by Robb T White
Wöissell covered up against the kicks and strikes from the tire iron raining down. He rolled toward Corey, slamming into his knees and sending him over his body just as the strike from Nick’s weapon struck Corey’s back instead of his head. With Corey trying to rise, Wöissell was able to use a Brazilian jiu-jitsu move. Wöissell swung around and wrapped his thighs around Corey’s neck and squeezed while keeping his arms and torso free to ward off the attack coming from Nick.
Wöissell’s breathing slowed. He couldn’t keep two big men off him for long.
Nick was unable to maneuver around the scrunched-up body of Corey to get a clear shot at Wöissell. Corey’s legs pumped like a football player driving into a blocking sled on a practice field. Wöissell shifted his body and his human baggage to keep his attacker in front of him.
‘Get up and fight!’
Wöissell saved his breath. Both men were like those amateur streetfighters who tore off their shirts and swore—as if that meant anything.
‘Let him go!’ Nick bellowed.
‘Drop the iron first,’ Wöissell said. All the time he used his inner thighs like a nutcracker to squeeze every morsel of air from the pinned man’s lungs.
‘OK, fucker, here you go,’ Nick said.
‘Kick it toward me,’ Wöissell said.
His voice was ragged from the effort, but his breathing was under control.
Wöissell used his balance to spring off his unconscious victim and hurl himself toward Nick, who made the mistake of going for the tire iron. The flying kick caught him under the jaw.
With both opponents on the ground, Wöissell ran.
A day of disasters and humiliation, but he was still in control. He’d take stock of his bruises later. Right now, it was important to get clear of the area.
When he entered his house, he saw a light on in the den and looked in on his dozing stepmother. She had her usual bottle of expensive wine on the table and glass with dregs next to it. The remote lay on the carpet in front of her feet where it had dropped from her hand. He could cover the distance between them in two strides and snap her neck in his strong hands before she woke up.
She had his father’s money, a considerable fortune, yet it amounted to nothing. Downgrade the living room to a shabby apartment in Rissa’s neighborhood; replace the costly furniture around her like the daltile slate mosaic stone fireplace, the leather wraparound couch with built-in recliners, her idiotic vintage knickknacks, which collided with the abstract expressionism of the two Jasper Johns on the wall and the Jeff Koons balloon animal in mirror-finish steel, toss in the Rococo chairs, and the rest of her gaudy see-it-buy-it decor. Last, take away the plastic surgery on the face, neck, tummy, and—if Fred was right—vagina, and you had a woman who had climbed past her white trash-roots to wallow in money. Like the Pisces tattoo on her left ankle, she was stamped with her own genetic mapping. You could feed half of Mumbai on what she wasted every day of her useless life.
He headed up the stairs to his room. The quiet in the house suggested Fred was tomcatting around the Providence clubs and night spots as usual. He saw no light coming from beneath the door of his brother’s room.
When he hit the light switch, he saw the opened letter from that morning lying across his pillow.
He picked it up, thinking he might as well complete the day’s litany of miseries in store for him.
He read parts, skimmed most. The gist was simple—a default judgment. He had failed to appear and so the plaintiffs were awarded judgment.
Wöissell was not surprised Fred was out of the house at that moment. The summons was never received—or received and hidden from him. He had been so preoccupied with Rissa that he probably opened the letter and ignored its contents. Fred was a thief and a greedy moron. But he had the same survival instinct as any creature alive. He would make Fred understand that paying him a portion of his inheritance was better than the alternative. If Fred had trouble understanding what that meant, he’d make it clear with an assist from the Book of Genesis—namely, Cain and Abel. Get the point, brother mine?
No amicable divorce from family and natal city. It was all scorched-earth from now on.
Chapter 47
JADE WAS REHEARSING HER lines for the big pitch. She was certain the sandwich man was responsible for one, maybe both, murders. She’d had extensive phone conversations with the lead detectives in both cities. The Minneapolis cop told her that white canteen trucks were servicing several factories in the industrial zones. He could easily have blended in among them while he was trolling.
He told her the victimology was still ongoing but scratch deep enough, he said, you find some dirt on everybody. The businessman was killed late at night exiting a girlfriend’s condo. She was cooperating with police. She was a domme and called herself Mistress Bella.
‘Got a website and everything,’ the cop said. ‘Takes MasterCard and Visa.’
‘Any possibility, Detective, he might have been a victim of a random crime?’
‘We haven’t ruled that out yet,’ he said, ‘but it’s looking less likely.’
‘Does the wife know?’
‘You mean about his freaky side? She does now. It’s been kept out of the papers so far.’
‘Has the medical examiner completed her report?’
‘Any day now, she keeps saying. There’s no doubt about three things, Agent Hui. His eyeball was plucked from his head, his larynx was crushed, and it’s a big fat homicide we need to solve.’
‘Did she say whether he was punched or kicked in the throat?’
‘She said a bare hand’s edge could have done it, like a karate punch or a gloved fist, but not a kick. You’ll have to get the specifics from her on that.’
‘Is it possible a weapon could have been used?’
‘Again, you’ll have to ask our M.E. She’s had her hands in more guts than Attila the Hun. She knows what she’s doing.’
‘You said there was a note found in his pants pocket,’ Jade said.
‘Yeah, you asked me for it last time. The original’s bagged and tagged but here’s a copy of it. We asked a local imam about it and he said it’s a Surah on greed from the Qur’an. It’s from Chapter Three, number 180, if that means anything. Here goes: Let not those who hoard up that which God has bestowed on them of His bounty think that it is good for them—nay, it will be worse for them. The things that they hoard shall be tied to their necks like a collar on the day of Resurrection. And to God belongs the heritage of the heavens and the earth, and God is Aware of everything you do. That’s it. You want me to email you a copy?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve got it. I’m hoping to catch a flight to Minneapolis in the next day or two. I’m working on a case. I think there’s a good chance we might have a killer in common.’
She never bought all the way into Behavioral Sciences’ latest revision that there was a religious component to his thinking. Given his apparent zeal for Wittgenstein, she thought there would be more likely the factor of an interest in an ontological argument in the existence of God rather than a fanaticism of a religious kind. He was too methodical, too disciplined. But that was the secret flaw of many people who lived on the razor’s edge of brilliance or madness: there was a tipping point and every fanatic harbored a secret doubt.
She walked into her appointment with Gilker armed with a packed file folder of her reports on the sandwich man; the seething in her stomach was belied by the calm expression she exhibited.
‘Well, surprise, surprise. What can I do for you this bright and sunny afternoon?’
‘You know why I’m here, sir. I have some new information.’
‘Spare me, Agent Hui.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’ve had a couple calls already today from your fan base in New York and DC. You have a green light.’
‘I’m—I’m not sure I understand,’ Jade said. Fear throttled back, hope revved in her chest, however.
‘I think I was clear. Some people we both know and r
espect have put their muscle to your cause. You have permission to pursue your sandwich man. Inform Bar-Jonah. Officially, you are sharing the task force duties. He’ll remain behind and oversee the interagency end, so you’ll need to brief him. I get copied on every 302s, as per. That’s all.’
She decided it was best to leave without saying anything. She had no idea who had run interference for her. Some names came to mind, but she had never considered them fans. She was guiltless of going over his head or behind his back. It wasn’t in her nature to solicit allies.
She would mend fences with Gilker later. She had to book a flight to Minnesota.
Chapter 48
I’M SORRY YOU CAME all this way for nothing,’ Detective Jimmy Odell said.
It had looked promising. Now it was coming undone like a house of cards. The murdered businessman, Arnold Bergliot, was killed by two fathers, one Somali and one Palestinian. They walked into a police station in St. Paul and confessed. Their motive: an honor killing because their daughters both worked in one of Bergliot’s restaurants and had become thoroughly Americanized, refusing to dress with modesty, listening to rock ’n’ roll, and addicted to social media like any American teenage girls. Police raced to their homes and found both daughters murdered. One stabbed to death in the family living room, the other strangled by rope in her bedroom.
Jade thanked the officer for his cooperation and headed for the airport. She was at the ticket counter for a Delta flight to Tacoma when she took Dan’s call. He told her a detective from Providence was trying to get in touch with her and Fayetteville passed along a message from a lawyer.
‘What lawyer?’
She remembered the pathologist Peaspanen but no lawyers.
‘It doesn’t sound like our guy,’ Bar-Jonah said. ‘But he’ll explain it to you over the phone. His name’s Huff.’
She stepped out of the ticketing line and called.
‘Detective Huff, this is Special Agent Hui of the FBI.’
‘Agent Hui, I might have something else for you here.’
‘Go ahead, Detective. I remember your case, the dope dealer with the blunt force injury to the head and the crushed larynx.’
‘That’s right. Chad Burroughs. But it’s not about him. We’ve had a couple assaults in town and I thought you might be interested, see if it fits what you’re looking for.’
He told her in a few details about two men found unconscious in a neighborhood.
‘What kind of men and what kind of neighborhood?’
‘A couple small-timers, no felonies. The neighborhood’s not all that bad, working-class, but down market, I’d say. We found a girl living at a house near the scene who was banged up pretty good.’
She said, ‘Tell me about them, the victims.’
‘White males, thirties. These clowns hang out at a gym in town with another guy named Misrach. We’ve had our share of run-ins with all three, but here’s the thing. This Steve Misrach, he’s the town bully who tangled assholes—excuse me—with someone a week ago and got the living shit beat out of him but we haven’t made an arrest. We think this attack on Nick de Pasqualone and Corey De Hofnar might be related to his.’
It wasn’t murder, but something clicked: bullies, clowns, big. His description would fit Coy Burchess, Donnie Harwood, and Duane Crawford to a tee right down to the alpha male and his wolfpack.
‘Detective?’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘Tell me about the girl.’
‘Looks like a domestic but the victim refused to cooperate. Called in by her roommate but when the police arrived, she refused to give them a statement.’
The roommate said it was a fight with a boyfriend, but the victim denied it, said she got drunk on wine and tripped going down the steps. ‘But,’ Huff added, ‘she knew the two guys that got themselves stomped almost in her front yard. We sent a woman who works with intimate partner abuse and a female cop over to her house. She admitted it was a boyfriend, but she says she won’t press charges or give us a name. That’s it, I’m afraid. I know it doesn’t sound much like your profile suspect—’
‘How big were the men, did you say?’
‘Both over six feet and 220. Weightlifters, steroid junkies. One of them has a record,’ Huff said.
The sandwich man might have a trigger about bullies.
‘I’m at the airport right now,’ she said. ‘I can meet you at your precinct early tomorrow morning.’
Chapter 49
‘IT’S BEGINNING TO SOUND like this guy is your suspect.’
Detective Lieutenant Huff was younger than she expected. Bigger, too. He had a scar running down his left eye almost to his cheek. He smiled easily.
‘Some of it fits, yes,’ she said. ‘The trouble is he’s so ordinary you could pass him in the street. He runs counter to our expectations of the kind of person who murders like this.’
‘Any reason you don’t want to use the term serial killer, Agent Hui?’
She laughed. ‘The Bureau gets a collective case of the hives whenever that expression gets bandied about in the media.’
‘Seems to me, from what you told me and ten other cops back there, he definitely qualifies for one.’
‘I’d like to do the interviews myself,’ she said.
‘OK, how do you want to proceed?’
‘I want to talk to Clarissa Evans first. She’s the connection to all three victims.’
‘We can’t connect her to Chad Burroughs, however,’ Huff said.
‘Did you show de Pasqualone and De Hofnar photos?’
‘Not yet. They aren’t going anywhere. One’s still in ICU, the one that got choked out. We’ll swing by Roger Williams on our way back.’
‘How about a connection between Misrach and Burroughs?’
‘We showed him photos. Nothing,’ Huff replied.
Huff drove. He gave her copies of the files on the incident report from the officer called to the scene: two men lying prone on the grass, one barely breathing, the other dazed and semi-conscious. The officer said he was slapping the ground looking for his teeth. The follow-up report by the female officer and the social worker consisted of three short paragraphs. ‘Alleged victim extremely defensive, uncooperative,’ she wrote in conclusion.
The lieutenant glanced over at her.
‘You might not get much from Evans,’ he said.
‘Any reason she’d want to cover up for an abusive boyfriend?’
‘That report in your hands says about all they could get from her. Tara—she’s the cop—said it would have been a page longer if she had to include all the cussing. The roommate seemed like she wanted to talk but Evans told her to mind her own blankety-blank business. I’m leaving out a few more choice expletives there, too.’
She remained silent as they drove.
‘Something wrong?’ Huff asked her.
‘The domestic angle bothers me, Lieutenant,’ Jade said. ‘Our man is a loner, a chameleon who blends in wherever he goes. Nobody could remember much about him in Arkansas except that he seemed polite and stuttered. An eyewitness in Pittsburgh said he took a gangbanger apart in a couple moves like Steven Seagal. All the witnesses describe him as medium-this, medium-that. We had our best chance in Buffalo, but we lost it when the couple occupying the trailer space next to his skipped. We think they had a confrontation with him.’
‘You got a motive? Something to tell you where he’d go next?’
‘No, nothing. I can’t read him,’ she said.
She didn’t want to mention she herself was a witness to his violence and precisely how close to him she had been.
She caught Huff staring at her as her fingernail unconsciously traced the dented hollow of her zygomatic arch.
‘Looks like you were about to say something there for a moment, Agent Hui.’
‘No,’ Jade said. ‘I’m grateful for your call.’
‘Let’s hope I’m not wasting both our times,’ he said. They pulled into the dirt driveway. ‘How do you want
to play this?’
‘I’d like to talk to her alone, if possible. Maybe you could lure the roommate off for a chat.’
Rissa Evans answered the door just as Lieutenant Huff was about to knock. The right side of her face was swollen and the sunglasses covered a black eye. Her hair was uncombed and her breath blew out a fruity smell of flavored alcohol.
‘I told that lady cop and the other one everything I can,’ she snapped. ‘Now leave me the fuck alone.’
She tried to close the door but Huff jammed his foot into the doorway.
‘That’ll hurt if I slam the fuckin’ door on it,’ Rissa said.
‘Then you’ll go to jail for assaulting a police officer—’
‘Miss Evans,’ Jade said, ‘please listen to us for a minute. It’s very important. You might be in danger.’
‘What? Look, I can handle Steve myself if he comes around here again.’
‘It’s not Steve Misrach we want to talk to you about. It’s about the man who hurt Steve and his friends. One of them is in the ICU. I just want to ask you about him. Please—’
‘Fuck me. Shit. All right, but make it fast. I’ve got to get to work in twenty minutes,’ Rissa said.
She led them to the kitchen table. Huff excused himself and asked her permission if he might sit in the other room while she and Agent Hui talked.
‘You can hear everything from the couch in this shitbox anyway.’
She turned to Jade. ‘I take it you’re Agent Whooey. Nice name.’
‘I didn’t choose it,’ Jade said. ‘Clarissa, look—’
‘Rissa. Nobody but Silver Spoon ever called me that.’
‘Silver Spoon?’
‘John. John Ma-honey, yeah, something like that.’
‘Rissa, I’m investigating a series of murders by a man who fits the description of this John Mahoney. The sooner I find him, the sooner I can clear his name or—’
‘—or put that fucker behind bars. Look at my eye. I’ve got a concussion, too.’
The story came tumbling out in the hit-skip manner of most eyewitness accounts. Jade asked questions to test Clarissa Evans’s honesty and to put the narrative in a more logical chronological order from the events she described.