Bad Thoughts

by Dave Zeltserman

  DiGrazia’s thick ears had turned bright pink. “With what we had at the scene anyone would’ve picked that kid,” he said.

  Shannon asked, “What about the scratch marks on his arms?”

  “It probably happened the way he said it did,” Aukland said. “Her internal bleeding was slow so it took a while for her lungs to fill up. In the meantime, her son came home, found her like that, tried to pull the knife out of her throat, and well, you know what happened next.” Aukland showed some yellowed teeth as he smiled. “I almost think our killer planned it that way; leaving her dying with that knife bobbing out of her throat so her son would do what he did. The blood, though, doesn’t make any sense. He was so careful not to leave any other physical evidence. Do you know how difficult it is to kill someone like that without leaving any physical evidence? You think he would’ve realized he left a few drops of blood.”

  “I guess he got careless.”

  “The sonofabitch plants newspaper stories about Janice Rowley’s murder in the kid’s room to frame him, is so damn meticulous with the murder, and he leaves blood behind in plain sight?” DiGrazia asked.

  “He probably got so excited with the murder he didn’t realize it.”

  Aukland thought about it and shrugged. “Maybe,” he conceded. “I’m going back in there and keep my eye on things.”

  DiGrazia grabbed Shannon by the arm. He told Aukland they’d join him later. Then to Shannon, “Let’s go to your place.”

  * * * * *

  Once inside his apartment Shannon tried to call his wife at work. DiGrazia cracked his knuckles impatiently as Shannon left a voice mail message.

  “What do you think, we got a serial killer?” he asked as soon as the phone was put down.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “That’s right. I don’t.”

  “A copycat murder?”

  “Nope,” DiGrazia said, shaking his head. “No details were released on any of the murders.” He took a cigarette out, slipped it into his mouth, and then raised an eyebrow at Shannon and offered him one. Shannon declined.

  DiGrazia lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply and then stood and watched as the smoke curled around him. “I think we got someone who wants it to look like a serial killer,” he said, the smoke drifting past him, his face all of a sudden anxious, his eyes like hard red marbles. He sat down on the sofa and leaned forward, licking his lips.

  “Phyllis Roberson was having problems with her ex,” DiGrazia explained. “She was suing him for back child support. A lot of money, Bill. And her ex didn’t want to pay. You know, spite. Real bad blood between the two of them.”

  “Roberson’s ex and Brad Hartwell got together and planned this?”

  “No, but they’re both criminal lawyers. They both work in the same courts.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe they know the same people.” DiGrazia took another drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out, all the while his eyes focused on Shannon’s. “Maybe by pure luck they hired the same guy. And maybe this genius had the idea to make it look like a serial killer to cover up the motive. Maybe he got the idea reading about the details of Janice Rowley’s murder. Shit, Bill, we have two women with marital problems murdered. You know the statistics as well as I do. Seventy-five percent of the time it’s the husband.”

  “What about the other woman—the one killed last week?”

  DiGrazia shrugged. “I think she was thrown in to confuse the issue. I’ll show you her file when you come down to the station.”

  “Were any of them forced entry?”

  “No, they were all let in. So what’s your gut feeling, a serial killer or something else?”

  “My gut feeling is you’re suffering from sleep deprivation.”

  “Come on—”

  “It’s too complicated for a hit man. And I can’t see a hit man throwing in a third body just to be cute.”

  “You’re not using your imagination, pal. Try thinking outside the box a little.”

  “Okay, how about this—whoever’s doing this is enjoying it. It’s taking a long time for these women to bleed out.”

  “Shit, Bill, that’s just a smoke screen. There’s been nothing sexual with any of these victims. And you got strong financial motives for both Roberson and Hartwell to be killed. I’m telling you, this serial killer business is just to throw us off the trail.”

  “What does the FBI think?”

  DiGrazia made a face like he had swallowed sour milk. “Fuck ’em,” he said, scowling. “I haven’t mentioned squat to them. They can keep searching for their serial killer for all I care. You want to come down to the station later today? I’ll bring in both hubbies for interrogation.”

  “We better make it tomorrow. I need to clean myself up and take care of things with Susie.”

  DiGrazia’s face fell slack, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “Okay, we’ll do it tomorrow,” he said. “I should go home and get some sleep anyway.” He leaned back against the sofa. “It’s good to have you back, Bill.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You really don’t know where you were?”

  “Other than where I woke up, no idea.”

  DiGrazia leaned further back into the sofa, his eyes narrowing as he appraised his partner. “I could look into it,” he said. “But a crack house in Roxbury doesn’t sound good. It’d probably be better if I didn’t.”

  “Probably,” Shannon agreed.

  * * * * *

  Susie called later. Shannon told her he wasn’t sure if she’d be there this time.

  “I wasn’t,” she corrected him. “I’ve been at work.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean.” There was a hesitation where Shannon could only hear a soft hum over the line. Then Susie asked if it was over.

  “Our marriage?”

  “No. Not our marriage. Your—the sickness.”

  “I certainly hope so.” He started to laugh. “At least for this year.”

  “At least for this year,” she agreed, and then she started to cry. When she was able to, she told him she’d be home as soon as she could.

  * * * * *

  Susan Shannon reached Pig Dornich at his office. “My husband just came home,” she told him.

  “No kidding.” He sounded disappointed, almost hurt. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Do you know where he’s been?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Would you mind if I speak to him?”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  He hesitated. “About that other matter—” he started.

  “I don’t want you speaking to him. I don’t want him knowing I hired you. And about that other matter, maybe we better—”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Dornich interrupted, cutting her off before she could finish firing him. “I feel bad about not finding him. Pretty lousy, actually. Let me spend a few days, free of charge, looking into things. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  “I can’t afford—”

  “Free of charge,” Dornich repeated himself. “One thing,” he asked, “do you know if your husband’s been in the area?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is I don’t want you talking to him.”

  Dornich started to promise he wouldn’t but the line went dead on him before he could finish. All in all he really did feel lousy. He had been knocking himself out looking for Shannon; the last three days he’d been at it almost nonstop while charging his client for only a small fraction of his time. The case had become a sore spot for him and it had been picked at enough to leave it bleeding and festering. He knew it was a race, that his man was going to be coming home any moment, and he wanted to find him while he was still out there. He wanted to know what the sonofabitch had been up to.

  After his talk with Joe DiGrazia, he hit the mean streets around Boston, showing Shannon’s picture, trying to find out if his man had a weak spot for hookers
. None of the girls knew the guy. Dornich spent a few more fruitless hours driving around the strip clubs neighboring the city. Again no luck. Later that night he joined Joe DiGrazia as they barhopped ’til closing time, showing Shannon’s picture around. After last call they spent the rest of the night cruising alleys and side streets. They came across a few minor crimes; drug deals, prostitution, and the like, but nothing else. No Shannon. Not even as much as a clue.

  The next day was purely routine; checking out Logan airport and the bus terminals. After that he drove down to Providence and then back up to Nashua. The problem was, if Shannon had left the city he could’ve done it any number of ways; hitchhiking, stealing a car, even with a bicycle. So Shannon could’ve been anywhere.

  By the end of the week Dornich was spending half his time driving around the Boston area and the other half checking the wire services and contacting out of state law enforcement offices. At no time did he even get a whiff of Shannon. It hadn’t been a complete waste of time, though. He found out his client had been wrong about Shannon’s parents. The mother was dead, but the father wasn’t. He had an address and a phone number. The older Shannon was living in Mountain View, California. He wouldn’t talk much over the phone, just that he hadn’t seen his son in over fifteen years and he’d just as soon go another fifteen.

  Pig Dornich picked up the photostatic copies that the Sacramento Journal had sent him from their archives. He read the articles slowly, carefully, letting his eyes linger on each paragraph. When he was done he read them again. Then he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes and wondered what went on in that house between a thirteen-year-old Bill Shannon and Herbert Winters.

  Chapter 17

  Shannon’s eyes opened before the alarm went off. Susie’s small body was against his. He could feel her chest rising and lowering as she breathed. He could feel a moist heat coming from her body.

  They didn’t talk much yesterday when she got home. There wasn’t much to say. He couldn’t tell her where he’d been and she was too worn out to blame him. The silence, though, was different than usual. There was nothing heavy or oppressive about it. It was almost comforting. Almost as if the last few years had been stripped clean. As if they still had a shot.

  The alarm went off. Shannon watched as Susie started to stir. Watched as consciousness seeped into her. She pushed herself out of bed and turned off the alarm, and then turned and stood looking at him, her eyes struggling against the morning light.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  Shannon stretched lazily. “Better than I would’ve thought.”

  “I didn’t know how you were going to look when you showed up yesterday. Whether you’d be all beat up or worse. At least you came home in one piece this time.”

  “Seems like I did.”

  “Yes, it does.” She sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand behind Shannon’s neck. “Maybe a few pounds lighter, but at least you weren’t coughing up blood or anything.”

  “And no rat bites this year.”

  Susie withdrew her hand from his neck. “That’s not funny,” she complained.

  “No, I guess it’s not. I’m sorry. I just wish I knew what I’d been doing out there.”

  Susie tried to smile at him but didn’t have much luck with it. After a while she got up and told him she was going to take a shower.

  As Shannon lay on his back he found himself feeling strangely at peace. He thought about the two women, Rose Hartwell and the one in Boston, both lying dead with knives sticking out of their mouths. He tried to imagine what the woman in Boston looked like and came up with some vague impression. None of this affected his sense of well-being. The water for the shower turned on and Shannon listened to its soft drone. He let it numb his mind as the images crystallized and then faded away.

  Later, as Shannon was shaving, he heard a muffled cry. He felt his heart drop to his feet as he ran from the bathroom. Susie was standing by the front door holding a newspaper. She turned to face him, her eyes pained, confused. “Rose—” she started, “oh my God . . .”

  Shit, Shannon thought as he moved to her and held her.

  * * * * *

  There were a few curious stares as Shannon entered the squad room. Most of his fellow officers asked how he was doing. A couple, like Ed Poulett, just smirked. Joe DiGrazia looked relieved to see his partner. He got up from his desk and greeted him.

  “I talked with your neighbor, Brad Hartwell, last night.” DiGrazia kept his voice low as he leaned his thick knuckles against Shannon’s desk and edged forward. “The guy didn’t seem too shook up about his wife’s murder.”

  “As I was telling you before, they were having problems.”

  “Yeah, well, let me tell you about your neighbor. He’s got a big mouth. He likes to talk. If he is involved, buddy boy, he’ll be bragging about it and we’ll nail him.” DiGrazia hesitated. “How’d things go with Susie?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Pretty good—”

  The phone rang. Captain Martin Brady wanted Shannon in his office.

  Brady looked uncomfortable as he sat behind his desk, his face frozen in a queer kind of smile. Sitting to the right of him was a man with a long, dour face. From the way he was grimacing it was a good bet he was suffering from some sort of intestinal problem. Shannon recognized him from Hartwell’s apartment. Brady nodded at Shannon and asked him to close the door.

  “Enjoy your time off?” Brady asked.

  Shannon told him it flew by.

  “Well, good, good.” Brady pushed forward quickly. “I’d like you to meet Special Agent Douglas Swallow.”

  “Glad to meet you,” Shannon acknowledged. Special Agent Swallow made no movement at the introduction. Shannon didn’t bother to extend his hand.

  “Doug is out of the FBI’s Sex Crime unit,” Brady explained. “He’s helping out with the investigation of a couple of murders we’ve had. You know about that, though, don’t you?”

  “Joe filled me in.”

  “You investigated one of them?”

  “As it turns out, I guess I did. At least somewhat.”

  “Where have you been?” Agent Swallow broke in. His voice had a sharp crack to it.

  “What?”

  “You don’t understand English?”

  “What’s going on here?” Shannon demanded of Brady.

  Brady placed both his hands on his desk, palms up. “Doug has a few questions to ask you.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because of the way you reacted at Roberson’s murder site,” Swallow said. “Because your neighbor was murdered yesterday by potentially the same individual. And because no one knows where you’ve been the past week.”

  Shannon took an almost imperceptible step forward. “I’ve been on disability leave,” he stated softly.

  “They’re all good points, Bill,” Brady argued. “Now, we’re not accusing you of anything, but they’re good points and we’d like to understand things better.”

  “Should I be getting a lawyer?”

  “Not unless you’ve done something where you need a lawyer. Have you, Bill?”

  Shannon shook his head. “I don’t need a lawyer.”

  “Of course you don’t. We never thought you did. We just have some questions, that’s all. There’s nothing for you to get upset about. And nothing leaves this office.”

  “Where have you been the past week?” Swallow demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  A loud noise escaped from the FBI agent. Brady’s round, pudgy face seemed to deflate at the same moment as if a pin had punctured it. “That’s not helping any, Bill,” he started.

  “I really don’t know,” Shannon explained. “Six days ago I blacked out. I came out of it yesterday.”

  Agent Swallow looked incredulous. “You’re trying to tell us that you don’t—”

  “That I don’t know where I’ve been,” Shannon said, nodding. “I came out of it in a basement of an abandoned
building in Roxbury yesterday afternoon. That’s the first thing I remember since I blacked out.”

  Brady and Swallow exchanged glances.

  “This isn’t good, Bill,” Brady said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re trying to tell us you don’t remember what you’ve been doing?” Swallow demanded.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “This so-called blackout . . .”

  “A week ago Wednesday, I was sitting at the bar at the Black Rose trying to see how much bourbon I could pour into me. Next thing I remembered was yesterday.”

  Swallow got out of his chair and started pacing. “This is bullshit,” he said.

  “I’ve been sick,” Shannon tried to explain. “It’s what happened.”

  “You willing to take a polygraph?”

  Shannon shrugged. “If I have to.”

  Swallow got within a half foot of Shannon, his face pinched, the skin around his mouth drawn tight. “If you have to, huh?” He shook his head. “Were you with anyone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I want an address for your abandoned building.”

  Shannon gave it to him. Swallow slowly backed away and sat back down in his chair. Brady exhaled a lung full of air through his mouth, the noise escaping from him in a slow hiss. “This really doesn’t leave us much choice, Bill.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You behavior has been, at the very least, erratic. And this doesn’t sound good at all.”

  “I’ve been sick.”

  “I understand that, but still . . .” Brady shook his head slowly, almost painfully.

  “We need physical evidence from you,” said Swallow.

  All Shannon could do was stare at him.

  “We need a blood sample to match against—”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I thought you were willing to cooperate?” Brady asked.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “And what the fuck are you trying to pull?” Swallow demanded, his face reddening, his lips receding into a razor-thin smile. “You give us this bullshit story about blacking out for a week.”