The FBI Thrillers Collection (56 page)

Savich said, “Tell us exactly why you tried to kill your father. This time in nice plain English.”

Weldon’s voice was soft now, so quiet it was like
listening to him again on the video. He was getting himself back in control. He’d finally managed to regain some calm, control the pain in his foot. “I can’t. There’s too much at stake here.”

“That’s not a very good start, Weldon,” Dane said.

Weldon lowered his head and moaned at the pain in his foot.

Delion snorted, stood, his hands on his hips. “Sherlock has called on her cell phone and rounded up a doctor for you. Let’s get you back to the parking lot. Detective Flynn and I will help you.”

Weldon DeLoach tried to get up on his own, but ended up moaning again, clutching his foot. Flynn and Delion got him up and half carried him back to the facility.

Dr. Randolph Winston, a geriatrician, was waiting for them at the front entrance to attend to the foot, a thick black eyebrow arched. “A woman shot him in the foot? Here, at Lakeview?” The eyebrow went even higher when Detective Flynn just shrugged.

“No elderly person I’ve treated has ever been shot in the foot. Let’s get him to the hospital.”

Dane nodded. “We’ll follow. We’ve got lots more to talk about with Mr. DeLoach.”

Delion
and Flynn read the riot act to the two policemen assigned to keep an eye on Captain DeLoach, then rode with Weldon to the hospital. The rest of them walked back to Captain DeLoach’s room.

It appeared that Captain DeLoach’s brain had faded into the ether again. Or it was all an act, one at which he excelled.

He was still singing “Eleanor Rigby.” Nurse Carla said, just shaking her head, “The fact that his son tried to kill him—I think it knocked him right off his mental pins again. I was with him several times during the morning and he was with it the whole time, but not now. Poor old man. How would you like to have a son who keeps trying to kill you?”

Nick moved away from Captain DeLoach and said, her voice low, “Something is very strange here. When Weldon was in the captain’s room, he called his father a monster,
said he had to stop him. But Captain DeLoach, he wasn’t afraid at all. He taunted Weldon.”

Savich walked to the old man, who was still singing softly, vacantly, in his wheelchair.

“Captain DeLoach? You’ve met me before. I’m Dillon Savich. I’m an FBI agent.”

Slowly, the old man stopped singing “Eleanor Rigby” and raised his eyes to Savich’s face. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and saluted.

Savich, without pause, saluted him back.

“I saluted that girl, too,” Captain DeLoach said in a singsong voice. “I thought it was weird to have to salute a girl, but I did it. Respect for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, you know? It’s a sign of the times that the Feds would allow a girl to join up. I always wanted to be an FBI agent, but I couldn’t. And now it turns out she isn’t a cop, just a girl who’s homeless, leastwise that’s what Weldon said. Hey, is that little redheaded girl a cop?”

“She certainly is, an excellent FBI agent.”

The old man gave her a toothy grin and saluted her. Sherlock didn’t salute him back, just gave him a little wave with her fingers. He gave a dry, cracking laugh, shook his head. “That girl over there, the homeless one, she saved me from Weldon, the little pissant. I don’t think he would have killed me. You see, Weldon’s a coward. I never could teach him to be a man. He’s always hated blood, wouldn’t ever go hunting with me. Once I tried to get him to butcher a buck, but he vomited all over his shoes and hid. He’s never even used a gun as far as I know.”

“How was he going to kill you, sir?” Dane said. “I believe he struck you the first time.”

“Nah, that first time, I fell over all on my own. That last time he could only bring himself to shove my chair over.”

The old man started laughing, more spittle spotted with blood sprayed on his chin. “What a hoot this all is, best time I’ve had in years. Nah, I don’t think Weldon could
have killed me. But I could tell he was going to try. He was going to strangle me with a string. The girl there thought he had a gun, but he didn’t. He won’t touch ’em. I saw the string hanging out of his pocket, you know, real stout with little knots tied along the length? Yep, just a string because there’s no blood when you strangle someone. But it’s still gross. Weldon just doesn’t realize how gross it is to strangle someone—all the gagging, the eyes, my God, the eyes, they bulge, you know? And you can see all the terror, the fright—it all oozes out—then the final acceptance that they’re going to die. It isn’t a pretty sight. No, shooting’s cleaner. Only thing is, though, that the eyes fade really fast with a bullet.”

Nick closed her eyes, said, “I shot Weldon in the foot. You’re right, it was easier.”

“For a homeless girl, she knows stuff,” Captain DeLoach said, and began humming “Eleanor Rigby” again.

“Are you trying to make us think you’re senile, Captain DeLoach?” Sherlock said, her palm resting lightly on the old man’s shoulder. She gently kneaded the flesh and bone and the flannel shirt, all that was left of him.

“Nah, I just like to sing. I was the only middle-aged guy who liked the Beatles.”

Dane said, “But why did Weldon want to kill you, sir?”

The old man looked at Dane. “I think you’re probably an excellent cop, young man. You’re passionate, you stick tight, you don’t screw around, all are important to be successful in any job.”

Dane said again, “Why does your son want you dead?”

“The little pussy thinks he’s safe if I’m dead. And he would be.” The old man, now as sharp as any of them, stared at Dane, his faded eyes bright with intelligence. He said, his voice so proud, “Weldon’s got to know that I’ll talk now, and why not? I was the sheriff, and look at what I did, no one ever had a clue. Of course, like the saying goes, a dog never shits in his own backyard.” He laughed, a wheezing, scaly sound that made Sherlock’s skin crawl.

“Captain DeLoach,” she said, “do you pretend to be senile? Is it all just an elaborate charade?”

The old man said, “Me, senile? Hey, I haven’t seen you before, have I? Aren’t you the cutest little thing. My wife had the look of you. All sprite and fire and that lovely hair, so red, like blood, one could say.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly, “I suppose you could say that, but I doubt many people would. Now, Captain, you just made a little joke, didn’t you? You know exactly who I am. You were just pretending, just continuing with your charade.”

He said nothing.

Sherlock said, “What was your wife’s name, sir?”

“Marie. Her name was Marie, French for God’s mother’s name, something that always made me smile, particularly when I’d come home and my hands would still have seams of blood in the cracks. Yep, my palms would look like road maps.”

“I know you were a sheriff,” Dane said, “but did you have blood on your hands that often?”

“No, not just
on
my hands, Agent. There was usually so much blood it would work its way into the lines and hunker down and live there. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t get it all out. Then I really looked at my hands one day and knew I liked it. It was always a reminder to me of how much fun I had.”

Nick stepped up to the wheelchair, leaned down, and clasped her hands on the wheels, got to within an inch of his face. “You killed people, didn’t you, sir?”

“Well, of course, young lady. I was the sheriff.”

“No, not as a sheriff. You killed people. You liked it. You liked seeing the remnants of their blood in your hands. You got away with it. And that’s what Weldon doesn’t want you to tell the world, isn’t it?”

“Ain’t you a cracker. Of course I got away with it. I might be old now but I’m still not stupid. It was easy. Once they even got a picture of me, but it didn’t lead them even
close to me. I was that good.” He raised his hand and snapped two of his bony fingers together. “I’m eighty-seven years old. You think I care now if everyone knows? Hell, I deserve the attention, the recognition of what I did. What will they do? Put me on trial? Sentence me to the death penalty? Judging by the way I’m feeling these days, the blood I keep spitting up, I’m ready for the needle already. Not that they’d ever get the chance, a man of my age with cancer. Hey, you think I’m senile. Listen to this.” And the old man started humming “Eleanor Rigby” again, saw the shock on their faces, and laughed.

Nick said, “And Weldon didn’t want you to tell anyone, did he?”

“No, he claimed it’d ruin everything. He didn’t want it known that his pop was a serial killer. Weldon was always afraid of me, terrified of me when he discovered what I was doing, but he kept quiet, particularly after I told him I’d nail him upside down to a tree and skin him alive if he ever told anyone. He didn’t.”

It was Dane who said slowly, “I remember when I first went to San Francisco Homicide after my brother’s murder. Inspector Delion said they’d found out from the bullet that the gun that killed my brother was like the gun the Zodiac killer used.”

Captain DeLoach laughed again, whistled something no one knew through his teeth. “I’m impressed, Agent. I read about it at the time and it kind of got me started, you know? I wanted to be better than him. The least I could do was use the same kind of weapon he used. A fine gun—my JC Higgins model eighty.”

Captain DeLoach sighed, rubbed his old hands together. “Nope, I wasn’t the Zodiac killer. I was really a bit more basic than the Zodiac killer was. But I liked his style. Isn’t that a kick? What a handle. Trust the media to always come up with a good sound bite. If only I’d been open about what I did, maybe I would have gotten a handle, too.”

The old man frowned, looked off into nothing at all,
said, “Hey, do you think he’s still around? Maybe he’s in a nursing home, just like I am. Maybe he’s here, you think?”

No one said anything, just waited.

Captain DeLoach continued singing, then he said, his voice sharp, “Your guy didn’t use my gun. Nope, mine’s hidden, and I’ll be glad to tell you where.” He gave them a big smile.

Dane said, “Weldon knows. He has to.”

Savich said, for the third time, “Tell us why your son wanted to kill you, sir.”

The old man laughed, smacked his lips together, and started singing again.

Nick moved close and said right in his face, “I saved your life, sir. I figure you owe me. Tell us the truth.”

Captain DeLoach gave her a big smile, raised his veiny old hand, lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “So soft,” he said. “You want to know, do you, little girl? Yeah, I guess I do owe you. Weldon wanted to protect his boy.”

“His boy?” Dane said. “Weldon has a son?”

“Sure. Didn’t let me near him when he was young, but then he came here to meet me. I took care of him really good, now didn’t I? I got him all juiced up and now, here he is, following in his granddaddy’s footsteps. Weldon wanted to protect his boy, didn’t want to see him ruined, hounded by the media.”

“Who is his boy, sir?” Savich said.

“You’re FBI, son, it’s your job to find out. I don’t want to make things that easy for you.” He coughed, and a trickle of blood snaked out of his mouth.

Sherlock said, “I don’t want to salute you, sir.”

Captain DeLoach said, head cocked to the side, “Well, after all, you’re just a girl, when it all boils down to what’s important.”

“And I’d say that you’re an evil old man.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Oh yeah, I really am. And I’m eighty-seven years old and sitting real pretty. Ain’t life a kick?”

When
they reached the Ventura County Community Hospital, they saw Weldon, who didn’t look too good. He was pale, still in pain, and he knew the dam had burst. Everything he’d been struggling with was over now, and he knew it. Dane lightly laid his palm on Weldon’s shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Weldon. We’re all very sorry.”

“You know,” Weldon said, his voice dead. “That wretched old man told you all of it?”

Savich said, “Yes, your father finally got around to telling us in simple English, once I asked him to do it, with no crazy allusions or cover-ups. He’s really quite mad. I don’t think he’s senile, not for a moment, but he’s fooled everyone else. He’s a fine actor.”

“He’s been mad all my life. So he’s finally done it. I didn’t know whether or not he really meant it.”

“How old were you when you discovered what he was?” Sherlock asked.

“I was ten years old. I couldn’t sleep one night, and he’d left early in the evening, supposedly on a call. I waited for him. I saw him drive into the garage. I heard the kitchen door open. I started to go to him, but something stopped me, something that had scared me about him for a good long time. I stayed hidden behind some of my mother’s favorite curtains in the living room.

“I heard him come in and he was whistling. I crawled to the kitchen. I saw his clothes, saw his hands—he had blood all over him. So much red, and even as I watched, it was turning darker and darker, almost black. His shirt was stiff with blood. At first I was terrified that it was his, but not for long.

“I watched him scrub his hands in the kitchen sink, watched him strip to his underwear, wrap up his bloody clothes, and tie them up in a neat bundle. It was practiced, everything he did, like he’d done it many times before. He never stopped whistling. I watched him take that bundle of
bloody clothes out in the backyard. He paced off six steps from a big old elm tree. He dug down and dumped the bundle in. I saw that there were maybe half a dozen bundles down there. Then he shoveled dirt over all of it. He never stopped whistling.

“When I was twelve, I wondered if he was the one they called the Zodiac killer. I saw all about the murders on TV, but they weren’t on the same days he was gone. And that insane whistling—it was always the same, always “Eleanor Rigby.” He still hums or whistles that damned song now, only he uses it to fool people, to make them think he’s senile.”

“What did you do?” Dane asked.

“Oh man, I was never more scared in my life. I didn’t know what to do. I was just a kid. He was my father.”

Nick said, “You confronted him, didn’t you? You just couldn’t stand it anymore and you confronted him.”

“Yes, and do you know what he did? He just stood there, looking down at me, and began to laugh. He laughed until there was spittle on his mouth. Then he just stopped and went cold. Like, with no warning, his body went perfectly still and his eyes were dead. There was no one behind those eyes and I knew it. I was twelve years old and I knew it.” Weldon paused, took a shuddering breath. There wasn’t a sound in that small room. “He told me in this cold, dead voice exactly what he would do to me if I said anything to anyone.”