The Headsman (37 page)

So he’d lied to her. And she hated him for it. But did that absolve her of responsibility? Could she just sit by now while someone else’s life was in danger?

And then again, was it? She
thought
what she’d seen was another vision, but how could she be sure? Wasn’t it possible it actually had been just a nightmare, after all? She’d had plenty of those lately, to the point that she’d begun to worry about her sanity.

And when it came right down to it, how could she be sure of what she’d seen the time before, when she actually had gone to the police chief? She was positive she’d seen the headsman kill that boy, and yet the boy was believed to have run away. The papers and the TV had been full of stories that he’d become the prime suspect in the murder of his girlfriend, and that he’d fled to escape being charged. Police all over the country were looking for him. So there wasn’t a shred of proof that what she’d seen—the struggle between the headsman and the boy, and then the boy’s death—had actually taken place.

Maybe the answer was right in front of her. Maybe she’d been tripping over it all along, just as she had only a minute ago.

Maybe the truth was that she was insane
.

She got up from the table and put the brandy bottle back into the cupboard. Then she rinsed out her glass and turned off the lights before going back upstairs to her room.

The air was bitterly cold. She draped her robe over the foot of the bed and shivered as she slipped under the covers and curled herself into a ball. The sheets were like ice. Outside the wind was bending the limbs of the oak tree, the tips of its branches scratching against her window. She closed her eyes, knowing further sleep was impossible, and waited for morning.

2

There were only a few cops in the stationhouse when Jud got back from Westchester. He’d stopped for some food on the way and it was late now and he was tired, but he’d resisted going straight home. He wanted to know what had happened during the day, and he also wanted to sort out what he had been told by Joan Donovan.

Joe Grady was still in the station. He walked into Jud’s office, carrying a mug of coffee. “How was the trip?”

“It was okay. Didn’t learn much, though.”

“You talk to Donovan’s daughter?”

“Yes. But she didn’t remember anything worthwhile. She was only a little kid when her mother was killed.”

“Too bad she couldn’t help.”

“Yeah, I had my hopes up. But I knew it was a long shot, anyway. Say, Joe?”

“Yes?”

“You check out that spill on the floor of the Harpers’ barn?”

“Oh, yeah. Nothing but oil.”

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh. I even pried up one of the floorboards and looked underneath. Just some crankcase oil, and most of it seeped away.”

“I see. Anything else doing here?”

“The usual shit. Nothing out of the ordinary. I was about to leave.”

“Go ahead, then. I’m going to cut out myself in a few minutes.”

“Okay. See you in the morning.”

After Grady had gone, Jud closed the door and locked it. Then he sat down at his desk and got out the photographs. He looked at each of them carefully, examining the definites first and after that going through the maybes. As he did, the warning Ray Maxwell had given him seemed more apt than ever. In his efforts to break this case Jud had already turned over too many rocks in Brad-dock. Now he was about to flip over some more.

Spread out on the desk in front of him were photographs of the town’s mayor and a police sergeant who had more years in service than anyone else on the force. Also a number of Braddock’s best-known citizens, including Bill Swanson, the man many believed would be the next mayor, and Loring Campbell, president of the town’s leading manufacturing company. Ed Dickens was there, father of the slain Marcy, and so was Peter Harper, whose son was now missing.

There was also the shot of the teacher, Frank Hathaway. Joan Donovan hadn’t identified him, even when Jud had urged her to take a second look. He put that one aside to remind himself to call Washington and check the man’s record with Armed Services Records and Identification.

He looked at the array of photos. Had one of these men murdered Janet Donovan? Or was all this just a hell of a reach? The only thing he knew for sure about their relationship to the victim was that they’d been screwing her. That is, he
thought
he knew it for sure. And even if it were true, he couldn’t equate an illicit affair with murder.

For that matter, he couldn’t even be sure Joan Donovan’s identification of these men had been legitimate. She might have been running a game on him, which would make this collection of photographs just so much bullshit. He certainly wouldn’t put it past her to tell him anything she thought would get him to work on the parole board in her behalf.

Except that there was one man here she’d proven she knew. There was no way she could have made up the Uncle Sam story on Melcher.

Jud sat back in his chair and let his gaze run over the photos. So maybe there was something here after all. Maybe one of them was indeed a picture of Janet Donovan’s murderer. And maybe Marcy Dickens’ as well. And Buddy Harper’s, if in fact he was dead. Checking them out would be a dance on eggshells.

He looked at his watch and thought about calling Sally, then decided against it. All he wanted tonight was a beer or two, and then a long sleep. Maybe a little guitar before he went to bed. He put the photos back into the box, then unlocked the closet behind him. He set the box on a shelf inside, closed the door and relocked it.

It had been a long day, even longer than usual. He turned out the lights as he left the room.

Passing the office the state police detectives were using, he was surprised to see them still there. On impulse he stuck his head inside. “You guys ever go home?”

Pearson looked up from the desk. His appearance wasn’t nearly as dapper as usual; his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his collar was unbuttoned, his tie pulled down. An empty paper coffee container sat in front of him and alongside that was an ashtray full of butts. “Hello, Chief. Missed you today.”

He knew it was the inspector’s indirect way of inquiring as to what Jud had been doing. “I was busy running around on routine stuff. We’ve had quite a few accidents lately.”

“Same problem our troopers have in the wintertime,” Pearson said. “People love to bash up their cars on icy roads.”

“How’s it going?”

Pearson picked up a pack of Marlboros and extended it. Jud shook his head and the detective put a cigarette into his mouth and lit it. “We don’t have our boy yet, but we will before long.”

“You get a break?”

It was obvious that Pearson was being deliberately casual. “Sure did. A kid answering Harper’s description was spotted in Texas. Small town near the Mexican border. He was driving an old pickup truck with Pennsylvania plates. Police are combing the area for him now.”

“You sure it was Harper?”

“It’s him, all right. I talked to a Texas state trooper. He says the description of the kid fit the picture we put out to a T. Also Harper abandoned the truck and lit out when he realized he’d been seen.”

“We ran a check on the plates,” Williger added. “Truck was stolen four days ago near Scranton.”

Pearson exhaled a stream of blue smoke. “Like I told you, I’ve worked on more homicide cases than I can count, and this one strikes me as an old story. Pair of young lovers, something happens to make trouble. They fight, boy kills girl. He tries to ride it out, but then he panics and skips.”

Jud had heard this speech often enough to be able to recite it himself. But he listened quietly.

Williger again spoke up. “The Barnaby case in Westlake last year. Same deal. Girlfriend threatened to break up with this guy, he choked her. Had all the same elements as this one.”

“Like I also told you,” Pearson said to Jud, “you work on this stuff long enough, you’ve seen it all at least once.”

“What if Harper didn’t do it?”

A tolerant smile crossed Pearson’s face. “We’ll worry about that when we get him.”

“Sure,” Jud said. “See you guys later.”

They said goodnight and he left the office.

He walked out of the stationhouse and drove home. When he got there he drank a beer while he undressed, and then fell into bed, too tired even to bother with the shower he’d promised himself.

But sleep would not come for a long time. His head was filled with ghostly faces in old, grainy photographs that faded in and out as he thought about them, one after another.

3

In the morning Jud got into his cruiser and headed out toward Route 5.

When he pulled into the driveway the Jeep was parked in front of the barn and the hound again came out to snarl at him. He left the patrol car next to the Jeep and went up the snowy walk to the house. He knocked, and Emmett Stark opened the door.

Jud was shocked by the old chief’s appearance. He looked drawn and pasty, and his hand trembled as Jud shook it. But he smiled at his visitor and said to come on in. Jud followed him into the kitchen, where Stark poured mugs of coffee for them, and from there they went into the workroom.

The potbellied stove was glowing, and the area was comfortably warm. The atmosphere was as masculine as ever, with the mounted animal heads and the rifles and fishing rods in their racks on the walls, but Jud noticed that the workbench appeared not to be in use. Something was going on with Stark; Jud sensed that whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Instead of sitting at the bench, the old man led him to the leather sofa and chairs along the far wall.

They sat down, and Jud peered at him. “How you feeling, Chief?”

For a moment he thought the old chief would offer up a cheerful lie, but then Stark said, “Lousy.”

“What is it?”

“Heart again. I had a bad spell here a week or so back.”

“Angina?”

“Yep. That quack Reinholtz wanted to put me in Memorial, but I told him to go to hell. Once you get inside that goddamn place you’ll never get out. If I’m gonna die I’d rather do it here, on my own terms.”

“Who’s talking about dying?”

“Oh, there’s one person you can’t bullshit, and that’s yourself. I don’t have any illusions about what’s going on.”

“Maybe what you need is to get out of this climate.”

“Maybe.”

“What about going to Arizona to live with your son?”

“Yeah, well, that could be. If I get to feeling better I just might think seriously about it.”

Jud didn’t know what to say. Stark had always been a tough character, with a gruff way about him. To see him going downhill was depressing. But he tried to strike a note of optimism. “Be spring soon, things’ll change then. Lot of trout swimming around out there, waiting to get caught.”

Stark smiled. “Sure. I’ll be back in shape by that time.”

Jud sipped his coffee. He wanted to talk with the old man, but he didn’t want to put any strain on him.

Stark seemed to know what was on Jud’s mind. “How’s it going with the Dickens case—any line on where the Harper kid might’ve got off to?”

“No. Pearson’s got a dragnet set up like you wouldn’t believe. They think they spotted the kid in Texas, but they haven’t got him yet.”

Stark grunted. “They will, sooner or later. Police procedures are pretty good these days. There’s a lot better cooperation with the different agencies. Didn’t used to see that until the last few years. What else is happening?”

“I’ve been looking into the Donovan case, for one thing.”

“Kind of a cold trail, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.” For a moment Jud thought about telling him of his visit to Westchester, but then he decided against it.

“You said there was nothing in the records?”

“No. But I’ve been asking around. Some people still remember Mrs. Donovan. Seems she was quite a swinger in her time. Mixed up with just about every young hotshot in Braddock.”

“Not surprised to hear that. Whenever you get a good-looking young married woman murdered, it’s either her husband or a lover who’s responsible, nine times out of ten. You want to know what I believe happened, I’d say John Donovan’s the one who swung that ax.”

“He had a good alibi, Chief. Out of town when it happened.”

“Maybe so. But if I’d been investigating it, I’d have worked Donovan over plenty. He could have gone back to the house and done it, then doubled back to wherever his business was that day. Later on he goes home and yells, oh my god, what a tragedy. Now that’s just a theory, but that’s what I would have gone after.”

“What about the lovers?”

“Same thing. If she was seeing other guys, I would’ve concentrated on them too, you can be sure of that.”

“Not many of the old force still around from those days.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Joe Grady’s about the only one who’s left.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He worked under you for a long time, Chief. What’s your opinion of him?”

“Why—you having problems with him?”

“Not really. But what do you think of him?”

Stark considered the question. “I’d say he was a pretty good cop. He’s got his limitations, of course. And being a thick-headed Irishman doesn’t help. Got a hell of a temper, and he was always too quick with a nightstick. But by and large, okay. Now, what’s going on?”

Jud smiled. “Still as suspicious as ever, eh?”

“Damn right. I was a cop myself too many years not to smell the smoke. What’s bothering you about him?”

“Some of the time I get the idea Joe’s going down a separate path. And he makes sure I don’t know where that is. He never accepted me, you know. Never got over my getting this job instead of him.”

“Human nature, isn’t it? He spent all those years waiting for me to retire, and then when I did I picked you to succeed me instead. You wouldn’t exactly expect him to love you, would you?”

“No, I suppose not. For that matter, I don’t suppose he’s overly fond of you either, under the circumstances.”

“You’re right about that. Joe figures I stuck it to him. I tried to make him understand, too. Had a long talk with him, explained how the job called for new blood. Pointed out he’d be retiring himself before long. But it didn’t seem to make much of an impression on him. So if he’s giving you a hard time now, I’m not surprised.”