Prayer for the Dead jb-1

by David Wiltse

  So Eric had come to observe Mr. Dyce’s house for him. He parked his station wagon three blocks away, up against the curb, nowhere near a hydrant, as safe and legal as could be. No reason for anyone to notice his car, no excuse for any cruising cop to ticket it. In his early days he had been caught that way when some property-owning asshole had thought Eric’s car was blocking his driveway and called a cop. Eric had come tiptoeing back to the car with a pillowcase full of goodies on his back and a portable TV under his arm just as the police cruiser pulled up to write out a citation.

  But that was years ago and time had taught Eric the virtues of caution. He walked the route once, just strolling casually, to check out the presence of any dogs. There was a barker about a block from the car, but he could easily avoid it on the way back. The block that held Dyce’s house was as clean of canines as a cat convention.

  He went in the back way, cutting across a neighbor’s garden and through a hedge. The night had turned cloudy and the entrance through the hedge took a little finding, but then Eric was in Dyce’s backyard and it was clear sailing. The garage shielded him on one side. Eric pulled on the ski mask and his work gloves. The only skin showing was around his eyes. In this light, if anyone was going to see him, they’d have to be pointing a flashlight right at him.

  There was some kind of material blocking the window-what was this, some kind of anti-burglar device? God, the shit people tried. They just didn’t have a clue, but it gave easily enough on the second shove and Eric hoisted himself into a bedroom. Hauling himself in put strain on the knuckle and made him wince.

  The room was a disappointment. No jewels, no cash, no hidden stash, not even a lousy TV. The guy lived like a monk except for the fancy hairbrushes that might be worth something. He stripped a pillowcase from the bed and tossed the hairbrushes in it. Some wardrobe; the guy must have bought his suits at Sears. Nothing in the pockets, nothing in the linings, no little secrets tucked in the toes of the shoes.

  Eric paused at the bedroom door as he became aware for the first time of the odor. Christ, it smelled like a backed-up septic tank. He began to question the wisdom of his decision. Why was he putting his balls on the line to rip off the house of some geek who didn’t own anything and lived with a dead cat? He hadn’t fucked the bitch and her daughter, either. He could still imagine taking the kid on the stairs. He should have, get her dripping from the shower, yank off the towel, make her happy. It got him hot just thinking about it now. Why didn’t he? All these goddamned lost opportunities. Instead, he was in this dingy house, afraid to breathe the ah, with two old-fashioned hairbrushes in the bag. For a moment he contemplated giving it up and going home; it wasn’t worth the chance. Then he realized, hell, he was here anyway, what did he have to lose? Might as well see what’s on the other side of the bedroom door.

  Eric was down before he knew it. There was a knee on his chest, another knee on his balls, on his balls, for Christ’s sake, and pushing down, a hand on his throat and something very hard pressing against his forehead. Both arms were underneath him and felt as if they might break but that was the least of his problems. It was the hard thing pressing into his head that scared him the most. He knew what that was, he had felt that before.

  The ski mask had moved in the fall and Eric’s eyes were covered.

  “Don’t shoot,” he croaked. “Please, God, don’t shoot.”

  All he could hear was breathing, and most of it was his. If the guy pushed the gun any harder it would go right through the bone.

  “I’m not fighting. You got me, don’t shoot. Christ, don’t shoot.”

  The hand at his throat ripped away the ski mask and Eric blinked and blinked as the beam of a flashlight hit him in the eyes.

  The man moved the pistol and pressed it just above the bridge of Eric’s nose. He could smell the oil on the metal.

  Eric tried to speak but could only whimper. The look on the man’s face scared him worse than the. 38.

  He’s going to do it, Eric thought. He’s going to pull that trigger. He wants to.

  The man’s eyes were wide, his lips pulled back from his teeth. The gun began to dance a little tattoo on the bone of Eric’s forehead, as if the man had the shakes.

  Eric squeezed his eyes shut. Please, God, he thought. Don’t let this son of a bitch kill me just because he can’t control his muscles. But he knew that wouldn’t be the reason. The man was fighting with himself not to do it. The desire in his eyes was terrifying. He wants to blow me away, Eric thought. He doesn’t even know me and he wants to put a bullet in my skull.

  Chapter 10

  Eric had never seen so many cops in one room before. He felt like he’d been put in a closet with the entire police academy, and every one of them wanted a piece of him. They were breathing in his face, pushing and shoving each other just to get a look at him. Even his first FBI man was here, or maybe his second, depending on what the guy who nearly killed him was. The cops acted as if he was FBI, too, but the other FBI man, the one who had identified himself as Hatcher and flashed his badge as if he were showing off, acted funny toward him. Eric couldn’t quite figure out the relationship, but it sure wasn’t a happy one.

  Eric knew Tee, of course, even kind of liked him in a strange way. Tee had kicked him around a few times during questioning, nothing serious, nothing Eric couldn’t take and laugh at. There was never anything mean about Tee’s rough stuff. Eric understood that it was just to get his attention-or out of frustration when Eric was too smart for him.

  Drooden, the brown-shirted state cop who acted as if he was in charge of the questioning, was a different kind of rough. One look at him and Eric could tell the bastard was just plain mean. He looked like the kind of man who believed law enforcement was a sacred duty and he was one of God’s chosen enforcers. The kind of man who would lecture you as he beat you and then add a few more licks, not because he wanted to, but because God would like it that way.

  The FBI man. Hatcher, looked like a bookkeeper: constipated, prissy almost. One good dump might make him a new man, Eric thought. But he was certainly proud of that badge.

  There were a couple of other brownshirts in the room and one or two local cops around the edges, but the only one who bothered Eric was the one who had played a drumroll on his forehead with the. 38 barrel. They called him Becker and he stood in the back of the room, watching everything but saving his best looks for Eric.

  “Deep shit, boy, you understand?” It was Drooden. “You are in it up to your eyeballs and sinking.”

  “For what? B and E? I’ve been clean for five years, I’ll probably get probation.”

  “I thought you gave it up,” said Tee.

  Eric shrugged and grinned at Tee. “You give up chasing pussy, Tee?”

  Oh, they hated it when he grinned at them. Drooden looked like he was going to swallow his tongue.

  “Homicide, boy, murder one!” Drooden was leaning in close, spitting in Eric’s face as he talked. “There are eight skeletons in that house. You seem awfully familiar with the place. How do we know you didn’t put them there?”

  “Is that what this is all about? You guys don’t just love me for my own sake?”

  “We’re fond of you, Eric.” Tee grinned back at him. “Don’t underestimate your appeal. Captain Drooden is so happy to see you he might decide to keep you.”

  “Like a pet, you mean?”

  “Like a love slave. Chain you down and have his wicked way with you for about five years.”

  “Ooooeee, sounds fun.”

  “Terhune,” said Drooden, aghast. He looked at Tee as if the chief had just cut a horrible fart.

  The cops were getting in each other’s way, which was all to the good, as Eric saw it. Let them fight with each other; they might have less juice when they concentrated on him.

  “What made you choose that particular house tonight, Mr. Brandauer?” This was Hatcher, the fed.

  “What house is that?”

  “The one you broke into.”

>   “I don’t think we agreed I broke into any house. I was talking theoretically about B and E.”

  “Why that particular house, Mr. Brandauer?”

  Becker was moving forward from the back of the room. Eric watched him closely. He stopped just behind Hatcher and studied Eric from over Hatcher’s shoulder.

  “No reason. I didn’t see any lights. Did my man really do eight people?”

  “We think you may have done eight people, wise guy.” Drooden was back in his face.

  “If we really think that, then we better call my lawyer, shouldn’t we?”

  “How did he get you into the car?” Becker asked.

  This time Hatcher was annoyed by the interference, but he didn’t say anything.

  “What car? Who?” Eric looked to Tee; he didn’t want to face Becker directly. “How many people do I have to talk to all at once? I’d like to help you people. I understand you got a problem here. You know me, Tee. I’ve never been a hard ass. Get me clean and I plead and fair’s fair. Now all of a sudden I got to face the nation here. Give me someone to talk to, you know what I mean, we can work something out.”

  “Oh, now he’s shy,” said Drooden.

  “It’s not really up to you to set the conditions of this interview, Mr. Brandauer,” said Hatcher.

  “Better get used to gang bangs, Eric.” Tee’s grin was fading around the edges.

  “He’s right,” said Becker. “Why not let me talk to him in private for ten minutes?”

  Eric felt his stomach sink. Becker was the last man in the world he wanted to be alone with. But they were considering it; he saw the glances run from Drooden to Hatcher and back. Tee was not consulted.

  “This guy tried to kill me! You can’t leave me alone with him! That’s not what I meant. He tried to kill me.”

  Hatcher leaned close to Eric and patted his shoulder. The lesser cops were already drifting out the door.

  “You’re wrong, Mr. Brandauer. If he had tried to kill you, you would be dead.”

  “We are taking a coffee break. We’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to sit calmly by yourself and consider your story and its consequences, son,” said Drooden.

  Becker pulled a chair to face Eric. When he sat, their knees touched. “Tee, this guy’s a maniac!”

  “What guy?”

  “Don’t leave me with him.”

  “We’re leaving you alone in a locked room,” said Tee.

  Hatcher paused by the door. “Becker.”

  “I know,” said Becker. He didn’t look at Hatcher.

  “I mean it.”

  “Take a look at him,” said Becker. He lifted Eric’s hand. “A pre-existing condition.” He pointed at the purplish, swollen knuckle. “Otherwise not a mark on him.”

  “I want him back that way.”

  “I said so,” said Becker.

  Hatcher pulled the door closed behind him. Becker scooted his chair closer so that his legs slipped between Eric’s. He continued to hold Eric’s hand in his.

  “What are you going to do?” said Eric.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Eric tried to retrieve his hand, but Becker held on, gently but firmly.

  “You wanted to kill me before, didn’t you?”

  “How did he get you into the car?”

  “I could see the look in your eyes. You wanted to pull the trigger.”

  “Did you recognize the look?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He got you into the car some way. He tried to stick you with the syringe, but you saw it and hit him. You beat him badly. He might have died.”

  “He didn’t. I checked.”

  “You checked before you came over to rob his house. That was good, that was smart. It’s not your fault the guy’s got bodies under the floorboards.”

  “Is that for real?”

  “He didn’t seem the type, did he?”

  Eric shook his head. The man had been a weakling; he’d taken his beating like he deserved it.

  “They never do,” said Becker.

  “Is that why you wanted to kill me? You thought I was him?”

  “I knew you weren’t him. Did he offer you money? Did he say anything about your mother?”

  “My mother?”

  “What was your mother’s maiden name?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Any reason not to tell me?”

  “Margaret.”

  “Her last name.”

  “Evinrude.”

  “Did you ever see him before?”

  “See who?”

  Becker spoke evenly, reasonably. “I’m tired of your horseshit, Eric. Did you know him? Had you ever seen him before? Tell me how he got you into the car.”

  “Are you trying to get me on some kind of accessory-to-murder rap? Because honest to God, I don’t know a thing.”

  “How did he get you into the car?”

  “I never got into any car. I don’t know anything about a mugging.”

  “The mugging’s a freebie, Eric. We don’t want you for it. He’s not going to testify about it. Just tell me.”

  “Sure, just tell you. How about if I tell my attorney now?”

  “You don’t need an attorney to talk to me. I’m a private citizen.”

  “You’re not a fed? Why am I talking to you in the first place?”

  “You’re not. I’m not here. You heard Tee. You’re alone in a locked room.”

  Becker placed his thumb atop Eric’s knuckle and slowly squeezed. Eric was not prepared for the pain and gasped. Becker released the pressure but held on to the hand. His voice was still sweet and reasonable.

  “Did you ever talk to anybody about insurance, Eric?”

  “I suppose so. They call me up. Don’t they call everybody?”

  “Did you ever meet anybody to talk about it?”

  “Ever? Maybe, sometime. I don’t know.”

  “Did you ever see him before you beat him up?” Becker touched the knuckle again and watched Eric’s eyes widen.

  “Never. Are they going to let you do this to me?”

  “Do what, Eric?”

  “You’re torturing me, man. I’m going to scream brutality to the papers.”

  “There’s not a mark on you-except the one you put there yourself.” Becker tapped the knuckle again.

  Eric moaned. “You got no idea what that feels like.”

  “Of course I do. Listen to me, Eric. Nobody wants you here, you’re not important in this one. We want him, the guy you mugged, the guy whose house you broke into. We want him very, very badly and we don’t have time to waste with you, so just answer the questions and get it over with.”

  “And cop to all kinds of shit? How do I know what I’m involved in here? I want my lawyer.”

  “That’s what we don’t have time for. We can’t wait a week to cut a deal before you answer a few simple questions. You are not going to incriminate yourself with me. Do you believe me?”

  Becker pressed the knuckle and held it. Eric moaned.

  “Do you believe me?”

  “I believe you!”

  Becker released the knuckle but continued to hold Eric’s hand in his.

  “How did he get you into the car?”

  “He was parked right next to my wagon. He had the passenger door open so I couldn’t get past him. He said he needed my help in starting the car without his key. Some bullshit. I don’t think he knew how to hot-wire.”

  “The syringe?”

  “He must have had it down on the seat. It fell on the floor when I dragged him across the seat. I didn’t know about it till then.”

  “You were too busy hitting him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s the busted knuckle. Ironic, don’t you think? You use it on him, I use it on you, it gets you coming and going.”

  Becker released Eric’s hand.

  “You did want to kill me in that house, didn’t you?”

  Becker smil
ed at him.

  “I still do.”

  The snails were doing their usual thorough job. After five hours of labor, there was not a square inch of Dyce’s house that Drooden’s forensic team hadn’t scrutinized, dusted, scraped, probed, or photographed. Becker could read their trails everywhere, like the rivulets of slime left behind by garden slugs. As Becker had known it would, the house had given up its ghosts, and they had been replaced by tape measures, grid lines marked with string, smudges of fingerprint powder. The house was no longer a place where a man had dreamed his nightmares and made them come true-it was now an archaeological dig. All that remained undisturbed were the bones.

  “I thought it might be helpful for you to see this in situ before we take the bones for analysis,” Hatcher said.

  Drooden leaned against the refrigerator, watching like a protective parent. He had resented the Bureau involvement from the beginning and was barely able to tolerate Becker’s unorthodox presence. A member of his forensic team stood in the doorway, tapping the ashes from his cigarette into an evidence bag.

  “If he didn’t see it last night,” said Drooden.

  Hatcher ignored the state cop. He had seldom met one who liked being outranked.

  “I was struck by the stones,” said Hatcher. He pointed with the toe of his shoe as Becker squatted next to the makeshift graveyard. The state police had removed enough floorboards to reveal all of the skeletons, which lay atop each other like the tossed shafts of a game of pick-up-sticks. Only the skulls were kept separate. They were sitting side by side in a row eight long. Next to each skull, like a hyphen separating it from its neighbor, was a small stone.

  The snails had covered the area with a grid of string bisected into three-foot squares and then photographed it from several angles so that exact measurements could be reproduced later. A twelve-inch ruler included in the photos to give perspective still lay between a pair of thigh bones.

  “I assume he kept the skulls separate as some sort of burial notion. Given the cramped circumstances, it was probably the best he could do.” Hatcher stepped back and watched Becker.