Secrets of the Righteous

by H. B. Berlow

  “She was certainly gracious,” I said, “but it’s not the kind of thing I typically embrace.” I had hoped to restore her goodwill with the charlatan preacher as I had no need of any blessings from Sister Celeste or any of her ilk.

  “But you should. Her guidance is wise and powerful.”

  “And the righteous have secrets that will set me upon the right path?” Remembering Sister Celeste’s comments, Deanna raised her glass in a toast. Her smile was just the slightest bit wicked, as though the serpent had taught her well.

  Ronnie dutifully removed the dishes, passing through the swinging door separating dining room from kitchen. There was a silence beyond, not even the subtle clinking of plates or cutlery. His job was more than removing plates from the table but clearing the sounds from the room as well. Deanna walked elegantly toward the parlor and I followed. She looked back toward the kitchen, toward Ronnie, and closed the pocket doors behind us.

  “Would you care for a sherry, Baron?”

  “I was under the impression you didn’t drink.”

  “Only on special occasions.”

  “I am grateful for the compliment but I don’t feel deserving.”

  From a crystal decanter, she poured two drinks into small crystal glasses made for sipping. She reached out her arm, like a lioness stretching her paw, and offered me one of the glasses, and then sat on the small settee which could barely accommodate both of us. By virtue of its size, our thighs were close together. I turned toward her which offered a degree of separation. I waited for her because I sensed there was a reason for my presence.

  “I am entirely grateful for your shepherding of Ronald in this horrific case. He was given the task of providing you guidance and assistance. As you are aware, he is not thought of too highly by members of the department. Therefore, this was an opportunity for him to show his strengths and merits.”

  “He has provided adequate assistance and unique knowledge.” There didn’t seem to be any problem with stretching the truth a bit for the sake of a loving mother. But I waited for something else and I wasn’t quite prepared for what it could be.

  “Would you mind a personal question, Baron?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Why is it you are not married?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  “No man has ever, shall we say, enticed me enough to consider it.”

  “Ronald’s father?”

  I could see her clutch her glass and her lips purse and tense. The color in her eyes faded like clouds covering the moon.

  “A rake. A rascal. He took advantage of me at a young age because I was naïve and open-minded. Certainly not the kind of man to whom a woman would wish to commit.”

  “What kind of man would that be?”

  It was then her face became flush, not with embarrassment but with a kind of eagerness and enthusiasm and exuding a degree of heat. It was suddenly rather warm in the room much like a summer day at the beach.

  “A man of strength and of compassion. One who has languished but has not let his suffering deter him from the right and true path. A man whose passions lie deep within his core and can only be unlocked by the right kind of woman.”

  For the briefest moment, I had the recollection of my first dalliance with a French girl in the war. Our patrol was assigned to reconnoiter the farmland two miles ahead of the forward position. Baron Witherspoon, who was a Corporal, led four of us until we made the main house by night fall. The owner had a wife, son, and two daughters, and allowed us to sleep in the barn. The elder daughter kept making eyes at me. It wasn’t my intention to take advantage of the situation until I encountered her at the back of the house while I smoked a cigarette. At her relatively young age, she spoke with the same calm and measured tone Deanna Roché now used and her intentions were every bit the same. This young girl had learned to do whatever was necessary for the benefit of her family. I could only wonder what Deanna was trying to accomplish.

  “Can such a man possibly exist?”

  “I think he does. And you, what kind of woman are you looking for?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  She laughed heartily, like we were watching a Chaplin movie, and drank her sherry in one swallow.

  “To be honest, I think you do and you’re just too much of a gentleman to say so.”

  “Perhaps it’s one of my secrets.”

  “One of many, I’m sure.”

  Her hand came to rest on my knee. It reminded me of being at Miss Becky’s house, sitting alongside the young lady I had selected for an evening of pleasure, preparing to retire to a bedroom upstairs and throw aside the gallantry of gentlemen and ladies. I had become so involved in this case I started to look upon a gracious woman as some kind of slattern who would wind up the victim of a remorseless killer. At the same time, I imagined what the killer himself saw as he looked at these women. I pictured the world before me through his eyes. The notion by itself did not scare me. The fact I could was the most frightening of all.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The next morning, I awoke not knowing where I was again. There was a feeling of being disoriented, as though I were drunk, the surroundings although pleasant provided me with no bearings, no sense of place or time. I knew it wasn’t the sherry but a more potent elixir. Something which I am certain most women possessed.

  Although there was something alluring about Deanna Roché, she made me feel uncomfortable. Beth Handy was a sweet young girl with stars in her eyes. Heather Devore was worldly and seductive but ultimately not dangerous. Natalie Dixon was troubled and could have truly used my help. Yet none of them was much of a mystery in the end. Officer Roché’s mother was neither a religious zealot nor a wanton vixen. She fell somewhere on the line in between.

  I had been getting to the station house very early every morning, managing to stop at a diner that served a decent batch of biscuits and gravy. However, I had already slept well past the time I would be meeting up with Rackler so I decided to get breakfast anyway. Maybe changing my routine would give me greater clarity than I had so far.

  It must have been my imagination but it felt like Officer Roché was waiting for me at the entrance. His pacing back and forth made it appear less of a coincidence. I figured he felt left out considering how important he was to me the first time around. Also, being shut out by his own mother must have made him feel less significant.

  “Officer Roché,” I said with a slight nod of my head.

  “Officer Witherspoon, I thought of something relevant to your case.”

  “Certainly. Why don’t you join me in the detectives’ room and we can see what you’ve got.” It was not going to take up much of my day to give Ronnie some consideration, especially in light of the fact he was even an outsider in his own department. As he was well versed in the evidence, he just might have something useful.

  My pace was casual. I wanted to allow him the opportunity to speak, to step up to the plate, so to speak. He just looked straight ahead, lost in thought, nodding occasionally to himself.

  “Ronnie, what happened to your father?”

  “I never knew my father.” The answer was sudden, delivered faster than a bullet.

  “Your mother said he had taken advantage of her.”

  “My mother…” He stopped walking, still looking straight ahead, took a deep breath and then turned toward me. “My mother’s past, from what I gather, was filled with frivolity and lack of discretion. My father probably took advantage of an opportunity and then never looked back.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  The face of sobriety softened into a relaxed boyish charm.

  “Not at all. She has changed greatly. She places a great deal of faith in the teachings of Sister Celeste and is proud of my work.”

  “Your work?”

  “Yes. On the police force.”

  I had no idea what he was referring to. He was an ordinary patrol officer, mostly looking for traffic violatio
ns and minor infractions. Perhaps Deanna felt his presence on the force gave him a measure of authority.

  “I’m sure she’s proud of you.”

  Rackler was getting annoyed at Ronnie’s theory the killer was going after outsiders, those who didn’t fit in with proper society and decent folks. Roché sounded more like an offspring of Sister Celeste. Twenty minutes in, Rackler turned back toward his files and folders. Ronnie became mildly annoyed by this but was pleased he still held my attention. I became aware of his hands, how they were like a conductor when discussing the killer but turned into clenched fists when explaining each of the victims and the possible reasons they were targeted. It was an elaborate theory but not grounded in any of the facts we had compiled.

  A knock on the door interrupted the extended session. One of the duty officers informed me a gentleman named Montisse was looking for me. There was a bit of a pause before the use of the word ‘gentleman’ as though the officer were making a valiant effort to be courteous. I told the officer to escort him to the room. I looked back at Rackler who was equally surprised.

  The big moustache covered his mouth completely. Even if he were to smile, it would be impossible to know although it was doubtful if this beast of a man would ever show such an emotion. Montisse looked at me first, his eyes squinting slightly, and then indignation looking over my shoulder at Rackler. His head turned quickly to see Ronnie. He stared at the young officer, probably recalling how easy it was to frighten him the first time we went in to Stankey’s private club. Then Montisse’s eyes widened before he finally looked back to me, perhaps showing more eagerness than he intended.

  “Mr. Stankey wishes to speak with you.”

  I told Rackler to pull the file on Tangerine Smith including her autopsy report, thanked Officer Roché for his insightful feedback, and placed my cap firmly on my head. I stood up and straightened my uniform. This was going to be official business.

  It was evident Montisse provided Carson Stankey with support of many means and would remain silent for the most part. But the look on his face as he drove us from the downtown building across the river into Delano was one of desperate recollection. He was not the kind of man who paid attention to anything other than what might harm Carson Stankey. Yet there was something more significant stuck inside his head.

  When we got to the club, we went immediately to the small room behind the curtain. I knew I had nothing to fear because there was an understanding between myself and Stankey. I had a job to do and he had a business to run. The goal was to prevent these two notions from continuing to cross paths. Finding this killer would restore the natural order within Delano.

  Stankey probably thought Montisse would draw the curtain aside and leave after I had been seated. He unexpectedly stayed, walked over to Stankey, and conversed quietly with him. Stankey looked at me, and then continued to listen to Montisse. The only thing I could hear clearly was Stankey asking “Are you sure?” Stankey nodded and Montisse left.

  “Why did you send for me?” I asked bluntly.

  “Do you know the preacher Sister Celeste?”

  “Yes. I spoke with her at length the last time she was here.”

  “Are you aware of how many of her former disciples work for me?” My silence pleased him because he knew something I didn’t. “I’m sure it works both ways.”

  “Do they know something useful?”

  “They know which ones are the most devout, the most righteous.” Stankey smiled. He used those terms not out of deference or respect but to mock. I felt it was prudent to let him know where we were at with the investigation.

  “We considered a killer with a similar kind of agenda. Forced repentance or an act of contrition.”

  “Deus meus, ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando, non solum poenas a Te iuste statutas promeritus sum, sed praesertim quia offendi Te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris. Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia Tua, de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum. Amen.”

  His recital of the Act of Contrition surprised me. The irony of the pimp who knew Latin made me wonder about all the men and women who went to church on a regular basis and spoke the words without anything in their hearts.

  “Who is truly the righteous and devout, Stankey?”

  “I was an altar boy once.” It was my turn to smile. “However, what is more important is Montisse recalled something which could be even more useful to you.”

  I was told what it was plaguing the mind of the man with the heavy moustache. When I realized what he remembered, everything started to make more sense. Now was the hour to draw the man out of the shadows.

  Chapter Forty

  Montisse drove me back in silence, his eyes squinting in some kind of deep contemplation, the likes of which seemed unusual to me at the time. I never really considered what kind of man he really might have been. I knew he was not as talkative as Stankey who liked to hear the sound of his own voice. But Montisse surprised me when we got back to the station.

  “The scars. Have they changed you?”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant but I answered as best as I could.

  “I was a different person before.”

  “And you changed?” I nodded. “For the better?”

  “I just changed. I don’t have the right to say better or worse. I suppose it’s for others to judge.” I started to leave the car but he reached out to touch my arm, not grab so much as get my attention.

  “Be careful about letting others judge you. They don’t know you as well as you know yourself.”

  Perhaps he was talking about himself, the brusque man with the moustache hiding his face. Maybe he was trying to hide. Then again, so was I. We all had secrets.

  Ronnie Roché was no longer in the detectives’ room. Neither was anyone else except for Rackler. I looked around suspiciously making sure no one would come in and then closed the door behind me. Rackler stopped what he was doing and looked at me like I was a suspect.

  “Take a look again at all the victims. Tell me someone you think might be next or might make a good target.”

  “What? I don’t know any prostitutes and I’m certainly not a killer.” I had approached him so quickly he took personal offense rather than consider himself as a detective.

  “I need you to think like him. Who would you go after? What is he looking for? Whose sin needs to be repented?”

  He shook his head in disbelief I was asking such a crazy question. He was being put on the spot and taken out of his comfort zone. This weakened him. Since Sells forced retirement, I no longer could rely on his balanced approach and experience. I had no one I could trust like Dave Morton. I needed Rackler to follow me on nothing more than blind faith. He started talking out loud, at first sounding like he was talking to himself.

  “Ok, we’ve got a moral crusader, right? Prostitutes are sinful. A woman who gives drugs to an addict is sinful. We’ve got former sinners who are part of a revival…”

  “Who probably lapsed and sinned again somehow,” I added, trying to keep his thoughts on the right path.

  “So, let’s say they did. You got the dancer who was trading favors. I mean, you’ve got a lot of different women who could be a target.”

  “Assuming Carson Stankey keeps a closer eye on his women and Miss Becky does the same, who else would be draw his attention?”

  I watched Rackler’s eyebrows come together tight and then lift up and apart, making the strangest movements I had ever seen.

  “We got a burlesque house in town. I don’t go for that stuff myself but I could see this guy getting upset over some of the performers.” It was a new thread.

  I roamed around the lobby of the Warren Theater until a short pasty-faced older gentleman with a lot of wrinkles identifying himself as Gregory Freedman, the manager, accosted me in an attempt to be controlling. My police badge sucked the wind out of him. I asked him who the lead performer was. He escorted me to
the stage, close to the wings.

  She moved gracefully, danced in a kind of slow motion, a prepared sequence she was going over to ensure it was correct. She wasn’t tall but her long legs gave her a sense of height. Her hair was jet black and shiny, a bowl cut, and she stood, hand on hip, cigarette in a long black holder, appearing like a wealthy woman on her way to Miami for the winter. She turned as Mr. Freedman called her name. Her eyes were ice blue. Her face was mostly white, as though sunlight was not a preferred tonic. Her lips were moist and very red. I was introduced with my title and designation.

  “I’m Jeanette Ross. To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the Wichita Police Department? Was there another complaint about nudity?”

  “You perform nude?” I felt a smile starting to form on my face and quickly suppressed it.

  “I give the illusion of performing nude.”

  “You know a lot about illusions?” I asked, trying desperately hard to be sly.

  “Does Jennifer Rothstein from Baltimore, Maryland know a lot about illusions?”

  “Your real name?” She nodded and finally a smile broke through. She started walking away, stopped for a moment and peered coyly over her shoulder, then continued. I followed her largely because of the promising look.

  “When the legitimate theater did not prove viable, I changed my name and my act.”

  We wound up back stage and in front of a door with a big star and the words JEANETTE ROSS in painted gold lettering. Apparently, she sang and danced, sometimes with long scarves or fans like Sally Rand. She told bawdy jokes and could be sexy when needed or as tough as a drunken sailor on other occasions. As she described herself, she was a survivor.

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.” Her digression into her life story was dreamlike and now she brought me back to reality.

  “You’re familiar with the series of brutal killings over the last several months?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I think you might be targeted, especially if I’m around.”