by Daniel Fox
Bob had to decide what to do with his psychologist’s file on the killer – get it to the detective now in charge who might be too busy to pay it much mind, or hand it off to Schuttman. Schuttman had been kicked off the case, but he had nothing to his name but time and might be willing to spend some of it following it through.
“Sergeant Schuttman?”
“Maddog Tree.” Schuttman nodded over at a scrum of other detectives. “You’re missing the big show.”
“Maybe so, maybe no. I’ve maybe got a gift for you.” Bob held out the file.
George just looked at it. “What’s that?”
“Mind if I sit?”
“Not for nothing, but your girl pal hasn’t exactly placed you all in a beam of sunshine, know what I mean?”
“I hear you. But in my defence Bly hates my guts.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Well, I maybe inadvertently stole her position at the paper. And I for sure stole one of her story tips. One of the tips she stole from you, as it turns out.”
George snorted. Kicked out Clemp’s chair for Bob to sit. He took the file. Read a bit. “I don’t get it.”
“I know this psychologist. He thought maybe he could guess the killer’s identity from... I don’t know, trying to read a personality out of the crime scene and the body.”
“Psychologist? Your psychologist?”
“No. Just an acquaintance.” Bob shifted, suddenly eager to get out of there before Schuttman got probing him too deep. “I can’t say there’s anything to it. Personally I don’t see how that doesn’t make you start trying to fit men into the mould he’s made instead of moulding the description around the man. Could be he’s just trying to make a little noise for himself.”
“And you ain’t?”
“I...” They looked at each other, then laughed.
George waved the file. “It’s okay, I could use a little good noise myself at the moment. Thing is, I don’t understand everything in here. But I know a guy who might. You heard of Vincent Bader?”
“Celebrity charity doctor, sure.”
“I bet he’d get a handle on all this medical lingo. I pass it to him, he okays it, I try to bump it up to A.C. Pointe. If that all goes like greased lightning, I kick you a head-start if anything newsworthy comes out of it. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like a plan. Hey, how’s the other thing going? Anything on Clemp?”
“No. I should get back to it now that I have time on my hands.”
“So I have a question about that.”
“Shoot.”
“Is it normal for a homicide dick to go around collecting bank heist files?”
George sat back. “How’d you know about that?”
“I started to look into Clemp too. I didn’t like that a top-drawer detective goes missing and nothing is done about it.”
“How far did you get?”
“Not far. I just started in on it right before the murder. All I know is,” Bob held up a finger, “he was looking into a bunch of unsolved bank jobs.” A second finger. “He disappeared. And I’ve heard that in the past he had some problems with the bottle and with whores, but...”
“But?”
“He bought his wife that dress.”
“I don’t want you bothering her.”
“I won’t. Still, he buys her this expensive dress and promises that their money troubles are in the past, and a few days later out goes one Detective Wally Clemp, never to be heard from again.”
George tapped his fingers on his desk, deciding whether to trust this paper guy or not after getting burned by the Bly broad. Then: “Yeah, feels too coincidental.”
“Yes it truly does. Listen, I know you don’t have a lot of love in your heart for reporters right now, but if I can help, I will. Personal problems aside, all I’ve heard about Clemp is that he was true blue. I wouldn’t mind having more Clemps keeping watch over my city.”
“So what do you figure would be a good next step?”
“It’s gotta be the robberies, right?”
“I looked them over, didn’t see a connection.”
“Well, maybe a fresh pair of-”
“Schuttman!”
The robbery detective, Fortier, eyes bugging, excited, interrupting. “Hey Maddog.”
Bob and George looked up to see something odd – uniforms and plain-clothed detectives alike making their way out and downstairs on the casual, clearly trying to not let the gaggle of reporters know that there was something on the go.
George: “What the hell is going on?”
Fortier stood, ready to run after the crowd. “Another girl has gone and got herself kidnapped in the Row.”
CHAPTER 27
“Sergeant Schuttman, a word?”
George was on his way out with the rest of the dicks, high-tailing it to find this girl, fearing the Skid Row guy was going to leave them another present.
A.C. Pointe pulled him aside for a private conversation. Other detectives on their way out gave them the once-over, big George had been getting a lot of love from the brass recently, despite being such a clear fuck-up when it came to anything other than handing out bruises.
“Yeah boss?”
Pointe smoothed down his hair with his hand. “I’ll need you to remain behind.”
“But there’s this girl-”
Pointe nodded. “I know. I’ve heard. God help her. But there needs to be a detective here to catch other cases. Not to mention working to clear up older ones before they get too cold.”
George watched the last of the other detectives heading down the stairs to the parking garage under City Hall. “Is that the only reason you want me here?”
Pointe sighed. “People in positions far above my own don’t want you seen having anything to do with the Skid Row case. I think you know the aborted interrogation was a disaster in terms of the force’s public relations. Yes?”
“Yeah... yes sir.”
“Our lack of new leads and headway is leaving a vacuum in a case that has the public hungry for news. In that vacuum newspapers will glam onto anything to fill space. That includes the past efforts of the detectives leading the charge. And, I think we can both agree, your past efforts would probably be misunderstood by a public that has gone soft against the criminal element in recent years. I do not regret putting you on the case, and I still have every confidence that you would have gotten to the bottom of it. But even I have strings that can be pulled.”
“I understand.”
“Good man. Go get something to eat, then get back here and resume catching.”
Eating sounded like it was the only thing that was going to stand out as a highlight for this day, so George trotted out of City Hall and down the street, feeling like a handful of hot-dogs might make him feel a little better. The wind was kicking up, he had to hold onto his hat to keep a gust from tumbling it away. And lo and behold, she was there, standing beside a parked car, watching him with wide scared eyes.
“Bly. The hell do you want?”
She said nothing. Just watched him. She looked ready to show him her tail-feathers if he even breathed funny in her direction. He didn’t care. He had most definitely had his fill of her. He moved on.
She blurted out after him: “Have you been here all night?”
He turned. “Say what?”
“Are there people who will vouch for you? That will say that you’ve been here the entire evening?”
“I heard you got fired. What are you doing here if- What happened to your ear?” He stepped forward. “Did someone take a poke at you?”
She stepped back, off the curb. “If it was you, I understand. I screwed you over and you’re mad and you should be mad and I’m sorry. I really am. You just tell me what to do and I’ll make it right.”
He stopped. She was well and truly frightened. Not leery, not wary, but out-and-out scared with some righteous fear. “I don’t know what this is. If somebody-”
“You tell me how to make amen
ds, that’s what I’m saying. I’ll do what-”
“Will you shut up? I’m trying to get this straight. From the look of your ear and the side of your face someone hurt you. And you think that someone was me, which says to me that you don’t know who did it. Well, lucky you, I was here all day getting nothing worthwhile done, thanks to you.”
Bly reached through the open window of her car, pulled something out, thunked it down on the car’s front hood.
George stepped closer. She stepped further back. He looked at the thing – a brick with string around it. He picked it up, turned it over, and felt time screech to an immediate fucking halt.
In a time-dilated flurry – he got the story from her, got her address from her, went inside, pounded up the stairs fast enough to make himself wheeze and regret the extra thirty pounds or whatever that he was carrying around his waist, barged right into A.C. Pointe’s inner office, the secretary having gone home for the night.
He stopped in front of the Assistant Chief’s desk. Put the brick down.
Pointe picked it up. Turned it over. On the paper on the backside of the brick – BITCH in slashed letters, an almost perfect replica of the word that had been carved into the victim’s back.
“Where did you get this?”
“Ida Bly.”
“The bad penny.”
“She had it thrown through her kitchen window maybe an hour ago. Hit her in the head. She thought maybe it was me. It wasn’t.”
“Of course not. Did this detail ever get out to the press?”
George shook his head. “Not that I know of. I kept it out of the files entirely. Whoever lands the lead on the case won’t even know about it until we say so.”
“And him.”
“Yeah boss. And him.”
Pointe stood, came around his desk. “I’m going to see if Pinker is still in his lab and deliver this personally. He’ll need fingerprints for elimination – yours, mine, and the Bly woman. Where is she?”
“She scampered. I tried to get her to come in but she’s scared of me one way or the other. She said she was going home.”
“Get a patrol car outside of her home.”
“Actually boss, I was thinking maybe we do this quiet, with an unmarked.”
“You want to use the Bly woman as bait?”
George rubbed the back of his neck. “I know it’s ugly, but if he’s marked her and comes back for seconds a patrol car will scare him away. An unmarked car without uniforms in it-”
“You want to sit personal surveillance on her?”
“Yes sir. With a rotation of officers in plain clothes.”
Pointe crossed his arms, thinking. “I think we all suspect and fear that he’s the one behind tonight’s kidnapping in Skid Row.”
“Yes sir. He’s a busy boy. And if he has his hooks into this other girl, Bly might be off his radar for a while. But she’s annoying enough that maybe he wants to take another swing at her at some point. I can vouch for this personally.”
“Alright, do it. Select your other shifts carefully. They don’t need to know about the brick and it’s charming script, just that she might be in danger. And all of you report directly to me, no one else. Otherwise you’d have to reveal our hold-back detail and I’m sure it would eventually make its way to the press.”
“Yes sir. I’m on it. Do we let Bly know?”
“That we have surveillance on her? No. We’re putting her at terrible risk, but she might tip our hand to him if he’s watching her. Do you agree?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
CHAPTER 28
Ida drove back home and was heading up the walk to the house when she heard the car park down the street from her. She didn’t pay it any notice at first, but as she was fishing out her keys she felt like something was off and she couldn’t figure it so she looked down the street. She couldn’t tell which car it was.
Let it go. She slipped her house-key into the door’s lock and that’s what clued her in- she hadn’t heard anyone get out of the car. No car door squeaking open or being shut, maybe some car hinges if the person was heavy, maybe some shoes scraping on the road. No car door being locked. Nothing.
She looked again. Streetlights reflected off windshields from this angle. She walked down the path, into the middle of the road. The cars became back-lit, streetlights casting through the back windows of the cars, showing empty passenger compartments... Except one car which showed a head silhouetted – short hair, biggish shoulders, had to be a man. Just sitting there. Just watching her.
She looked over at the house. She lived in the ground floor unit. A ground-floor unit with a window busted wide open at that. Landlady had said she would board it up, but that wouldn’t mean much. Home did not feel like a castle.
She got back in her car. Started it up, pulled out. Checked her rear-view mirror – the other car pulled out of its spot a few moments later and its lights snapped on.
She made a right.
She watched.
Yes, the other car made the right as well.
Another right. Another aped turn by the mystery car. Had to be the guy who had thrown the brick. If that was George Schuttman back there he was one sadistic son of a bitch. She didn’t think so though, the silhouette hadn’t been big enough.
Fine. Let him have the house. That was never home anyway, it had just been a place to keep her clothes. The paper was her home. The paper she had been fired from.
She was going there anyway. If Clifford was still there this late he could throw her out if he was man enough. No way did she fear Clifford more than the guy on her tail.
She ran a list – who hated her guts enough to pull something like this?
Schuttman had cause. But he had said it wasn’t him and he had seem genuinely surprised by the brick. She wanted to know why he had run off with it like he had won a doll at the fair, but she hadn’t wanted to stick around him enough to press the question.
Bob Tree. She looked in her rear-view, but there were too many cars behind her, too many headlights, she didn’t know which one was her guy. She hated the war hero, and he had knocked her on her ass. And he was clearly one sick weird-o with a head full of broken glass. Yeah, could be.
She could only think of one other person – him. The guy who had cut up the girl. The monster from the brown paper bag.
But why would he want her? Nothing could have made her stand out from other reporters. Nothing except the morgue photo with her name next to it.
And, oh yeah, that she was maybe the only woman who was reporting on his handiwork.
Sharp breath at the thought – was she in his cross-hairs now?
The paper. Clifford or no Clifford, she’d be around her people there. She’d feel safe. Safer, at least.
***
Bob was in his apartment, pacing, doing nothing, thinking everything. An argument in his mind:
Don’t go to Skid Row. You can’t do anything the cops won’t already be doing.
Do go - you could get some pictures of the search at least. Some local colour. Give Cliffy something to fool him into thinking you’re still a reporter for a little while longer.
Don’t go – you might have another breakdown if there’s another body. Then everyone will know about you.
Do go – if you do manage to give Cliffy something juicy he might acquiesce and give you a fluff beat you’re comfortable with. No more butting heads on the regular.
He had this theory now, born in the war – everyone was a monster, they just needed permission to let it out. He didn’t want it confirmed. He didn’t want it to be true about himself. He didn’t want to see another poor girl torn apart.
He grabbed his camera and his notepad and went anyway.
***
Ida more or less crept into the newsroom. She wasn’t supposed to be here anymore.
Thankfully the room was more or less empty. She got a raised eyebrow from a janitor making his rounds, she explained she was there to pick up personal items from her desk.
The room was pretty quiet, just an isolated desk lamp here and there at the overseas’ desks and the night beat guys.
She sat at her desk, or at least at what had been her desk, tried to figure out another move. She felt the vibrations coming up from the printing presses getting a workout down in the basement. Smelled typewriter ink and paper. Heard the clatter of typewriters here and there.
This was home. She needed to be here.
She picked up her desk notepad, the one she had rigged and left behind. Someone had ripped off a page partway down. Bob had taken the bait with her fake-out tip – enjoy your wild goose-chase you freak.
The way she saw it there was only one way she might be able to creep back into the paper’s good graces – get a story that nobody else had. Something with some real fatty meat to it. Anything less than a brain-buster and there was no way she was going to be able to counter the damage she had done to the paper’s reputation. And the biggest story in the world still might not be enough if the paper got sued or slapped with some kind of obstruction of justice beef from the P.D.
She looked around. People were looking at her. Let them look – puzzled stares were worlds better than being chased and having bricks putting dents in the side of her head.
She pulled out her personal notebook. All her stuff on the murder was in here, filling the thing in her looping handwriting. Descriptions of the girl as she had first seen her. The lot where the body had been found. A less-than flattering description of Sergeant Schuttman when he had been handed the reins. Notes from the street interviews. Mentions of the gunfire incident.
She paused on that last one. The gunfire thing had come up more than once. She flipped through to the other times it had been mentioned – enough reports to make it real. Heavy duty guns. Men chasing men behind the police blockade raid lines.
Was it enough to buy her way back home?
***
“Sergeant Schuttman.”