The Web

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Laurent removed my watch and emptied my pockets, placed my belongings on a table along with his gun, then unlocked the bar, raised it, and pocketed the key. Pushing the door open, he let me pass, and I came up against grimy gray bars and the sulfur-stink of excreta.

  A two-cell jail, a pair of three-pace cages, each with a cement floor, a grated, translucent window, a double bunk chained to the wall, a crusted hole with heel-rests for a toilet.

  The ceilings were six and a half feet high. Black mold grew in cracks and corners. The plaster had been scored by decades of fingernail calligraphy.

  Laurent saw the revulsion on my face.

  "Welcome to Istanbul West," he said, with no satisfaction. "Usually guys don't stay here for more than a few hours, sleeping off a drunk."

  The nearer cell was empty. Ben sat on the lower bunk of the other, chin in hand.

  "Well, well, looks like we've had some movement," said Laurent, loudly.

  Ben didn't budge.

  The keys jangled again and soon I was in the cell, locked in, and Laurent was outside saying, "Trust me with your wallet and your watch, doc?"

  I smiled. "Do I have a choice?"

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence. One hour." Tapping his own watch. "I'll leave the door open so you can shout."

  He left. Inside the cell, the stink was stronger, the heat almost unbearable.

  I tried to find a place to stand that allowed me some distance from Ben, but the cramped space prevented it— so I contented myself with keeping maximum distance from the floor latrine as I scanned the graffiti. Names, dates, none of them recent. A large depiction of exaggerated female genitalia above the bunk. Sgraffito message: Get me out of this hole!

  Ben didn't move. His eyes were unfocused.

  "Hello," I said softly. Though my five-ten height missed the ceiling by a few inches, I found myself hunching.

  Silence. As complete as at the estate but not at all peaceful. After only seconds in here, my nerves screamed for some noise.

  "Dr. Bill sent me to see if there's anything I can do for you, Ben."

  He kept perfectly still, not even a blink, hair greasy, face streaked with sweat tracks. My armpits were already sodden.

  "Ben?"

  I took hold of his right arm and moved it from under his chin. Stiff and unyielding, as he resisted me.

  No catatonia.

  I let go. Repeated my greeting.

  He continued to tune me out.

  Three more attempts.

  Five minutes passed.

  "Okay," I said. "You're a political prisoner, giving the world the silent treatment as a protest against injustice."

  Still no response.

  I waited some more. His cheeks were sunken— almost as hollow as Moreland's— and his eyes looked remote.

  No eyeglasses. They'd been taken from him. Along with his shoelaces and belt and watch and anything else hard-edged. An angry boil had broken out on the back of his neck.

  I kept staring at him, hoping my scrutiny would cause him to react. His nails were gnawed almost to the quick, one thumb bloody. Had he always been a biter? I'd never noticed. Or had Betty Aguilar resisted and snapped off some keratin? A clue he'd tried to conceal by chewing his other fingers?

  I looked for nail bits on the floor. Nothing but inlaid dirt and scuffmarks, but they could have been tossed down the toilet hole. Big black ants single-filed under the bunk. After Moreland's zoo, they were laughable.

  No scratches on his face and hands.

  His color was bad, but he was unmarked.

  "How well do you see without your glasses?"

  Silence.

  Slow count to one thousand.

  "This isn't exactly the behavior of an innocent man, Ben."

  Nothing.

  "What about your family?" I said. "Claire and the kids."

  No response.

  "I know this has been a nightmare for you, but you're not helping yourself."

  Nothing.

  "You're being a fool," I said, loud as I could without attracting Dennis's attention. "Pigheaded like Moreland, but sometimes it pays to think independently."

  Involuntary flinch.

  Then back to stone-face.

  "Sins of the father," I went on. "People are already making that connection."

  His lower lip twitched.

  "Guilt by association," I went on. "That's why I had to come down here. Moreland's confined to the estate because Dennis is afraid of what people might do to him. We're all confined. It's gotten ugly."

  Silence.

  "People are angry, Ben. It's only a matter of time before they start wondering about his being Dr. Frankenstein, what he does in that lab. If maybe AnneMarie and Betty were his idea as well as yours."

  The lip dropped, then snapped shut.

  I gave him a few more minutes, then came closer and spoke to his left ear.

  "If you're really as loyal as you make out, tell me what happened. If you butchered Betty on your own, just admit it and let them know Moreland had nothing to do with it. If you have another story, tell it, too. You're not helping yourself or anyone else this way."

  Nothing.

  "Unless Moreland did have something to do with it," I said.

  No movement.

  "Maybe he did. All those late-night walks. God knows what he was up to. I saw him one night, two A.M., carrying his doctor's bag. Treating who? And those surgical tools were his."

  Another flinch. Stronger.

  Flick of his head.

  "What?" I said.

  He clamped his mouth shut.

  "He studies predators. Maybe his interest isn't limited to bugs."

  He blinked hard and fast. Exactly the way Moreland did when he was nervous.

  "Is he in on it with you, Ben? Did he teach you— Aruk's own Dr. Mengele?"

  Half a headshake turned into a full one.

  "Okay," I said. "So why clam up like this?"

  Back to immobility.

  "You want me to believe you did do it, alone. Okay, I'll buy it, for the moment. No surprise, I guess, given your family history."

  Silence.

  "Your criminal history, too," I added. "Some sex killers start off as peepers. Some of them search for new ways to deal with their impotence. AnneMarie wasn't penetrated sexually, and I bet Betty wasn't, either."

  More blinking, as if to make up for lost time.

  "Dennis told me about the Hawaii arrest. Soon everyone will know about it, including Claire and the kids. And Dr. Bill. If he doesn't already."

  He let out hot, sour breath.

  I forced myself to remain close.

  "What else were you up to, back then? Ever travel to the mainland when you were in the Guard? See the sights— maybe Washington, D.C.?"

  Blank look.

  "Peeping Tom," I said. "Vivaldi on the terrace doesn't cancel it out. Whatever else you did over there will come out too, once they really start checking."

  No reaction.

  "The reason I mentioned D.C. is it's not far from a place called Wiggsburg, Maryland."

  His eyes angled downward. Puzzled? Distressed? Then they were staring straight ahead, again, as unmoving as when I'd entered.

  I was coated with sweat. Had become accustomed to the sulfur stench.

  "The funny thing is, Ben, it's still hard for me to think of you that way. Despite the evidence. Do you actually like to eat people? Odd for someone raised by a vegetarian. Unless that's the point."

  He began breathing hard and fast.

  "Is it your way of slapping Moreland in the face?"

  He inhaled deeply, held his breath. His hands began curling and tightening, the knuckles almost glassy. I stepped back but kept talking:

  "The brain, the liver. The bone marrow? How does something like that start? When did it start?"

  He struggled to stay calm.

  "Moreland taught you a lot about medicine. Did it include dissection?"

  His chest swelled and his skin turned as g
ray as the cell floor.

  Then he stopped.

  Stilling his eyes.

  Composing himself.

  Another slow count. To two thousand.

  I stood there watching him.

  He pressed one hand against his breastbone.

  His eyes, suddenly clear.

  Not with insight.

  Washed by tears.

  He began shaking, flung his arms wide, as if welcoming crucifixion.

  Staring at me.

  I moved back further, my spine at the wall. Had I pushed it too far?

  His arms fell.

  Turning away, he whispered: "Sorry."

  "For what, Ben?"

  Long silence. "Getting into this."

  "Getting into this?"

  Slo-mo nod.

  "Stupid," he said, barely audible.

  "What was?"

  "Getting into this."

  "Killing Betty?"

  "No," he said, with sudden strength. He bent so low his brow touched his knees. The back of his neck was exposed, as if for the executioner's ax. The boil seemed to stare at me, a fiery cyclops eye.

  "You didn't kill her?"

  He shook his head and mumbled.

  "What's that, Ben?"

  "But . . ."

  "But what?"

  Silence.

  "But what?"

  Silence.

  "But what, Ben?"

  "No one will believe me."

  "Why?"

  "You don't."

  "All I know are the facts that Dennis gave me. Unless you tell me different, why should I believe otherwise?"

  "Dennis doesn't."

  "Why should he?"

  He looked up, still bowed, face angled awkwardly. "He knows me."

  "Then if you've got an alibi, give it to him."

  He straightened and returned his eyes to the wall.

  Shaking his head.

  "What is it?" I said.

  "No alibi."

  "Then what's your story?"

  More headshaking, then silence.

  "What's your last memory before they found you with Betty?"

  No answer.

  "When did you start drinking last night?"

  "I didn't."

  "But you were drunk when they found you."

  "They say."

  "You didn't drink but you were drunk?"

  "I don't drink."

  "Since when?"

  "A long time."

  "Since you cleaned up in high school?"

  Hesitation. Nod.

  "Were you drunk in Hawaii? The Peeping Tom bust?"

  He started to cry again. Growled and stiffened and managed to hold it in check.

  "What happened in Hawaii, Ben?"

  "Nothing— it was a big . . . mistake."

  "You weren't peeping?"

  Suddenly he laughed so heartily, it caused him to rock, rattling the bunk.

  Taking hold of his cheeks, he tugged down and created a sad-clown face, horribly at odds with the laughter.

  "Big mistake. Big, big, big mistake."

  After that, he stopped talking, fluctuating between long bouts of silence and incongruous laughter.

  Some kind of breakdown?

  Or faking it?

  "I just don't understand it, Ben. You claim you didn't kill Betty, but you seem awfully comfortable being a suspect. Maybe it is something to do with Moreland. I'm going back to the estate to talk to him."

  I moved toward the cell door.

  "You wouldn't understand," he said.

  "Try me."

  He shook his head.

  "What's so damned profound that you can't part with it?" I said. "The fact that you grew up low status and now you're being thought of as the scum of the earth again? Sure, it's a cruel irony, but what happened to those girls was a hell of a lot crueler, so forgive me if I don't shed tears."

  "I—" Shaking his head again.

  "Everything comes round, Ben. Big insight. I'm a psychologist, I've heard it before."

  "You— you're wasting your time. Dr. Bill is. Best to cut me loose."

  "Why?"

  "I— don't stand a chance. Because of who I am— what you just said. Scum family, scum child. Before Dr. Bill took me in, they wanted to send me to reform school. I . . . used to do bad things."

  "Bad things?"

  "That's why this makes sense to everyone. Dennis knows me, and he thinks I did it. When they brought me in, their faces— everyone's."

  He looked back at the wall. Put a finger to his mouth and tried to get a purchase on what remained of the cuticle.

  "What about their faces?" I said.

  The finger flew out. "No! You're wasting your time! They found me there. With her. I know I wouldn't— couldn't have done it, but they found me. What can I say? I'm starting to think I . . ."

  This time he let the tears come.

  When his sobs subsided, I said, "Have you ever done anything like this before?"

  "No!"

  "Did you kill AnneMarie Valdos?"

  "No!"

  "What about the Peeping Tom thing?"

  "That was stupid! A bunch of us from the Guard were on weekend leave; we went to a club in Waikiki. Everyone was drinking and partying. Usually I had ginger ale, this time I thought I could . . . handle it. Had a beer. Stupid. Stupid. Then another . . . I'm a stupid asshole, okay? We tried to pick up some girls, couldn't, went to walk it off in some residential neighborhood. I had to take a . . . needed to urinate. Found a garage wall, behind some house. The window to the house was open. She heard. We got caught— I did. The others ran."

  He looked at me.

  "That doesn't sound terrible," I said. "If that's really the way it happened."

  "It is. That's the only filthy thing I've ever done since . . . I reformed."

  "What was your relationship with Betty?"

  "I knew her. Knew her family."

  "Did she have a reputation for fooling around?"

  "I guess."

  "Did you fool around with her?"

  "No!"

  "No affair?"

  "No! I love my wife— my life is clean!"

  "Her baby wasn't yours?"

  "I love my wife! My life is clean!"

  "Repeating it won't make it so."

  He started to come toward me, stopped himself. "It's true."

  "Did you know she had the clap?"

  Surprise on his face. Genuine?

  "I don't know about that. My life is clean."

  "So how'd you end up in the park with your head on Betty's entrails?"

  "I— it's a . . . it's a crazy story, you'll never believe it." Closing his eyes. "Just go. Tell Dr. Bill to forget about me. He's got important things to do."

  "You're pretty important to him."

  He shook his head violently.

  "Tell me the story, Ben."

  The head kept shaking.

  "Why not?"

  He stopped. Another smile. Enigmatic. "Too stupid. I couldn't even tell Claire— wouldn't believe it myself."

  "Try me. I'm used to strange stories."

  Silence.

  "Keeping quiet just makes you look guilty, Ben."

  "Everything makes me look guilty," he said. "If you keep your mouth shut, you can't swallow flies."

  "Did Moreland tell you that? His quotations are usually a little more elegant."

  "No," he said sharply. "My . . . father."

  "What other words of wisdom did your father give you?"