by P J Parrish
Louis nodded.
Cloverdale’s face hardened. “I don’t like people who feel sorry for themselves. I mean, what’s done is done. But people on the outside, they don’t know. They just don’t know.”
“Why are you talking to me then?” Louis asked.
Cloverdale looked back at him. “Because I want you to know that we’re not murderers. We’re off the grid. But we aren’t murderers.”
Louis nodded slowly. He held out the Ziploc. Cloverdale took it and looked at the drawing.
“Where’d you get this?” he asked.
“This is one of two. They were found by the bodies of the dead officers,” Louis said.
Cloverdale handed it back. He wiped his face. “It’s a message,” he said.
“Message? What kind of message?” Louis asked.
Cloverdale hesitated, his face twisting slightly. “Your man is military.”
Louis waited.
“Some companies had their nicknames printed up on cards.” He paused. “I heard about this but never really saw it. A company would go in, wipe out a village of Vietcong and then throw the cards down on the bodies. It was a taunt, a kind of challenge to Charlie, letting them know they were there.”
He looked at Louis. “They called them death cards.”
“Do you recognize this one?” Louis asked, holding out the plastic bag.
Cloverdale wouldn’t take it. “No. The number is probably a company or squadron maybe.”
Louis looked down at the bag then put it back in his pocket. He looked up at Cloverdale’s drawn face.
“Thanks,” he said and started to turn away.
“I know your man,” Cloverdale said.
Louis turned back sharply.
Cloverdale just looked at Louis then he smiled slightly. “I’ve met him, hundreds of times.”
“Look,” Louis said, “don’t jerk me around.”
“I was a counselor afterward,” Cloverdale said. “I worked with a lot of fucked-up men and lot of them who could have done what your killer did, given the wrong circumstances.”
“What are the wrong circumstances?” Louis asked.
“You asking me for a profile?”
“Yeah.”
“It ain’t that easy, officer,” Cloverdale said, shaking his head. “Nothing about ‘Nam was easy or obvious. It was the camouflage war and there’s no hope of ever flushing it out.”
“But you can tell me what kind of man I am looking for,” Louis said.
“Yeah, I can.” Cloverdale shifted the gun off his shoulder and rested the butt on the ground. “Look for a normal man.”
“Normal?” Louis said.
“A guy who tried to be normal and failed.”
Louis frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“He probably enlisted, maybe because his life was shitty up to then and the military makes a lot of big promises about straightening out your life for you.”
“Go on,” Louis said.
“He probably did all right for himself in the military, maybe even had his first taste of success,” Cloverdale said. “But something happened and he felt like he was a failure again. He might have had a drug or alcohol problem and got the quick trip through the VA system.” Cloverdale paused. “Now they have a nice name for it, post-traumatic stress syndrome. Back then, we were all just addicts.”
“What about after the war?” Louis asked.
“After,” Cloverdale said softly. “Well, let’s just say nobody was exactly throwing rose petals at your man’s feet. Your man went to war, did his job, and then everyone at home told him what he had done was a joke. Not great for the self-esteem.”
Louis waited, wishing he had a notebook with him.
“He probably couldn’t find a job,” Cloverdale went on, “or if he did it was in some factory that probably laid him off when the recession hit. ‘Nam vets earned less, were prompted less, and had more turnover.” Cloverdale drew in a breath. “Check homeless shelters, that sort of thing. There’s still about a quarter of a million vets on the street.”
A horn honked. Louis turned to the cruiser. Jesse was motioning for him. Louis looked back to Cloverdale.
“Can you tell me why?” Louis asked.
“Why he did it?” Cloverdale said. “Shit, who really knows? He might have a hard-on toward authority figures. You know, projecting his frustrations about his life onto any symbol of the establishment.” He nodded toward Louis’s badge. “Cops would qualify.”
Louis shook his head. “A failure at being normal. It can’t be that simple.”
“Think of it as the blue-collar dream gone gray,” Cloverdale said.
Louis held Cloverdale’s eyes for a second then looked up, blinking into the huge flakes. He let out a long sigh. When he looked back at Cloverdale, he was leaning heavily against his gun. His jacket was soaked dark green from the snow. He looked suddenly very tired.
“Your man isn’t here,” Cloverdale said.
“I know that now.”
Cloverdale looked at the cruiser. “You’d better get going up that hill,” he said.
Louis nodded, hesitated then stuck out his hand. Cloverdale stared at it for a moment then shifted the rifle so he could shake Louis’s hand.
“Thanks for your help.”
“Sure. But don’t come back.” Cloverdale gave him a final smile then started back toward the compound. Louis turned and trudged toward the cruiser.
“Hey, Black Pool!”
Louis turned.
“The South,” Cloverdale called out. “You ever think about it much?”
“I try not to,” Louis said.
Cloverdale gave a low soft laugh. He raised the gun in a salute, turned and was lost in the swirling snow.
CHAPTER 14
“Turn on the defroster.”
“It’s on.”
“Well, then turn it up.”
“It’s up as high as it goes,” Jesse said. He rubbed the windshield with his sleeve. “Goddamn it, I can’t see a thing.”
“Jess, pull over,” Louis said.
“What for?”
“I’ll drive.”
“I can drive.”
“Not the way you’re acting, you can’t. Slow down or we’re going to end up wrapped around a damn tree.”
Jesse slowed to thirty-five. The cruiser crept along the snow-clogged county road. Louis let out a breath of relief when they turned back onto the main highway. It, too, was snowed over, but at least it was four lanes the rest of the way back to Loon Lake. They drove in edgy silence for fifteen minutes.
“You get anything useful back there?” Jesse asked finally.
“I’m not sure,” Louis said. He told him what Cloverdale had said.
“So the killer’s military,” Jesse said.
“Maybe.”
“But you don’t think he’s one of those guys?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Gut feeling.”
Jesse gave a small laugh. “Gut feeling. Right.”
Louis stared at Jesse. He was gripping the wheel with his right hand, his left hand bent against his temple. Louis glanced at the speedometer. What the hell was wrong now?
“Jess,” he said, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why you snapping at me?”
Jesse didn’t look at him. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I’m tired, that’s all.”
Louis decided to let it go. They rode the rest of the way in silence, picking up the freshly plowed wake of a snowplow just as they turned onto the road at the north end of the lake.
Florence’s voice came over the radio, asking for their location. When Louis radioed back that they were on their way back to the station, Florence told them Gibralter was waiting for them at Dot’s. Louis acknowledged the call and signed off.
“Now what?” Jesse muttered.
“Probably just wants an update,” Louis said.
Jesse pushed the cruiser up to forty-five. The gated entrances to tourist homes flew past. They were coming up fast on a slow-moving red truck and Louis resisted the urge to tell Jesse again to slow down.
“Ford,” Jesse said suddenly.
“What?”
“It’s a red Ford,” Jesse said, peering out at the sludge-encrusted truck ahead of them.
For a second, Louis’s heart beat faster. No, it was too new. Art Taub said the Ford was old and rusted. “It’s not the one. Let him go, Jess,” Louis said.
“No, damn it. His tint’s too dark.”
Jesse flipped on the lights and squawked the siren twice. The driver’s head snapped toward his rearview mirror and he swung to the side of the road. As they pulled up, Louis could see the truck was a new model with not a dent on it, let alone rust.
Jesse was out of the cruiser before Louis could reply. With a sigh, he grabbed the clipboard and followed.
The driver was about thirty, with a thin pale face and a fizz of dirty red hair. He had an old paisley bandana wrapped around his forehead and a small gold hoop in his left ear. On his chin, a sprout of whiskers struggled to form a goatee.
“To what do I owe this honor?” he asked nervously.
Jesse opened the truck door. “Get out.”
“Is that a request or an order?”
“Get out of the fucking truck.”
The man moved slowly. Jesse yanked him from the car so forcefully he fell to the pavement. The man grabbed the door handle to pull himself up, his eyes wide as he looked at Jesse. He wasn’t wearing a coat, just faded jeans and a dingy white T-shirt.
Louis stepped forward. “Your driver’s license, please,” he said.
The man’s pale eyes darted to the truck. “It’s in that bag on the seat.”
Jesse reached in and pulled out a Crown Royal bag. He retrieved the man’s license and thrust it out at Louis. When Louis hesitated Jesse said, “You gonna run that or not?”
“This license is expired, Mr. Bates,” Louis said.
“Dear me, there just aren’t enough hours in the day,” the man said with a sigh.
Louis glanced at Jesse. Christ, he was bouncing on his toes to nail this guy for something. The best thing to do was get this over as quickly as possible. He started back to the cruiser.
“Love the uniform, man,” Bates called after him.
Louis heard a clunk and looked back. Jesse had Bates flat against the truck, reaching for his cuffs. Louis keyed the mike and told Florence to run the plate and license. He had to get this over with fast before Bates lost a few front teeth.
Louis leaned against the cruiser and watched as Jesse began to search the truck’s interior. What the hell was he doing now? If he found anything, Bates would scream illegal search. He was just about to call to Jesse when Florence came back advising that Bates was free of warrants and priors.
Bates was hollering to Jesse from the rear of the truck. “You going to search me, too, officer? I like them full-cavity body searches. You ever done one of those?” Bates looked at Louis. “What about you, Mandingo?”
“Shut up,” Louis said.
Jesse came out of the truck holding a small plastic bag.
“What’s that?” Louis asked.
“Looks like grass to me,” Jesse said, shaking it in Bates’s face. “I asked you if there was any drugs in the truck, asshole. You lied to me.”
“Hey, you didn’t have any right to search my truck,” Bates said. “I’ve got rights here.”
Jesse spun around and grabbed Bates by the back of the T-shirt. “Keep your fucking mouth shut!” He slammed Bates’s head down against the side of the truck bed. Louis jumped forward, ripping Jesse’s arm from Bates’s collar.
Blood dripped from Bates’s nose as he staggered backward. Louis caught his sleeve to keep him balanced and glared at Jesse. “That wasn’t necessary,” Louis said.
“I don’t have to take lip from any faggot butt-fucker,” Jesse hissed.
“Look, cut the macho bullshit. This isn’t the time or the place, you got that?” Louis said, his voice low.
Jesse spun away and walked rigidly to the cruiser. Louis took a deep breath and looked back at Bates, who was leaning against the truck fender. Louis uncuffed him. Bates touched his head, his fingers coming away blood.
“You okay to drive?” Louis asked.
“I should sue you,” he said.
“You’re not going to sue anyone, Bates,” Louis said, picking up the bag of pot. He removed the twist tie and flung the bag in an arc, scattering the pot to the wind.
“Oh, man,” Bates moaned. “That was sinsemilla.”
Louis stuffed the empty bag in Bates’s pocket. “Sense this, asshole. You’re going to get back in your truck and go home to Alcona County. And all the way, you’re going to be telling yourself how lucky you are that it’s Christmas Eve and I’m giving you a damn present.” Louis leaned closer and held out Bates’s driver’s license. “Do you understand?”
Bates nodded weakly, took the license and got in his truck. Louis waited until he drove off then he walked to the cruiser. Jesse was in the passenger seat, his chin on his chest. Louis got in and put both hands on the wheel. They sat there for several seconds.
“Keys?” Louis asked.
“Cuffs?” Jesse asked.
Louis tossed Jesse’s cuffs on the seat. He responded by throwing the rabbit’s foot and keys on the dash. Louis reached for them and jammed the key into the ignition.
“Why’d you let him go?” Jesse said, leaning forward to put his cuffs away.
“He wasn’t our man.”
“He was holding.”
“Half an ounce of grass discovered in an illegal search.” Louis paused. “Look, we’ve got more important things to do than bust potheads.” Louis thrust the cruiser into gear. “Come on. Gibralter’s waiting.”
Dot’s café smelled of bacon grease and strong coffee. As he came in, Louis spotted the chief sitting in a booth near the back and he and Jesse went over.
“What kept you?” Gibralter asked, wiping his face with a paper napkin.
Louis slid into the booth, Jesse next to him. “Snow’s really coming down, Chief,” Louis said. “Plus we had a traffic stop.”
Gibralter looked from one man to the other. “Well?”
“I talked to one of the vets, a guy called Cloverdale,” Louis said. “He thinks our killer might be military. He also had a theory on what the cards mean.”
Gibralter pushed away his plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs. “What did he say?”
“He called it a death card,” Louis said, lowering his voice so the men in the next booth would not hear. “It was a thing some GI’s did during the war. A group would go out and wipe out some Vietcong — ”
“Not a group, Kincaid. Soldiers are not sent out in groups.”
Louis suppressed a sigh. “Yes, sir. Afterward, they would walk through the dead and toss cards with their squadron’s insignia and number on the bodies. It was supposed to say ‘We were here. We did this.’”
“You have the card with you?” Gibralter asked.
Louis fished it out of his pocket. Gibralter took it, examining it through the plastic. “Death card,” he said quietly. “The 1-2-3’s a squadron number?”
“Probably, sir.”
“And this skull thing?”
“Cloverdale said he thought it could be the squad’s symbol.”
Gibralter put down the card and looked out the window. The snow was coming down so thick Louis couldn’t see the shops across the street. The sounds of the diner filtered around them, the clink of glasses and plates, laughter, the sizzle of the grill. Comforting sounds.
The waitress set down two fresh cups of coffee and menus. Louis reached for one.
“What else?” Gibralter asked, pulling the menu gently from his hands.
“He said the killer probably had low self-esteem al
l his life, making him think everybody was out to get him.”
“I could’ve told you that. It’s textbook.”
“Cloverdale speculated that whatever problems our perp had going into the army might have been intensified by the drugs. In other words, his brain is fried.”
Gibralter’s eyes flashed with contempt. “That’s crap.”
“Chief?”
Gibralter reached for his pack of Camels and lit one. “The poor misunderstood vet. It makes me sick,” he said slowly. “These assholes were the same goddamn pussies who sat around smoking pot while the real soldiers were out getting shot. And then they tell the damn VA the war messed up their minds.”
Louis glanced at Jesse. He was staring off at some distant point.
Gibralter sat back, laying his arm across the back of the booth. “What else did this Cloverdale say?”
“He said the guy was taking out his anger on the nearest symbol of authority he could find — cops.”
“It’s more than that,” Gibralter said. “If he’s military, then he’s on a mission, just like ‘Nam. And he’s not just shooting at any uniform. He’s shooting at us.”
“What do you mean?” Jesse asked.
“Lovejoy and Pryce were killed in their homes, Harrison. These killings are personal.”
The waitress came by to refill their cups and take their orders. They gave them, Louis grateful for the break in intensity.
“So you still believe this is a former perp?” Louis asked.
“There’s no other explanation,” Gibralter said.
“So what do we do now, Chief?” Jesse asked.
Gibralter leveled his eyes at Jesse. “I already told you what to do, Harrison. You go through the damn case files. Have you done that?”
“Chief, we’ve gone through hundreds already. We looked —”
“Maybe you didn’t look good enough,” Gibralter interrupted.
Jesse looked away, his jaw twitching.
Gibralter ground out his cigarette in the eggs. “I expect a full report on this man Cloverdale on my desk by end of shift today. Do you understand?”