The Headsman (11 page)

The show was from Albany. It opened with a roundup of the national and international news, covering disasters from a fire in northern California to more fighting in the Middle East. When the local news came on, the lead story was the Dickens murder.

A reporter delivered an on-the-scene commentary, and Jud recognized him as the same one who had done most of the talking when he and Pearson had emerged from the house to speak with the press. Watching Pearson answer questions, Jud thought the inspector seemed even more pompous on the tube than he was in person. Jud was also acutely aware of how he himself looked, standing there like a dummy while Pearson spoke.

The reporter then said that people in Braddock were especially frightened by the crime because it revived memories of the headsman legend. As if to prove his point, that was followed by brief interviews with a number of the local citizens. Each of them said more or less the same thing, that the headsman was back and he’d chop off more heads before he was through.

When the piece ended, Jud turned off the set. “God—talk about sensationalism. All that shit about the headsman. That’ll get people even more stirred up.”

Sally was quiet for a moment. “Jud?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I want you to see.”

“What is it?”

“Let’s go back in the kitchen, and I’ll show you.”

They went into the room and sat down at the table. She opened her bag and took out a manila envelope. “There was another murder, back in the sixties. People said that one was the work of the headsman, too. Are you aware of that?”

“Yeah, of course I am. But that was a long time ago, and as far as I’m concerned, it was the same kind of half-truth, half-spook story.”

“You think so? The victim then was also a woman. And because I’m a good reporter, I went down into our morgue at the
Express
and got out the clips on it. I figured it’d make an interesting angle. I also thought you’d like to see the stories.”

“You mean you put that stuff in the piece you wrote?”

“Hey, it’s relevant, isn’t it? And the murder was never solved. But wait till you read this. It’s creepy, the way it’s a lot like the Dickens killing.” She opened the envelope and withdrew some yellowing scraps of newsprint. “Nowadays everything’s on microfilm, of course. But at that time the paper was still keeping files by hand.”

He took one of the clippings from her. It read:

WOMAN SLAIN IN AX MURDER

B
RADDOCK
R
ESIDENT
B
EHEADED

K
ILLING
R
ECALLS
L
EGEND OF
H
EADSMAN

Mrs. John Donovan, 29, of Cedarton Road, was found dead last night by her husband upon his return from a business trip to Albany. A housewife and the mother of the Donovans’ six-year-old daughter, Mrs. Donovan had been decapitated. Her headless body was in the living room of their home, and signs of a violent struggle were present. Mrs. Donovan’s head was missing, and no murder weapon was found.

Chief of Police Elwood McDermott, who is conducting the investigation, said the slaying appeared to have been carried out earlier that evening, and that the murder weapon probably had been an ax. This immediately inspired longtime residents of Braddock to conjecture that the infamous headsman had returned. The ax-wielding public executioner was employed here early in the eighteenth century, shortly after the village was settled. According to the legend, the headsman has returned from time to time and slain townspeople, then disappeared.

Chief McDermott said no suspects have been apprehended. He urges anyone having information on the crime to contact him at once.

Mrs. Donovan was the former Janet Cowles. Funeral arrangements have not been completed.

As Jud read the piece, he felt the hairs stir on the back of his neck. He looked at the other clippings. One of them was a background piece on Mrs. Donovan, and another featured opinions of the locals as to what had happened. Just as in tonight’s telecast, the people interviewed said the murder was undoubtedly the work of the headsman. There were several other clips, the dates spaced some days apart, and each of them reported more or less the same thing—that no progress was being made in solving Mrs. Donovan’s murder.

He laid the clippings on the table and lifted his gaze to Sally, who was eyeing him intently. “Was this all?” he asked.

“Yes. After I found those, I hunted for stuff on that killing or anything else that might have to do with the headsman, but I couldn’t find anything. I asked Maxwell about it, but he said that’s all there was. He grew up hearing tales about the headsman, of course, and he remembered the Donovan case well. In fact, he not only worked on the story, but he knew the family at the time it happened. He said the case was a sensation, and that everybody in Braddock was convinced the headsman had killed her.”

Jud shook his head. “So you’re gonna fan the fire on the headsman angle even more? You don’t really believe it, do you?”

“Believe what—that Mrs. Donovan was beheaded and nobody knows to this day who did it? I certainly do.”

“You know what I mean. About the headsman.”

She paused for a moment. “The truth is, I just don’t know. But I’ll tell you one thing—when I found these old stories and read them it sent chills up my spine. And you know something else? I’ll bet you had the same reaction just now. I’m right, aren’t I?”

He opened his mouth and closed it. Then he said, “Okay, so I did.”

“Sure. I thought so. Look—nobody with any sense believes ghost stories. That’s for kids and bumpkins. But it’s a fact that we’ve had two murders where people had their heads lopped off.
And that’s just two we know about
.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the legend had to start someplace. You saw what that piece said, didn’t you, about the woman’s death reviving the stories? I’m just sorry the
Express
doesn’t go back further.” She gestured at the clippings. “What about before that? What other killings might have taken place?”

He snorted. “Take it easy, will you? You’re so hot for the headsman angle you’re trying to convince yourself it’s true.”

“Okay, but what’s your explanation—it’s a coincidence?”

He got up and went to the fridge for another beer. “You want a drink?”

“Yes, please.”

He made her a fresh bourbon over ice and handed it to her, then sat down again at the table and opened his beer. “You want to know what I think? I think that in each of these cases, somebody used the legend to make people think the murder was the work of the headsman. Each time it gave the killer a perfect way to screw up the investigation. It just added to the confusion. That’s what I think.”

“You might be right.”

“Hell, maybe it was the same guy did both of them.”

“Oh, come on. Over that span of time? Every twenty-five years or so he commits a murder and now he’s ninety and still at it? What is this—the George Burns murder case?”

Jud drank some of his beer. There were times when she could get to him.

She smiled. “You mad at me?”

“Moderately.”

“Aw.” She reached under the table and squeezed him.

He put his hand on hers. “You’re really asking for trouble, aren’t you?”

She brought her mouth close to him. “I certainly am.” She fastened her lips to his in a warm, wet kiss. It lasted a long time, and when she pulled away a little she said, “That got the desired effect, though, didn’t it?” and squeezed again.

Jud put his beer down, then took the glass out of her hand and set it down on the table. In one motion he scooped her off the chair and stood up, holding her in his arms. As he stepped toward the bedroom he said, “All right, smartass. Now you’re really gonna get it.”

She kissed his ear. “I hope so.”

5

Jud lay awake for a long time with Sally nestled close to him, her head on his chest. Usually after making love he was asleep in seconds, but tonight he kept seeing ghosts—Marcy Dickens, his imagined impression of Mrs. Donovan, and finally a vague picture of a dark, hooded figure brandishing an ax. Which was ridiculous, he told himself; he was as bad as every other fool in town who was hooked on the headsman bullshit. But the images refused to leave him alone.

He sent his thoughts in another direction, going over possibilities in the case, thinking out what he might do next. Running down more of Marcy’s friends was a must, of course. Because regardless of what he might think of Pearson personally, the inspector was right about one thing: in the majority of homicides the victim and the perpetrator knew each other well. Jud had had that drilled into his head often enough, in MP and civilian police lectures and the reading he’d done, as well as in his own experience. Even in manslaughter cases resulting from saloon brawls, the combatants were usually acquainted.

But Buddy Harper? All Jud’s instincts said no. He’d keep an eye on the boy, of course. Maybe work him over again, see if he could trip him up. But his gut told him Buddy was clean.

It was still possible, of course, that this had been a murder committed while another crime was in progress, maybe during a break-in. But that theory wouldn’t fly, either. Nothing in the house had been disturbed, and there was no evidence of forced entry. The intruder apparently had gone directly to where he knew the girl would be sleeping, and then had killed her with such efficiency he’d left no sign of even a struggle, let alone a fight. Except for that cut in the floor, there’d been nothing. No—Marcy had been a target well known to her assailant.

He went back to thinking about Buddy then, working out a scenario that had Buddy going up to her room and Marcy telling him she was pregnant, threatening him. But that was flimsy; any kid who wanted an abortion nowadays could get one without much trouble. And besides, the autopsy would reveal a pregnancy if there was one, as well as determine blood type if there was a residue of semen in her vagina. And since Buddy had already admitted having intercourse with her earlier, what would that prove?

Jud tended to trust his hunch, that Buddy had told the truth, but that was all the more reason not to let himself overlook anything. Could there have been something else going on—maybe to do with drugs? Smoking pot was another thing Buddy was into, so maybe there was something there. There were a couple of small-time dealers in town, and it was about time the cops came down hard on them. Even if the police couldn’t put together a case, they could make the bastards wish they’d gone into the ministry. Leaning on them would be worth it, if only for the satisfaction.

And Marcy’s other friends—the ones he had yet to talk to? Jud knew a few of them. Pat Campbell was the blond cheerleader with the great body. She was also the daughter of Loring Campbell, probably the richest man in Braddock. Jeff Peterson was a star on the high school basketball team. And there were a number of others.

Then there was the murder weapon. He’d try to ascertain the type of ax the killer had used. If it had in fact been an ax. That was another thing to work on.

And what about the point Sally had raised in connection with the old story she’d dug up on the Donovan murder? Had there actually been other headsman killings before that? He’d check with the county attorney’s office, ask them to pull out the records on the Donovan case. Braddock’s police department couldn’t have been too great back then, which might explain why the case had never been solved.

Emmett Stark could probably help, too. In all likelihood the retired chief would have some ideas. Jud would get over to see him, and soon.

The illuminated dial on the bedside clock read 2:10. As gently as he could, Jud eased Sally’s head off his chest and down onto the pillow, thinking as he did that once she was asleep he’d have to fire a gun to wake her up. He got out of bed and stepped over to the window, moving the shade aside and peering out to see if it was still snowing. He couldn’t tell; it was too dark out there. He went to the closet and got out a robe, putting it on along with a pair of slippers. He left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

In the living room he took his old Gibson acoustic out of its case and sat down on a straight-backed chair. He tuned the instrument, holding an E chord while his long fingers picked the strings. He didn’t have the best ear in the world, but he could play fairly well for somebody who was entirely self-taught. Well, not entirely; he’d listened to James Burton and Chet Atkins by the hour. And also to Merle Travis and B.B. King. And most of all to his number-one favorite, Willie Nelson.

The encouraging thing about Willie was that he didn’t seem to have that much talent either. He was only a fair guitar player, and his voice had that reedy twang. But put that together with his ability to write country songs and deliver them as if he’d opened a door in his heart, and he could knock you down. Not that Jud would go so far as to compare himself to Nelson, but he’d certainly learned a lot from listening to Willie’s records.

He picked aimlessly for a while, strumming slowly and just practicing chord changes, C to B flat, G to A, then increasing the tempo, feeling his fingers grow nimble. The sound of the guitar had a clean, clear quality in the quiet of the room.

After that he slowed it down again and sang a chorus of “Georgia,” imitating Willie, and followed it with “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before.”

Then he sang one of his own:

Listen to the wind

Listen to the wind

Telling me the things I ought to know

Telling me the way it was

With lovers long ago

Listen to the wind

Listen to the wind

I can hear the words that ebb and flow

Softly now reminding me

That love will come and go

Listen to the wind

Listen to the wind

Now I know which way the wind will blow

As the notes died away he wondered if the song was any good. The melody was all right, he thought, but maybe the lyrics were just a touch pretentious. He couldn’t imagine Nelson or Chet Atkins using a phrase like
ebb and flow
, but what the hell, he needed the rhyme. And anyhow, nobody but himself would ever hear it. Sometimes he thought about taping a few of his songs and sending them to somebody. A record company, maybe, or a singer. But he knew he never would.