WIREMAN (16 page)

It was only three blocks to the house, but by the time they arrived Jack was snoring. Sam lifted him to his feet and managed to get him up the walk. Mrs. Lawrence opened the door, clucking her tongue and swishing her faded blue house robe behind her. Sam settled the younger man on the bed, took his shoes off, and covered him with a light blanket before letting himself out.

Maggie was waiting for him. To enfold him. To keep his face from staring into the dark for the rest of the night.

Sam woke near daybreak and left Maggie’s side. He sluffed around the bedroom in his loose boxer shorts until he found his old suit pants. After dressing haphazardly, zipper half undone, shirt hanging out, one of his socks inside out, he went to the kitchen and found two Danish that were none too fresh. In his own bedroom on the second floor he brewed coffee to drink with the rolls. He left the bed-table drawer closed, the bourbon bottle lying on its side. No more drinking during the day. If he had been in a state of deterioration, all that was past.

"All I needed was a case to work," he said to himself.

He realized that he had been a fool to retire early. He should have bucked it out, found a way to ride the changing waves. The beat cop with rank was a thing of the past. He should have tried to change. It would have been hard to take orders from a shave-tail brass with book learning and to overlook the growing number of cases thrown out of court. Maybe he could not have changed many things, but he hadn't stayed to try either, and that was was his own stubborn fault.

He wiped one hand over his bald head and frowned into his coffee. Had he been on the force, could he have prevented Willie’s murder? Very doubtful. But if he were still on the force, he might be head of the investigation rather than being reduced to bullying his way into the middle of this case. He wouldn’t have to be using a cop like Garbo to feed him information.

"Dammit! " Sam knew he had to find the killer, the most mentally warped killer Houston had ever seen.

Somehow he had to find the man.

Standing at the window, Sam drew back the curtain and let his mind wander over what the department had so far. Strength, muscles, youth, a garrote. His thoughts rolling along the same groove, he thought of men who would be muscular: wrestler, boxer, athlete, karate expert…

Part of his mind clicked suddenly. Karate expert. Wire. Karate?

Sam could hardly wait for nine o’clock so that he could telephone karate schools. He finished off the whole pot of coffee, his stomach beginning to burn with the acid.

Maggie came to his room before leaving for work. "You don’t eat right," she said. "You consume anything that’s lying around and think that’s all right. I’ll cook you a steak for dinner tonight. Count on it."

Sam’s thoughts were far away from dinner. He tucked in his shirt, noticed the half-undone zipper, tightened his black leather belt a notch, and sucked in his gut.

He made a list of the victims and tried to find a common denominator. Child, young woman, old woman.

Nothing, Male, two females. Nothing. Hair color, height, weight, nothing matched. Killed near old empty houses, inside an apartment, in a ditch. Nothing in common. He looked at his watch again. Forty minutes until any karate schools would he open. Forty minutes to see if his hunch meant a damned thing.

#

"The garrote had its origins in the Spanish Inquisition," explained a young-sounding man at the first school Sam called. "It was a method of strangling with an iron collar tightened by a screw."

"How does one not only strangle but decapitate with a garrote?"

There was a slight intake of breath, a hesitation on the other end of the telephone. "Does this have to do with the recent murders in Houston? "

"Yes." Sam waited.

"I read where they were calling him the Wireman."

"Yes, but how is he doing more than strangling the victims?"

The voice became thoughtful. "He’s strong, extremely strong. A garrote can snap a two-by-four in half with sufficient force. That must be what he’s doing--giving the handles one hell of a yank. If the wire can cut through thick wood, it can slice through--"

"I got the idea," Sam interrupted.

"Sorry." The young man seemed to hesitate.

"What is it? Have you thought of something else?" Sam asked.

"Uh, yeah, sort of . This might have nothing to do with your man."

Tell me and I’ll decide that."

"Vietnam. Sometimes garrotes were used in Nam. The Viet Cong used them. Quick, silent death. Used in guerrilla warfare--which as you know they were masters at."

"The Cong used them? "

"Maybe some of our guys. Maybe some of them took them off the Cong. I guess it's possible."

Another clink fell into place in Sam’s mind. "Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, but tell me something else."

"Anything I can," the instructor said quickly.

"Do any of your students or any of the black belts use a garrote?"

"Oh no, the garrote isn’t something we teach, karate doesn't have anything to do with it. I don’t know anyone who’s ever mentioned having one."

"Okay, thanks."

"Will any of this help nail the guy?” the young man asked.

"If he’s a Vietnam veteran, it will. It surely will."

Sam put down the phone thoughtfully. He knew his hunch was paying off. It sounded right. It made sense.

As much sense as any clue did on this type of case. At least they could check it out.

He dialed the precinct and waited patiently while being put through to Garbo Kranz, official head of the investigation on the case. "I’ve got something," Sam said.

"I hope to hell you do. This place is crazy. We’re chasing our asses." Kranz sounded beyond frustrated. He sounded like a man gritting his teeth.

"Start checking out the returned Vietnam veterans in Houston.”

There was a long silence. "You gotta be kidding. You’re talking thousands of names. That’s many man hours, Sam.”

"Listen Garbo, the Cong used garrotes. The killer might have taken one. It’s not a weapon you can purchase very easily at a pawn shop, you know. Start with the branches of service that had special training of some kind--Green Berets, Navy Seals, the Special Reconnaissance. Look up local servicemen with mental records or guys given Section Eights. It’s the only lead you have, Garbo."

"Jesus, the paperwork involved--”

“Do you want to stop him?” Sam snapped.

"What kind of question is that, Sam?" Garbo was offended and put that into his question.

"If you want him, you’ll start checking the records.
Today
.”

"Yeah, I know you’re right and it is the only lead, but this whole damn city’s overflowing with veterans." The younger cop was tired just thinking about all the paperwork involved.

"Then you best get started. Unless you want murder number four in your lap and the mayor down your throat.” Sam was getting impatient with Garbo.

“God…”

"Ask for His help too. You may need it. Keep me posted, and if you need an extra man for legwork I’m free.”

Sam hung up and sat looking at the telephone. Garbo knew it was a long shot. A garrote could be made with piano or guitar wire and two wooden handles. A kid could make one, an idiot could make one. It did not have to come from Nam. It was only a long shot. But that is what they were usually reduced to following, because that is all they had.

To the mental list of a muscular, young, strong, careful killer, Sam added Vietnam. It was not enough, but it was better than nothing.

JACK DESHANE sat in a gold brocade chair across from Eileen. He was dressed in dark blue slacks and a sweater, but Eileen only wore a thin lacy lilac gown that came to her ankles. Jack squirmed a little in the chair and fought the impulse to move to the sofa near her. He sloshed the Scotch around in his glass and watched the ice cubes swirl. He was almost sober. Hung over and beginning another bender, but so far he was not mindlessly drunk.

"I’m going to stop drinking," he announced, and realized he was speaking louder than he had meant to. He licked his lips and looked away from Eileen.

"I thought you would, Jack. Just as soon as you..." She let the sentence trail off to keep from reminding him of Willie. But it did not matter. He had never stopped thinking of Willie.

"I mean it, though. I’m stopping. Yesterday I almost had a wreck because I drove under the influence. What a joke that is, a cop who almost got busted for D.W.I. I can’t keep doing things like that."

"Come sit beside me Jack." Eileen patted the cushion beside her hopefully.

He shook his head. "Not yet. In a little while, Eileen. I just want to talk.”

She settled back comfortably and crossed her legs, her eyes staying on Jack’s face. When he put the unfinished drink down on the table beside him, she relaxed even more. "Do you like this apartment?" she asked.

Jack stared through the wall of windows into the sparkling city night beyond. “It’s too rich for me,” he said softly. "I’m used to worn carpets and big kitchens where too many owners have painted the cabinets too many times."

"This is too modern? Too high up?"

"Too rich," he repeated, but no hint of reproof was in the observation.

"You wouldn’t like to stay here with me for a while, shut out all that down there?" She gestured with one hand to the city sprawled below them.

"Are you making an offer?"

“I think we could call it that. " Eileen smiled.

“What about your clientele? Wouldn’t they miss you?"

"They know other women to go to. I don’t live by a schedule. I live the way it pleases me most." She saw his attention had strayed once again to the city nightlights.

"Jack? I want you to stay. I want to help.”

He turned to gaze at her. "Thanks for the offer, but..." His voice faltered.

"It’s too rich, right?”

“You know what I want, Eileen. I want you, living with you, marrying you if you’d let me, but my dreams could never include this lavish apartment or a bird’s nest view of Houston. It’s a little more down to earth. A little more common. I’ve never seen myself as a kept man.” His sad smile revealed more than his words. "What would the department say?"

"You’re incredibly old-fashioned, Jack, an incurable romantic. I used to be a romantic too," Eileen said softly.

"What changed you?"

Eileen looked down at the cushion beside her. "I won’t lie and say it was the school of hard knocks. It wasn’t. In high school I became one of Jean Barret’s top models for two years. I had a respectable portfolio. If I’d gone to the Ford Agency in New York or tried for L.A., I might have been another Cheryl Tiegs." She laughed suddenly at her immodesty and crossed her legs.

"Why didn’t you?" Jack realized that Eileen had always shied away from talking about her past. He wished he were a bit more sober.

"My roots here were too deep, I guess. I’ve asked myself why I didn’t try for it. All it would have taken was a plane ticket to either coast, my credits and pictures tucked under my arm. Maybe there’s something too stubbornly Texas about me. I couldn’t leave home. Then I realized that if I didn’t leave, modeling was a dead-end career for me. Once you turn down too many offers, they stop calling, and you can’t stagnate. You either move onward and upward or you quit."

"What about…?" Jack wished he could take back the words as soon as he said them.

"Prostitution? How did I get into it? It was a natural. I could still trade off what nature had given to me, my looks. It was convenient. Can you understand that, Jack? I wouldn’t have to leave Houston and make my way in the fierce competitive atmosphere of the modeling worlds of New York or Los Angeles. Maybe part of it was fear that I’d fail, that I wouldn’t be the best, the most desired. Staying here, doing what I do now, I knew I’d be in demand. Oh there’s competition, but not as much as you might think. Most of the really beautiful, talented women take those offers and wind up as models or handing out their expensive favors in Washington or Paris. My competition in Houston is...negligible."

Without thinking, Jack picked up the glass of Scotch and sipped it. Then he realized what he was doing and put it down again.

"When I was twenty," Eileen continued carefully, "an older man came to me. He had a lot of money and a reputation to uphold. He was kind and generous. He paid for things and he didn’t ask for much in return. I didn’t love him, but I cared for him, I really did. When he...he died, he sent someone else to take his place. And from there..." She shrugged.

"This is hard for you to tell me isn’t it?"

"Telling you makes it sound like a gutless thing to do and that’s not the way it was. In most ways it was what I wanted. Security, privacy, a peaceful existence...even respect."

"You’ve never been in love with anyone? You’ve never wanted a family, children?" On the word
children
Jack winced, and Eileen saw the scar on his cheek twitch and begin to redden.

"I haven’t thought much about a family," she replied honestly. "And you’re right, I’ve never been in love. I don’t know if now--after all this time--I would know what love is."

Jack moved from the chair to her side on the sofa. He put an arm around her shoulder and drew her near.

Love. Children. Family. Did anyone know what it all meant until it was lost? Maybe Eileen was right not to take chances on being hurt.

Jack felt a vast, limitless space opening up deep inside. He felt himself falling into it, floundering through the black, cold space, and he clasped Eileen tightly, desperately.

She stroked the hair at his temples and kissed him.

He lifted her from the sofa, and carried her into the bedroom. He set her on the soft mattress and slipped the shimmering lilac gown from her flawless shoulders. His hands slid down her arms pulling the slip straps, then he cupped her breasts. His kisses followed her pulsing throat down to the center of her breasts, then he took both hardened nipples into his mouth in turn, alternately kissing them, drawing them out against his tongue.

Eileen moaned, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. Jack nudged the gown over her hips and she lifted herself to let it slide free. She lay back on the lavender satin comforter, her long auburn hair spread around her small porcelain face.