Erin looked from the weary police chief seated near her desk, to the sneering mayor, doing his best to loom over them. She leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, and asked, “What's the point of holding repeated press conferences when the events being covered are so unbelievable they can't be told? When nearly all of the facts and evidence have to be withheld?”
“We have an image of honesty with the public that must be upheld.”
“Even if we have to lie to everyone to do it?”
“I did not ask you to lie, detective,” Light said. “I simply want you to meet the press and couch your comments in terms that comfort an alarmed citizenry.”
“We have an absolutely inexplicable eyewitness account of the most recent events at the hospital, mine included. We're searching, so far in vain, for an undetermined number of suspects who, after causing the deaths of an expectant mother and her child, a husband, a nurse, an OB doctor, and two security guards, was shot repeatedly by over a half dozen police officers. Two of those officers have since died. The suspects escaped the scene so fast witnesses said they flew. The bullets didn't even slow them down. My squad was destroyed. And the organic evidence left on my vehicle decomposed before the forensic team could collect it. Nothing was left but the busted cruiser. And unless all of our officers are liars, Mr. Mayor, when the suspects bled, they didn't bleed blood.” Erin stared through hard, red-rimmed eyes. “Feel free to go couch that,” she said. “I've got work to do.”
She turned to her chief as if the mayor no longer existed. “I know you're appointed, Ron. You have to walk on eggshells. But I would genuinely appreciate it if you would either tell His Honor to stay the hell away from me or accept my resignation.”
Light blustered. “This is the sort of discipline shown by your lead detective?”
The police chief smiled. “Jerry, even you have to admit the circumstances are extraordinary. I've got the press conference covered. You, Tony, and I will go make a solid show of it. Meanwhile, Detective Vanderjagt has work to get to, and I think we'd better let her do it.”
The police chief rose, pointing to the door. The tight-lipped mayor, savvy enough to know when to retreat, took the hint. The chief winked at Erin and followed him out.
Unaware the mayor had already tussled with Erin, Mark Forester set upon the politician the moment he took his seat in the Council chambers. The police chief had veered off to make last minute copies leaving Light alone and ripe for the picking. “Mayor, can you clear this up? Wasn't one of your firefighters taken into custody at the river museum last night?”
A blast of air escaped Light's lips. “Oh, I'd be surprised if that were true.”
“Is that a denial?”
“Please, don't put words in my mouth. Be nice.”
“I'm not trying to make up a quote. I'm asking, was a firefighter arrested last night? If so who? And why? And where is the arrest report? If not, what happened last night at the river museum? And who was involved? Beyond that, what in God's name happened at the hospital?”
Forester was unaware that Jamie Watts, with her microphone, big ears, and bigger mouth had entered the room. His casual one-on-one with the mayor was doomed. In seconds Watts crowded in, going over ground every TV station in the mid-west had been over for a week. Forester could have kicked her in the slats. Had she not interrupted, he knew, the mayor would have spilled something printable. Instead, Light expelled more bad air and rotated in his chair like a kid waiting for the Tilt-a-Whirl to start. He laughed, getting a joke nobody told, then beamed. “The City of Duncan is proud of its firefighters and police officers.”
The non-sequitur ended the interview and cued the arrival of the fire and police chiefs. On their heels came the remainder of the department heads, reporters, a small riot of interested citizens, and a bored janitor. With the opportunity for news gathering past, the press conference began. Updates were presented without revealing anything of value. The mayor led marvelously, driving the gathering to a rapid conclusion. Then Forester stuck his nose in again.
He arrived, he claimed, at Duncan Memorial after the blood bath but in time to hear some incredible rumors and wanted to know what was true. “There were eyewitnesses at the hospital. Are sketches of the perpetrators being developed? Will we have images to print?”
The mayor offered a humorless smile. “There were eyewitnesses. We're withholding their identities for obvious reasons. The investigations are ongoing. When more information is available… we'll avail you of it. Now, can we get on?”
“Certainly,” Forester said. “Answer this: You blew raspberries when I asked about a vampire. The rumors persist. Is some kind of monster responsible for these killings?”
“Is that what you're going to print in your paper, Mr. Forester? A monster? You think it's all right to terrify the public with nonsense like that?”
Musselwhite rose and cleared his throat. “All personnel within the Police Department, Sheriff's Department, and Iowa Highway Patrol are working sixteen hours a day. We are taking this situation seriously. We would appreciate it if the media did the same.”
Thirty – One
The Civil Service Commission governed Fire and Police Department entrance exams, appointed firefighters and police officers, and conducted promotional exams. Its three Commissioners, the appeals board in all matters of discipline, were appointed by the mayor with Council approval. A Human Rights Director sat as an Ex-Officio Member. The four were about to judge Ben Court.
Ben arrived early at the City Hall. He found a handful of reporters, including Forester, being advised that, as the fire chief's complaint fell under the umbrella of a 'personnel matter', the Commissioners would meet behind closed doors. The news hounds groaned; Ben sighed in relief. Witnesses would be called to support Castronovo's contention that he, Ben, was insubordinate, but they'd do so in private. Ben's attorney, not paid by the Union, was asked in by herself. Ben was left outside the chamber. He repeated, “No comment” all the way to an uncomfortable seat on a hard bench, then stewed in shame, embarrassment, anger, resentment, and loneliness, waiting for his turn in the barrel.
As expected, Forester plopped down beside Ben. He got a “No Comment” for his trouble.
“I didn't come over for a comment. Just a seat. And to see if a friend needed anything.”
“Do me a favor, huh?” Ben grumbled. “Cut that 'friend' crap. It's wearing out.”
Forester nodded, set his jaw without comment, rose, and walked away.
Much later, to Ben's complete shock, the meeting broke up without his having been called. The police and fire chiefs, all but holding hands as usual, left together. The reporters poked at them but got nothing. Musselwhite was reserved. Castronovo looked madder than a wet hen but said nothing. Ben had no reason to hope for good news; still he hoped.
Two of the commissioners came out, with their Human Resources fourth, and the city attorney. Behind them came an elderly man, the same old man (with the spectacles hogging his face) that had appeared at the police station the night of Ben's almost-arrest. Crossbinder, that was it. Llewellyn Crossbinder, the river museum curator. There he was again. He paused, looked at Ben as he had that night, and groaned as he had that night. Then he joined the commissioners. They left en masse without a word or second glance at the paramedic.
Ben's lawyer called him into the chamber where only the mayor and chairman remained. Both gave speeches, neither worth reporting in detail, that amounted to the same thing: the museum curator had not wanted to press charges earlier in the week and did not want Ben disciplined now. Any discipline would be reported, giving Forester another opportunity to squawk and Ben a chance for rebuttal. The museum, the town, and tourism might not survive the scandal. The matter would be swept under the rug. The police had, from the start, been unable to supply a motive for Ben's prank. They no longer wanted to know. The community had too much to lose by recognizing Ben's nonsense publicly.
“On a personal note,” Light said, “the curator hopes y
ou will get counseling for whatever is troubling you. I concur. Officially, there is no record and this… sordid affair… never happened.”
“Unofficially,” the chairman added, “the Commission will have its eye on you, Mr. Court.”
“I forgot to mention,” the mayor said. “You are suspended for another three days. It has nothing to do with… the matter that never happened. It is for your general 'insubordination'. Chief Castronovo is within his rights and I agree. The suspension begins… well, whenever your last suspension ends.”
“We find it impossible to fathom,” the chairman said. “But we're told, Court, you are an excellent firefighter and paramedic. Keep your nose clean, son.”
Waving good-bye to his attorney on the City Hall steps, Ben thought he was alone. Still he wasn't surprised when he turned to find Forester leaning on a column. “You wasted the wait,” Ben told him. “There's no headline for you. Just another dull suspension.”
“Will you fight it?”
“No.” Ben laughed and shook his head. “I'm told I should be grateful, so I am.”
“Then what?” Forester asked.
“Then nothing. I've had enough, I'm going home.” Ben started down the sidewalk.
“What? Suddenly gutless?” Forester chased him. “There's still a killer out there, isn't there?”
“I haven't the slightest goddamn clue anymore.” Ben pointed at the gold dome. “They think I'm nuts. For all I know they're right. I jumped from a cozy frying pan into a fire. And why? Because of promises made to a suicidal man, who belonged on a psych unit as much as he did a burn ward, and to a friend who is on a psych unit. Now I'm supposed to jump in again because you still need a story? They've suggested I see a counselor. Who the hell are you? What meds are you on?”
“This situation is too important,” Forester said, digging into his wallet. “You're one of the only people who understands it.”
“I don't understand it,” Ben insisted. “I don't understand it at all!”
The reporter handed Ben a card.
“What's that?”
Forester shook it at him. “It's my psychiatrist. He's off on Mondays.”
“I knew it,” Ben said, tucking the card away. “You're nuts too. Everyone I know is certifiable.”
Erin stared at the case board, the pictures of each victim, the dates, and details of their deaths; human lives reduced to push pins on a city map. She thought of each for the thousandth time: Linnea Keddy, an estranged wife inexplicably found on the Opera House roof; her ex with an airtight alibi. Crystal Evers, a hooker killed on the Fourth Street Elevator. Repeatedly rattling her pimp and johns had produced nothing. Both pregnant, both with the same wound on their stomachs. Catherine Herrera, pregnant but without the wound, alive but with no memory of her attack. Detectives Shane and Chandler, the only reasons, perhaps, Herrera survived? Shane's wounds, unlike any up to that point. A different weapon? A different killer? Chandler, MIA from the Clock Tower Plaza. Angelina Pena, pregnant, attacked at home, with the same wounds as the first two victims. Mother and child dead; Nestor locked up on the funny farm.
Erin stared at Ben's photo of Angelina and Nestor. Despite a neighbor's insistence, there had never been any concrete evidence Nestor was responsible. Ben had been right. She'd never told him, had never admitted it, but she knew it now. She grabbed a red pin denoting victims, a pin for Nestor to go with Angelina's already on the board. Her hand shook as she reached for the map.
Duncan Memorial already had nine pins in place. How many more could it take? How many more could the city map take? She'd lost Angelina, Traer, and Chandler. Her tears again threatened to flow as Erin wondered if she'd lost Ben too. She had to stop. She had to get it together.
Erin stared at the board, wondering what questions she'd forgotten to ask. The attacks had taken place… where? Was location a factor? Downtown, mostly. Historic downtown. Historic sites? Were the attacks the work of an aggrieved tourist? It sounded ridiculous. Then again, hadn't they all taken place near historic sites? Coincidence. Duncan was mostly historic sites; it was their bread and butter. You couldn't twirl a cat without hitting one. Try something else, she told herself.
If history wasn't the answer, why downtown? What else was downtown? The hospital. The hospital? The attackers, the exotic lady and her pets, had made mincemeat of the Obstetrics Ward. Many of the victims had been pregnant. Could it be as simple as that? Were the killers looking for pregnant women near the hospital? What kind of freak killed pregnant women? What kind of woman killed pregnant women? She scanned the faces of the victims, wondering what they'd say, given the chance? Could the dead tell her anything? The living weren't helping a bit.
The phone rang and Erin jumped. She saw it was her private line and her heart jumped too. It was Ben calling, she knew. He'd had his Commission hearing and would be calling to tell her the results. She wanted to know, needed to know, and wanted so much to talk to him. But she couldn't, not now. She couldn't deal with any more disappointments. She wouldn't hear any more about Philippine ghosts. She needed every ounce of strength to face this case. The phone rang a dozen times before it stopped, before Erin could breathe again.
Maybe she was being stupid. But Ben had been nothing but ridiculous lately. They would have to talk, have to have it out. She loved him. She did love him, but there was more than that to think about. She had her baby to consider. If the child's father was a loser, she'd have to deal with that. If he was off his rocker, she would have to deal with that. But she couldn't deal with it now. Other things demanded her attention. She looked at the board again, to the facts. The killers were downtown, near the hospital, the Port District, the casino, the river museum, in historic Duncan.
Her phone rang again. Erin grabbed her jacket and left.
Thirty – Two
Rickie Savage poked his head out from the opening in the thatched teepee, just like an American Indian. With the moonlight peeking through the clouds he had to squint to see across the water, the 'wetland' the museum people called it, to the big deck on the other side. Sneaking into the museum's back yard to play was not for kids. It took a smart guy. It took an American Indian.
The guard had been there, looking out the glass doors, a few minutes before, but was gone now. Good, Rickie thought. With the coast clear, he crawled across the grass to the edge of the American Indian Island, that's what Rickie called it, on the grounds at the back of the museum. There was a steamboat engine on display over there, a big one from a Mississippi paddle boat, and a steam powered boat, a dredger, called the William T. Greene in the museum part of the harbor down there, and a boat racing game in a pool right there, and a boardwalk that let you cross a bridge to where Rickie was. A yellow sign nearby called the teepee a 'wigwam' and the Indians, 'Native Americans'. Wigwam was an Indian word; Rickie didn't speak Indian. To him, it was a teepee. And if evolution was true, like the schools said, the first people really walked here from Africa, before it was Africa, across the Bering Strait, before it was the Bering Strait, then nobody was a Native American. But they didn't really know and neither did he. There were lots of things Rickie didn't know, but he'd admit it. He had no bone to pick, as his daddy said, he was just an American Indian sneaking out of his teepee.
He crawled out onto the bridge and stared into the money pond. That's what Rickie called the water that visitors, when they crossed, sometimes threw money into – dimes, nickels, pennies and, once in a while, quarters. Rickie didn't know why. Sometimes on his night visits Rickie collected them. Not all, and not too many, just some. He liked coins. He needed money like everybody, but more than that, he liked coins. He liked the way the moonlight made them shine. That night there weren't many. He fished them out (not all, just some) without getting too wet, shook them dry, and put them in his pocket. He was done being an American Indian, and wasn't crouched anymore as he followed the boardwalk from the museum to the harbor, headed for the William T. Greene. It was time to be a boat captain.
Captain Rickie
Savage stepped over the chain and started down the long gangplank, over the harbor water, under the sign reading: William T. Greene – Welcome Aboard, to the dredger's foredeck. He paused in the bow under the derrick. It rose into the sky past the top deck like the skeleton of a great bird and he couldn't help but stop to stare.
There weren't any lights on the dredger at night, but Rickie knew what to expect. Even when the moon disappeared behind the clouds like it did then. “You got good eyes.” That's what his mama used to say. Then his daddy would add, “Good eye, Rickie,” though he meant both of them. He used his good eyes as he made his way aft, down the starboard side of the main deck, up the metal stairs to the boiler deck (a silly name, as it was above the boilers), forward, then up more stairs to the hurricane deck. There was the box they called the pilothouse, with big square windows to the front and wings on each side (a silly name too; they couldn't fly), and three doors, all reached by eight-step stairs.
Rickie liked playing Captain because he loved the lights of Duncan at night from the bridge of the dredger. Excited at the thought, he hurried across the top deck, up the stairs, and through the stern door into the dark pilothouse. In his excitement, Rickie tripped, stumbled forward, and fell on his face. He threw his hands out to catch himself. His left hand landed on the cold brass of the binnacle. His right landed on something cold too, but it wasn't part of the ship. It was soft and silky, some kind of fancy cloth. He let go. When he set his hand down again, it landed on something altogether different, soft too, and familiar… with toes. Rickie shouted and let loose, backing away on his knees. Someone was standing by the boat's controls in the dark.
“I'm playing Boat Captain,” Rickie told the dark. “I didn't break nothing or take nothing.”
Moonlight, peeking again, stole through the pilothouse windows. Rickie stared. He ran a hand over his gray crew cut, then across his dry lips, trying to understand what he saw. What he saw was nothing. Nothing, that is, above the waist. A shadowy pair of legs stood alone beside the controls. By the shape, and by what wasn't there, Rickie knew they were the legs of a naked lady. On the deck near one of the feet lay the silky thing he'd touched. It looked like a dress. But there was nothing else there; the legs stopped at the waist with nothing above!
When The Tik-Tik Sings Page 20