The True Detective (53 page)

“As far as I know.”

“Lieutenant, that means he was harbored from Saturday until yesterday or this morning when his body was dropped. Do you have any idea where he was kept?”

“Not at this time; we’re working on that.”

“Lieutenant, are you thinking of calling in the big boys on this?”

“Who are the big boys?”

“No offense, Lieutenant. Experts from Boston. Homicide people. Forensic people. The FBI. After all, this is a small town.”

“The answer is no. And we do take offense. Lots of people, a whole staff of people, have done and are doing a lot of work, and we feel we’re doing the job. As good as anyone else could do it. The state police lab is providing forensic expertise.”

“Nonetheless, Lieutenant, there’s a killer on the loose. What if he strikes again? Will you ask for help then?”

“We’re doing all that we can to bring him in,” Dulac says. “We’re being assisted all the way around by other law enforcement agencies, local, state, and federal.”

“What do you mean, ‘all the way around’?”

“In all capacities—what do you think I mean?”

“Is it believed the killer is still in the area?”

“That’s what we’re working on.”

“Do you think this could be related to other groups or other activities coming into the area?”

“Such as?”

“Kinky groups, Lieutenant.”

“Kinky groups. Well no, we don’t believe at this time that there is any such association. At the same time, we’re not closing our eyes to anything.”

“Are you going to call in psychics?”

“No comment.”

“That mean yes or no?”

“It means no comment.”

“Was the boy tied when he was found, Lieutenant?”

“I said he wasn’t tied. I said that earlier.”

“You said he was tied? He had been tied?”

“That’s right. There were marks on his wrists and ankles.”

“Any connection with pornography in this area, Lieutenant?”

“Not that we can determine so far. As I said.”

“There is a line of investigation?”

“There are some threads or loose ends we’re working on.”

“Lieutenant, what about free sex or loose sex? Everybody knows what’s going on in this town.”

“Well, who knows?” Dulac says. “Is that—what you say—what is going on here? Or is it going on everywhere? I don’t know who could give the right answer to that.”

“Is this the act of a sick person?”

“No comment.”

“The boy was definitely sexually molested?”

“We would say definitely, yes.”

“How is that known? Was there mutilation?”

“No. There was no mutilation, say, of that kind. He did suffer anal trauma.”

“What other signs, sir?”

It is at this point that Shirley appears below him at the table, catches his attention by signaling to him to crouch, and as he does so, hands him a folded slip of paper. Straightening upright, Dulac reads:
Car found in Shaw’s parking lot, Islington St.

“Signs of what?” Dulac says to the reporters, as they wait and watch.

“Molestation.”

“We’re not certain,” Dulac says. “The tests and so on are being done right now. Molestation can take many forms, such as fondling, which do not leave marks. Even language, words, can be a form of molestation.”

“When will the body be released for burial?”

“This afternoon, I believe. I don’t know the details right now.”

“Lieutenant, the state hasn’t executed anyone in quite a few years. Would you see this crime as a reason to bring back capital punishment?”

“No comment. Any more questions? I’m afraid I have to go now.”

“Who identified the body?”

“Mrs. Wells, his mother.”

“What was her reaction?”

“No comment.”

“Lieutenant, was he a street kid? Eric Wells? Was he a troublemaker?”

Dulac looks up at the person asking this question, a young man in a plaid sports coat. “This will be the last reply,” he says. “No, Eric Wells wasn’t a troublemaker, From all we’ve been able to tell, he was a good kid. He was a little shy. He was well liked. He was twelve years old is all, and he had a special interest in military things, in building things. He was a general, average
boy who caused no problems, for his mother or for the police or at school. That’s what he was. Children aren’t troublemakers.”

Down from the table, ignoring other questions as the reporters move, as some of them push and run, approaching Shirley, feeling angry with the charging mob, Dulac leads her from the room and across the hall to his cubicle, where he closes the door. “Who spotted the car?” he asks.

“Someone called in. Mizener’s there. It’s just up the street from where the body was found.”

“It’s positive?”

“Oh, yes, it’s positive.”

“Jesus, I hope he hasn’t touched anything. Did he say if it was locked or if the trunk was open?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Okay, I’m going there. Will you call the lab people? Tell them we have the car. I’m going there. Anyone wants me, that’s where I’ll be. Tell Claire Wells, I don’t know, the secret witness—just say I’ll be back. If you want me, that’s where I’ll be. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Dulac slips on his jacket then, as Shirley leaves, and checks his hardware, as always, by feel. Something remains on his mind, near three-dimensional images in the front of his mind; still he cannot get them to come into focus. He keeps rushing along, uttering to himself, he’s here. He’s been here all along!

He slips out and along the hallway, sidestepping people; turning, he slips outside through the side door. He starts along the side of the building to where his car is parked. He is in the chilled winter air. And it is here, in this moment, that he knows and sees what has been picking at his mind. His gait lets up, as if a switch has been thrown; a pins-and-needles chill is passing over him.

He turns to walk the other way. All parts of him but especially his forehead, temples, and ears seem to be buzzing. It isn’t the pathology that was nudging his mind. He comes around the end to the red brick building; the disappointment he feels lasts but a second or two.

There he is. There is a young man, near the corner, across the street; he has just turned to walk this way. It is him; it is the person they have been looking for, the young man whose photograph is now in his pocket.

Dulac keeps walking, into the street, crossing the street, headed for the other side. He is going to bring him in, is what is on his mind. He is going to bring him in. He is going to carry him back across the street, carry him over his shoulder as the creature which has befouled the garden, and drop him before all of them to see, hold his foot on his neck, and say, this is him, this is him.

He is spotted. The suspect is alive, in shock, along the sidewalk, is backing away, moving away at once. Dulac lets up a little, but keeps walking. It is only now that he sees what a mistake he has made, what a mistake it could turn out to be if the suspect decides to run,

Oh, it is him. But he is moving away sideways, already at the corner and turning. “Just wait a minute,” Dulac hears himself call out. “I’d like to talk to you. Let’s talk this over.” He hurries, strides hard to the corner, has him in view again.

His words don’t seem to work, for the suspect keeps moving, sidestepping, looking at him as he moves. Maybe his face gives him away, Dulac thinks. For he is not calm. He is seized, he is wild to get his hands on the young man. And even as he tries to moderate his hard walking, tries to calm himself and his face, he cannot do it, can think it but cannot do it. “Just wait,” he calls. “All I want to do is talk to you.”

It doesn’t work. It is so false; Dulac is angry with himself, as he strides, that he cannot come up with something, with the right word. Talk will not follow, he knows. He doesn’t really wish to talk to the suspect. He will take him in both hands first, and turn him to the ground, handcuff him. That’s what he will do. If only he had his beeper, which at that moment is in the door pocket of his car. “You, stop. Right now! I’m a police officer!”

It’s the old standby, and it doesn’t work. Not this time. It is even less effective, he sees, than his previous approach, for the young man is moving more certainly away, looking over his shoulder as he does so, appearing terrified, increasing the distance between them to forty or fifty or sixty feet.

“Vernon!” Dulac calls. “We know who you are, we know what you’ve done. Just stop now; we’ll talk about it,”

Nor does this work. Looking more charged than ever, more terrified, the suspect keeps moving, is all but running as they are approaching the next corner. Here he angles into the street, as if aiming to cross at the coming corner. He slips around a moving car, as Dulac also angles into the street. “Listen you, stop right there!” Dulac calls after him, not disguising any of his anger this time. “Don’t turn that corner.
Halt!”
he bellows.

He is disobeyed; the suspect is out of sight. Half running now, Dulac moves after him, headed for the corner, working to unlatch his pistol.

Coming around the edge of a building, Dulac presses after him, sees him angling across this street as well, receiving a honk from an oncoming Mercedes. On a sinking feeling, Dulac sees that the worst possible small town thing is happening, that he is caught up in a foot race with a twenty-two-year-old man who is determined to run away from him. Nor can he get off a shot here, and he works to relatch his pistol as he moves. And he bellows as he moves,
“Halt! Police! Stop that man!”

Few people are there and no one puts anything together anyway. Dulac presses after him, however much his lungs are already begging for air. He cannot see any alternative—if he stopped to call for help he would lose him—and he still has him in sight. He presses on. He thinks how it’s like a lousy television show. Only no one knows about the lung capacity of old cops,
Goddamn sonofabitch!
His lungs hurt; they seem able to draw in but slivers of air.

He keeps on, jogging some, gasping.
“Halt!”
he calls again.

Nothing happens. The suspect is a block and a half away; he keeps going, keeps looking over his shoulder, keeps going, keeps going.

So does Dulac keep going, however staggered his pace, as new anger is in him.
You sonofabitch you,
he is saying to himself as he staggers on.
You sonofagoddamnbitch . . .
He slogs on.

“W
ELL
, I
CAN
’
T BELIEVE YOU!
” C
LAIRE CRIES AT HIM
. “Y
OU
think I should just let you run to him with open arms? Is that what you think? After all we’ve been through? Don’t worry, I won’t have him arrested. I wouldn’t do that. But he has no right coming here! He has no right having anything to do with you or with Eric!
He gave up that right—years ago!
”

Matt knew her reaction would be strong, but he did not expect her to go berserk. They are at John and Betty’s, where he walked after telephoning and having Betty say that yes, his mother was there. He and his mother are alone in the kitchen and he has only passed on the message, his father’s request; still he is feeling hurt and confused himself, as if he is the one who is at fault. Now, even as he knows it will hurt his mother in turn, he says to her, “He’s still my father.”

She blinks. He expects her to cry out again. She doesn’t. She says, “Matt, every time he failed to send any money. Every time he failed to help in any way. He gave up the right of being your father. I’m sorry.”

“Okay, forget it,” Matt says.

“Every Christmas—every birthday—when he did not send you a gift or even a card, he gave up that right. Now you seem to think it’s okay for him to come back here and act like a father.”

“Forget it,” Matt says, and knows that he is the one who is breaking now, again, and is going to cry. “All I said is that he said he wanted to come. God, I just can’t stand this.” In tears, Matt is turning to find the door.

“Where are you going?” his mother says.

“I don’t know,” he cries. “I’m just going. I’m going home. Why should I be here?”

“Matt, Betty and John have gone out of their—”

“I don’t care,”
Matt cries.
“I just don’t care. I can’t stand all this.”

His mother stares at him. “Matt, let me tell you what I can’t stand,” she says. “I’m trying to order a casket and funeral. Without any money. I’m trying to see if the police department will sign for us—if there is some program for people who don’t have anything. I can’t tell Betty because it’s too humiliating for
me. Because she’s done everything for us. Did you know that? Because your father poured every penny he ever earned down his throat. Did you know that? Because he didn’t care if his two sons were fed or clothed, or if they were dead or alive. That’s what I can’t stand. I’ll tell you something else, too. I know you won’t want to hear it but it’s the truth. So help me God, it’s the truth, If it weren’t for the man you say is your father—that wonderful little boy, who is your brother, who loved you, would be alive. Right now. That is the God’s truth. When he went away, when he did what he did—this is what it came to.
Do you know that?
”

Matt stands there weeping. “I don’t know anything,” he says then. “I don’t know anything. All I know is I can’t take this anymore. It’s all I’ve heard all my life. Why is he so bad? He’s my father. Why does everything have to be so awful?
Why?
”

Now Claire is the one affected, and she says, “Oh, Matt, please don’t say that.”

“Okay, I won’t. Who cares?”

“Matt, where are you going?”

“I’m going home. He’s going to call back and I’m going home. Because I said I would and I’m going to. You’re not going to stop me. Because I said I was going to do that; I said I was going to be there and that’s what I’m going to do.”

He leaves. Going through the door, he hears her say, “Matt, I’m so sorry you feel like that—”

Matt walks away, returns in the direction of home. It’s all money, he is thinking. Everything is money. It’s all it is. It’s money. It’s just money. Everything is just money and being poor.