WIREMAN (25 page)

"You’re glad she moved out?" the doctor asked.

"Hell, yes, I’m glad. She was a bitch and Daley didn’t need her." Nick clamped his mouth shut and looked away from the gaze that seemed to make him say things he did not want to. "It’s just better that’s she’s gone," he finished lamely.

"And now you and your brother get along much better.”

Nick shrugged again. "Listen,"` he said. "my lunch hour’s about up."

Without consulting his watch, Rubens said, "We have another twenty minutes, then I’ll write your prescription."

Nick groaned loudly and Rubens noted that when Nick was thwarted he adopted a childish attitude to try and get his way. He must be very good at manipulating people, Rubens thought. How good is he at manipulating his brother?

"You’re not getting along with Daley," Rubens stated. One of his most effective tools was declarations that brought an emotional response from a patient.

"I didn’t say that!" Nick exploded.

Rubens sucked on his stogie and blew out smoke across the desk. He waited patiently, his eyes never leaving the agitated man.

"I didn’t say we don’t get along," Nick repeated defensively. “Daley...well, he’s got a strange bag of ideas these days, but nothing I can’t handle on my own.”

"You don’t agree with his ideas?" Rubens asked conversationally.

"Not all of them," Nick hedged. “He’s…accused me…of some things."

"Nick, what do you think of those murders we’ve been having in Houston?" Rubens knew he was taking a big chance, but sometimes an earthquake worked better than a tremor.

Nick’s face blanched. “I…I…” he stuttered, unable to gather his thoughts into perspective.

"Everyone’s talking about them," Rubens pursued. When a raw nerve lay exposed, the best thing was to yank it. "Did you read in the paper how the killer is suspected of using a wire--probably a garrote of some sort?" Press the advantage, he thought, this is the opening you were looking for. "Last time you mentioned you took a garrote off the enemy in Vietnam and you beheaded--"

"Stop it!" Nick jumped out of the chair and reached across the desk for Rubens’s lapels. He jerked the doctor from his seat. Sweat beaded his forehead. "You stop it right now," he said ominously. "I won’t take the rap for that. I won’t, do you hear me? Daley said it and now you’re saying it, and it’s a goddamn lie!"

"Easy, Nick…"

“Fuck easy! I’ll bust your goddamn face. You want to set me up for this--that’s what you want to do. You’re all against me. It’s because of Nam, that’s what you’re doing it for. You think I was a crazy killer over there and you want to pin this shit on me. Why don’t you pin it on Daley?"

He dropped Rubens back into his chair and stalked away from the desk.

“That’s right," he shouted, going for the door. "Call up my goddamn brother and ask him where he’s got the garrote. Accuse him, why don’t you?"

"Nick, wait." For the first time Rubens was worried that he had gone too far.

"Fuck off, shrink. I don’t need your pills, you prick." Nick slammed the door behind him so hard the psychiatrist jumped.

He had gone too far. In Nick’s parlance, he’d fucked up, but good. Nick would not be back.

Ask him where he’s got the garrote.
Nick had said.

Daley had the garrote from Vietnam, the one his brother used to behead three Vietnamese. Why had he kept it? What did it mean to him? Why was one brother accusing another of murder? Or had he?

Rubens reached into his bottom drawer and pulled out the bottle of bourbon. After several gulps his breathing slowed a bit. He poured some into a glass, then lifted the receiver of his phone and asked for a private line. Information gave him the home phone number of Detective Sergeant Sam Bartholomew, retired.

"Hello, Mr. Bartholomew? This is Dr. Sidney Rubens, V.A. hospital. Do you think I could meet you somewhere to talk about the murder case you’re involved in? Yes, I know you’re not the officer in charge of the investigation, but I’d like to have a word with you. Seven o’clock? Danny’s Bar on Holcombe? Fine, I’ll be there. You can’t miss me. I smoke cheap cigars."

#

Sam left a note propped against the saltshaker telling Maggie he was at Danny’s and would see her later. At a quarter to six he stepped into the warm, spilled-beer smell of the neighborhood bar and greeted the bartender.

"Bring my bourbon to a booth," he said, motioning to the rear of the room. Few people were in the bar.

One man perched on a bar stool staring into the depths of his draft beer. A couple hiding in the corner were into the second phase of heavy passion. Two pool hustlers played each other on the table in the back, waiting for the action to come in. Sam sipped his bourbon and watched the door for a government employee type with a cigar in his mouth.

At six-thirty Sam ordered a hamburger and fries from the kitchen. Danny’s wife came down from their upstairs apartment to cook the food orders. Sam suspected she was not fond of the job; the hamburgers were always half raw and cold in the middle. The French fried potatoes were overcooked and almost inedible.

As he ate around the edges of the hamburger, Sam saw a man smoking a cigar enter the bar. He wore a rumpled brown suit with dark stains on the lapels and pockets. He looked like an encyclopedia salesman who had wandered into the wrong place.

Sam raised his hand and caught the man’s eye. As he approached, Sam wondered what kind of doctor he was at the V.A. His bedside manner was no doubt on the skids.

"Detective Bartholomew?" Rubens extended a grubby hand. "I’m Rubens. Glad to meet you. I appreciate your taking the time to see me."

Sam put down the hamburger, wiped his hands on the napkin, and shook hands. "What’s this all about?" he asked, offering the basket of hard fries to Rubens.

The doctor stuck two of the fries into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "I’m a psychiatrist," he began. "I’ve been working with returned Vietnam veterans. First of all you’ll have to understand that what I say to you will be in broad, ah ... perhaps vague terms. I’m bound by an oath of confidentiality and the reason I’ve come to you at all is because of my conscience. You might guess, and correctly, that I suffer from a moral stance in a world too progressive and violent for my tastes."

Sam grunted and mistakenly bit the hamburger in the center. Raw meat made him sick. It was a real chore to swallow. He pushed the brown plastic plate aside and quickly downed the remainder of his bourbon.

"You want a drink?" he asked the psychiatrist.

Rubens looked relieved at the offer. "Sure, why not? I’ll I take a double bourbon. "

Sam got Danny’s attention. “Two double bourbons," he called across the room. He turned back to Rubens.

"Don’t order a hamburger here unless you want ptomaine," he said. "They leave the horse meat on the hoof.”

Rubens smiled and munched fries until their drinks were served.

"Now what does all this have to do with the Wireman case?" Sam asked. "Make it as general as you want."

"It may have absolutely nothing to do with your case..."

Sam held up his hand. "Not my case," he corrected. "I’m a consultant. My retirement was official eight months ago.”

"Whatever," Rubens said, clearly not interested in such technicalities. "What I have to say might be worthless to you, but morally speaking, I feel obligated to the city, and not incidentally, to the bereaved families of the victims of this killer." He took a big gulp from his drink.

"I have a patient…" He hesitated and started over again. "I had a patient until today, who is mentally disturbed. Disturbed enough to have committed these crimes you’re investigating. I haven’t any confession--I want to impress that fact strongly. No confession. Although if I did have one, I couldn’t tell you of it anyway."

"Can you tell me his name?"

Rubens shook his head and drew the basket of fries closer to him. "Unfortunately I can’t do that. My hands are tied by the office of my profession. I shouldn’t be here now either, discussing the patient at all."

Rubens ate more of the fries and chased them down with the rest of his bourbon. Sam noticed the cigar still smoldered in the ashtray and had not been put out. A frugal psychiatrist, and a freeloader to boot. If that did not beat all. Despite the seediness of the man, Sam rather liked him. He could see the struggle going on inside Rubens and appreciated his position. That he had come forward at all was surprising.

"What can you tell me then?" Sam asked.

"Very little, I’m afraid. In fact, it was probably foolish of me to ask for your time. I haven’t the right to give you specifics so I’ve made a blunder by bringing it out into the open.” Sam realized the psychiatrist’s oath of silence was making the man nervous about his decision. The interview would have to be conducted by sniffing around the edges, like a hound trying to find a trail.

"Let’s just take it slow and easy," Sam advised. "You had a patient, a Vietnam veteran, I presume…"

Rubens nodded.

“Until today. Something he told you makes you think he might be connected to or have committed the Wireman murders. "

"Correct." Rubens sat back and relaxed. It was easier to let the detective do the work.

"Okay. I’ll throw out some statements and you can either nod or shake your head, and if you can’t answer, don’t. What about it?"

Rubens nodded agreeably. He stuck the cigar in his mouth, and signaled for another round of drinks.

"This man killed in Vietnam."

Rubens nodded a shade too emphatically. Sam pondered the reaction before forming his next statement.

“It wasn’t the normal, run-of-the-mill kind of killing.”

A shake of the head.

"He killed above and beyond the call of duty."

Rubens shrugged.

Perplexed, Sam searched for alternative statements that might link a vet with the killer. What was so unusual about this series of murders? The method of murder. Decapitation. He glanced up to the psychiatrist’s face once more.

"He decapitated someone over there."

Rubens avoided Sam’s stare and seemed to be having a hard time wrestling with himself. Finally he nodded.

Sam felt a chill go up his spine. "Is there more?" he asked, his excitement rising.

Rubens nodded unhappily and almost grabbed the bourbon when Danny brought their drinks.

"Can’t you tell me? Christ, this is important!"

"I’m afraid I’ve told you too much already, Detective. I have to leave now."

Rubens finished his drink and stood to go. It was clear he was upset with himself. Already he had violated his professional ethics.

Sam grabbed his arm. “Hold on one goddamned minute. How is this supposed to help me? If he’s no longer your patient…if you can’t tell me his name or where he lives…?"

"I’m sorry, I really am. I see now I can’t help and this meeting was a mistake."

Sam stood and faced Rubens. He stared into the psychiatrist’s eyes and saw the pain. It was the pain that kept him from losing his temper on the spot. "Just tell me one more thing," Sam pleaded.

Rubens sighed.

"What kind of weapon did your patient use in the decapitations?"

Rubens shook his head sadly and turned to leave again.

"Was it a wire?" Sam shouted at his back. "Was it a garrote?" People in the bar turned at the raised voice and the mention of a garrote.

Sam thought he saw a small nod of Sidney Rubens’s head as he went out the door into the early night. He was not one hundred percent sure, he could not swear on it, but he thought he saw the bedraggled psychiatrist nod his head.

#

Jack DeShane was waiting for Sam when he returned home from Danny’s Bar.

"Sam, I want you to go with me. I couldn’t catch him at work. They say he hasn’t been in for two days."

“Hold on, boy. Where’s Maggie?" Sam asked.

"She said to tell you she wouldn’t be back until late. She went to see her sister in Galveston."

“Okay, now tell me where you’re wanting me to go with you?”

Sam sat down in a living room chair and bent over to unlace his shoes. His fallen arches were playing hell.

“No! Don’t take your shoes off. I want to go now," Jack insisted.

Sam looked up, frowning. "What’s got into you? What’s so all-fired important it can’t wait until tomorrow, Jack?"

“The guy I told you about. I know it's crazy, but Eileen knew this same guy as a kid. I have to talk to him tonight. I can’t sleep, Sam. Don’t you see what this is doing to me? For Christ’s sake, go with me," Jack begged.

"You realize you’re jumping to conclusions? If this man has a medical record with the service, he’ll be questioned. You should let Garbo handle it." Sam wanted to go to bed.

"I can’t!" Jack crossed the room, picked up a magazine from the sofa, put it down again. When he spoke, he suddenly was deadly calm. "I’ll do it alone," he said, his back to Sam. "I know you think I’m nuts. I know what everyone thinks. I can’t help it. I have to find him." He smacked a fist against the sofa’s back.

"I’ve got to stop him."

Sam sighed and retied his shoes. He stood and touched Jack’s shoulder. "Let’s move it," he said. "The night’s still young."

The address the manager of Apex Burglar Alarm had supplied to Jack proved to be in an area of Houston that could be described as a genteel slum district. There were two- and three-story homes that dated back to the early l900s, most of which needed renovation. The notorious South Main strip was to the east, and to the west huddled shacks and unpainted tenements. It was a district where people were afraid to walk their dogs at twilight, and the shades were drawn tight twenty-four hours of the day. At eight-thirty the sidewalks were empty.

"This place is getting sleazy," Sam commented. "I can remember when it still had a little class. But the class moved out to the suburbs."

"It’s exactly where I expected to find him living," Jack said, baring his teeth in an unconscious gesture of disgust.

"Jack, I want you to let me do the talking. You’re in no mood for it." Sam was beginning to worry about their trip.

“I don’t give a shit who talks, just so we verify where the bastard was at the time of the murders," Jack said as he pulled the car over to the curb and looked at a red-brick house set back from the sidewalk. "This is it," he said.