“All the time. There’s a lot of mystery in this here complex, and I’m privy to most of it. The scary part is what I don’t know. Can’t even tell how bad that is. What you don’t know gets you killed.”
“Quite right, quite right. Listen, I have to get going. If you see anything suspicious, give me a call.” Walter extended a five dollar bill into Shirley’s hand. “Remember, I was never here.”
“Oh, I can’t take that. It’s too much.”
Walter waggled his brows. “I want you to take this money and buy yourself something nice and what’s more, I want you not to tell your husband. I want it to be a secret just between us.”
Shirley tittered, lumbering backwards into her apartment with Mr. Jinx at her heels.
Walter hopped down to the second floor. A brilliant ray of light rested on the frame of door 209. Probably a bad idea. He inched along the hallway, the gyrations of the fan whipping louder with each step. Definitely a bad idea.
The ball pick slid easily into the lock with a click. Walter jimmied at the shear lines with a snake rake, finding them with ease. When the knob turned, he tapped the door open with a fingertip.
A single burnt-out bulb presided over the airless space under the low, cracked ceiling. The mattress, curled into the corner, didn’t look like it was meant to be slept on. Walter’s shoes stepped over uneven piles of papers and posters. He ripped a blanket from the window, letting in a bit of gray light from the back alley.
Two wooden folding doors signaled a closet on the right wall, and a door-less frame led to a rusty commode and an uninviting bathtub. There were no mirrors or toiletries.
Walter took off his suit coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to sift through the mess. The posters were typical propaganda pieces, most of them featuring a demonic Uncle Sam in the process of raping a woman or wielding a whip over some terrified slaves in a cotton field. He looked them over casually, making a note of the address stamped on the backs. Among the empty cigarette packs and wads of tissue, he found a map of Illinois with various cities circled in red. Finally, Walter found exactly what he was looking for. Oh, Grizz. One of the newspapers was missing some of its letters. With a quick glance over the first few pages, he could nearly spell out Lisa Pluviam on opening night you will die. His pulse raced.
He searched for a hidden phone among the garbage. Walter had to tell Manory as soon as he could. He swept his hand blindly across the floor, revealing a pile of rat droppings. Disgusting. How do you hold a meeting in a place like this? Can’t even…The wire!
He followed the wire from the wall as it vanished under some flannel shirts before appearing again and leading into the closet. Walter scurried to the closet doors and, right before pulling them open, had a notion he should have checked there first. One should always secure a hostile location. The idea had barely entered his head when the razor came slashing toward him.
The blade ripped across his outstretched hand just below the knuckles, flapping the flesh open. Blood spurted over his bowtie. He grabbed Grizz’s arm and pulled him forward. The two men fell to the floor with Walter ending up on the bottom. Grizz was much stronger than he appeared. It wasn’t muscle, but rather heavy bone that seemed to drive the razor toward Walter’s right eye. He struggled in vain against Grizz’s wrist, his wounded fingers burning with pain. Grizz gave a ferocious grunt along with invectives about Walter’s mother as he pushed the red, rusty steel with both hands.
When the razor’s edge covered his right eye’s field of vision, Walter gambled. His head twisted to the left side as far as it could, and he pulled Grizz’s hand down to the floor, driving the blade onto the wood. He pulled his legs forward and kicked the old man’s ribs, sending him tumbling into the hall.
Walter slid back to the mattress, quickly wrapping a handkerchief around his mangled fingers. “Gaahh.”
The furious pounding of Grizz’s footsteps through the building was followed by the heavy thud of the front door. Then came the gunshot.
Young! Walter hustled down the stairs.
Outside, Officer Young stood trembling, the gun still pointed at Grizz’s prone body on the ground.
Walter yelled, “Call an ambulance!”
Young remained still.
“Move it, kid!”
Young finally came back to his senses, holstering the gun and running to the café across the street.
Grizz leaned his head forward. The gaping wound in his chest let out a low pressurized hiss. “Oh, hell! Awww, come on!” He closed his mouth. When he opened it again, his teeth were red.
Walter kicked the razor across the lawn. He took hold of Grizz’s hand. “Grizz, listen to me, there’s an ambulance on the way. You’re going to pull through. But, in case these are your last moments, I’ll pray with you if you want. Would you like that, Grizz?”
“Go fuck…” He coughed. “…your dead mother…in hell.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Grizz spat blood into his face. “This is how I go out?” A guttural wheeze came out from somewhere deep inside his body. Every word became strained. He squeezed Walter’s good hand. “Looking at your ugly face?”
A crowd of tenants had gathered at the front door. Shirley Bridge yanked her window open and screamed for someone to call the police.
Walter wiped Grizz’s blood from his eyes. “How did you kill her, Grizz? You don’t want to take this to the grave. How did you kill Lisa Pluviam?”
Grizz sputtered a few more stertorous breaths before a trance-like serenity came over him. Walter kept asking the question as Grizz’s gaze drifted upward, lost forever in the cloudless blue.
CHAPTER 10 it’s blunt, not obvious
12:03 p.m. Thursday, April 11th
“Where’s Dave?”
The acne-ridden young man behind the bar cleared his throat. “My uncle asked me to open today, said he’d be here whenever he could get out of bed.”
Rowan narrowed his eyes. “Is this legal—you working here at your age?”
“That depends. Are you a cop?”
“Excellent point. I’ll have a brandy and,” he sighed, “…a pack of Camels.” Rowan watched the teenager stumble around the bar trying to find the combination of glass, liquor, and cigarettes.
Dave’s nephew finally produced the goods. “Um…I’m not sure how much it is? Maybe twenty-five cents?”
“Sounds right. Just some friendly advice, don’t pour the brandy to the rim of the glass…you want to…” Rowan pointed at the boy. “You are Dave’s nephew.”
“That’s what I said.”
“The one who hauls ashes.”
“I…I…”
“Where did you hear the phrase?”
“Mister, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Was it from a film? Perhaps one of your friends?”
The nephew’s voice cracked. “I think you should talk to my uncle. Whatever problem you got, I can’t help you.”
Rowan took a sip. “This tastes like vinegar.”
“That’s the only brandy on the shelf. Like I said, talk to Dave.”
Walter strode into the Brown Bear, holding up his bandaged right hand. “You should see the other guy.”
“Williams!” Rowan leapt from the chair to embrace his friend. “Oh, you stupid, sorry son of a bitch.” He took hold of Walter’s head with both hands. “Do not ever do that to me again.”
“I can handle myself boss. I’m not a dame in front of a door. What are we drinking?” Walter took a sip from the glass. His lips jutted forward. “Tastes like piss. Hey kid, two Schlitze’s. I’m buying one of them.”
Rowan lit a Camel. “I tried to visit you in the hospital, but the FBI would not allow it.”
“Yeah, yeah, they gave me the third degree. I think they were just in a huff ’cause I found Grizz before they did. Where’s Dave?”
“Never mind that. Tell me everything.”
Walter relayed the meeting with Shirley Bridge and her crazy cat, the eviden
ce in Grizz’s apartment, and the shooting. “That settles it, Grizz killed her.”
“You are sure about the letters.”
“Pretty much letter for letter, boss. Grizz is the author.”
Rowan squeezed the filter between his fingers. “And it was a razor he attacked you with?”
“Oh yeah. The bathroom had no lather or strop. It was definitely a weapon he carried with him.”
“Yesterday was not good.”
Walter licked the foam from his lips. “Did you have a tough time of it too?”
“Allison Miller has been murdered.”
The smile left Walter’s face. “Oh, no.”
Rowan described the party and Allison’s presumed journey to the dressing room. “Her throat was slit with a straight razor.”
“So, let me get it straight. Grizz kills Lisa under Jenny’s orders so she can get the inheritance. Grizz’ll get a taste of it. Mind you, he’s got this operation going while he’s planning to bomb the Federal Building. Then he searches for some kind of evidence for this impossible murder that we can’t figure out. Allison comes to get it, so he kills her. Then he calls Jenny and she comes in the next morning to report the body. That’s the dumbass place our investigation has come to?”
“It gets worse.” Rowan caught a look at himself in the mirror.
“Of course it does. Lay it on me.”
“After Allison was murdered, her body was…defiled.”
Walter paused. “I don’t know what that means in this context.”
“What I mean to say is the killer took the time to disembowel the corpse.”
All the muscles in Walter’s face went limp. “Why?”
Rowan leaned back in his chair, his head bobbing maniacally. “Exactly! Why would he do something like that? What purpose would it serve? I thought of little else last night while I lay in bed. Grady favors the psychological line of thought. But insanity is a lazy man’s excuse.”
“What exactly are we dealing with, Manory?”
“It is obvious.”
“It’s blunt, not obvious.” Walter shook his head. “Allison had no family.”
“Her death would eliminate any connection to Clarence Williams. Maura and Edward would become the prime suspects if the familial theory is correct.”
Walter gave a helpless look to Rowan. “I just meant she has nobody to mourn for her. I’m sorry, I’ll try to detach myself.”
A rueful little shiver passed through Rowan. He quickly stowed it away. “Now is not the time to let emotions dominate our reasoning. The second murder is always done for a different reason than the first. This rule of thumb could not be more apparent than in this case. The murder of Lisa Pluviam was a perfect work of art. It was sophisticated and well-planned. We do not know how or why. Evidently, Allison Miller did. Somehow, the poor girl discovered something the killer knew would implicate him. Her murder was not planned. Despite its brutality, this act was far more impersonal than the opening night murder. It was not a crime of passion but rather, one of circumstance. I am not buying into Grizz as the killer just yet. It may simply seem that way.”
“We’re going in circles.”
“Yes, but we are drifting inward. The right clue has yet to present itself.”
“Do you think the killer might have wanted to make it seem like a different man killed Allison? A different style of murder might force us to take up new leads.”
“That would be a far more likely explanation. The defilement of the corpse was almost certainly utilitarian in nature. It served some purpose.”
“What’s the next move?”
“Tomorrow, we will get the post mortem report from McKinley. Your next move is to go home. Take the rest of the day off.”
“No chance, boss. This case is getting far too bloody. Wherever you go, I go.”
“Do not worry, Williams. I will not be involved in anything dangerous. I am simply going to pay Althea Johnson a visit in the black belt.”
“You aren’t doing anything dangerous, but you’re going into the black belt.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to paradoxes. Hey kid, get me another.”
The nephew’s mouth was agape. “Who the hell are you people?”
When the cab stopped at the corner of Crenshaw and Wilson, the hack warned Rowan about staying in the neighborhood too long after dark. “Whites who walk into the black belt don’t always walk out if you know what I mean.”
None of the blocks had a sidewalk and the apartment buildings were all pushed back at least thirty feet from the curb, the space in between consisting of dirt and garbage. Rats scurried over splintered wooden planks in search of food. There were no shops or restaurants in sight, only the distant downtown buildings, covered in haze like some dream of civilization.
Nearly sixty doors covered the side of the apartment building, packed in tightly across four flights. Wooden stairways ran along jagged, uneven angles. Collapse of the whole structure seemed imminent.
A little girl with a charcoal-painted doll opened her door. She leaned over a second-level stairway.
Rowan bowed. “Good evening.”
She didn’t smile. “Hello.”
“Perhaps you could help me.”
“There ain’t nobody home.”
He scanned all the doors. “No one here but you?”
“They at the Sunset. Only children and old folks here.”
“Excellent. I’m looking for the latter.”
“We have stairs. No ladders.”
“I am looking for Althea Johnson. Does she reside here?”
The little girl looked up and hollered. “Althea! A peckerwood here to see you!”
Rowan craned his neck. His legs ached. Four flights.
Althea kept her apartment neat. The kitchenette was clean and there was a lovely fruit bowl on the otherwise bare dividing shelf. She explained that most of the apartments had upwards of ten people living in them, but she had been fortunate. “I bought into mine before this area was zoned for coloreds. I lived here before it was the black belt. Used to be a real nice place.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, thirty-five years ago at least. It was before people drove cars.”
The back end of Althea’s voice was reedy and thin, but years of smoking had added a deep croak. Rowan thought it ideal for a storyteller. “From where did you move?”
“We came from Mississippi farms. Didn’t know what to do in the city when we got here. Wasn’t much prejudice when we came neither. Then the flood hit. Everybody and their mother came to Chicago. A few Negros are fine but thousands...That was too many black folks. It was even too many for me.”
Rowan said, “I was in the Mississippi flood.”
Althea’s cheeks rose. “No shit? Was it as bad as they say?”
“Worse. I was in Vicksburg, working a case. The whole town was flooded over. I’ll never forget the coffins.”
“Coffins?”
“The ground had eroded, and the coffins from the cemeteries were unearthed. They floated through the town. It was the closest to hell I had ever seen—besides Chicago, of course.”
“Of course. Chicago makes hell seem downright cozy. Was it a murder case?”
“Yes.”
“Ooohhh, I love murder mysteries. Did you solve it in the library? Was it the butler who done it?”
“I solved it in the library, but it was not the butler. He was a very nice man named William.”
“Congratulations. I’d make a terrible detective. I always get the killer wrong.”
With a sudden skip of his heartbeat, he leaned forward in the chair. “It is not something of which I am proud. In fact, I now regret solving it.”
Althea narrowed her eyes. “I ain’t never heard of a detective regret solving a case. It don’t sound right. That’s their one purpose in life.”
“It was a unique case. My client was a monstrous, evil man named Lasciva. He had murdered a woman and raped her daughter.”
Althea’s eyes
bulged. “And he was your client? How does something like that happen?”
“It’s a long story.” The screeching chirps of cicadas swelled unbearably in the summer night. Why now, Rowan? Why do you feel the need to confess this now? “The daughter, Irene, came back and enacted her revenge.”
“Did she poison him?”
He shook his head. “Decapitation.”
“That’ll do it every time.”
“I turned Irene in to the authorities. She has been locked away in a Mississippi jail ever since—due to be released in three years and twenty-six days.”
“Why on earth would you do something like that?”
Rowan hung his head. “Personal ethics, I suppose. The idea is if you extrapolate to the most extreme scenario and your behavior does not change, you will always know who you are. My personal ethics involve finding the truth and catching the criminal. As you said, it is my one purpose in life.”
“Even if the criminal is the hero?”
“Yes.”
“So, if you got this mumbo jumbo you call a code down pat, why do you regret catching her?”
“Because I would have killed the bastard had I been in her stead. He deserved to die.”
“You sound a right mess in the head.”
Rowan nodded. “An astute diagnosis.”
“Life ain’t that complicated.” Althea sighed. “All right, Rowan. You wanted to come see me and I don’t get many visitors ’cept the kind I don’t want. What can I do you for?”
“I wanted to ask you about Clarence Williams.” He pulled out a Camel.
Althea pointed at it with a bony, crooked finger. “Can I bum one of those?”
“Certainly, madam.” He handed it to her.
“I ain’t heard that name for a long time.” She ran the paper-thin skin of her fingers along the cigarette. “Clarence was fun. He liked to dance. He liked to drink. Sometimes he liked to do other stuff. Not much else to say about him really.”
Rowan lit her cigarette. “I like to drink.”
“I would offer you something, but there’s no alcohol. I can’t afford it anymore.”
He pulled out a five-dollar bill and put it on the table.
The Opening Night Murders Page 13