“A witness?” said Aimee. “Really?” She gave the word just enough spin to suggest that she found this about as believable as a rumor that the Tooth Fairy had been nabbed with a bag of teeth. “Who’s the witness?”
Hansen didn’t move, but Conlough shifted almost imperceptibly in his chair. No witness. The tip-off was anonymous, in which case it came from Merrick. It didn’t help my situation, though. I knew from their questions about the ammunition that Merrick had used my gun to kill Demarcian, and had probably left evidence at the scene. Was it just a bullet or a shell casing, or had he left the gun as well? If he had, then my prints, not his, would be all over it.
“I got to put some trouble your way, just to be sure that you got your days filled without worrying about me.”
“We can’t say right now,” said Hansen. “And I hate to sound like a bad movie, but we’re supposed to be asking the questions.”
Aimee shrugged. “Ask away. First of all, though, I’d like you to get a doctor in here. I want the bruises on my client’s side photographed. You’ll see that they contain marks that look like the impact of a fist. A doctor will be able to say how recent they are. He has also recently lost skin from his lips due to the removal of the tape from his mouth. We’ll want those injuries photographed too. I’d also like to get blood and urine samples taken to confirm the presence of above-average levels of trichloromethane in my client’s bloodstream.”
She fired these demands out like bullets. Conlough seemed to take the full force of them.
“Trichlo-what?” he asked, looking to Hansen for help.
“Chloroform,” explained Hansen. He didn’t appear ruffled. “You could just have said chloroform,” he added to Aimee.
“I could, but it wouldn’t have sounded half as impressive. We’ll wait for the doctor to arrive, then you can start asking your questions.”
The two detectives left without saying anything further. After another hour had passed, during which Aimee and I sat in silence, a doctor arrived from the Maine Medical Center in Scarborough. He escorted me to the men’s room, and there I gave a urine sample, and he took some blood from my arm. When he was done, he examined the bruising on my side. Aimee entered with a digital camera and took photographs of the bruises and the cuts to my lips. When she was done, we were escorted back to the interrogation room, where Conlough and Hansen were already waiting for us.
We went through most of the earlier questions again. Each time, I waited for Aimee to indicate that it was safe to answer before I opened my mouth. When it got to the subject of the ammunition, though, she raised her pen.
“My client has already told you that Mr. Merrick stole his weapon.”
“We want to be certain that the ammunition matches,” said Hansen.
“Really?” asked Aimee, and there it was again, that sweetened skepticism, like a lemon coated in castor sugar. “Why?”
Hansen didn’t answer. Neither did Conlough.
“You don’t have the gun, do you, detectives?” said Aimee. “You don’t have a witness either. All you have, at a guess, are a discarded shell casing, and probably the bullet itself. Am I right?”
Hansen tried to stare her down, but eventually gave up. Conlough was staring at his fingernails.
“Am I right?” Aimee said again.
Hansen nodded. He looked like a chastened schoolchild.
As I had guessed, it was a nice touch. Merrick had left the same kind of evidence at the scene that at one point might have been used to convict him. No court would now convict on that basis alone, but Merrick had still succeeded in muddying the waters.
“We can get a warrant,” said Hansen.
“Do that,” said Aimee.
“No.”
Aimee glared at me. Hansen and Conlough both looked up.
“You won’t need a warrant.”
“What are you—,” began Aimee, but I stopped her by placing my hand on her arm.
“I’ll hand over the ammunition. Match away. He took my gun and used it to kill Demarcian, then left the casing and made the call so you’d come knocking on my door. It’s his idea of a joke. Merrick was facing a murder trial in Virginia on the basis of a bullet match and nothing more, but the case fell apart when the FBI started making panicked noises about the reliability of the tests. Even without that, the case probably wouldn’t have held up. Merrick did it to cause me trouble, and that’s all.”
“And why would he do that?” asked Conlough.
“You know the answer. You interviewed him in this room. His daughter disappeared while he was in jail. He wants to find out what happened to her. He felt I was getting in his way.”
“Why didn’t he just kill you?” asked Hansen. He sounded like he could have forgiven Merrick the impulse.
“It wouldn’t have been right, not in his eyes. He has a code, of sorts.”
“Not enough of a code to stop him from putting a bullet through Ricky Demarcian’s head, assuming you’re telling the truth,” said Hansen.
“Why would I want to kill Demarcian?” I asked. “I never even heard of him until this morning.”
Again, Conlough and Hansen exchanged glances. After a few seconds, Hansen let out a deep breath and made a “go ahead” gesture with his right hand. He already seemed on the verge of giving up. His earlier confidence was dissipating. The bruising, the tests to confirm the traces of chloroform, all had rattled him. Secretly, too, I think he knew I was telling the truth. He just didn’t want to believe it. It would have given him some pleasure to lock me up. I offended his sense of order. Still, however much he disliked me, he was enough of a by-the-book cop not to want to rig the evidence, only to have the case explode in his face the first time it went before a judge.
“Demarcian’s trailer was packed to the gills with computer equipment,” said Conlough. “We think he had ties to organized crime in Boston. Seems like he took care of some escort Web sites.”
“For the Italians?”
Conlough shook his head. “Russians.”
“Not good people.”
“Nope. We heard talk that it wasn’t just older escorts either.”
“Kids?”
Conlough looked to Hansen again, but Hansen had retreated into a studied silence.
“Like I said, it was talk, but there was no evidence. Without evidence, we couldn’t get a warrant. We were working on it, trying to find a way onto Demarcian’s list, but it was slow.”
“Looks like your problem is solved,” I said.
“You sure you never heard of Demarcian?” asked Hansen. “He sounds like the kind of guy you’d have no problem shooting in the head.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t be the first time that gun of yours made a hole in someone. You might just have felt that Demarcian was a deserving cause.”
I felt Aimee’s hand touch my leg gently under the table, warning me not to be drawn out by Hansen.
“You want to charge me with something, go ahead,” I said. “Otherwise, you’re just using up good air.” I turned my attention back to Conlough. “Was the gunshot the only injury to Demarcian?”
Conlough didn’t answer. He couldn’t, I supposed, without giving away what little evidence they still had against me. I kept going.
“If Merrick tortured him first, then it could be that Demarcian told him something he could use before he died.”
“What would Demarcian know?” asked Conlough. The tone of the interview had altered. Perhaps Conlough hadn’t been convinced of my involvement right from the start, but now we had moved from an interrogation situation to two men thinking aloud. Unfortunately, Hansen didn’t care much for the new direction. He muttered something that sounded like “bullshit.” Even though Hansen was ostensibly in charge, Conlough glanced at him in warning, but the remains of the fire that had been lit in Hansen still glowed, and he wasn’t about to extinguish it unless he had no other choice. He gave it one last try.
“It’s bullshit,” he
repeated. “It’s your gun. It’s your car the witness saw leaving the scene. It’s your finger—”
“Hey!” Conlough interrupted him. He stood and walked to the door, indicating that Hansen should follow him. Hansen threw back his chair and went. The door closed behind them.
“Not a fan of yours?” said Aimee.
“I’ve never met him properly before today. State cops don’t care much for me as a rule, but he has a terminal beef.”
“I may have to juice up my rates. Nobody seems to like you.”
“Occupational hazard. How are we doing?”
“Okay, I think, apart from your inability to keep your mouth shut. Let’s assume Merrick used your gun to kill Demarcian. Let’s assume also that he made the call about your car. All they have is ballistic evidence, and no direct connection to you apart from the box of shells. It’s not enough to charge you with anything, not until they get a ballistics match, or a print from the casing. Even then, I can’t see the AG’s office going ahead unless the cops come up with more evidence linking you to the scene. They won’t have trouble getting a warrant to search your home for the box of ammunition, so you may be right just to hand it over. If things turn bad, it might help us with a judge if you’ve cooperated from the start. If they have the gun, though, then we could find ourselves with real difficulties.”
“Why would I leave my gun at the scene?”
“You know they won’t think that way. If it’s enough to hold you, then they’ll use it. We’ll wait and see. If they have the gun, they’ll spring it on us soon enough. My guess, though, from watching you and Detective Conlough bond over the table, is that the gun went with Merrick.”
She tapped her pen on the table.
“Conlough doesn’t seem to like Hansen much either.”
“Conlough’s okay, but I don’t think he’d put it past me to kill someone like Demarcian either. He just figures I’d do a better job of covering my tracks if I did kill him.”
“And maybe you’d have waited until he had a gun in his hand,” added Aimee. “Jesus, it’s like the Wild West.”
The minutes ticked by. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty.
Aimee checked her watch. “What the hell are they doing out there?”
She was about to get up and find out what was going on when I heard a peculiar, yet familiar, sound. It was a dog barking. It sounded a lot like Walter.
“I think that’s my dog,” I said.
“They brought your dog in? As what, a witness?”
The door of the interrogation room opened and Conlough entered. He looked almost relieved.
“You’re off the hook,” he said. “We’ll need you to sign a statement, but otherwise you’re free to go.”
Aimee tried to hide her surprise, but failed. We followed Conlough outside. Bob and Shirley Johnson were in the reception area, Bob standing and holding Walter on the end of a leash, Shirley sitting on a hard plastic chair, her wheeled walker beside her.
“Seems the old lady doesn’t sleep so good,” said Conlough. “She likes to sit at her window when her joints hurt. She saw your guy leave the house at three A.M. and then return at five. She swore a statement to say your car never left its garage, and you didn’t leave the house. The three-five window matches Demarcian’s time of death.” He smiled grimly. “Hansen’s pretty pissed. He liked you for the shooting.”
Then the smile faded.
“You don’t need me to remind you, but I will anyway. Merrick has your gun. He used it to kill Demarcian. I was you, I’d be looking to get it back before he uses it again. In the meantime, you ought to learn to take better care of your property.”
He turned on his heel. I went over to the Johnsons to thank them. Predictably, Walter went nuts. A short time later, my statement duly signed, I was allowed to leave. Aimee Price drove me home. The Johnsons had gone ahead with Walter, mainly because Aimee refused to have him in her car.
“Any word on Andy Kellog’s transfer?” I asked.
“I’m trying to get a hearing over the next day or two.”
“You ask him about that tattoo?”
“He said there were no dates, no numbers. It was just an eagle’s head.”
I swore silently. It meant that Ronald Straydeer’s contact would be of no help. Another line of inquiry had ended in nothing.
“How is Andy?”
“Recovering. His nose is still a mess.”
“And mentally?”
“He’s been talking about you, and about Merrick.”
“Anything interesting?”
“He thinks Merrick is going to kill you.”
“Well, he wasn’t far off the mark, but Merrick had his chance. He didn’t take it.”
“It doesn’t mean he won’t try again. I don’t understand why he wants you out of the way so badly.”
“He’s a revenger. He doesn’t want anyone to deprive him of his chance of retribution.”
“He thinks his daughter’s dead?”
“Yes. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows it’s the truth.”
“Do you think she’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“I have another lawyer to visit, then I’m going to head up to Jackman.”
“Two lawyers in one day. You must be mellowing.”
“I’ve had my shots. I should be okay.”
She snorted, but didn’t reply.
“Thanks for coming out here,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“I’m billing you. It wasn’t charity.”
We pulled up in front of my house. I got out of the car and thanked Aimee again.
“Just remember,” she said. “I’m a lawyer, not a doctor. You tangle with Merrick again and my services won’t be much use to you.”
“I tangle with Merrick again and one of us won’t need a doctor or a lawyer. He’ll be beyond the help of either.”
She shook her head. “There you go with the Wild West stuff again. You take care of yourself. I can’t see anyone else willing to do it.”
She drove away. I walked over to the Johnsons and had a cup of coffee with them. Walter would have to stay with them for a few more days. They didn’t mind. I don’t think Walter minded either. They fed him better than I did. They even fed him better than I fed myself. Then I went home, showered to remove the smell and feel of the interrogation room, and put on a jacket and shirt. Conlough was right. I had to find Merrick before he used the Smith 10 again. I knew where to start, too. There was a lawyer down in the Commonwealth with some questions to answer. I had avoided confronting him again until now, but I no longer had a choice. As I dressed, I thought about why I had delayed talking to Eldritch again. It was partly because I believed that he wouldn’t be of much help unless the stakes were raised, and Merrick’s killing of Demarcian had certainly done that. But I also knew that there was another reason for my reluctance: his client. Against my better judgment, and against all of my strongest instincts, I was being drawn inexorably into the world of the Collector.
IV
Into the dark night
Resignedly I go,
I am not so afraid of the dark night
As the friends I do not know,
I do not fear the night above,
As I fear the friends below.
Stevie Smith, Dirge
26
I made the call while I was slipping a speed loader for the .38 into my jacket pocket. Louis answered on the second ring. He and Angel had hit the Collector’s safe house within an hour of Bob Johnson’s call to the inn, and had left a message on my cell informing me that they were, to use Angel’s words, “in country.”
“So I figure you got busted from the joint,” said Louis.
“Yeah, it was spectacular. Explosions, gunfire, the whole deal. You ought to have been there.”
“Anywhere be better than here.”
He sounded tetchy. Spending long periods of time with his partner in an enclosed space tended
to do that to him. I figured their home life must be something to see.
“You say that now. Before this is over, I’ll bet you’ll be looking back fondly on your time spent in that car. You find anything?”
“We got nothing ’cause there’s nothing to get. House is empty. We check before we start freezing our assess off out here. Nothing’s changed since then. We still freezing our asses off. Place still looked the same, except for one small difference: the closet in the basement was empty. Looks like the freak moved his collection.”
The Collector knew that someone had been in his house; he had discovered the trespass in his own way.
“Leave it,” I said. “If Merrick hasn’t returned there by now, he’s not going to.”
It had been a long shot to begin with. Merrick knew that the house would be the first place we would look for him. He had gone underground instead. I told Louis to have Angel drop him in Augusta, then pick up a rental car and drive back to Scarborough. Angel would head north to Jackman to see what he could find out there, as well as keeping watch for Merrick, because I was certain that Merrick would head for Jackman, and Gilead, eventually.
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