A Fountain Filled With Blood

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  Instantly, the radio crackled on. “Jesus, Chief! Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m inside the Kilmer Mill grounds. On, um”—he pictured the town map in his head—“the western end.”

  “How did you wind up there?”

  “Shortcut. Listen, there’s no way you can get to where I am in the car. I think he’s run into the mill, but I’m not sure how stoppered up he is in there. The other end flanks the park. I don’t know of any way to get through, but there’s the big gate on Mill Street, and I suppose he could go into the Kill. You two put a call in for the boat to patrol the river. I want you to block off the Mill Street entrance. I’m going in.”

  “Not a good idea, Chief.”

  He wasn’t wild about it himself. “The kids in this neighborhood have had fifty years to discover hidey-holes on and off this property. If somebody’s not right on his tail, he could vanish.”

  “We’ve already turned around. We can be there in five minutes.”

  “That leaves the street unguarded. Call in some more backup, whoever’s available. But don’t leave that street clear for him to beat a retreat to. You got me?”

  “I got you. Don’t like it, but I got you. Fifteen oh three out.”

  Russ pushed himself away from the wall and scanned the grass around him. He wasn’t great as a tracker—his hunting technique in the fall consisted more of ambling around and drinking coffee from a Thermos than actively looking for any deer—but even he could see a few faint indentations in the grass. Lush and green, it would be springing back into place within minutes. McKinley did go this way, then. He walked along the side of the mill, casting back and forth, trying to spot some indication that McKinley had broken for the river. Then he saw it, bolted into the red brick—a rusting fire ladder running from a large third-floor window to five feet above the overgrown grass. It was a pre–World War II relic, from the days when the mill had employed a quarter of the town and occupational safety meant a straight three-story climb to the ground, if you could reach one of the windows before smoke or flames overcame you.

  He jogged over to the ladder, reached up, and tugged on it with both hands. It creaked, but there was no shifting or shower of brick dust. He wrapped his hands around the lowest rung, chinned himself up, and pulled his legs to his chest, curling forward until his head was pointing toward the ground and he could get his knees over the iron bar. He balanced there for a moment, waiting to see if his two hundred pounds would shake the ladder, but the old bolts held true—for the moment anyway.

  He climbed without looking down. The faded brick wall was punctuated by small granite-edged windows at the first- and second-story levels, oddly placed rectangles just big enough to let in some light and air. None of them were close enough to grab hold of if the rungs beneath his feet gave way or if the bricks holding the ladder’s bolts crumbled. He breathed evenly and looked up. The window above the iron ladder was wide open.

  He had to go headfirst through the window, a horribly vulnerable position, which made him feel like a hunting trophy mounted on a wall. He wiggled forward and flipped himself gracelessly onto his feet, thudding loudly enough to cause him to freeze in a crouch below the window. He breathed through his mouth, noiselessly, as if that would make a difference.

  He was on a sturdy wooden platform encircling a vast area below. Railed and banistered, it had two steep staircases descending to the work space. What light there was came from windows hidden from his view beneath the walkway. There was machinery down there, behemoths of black iron, and a forest of chains and block and tackle hanging from runners in the ceiling.

  A noise from below froze him in place. A scrabbling sound. And a clank. Too loud for an animal. He closed his eyes for a moment, straining to hear. The air stirred with the scent of iron and dry rot and mouse droppings. He listened harder and dropped to his knees and then to his belly on the walkway floor. He crawled forward to the opening between the railings that signaled the nearest stairway.

  It was steep, like the gangway on a ship, built to occupy the least amount of productive space. The workroom floor was cleared for several feet around the final step. Descending would make him a sitting duck vulnerable to potential gunfire. He scanned the rest of the platform. The only other way down he could see was another staircase, equally open, at the end opposite him. He thought he could make out doorways there, too, but he had no doubt that McKinley had headed down to get out. Which meant he would have to go down, as well.

  He suddenly thought, for the first time in years, of an argument he had had with a lunatic second lieutenant while squatting in the brush below a heavily fortified hill. He couldn’t recall the hill’s number. All the hills in ’Nam had had numbers, never names. They were supposed to take the damn thing, and he had been telling the FNG that it was idiocy to charge upward through the open into enemy fire. “It’s not idiocy,” the lieutenant had said. “It’s our job.”

  He reminded himself that he had picked this job over running a security firm in Phoenix. He wiggled himself around, slid his legs over the edge, found the first step with his foot, and took it, hands loose on the railings, barking his shins as he scrambled down the ladderlike steps—one, two, three, four—and then there was a loud crack and his foot gave way, the step splintering beneath him as he plunged, then caught himself on the railings with a dislocating jerk to his shoulders. He was spread open like a wishbone, one leg dangling in space and the other stretched painfully behind him. A swirling cloud of dry rot made him cough. He hauled against the railings and tried to gain a footing on the step below, feeling a gun sighting on him as if it were a pointer pressed against his spine, trailing up to the back of his head. He flopped between the steps, hair prickling and the cold sweat of fear under his uniform shirt, and heard another noise from somewhere among the silent machines below. He remembered now that the second lieutenant hadn’t lived very long. He let go of the railings, sagging still deeper through the broken stair tread, braced his hands atop the step in front of him, and pushed forward, just as he had done at the window outside, levering himself up, freeing the leg that had been trapped against the lower step. He didn’t stop to think. He let both legs hang through the stair, gripped the step he had been braced on, dropped his torso and shoulders through the last of the splintery remains, and let go.

  He fell far enough to regret his impulsiveness, but he had been taught how to land from a fall when he was young, and his body remembered the lessons, even if, thirty years later, he lacked the natural bounce that had once enabled him to jump up and keep running. He didn’t spring up from the wooden floor where he had crumpled and rolled, but he did manage to keep rolling toward the nearest loom and tuck himself under its shadowed side.

  “Elliott McKinley!” he yelled. “Police! Lay down your weapon and come out into the open with your hands raised!” The effort of shouting made his ribs hurt. Now he heard the clear sound of footsteps thudding, but he couldn’t orient himself enough to discover the direction the sound was coming from. He rolled away from the loom, staggered to his knees, and rose cautiously, easing the Glock out again. Nothing in sight but rows and ranks of antiquated machinery and chains and block and tackle that would never be used again. He walked forward lightly, rolling from his heels to the balls of his feet, trying to make as little noise as possible. He heard another scuffle and a clank—ahead of him. They had to be close to the river by now.

  “McKinley!” He crouched again, making himself less of a target. “We’ve got squad cars sealing off the other entrances to the mill, and a boat on the water to pick up anyone who goes in. You understand me? You’re not getting out of here. Come on out and we’ll wrap this up and nobody gets hurt.”

  Nothing. He stood up. There was a clank and a rattle, and he turned just in time to see an iron hook and a chain as thick as his wrist swinging straight at him, slithering through its pulley, sounding like the creak of the gates of hell opening. He lunged to the side, missing the hook, but the chain lashed across his sho
ulder and arm, hurtling his gun out of reach, knocking him off balance. He bounced off the nearest loom, staggered, then scrambled backward out of the way as the last of the chain tore through the pulley and fell over the iron machines and the wooden floor in a shattering clang that left him half-deaf. He looked around frantically for his gun, for McKinley, for another sign of movement among the chains and ropes hanging like malignant seaweed from the rafters. He caught a flash out of the corner of his eye. McKinley broke cover and bolted toward the far door, his head bobbing above the machinery in a weird, disembodied way.

  Russ took off after him, any aches and pains wiped out for the moment in a surge of anger and adrenaline. He ran like a linebacker through an offensive field, dodging this way and that, trying to keep away from the machines. He could see the top of the door fling open, reached it on McKinley’s heels, and made a flying tackle. He hit McKinley square across his midsection and they both went down, skidding and twisting across the wooden floor. The younger man struggled, lashing out ineffectually with his hands and feet, but Russ had at least thirty pounds and several inches on him. He rolled McKinley beneath him, facedown, and straddled him, his elbow pressing hard into the nape of McKinley’s neck while he yanked at the pair of lightweight handcuffs snapped to his belt.

  McKinley bucked, trying to throw him off. “Lie still or I’ll smash your head into this floor, you little scum sucker,” Russ roared. He hauled the young man’s wrists together and cuffed him, then sat straddling his still-flailing legs. He patted his waist, grateful to feel the radio still clipped to his belt. He didn’t relish the idea of wrestling McKinley out of the mill unaided. He keyed the mike. “Eric? Noble?”

  “Chief? What’s up? Where are you?”

  “In the mill. First floor. I’ve got McKinley, but I could use some help moving him.”

  “I sent Mark to get the keys from the town offices.” Russ knew the town kept copies of keys to all the abandoned mills, in case the police or the volunteer fire department needed them. “He just got here. We’ll be right in.”

  “Bring Mark on in, too. We’ll need two people for McKinley here. And I”—he pushed the bridge of his glasses against his face—“I think I’m going to need a little help finding my gun.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “He wants a lawyer.” Lyle MacAuley reached across a litter of mugs and crumpled napkins and grabbed the coffeepot.

  “Of course he wants a lawyer. They all want lawyers. It comes from watching too much television.” Russ started to take a mug, winced, and shifted it to his left hand.

  “You oughtta get that looked at.”

  “I’m a little banged up, that’s all. I’ll look like an Oriental rug in a couple of days, but I’ll live. Who’s he called?”

  The deputy chief grinned. “Geoffrey Burns.”

  Russ choked on his coffee. “That asshole? Since when does he pick up work from a bottom-feeder like McKinley?”

  “I guess there aren’t enough car wrecks in the summer to keep him busy.”

  Russ put his mug on the dispatcher’s desk and painstakingly poured the coffee wrong-handed.

  “Careful with that,” Lyle warned. “You leave a spill on Harlene’s desk and she’ll eat you for lunch.” Their senior dispatcher was taking two days off after working on the Fourth.

  Russ scooped McKinley’s paperwork off the desk. “I’m going to talk to him.”

  “Chief, he’s asked for his lawyer.”

  “I’m not going to question him. I’m going to talk to him.” He grinned at Lyle’s expression. “Don’t worry. I won’t violate his rights any. I just want to give him an idea of what he’s facing.”

  The Millers Kill police station had been built in the days when suspects were booked at the desk and interrogated—without much thought at all to constitutional rights—in the holding cells below. Now the old cell block held an evidence locker and munitions lockup, and suspects in custody were questioned in a spacious, if windowless, room that had been carved out of two interior offices. Russ buzzed himself in and nodded to Noble Entwhistle, who was propping up the wall while keeping an eye on Elliott McKinley.

  McKinley was seated at a rectangular steel table. His hands had been uncuffed, but his ankles were in restraints attached to his chair. The table and its six chairs were bolted to the floor. McKinley looked up from a close examination of his knuckles. “Can I get a smoke?” he said.

  “Maybe later,” Russ said, throwing the paperwork down and easing himself into one of the chairs. His knees were beginning to ache, a deep, throbbing pain that would only intensify as the day wore on.

  “I heard there’s no smoking at the county jail no more.”

  “That’s right. It’s a smoke-free zone. The county doesn’t want anybody contracting lung cancer on its watch.”

  “Oh, man.” McKinley’s hands twitched. His face was lined and leathery, the prematurely old face of someone who had been hitting the booze and the cigarettes since he was a boy. Despite his full-tilt attempt to avoid capture, he didn’t look defiant. Merely resigned to another turn in what was probably a lifelong string of bad luck.

  “So I hear you’ve asked for Geoff Burns,” Russ said. “How’d you get his name?”

  “Friend of mine. Burns repped him for a drunk-driving charge. Got him off, and he took a payment plan from my buddy, too, ’cause he didn’t have all of his fee up front.” McKinley knit his brows. “How come you want to know?”

  “I was just wondering. I know Geoff. He and his wife have what you might call a general practice. You know, divorces, sue somebody for a dog bite, an occasional DUI. I would have thought you’d want more of a criminal specialist. Facing a murder charge.” He didn’t feel at this point he had to let McKinley in on the fact that the state usually supplied a capital defender when prosecutors went for the death penalty.

  McKinley’s face drained of all color. “What?” he squeaked. He looked wildly toward Noble, who was still stolidly planted against the wall. “They didn’t say nothing about murder! They said assault!”

  Russ glanced down at the sheets of paper in front of him. “Oh, yeah, that, too. Two assaults. One of those’ll probably be a felony assault, since it was committed while you were robbing the video store.”

  “We did not!”

  Yes. Russ felt an electric pulse surge through his body. He forced his hands and face to remain relaxed, his eyes on the paper in front of him. “Resisting arrest, assaulting an officer of the law, breaking and entering—that would be the mill. There’s a warrant out on you for failure to report to your parole officer. You’ve also got three unpaid speeding tickets, you owe back child support to DHS in the amount of fifteen thousand dollars”—he titch-titched at this—“and we’re charging you with capital murder in the death of Bill Ingraham.” He looked up at McKinley, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “And if you’ve been working under the table to avoid that child support, you may be in trouble with the IRS.”

  McKinley tried to stand up but could only manage to list drunkenly across the table because of the leg restraints. “I didn’t have nothing to do with no murder! I never laid a hand on Bill Ingraham!”

  Russ leaned back in his chair. “I really can’t discuss it with you, Elliott. Seeing as how you’ve got a call in to your lawyer.” He took off his glasses and polished them on the front of his shirt. “Geoffrey Burns. I think he did a breaking and entering once. That guy who was stealing drugs from the local pharmacies. You remember that case, Officer Entwhistle?”

  “Fuck the lawyer!” McKinley’s color had come back now. His face was blotched with red and purple. “I didn’t kill Bill Ingraham! I never went near him!”

  Russ glanced up at him. “Well, that’s what I had figured originally. ’Cause when we picked you up in the Chhouk case, we only wanted you for a witness. To tell the truth, I never figured you for the kind of guy who would do the deed himself. Just that you had some rowdy friends.”

  “That’s right! That’s exactly right!�
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  “But when we come to pick you up to ask you about these assaults, you take off. Then you try to kill me by dropping that chain on me. And when we finally get you in to talk, first thing you do is call a lawyer.”

  “Chris said to! Chris said if anything happened, I should call a lawyer and let him handle it.”

  Even Noble shifted at that. Russ carefully replaced his glasses, not looking at McKinley. “Yeah? Well, Chris’s not here, is he? You are. And you’re the one sitting in the hot seat. So to speak.” He glanced at Noble.

  “Actually, it’s a gurney now, Chief,” Noble said. “Lethal injection.”

  “That’s right.” Russ turned to McKinley, who had collapsed back onto his chair. “You’re a good friend, Elliott. I knew that when you wouldn’t give up any information on the Chhouk case. But it takes one hell of a friend to be willing to go to the death house in Clinton.”

  “It’s called the UCP now, Chief. The Unit for Condemned Prisoners.”

  “Thanks, Officer Entwhistle. I guess my head’s still stuck in the sixties, when they used to send ’em to Sing Sing to fry.”

  McKinley made a sound deep in his throat.

  “Hmm? I’m sorry, did you say something, Elliott?”

  “You guys,” he whispered, then coughed and spoke more loudly. “You guys are just messing with my head. To get me to talk.”

  “You’ve already expressed to Officer Entwhistle and Deputy Chief MacAuley that you decline to make a statement without representation. Isn’t that right? I don’t want you to talk with us. That might be violating your rights, Elliott. I’m sure Geoff Burns will be able to give you real good advice. I think he got the pharmacy burglar off.”

  “Two years, plus two probation,” Noble said.

  “Thank you, Officer Entwhistle.”

  McKinley leaned forward. “Chris Dessaint,” he said hoarsely.

  Russ leaned forward as well, opening his hands over the papers on the table. “Elliott,” he said, his voice very quiet, “if you want to tell us your side of the story, it’s got to be on the record. ’Cause I’m not going to waste my time chasing down another suspect if your statement is useless when it comes time to go to court. Now, if you’re willing to put it on tape after being readvised of your right to have attorney’s counsel, I sure would like to hear what you have to say.”