by Ed Gorman
"Almost three years," Williams said, and smiled at Rick.
Rick yawned. "I hope this fucking thing doesn't take much longer."
Williams looked embarrassed, the way you would when your two-year-old just barfed all over the matron's lap. I'm sure the good doctor felt we judged him by the behavior of his patient. And I'm sure he was right.
"I didn't fucking kill her and I'm getting real fucking tired of repeating it," Rick said.
Williams looked up at Mr. Hollywood and me. "He's telling the truth. He really didn't kill her. I would stake my entire reputation on that. I want everybody here to understand that before we begin the interview. We don't have a murder trial here. We have a miscarriage of justice."
"How can you be so sure he's innocent, Doctor?" Laura said.
"Because I know him. I know him better than anybody's ever known him except poor Sandy."
Laura nodded.
"Twenty fucking minutes max," Rick said.
"You mean he didn't kill her because Paul Renard had possessed him," Noah Chandler said.
"No, I mean that Rick feels very guilty about Sandy's death and has convinced himself that he did kill her because of Paul Renard's possession. He wants to punish himself for her death," Williams said. "He feels that even if he didn't do it he's somehow responsible. He wasn't a very good boyfriend. If he had been, she'd be alive today. That's his reasoning subconsciously."
"Can we please get the fuck moving with this?" Rick said.
He was a charmer, all right. I hoped they didn't plan to put him on the stand. The jury wouldn't need to take a vote. They'd lynch him on the spot.
This was the tale: Nerdy boy meets beautiful girl who, for some inexplicable reason, likes him. Begins going out with him. Begins having sex with him. But nerdy boy is out of control, desperately jealous, possessive. I had a relationship like that myself in high school. I can tell you all about the inclinations of nerdy boys. You're so intimidated by the beautiful princess—you can't believe your luck any more than the other kids can-----that you begin to cling. And when you begin to cling—calling too often, starting to suspect she's seeing somebody else on the side, being miserable and dysfunctional when you're apart for even an hour—she begins to withdraw. Comes to her senses, if you will. How did I ever fall in love with him? The girl I was in love with did me the favor of moving away. Our friend Rick wasn't able to cut it off clean. Started stalking her, threatening her, harassing the boys she went out with. Grades went to hell; sulked in his dark bedroom; severe weight loss; took up drugs, including crystal meth, which had become a plague upon small, quiet, self-respecting Iowa; and happened upon an article about the infamous Paul Renard and his involvement with voodoo and Satanism. Rick starts buying books on voodoo, begins experimenting with hexing people. Drives into Chicago, a mere four hours away, and visits a paranormal shop that sells voodoo dolls and other paraphernalia. Cuts up photos of Sandy and puts faces on dolls and begins sticking them with pins. The meth is becoming a serious problem by this time. Hallucinations. Rages. More weight loss. At this point, two years ago, his parents take him to Dr. Williams's hospital. He sees Rick twice a week for two years. A People magazine stringer is in Des Moines covering the national primary and reads an article about Dr. Williams's success with his various patients, most notably Rick. Voila. A People article about this fab-fab-fabulous doctor and his prize patient Rick. Who has given up stalking his girlfriend. Who has given up his suicide attempts. And, most important, has given up his use of meth. Dr. Williams's fifteen minutes of fame has arrived. The hospital prospers, as does the doctor. Rick is clean, mentally healthy (though still seeing the good doctor twice a week), and no threat whatsoever to Sandy. Then, four months ago, it all goes to hell. All his reading about Renard floods back to him. The doctor describes these as psychotic episodes; Rick apparently believes that Renard is inside his mind, puppeteering him. Back to meth. Back to stalking. And then, at least according to the police—Rick himself so swacked on meth he can't remember—he murders Sandy. His trial is about to begin two weeks hence. The national media, especially the tabloids, are rubbing their hands. The only thing more fun than building somebody up is tearing him down. Dr. Williams has become the villain. Rick's parents had begged the doctor to put Rick in the hospital. He was spookier and more violent than ever. They were afraid of what he might do to Sandy or himself—or both of them. They had pleaded with Dr. Williams on four different occasions for their son to be committed. Dr. Williams said that he could continue to see Rick on an outpatient basis and everything would be fine. Rick was just going through a minor setback. Everything would be fine. Very soon now.
"But he's not a killer," Dr. Williams finished. "I know this young man. And he's not a killer."
"You discount his belief that Paul Renard has taken possession of him?" Noah Chandler asked.
"That's why I didn't want you people out here," Dr. Williams said. "Poor Rick has enough problems without some stage magician exploiting him."
"I resent that," Laura said.
"Then resent it," Dr. Williams said. "I'm trying to help this boy. You're just trying to make some money off him."
"You agreed to let Tandy interview him," Noah Chandler said.
"I didn't agree to a damned thing," Dr. Williams said. "His parents did—after you spent an hour lying to them about how much the interview would help Rick's case."
"I consider his parents friends of mine," Chandler said.
"I'll bet you do," Dr. Williams said. "Do you always pay your 'friends' five thousand dollars?"
"Believe it or not," Chandler said, "we just wanted to help them a little bit with their legal expenses. They're not exactly rich people." Then, "That was the agreement," Chandler said to Deputy Fuller. "I've checked this with the chief."
"I know," Fuller said. Then, "Dr. Williams, they have the permission of Rick's parents for Miss West to interview him for half an hour."
"What if I don't want to be fucking interviewed?" Rick said.
"You're finally getting somebody who's willing to talk to you seriously about Paul Renard," Laura said. "And you don't want to talk to her?"
"I don't want to be on 'TV."
"Don't worry," Laura said. "You won't be." Then, to Deputy Fuller, "His parents said it would be all right if I stayed, too." Fuller shrugged. Shook his head. To him we were all crazy. You didn't put anything over on Bob Fuller, by God.
"Please, Dr. Williams, we'd really appreciate it if you'd make this as smooth as possible."
He looked at Laura and sighed. "Greed is never becoming—even when it's hidden behind a beautiful mask."
With that, he stood, picked up his briefcase, and left the room without a word.
"Is he always such an asshole?" Chandler asked Fuller.
"I wouldn't know," Fuller said.
Chandler said, "Well, Laura and I will see you back at the motel sometime this afternoon."
"Be sure and call Bailey," Tandy said. "See if the ratings are in."
Chandler looked genuinely sympathetic. He even managed to sound tender. He glanced at Laura before speaking to Tandy—parents keeping bad news from their child. "Don't worry, Tandy. I'm sure we got a bump two weeks ago with that alien abduction show."
Laura smirked. "That's right. How can you go wrong with little green men sticking probes up people's butts?"
Tandy didn't laugh. "They really believe it happened to them, Laura."
Obviously sensing the tension between the sisters, Chandler said, "We'll be leaving now."
"See you in a while," Laura said to me.
"Nice to see you again," Tandy said. "Thanks for coming out here, Robert."
"You ever been in jail?" Chandler said to me as we walked out the front door of the police station.
"No."
"I have. Three weeks drunk and disorderly. After my series got canceled, my life kinda went to shit. Beat up this guy in a North Hollywood bar one night."
"He all right?"
"Oh, yeah."
He shrugged. "Eventually."
We walked outside into the fine, clean, small-town air that is almost a religious experience in the autumn.
He said, as we went down the steps, "I stayed there of my own choice."
"In jail?"
"Yeah." He smiled. "How's that for a pisser?"
"Why'd you do that?"
"Because I was sick and tired of all the Hollywood bullshit. Your agents lie to you, your manager lies to you, your lawyer lies to you. And my wife happened to be lying to me then, too. I knew she was seeing somebody."
"You have her followed?"
"Huh-uh. She couldn't come."
"That's how you knew?"
"She was floodgates, eight years of marriage. Floodgates every time we hopped in the sack. Then all of sudden, no matter what I did, no orgasm."
"Good detective work."
"So all these vampires are surrounding me and I decided screw it, you know?" We were now down on the sidewalk. Grain trucks and a John Deere tractor and a bulk milk truck carrying a shiny aluminum tube for product on the back sat at a red traffic light. "The only thing I was afraid of, in the jail I mean, was if some guy figured if I was an actor I must be gay—a lot of people think all actors are gay—and tries to bag me as some sort of trophy. But you know what? I bought 'em off. I told 'em all the inside scandal stories I knew—who's screwing who; who's a cross-dresser; who was suspected of murder by the DA but wasn't indicted; shit like that—and man, they loved me. And I liked them. I really did. They were totally up front. And I listened to their stories, too. They had some great ones, better than mine. I still hear from some of them from time to time. I admit, three weeks, I was ready to leave. But I made some good friends there." Then, "Hey."
"What?"
"How come you keep staring at my feet?"
"I'm not."
"Sure you are."
"I'm staring at your boots."
"Vegas."
"Vegas?"
"That's where I got them. I did a TV movie there and I saw this dude wearing a pair—they look good with chinos—and I asked 'im where he got 'em and he told me. I can dig out the name of the store if you want me to."
"The shooter this morning?"
"Yeah?"
I watched his face. "He wore a pair just like them."
"Oh, bullshit."
"True facts. I was in the woods less than five minutes after he started shooting."
He smiled. "That was me, you dumb shit."
"You were the shooter?"
"No, I was in the woods. Earlier this morning. I drove up to see the gals and the asylum and I went for a walk in the woods. Ever since my wife, the dirty bitch, dumped me, I've really been getting into nature. A friend of mine says I'm compensating. You know, I don't have the bosom of my old lady anymore. So now I've turned to the bosom of nature. Or some crap like that. He's into mystical stuff." He smiled. He looked a lot like Robert Wagner, which I'm sure he was aware of. "So you thought I was the shooter, huh?"
If he was lying, he was good. But then, he was an actor and he was supposed to be good. It's what he did for a living.
"You don't believe me, do you, Payne?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"You tell Laura?"
"Not yet."
"She'll laugh her ass off."
"How about Tandy? Will she laugh her ass off?"
He frowned. "Tandy and I don't get along real good."
"How come?"
"She thinks I just took this job because I couldn't find any acting work and was desperate."
"Is that true?"
"Sure. But who cares? I'm a good producer. I stay sober, I show up on time, I'm organized, and I always try to get the talent what they want. Within reason, of course. And that means a lot of back-and-forth with the front office and a lot of headaches when guests don't show up and et cetera. Ask Laura. She'll tell you I'm good. Tandy wanted some pal of hers. Some booga-booga guy. He described my aura to me one time. Gave me the creeps. I think he was a fag." Then, "Tandy also hates me because I keep asking her sister to marry me. I'm hooked, man. I've never been hooked like this. I've got a real jealous, possessive side and I admit it. Tandy thinks I'm going to hurt Laura some drunken night when she tells me she won't marry me."
"How many times you ask her?"
"Couple thousand. I tell you, man, that chick has got my nuts right in the palm of her hand. And you know what? I like it. I like it a lot. Ain't that a bitch? I'm castrated and loving every minute of it." He checked his Seiko. "Hey, I've got an appointment with the kid's parents. Poor fucks. Rick is a crazy bastard."
"You think he did it?"
"Of course he did it. Who else did it?" Then, pointing to his boots, "That's great about me being the shooter. You be sure and tell Laura that."
Then he was gone, basking in the sunshine of showbiz history.
I was just getting in my car when I saw Susan Charles talking to an older couple on the corner.
I walked over to them.
She smiled. "I was hoping I'd see you again. This is Mr. and Mrs. Giles. They were just telling me that I should throw all you showbiz people out of town."
Mrs. Giles had been pretty at one time. Very pretty. But there was a sense of loss and anxiety about her that made her seem fragile and unpleasant.
Mrs. Giles said, "We've got a petition up is what I was telling the chief here. Us and some others got a petition up to get you folks out of here. Nobody wants to start thinking about Renard again."
"Mrs. Giles and her daughter, Claire, were both nurses at the time of the fire?" Susan explained. "Her daughter barely got out alive."
"Where's your daughter now?"
"At home," said Mr. Giles. "She never got over it. She stays at home because she's had a couple of breakdowns."
He was the sort of would-be dapper older man you see on the dance floor. The old-fashioned leisure suit. The two pinkie rings. The dyed red hair. The cheap dentures. And a pair of white plastic loafers with gold rings across the top.
"You people been botherin' us since you got here," he said. "First that Laura broad, and then Noah Chandler. Questions about the fire; questions about Renard. Just questions questions questions. Tryin' to make some connection between that mess and this Hennessy kid killing his girlfriend. It's just all crazy bullshit, excuse my French, Chief."
Mrs. Giles said, "You know what McDonald's is like if we get there late. Especially when they're running coupons. We better hurry."
"Sam Masterson's going to see you about that petition," Giles said.
"He's already set up an appointment."
"A lot of us don't want these folks here. No offense, Mr. Payne."
"None taken. I understand."
When they were gone, she said, "They're actually decent people."
"I'm sure they are."
She checked her watch. "Got to drop into the county attorney's office. Nice seeing you again."
FIVE
Back in my motel room, I fired up my computer and started working on my general profile. I inputted the data I had and then started punching up articles about teenagers who were into the occult and Satanism.
There seemed to be a consensus that three types of teenagers got involved in such activities:
—the psychopathic delinquent
—the angry misfit
—the pseudo-intellectual
Rick didn't strike me as an intellectual, pseudo or otherwise. While I hadn't seen the psychiatric report of his state-appointed shrink, he seemed, at least superficially, to favor the angry misfit more than the psychopathic delinquent. The background Susan Charles had given me showed no prior arrest record.
He'd also maintained a C+ average throughout high school and hadn't been in any school trouble worth writing down.
As for the satanic movement itself, there was great debate. Those psychologists who tended to believe in repressed memory syndrome spoke confidently of a worldwide movement that "brainwashed" children and frequently sacri
ficed human life to appease its dark Master. The leading proponent of this theory was a man whose name I recognized. He'd recently been sued by several of his patients, women and men alike, for sexual abuse. An equal-opportunity exploiter. He'd also been sued by two women for planting false memories in their minds through the use of drugs and hypnosis. None of the charges necessarily meant that his satanic theories were wrong, but they didn't inspire confidence, either.
The opposing forces insisted that the so-called satanic movement was, essentially, a bunch of bored perverts and gangsters who wanted an excuse to have group sex, run around naked a lot, and justify any excess or crime with the old joke "The devil made me do it." It insisted that many, many police studies had been done on Satanism, and particularly teenage Satanism, and that the studies had found Satanism to be largely bogus—something teenagers talked about but rarely practiced in any serious way.
As evidence, they offered up profiles of three teenage "satanic" murderers and demonstrated that none of the murderers, for all their dark bragging about their Master, held any real belief in Lucifer or his alleged "laws." They were just punks taking too many drugs and feeling a deep need—for a variety of domestic reasons—to visit the ultimate violence upon unsuspecting victims.
The most interesting report dealt with a New Hampshire murder trial in which the guilty teenager said that he had been "possessed" by the spirit of a man who had chopped up three teenage girls in a woods one night. His parents testified that two years previously, the local newspaper had run an article about a killer who'd been put to death in the electric chair thirty years earlier. Their son had been so fascinated with the man that he'd begun to read everything he could find about him. He'd even found old photos of the man and begun to imitate him physically. The killer had had a limp; now, so did the teenager. The killer had worn a crew cut; so did the son. The killer had been attached to the jazz music of Dave Brubeck; so was the son. The defense was obviously trying to depict the boy as mentally ill. They cited an earlier fascination—when the boy was eleven—with Satanism. Between the "dark magic," as the defense attorney called it, and the influence of the killer on his psyche, no wonder the boy, whose mental health had never been very stable, according to the shrink the defense had hired, had killed the girls. He'd used an ax.