by Tom Rich
“Now, as far as panic, I think panic is what we need. Man, you know what really gets me?” Weeks shuffled his feet, did a half turn as if checking for someone who shouldn’t hear what he had to say. “It’s those people who complained about the uproar over AIDS a few years back. ‘Where’s the epidemic?’ they said. ‘Where’s the million dead in the streets?’ and, ‘Look at me, I never got AIDS. Why the panic?’ You think those people ever stopped to think why they didn’t get AIDS? You think they ever appreciated the fact that maybe it was panic that caused other people to take steps to deflect AIDS so it didn’t make its way down the totem pole and infect them? That maybe there were people smart enough to do something and not be concerned about looking stupid because saving lives is a hell of a lot more important than saving face? Now tell me, Jones, you’re not one of those people who are ungrateful to all those who thought two, three, four, maybe five moves ahead several years back just so you can have a safe place to dip your chubby whenever you feel the need for thirty seconds of fun, are you?”
“Nosir.”
“And you certainly are not one of those people who thinks that avoiding the risk of looking stupid is more important than saving lives.”
“Nosir.”
“Good. Now, Mr. Baney, if you could bring Mr. Pelfry up to date on tonight’s proceedings.”
Baney took his elbow off the well. “Just the one missing child report filed tonight. Family in Beech Grove reported their nine-year-old son never came home after school. After supper they called around to everyone they knew, then called their local.”
“Beech Grove,” said Pelfry. He raked his hair back, then to the left. “That’s, what, fifteen miles from here? Has a bicycle been found nearby?”
Baney shook his head. “Kid’s bike is home in the garage.”
“What about the kid from nine days ago?” asked Pelfry.
“David Furray,” said Baney.
“Yeah. Any unusual circumstances there?”
“Only that a cell phone was in his pocket. Kid’s parents knew nothing about it. They never got him one and none of the kid’s friends knew about him having it.”
“Kid was how old?” asked Pelfry.
“Eight.”
Pelfry thought a moment. “Eight too young for a kid to steal? Mel, how many eight year old thieves you got in that youth group of yours?”
Weeks was watching Pelfry closely, hoping to catch an indication of one of his bizarre flashes of insight that sometimes led an investigation in the right direction. But now he raised a hand as if to squeeze Pelfry’s throat.
“It could be the kid lifted the phone from his kidnapper,” snapped Baney, “Ever think of that?”
Pelfry threw up his hands. “Let me think.” He turned and paced into the darkness.
The scene once again went quiet.
Several minutes later Pelfry strolled toward Weeks with his phone to his ear. “Yeah…Uh huh…Hold on a minute, would you.” He lowered the phone. “Looks like we have a sure thing, Melvin. A security guard at Lucas Oil Stadium found a severed head in a basket on the grounds just outside. And get this. The face is painted blue.”
Cops standing in the dark came to life.
“Whoa ho, not that receiver who dropped the touchdown pass Monday night.”
“Shouldn’t that be his hands in the basket?”
“Sounds more like some Smurf couldn’t meet the spread.”
“Guess breaking thumbs isn’t a big enough message in this economy.”
“Melvin!” said Baney. “Body’s coming up.”
Weeks shouted, “Everybody quiet! I want everyone focused on the case at hand! Forget the mystery head for now!”
Two uniformed officers lifted the body from the well and placed it on the ground.
Weeks stared at the inert figure. The chill from earlier returned. His arms froze to his sides. He felt himself drawn into a dark sphere surrounding the body.
Everyone moved in gluey silence as Weeks observed.
“Looks close enough to the Donaldson description,” said Baney. “Looks like he hasn’t been in more than a few hours.”
Weeks practically heard Reverend Knox of Kent St. First African Baptist quoting from The Revelation to John: “And I will strike her children dead!” The Reverend’s accusing finger struggled against the darkness to make itself visible.
Weeks managed to lift an arm. “See if he’s got a cell.”
Baney made a quick check. “Nothing.”
“Ask, uhh, shit!” Weeks snapped his fingers. “Who’s the tech down in the well?”
“Still Feldkamp,” said Baney.
Weeks leaned over the side. “Feldkamp! What else you find down there?”
The tech looked up to answer. “Everything’s coming up in the bucket.”
Sleeping Satan opened one eye: the light from the tech’s headlamp hit Weeks like a fireball hurled through a tunnel. It momentarily took his sight.
“What’s that?” Weeks heard Pelfry say. “Tied on the kid’s wrist? It’s a string.”
“It’s got a loop tied on the end,” said Baney.
Weeks blinked hard, then snapped on a plastic glove. He heard the bucket scrape the side of the well. He grabbed the bucket and felt around until he found a cell phone. He held it in the direction of the boys who had put in the call. The glare, not yet faded from his eyes, caused an uncertain light to move around them. “One of you didn’t drop your phone when looking down there, did you?”
“Nosir,” said one of the boys. Both held up phones.
Weeks knelt by the corpse, his sight now returned enough to slide the phone into the loop on the string. “Perfect fit.” He looked up. “This a sure enough thing for you, Jones?”
“Fuck me,” said Pelfry. “You think some freak is throwing kids in just to get off on their pleas for help?”
“He could toss them in, leave the scene and still get his jollies,” said Weeks. He rattled the phone loosely in his hand. “I’ll bet this is rigged for incoming only, just like with the Furray kid.”
“What about the ID?” asked Baney. “We get the Donaldsons out here?”
“Leave that for the morgue.” Weeks looked over his shoulder. “What about those kids? Think they could handle a close up? They recognize him, could save us from alarming the wrong family.”
“I think they can handle it,” said Baney. “They’ve had a fascination with it ever since I got here.”
“But up close? How old are they?”
“Both fourteen.”
“At least we know the killings aren’t racially motivated,” said Pelfry.
“Oh? And why is that?” said Weeks.
“The Furray kid is white. This kid is white.”
“And you’re saying a black man isn’t smart enough to be a serial killer?”
“No, but—”
“I can think of a black man right now who’d like to toss a white kid down a well.”
Baney moved between them.
“Melvin! Hey, Melvin!” came a voice from the dark. “Floodlights are here!”
Weeks turned from Pelfry. “All right, let’s light this place up like a tanning booth!” he yelled up the hill. “I want lights up high in those trees! If I’m right the killer passed through after sundown! Check tree bark for shreds of clothing, thorn patches for blood! Let’s see if we can tell whether the kid knew his killer! Adult footprints with a kid’s to one side! Prints sunk deep or with drag marks behind!”
“Melvin!” came another voice from the woods. “Where do you want the generator?”
“Start it up where it’s at, got dammit! Let’s get those lights on! There’s a child killer on the loose! I want these killings stopped right now!”
Weeks turned to Baney. “Let’s get some kind of sound specialist out here. That thing about us not hearing those frogs? Did the killer choose this site because he knew something about the acoustics?”
“Sounds like a long shot,” said Baney. “But could pay off.”<
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Pelfry sidled up to Weeks. “Look, boss, I was out of line with that comment about your youth group. But you know I don’t see color. There was no racial slur—”
“Forget it. I want everyone focused on this crime scene. Especially you.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“You hear what I said about the acoustics?”
“I’ll look into it. Maybe try the Indy Film Board for a sound technician.”
The gasoline generator roared to life. A light on a rope halfway up a tree came on. Its flat, non-radiant glare exposed slow moving figures following their shadows through the woods.
Reverend Knox pumped his right index finger skyward. “And the Lord gave Jez’ebel opportunity to repent, but she refused, even with the treat of death to her children.”
Weeks looked at Pelfry. The uncertain light from earlier settled over him. “And, Jones.”
“Yes, Chief?”
“One more thing,” said Weeks.
Pelfry stopped raking his hair and slowly lowered his hand. “Okay.”
“Get a first name, would you. A Christian name.”
Pelfry nodded. “I’m on it.”
A moment after Pelfry disappeared into the woods Baney asked, “Hey, Mel, you thinking about early retirement?”
“Something like that.”
5: Omega Moon
Melvin Weeks looked across the diner. “Look at Ila, would you?” He pointed with his chin. “Been slinging hash in here ever since we been coming in. What, thirty some years? And she has the same contented look as always. That what you call continuity?” His eyes followed Ila from one table to another, then to the waitress station.
“What color’s her hair today?” said Kurtwood Franz. “Didn’t even notice.”
“Pink,” said Weeks. He turned his cup absently on the Formica tabletop. “Cotton candy pink.”
Ila pushed through the swinging doors and disappeared into the kitchen.
Franz smiled. “First time we came here was after our first practice with Coach Benders.”
“Fender Benders,” said Weeks. “Coach ran us ragged with endless three-man weaves. Once we were too tired to move he preached his ninety-minute sermon on what it means to play high school basketball in Indiana. I think what really kilt him was the state tournament breaking up into classes.”
“Coach Benders didn’t go to heaven, he went to Milan.”
Both men laughed.
Weeks stopped turning his cup. He pushed away his plate. “As I recall you bought my meal that day too. I must owe you ten thousand of them by now.”
Franz shook his head. “No. No.” He had a way of reining his entire presence into his expression. Cheshire Cat his girlfriend, Sylvie, sometimes called him.
“Goes way beyond that,” said Weeks. “The food at that home they put me in was what I hated most about it. Every time you brought me here was one less meal I had to eat there.” Weeks often loomed forward when at rest, as if it might be necessary to suddenly dash off to keep up with his surroundings.
Franz pushed the salt shaker toward Weeks. “If you call heavily salted fries a meal.”
“Wasn’t enough salt in the oceans to fix that food. You have no idea how many times I nearly bolted from that place. Man, if I had gone over that wall I for sure would have ended up on the streets. And where would I be today?”
“And if you hadn’t taken me to the playground every night to drill me on moving to my right on defense,” said Franz, “I never would have made varsity, never got the scholarship to Butler, and where would I be today?”
“I had to do something. You were the inside-outedest kid I ever saw. You kept falling down in front of my dribble.” Weeks tipped the salt shaker over.
Franz leaned forward, knowing Weeks had something important to divulge. He twirled the tipped shaker. Salt fanned out and brought the spin to a gritty halt.
“See, that’s what I mean about Ila,” said Weeks. “All the changing we did, you and me. The world changing all the time. And Ila still the same Ila. What’d you leave for a tip that day? You have anything at all left to give over? Even a nickel? And now you drop a hundred-dollar bill every time we leave up outta here and she treats us no different than ever. No better. No worse. Just Ila being Ila.”
Franz smiled weakly. He lowered his eyes.
“Those kids sure got off being in your suite Monday night,” said Weeks. “It was all they could talk about when I went to the club Wednesday.”
Franz looked up. “What about Antony Phillips? Notice if any taste for the good life rubbed off? Think he’ll ever realize how good it can be if he applies himself?”
“He was jukin’ and jivin’ with the rest of them when he thought I wasn’t in the room. Soon as he saw me, surly as ever. Look, Kurt, the money is real nice and all. But that kid needs your time. You been a real ghost there lately. They’re starting to think you’re nothing but the guy on the hundred-dollar bill. They could all use your time. Especially Antony. If you could just get him to crack a book. He’ll never play college ball if we don’t get him through high school. Man, and if we ever do channel that rage, he’s the best chance you and me got to get a kid into the pros. Shoot, then Pistol Pete told me you never even showed for the game.”
“I was on my way. And I really hated to miss that game. But Sylvie called. I’ve told you how needy she gets, how long her calls run on.”
“Yeah. See, I’m not one of those who thinks just because Sylvie’s famous means the hell she’s going through isn’t real enough. She deserves a helping hand as much as anyone.”
“Last Chanz with Franz, I’m calling this project.” Franz erased an invisible slate with both hands. “Sorry. Calling her a project sounds cold.”
“I know you care about her, Kurt.”
“Not difficult. You’ve seen her on the big screen.”
“There, see? Come on, man, you don’t have to cover over your feelings with me.”
“Okay, Melvin, I’ll do better. Scout’s honor.” Three fingers went up. “But I have a feeling you didn’t come here this morning to discuss Helping Handz. And I sure as hell know you didn’t come here as a member of the Sylvie Averling Fan Club.”
“All right then.” Weeks pushed his hips back and sat taller. “What’ve you heard about that head found outside the Colts’ stadium a couple nights ago?”
“That? Nothing much. Just that it happened.” He paused, waiting for Weeks to elaborate. “You caught someone, didn’t you? Damn, Melvin, you’re about to tell me a parolee in my Second Chanz program is a murderer?”
“Nothing like that. Not even any suspects yet. It’s the victim I want to talk about.”
“Oh?”
“We finally ID-ed him late last night. Guatemalan national name of Alvaro Xaman. Ever heard of him?”
Franz leaned into the aisle to signal Ila. She slipped into the kitchen without seeing him. “Dammit, I want more coffee. What about you?”
“I’m good.”
Franz rose from the booth and carried his cup to the waitress station. He took his time pouring. As he slid back into his seat, “Xaman. Xaman. There is something familiar. But, no.”
“Guatemalan phone book probably full of Xamans,” Weeks conceded.
“Could come to me later. You know, when not thinking about it.”
“Xaman went missing from UCLA. He missed giving a lecture on Tuesday night, then some classes the next day. They had no idea he’d left Southern California until we hooked up with them.”
Franz blew on his coffee. “What he do at UCLA?”
“Visiting lecturer on Mayan artifacts, culture, what have you. We thought he might have business with you. Maybe something to do with your collection.”
“All you have is the man’s head?”
“Rest of him probably been burned. Or hacked up and tossed into ten different dumpsters.”
Franz took a sip. “Now I remember. A Xaman was mentioned by Phillip Arbanian. Arbanian heads up the dig I sponsor in
Guatemala.”
“Who else in Indy might be involved enough with Maya to fly in an expert?”
“No one I know personally. You try the local universities and museums?”
“I came to you first. Actually, more as a warning. The whole thing smacks of some sort of message delivery. And with your history in Guatemala?”
Franz set down his cup. “Melvin, I told you every damned thing I did down there. Told you in great detail, I don’t know how many times. Now you know I was never involved with politics. Nothing but straight archeological work the entire time.”
“Yeah, but—”
“So don’t be telling me to bring out the bodyguards. I’ve sworn to never live like a hostage, no matter what. Damn, there’re plenty of people in the business world who’ve wanted my head over the years. And I don’t mean figuratively.”
“I never said Kurtwood Franz couldn’t handle himself. But at least gird yourself up for the unholy terror of the tabloids. A severed head painted blue? That stuff is right up their alley. And once they connect you with the Mayan angle? It galls me enough they make a career out of your high profile romance with Sylvie.”
Franz laughed. “I appreciate that. But I’ve never worried about the tabloids. And bad press is better than no press for Sylvie right now.”
“I’m just tellin’, that’s all. Just tellin’.”
“Okay. Good enough.”
Weeks took his hands off his cup. “What about your man south of the border? Phillip Arbanian. Can you arrange for him to call me?”
“I’ll find out when he’s next due in a city. Cell service down there is practically nil.”
“Yeah. FBI probably going to jerk the case anyway. I don’t believe Xaman had anything to do with drugs or smuggling. He only had the small overnight bag in his hotel. If he was transporting anything it was probably information. But a blue head found in a public place? It reeks of a message between hostile parties. But why here in Indy?”
“There are laws more binding than those fabricated by modern nations.”
Weeks lowered his eyes. “Ain’t that the truth.” He pushed away his cup and sat back. “Ain’t that the gospel truth.”
The men knew each other well enough that long silences between them were never uncomfortable. But this silence had thorns.