Secrets of the Righteous

by H. B. Berlow

  “Detective Rackler and Detective Sells, this is Officer Witherspoon from the Arkansas City…”

  “I know who he is.” Rackler’s words cut like a bayonet through a soft body, making my outstretched hand seem useless. “I told the chief we don’t need him.”

  “John, back off.” Sells’ voice was like the bark of a stray dog. He reached out and shook my hand. “Charlie Sells. This guy is John Rackler. Just made detective last year and has something to prove.” I squeezed a small smile and prevented it from showing on my face.

  “I’ve already proven it.” The stare was directed at me. He held it there, not flinching from the scars on my face. “Heard you were in the war.” I didn’t hear a tone of respect included in the comment. It wasn’t even much of a question. Truth be told, he didn’t seem to care.

  Sells guided us over to their desks where there was only a spare chair. Officer Roché stood to the side, knowing he didn’t quite fit into this circle.

  “We’ve all been under a little bit of a strain here. Haven’t had killings like these since I’ve been a cop so naturally it’s got us rattled.” He spoke like a father announcing to his family they had lost the farm.

  “We’re not rattled. We’ve got this thing…”

  “John, shut up!” I was liking Sells more and more. A veteran of a police department, like myself, who had been through far more than any of the younger guys who felt a need to show they belonged. We both knew all you had to do was be there, show up, stay the course, and you’d find your way. Running like a mad dog through a crowded marketplace was going to do more damage than good.

  “My partner thinks he knows everything there is to know about murder investigations,” Sells said softly. “Kind of funny seeing how this is his first one.”

  “But not yours.” I didn’t have to ask because I knew this kind of cop. It was more of an acknowledgement.

  “First one was ’08. Just got on the force. Landlady said she had heard an argument between a couple one night, then it was quiet the whole next day. She unlocked the apartment door. I found the wife. Throat slit. Blood everywhere.”

  I shivered which I guess they took for being scared or soft. I was just thinking back to Heather Devore and Natalie Dixon. I couldn’t understand why men got shot and stabbed but ladies had their throat slit.

  “I wasn’t the detective on that one. But it was the first dead body I’d ever seen.”

  “And now?”

  He pushed a large file in front of me, at least three inches thick. There were photos of bodies and the locations where they were found; reports from the medical examiner at least two to three pages per victim; witness statements; and a map of the city with markings indicating where the crimes occurred. It was overwhelming, not because of the crimes themselves but because of the extent of the documentation. When I was investigating our three killings in Ark City, there was myself and Dave Morton and a clerk from the Cowley County Courthouse, plus Dr. Brenz in his unofficial capacity as a de facto medical examiner and Sandy Clevenger with the newspaper clippings from the Traveler. Perhaps, at the moment, I was feeling dismissive of this big city department, thinking they should have been able to figure this out by now with everything they had before them. It was then I realized with a mindset like Detective Rackler they would never solve this because they couldn’t think like the killer.

  “John, why don’t you go get the medical examiner’s report from the latest victim?”

  “Why can’t Roach here get it?”

  “Why don’t you both go?” Officer Roché understood the subtlety of Detective Sells’ request by the small smirk apparently only I noticed. Rackler simply huffed and turned sharply.

  “So, what’s the story with the scars?”

  I went into detail about my injury in the war and how it changed me, at first by sending me into a deep blue mood and then making me realize I still had a place in the world. I talked about all the things “Officer Witherspoon” had gone through and briefly touched upon the Jake Hickey encounter.

  “One mean son of a bitch, wasn’t he?”

  “His type is gone now. Long gone.” I was sounding more hopeful than I felt.

  “Yeah, but what’s in its place?” He raised an eyebrow, nodded, understood how one bad thing often easily replaces another.

  It was time to bring the conversation back around to the reason I was sent to Wichita. “Have you had any suspects at all?”

  “Interviewed a couple of guys.” He pulled a notebook out from his inside jacket pocket and flipped it to one of the first pages. “There was Shane Norman, a dishonorably discharged army soldier. He was arrested for breaking up a bar while drunk. Background check indicated reason for discharge was assault on women where he was stationed in Georgia. Had an alibi for the first and third murders.” Sells flipped more pages. “Oh yeah, this guy. Mexican named Rene Cristales. One mean son of a gun. Domestic disturbance with his common law wife. We found a bunch of knives and machetes at his house in a storage shed. No alibi until the so-called wife recanted her story and gave him one. I had Rackler follow him a couple of days but nothing came up. Just not finding anyone crazy enough to pin this on.”

  We discussed the similar crimes in Ark City from three years prior. He then told me how I got involved. A casual comment he made in a meeting with Chief Wilson and City Manager Bert Wells found its way to the mayor who was bothered by the lack of an arrest or viable leads. He was fuzzy on how Jay Davis made mention of me but the next thing he knew he and Rackler were in the chief’s office where everyone was yelling. Rackler was taking offense, seeing this as a slur either on his detecting skills or his manhood. The chief felt this was making the department look bad and would jeopardize his job. And Sells just wanted the case closed no matter what it took.

  “So, you went to bat for me?”

  His brow wrinkled in deep thought. This was followed by what appeared to be a maniacal smile on his face as though an insane clown had taken his place.

  “No. I didn’t want you here either. I’ve been in the Wichita Police Department for thirty years. Figured on retiring soon. That’s what the wife wants. I sure as heck do not want to go out with this case left open. And I certainly don’t want some farm boy cop from the sticks telling me how to close it. But you’re here now and I will extend a professional courtesy to you. I’ll keep Rackler off your back and work with you. You find anything, you figure anything out, you better come to me with it. You understand?”

  It was almost as though I was looking down from above and seeing myself as a knight or rook or pawn on a chess board. I realized it was no different than what I had previously experienced. The politicians ran things and moved all of us around as little pieces for their amusement. I couldn’t really blame Sells or Rackler. Cops didn’t like feeling pushed around. By the same token, I definitely didn’t like it coming from a fellow cop.

  “Detective Sells, there is nothing I would like better than to be back home in my nice little farm boy town, arresting drunks on a Friday night pay day or grabbing a kid trying to steal a car. But I’m here and I’m not running back to Ark City because a bunch of big city boys don’t feel like asking for help when they need it.”

  We looked at each like two gunslingers in the middle of Dodge City. Maybe one of us was Wyatt Earp. Maybe neither one of us was. We knew we were going to tolerate each other as much as we had to and then no more. Unfortunately, we didn’t know how long it might be.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I walked out of the office slowly, carefully, trying not to let anyone see I had the shakes. It felt like everything was falling apart and I wasn’t referring just to a case. I went to Arkansas City, Kansas after the war because I could hide out, become Baron Witherspoon, and figure out where to go from there. As the years passed, I was like a cottonwood tree firmly rooted in the soil and growing tall and straight. It didn’t matter what you called me because people knew who I was, at least in their own minds.

  To be questioned and
doubted stripped me of whatever armor I had been wearing for all these years. Maybe I wasn’t so smart or so important or so respected. Certainly not feared. Fortunately, Officer Roché was standing in wait for me, allowing me to regain some of my composure.

  “I’m very sorry about that, Officer Witherspoon. To come all this way to be treated so poorly is…”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve dealt with tougher birds.” The most important thing I should have done was to go through the file meticulously but I needed to get out of the building, needed to breathe something other than the stale air of neglect. “The file indicated the first murder was a girl who worked in a laundry but the second was a pro skirt.” He looked at me with eyes as blank as a newborn baby. “A prostitute.”

  “Yes. Sorry. I didn’t quite catch…”

  “The prostitute, did she work alone or did she have a pimp?”

  His slightly casual demeanor disappeared in favor of a stiff and stone-cold mouthpiece. I didn’t think I had offended him but I could tell from the tone of his voice this subject made him feel uncomfortable.

  “She seemed to be in the employ of a man named Carson Stankey.”

  “Where do we find this guy?”

  Ronald Roché turned like a soldier and marched out. I followed not knowing where we were headed. I was grateful to be in the company of someone who seemed so knowledgeable about the facts of the case despite not being directly involved. Already he had proven more useful than a mere liaison. I wondered how he might hold up against the rougher elements in this city.

  The Delano district was established back in the days of cattle drives. It was an area of gambling and prostitution frequented by cowboys who were not looking for respectable diversion. The establishment we went to was neither a bar nor a restaurant. It had five or six tables around which there were two or three chairs apiece. A curtain covered the entrance to a back room. A short man with a thick moustache and thicker arms and shoulders stood nonchalantly by the curtain. His eyes moved from left to right and back again. There were two men at one table with highballs. I couldn’t tell what they were drinking. The only light came from the glass panel on the front door.

  After walking in, Officer Roché simply stopped. I didn’t want to approach the man at the curtain and leave the kid standing at the door. I took two steps forward and looked directly at Mr. Moustache.

  “We’re looking for Carson Stankey.”

  “This is a private club.”

  Like an emcee or magician, a tall bald man appeared from behind the curtain. He had a shiny black goatee trimmed into a neat point and deep amber eyes. They glistened in the minimal sunlight. His face was smooth like a whitewashed fence and as pale. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, most of the ash still connected to what remained. He had the vague appearance of some fallen European aristocrat who still maintained a regal aura.

  “It’s all right, Montisse. We can make an exception for the police.” His lips barely moved. The ash remained. I stared straight at him. I wanted him to see my face, get a good look at it, and perhaps wonder as much about me as I was about him. “More questions regarding Chantelle?”

  Ronald came closer to me, speaking softly though not whispering as it might have appeared rude.

  “The second victim.”

  The bald man scowled, finally taking notice of me.

  “You wear a uniform but look like no cop I’ve ever seen.” He stepped forward with a feline gracefulness. “Carson Stankey, at your service.”

  I accepted his extended hand. The grip was firm, capable of squeezing the life from a man’s neck or pulling firmly on the trigger of a gun. My guess was Carson Stankey fancied himself more of an intellectual business man and less of a gutter pimp. The establishment we were in told a different story.

  “Officer Baron Witherspoon from Arkansas City. I’m here consulting with the Wichita Police Department on the series of murders of, well, ladies of shady means.”

  A smile emerged like a child from behind its mother’s apron.

  “Ark City police. Consulting with our own esteemed department. Very interesting.” He paused, the smile held as tightly as a child holding a balloon. “Why?” It was then the smile disappeared completely.

  “I have certain, shall we say, knowledge in this field.”

  We continued staring at each other. I wasn’t aware of Roché’s presence or of Montisse. I had lost my point of reference getting caught up in game of cat-and-mouse with a tiger.

  “And how may I be of assistance?”

  “Was there anyone who would have wanted to hurt Chantelle?”

  “She worked in a rough business with rough men.”

  “You don’t seem all broken up about her death.”

  “There are many girls. What is the loss of one?”

  “Perhaps she was a problem. Perhaps she had information about, oh, other business activities. Perhaps…”

  “Perhaps is a small word used by small men.”

  It was my turn to smile. I had allowed him to speak and I had figured him out. And I was going to tell him what he needed to know.

  “Hiding behind a curtain will not save you. You figure her death was a warning to you. But there were others after. Not your girls but similar. Maybe someone is threatening your business. Or you. You’re not so smart, Stankey. You think puffing out your chest can scare off the police. Well, with all these killings, there’s going to be more police around. Sure, they’re looking for a killer. But while they’re at it, they’ll flip you up one side and down the other. Either way this private club of yours is going to get public real soon.”

  It was a mistake to turn my back, not on him but on Montisse who I hadn’t yet sussed out. I was hoping Officer Roché would cover me if needed. We walked out safely, back into the light.

  “I’ve never known of anyone to talk to him so directly,” Ronald said in amazement, practically breathless. I had earned myself a new admirer.

  What he didn’t realize was everything I said was a bluff. No one was killing prostitutes just to undermine a business. Not even the Chicago gangs took out working girls for the sake of business. From trying to figure out the mind of a killer three years ago, I started picking up signs. Some made sense; old notions were thrown out. However, with the attitude of most of the Wichita Police Department, I didn’t know how long of a chance I’d get.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I had dealt with the oily charm of Councilman Hallett and the back-slapping back-stabbing nature of Martin Childers. Never had I come across a man so cold and distant from anything human as this Carson Stankey. Not even Jake Hickey. Yet, I could see beneath the tough veneer he was afraid of something. I just didn’t know him well enough to know what it was.

  There were more people to visit. As I had only briefly glanced at the file, there was no recollection of the next victims.

  “Were any more of his girls killed?” I asked Roché.

  “No. The next two were girls named Angela and Aurora. They worked for Miss Becky.”

  “And who is Miss Becky?”

  “She runs a house between here and Riverside. Old house. Many rooms.”

  “You ever been there, Ron?” I wasn’t trying to embarrass him or put him on the spot but he talked about the place with a quaint familiarity. He acted as though a metal rod had been slid up inside his shirt causing him to stand more erect than the thought of those girls.

  “No, sir.” His eyes looked away as he answered, almost ashamed at the notion.

  We started to move on then I stopped and grabbed his arm.

  “You sure know a lot about this case.”

  “I’ve been following it, sir. I hope to make detective some day.”

  He started to remind me of Jay Davis, just a young kid, uneducated in life and the world in all its glory and its stains, hoping to make a mark, hoping to move up and out of whatever had trapped him and held him back. I could tell he was thought of as a mosquito by his fellow officers. Maybe his height or his boyish face
didn’t set too well with men who were trying to be tough and maintain their sense of strength. Rackler was one of those guys. Maybe they had an opening and just promoted him to get him off the streets as a beat cop. He was the kind of guy who could explode in a rage at the drop of a hat, one you did not want to cross especially if Sells was nowhere in sight. I wondered if Ronald Roché had the wherewithal to stand up to someone like Rackler. Then again, the mongoose is capable of taking down the snake.

  The house on Athenian just south of McLean Boulevard was far more regal than anything I had ever seen in Ark City with architecture reserved for wealthier denizens. As I was a city boy, all I ever remembered were tall brick and concrete buildings with suites and apartments resonating with class and money. This house, from the outside, exuded with opulence and more. Steep roof, arched windows, a couple with stained glass, a full covered porch wrapping all the way around at least as I could see, painted a deep green with a light tan trim. She was a proud lady demanding attention and respect. It was a rather odd sensation for a house where gentlemen would go to take their pleasure.

  Ronald rang the doorbell and a young colored girl answered. At first, I took her to be some kind of servant until the door opened more and she was dressed in an elegant satin dress.

  “We’re here to see Missy Becky.”

  The young girl smiled cordially, opened the door wider, and directed us by her extended arm to a parlor. The arm was smooth, a glistening softness in a pale coffee color, contrasted against large green eyes like those of a cobra. She was a vision of some man’s dream but could also be a dangerous trap.

  There were two armless chairs of carved wood with plush seat and back cushions and a small sofa made of the same wood with matching cushions. Two end tables each contained a small crystal decanter with a purplish liquid and two small glasses for each. The fireplace had not been lit since the previous winter. There were various pieces strewn about: porcelain, glass, ivory. It was like a small museum. Yet there was nothing personal in the room. No photos or books, nothing to identify this as a home where people lived and were considered as human.