Show of Evil

by William Diehl

  'What's the victim's name?' asked Flaherty.

  'Alexander Lincoln,' Nicholson answered. 'They called him Lex.'

  Alex Lincoln, Flaherty thought. The last of the Altar Boys.

  Except one. Aaron Stampler.

  Rain dripped off the yellow crime ribbons that had been wrapped around a wide perimeter of the house when they got there. A sheriff's car was parked beside the driveway. A cop waved them through. Several police cars were parked single file as they approached the house.

  'We're going to have to run for it,' Nicholson said, turning up the collar of his suit coat. The two men got out of the car and ran through the rain to the small porch that spanned the front of the house. Several detectives in yellow rain slickers stood under the roof. They nodded as Nicholson and Flaherty ducked under the eaves.

  'It's a bitch, Nick,' one of the cops said. This rain has washed out footprints, tyre tracks, everything. The old man's a bear.'

  Nicholson and Flaherty stood just inside the front door for a few moments. A plainclothes detective was standing beside the door jotting a note to himself in a small notebook.

  'Hi, Nick,' he said. 'What a mess, huh.'

  'That it is. Ray Jensen, this is Dermott Flaherty. He's a prosecutor with the Chicago DA's office.'

  Jensen offered his hand. 'What brings you out here?' he asked.

  'We have a thing working up in Chicago. It's a long shot, but there could be a tie-in.'

  'Be a nice break for us if we could get some kind of a lead,' said Jensen. 'Right now we're sucking air.'

  A hallway led to the rear of the house. Flaherty could see white chalk lines marking where the victim's legs had protruded into the hall. He held a shot of the interior of the house taken from the front door out in front of him. Lincoln's legs could be seen protruding from the door halfway down the hall.

  'The Spiers left a light on in the living room,' said Jensen. The rest of the place was dark. My guess is the killer called Lincoln back there to do his dirty work.'

  They walked past a living room that was cluttered with kewpie dolls, embroidered pillows, and dozens of photographs. The furniture was covered with plastic sheets. Flaherty smelled the acid-sweet odour of blood and death.

  The death room was a small den with a fireplace. Sliding glass doors led from the room to an enclosed porch on the side of the house. Another door led into the kitchen, which dominated the rear of the place. There was blood everywhere: on the walls, the ceiling, the carpet. Flaherty found a full-length shot of the corpse. Lincoln lay on his side, his head askew. A terrible wound had almost severed his head. His mouth gaped open like that of a dead fish. The wounds were numerous and awesome. Lincoln's pants were pulled down around his knees and he had been emasculated. The results of the brutal amputation had been stuffed in his mouth.

  Flaherty flipped through the pictures, found a close-up of the rear of Lincoln's head.

  There it was: 'R41.102.' Flaherty showed no emotion. He kept flipping the photographs.

  'How'd he get in? The killer, I mean?' he asked.

  'Broke a window in back,' Jensen said. 'The way we figure it, he cased the place very carefully. Knew the back road to the lake would be abandoned this time of year; particularly after dark. He came in the back way, pulled on down to the house, and broke in through the sliding glass door leading from the little deck in the back. Here's what's interesting. It rained the night before, but there were no footprints in the house and the porch was hosed down so there were no footprints out there either. What I think, the perp took off his shoes when he came in. Then when he left he hosed off the deck so there weren't any out there, either. Probably used the hose to wash off the victim's blood, too. I mean, you look at the pictures of Lincoln, the perp had to be covered with blood.'

  'Yeah, somebody did some homework on this,' Flaherty said, still flipping through the photographs. 'Whoever set up the victim knew Spier and his wife were away. Little town like this - '

  'Was in the Post-Dispatch,' said Nicholson.

  'What was?'

  'About Spier and his wife going out to Vegas. A story in the people section. He drives a semi, won a trip for ten years' service without a citation or mishap.'

  'How about the package?'

  'Mailed from over in East St Louis, one of those wrap-and-send places,' Jensen offered. 'During lunch hour. Place was jammed, nobody remembers a damn thing about who posted it. Return name and address is a phony.'

  Flaherty looked at the receipt slip. On the line that read 'sender' was the name M. Lafferty.

  'Know an M. Lafferty?' the detective asked.

  'Nope,' Flaherty said. ' The victim picked it up himself, huh?'

  'Yeah. Was bellyaching about having to run over there after working hours and then drive down here and back after dark.'

  'What about this… Lex Lincoln? Anything on him?'

  'Young guy, twenty-six, been workin' at UPD since he moved here from Minneapolis two years ago.'

  'Minneapolis? Anything there?'

  'Nothing on him. No sheet. His boss - fellow named Josh Pringle - says he's a good worker, always on time, kind of a joker. No enemies we've uncovered so far. Big with the ladies - had two dates the night he was killed.'

  'Maybe they ganged up on him,' Flaherty said with a smile.

  The old pro laughed. 'Way I heard it, they were both really torn up over it.'

  'Was anything taken?' Flaherty asked.

  'Nothing from the house that we can determine,' Jensen answered. 'The Spiers will be able to tell us, but I think we can rule out robbery. This was an ambush. The only thing we know was taken was Lincoln's belt buckle.'

  'His belt buckle?'

  'Yes. One of a kind - an American flag, embossed on brass,' said Nicholson. 'It was cut off his belt. There's one other thing. Look here at this photo, on the back of Lincoln's head, it's written in blood. R41.102. That mean anything to you?'

  Before he could answer, Gilanti came back in the house, shaking rain off his coat. He stomped down the hall, his face bunched up in a scowl, talking aloud to himself as he approached Flaherty, Jensen, and Nicholson.

  'We don't have a description of the perp, we don't have a description of the vehicle, we don't have shit. And whoever done this job's been on the run for eighteen to twenty goddamn hours.' He stopped at the three men, looked down at the floor with disgust. 'Hell, the son of a bitch could be halfway to New York by now.' Jensen said, 'We're talking to everybody in town and in the area. We're checking all pass-through vehicles between seven and ten P.M. We're checking filling stations up and down 44. Looking for anybody suspicious.'

  'Christ, that's half the world. We'll be getting calls for the next year with that description.'

  'Maybe the ME'll come up with something,' said Nicholson. 'Blood, fibres, DNA sample, something.'

  'Yeah, sure. And Little Bo Beep'll give us all a blow job if we're good boys. What we got is nothing We don't know what or who the hell we're looking for or where he or she is going. Christ, the killer could be standing out there in the rain, looking across the ribbons, we wouldn't have a clue.'

  Then he looked at Flaherty and shrugged.

  'Got any ideas, Dermott?'

  Flaherty gave him a lazy smile. 'I convict 'em, Captain, I'm not much at catching 'em.'

  'Well, sorry I disturbed you boys. Go back to whatever you were doin'.' Gilanti moved away, then looked back at Flaherty. 'You know anything, any fuckin' thing at all that'll help us, Dermott, I'll name my next kid after you, even if it's a girl.'

  'Thanks for your assistance, Captain.'

  'Yeah, sure,' Gilanti said, and went out into the rain.

  'What was in the box Lincoln delivered?' Flaherty asked Jensen.

  'That's the sickest thing of all,' said Jensen. 'Just this, wrapped in a lot of tissue paper.'

  Flaherty looked at the object and a sudden chill rippled up his backbone.

  Chief Hiram Young was just sitting down to his evening meal when the phone rang. 'Damn,' h
e grumbled under his breath as he snatched up the phone. 'Abe Green's dog's probably raising cain in somebody's yard. Hello!

  'Chief Hiram Young?'

  'Yes, sir,' Young answered sternly.

  'Sir, my name's Dermott Flaherty. I'm an assistant DA up in Chicago.'

  'I've already talked to your people. How many times I have to tell you—'

  'Excuse me, sir. I just have one question.'

  'I'm just settin' down't' dinner.'

  'This will only take a minute. Was anything taken from the Balfour home when Linda Balfour was murdered?'

  'I already told you people, robbery was not the motive.'

  'I'm not talking about robbery, Chief. I'm talking about some little insignificant thing. Nothing that would be important to anyone else.'

  There was a long pause. Young cradled the phone between his shoulder and jaw as he spread jam on a hot biscuit.

  'Really wasn't anything,' Young said.

  'What was it?'

  'A stuffed fish.'

  'You mean, like a fish mounted on the wall?'

  'No, a little stuffed dolphin. It had ST SIMONS ISLAND, GA. printed on the side. George bought it for Linda when they were on their honeymoon.'

  'Where was it? What I mean is, was it in the room where she was murdered?'

  'Yes. On the mantelpiece.'

  'Same room as the murder?'

  'That's what I just said.'

  'Thank you, sir. I appreciate your help. Goodbye.'

  Young slammed down the phone.

  'Something wrong, honey?' his wife asked.

  'Just some big-shot DA up in Chicago tryin' to mess in our business,' he said, and returned to his dinner.

  'Abel? I'm at the airport in St Louis,' Flaherty told Stenner. 'Got to hurry, my plane's loading. I'll be there at seven-oh-five.'

  'I'll pick you up. Get anything?'

  'A lot. I think we need to talk to Martin and Jane Venable tonight. It's the same perp, no question about it. Victim even has the symbol on the back of his head. Let me give it to you, maybe Harve can run over to the library and check it out. Got a pencil?'

  'Yes.'

  'It's R41.102.'

  'R41.102,' Stenner repeated. 'We'll get on it right away.'

  'Good. See you at seven.'

  Twenty-one

  Jane Venable leaned over the spaghetti pot and, pursing her lips, sucked a tiny sample of the olio off a wooden spoon. Pretty good, she thought, and sprinkled a little more salt in it. She looked over at the table. Earlier in the day the florist had brought an enormous arrangement of flowers with a simple note: 'These cannot compare to your beauty. Marty.'

  For the first time in years, Jane felt she was beginning to have a new life outside of her office. She had made a fortune, but it had cost her any semblance of a personal life. Now, in just a few days, that had changed. She stared at the flowers and wondered silently, My God, am I falling in love with this man? And just as quickly she dispelled the idea. It's just a flirtation, don't make more of it than it is.

  'I didn't think you really cooked in this chef's fantasy,' said Vail. 'Where'd you learn to cook Italian spaghetti? You're not Italian.'

  'My mother was. Born in Florence. She was a translator at the Nuremberg trials when she was eighteen.'

  'Ahhh, so that's where that tough streak came from.'

  'My father was no slouch, either. He was a government attorney at the trials - that's where they met. And after that a federal prosecutor for fifteen years.'

  'What did he think when you quit prosecuting and went private?'

  'He was all for it. He said ten years was enough unless I wanted to move up to attorney general or governor. I didn't need that kind of heat.'

  'Who does? There's damn little truth in politics.'

  'I don't know,' she said. 'When I was a prosecutor I honestly believed it was all about truth and justice and all that crap.'

  'I repeat, there's damn little truth in politics, Janie.'

  'You know what they say, truth is perception.'

  'No, truth is the fury's perception,' Vail corrected.

  'Does it ever bother you?' she asked. 'About winning?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Some people say we're both obsessed with winning.'

  'It's all point of view. Listen, when I was a young lawyer I defended a kid for ripping off a grocery store. The key piece of evidence was a felt hat. The prosecutor claimed my boy dropped it running out of the store. I tore up the prosecution, proved it couldn't be his hat, ate up the eyewitnesses, turned an open-and-shut case into a rout. After he was acquitted, the kid turns to me and says, "Can I have my hat back now?" It bothered me so much that one night I was having dinner with a judge - who later became one of my best friends - and I told him what had happened. Know what he said? "It wasn't your problem, it was the prosecutor's. Pass the butter, please." '

  She laughed softly. 'So what's the lesson, Vail?'

  Vail took a sip of wine and chuckled. 'Nobody ever said life is fair - I guess that's the lesson, if there is one.'

  'That's a cynical response, Counsellor.'

  'There are no guarantees. We give it the best we got no matter how good or bad the competition is. It isn't about winning anymore, it's about doing the best you can.'

  'I suppose we could practice euthanasia on all the bad lawyers in the world and try to even the playing field. That's the only way we'll ever approach true justice in the courtroom. Does it ever bother you, Martin? When you know the opposition is incompetent?'

  'Nope, it makes the job that much easier. You're not going through one of those guilt trips because you're successful, are you?'

  'No,' she said, but there was a hint of doubt in her tone.

  'Janie, in the years you were a prosecutor, did you ever try someone you thought was innocent?'

  She was shocked by the question. 'Of course not!' she answered.

  'Have you ever defended someone you thought was guilty?'

  She hesitated for a long time. 'I never ask,' she said finally.

  He held out his hands. 'See, point of view. I rest my case.' He lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. He watched her silently for a while.

  'I think it's the Stoddard case,' he said.

  'What do you mean?'

  'That's what all this yak-yak is about, the Stoddard case. You're having a problem.'

  'There's something wrong with the picture. Something doesn't make sense. This woman is forbidding me to defend her and I don't know why.'

  'We probably shouldn't even be discussing this. I'm sorry I brought it up.'

  'We both want to know what really happened that night in Delaney's penthouse, don't we?' she said.

  'We know what happened.'

  A silence fell over the table, broken finally when Venable sighed. 'You're right, we shouldn't be talking about it.'

  'I'll make a deal with you. When we're together, let's keep the law books on the shelf.'

  She smiled and raised her glass. 'Sounds good to me,' she said. She reached out with her other hand and stroked his cheek. He got up and moved to her side of the table and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her softly on the lips.

  'How about dessert,' she whispered between kisses.

  'Later.'

  The phone rang.

  'Let it ring,' Jane said, her eyes closed, her tongue tapping his.

  The machine came on. Vail recognized the familiar voice.

  'Ms Venable, this is Abel Stenner. Please forgive me for bothering you at home, but it's imperative we locate Martin Vail——'

  'Oh, Jesus,' he moaned.

  'When you get this message, if you know his whereabouts -'

  'Talk about bringing the office home with you,' she said.

  Vail crossed to the corner of the kitchen counter and answered the portable phone. 'Yes, Abel.' He did not try to hide his exasperation.

  'Hate to bother you, Martin, but Flaherty's back. We need to talk.'

  'What, now?'r />
  'Yes, sir. And I think it's time to bring Jane Venable into it.'

  'Why?'

  'You'll understand when we get there. I'd like to bring Harve and Dermott with me. I know it's an imposition, but it's very important.'

  'Just a minute.' He held his hand over the mouthpiece. 'I'm sorry to bring my business into your home, Janie, but Abel says he needs to talk to us both immediately.'

  'Both of us? What's the problem?'

  He hesitated for a moment, then said, 'It concerns Aaron Stampler.'

  'Oh my God,' she said, her face registering a combination of curiosity and shock. Then: 'Of course.'

  'Come on,' Vail said, and hung up.

  'What's this about, Martin?'

  Martin told Jane about the Balfour and Missouri murders and their significance. She listened without a word, her eyes growing larger as he slowly described the details of the Balfour murder.

  'It's the exact MO down to the bloody references on the backs of their heads. Harvey's getting the quotes from Rushman's books, which are now in the Newberry.'

  'How about Stampler?' was her first question.

  'Still in max security Daisyland. As far as we know, he hasn't had any contact with the outside world for ten years.'

  'Is it a copycat killer?'

  Vail shrugged. 'Could be. A copycat killer could've discovered some of the quotes marked in those books. But not the part that Linda Gellerman played in the murders, that was never revealed in court. Did you ever show the tape to anyone?'

  'Of course not. I erased it the day after the trial. How about you?'

  'No. But the details were on the tapes Molly Arrington made during her interviews with Stampler.'

  'And where are they?'

  'Probably in evidence storage at the warehouse.'

  'After all these years…' Jane said.

  'Yeah.' Vail nodded. 'After all these years.'

  His face got very serious. 'Listen, there's something I need to get off my chest. I've never told anybody this before. It's in the nature of client-lawyer confidentiality.'

  'What is it?' she asked, obviously concerned.

  'Look, I spent a couple of months setting up the perfect defence for Stampler. Multiple personality disorder. Aaron was the innocent genius-boy, Roy was the evil twin doing the bad stuff. It worked. But that day, on the way out of the courtroom, Aaron - Aaron, not Roy, and I could tell the difference - Aaron turned to me with this funny, almost taunting, smile and said, 'Suppose there never was an Aaron.' And he laughed as they took him away to Daisyland.'