Decker looked up from his note pad. “What was weird about it?”
“It was…I don’t know,” Parker said. “Lopsided, I guess you’d call it.”
“Okay,” Decker said. He wrote down the word: Lopsided. It would jibe nicely with Thomas Stoner’s account of Hersh. Tie the two crimes together. “Go on.”
“Where was I?” Parker said.
“He was tough-looking,” Cleveland said.
“Yes, he was,” Parker said. “Kinda hypermacho and he spoke with an accent—a German accent. A lot of the leather set get off on the German accent so that’s nothing new. But this guy, he sounded like he really did speak German.”
Decker wrote: German accent? He said, “He was dressed in a leather getup?”
“Oh, no,” Parker said. “He was dressed very nicely. Sort of a casual but expensive look. Just that the leather set is into Teutonic things. I knew Mr. Harrow would go for him. He likes…”
Parker suddenly paled and held his head. “My God, that poor man…I feel sick.”
Both Decker and Cleveland jumped out of the car. Parker stuck his head out and retched. After he was done vomiting, he wiped his mouth on the blanket and apologized.
Cleveland threw a beefy hand on Parker’s thin bony shoulder. “You’re doing all right. I’m not feelin’ so good myself.”
Decker pulled out a tube of VapoRub. “It’s the smell. Coat your nose with this.” He pushed out some VapoRub onto Parker’s fingertips. “It blocks the smell.”
“But it doesn’t hide the memory…seeing him.” Parker shuddered.
True enough, Decker thought. “What time did Mr. Harrow leave with the man in the picture?”
“Around eleven,” Parker said.
“You’re sure?” Cleveland asked.
“Looked at the clock myself.” Parker sighed. “Without Mr. Harrow feeding the kitty, I knew it was going to be a long night.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, Decker pulled out a flier with pictures of Hersh and Noam on it—a copy of the ones he and Marge had used when they’d canvassed Westwood. He pointed to Noam’s picture. “Ever see this boy before?”
Parker studied Noam’s picture, then shook his head.
“Any other patrons see Harrow leave with this guy?” Decker was pointing at Hersh again.
“They might have.” Parker shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know if they met others afterward, I don’t know if he was…killed…right after he left.”
Decker looked at Cleveland, cocked his head to the side. Cleveland called over one of the uniforms and said, “Mr. Parker, would you mind going with Deputy”—his eyes went to the name tag attached to a khaki-clad deputy with buckteeth—“with Deputy Sanders and giving him a complete statement?”
“Not at all,” Parker said. “I couldn’t sleep right now if you gave me a thousand Seconals. It’s that man’s face.” He pointed to the picture of Hersh. “It’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.”
“Yeah,” Cleveland said. “Try to calm down. Deputy Sanders, can you take him into the squad car?” He waved them both away, then looked at Decker.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Having told the story so many times, Decker had pared it down to its barest elements, recapping all the salient details in ten minutes. When he was done, Cleveland didn’t respond.
“I’m not trying to horn in on your case,” Decker said, “but I’ve got sixty, seventy of these fliers in my car. I think it might be a good idea for me to check out the local motels. If the murder took place at eleven, eleven-fifteen, the perps probably have taken off by now. But they couldn’t have gone too far without a car.”
“You’re sure they don’t have a car?” Cleveland asked.
“I’m not really sure of anything,” Decker said. “As of eight tonight, they hadn’t rented anything under their names or any of the known aliases. Now they could be using other names. Or they could have heisted a car. At least we should try to find out where they were.”
“You want to check out the fuck pads in Hollywood proper, that’s okay by me,” Cleveland said. “It’s LAPD’s jurisdiction anyway. I’ll have my men take care of West Hollywood.”
“Perfect,” Decker said.
“Course even if we find where they were,” Cleveland said, “that don’t mean shit as to where they are now…or where they’re gonna be.”
Decker said, “Well, if they stick around the city, I’ll hunt them down. No doubt in my mind, I’ll find those fuckers. I’m just wondering if they might be thinking about leaving town. I’m going to ask my partner to go down to Greyhound Bus Terminal. Just to make sure. She can pass out fliers while she’s there anyway.”
“Might try the train station, too,” Cleveland said. “And the airport.”
“Yup.” Decker thought: Marge could probably manage the bus terminal and the train station—they were both downtown. The airport was another story. He couldn’t poke around the Hollywood motels and check out the airport at the same time. He’d call Hollander. Tell Mike to run by the house and pick up the fliers of Hersh and Noam.
Decker said, “I’ll send someone over to LAX.”
Cleveland said, “You got a feel for these psychos?”
“Somewhat.”
“If Butch and Sundance split, where would they go?”
Decker shrugged. “Maybe San Francisco. It’s close, lots of gays.”
“Yeah, this has all the earmarks of a gay killing,” Cleveland said. “The blood, the violence, the anger. Psycho’s definitely a latent.”
“Hersh?” Decker shrugged. “He might be, but he might be heterosexual. I don’t have any indications as to which way he swings.”
“Both his victims were gay,” Cleveland said.
Decker conceded the point but still felt that wasn’t it at all. The age of the victims, the size. Every time Hersh rolled a big man, he took a chance. But Hersh wanted large, older men. What he wanted was to kill his father. He only went after gays because they were a hell of a lot easier to pick up. How else was he going to get a big man to follow him into the night?
Using the unmarked’s radio, Decker was patched through to Marge. He updated her, explained what he needed. She was ready for action even before he finished. He asked her to call Hollander for him and Marge reminded him that Mike was on vacation as of yesterday.
“Damn, that’s right,” Decker said. “What about Fordebrand? He’s good about favors.”
“I think he’s still in the field,” Marge said. “A nasty bar killing just went down in our parts around an hour ago. I was called down because it was over a woman and someone mentioned rape. But the woman wasn’t raped.”
There was a long pause over the line.
Marge said, “I could ask MacPherson.”
“You mind calling him?”
“No,” Marge said.
“Thanks. Tell him to drop by my place, pick up the fliers from Rina. I’ll call her so she’ll have them all ready for him.”
“You trust Paul alone with your wife?”
Decker laughed and said, “She has a gun.”
Rina saw the car pull up in the driveway. She answered the door before MacPherson knocked. He stood, huddled under her doorstep, his head covered with a knitted ski cap. His eyes were sunken, his forehead was bathed in sweat.
“Hullo, Mrs. Decker,” he said in a nasal voice. “The good sergeant said you have some fliers for me?”
“You can’t go out like that, Detective,” Rina said. She leaned over and felt his forehead. “You have a fever.”
“I’m a little under the weather.” He sneezed. “But don’t worry—”
“Go home and go to bed right now,” Rina said. “I’ll pass out the leaflets.”
“Mrs. Decker, I don’t think that’s what the sergeant had in mind.”
“Was the sergeant aware of your physical condition?”
“I’m really all right.”
“Absolutely not,” Rina said. “You put
yourself to bed right away. I’m perfectly capable of passing out fliers and talking to security. Besides, if anyone can recognize Noam, I will. Feeling the way you do, I’m not sure you could recognize your own mother.”
Probably true, MacPherson thought. Still, he didn’t feel good about letting her go out to LAX alone at this time of night. If anything were to happen to her, he’d catch deep shit. And he’d feel bad for her, too.
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Decker.” He sneezed again.
Rina said, “Detective MacPherson, I’m not going to give you those fliers and without the fliers you have no reason to go to the airport. Now get out of here and stop sneezing on me or we’ll both be sick.”
MacPherson sighed. He was too tired to argue. In all honesty, he was grateful for the reprieve, even if he felt funny about it. But if the lady wasn’t going to give him the fliers, it really didn’t make sense for him to go to the airport, did it? He couldn’t force her to give them to him so the hell with it. Next time, Decker should speak to him directly if he wanted a favor.
“If you insist,” he said.
“I insist,” Rina said. “Now good night.”
She smiled, then closed the door.
She knew Peter would be furious, but that was his problem. Paul was in no shape to work. And she was too jumpy to sleep.
Every time she pictured Noam’s face, she thought of her own sons. How would she feel if they were in such imminent danger? And Noam was in terrible danger. Even Peter had seemed shaken when he summarized what had happened. She remembered his thoughts out loud.
It’s only a matter of time before Hersh realizes he doesn’t need Noam to kill. Then the boy becomes a liability rather than an asset.
She just couldn’t hand such an important task over to a sick man who was just going through the motions. The job required someone who cared.
Peter would be mad, even angrier that she used the Porsche at this time of night. It was an attention grabber and that wasn’t good. But that was a chance she’d have to take.
She tied a kerchief atop her head and slipped on her coat. The bags of fliers were heavy. If only she didn’t need her purse. How did men travel without one? No matter, she’d manage. She took the spare key ring off the wall and hefted it. More weight. Maybe she should just take the Porsche keys and leave the rest of Peter’s keys here.
No, best not to separate them. If anything got lost, Peter would be even more irate. She flung her purse over her shoulder and looped her hands around the plastic bags. Before she closed and locked the door, she checked for her gun.
Like an old reliable friend, it was where it was supposed to be.
27
It had been a long and silent bus ride—a blessing for Noam. He hated the sound of Hersh’s voice, but hated his own voice even more. He hated, hated, hated everything about himself.
Hersh and he didn’t talk on the bus. They didn’t even sit together, choosing aisle seats opposite each other. At first glance, Hersh appeared to be dozing, but whenever Noam moved, even to scratch his nose, Hersh’s eyes would pop open, tracking him like a wild animal.
They hadn’t even talked much right after it happened. Both of them had been like robots, rushing into the motel room, throwing their meager clothes into the suitcases. He’d taken the gun, Hersh had taken his knives. A fair split—the gun was a more dangerous weapon, but Hersh was quicker with the knives.
Not that Noam really cared whether he lived or died. After what had happened (what had gone down as Hersh had put it) everything was over for him anyway.
What he had done.
Over and over, he racked his brain, trying to figure out what he should have done. But it all happened so fast. He couldn’t think straight, not with Hersh’s eyes bulging out of his forehead. Not with him crying out: Helf mir! The man was strangling Hersh, for God’s sake; he couldn’t just walk away. He just couldn’t.
The tables turned so quickly. Now they were the attackers. A moment later came that haunting picture, that awful look on that poor man’s face. A death mask.
Noam screwed up his eyes, shook his head fiercely, trying to throw the image out of his brain.
After it was over, Hersh went nuts with his knives. Noam knew he should have stopped him—what Hersh did was pure evil. Nobody normal did those things. But all Noam had done was cry, too afraid to make him stop.
That smell, that terrible smell. Like the back of a butcher shop. Noam gagged just thinking about it. He felt his breath begin to go choppy, his head begin to spin. He heard Hersh telling him—no, not telling, ordering him—to get a grip on himself.
Get a grip on yourself.
Noam kept that thought. It was the only thing that prevented him from going insane.
It helped to breathe into his hands. A few minutes later, Noam felt his head clear. He glanced over at Hersh, who was lying on his back, hands under his head, his eyes wide open.
Noam knew he was making plans.
Get a grip on yourself.
Hersh and his plans—his evil plans. Noam hated, just hated his plans. But back then, after what had happened, he hadn’t been able to think up his own plans. All he’d been able to do was follow numbly. Somehow Hersh had managed to guide them to the right bus, no one inside giving them a second glance.
Everyone riding the bus had seemed like a lowlife, just like he was. People who carried their belongings in bags instead of valises. People who looked like they hadn’t had a bath in a long time. There’d been a woman, her face covered with acne. She had scraggly red hair and wore newspapers on her feet. There’d been a fat guy that almost took up two full bus seats. There’d been two skinny black teenagers, their hair in matted curls. They’d had real mean eyes, and whispered to each other as soon as he and Hersh boarded the bus. But Hersh had easily stared them down. No one had meaner eyes than Hersh. A few seconds later, the black guys had slumped back into their seats, ignored them for the rest of the trip.
No, there hadn’t been any chance to talk on the bus. But now they were alone, both of them camped outside for the rest of the evening, and still they weren’t talking about it.
What was there to talk about?
Noam knew his hours were numbered. After what he had witnessed the last few days, after what he had just done, he knew he was beyond earthly salvation, beyond Yom Kippur.
The ground was hard, the chilled night air smelling like industrial fuel. The fumes made Noam’s head throb, his eyes bursting with sharp pain every time his brain hammered against his skull. His body was enveloped with aches—sore ribs, a swollen lower lip, a bruised jaw, a stomach so thick with acid it could jump a battery. Though dressed warmly, wrapped in a woolen jacket, he shivered, the shakes sometimes so violent his knees knocked together. He propped himself up, leaning his back against a concrete pillar. Slipping his hands back into his pockets, he rolled himself up into a ball. Both of them awake, both refusing to sleep, fearing that the other might be planning something.
Nothing between them except deadly suspicion.
It was almost three in the morning. The watch Abba had given him for his bar mitzvah worked like a mule. Noam had been so mad at his father, angry that even for an occasion like his bar mitzvah, Abba had been too cheap to buy him the watch he really wanted. Now Noam clung to it as if it were the only tangible link to his past.
He no longer cared about his safety, knowing it was just a matter of time before something irreversible would happen. The only thing that gave him solace was tshuvah—repentance. Since the last ordeal, Noam had been silently praying, begging Hashem’s forgiveness for all the evil he had done. He knew it was too late for him in this lifetime. Even if he should live to be reunited with his family, he couldn’t do anything to undo the terrible, terrible things he had done. Nothing would ever, ever be good for him again. But that was the way it should be. He didn’t deserve goodness.
But he hoped he would show himself to be worthy of Hashem’s forgiveness. If his repentence was sincere, if his conf
essions to God—vidduy—were complete, maybe he could earn a tiny fraction of salvation in the world to come.
He must suffer. It was the only way to achieve forgiveness.
Pray, he told himself. Try to save your evil, worthless soul. Pray.
Thoughts of his family kept interfering. The only good thing about it was that the images of their faces made him suffer even more. Noam looked up, tears finally flooding his eyes. The sky was moonless, an eerie misty gray lightened by streetlights and clouds. It seemed to beckon him upward, seemed to have visible folded arms just waiting for him to fall asleep. Then they’d part and swoop down, yanking him into an empty void.
A lifetime ago, the thought would have terrified him. But now he couldn’t have cared less. Hashem was merciful. Hashem would let him live long enough to do his tshuvah. The only thing that scared Noam now, was how long it would take him to repent. If he was sincere enough, he could do his tshuvah quickly and die. If he wasn’t, he’d have to keep going, suffering for years, until it was done properly.
Every day, waking up to ask Hashem to forgive you. Every day, having to live with that horrible picture of that poor man burned in your brain, reminding yourself what you had done.
The pain was overwhelming, dwarfing any fear he once had of dying, any fear he once had of Hersh.
He would leave Hersh once they arrived in San Francisco. Just walk away from him on the open streets. If Hersh attacked him, killed him, so be it. But more than likely, Hersh would let him go.
He would never go back to his family—that would be too good for him. He would hide out somewhere, live on nothing. When he could pass for eighteen, he would find some weird ba’al tshuvah yeshiva that didn’t ask questions. He would become a nazir—a man who drank no wine, refused to touch a razor to his head. He would spend his remaining days in learning and prayer and repentance.
Noam knew he had only a slim chance for redemption. Still, a slim chance was better than none. That was what was so wonderful about Hashem. He was always willing to give you a slim chance.
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