Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  "Did he have any friends here at school?"

  "No. I'm afraid none. In fact, now that I think about it, he used to spend most of his lunchtimes in here drawing. Oh, that's made me remember." Miss Rhinehart picked up a plastic step and placed it next to the whiteboard, in front of a wall shelf. "Can you get that box down for me?"

  I stood on the step and lifted down a long cardboard box.

  "Here, put it on my desk." She opened it and began rifling through it. "When I said that Malcolm was dyslexic and very poor at school, I wasn't telling the total truth. I forgot the one thing he was good at. Well, that's a lie too. He wasn't just good, he was downright brilliant. Ah, here it is. I kept this because...well, I don't think I have to explain. Anyone who looks at it would know why I kept it. As you can see Malcolm Fox was the most gifted artist I have ever come across."

  She lifted out a canvas about three feet square and unrolled it on the desk. She was right, it was fantastic. It was stunningly realistic. And it was an angel. Exactly like the one in Bailey's basement.

  The only thing missing was the dead child in his arms.

  * * * *

  I drove from Lord of Angels School to the Special Forces Fitness Center, my mind a blur. Cupid was a dyslexic gardener? And, even more mind-blowing, someone I even vaguely knew from church growing up? It didn't seem possible. First Bailey, then Smith and now Malcolm Fox? Who was the real Cupid? I had already leapt to so many premature conclusions in this case I was loathe to do it again. On the basis of a sixth grader's painting yet.

  Bob answered the door. I had asked her to sit with Jade, as Bear was watching Decker.

  "What is it?" she said when she saw my face.

  "Where's Jade?"

  "Watching TV in her bedroom. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong. In fact, if I'm right, everything's all right. Does that make sense?"

  "Not in the slightest."

  "I think I was wrong about Bailey and Smith."

  "What do you mean wrong? What about all the evidence in Bailey's house?"

  "I think it was planted. And not by Smith. I have a suspect named Fox who was an altar boy for Bailey. Look what he painted when he was in grade six."

  I unrolled the canvas Miss Rhinehart had given me.

  "A kid painted this?"

  "Yeah. Hard to believe that the same kid probably can't even spell his own name."

  "But you know this doesn't prove anything? Bailey was the parish priest and would have often been at the school. He probably saw Fox's painting and liked it so much he duplicated it in his cellar."

  "Bailey had no reason to do that. The opposite in fact. He wouldn't want anyone finding the hidden door behind the angel painting in the basement.

  "I think Fox painted the one in the cellar so that it would lead someone to discover what was hidden behind it. You saw the quality of Bailey's paintings. None of them come remotely close to matching the one in the cellar. In fact, that's why I think he painted nothing but angels. He probably thought he painted the one in the cellar during one of his mental black-outs and became obsessed with duplicating it. Of course, he never could because he didn't paint it in the first place. Kind of funny when you think about it."

  "Hilarious."

  "I think Fox knew about Bailey's Familial Alzheimer's and tricked Bailey into thinking he killed them. Hell," I said, with dawning realization, "Fox may even have killed Jesus Fernandez. Fox knew how vulnerable and susceptible Bailey was. Christ, Bailey even carved an angel into his own forearm so he could remember the memory book with the victim's names. Does that sound like a murderer?"

  "It sounds like someone crazy enough to do anything."

  "I don't think so. In the police interview he came across as weak and pathetic. Just like Harry Smith. Neither of them would have the balls to do what Cupid has done."

  "What about the Christmas snow-globe with Bridgette Giles' fingerprints and blood on it? How did Smith get that?"

  I shrugged.

  "Exactly how Smith told the police, Santa sent it to him. All Fox had to do was mail it to Smith. Smith, of course, handled it and put his fingerprints all over it. It was an amazingly cunning move, if you think about it.

  "But that shouldn't surprise us. Look how he framed Father Bailey with the clerical clothing and the souvenirs we found in the cellar. Oh, there's one other thing I forgot to tell you. Malcolm Fox was expelled from school for striking a thirteen-year-old girl. Crazy as it sounds, it all fits. Fox is Cupid."

  "Are you going to tell the police your theory?"

  "No. This is the third person I've thought was Cupid. They'll think I'm losing it. Plus, like you said, I don't have any evidence. This is all circumstantial and they have so much evidence implicating Bailey and Smith they wouldn't believe me."

  "If you have no evidence what can you do?"

  "Well, in a way, I do. I have an eye-witness, remember?"

  "You think Jade might have seen him?"

  "When I showed Jade the picture of Father Bailey, the first thing she said was, 'That's not him.' How would she know that unless she saw the real killer?"

  "Do you think that's wise? You've seen her, Tan. Her memories are not reliable. It might not be good stirring this all up; it might make her worse."

  "No, it won't. I know Jade. If she knows we've caught Cupid she can move on."

  "Tan, she already thinks you have caught Cupid. She has moved on. You saw her at the charity night. Don't ruin that."

  "It'll be all right. She's stronger than you think."

  I said the words but I wasn't sure if I believed them. Was I wrong to ask this of Jade? Should I leave her out of it?

  "What are you going to do about Kyle King?" Bob said, as I stewed over what I should do.

  "Nothing. It's his turn."

  "His turn nearly left you dead last time."

  "This time, I'll be ready."

  "You think this is the smart play? The tethered goat normally gets killed by the tiger."

  "Yes, but I'm way smarter than any goat."

  Bob was silent. Perhaps she hadn't heard me.

  "I said I'm way smarter than any goat."

  "You do aim high, don't you? You know, with what you've got, if you let me run with the story it will completely ruin King. You don't need more evidence."

  "I don't want to ruin his reputation. I want him to pay for Ashley Hunter's death. Don't worry, I said you can have first crack at the story and you will."

  "I'm not worried about that. I'm..." She shook her head and turned away.

  "What--"

  Jade walked into the room. "Hi, Mark."

  She was wearing old jeans and a black t-shirt. She had obviously just showered, as her hair was wet and her face freshly scrubbed. She looked about twelve years old.

  "Hi, Jade. Have you had fun?"

  "Yes. Bob and I...caked...cooked."

  "You cooked?" I glanced at Bob disbelievingly. Picturing Bob cooking was like imagining David Duchovny running celibacy classes.

  "What's so funny about that?" Bob frowned at me.

  I left it alone. And she thought I wasn't as smart as a goat.

  "Jade, I want to show you a picture and you tell me if you have ever seen this man, okay?"

  I pulled out my cell phone and brought up the photo Mole had sent me.

  "Is it another...good man?"

  "Bad man. Yes, I think so."

  "Do you think he had something to do with Daddy and Mommy?"

  I hesitated. "I don't know, Jade. I'm not sure. Will you look for me?"

  She nodded and took my hand, tilting it, so she could see the screen better. The photo was of Malcolm Fox' driving license.

  She studied it for a long while before letting go of my hand.

  "Did you recognize him, Jade?"

  She shook her head. "No. Sorry. I didn't. But I don't like his eyes. He has bad man eyes."

  I looked at the photo again.

  She was right. He surely did.

  CHAPTER 75 />
  "I think I might have said this before. Do you really think this is a good idea?"

  Bear and I stood again on the porch of the house where altar boy number five lived. Malcolm Fox.

  "It's worked out every other time, hasn't it?" I said.

  "You really want me to answer that?" said Bear, as I knocked on the door. "If Fox is Cupid won't this kind of alert him?"

  "What's the worst he can do?"

  "Run away?"

  "Then we'll know it's him and we'll find him."

  "Try to kill us?"

  "That's what I'm hoping."

  "That's what I was afraid of," said Bear as the door opened.

  Mrs. Fox looked as cheerful as if twenty Jehovah's Witnesses had just appeared on her doorstep. "What do you want?"

  She was tall but hunched over, and her long, silvery hair was tied into a tight bun. Her nose was as sharp as a kitchen knife and her lips so thin the touch of them would leave paper cuts. She wore the same long black dress as on our previous meeting.

  "Mrs. Fox, I'm Mark Tanner and this is Corey Johnson. We're private investigators looking into the disappearance of a local girl back in 1998." I showed her the fake ID that I always carried. "We'd like to ask you and Malcolm a few questions."

  "Malcolm isn't here and I have nothing to say." She began closing the door.

  "Mrs. Fox, Malcolm isn't a suspect at this stage and we haven't gone to the police...as yet. If you can answer our questions we might not have to."

  She hesitated with the door open just a crack.

  "Would you rather answer a few simple questions for us or let Malcolm be questioned by the police?"

  In the end, there was only one choice she could make.

  "Very well, come in then. But make it quick," she said gruffly.

  Several large black-and-white pictures of straight-backed, stern subjects, all sporting thick moustaches, lined the walls of the living room. And that was just the women. The chairs appeared as soft and comfortable as pieces of raw timber. Miss Rhinehart had said that Mrs. Fox was religious and she wasn't joking. I counted three crucifixes and four pictures of Jesus. A piano in the corner was covered with an inch of dust. In fact, the whole house smelt musty and old. Or that could have been Mrs. Fox.

  "Is that Mr. Fox?" I was looking at a picture of a tall man with a pronounced jaw and a hard eye. He was standing behind, what appeared to be, a young Mrs. Fox. She must have been a good thirty years younger, but her razor lips were pursed as humorlessly as they were now. Mr. Fox seemed as happy as a turkey on Thanksgiving Day. Living in this place, I didn't blame him.

  "Yes, Mr. Fox died when Malcolm was two."

  "So you raised Malcolm yourself? That must have been hard?"

  "No. The Bible tells us how to raise children. The trouble with most people is they're not strict enough."

  "Did you have to be strict with Malcolm?"

  "All boys need guidance. They need to be taught when they are bad."

  "Was Malcolm bad?"

  "All children are bad. It's their nature."

  Ookay.

  "How did you...guide Malcolm?"

  "Through prayer and penance. That's what the Lord taught us."

  "What do you mean by penance?"

  Mrs. Fox sat ramrod straight and glared at me. "The way I raise my son is no concern of yours."

  "Tell me, Mrs. Fox, do you know Father Bailey?"

  "Of course. After I hurt my back Father Bailey came weekly to offer me the Sacraments. He was a big help with Malcolm when he was growing up."

  "Oh? How's that?"

  "Malcolm needed a man's influence. At times he could be very naughty. When I couldn't show him the error of his ways, Father Bailey could."

  "How would he do that?" I said quietly.

  She stared at me with eyes as hard as flint. "There's always a way."

  "Does Malcolm have a girlfriend?"

  "I do not believe in fornication before marriage, Mister Tanner."

  "But surely he must date? How else is he to find a girl to marry?"

  "I will find him one when the time is right."

  I had a picture of the type of woman that Mrs. Fox might deem marriage-worthy and almost felt sorry for Malcolm.

  "How old is Malcolm?"

  "He is thirty-two."

  "Any chance that time will be soon?"

  Mrs. Fox just stared at me.

  "Right," I said. "Has Malcolm ever been violent towards anyone?"

  "No, Malcolm has been raised well. He knows how to behave."

  "What about towards girls? Teenage girls?"

  Two spots of color appeared on Mrs. Fox cheeks. "I will not honor that question with a reply."

  "Didn't Malcolm get kicked out of Our Lord of Angels for striking a female student?"

  "He was provoked. They were teasing and bullying him. And he wasn't expelled. I withdrew him because I was unhappy with the school's discipline standards."

  My feeling was that Mrs. Fox would have found the discipline standards of the SS too lax.

  I gestured toward the framed photos on the head-high mantelpiece. "Are these photos of Malcolm?" I remembered Miss Rhinehart, mentioning his body issues. Saying Malcolm had body issues was like saying Ely Manning could throw a little bit. He was morbidly fat, with rampaging acne and lank, greasy, fair hair. No wonder he had it tough at school. He was a victim just waiting for a bully to happen.

  "Yes."

  "And who is this?" I indicated more recent-looking photos of a tall, athletic man with a buzz cut.

  "That's Malcolm." There was pride in her tone.

  I looked again. Yes, I had seen his face on the driver's license photo Mole had texted me. I hadn't recognized him because I was looking for a person with an obese body.

  "That's Malcolm?" I repeated. "What happened?"

  "When Malcolm turned eighteen he decided to lose all that weight. I told you I taught him discipline."

  "When he turned eighteen? That would be 1998, wouldn't it?"

  "Why yes, it was."

  The year my parents were killed and the year Jesus Fernandez and the first girl, Susie Hanlon, went missing. Susie was also eighteen.

  I had a sudden thought. "What year did Malcolm get expelled... I mean leave school?"

  "He was in seventh grade, so it would have been in 1993."

  "And what was the name of the girl who Malcolm...allegedly struck? I don't suppose you remember, it was such a long time ago."

  "Oh, I remember, that little bitch's name all right. She made my boy's life hell so I'm not likely to forget it. Susie Hanlon."

  "Do you mind if I use your bathroom, Mrs. Fox?"

  "Down the passage way, second door on the right. Are we finished?"

  "Nearly. My partner just has a few more questions."

  Bear glanced at me as if to say, Gee, thanks, I get to have some alone time with the crazy harridan.

  Instead of going down the passageway, I took the stairs to the second level. Mrs. Fox's words still rang in my ears. Susie Hanlon. The police found her in Bailey's cellar. So that's why Cupid's first female victim was so old, if you could ever call eighteen old. Fox had settled an old score first. Mentally, I berated myself. Why hadn't I asked Fox's teacher, Miss Rhinehart the name of the girl Fox had struck? Then I realized it was because Mole had told me Susie went to St. Francis Prep in Fresh Meadows. She must have changed schools because of the incident with Fox.

  I didn't have to open many doors to find Cupid's bedroom. It was the one with all the paintings. Dozens were stacked against the walls. But not the kind I had expected. There were no angels. They weren't even remotely religious.

  I flicked through them. Landscapes, animals, buildings. All of them beautifully and skillfully done but all very predictable and boring. And, I saw, most importantly, very normal and sane.

  I realized what these pictures were. They were Cupid saying, "Hey, you're after a psycho killer who paints pictures of angels? Look what I paint? Horses, zebras, lakes and mou
ntains. I'm not some crazy serial killer. You definitely have the wrong guy." In fact, looking around, the whole of his bedroom said that. There were framed pictures of his mom and dad, a shelf of books bearing such titles as Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Twilight and The Hunger Games. In the corner was a pile of sporting equipment: tennis racquet, baseball glove, football and basketball. The only thing that gave them away was the dust that was collecting on them. He even had a poster of Lebron James and Taylor Manning on the wall.

  Mr. Ordinary. Mr. Joe Citizen. Sure as hell couldn't be any crazy guy living in this room.

  The rat cunning of the man was truly amazing. He had spent literally years painting pictures to help create this persona of an innocent man. At the same time, he was planting and creating a spiderweb of evidence that would lead to Bailey or Smith. All this from a dyslexic madman who had only six months of formal schooling.

  My eye was caught by a door with an open padlock on it and I stepped inside. It was about five feet wide and three feet deep, and must have one time been used as a wardrobe. The interior walls were painted black. It was empty except for a simple wooden chair. The door closed as a gust of wind blew through the open bedroom window and I let out an involuntary grunt. On the wall, printed in fluorescent letters was one phrase.

  I'm sorry.

  It wasn't written once. Not even twice. But hundreds of times. Across every wall. I scanned the room, realization sinking in. The writing could only be read in the dark when the door was shut, and when, I was absolutely sure, padlocked.

  So this was how Mrs. Fox taught Malcolm how to behave, by locking him in this tiny, dark room. Probably, from what Miss Rhinehart had told me, after beating him. It wasn't nice. Hell, it was shocking. But plenty of kids had suffered worst and not turned into serial killers. No, there had to be some darkness there to begin with to account for what Malcolm Fox had become.

  I'd seen enough, so I collected Bear and we made our way out of that monstrous place.

  Bear was looking kind of strange. "You all right?"

  "Yeah, another minute with that crazy, old witch and I think I would have blown my brains out. No wonder Malcolm turned out so messed up if she raised him on her own. So do you think Malcolm is Cupid?"