Stalking Horse (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “But what they didn’t know, what they can’t know, is that I’ve changed. I’m not the same person I was before that pain started in my chest. I’m a different person, a totally different person. But they don’t know that, because they don’t know me. They know the image I’ve created—the private image, or the public image, depending on the situation. But that’s all they see, so that’s all they know. And so—” He smiled at me. “And so you see, it’s all illusory, this power game. It’s not real power, it’s the appearance of power that counts.”

  “You make it all sound pretty grim. Pretty worthless, really.”

  He nodded. “It is worthless. That’s the whole point. The more power you get, the more you want. The more you need. And, in the process, you realize that you’ve become an—an anachronism. You aren’t really a person, you’re a symbol. You aren’t a son, or a husband, or a father. Not really. Because you’ve constantly got to pretend that you’re more than a son, or a husband, or a father, or a friend. The result being you’re none of them. You don’t experience normal emotions, because you’ve debased them all in the process of projecting them for the public—for votes. You don’t really love anyone, and nobody really loves you, or even likes you. They fear you, but they don’t like you, no matter how loudly they may protest to the contrary. Which is the reason—” He looked me squarely in the eye, sadly smiling. “Which is the reason I’m telling a stranger all this. Do you see?”

  For a moment I held his gaze before I finally shook my head. “No, I don’t think I do see. Not really.”

  “I can understand how you wouldn’t, Lieutenant.” He sighed: a ragged, regretful exhalation, full of pain and mystery. “Maybe it’ll simplify it for you if I just say that I’m sixty-six years old, and I’m sick, and I’m scared. But mostly—” He shook his head, saying almost inaudibly, “Mostly, I’m lonely. Suddenly I’m very, very lonely.”

  Thirteen

  AT NINE O’CLOCK THE next morning, Sunday, I was in the Police Records office, leaning against a counter and yawning as I scanned the computer printout on Frederick Tharp.

  Caucasian male, twenty-six, born Santa Barbara, California. Mother: Juanita Tharp, fifty-two, 8754 Dolores Street, San Francisco (also subject’s residence at time of last arrest). No known father. Juvenile record—Charge: breaking and entering, age fourteen. Probation, City and County of Los Angeles. Charge: grand theft auto, age sixteen. Sentence: five years; served six months at juvenile hall, Los Angeles; paroled to San Francisco Youth Authority. Adult Record—Charge: aggravated assault, age eighteen. Acquitted. Charge: burglary, age nineteen. Acquitted. Charge: assault with intent to commit murder, age nineteen. Sentence: seven years to life; served thirty-six months. Charge: attempted rape, age twenty-three. Sentence: habitual offender, seven years to life; served thirty-six months.

  Paroled on May 17, this year.

  The first letter to Donald Ryan was written on May 24, postmarked San Francisco.

  Dropping down the page, I noted his physical characteristics: seventy inches tall, weight 160. Musculature, average. Hair, dark brown. Eyes, brown. Scars: three-inch scar, right hand, base of thumb; six-inch scar, lower back; two-inch scar above left eyebrow.

  Under “General,” I read: “Subject’s features are regular. He normally dresses well, hair medium long, usually carefully combed. Appearance, average to above average. Speech and manner, above average.”

  The psychological evaluation came next, written and signed by C. Estes, Staff, San Quentin: “Subject has an IQ of 135. He is intelligent and well-spoken. He is sociopathic, with strong schizoid tendencies. He has pronounced delusions of grandeur, and considers himself superior to his fellow inmates. Strong feelings of suppressed sexual anxieties, probably resulting from suppressed inadequacies. Sexually ambivalent. Subject’s solutions to common problems are transient and ineffective, exhibiting strong antisocial (criminal) bias. Although he is institutionally cooperative, this inmate’s prognosis for accommodation to society is rated poor. Conclusion: Sociopathic behavior profile, latent habitual criminal type.”

  The next section contained brief evaluations by a series of arresting officers:

  “Subject is extremely smart and dangerous.”

  “Subject is habitual criminal type, doesn’t know right from wrong, doesn’t care.”

  “Subject has strange ideas, doesn’t fit normal criminal category. Not strong-arm, not con man. Some of both.”

  “Subject is a pervert, abuses either women or men, also young boys.”

  “Subject is unable to control his temper once he’s incited. A very strange type: a pretty boy, angel-faced criminal, the most dangerous kind.”

  “Subject seems to live in a fantasy world. Always talking about get-rich-quick schemes. Doesn’t work. Doesn’t react normally. Has a definite superiority complex, delusions of grandeur.”

  The final entry was signed “Gerald Olsen, Parole Officer,” and dated May 17. “Frederick Tharp is paroled to the custody of Byron Tharp, 4174 26th Street, San Francisco, California. Reporting day, Tuesday, 10:30 A.M. Employer: Trader John’s, 5782 The Embarcadero, San Francisco.”

  I folded the long printout sheet, slipped it into my pocket and took the elevator up to Homicide on the third floor. Canelli sat at the reception desk reading the Sunday paper. At his own desk, with his chair in a reclining position, Culligan was dozing.

  “Oh, jeeze—” Guiltily, Canelli slapped the comic section down on his desk. Startled, Culligan came upright in his chair, blinking and yawning.

  “I want the two of you to come with me,” I ordered. “And get a backup team from another division. Make sure they have a shotgun. You’ll have to get someone to cover for you at the desk, Canelli. I’ll meet you in the garage, at my car.” I turned to the door, then turned back to face Canelli. “You might as well bring the newspaper,” I said. “I didn’t get a chance to read it either.”

  4174 26th Street was a large apartment building that had been newly built on the steep, rocky slope of the Army Street hill, part of the foggy Twin Peaks arc of hills that overlooked the eastern half of the city. The building was typical of its kind: cheaply but cleverly built, giving a false impression of luxury. Yet, when the fog lifted, the views from 4174 26th Street would be spectacular.

  But the month was June, and as we drew up across the street from 4174, the fog was blowing in from the ocean, thick and cold. Backed up against the hill, the building faced east toward the bay. The tenants entered through a small front lobby. Fire escapes offered the only exit from the back.

  “Jeeze,” Canelli said, “I wouldn’t live here for anything, with this goddamn fog and everything.” When neither Culligan nor I responded, Canelli pointed out the window of our car toward a nearby mini-park, newly scratched out of one of the few flat sites on the hill. “I can remember when I was a kid,” Canelli said, “there used to be goats over there.”

  “Goats?” Culligan said, sourly disbelieving.

  “Goats,” Canelli answered firmly. “I swear to God. There was a crazy old woman they called the Goat Lady. She lived in a shack up here, and she had goats. She was famous.”

  “I think you’re putting me on,” Culligan said, staring at the terraced tiers of the new low-rise buildings that covered most of the Twin Peaks slopes.

  “No, he’s right,” I said. “I can even remember a horse—an old sway-backed horse that someone kept as a pet.”

  “Did you grow up in San Francisco, Lieutenant?” Culligan asked.

  “Yes. I lived out in the Sunset when it was mostly sand dunes. On Saturdays we used to ride our bikes up here and explore.”

  “Huh—” Shaking his head, Culligan stared again at the surrounding hills. Looking at his face, I knew that he didn’t quite believe me. Culligan was a confirmed skeptic.

  “This should be easy,” I said, nodding to the comfortable middle-class neighborhood, peaceful on a Sunday morning. “We’ll go in the front, and let Haskell and Fowler cover the back.” I ducked my head and
switched on the tiny surveillance microphone.

  “Tach two,” I said, “how do you read?”

  “Loud and clear, Lieutenant,” a voice answered.

  “You two take the back. Don’t bother with shotguns, it’s not that kind of a neighborhood. We’ll use walkie-talkie channel nine. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Channel nine.”

  “You’ve got his description in mind?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s check the radios.” I picked up my walkie-talkie, switched to channel nine and said a few words.

  “Loud and clear, Lieutenant.”

  “You are, too. All right, let’s do it.” I handed the walkie-talkie to Canelli, and got out of the car.

  The third-floor corridor was narrow, but the building’s designer had hung cheap prints on the walls and used plastic plants and artificial rocks to make a fake rock garden at one end of the corridor, complete with a recirculating waterfall lit by multicolored lights.

  “There it is,” I said softly, pointing. “Apartment five.” I walked to the door, gesturing Canelli to my left and Culligan to my right. I unbuttoned my corduroy sports jacket, loosened my revolver in its spring holster and pressed the button set into the door frame over a plastic plate inscribed “Byron Tharp.”

  On the third ring, I heard footsteps on the other side of the door and saw something reflected in the door’s peephole. I nodded to Canelli and moved back a step, slipping my right hand inside my jacket.

  The door opened on a chain. Through the narrow opening I saw the face of a middle-aged man: dark-eyed, balding, with dark hair, a dark mustache and a small black beard, neatly trimmed. The black hair that matted his chest curled in the “V” of his bathrobe.

  “Mr. Tharp? Byron Tharp?” As I spoke, I used my left hand to reach into my hip pocket for my shield case.

  “That’s right. Who’re you?” His voice was heavy and coarse, annoyed. He was frowning angrily.

  “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, police department. I’d like to come in and talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “About your nephew, Frederick Tharp. Is he here?”

  “No,” he answered curtly, “he isn’t here. The no-good little bastard.”

  Relaxing, I stepped closer. “Let us in, Mr. Tharp. We can’t talk like this.”

  He stared at me, muttered something unintelligible, and closed the door. I heard the chain rattle, and a moment later the door swung grudgingly open.

  “Three of you, eh?” Tharp said. He nodded, as if our presence outside his door confirmed something he’d already suspected. “What’s he done now, the asshole?” With his fists propped on his hips, legs braced, chin lifted aggressively, he looked ready for a barroom fight.

  “Let’s go inside, Mr. Tharp.”

  “Listen—” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Listen, I’ve got company. This isn’t exactly a good time.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said. I tried a man-to-man smile. “In our business, we can’t phone ahead.”

  His frown only deepened. He was a short, stocky, bandylegged man with hard eyes and a small, suspicious mouth. His face was swarthy and thickening, like his body. It was a closed, truculent face.

  “This is important, Mr. Tharp,” I said quietly, at the same time slipping an envelope from my pocket. “We’ve got a warrant to search your premises for Frederick Tharp. And that’s what we’re going to do, the hard way or the easy way. It’s up to you.” I unfolded the warrant and handed it to him. He glanced at it, threw one last resentful look at us, then turned away, stalking on his short, hairy legs, barefoot, into a Pullman-style kitchen.

  “We can talk in here,” he announced.

  “All right. Fine.” And to Canelli I said, “Take a look, then dismiss the backup.”

  “Yessir.” Canelli and Culligan moved down the hallway to a small living room.

  “Where’re they going?” Tharp demanded.

  “They’re going to search the premises. As I told you.”

  “Shit.” He sat down at a small Formica breakfast table. His short bathrobe was skimpily cut, and parted across his thick knees and upper thighs. He plucked angrily at the bathrobe, trying futilely to cover his knees as he said, “He’s not here. He hasn’t been around for a week. I already told you that.”

  “We’ve got to look.”

  “There’s a friend in the bedroom. A lady.”

  “I’m sorry. We don’t have a choice, Mr. Tharp. I get the impression that you know your nephew has problems with the law. So you should know that we didn’t come here just to turn around and go home.”

  “My word isn’t good enough for you,” he said bitterly, challenging me with his angry eyes. “I’m a businessman in this city, you know. And a taxpayer, too. A big taxpayer. But still you won’t take my word.”

  Rather than argue with him, I tried to simply stare him down. When I finally succeeded, I said, “When’s the last time you saw your nephew, Mr. Tharp?”

  “Today’s Sunday,” he said. “I haven’t seen him since last Saturday.”

  “Eight days ago.”

  He nodded.

  “Where’d he go, do you know?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  “He’s on parole. He isn’t supposed to change addresses without notifying his parole officer.”

  He didn’t reply. Giving up on the bathrobe, he began drumming irritably on the tabletop with his thick, strong fingers. Sitting across from him, I put my notebook and ball-point pen on the table between us. From the rear of the apartment, I heard the sound of a woman’s voice, swearing querulously. Moments later, Canelli and Culligan entered the kitchen.

  “It’s okay, Lieutenant,” Canelli said. “All clear.” As he spoke, he glanced down at Tharp’s exposed knees, smiling.

  Scowling at Canelli, Tharp sighed explosively. “I told you he wasn’t here, for crissake. Now, if it’s not asking too much, I wish you’d leave. Please.” The last word was laden with sarcasm.

  I turned to Canelli and Culligan. “Wait for me outside. Call off the backup.” I waited until they’d left, then turned again to Tharp. “I need some information from you, Mr. Tharp. And I need it now. Right now. I’m sorry that we’ve screwed up your morning. But I simply don’t have a choice. Your nephew is suspected of committing a very serious crime. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here on a Sunday morning with four men if it wasn’t serious.”

  “Four men?”

  “Two in back.”

  “Oh.” For the first time his hard, resentful eyes left mine, wandering thoughtfully away. Byron Tharp was apparently a man who was impressed by numbers.

  “Where can I find your nephew, Mr. Tharp?” Looking him hard in the eye, I spoke quietly, confidentially.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. I’ve already told you. He left last Saturday. Or, at least, I guess it was Saturday. I was out of town for a couple of days. When I got back on Sunday, I saw the crap piling up that he was supposed to take care of. So I knocked on his door. And he was gone. His room was cleaned out. He’d taken all his things and split.”

  “What d’you mean by ‘crap piling up’?”

  “I own this building. Part of our parole deal was, he was supposed to do some work around here. Keep things picked up, keep the hallways clean, things like that. He got a free room, for God’s sake. It was a good deal.”

  “A free room. You mean—” Involuntarily, I looked around. “You mean he doesn’t live here?”

  “No. Christ, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. There’s a room and bath off the garage. That’s where he lived. Until last Saturday, that is. Then he—”

  I heard the sharp staccato of high heels pounding down the hallway. A woman appeared in the kitchen doorway, then disappeared without a glance at us. A moment later, the outside door slammed.

  “So much for that,” Tharp grated. “Shit.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. “But I don’t have—”

  “
Oh, Jesus, never mind.” Resigned, he shook his head. “Let’s just get it over with, all right?”

  “If you want to get dressed—”

  “No, no—” He gestured impatiently. “It’s all right. Christ, I should’ve known something like this would happen.” Once more, he shook his head. “I should’ve known. I did know, in fact. But I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You didn’t have a choice?”

  “No. Juanita—his mother—she’s out of it. Completely out of it.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean that she’s flipped out. She’s crazy. She’s at a goddamn sanitarium.”

  “She’s your sister. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you put her in the sanitarium?”

  “I couldn’t do anything else. She was running around the streets naked, for God’s sake. For years I tried to take care of her. But you can’t fix something like that, like running around naked. So I committed her.”

  “How long has she been in the sanitarium?”

  “Just about a year.”

  “So you had to take Frederick, when he came up for parole.”

  “Believe me,” he said vehemently, “I wouldn’t’ve done it if there was any other way.”

  “Do you happen to know whether he’s been reporting for work this last week?”

  “At the club, you mean?”

  “Yes. He works at Trader John’s.”

  “Hell, no, he hasn’t been to work. He didn’t come in Friday night, and he hasn’t been back since. I didn’t find that out until Monday, though, when I went in.”

  “Went in?”

  “To the club. Trader John’s. That’s my club. I thought you knew.”

  “No, I didn’t.” I studied him for a moment, then said, “You do pretty well, Mr. Tharp—an apartment building, a club.”

  He shrugged. “I do all right.”

  “Did you support your sister?”