Prime Suspect

by A. W. Gray

  The second thing that Samuel Lincoln was going to do was cut Dr. Anna Matthews’s water off where Parolee Everett Thomas Wilson was concerned. Shut off the psychiatrist’s easy state money for good. How you like that, Ms. Highbrow Feminist? Teach you a thing or two about going over Samuel Lincoln’s head. Dr. Anna Matthews was going to find out something about getting fucked around within the system, and nobody alive could do a better job of fucking with somebody than a State of Texas parole officer.

  What Lincoln was going to do was pretty simple: He was going to turn Parolee Everett Thomas Wilson back into Inmate Everett Thomas Wilson, Number Whatever-the-fuck. Poof, shazam, quick as a flash. All Sam Lincoln had to do was figure out what violation Parolee Wilson had committed, and that was going to be easy as pie. Every parolee alive had a joint laying around their place, that or a pistol, little things that a parole officer didn’t pay any mind unless he wanted to fuck with the guy. And if the parolee didn’t have any dope or any guns, he was a lead-pipe cinch to be out drinking coffee or beer with some other ex-con. Who the hell would drink coffee or beer with one of these assholes but another asshole, huh? Consorting with felons was an easy rap to hang on a parolee, all you had to do was follow the guy. It was tough shit that it wasn’t Parolee Wilson’s fault that he was about to have his parole revoked. That was just the way the cookie crumbled. See how this Dr. Anna Matthews liked having to visit old Wilson down at Eastham work farm. Let her do a little driving to earn her fucking money, huh?

  So, as Dr. Anna Matthews was saying, “It seems we’re going to be working together again, Everett,” and flashing her office-visit smile—and as Parolee Everett Wilson was giving her a dumb-convict grin while saying, “Hey. Hey, that’s nice, Miss Matthews,” and holding a chair for her to sit at his rickety table-Parole Officer Samuel Lincoln was having a look around, casting his gaze into the tiny kitchen, looking up at the overhead cabinets which showed cracked and yellowing white paint. The kitchen was always the best place to start. Likely there’d be a lid of grass hidden in the cabinet or behind the sink. A lid, or even a bottle of prescription medicine that poor dumbass Wilson had borrowed from some other asshole instead of going to the doctor on his own, that was all Lincoln needed to start the ball rolling. Goodbye, Parolee Wilson, and goodbye, Dr. Anna Matthews, once and for fucking all.

  Lincoln paused just outside the kitchen and said, “While you two are visiting I’m going to look around some. Just routine. No objections, huh?”

  Parolee Wilson said quickly, from his seat at the table across from the psychiatrist, “Naw. Sure, sure, go ahead.”

  Which Lincoln knew was what they all said, but there’d been a quaver in Wilson’s voice and a slight shiftiness about him that said it really wasn’t okay at all. None of these bastards wanted Big Daddy poking around. Lincoln felt a surge of satisfaction as he strolled into the kitchen. The guy was hiding something, okay, and it was up to Lincoln to find it. And Samuel Lincoln hadn’t missed the disapproving glance that the petite psychiatrist had thrown in his direction, either. That’s okay, too, little lady, Samuel Lincoln thought. That’s okay, you’re about to get yours.

  So while Dr. Anna Matthews was saying, “Now I don’t really think we have anything particularly difficult to deal with. We’re just trying to make your adjustment easier on you,” as she sat primly erect with her legs crossed—and while Everett Wilson was saying, “Hey, I understand. That’s what I’m wanting to do myself, make sure I don’t do nothing wrong no more” (which Lincoln understood was the standard ex-convict response, and also knew was a lot of bullshit)—Samuel Lincoln was opening and closing overhead kitchen cabinet doors, having a looksee at clay plates and saucers in untidy, cylindrical stacks, at unmatched glasses and cups turned upside down on spread-out newspaper which served as cabinet lining. Standing up behind the plates was the standard ex-convict half pint of whiskey—Roaring Springs Kentucky Bourbon, Lincoln thought, how do they drink that rotgut?—but nothing else. The rules were pretty clear on drinking, the parolee had to be boozing excessively for it to be a violation, and a half pint wasn’t enough to make a case. Lincoln decided to leave the whiskey alone for the time being. If all else failed, though, it was likely that he could drop by late at night sometime and catch Parolee Wilson drunk on his ass. That should do the trick. They all got drunk, one hundred percent of the bastards. Lincoln closed the door on the whiskey and opened the next cabinet. Jesus, was it . . . ? Lincoln smiled. Yeah, it was.

  A prescription bottle, half-full of capsules with the label turned toward the back of the cabinet. Lincoln stood on tiptoes, withdrew the little vial and turned it around. Christ, no good. Parolee Wilson’s name was right there on the label along with the daily dosage and the physician’s name and phone number, just like it said in the Parole Board Manual. Lincoln glanced quickly over his shoulder. Dr. Anna Matthews had her back turned, speaking slowly and earnestly, but the parolee was watching Lincoln. Was watching the parole officer, and one corner of Everett Wilson’s mouth was twitching. Think it’s funny, huh? Lincoln thought. Well, just you wait. He replaced the prescription bottle inside the cabinet, closed the door and retreated from the kitchen into the sitting room.

  Anna Matthews droned on in her trained clinical monotone, and Everett Wilson hunched thick shoulders and pretended to be interested in what the psychiatrist was saying, while Lincoln strolled casually around the sofa and ran his hand along the back of the TV set. Sometimes they’d tape something back there. But that wasn’t the case with Parolee Wilson. All that Lincoln got for his effort was a dusty palm. As he distastefully brushed his hands together, Lincoln walked to the rear of the apartment, taking his time, his gaze roaming. He stopped. Aha. The bedroom door was closed.

  As Dr. Anna Matthews was saying, “I think you’ll enjoy some of the tests. They’re sort of fun, really—” and Parolee Wilson was scratching his neck underneath his collar—

  Samuel Lincoln interrupted by saying loudly, “Hey. Mind if I have a look in there?” And pointed toward the bedroom.

  Everett Wilson’s head swiveled toward the parole officer as if in slow motion. Wilson was smiling, but his eyes were lumps of burnt coal.

  Everett had known it was going to come down to this ever since he’d let Lincoln and the psychiatrist in. Had been hoping that it wouldn’t, but had known inside that it would. Underneath the white shirt and tie and phony education, Lincoln was just another nigger and too dumb to let well enough alone. Too dumb to keep from poking around in shit. It was too bad about the psychiatrist lady, she hadn’t been doing nothing but trying to get to know old Everett a little better. Because of this stupid nigger parole officer, she wasn’t going to get the chance.

  Everett leaned slightly forward, his hand going behind him, sliding inside his back pocket to touch the handle of the Smith & Wesson. Dr. Anna Matthews was visible in the corner of Everett’s eye as he said to Lincoln, “Sure. Sure, go on in. I ain’t hiding nothing.”

  Nancy Cuellar lay in the dark, her knees aching, her wrists on fire, her arms feeling as though they might pull out of her shoulder sockets. She strained her ears, but try as she might she couldn’t decipher a word of what was being said in the other room. There had been a man’s voice, a soft tenor that was easy to distinguish from the crazy’s hoarse basso, and, just briefly, there had been a woman’s voice. And there had been movement, the scraping of a chair or chairs on the floor.

  Whether the newcomers were friend or foe, Nancy didn’t have the slightest idea. For all she knew, the man with the tenor voice was the lunatic’s sidekick, and at any moment the two of them might burst into the bedroom and take turns raping her. The idea of that happening caused Nancy to whimper into her gag.

  There was sudden movement just outside the bedroom, and the tenor voice said something that Nancy couldn’t understand even though the voice was louder than before. Then the handle turned with a click and light slanted into the room and the door swung inward. A hand—Nancy wasn’t sure in the semi-light, but thought
it was a black person’s hand—felt its way around the jamb, fumbled with the wall switch, then flicked the switch upward. Nancy blinked in sudden illumination.

  It was a black man, a tall, slim, businesslike fellow in a short-sleeved white shirt and dark slacks, and he was staring at Nancy as though he was seeing a ghost. His jaw dropped. His eyes widened.

  The man said, “What are—?”

  A loud crack sounded, like a mallet striking hardwood. Something slammed into the side of the black man’s neck; he pitched sideways into the doorframe as if he’d been kicked by a horse. Blood spurted from a wound in his neck and coated his white cotton shirt with grisly red. He sank to his knees and held out his hands to Nancy in supplication. His mouth formed silent pleadings.

  The crazy man, eyes wild, stumpy-ugly body in a crouch, materialized in the doorway behind the black man. In one hand the lunatic carried a pistol; his other hand was clamped onto a woman’s wrist. The woman was tiny and attractive, wearing a navy blue dress and high heels. Her short hair was trimmed like a cover girl’s, and her eyes were wide in terror. The crazy dragged his captive along behind him as he deliberately circled the crouching black man. The black man raised a hand, palm out. The crazy shot him in the chest. The black man tumbled over backwards, kicked violently, then was still. The odor of burnt gunpowder hung in the air.

  As Nancy watched helplessly from the bed, the crazy stroked the tiny woman’s hair. Tears were streaming down the lunatic’s cheeks and he was sniffling.

  As Everett Wilson raised up from the table and shot the parole officer through the neck (dumb nigger son of a bitch, you just couldn’t let it alone), a red haze formed over his vision. He watched Lincoln pitch sideways into the doorframe as though watching a movie with a color filter over the projector lens. Everett closed his eyes and shook his head, then looked around. Where in hell was he?

  A small woman (man?) seated across a table was staring at him, a woman (man?) whom he’d never laid eyes on before. Wait a minute. Yes he had seen her, but . . . Oh, it was his mother (father?), he’d finally found her. Had known he’d find her someday, had felt it in his bones. Where are your long pants, mama, and how come your hair’s fixed like that? How come your hair’s not an inch long and sticking up like quills, the way Daddy Eli told me?

  Was mama going to punish him? He didn’t think he could take that. Just like Daddy Eli, with the woman pinning his arms while Daddy Eli tied his feet to the foot of the bed and yanked his Tuffy corduroy trousers down around his knees. No, no, please, I’ll be good. But pleading hadn’t stopped Daddy Eli, had it? Hadn’t stopped him from sliding the inch-thick piece of wood in between his little dingus (Oh, I promise, I’ll never call it my dingus again) and his scrotum, steadying the nail with grimy fingers, raising the hammer while he glared his hatred, then bringing the hammer down. Everett could never take that again. He had to stop mama from hurting him.

  He’d show her. He’d show her what he could . . . He grabbed her by the wrist (Come on, mama, I’ll show you how good I can be), and pulled her behind him into the bedroom. What’s that nigger doing on his knees? Everett thought. Down on his knees in our house, and Daddy Eli told me mama don’t cotton to niggers nohow. I’ll show that fucking nigger. He shot the nigger through the heart, watched as the nigger fell over dead, then turned to mama and stroked her hair. Maybe she wouldn’t hurt him now. He was crying. Jesus, sometimes Daddy Eli would hurt him just for crying.

  “Please, mama, don’t hurt me,” Everett said.

  Mama (Daddy?) lifted her gaze, not saying anything. She hadn’t made up her mind whether she’d punish little Everett or not. She wanted more proof that he was serious. She wanted more . . . Well, he’d show her. He knew what she did near every night, knew because Daddy Eli had told him how his mama used to get down on her knees and suck on them things. She hated to suck on them things, Daddy Eli said, but them men used to give her money.

  He placed a hand on mama’s shoulder and lowered her down into a crouch. He was afraid at first that she’d stop him, expected mama to grab him any minute, throw him down on the bed and begin tying his feet to the posts. But she didn’t. Silently, without a word of protest, mama knelt in front of him. That was good. Maybe she wouldn’t hurt him after all.

  Everett looked at the pistol in his hand as though he’d never seen it before, then gently stroked mama’s cheek with the barrel. He moved the pistol slowly toward her mouth and touched its end to her lips. Finally, joyfully, Everett slid the barrel in between her teeth to touch her tongue. “It’s for you to suck on, mama,” he said.

  Her gaze met his as she drew her lips tight around the gun. She liked it. Oh, she liked it, did she ever. Did she . . .

  Everett closed his eyes in rapture as he squeezed the trigger.

  As the crazy’s arm jerked with the gun’s recoil and the back of the tiny woman’s head exploded, Nancy Cuellar whimpered into her gag. She tasted bile as it erupted into her mouth and further soaked the wadded cloth which was packed against her tongue. Bone splintered and fragments sailed through the air. A hot red mist dampened the sheets; something wet clung to Nancy’s forehead. The tiny woman disappeared below the foot of the bed as she fell to the floor.

  The lunatic seemed confused. He raised the pistol to squint down the barrel, and for an instant Nancy thought—oh, God, was hoping against hope—that he was going to shoot himself. Then he lowered the gun to dangle by his hip as he approached the bed. His movements were wooden and the tears rolled down to fill the crevices in his face like gutter runoff.

  22

  Lackey had expected a few cops, but the mob scene waiting at the corner of Sylvania and Northeast 28th nearly blew his mind. As the Mercedes left Airport Freeway to go north on Sylvania, the flashing roof-lights were visible from two blocks away. Swirling red reflections danced on the neighboring buildings like searchlights at a Hollywood opening. Jesus, Lackey thought, there must be twenty patrol cars down there. He pictured a SWAT team, just like the ones he’d seen in the movies, clambering upward on cables like Green Berets, running across the rooftops to stretch out in the prone position, squint through infrared scope-sights, and train high-powered rifles on the Mercedes. Lackey told Percy Hardin to pull over.

  After Lackey had gotten off the phone, he’d positioned Dick the longhair and the blond teenage hooker in the front seat with Hardin, with the girl in the middle. He didn’t want the hooker by the door because she was close to freaking out. Lackey didn’t know if it was the tension or the need of a fix—it could have been either one—but he couldn’t chance her throwing the door open and diving out into the road. Dick the longhair, though, acted like the whole thing was a stroll in the park, sitting back with his knee propped against the dashboard. Betty Monroe was in the back seat with Lackey where he could watch her from the corner of his eye as he held the .45 trained loosely on Percy Hardin. As the Mercedes moved over to stop by the curb, Dick the longhair said, “Jesus Christ, Fourth of July. You really are into some shit.”

  Lackey reached down to the floorboard and picked up the phone. He held the receiver and handed the end of the spring-coiled cord to Betty. “Run this up front to Mr. Hardin,” Lackey said, then got a firmer grip on the .45 as he said to Hardin, “Plug in this doodad when she hands it to you.”

  Betty leaned forward and passed up the cord. As Hardin reached behind him to pull the connector over the top of the seat, Betty let the front of her raincoat fall away to reveal her legs, batted her eyes in Lackey’s direction and ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip. She’d gone through the same routine four or five times since Lackey had let her out of the trunk, and Lackey supposed that it would never occur to her that some guys might not be turned on. He’d almost felt sorry for her a couple of times, then had recalled that a big part of the trouble that he—and particularly Nancy—were in was Betty’s doing, and hadn’t felt sorry for Betty anymore. He pressed a button on the phone and heard a dial tone. He punched in the number for the sheriff’s department.r />
  Dick the longhair was watching him and now said, “That’s some deal, that phone. They got any way to wiretap that? Shit, I may get me one.”

  Lackey told the sheriff’s operator to put him through to Homicide.

  “Hey,” Dick said. “Hey, rich guy.”

  Hardin’s chin moved to one side. “Huh? Yes?”

  “That phone,” Dick said. “They got any way to wiretap that sonofabitch?”

  “No,” Hardin said, “they’d have to record the person you were calling. This car phone’s wireless, they couldn’t tap in on it unless they got on the same frequency. I’m no radio buff, but that’s what they tell me. Of course, they could get a court order and have the phone company record you.”

  “I ain’t worried about that shit,” Dick said. “I’m talking about them tapping you without no court order. Jesus Christ, could I use a safe phone. What’s it run you a month?”

  Over the phone, the same good-old-boy voice that Lackey had heard earlier now said into his ear, “Homicide.”

  “Depends on the usage,” Hardin said. “There’s a basic fee, and then you—”

  “Hey.” Lackey flattened his palm over the mouthpiece. “Hey, you guys mind?” Dick looked out the window and Hardin shifted in his seat while Lackey said to the homicide detective, “Excuse me, a couple of guys were talking. Hey, this is Lackey Ferguson.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, Ferguson, I thought you were meeting Detective Morrison.”

  “I’m looking at him,” Lackey said. “Him and half the police force. Listen, put this call through to Morrison in the county car. Oh, yeah, I’m on a car phone, sitting in the back seat of Mr. Percy Hardin’s Mercedes a half-block up the street from where all those cops are parked. Don’t fuck around trying to trace me, huh?” He never would have used the F word around Nancy, but he didn’t suppose Betty Monroe would mind, and knew good and well that the hooker wouldn’t.