouth, like a rabid dog in a Stephen King movie.

“Hello,” hollered Charles once again. “I’m Charles Chambers, your attorney. I need to speak with you.”

The man twirled in place three times and then sprinted toward the far wall, colliding with it at his left shoulder.

“Hey!” shouted Charles as the man resumed his pacing. “I’m your lawyer. You’re being charged with the commission of several murders. Your only hope of getting out of here is through me. We need to talk.”

The man blabbered something nonsensical that sounded like, “Baby gumbo Lela tock,” and then spit on the tile floor, knelt, leaned forward, and rubbed his forehead in the stuff.

Charles was appalled. How was he to get through to this guy? Had all of his efforts been in vain? Had he wasted all of this time for a dead end? No. He had to connect with this man, had to learn if he knew anything of Julia. “Donald Baker!” he screamed after a moment’s contemplation. “Donald Baker!”

The man paused, lifted his gaze, and glared at Charles.

“Donald Baker flew into town. He’s looking for you.”

In one fluid motion, the inmate leaped to his feet, marched to the Plexiglas, and pressed his face against the clear barrier, causing his nose and right cheek to spread outward like putty. It was then Charles saw the eyes. Those strange peculiar eyes. One was noticeably larger than the other. Both were round, bulging in sunken sockets. And colorless. Charles had never seen such a thing. At first he thought they were as the eyes of an albino, pink at the iris. But upon examination, there was no iris, not in any traditional sense. There were pupils, but these were small, pin-like, barely discernable, granting the man a bizarre surreal appearance. For an irrational moment Charles almost believed that this could be something other than human. His mind was too grounded in reality to go there. The man had medical issues, that was evident, both physical and psychological. But that was the extent of it. The prisoner was as human as anyone else. He had to be, if for no other reason than that the alternative was simply unacceptable.

“Donald Baker wants to see you,” said Charles.

“Donald Baker,” repeated the man in a voice that should have belonged to a woman. “Dol-nar-aq.” The face was still plastered against the glass, but the expression was one of… What? Wonder? Anticipation?

“I want to take you to Baker,” continued Charles. “But I need your help.”

“Dol-nar-aq here?” asked the man with the woman’s voice.

Charles recalled the name Dolnaraq from the chat room. It was a name some attributed to Baker. “Dolnaraq’s near. He’s with Tresset Bremu. I need you to tell me how to get to Tresset Bremu so I can bring Dolnaraq to you.”

“Tresset!” screeched the man. He then spit on the clear obstruction and proceeded to wipe his nose in the spittle with a tight circular pattern.

Okay, so apparently the man didn’t much care for Bremu. “I need to find Tresset so I can Bring Dolnaraq to you.” Charles had moved closer now, his face only inches from his client’s.

“Tresset!” howled the man in a shrill feminine shriek. In a sudden rush of motion, he marched away, twirled in the center of the room, and sang, “Silver mine! Silver mine! Silver mine!”

At first Charles thought the inmate had lost whatever tiny thread of comprehension he’d had, but then Charles remembered something he’d read on the internet, something about Donald Baker.