The Killing Game (26 page)

“Doctor Peltier needs to talk to you.”

I moaned internally and reluctantly took the phone. “Good morning, Clair. How are you tod—”

“You may want to open the paper,” she said. “Or you may not.”

Click.

“Carson?” Wendy asked as I rolled to sitting, throwing the phone to the bed. “Are you all right?”

“I’m supposed to check the paper. It should be in the drive.”

She slipped into the outsize tee I’d offered for sleeping – not needed – and padded away, her long legs whisking toward the front door. I followed, sending Mix-up out to do his business as I watched Wendy Holliday cross my sandy yard in scant ounces of cotton, the shirt’s hem high enough that she had to crouch to retrieve the
Register
. I took the paper as she entered, snapping it open to page one.

Killer Claims Another Victim
, read the top headline. There was a sidebar story in smaller type:
Did MPD Detective Goad Murderer?

My heart sank as I read. The article didn’t name me, referring to
An unnamed detective with over ten years on the force
, nor did it directly accuse me of throwing down a gauntlet. But it did suggest said detective might have been improvident.

The article was marred by several errors, stating the detective had put the video on the web and that he’d bragged no killer could escape his skills. I’d replayed the YouTube vid enough to remember what had actually happened. Following my penny analogy, Twyla Harper had said
I figure if anyone could catch a random killer, it would be you, Detective Ryder.

I had replied,
I expect you’re onto something.
Hardly a challenge.

I handed Wendy the paper and went to my coffee maker, needing to wake up fast. I was sucking down caffeine when Wendy entered the kitchen dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

She scowled at the
Register.
“It’s bullshit, Carson. We all know what you really said. Can you put the video back up? It shows the truth.”

“It’s gone for good,” I said.

“I could put it back up. We still have our individual recordings and—”

Wendy’s phone rang from her pocket. “It’s Amanda Sanchez,” she said, putting the phone to her ear. I wandered to the deck, my head starting to clear. What I wanted to do was sit and look over the gently rolling morning Gulf and relive the beauty of last night. The quiet talk on the deck. The midnight swim lit by a sliver of crystal moon. The whispering jog to the house.

Instead, I pondered my options. We were no nearer the killer than we’d been the night Kayla Ballard was found. Plus I was being pushed into the scapegoat role.

Wendy came to the deck two minutes later. “I say screw that guy Willpot.”

Willpot was Frank Willpot, director of Internal Affairs and a toadie of Baggs.

“What does Willpot have to do with things?” I asked.

“There was a class this morning. I didn’t mention it yesterday because of perfect attendance and better things to do. Amanda says Willpot stormed into class and ordered everyone to say nothing about the case or our involvement. He claimed it would be a black eye for the department and the academy and anyone talking would be immediately discharged.”

“Son of a bitch,” I said. Frank Willpot was helping push me under the bus. It also occurred that no one at the top of the department – meaning Baggs – had flat-out denied the story.

“The damned article makes it sound like you invited a killing spree,” Wendy said, tapping the paper with a strident digit. “It’s just wrong. What will you do?”

“Nail the bastard,” I said. “It’s the only way out.”

I dropped an anxious Holliday at her apartment, U-turned in the street and booked to the department. There was a hubbub outside, news vans and reporters, the vans with uplink antennae aimed at the sky like science-fiction weaponry. I pulled into the garage and ran upstairs to Lieutenant Mason’s office. He had the paper in his hands.

“First off, you’re not named,” he said. “That’s a break. You saw the article?”

I nodded.

“Second, the department is drafting a statement countering the article and absolving itself of responsibility.”

“Itself? How about me?”

Tom shrugged. “That’s all happening upstairs. How do you think this got out, Carson? The news about you and the class and all?”

“You know how it goes, Tom. Someone I’ve pissed off in the department makes a whispery call to the media:
‘You won’t believe the stupid thing one of our detectives did
…
’
Baggs himself, maybe, through a surrogate like Willpot.”

“Baggs is under a lotta media pressure, Carson. You may be the release valve.”

It took a second to grasp. “Baggs fuels the media with speculation, lets it build, finally names me as the guy who incited a madman to kill?”

“Yup,” Tom nodded. “Then makes a media spectacle out of yanking you off the case and shutting down the PSIT. With a very public reprimand.”

“You mean public hanging, right?”

Tom tipped back his Stetson and offered a flat smile.

“I see you’ve been at the end of this rope before.”

Gregory’s dream-wall has fallen again. He smells mamaliga and carnati, piftie and chiftele. Hears the coarse and drunken laughter of Petrov and Cojocaru. The high cackling voice of the nurse, Sorina Vaduva.

“
Where is little Dragna Negrescu?
” Dr Popescu says, ten meters tall and standing in the center of the floor in the supply room beside the kitchen, his head wreathed in cigar smoke. His mask is still the mask turned inside out. “
Where is my tasty little tart, Sorina?
”
Popescu says. When he talks, a black slit opens and closes on the mask.

“
Dragna had chores to finish in the records department,
”
Sorina Vaduva says.
“
Then she’s running to the store for the tuica.
”

“
Call and tell her to hurry. Tell her I have great thirst and greater hunger.
”

The dream spins upside down. When it rights itself the Doctor and Petrov are roaming the halls and pulling children from holes in the wall and setting them in shopping buggies. From deep in the shadows a choir is singing for mamaliga. Dragna Negrescu pushes a cart of clinking vodka and tuica bottles into the dream. Her dark hair frames the doll-face mask.

Gregory is watching from a hole in the wall, hiding in its furthest recesses. The Doctor has a flashlight he’s using to peer into the holes.

“
What have we here? Why it’s little Grigor! Come share food with us, Grigor. Isn’t he a pretty one, Petrov?
”

“
My favorite. Even with so many, he’s my favorite little girl.
”

“
Little girl?
”
the Doctor laughs. “
Did you hear, Grigor? You’re a little girl tonight.
”

A sound like thunder and they are in the supply room behind the dormitories, beside the kitchen. The floor is made of mattresses and stretches to the horizon. “
Turn them into robots, Doctor,
” Dragna Negrescu laughs from beneath her baby mask, wearing only underpants and dark stockings. “
Show us the magic learned from Blaskov-Milovitch. Talk in your special voice and swing your fancy watch. Make our robots perform and forget!
”

“
I shall teach you my secrets, sweet Dragna,
”
the Doctor howls, flying across the room like a hawk.

“
What’s that sound?
” someone says.

The cat is back at the window.

Go away!
Grigor screams.
Save yourself!
But the cat leaps into Dragna Negrescu’s hands. She turns it into a dishrag, wipes her hands on its fur, throws it out the window. The baby-faced Negrescu spins to Grigor. She’s singing.

“
Little Grigor, pretty one, Big Petrov must have his fun
…”

Gregory begins to run, but his legs turn to stone and he falls to the mattresses. The smell of mamaliga is everywhere. Gregory vomits up his insides, watching them writhe like snakes on the filthy fabric beneath his face.

NO NO NO. Save me, Ema!

But Ema has escaped the flashlight. There is no sign of her.

Muriel Pendel picked up the phone and took a deep breath. Willy answered on the fourth ring.

“Yeah, Ma? What’s up?” He sounded winded.

“How was your day?”

“Ah, it was kinda a pain in the … Hey!” he chirped, suddenly engaged. “You see about that old woman that got killed?”

“I saw a headline, but didn’t read the story.”

“It was cool. We were taking a trip to the jail but got put on a bus and sent to find her. It was what we cops call an SAR, a search-and-rescue. The Civil Air Patrol people actually found her. We would have, but the chumps got in our way. I didn’t even get to see the body.”

“Willy, I went to see Dr Szekely today. The doctor thinks it would be good if you went back to group. So do your father and I.”

“Group’s nothing but a bunch of losers, Ma. I ain’t a loser. I’m gonna be a cop.”

“Willy, listen to me.”

“NO! All the group does is piss and moan about how people think they’re weird and shit like that. I don’t hardly remember the goddamn orphanage. I DON’T WANT TO REMEMBER THE PLACE!”

“Calm down, son, all I’m saying is—”

“I gotta go.”

The phone clicked dead and Muriel popped a tissue from the box at her elbow and blew her nose, wandering to the window to look out across the front yard, a green expanse of west Mobile lawn.

A white car passed by, a Toyota Avalon. A realtor, Muriel knew vehicles well, her favorite back-of-mind exercise the pairing of auto makes with home models her company represented. An Avalon client was not a Mercedes client, but not a used-Dodge Caravan client, either. An Avalon prospective would likely enjoy the Executive II series, $319,000 for the base model.

Muriel had seen the Avalon twice today already. Once parked down at the corner, twice passing her house. And didn’t she see a white Avalon last night as she watered the lawn? The same one? Maybe it was someone looking for a home in the area, a prospective buyer. Maybe she should run out and hand over her business card.

I can help you with your needs.

Muriel checked her watch, almost eleven a.m., time to go to her job, sitting in a model of the Concord Deluxe – base price $409,000 – in an upscale community two miles away. It was a bore, the real-estate market so depressed there were days no one stopped in. It was like being trapped in a pretty box all day.

Muriel looked outside again. The Avalon was moving away.

Hope to see you again
, she thought.

“It’s looking good, Carson,” Harry said, fingers flying over his keyboard as words appeared on the screen. For a four-finger typist, Harry worked fast.

Dr Kavanaugh didn’t believe the killer’s anger was aimed solely at me: I was a symbol for a collective called “The Blue Tribe”. Baggs didn’t believe it, but Baggs rejected any idea more complex than a salad fork. Harry’s idea was circulating an internal flier on the chance the killer’s problem with the MPD had been memorable.

Harry tapped Print and handed me the draft.

Though early reports mistakenly identified the spree killer as having a personal conflict with a single departmental member, it actually appears the killer is angry with the entire MPD, the anger likely generated from contact with member(s) of the department. A possible scenario: a mentally unstable person, probably male, felt insulted or humiliated by an encounter with the department and is seeking revenge by demonstrating the department’s inability to solve the crimes.

If you’ve had an officer–citizen incident that was unusually tense, threatening, strange (as in generating an over-reaction), or otherwise, please contact us ASAP. We’re especially interested in situations where a civilian might have inadvertently been embarrassed or put in a situation where self-respect was lost.

Please volunteer any information NOW. Lives are at stake. Call us, or leave a note in one of our mailboxes.

I got the flier green-lighted by Tom Mason. Within an hour they’d be on the walls and bulletin boards at MPD facilities: HQ, district commands, the academy, jail. Plus it would be read at roll call before the uniform shifts went out on patrol.

The fliers were our first roll of the dice. But cops saw so much weirdness that asking them to cherry-pick bizarre situations was a long-odds prospect. There was another roll of the dice as well: shorter odds on learning more about the killer, perhaps, but one I’d been pushing from my head whenever it appeared: calling a seasoned expert for an appraisal of the situation.

The expert being my older brother, Jeremy.

After his indictment for the killing of our father and five women, Jeremy had been committed to a facility for the criminally insane. He’d spent years befriending – and often, as a kind of hobby – controlling some of the most dangerous and distorted psyches of the era. With his brilliant mind and nothing else to occupy his curiosity, his abilities to gauge the depth and delusions affecting such people had become nothing short of preternatural.

I told Harry I was going to walk the neighborhood to clear my head. The day was ninety plus degrees and I jogged to a nearby museum and sat in its quiet lobby. My brother’s phone number was kept in memory, not on my phone. I dialed and heard ringing, and my mind saw Jeremy crossing the floor of his isolated log cabin, a two-story structure in a mountain hollow. After escaping from a maximum-security mental institution several years back, Jeremy had found sanctuary deep in the forest of eastern Kentucky.

“Dr August Charpentier,” he said, using his false accent and identity, a retired Canadian professor of psychology. His phone would not ID me as the caller – he didn’t keep my number in electronic memory either.

“Bonjour, Doc,” I said. “How’s tricks? Or whatever that is in French.”

The disguise fell away. He snapped, “What do you need now, Carson? The only time I hear from you is when you need something.”

“Really?” I said. “I recall differently. Like the time you needed me in Kentucky and tricked me there, remember?”