Jack of Spades

by James Hankins

  “I just do what I’m told, Detective, and I was told to tell you that the detective captain wants to see you.”

  Spader nodded again. He turned to Miller. “Can you just leave the copy and the photo on the copier? I’ll pick it up after my chat with the captain. And listen, Detective, thanks a lot.” He never called anybody in this unit “Detective,” but he figured he’d toss the kid a bone. Judging by the look on Miller’s face as he turned away, he ate it up.

  Detective Captain Struthers was a tough, experienced, respected cop who, by pure coincidence, had a lousy name. How could his parents have known when he was born, when they were thinking of names for their chubby little baby, that years later the sitcom All in The Family would hit the air, becoming a television sensation, making a star and household name of Sally Struthers, the actress who played Archie Bunker’s daughter? So why wouldn’t they name their son Salvatore? Why wouldn’t everyone call him Sal? And now, years later, after Archie Bunker’s family had spent so many hours in so many living rooms, why wouldn’t it be nearly impossible not to think of Captain Sal Struthers as “Sally”? The fact that he was on the shorter side, that he still had blond hair, though it was starting to go white at the temples, and that he had grown a little plump since he’d begun riding a desk years before, only reinforced the nickname, as anyone who watched television in the wee hours of the morning had seen a plumper, older, though still blonde Ms. Struthers pleading for money for starving kids in Africa. Spader hated the predicament he was in every time he was in the same room with Struthers. Despite reporting to the man for eight years, ever since Captain Mancini retired and Struthers took his chair, Spader still could barely stop himself from calling his captain “Sally.” It had almost slipped out dozens of times. Other detectives told him they had the same problem. And, of course, even though Struthers was liked and respected by every detective in the unit—and Spader might have liked him and respected him more than most—they all called him “Sally” behind his back, simply because it was nearly impossible not to. Spader knew, given the Jack of Spades crap, that he of all people should have been able to refrain from calling the captain “Sally,” but really, Sally Struthers? How could anyone not think of that when talking to him? So Spader existed in a state of mild anxiety whenever he was around Struthers, knowing it was just a matter of time before the nickname inevitably slipped from his mouth. He hoped, as he always did, that it wouldn’t be today. He was already late for a meeting he himself had scheduled for first thing in the morning and a discussion about the appropriate way to address one’s male captain, which didn’t include calling him “Sally,” would only make him later for the meeting.

  Struthers was parked behind his utilitarian steel desk, in front of a wall that could have boasted a fine collection of ego boosters—awards, commendations, photos of Struthers with various high-powered Massachusetts politicos and high-ups in local law enforcement. Instead, his wall held a professional photographic portrait of his wife and four sons, every one of them squat and blond, not a single one named Sal Jr.

  “Ann tells me you’re late for a task force meeting, so I won’t keep you long.”

  Spader had no idea how Struthers’s secretary—er, administrative assistant—had done that. He’d just told her about the meeting, he’d followed her to the captain’s office, and he hadn’t seen her speak with Struthers before he entered himself. No wonder her efficiency was legendary.

  “Very good, Cap,” Spader said, though “Sally” had been on the tip of his tongue.

  “All I want to know is, where are we on this Galaxo thing?”

  Where they were was in the dark with two dead bodies and a maimed cripple, all courtesy of a psycho in a kid’s mask, without a lead to speak of, without a shred of DNA or trace evidence left behind at any of the scenes, but Spader didn’t think Struthers wanted to hear that. He had to say it anyway, though.

  “Damn,” Struthers said. “You know why I gave you this case, right?”

  “Because I’m the best detective you have?”

  “Is that even true?”

  “According to statistics, it is.”

  Struthers waved his hand at the word statistics like he was waving away a fly. But Spader knew that Struthers was well aware that no one on the detective unit closed more cases than Spader did, and the cases he closed were as tough, if not tougher, than those a lot of the others handled.

  Struthers said, “Let’s say for the sake of argument, you’re the best I got. Whatever. But that’s not the only reason I wanted you on Galaxo.”

  “I know.”

  Struthers frowned for a moment, then said, “Giving you this case was a tough call, John. From a public-relations standpoint, it could be a disaster, for you, for the force, and, most importantly, for me. But you got the case because I honestly believe that, for a variety of reasons, you have the best chance of catching the bastard. But if I’m wrong…” He trailed off.

  Struthers’s reasons included, of course, the fact that there were surface similarities in the case to those in the Eddie Rivers case, which Spader had solved, only to see Rivers walk on the most serious charges, on a technicality, one that Spader knew could have been partly his fault. And, he knew, a lot of people thought the same thing. That was why it had been risky for Struthers to assign him the case. When it became clear that this was a state police matter, the easy decision would have been to leave the case in the hands of Reggie Wilkins, another detective in the unit, the one who had initially worked the case involving Galaxo’s first victim, in conjunction with local police. When it became clear that a second attack in a different county was almost certainly the work of the same perp, the case—including both victims—became a matter for the state police.

  “I have to tell you,” Struthers said, “that DA Rawlings and I really went back and forth on this. He was leaning against putting you on this, because of, well, what happened.” What happened being, of course, Spader’s error contributing to Eddie Rivers avoiding punishment for all but a minor offense. “But I think Rawlings, to his credit, believed me when I said you’re the best one for the job. He’s willing to give you a chance.”

  It was a risky move and Spader was impressed. If, God forbid, something went wrong again, Rawlings, Struthers, and Spader would be crucified in the press and would see their careers stalled, if not set back significantly. Still, considering the information Rawlings and Struthers had to work with, their decision made some sense. If they truly thought Eddie Rivers could be their perp, then the fact that Spader knew Rivers the best, and had the most personal motivation to bring him in—in addition to the professional motivation any detective would have felt—made Spader a solid choice. But, as Struthers had feared, this was turning into a high-profile case, and his choice could certainly open him to second-guessing.

  Spader didn’t know if he was expected to respond. He simply nodded.

  “I’d like to be kept in the loop as much as possible,” Struthers said.

  “Of course, Cap.”

  Struthers paused. “I know I don’t have to say this, but I will anyway. I need your best on this. Got a feeling it’s gonna turn into a shitstorm. Things go bad, I don’t know if my umbrella’s big enough for me, let alone the two of us. So let’s nail the asshole before the rain gets too heavy, okay?”

  Spader nodded, wondering if the captain had worked out that extended metaphor ahead of time.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Spader said as he strode into the Essex County State Police Detective Unit’s conference room. He dropped his briefcase onto the conference table. Beside it he placed a manila folder he’d been handed by a civilian staff assistant on his way through the office a minute ago. “It was a late night.”

  “What was her name?” Amanda Cassel called out. She was a detective in Spader’s unit. A capable, tough cop, she also managed to be feminine and alluring the times Spader had seen her after work in one of the bars frequented by the boys and girls in blue.

  “Does she have a sist
er?” somebody else said. Spader didn’t see who it was.

  The comments drew chuckles from the ten people seated at the table, chuckles that died in all their throats when Spader said, “Her name was Louise Pendleton, and I don’t know if she has a sister, but she’s got a son in a wheelchair who had his ear lopped off last night by a fucking animal.”

  Dead silence. Then someone coughed quietly.

  “Shit,” Spader said, “sorry. Like I said, it was a late night.”

  He shrugged semi-apologetically at the detectives assembled around the conference table. Most nodded at him, a forgiving gesture. Spader reminded everyone who he was, then had them introduce themselves. Detective Captain Struthers wanted a quick end to this potentially high-profile case, so he’d told Spader to draft anyone who wasn’t already buried in cases. So, in addition to Dunbar, Spader had drafted three other detectives from the unit—Leon Fratello, Amanda Cassel, and Reggie Wilkins—to pitch in as much as their caseloads would allow. And Struthers had told Spader to make it clear to whomever he called on to help that they were to make certain their caseloads allowed whatever Spader needed. In addition to the detectives from the unit, there was a local cop from Newburyport and one from Belmont, where the first two victims lived. Rounding out the task force was Ken Matthews, of course, whom Spader had met at the scene of last night’s maiming of Stanley Pendleton.

  Spader cleared his throat. “Okay, you all know generally why we’re here. Now let me get specific.” He took out a photograph, turned, and taped it to a whiteboard on the wall. “First victim, Andrew Yasovich, sixty-three.” The picture was of a smiling man, taken fairly recently, as the subject was clearly in his late fifties or early sixties. “As you can see, Caucasian. What you can’t see, he was a widower, and he was an attorney, lived and practiced in Newburyport.”

  “I could see right away he’s a lawyer,” Reggie Wilkins said. “If you look real close, through those teeth there, you can see the tip of a forked tongue.” Wilkins was a year or two younger than Spader, a sharp cop, a sharp dresser, possessed of a sharp wit.

  Spader smiled tolerantly and let everyone finish their laughs before moving on. “Anyway,” he said, “On June eighth, emergency dispatch in Newburyport received a nine-one-one call originating from Yasovich’s house, but there was no one on the line. It seems our perp placed the call himself before fleeing the scene. Officers were dispatched to the address and found Mr. Yasovich secured to a chair with duct tape, blood covering his chin and chest. His tongue was gone. Well, it wasn’t in his mouth, anyway. With an ambulance en route, Yasovich motioned to the cops for a pen and paper. He wrote the words yellow mask and weird voice and had to choose before he had a massive heart attack.” As Spader said each phrase, he wrote it on the whiteboard in black marker. “Yasovich had a bad ticker, apparently, suffered numerous heart attacks over the years, and the episode with our perp was the last straw. Died before paramedics reached the scene. At that time, Newburyport police could have had no idea what they really had.”

  “Just looked like a homicide to us,” a big guy at the other end of the table said. He was Rick Monteleone, a detective with the Newburyport PD. “I mean, you know, other than the fact that the guy’s tongue was cut out.”

  Spader stepped in. “Newburyport worked the case until the next victim made it clear that the same perp had attacked him, too. Then it was time for us to take the case. I’ll get to victim number two in a minute, though.”

  “John?” Amanda Cassel said. “What did you mean when you said a minute ago that Yasovich’s tongue ‘wasn’t in his mouth, anyway’? Where was it?”

  “There was evidence our perp put it first in an ashtray, changed his mind and moved it to the microwave—without turning the mike on, though—then into the blender, without turning that on either, before finally leaving it in the meat drawer of the fridge. Then, before he left the scene, he called nine-one-one.”

  “Any kids?” Ken Matthews asked.

  “His only child, Ben, was killed in a car crash six years ago.”

  “So the son’s not a suspect then?” Wilkins deadpanned.

  “Not at this time,” Spader replied in kind.

  “He didn’t mean to kill the vic, did he?” Cassel asked. “I mean, I cut out someone’s tongue, I don’t assume it’s gonna kill him. Plus he called nine-one-one before he left.”

  Spader nodded. “Exactly. I think he just wanted the guy to suffer. He gets off on inflicting pain, watching the guy suffer. He may not have known about Yasovich’s bad pump. We’re proceeding under the assumption, for the moment, that he didn’t intend to kill Yasovich.”

  “But he wasn’t too worried that he might.”

  “Sure as hell seems that way,” Spader said as he pulled a second photo from the folder. He taped Peter Lisbon’s handsome, smiling face to the whiteboard, then looked down at his notes. “Victim number two. Peter Lisbon, thirty years old, also Caucasian. Divorced. Ex-wife lives in Burlington. There’s no reason to think she had anything to do with this, and her distress over her ex-husband’s death seemed real enough when I talked to her. Anyway, on June thirtieth, twenty-two days after the first attack, another nine-one-one call comes in, this time in Belmont. Again, no one on the line. Belmont police arrive to find Lisbon in his kitchen, taped to a chair, his legs ending in bloody stumps, his severed feet lying in his lap. He was weak from blood loss and in shock, but he managed to tell us he was attacked by Galaxo, the alien. Maybe you’ve heard of him. If you have kids or know anyone who does, you’ve heard of Galaxo. Anyway, Lisbon wasn’t entirely lucid, but he managed to get across that the intruder had worn a Galaxo mask—which is yellow, like the first victim had written down—and spoke with that weird Galaxo voice you’ve probably heard. He also gave Lisbon choices, apparently changed his mind, then gave him different choices. His final choices were that he’d either pour acid on Lisbon’s face or cut his feet off. And here’s the kicker. If Lisbon didn’t choose, Galaxo would do both. Apparently, Lisbon chose to keep his face and it might have cost him his life, because Galaxo cut off his feet, called nine-one-one and left, but Lisbon had lost too much blood by the time the authorities got there. Though he was able to tell about the Galaxo mask and the choices and all that, he’d lost too much blood. Like the first vic, he died before medical personnel even got there.”

  “I looked like him,” one of the detectives said, “I’d have chosen to keep my face, too.” It was Leon Fratello, middle-aged with a craggy face. Smoking wasn’t allowed in the building, so rather than puffing on the cigarette he held, Fratello twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “I sure as hell wish I looked like that.”

  “So does your wife,” Amanda Cassel said.

  “Any change would be an improvement,” Wilkins chipped in.

  “Okay, okay,” Spader said. “Anyway, interagency bulletins went out and the folks working the first two cases realized they were probably looking for the same perp, a perp who was targeting people in more than one jurisdiction, and so they realized it was a matter for the state police. I guess because I’ve had some experience with a serial killer, the case came to me.” Spader paused, then added, “Listen, there’s something else about Peter Lisbon. His father, Anthony Lisbon, was a state trooper for twenty-six years. He was shot by a drug dealer nine years ago. Died doing the job.”

  After a moment of sober silence, Cassel asked quietly, “What about his mom? She still alive?”

  “I wasn’t the one who spoke with her, but yeah, she’s alive. Estelle Lisbon, sixty years old, lives in Holyoke. I’m told she was devastated, of course. Anyway, I don’t have to tell you, Peter Lisbon’s father having been one of us—one of us staties, that is—makes it a bit personal for us. Peter’s our extended family.”

  Another respectful silence fell around the table. Spader gave it a moment, then continued. “Okay, so he cut off Lisbon’s feet. Now, Galaxo may have wanted his victim to die, but again, he may have just wanted him to suffer. He might have simply miscalcula
ted, not realizing how fast his victim would bleed out. Remember, he’s calling nine-one-one from the scene, presumably as soon as he’s finished doing whatever he does to them. So while he certainly isn’t overly concerned with their well-being, murder doesn’t seem to have been his primary goal with his first two victims.”

  “I’m sure Yasovich and Lisbon, may they rest in peace, are comforted by that notion,” Wilkins said.

  Spader ignored the comment and slid another photo from the folder. “So this brings us to last night’s victim.” He held a picture of Stanley Pendleton’s scarred face up to the whiteboard and secured it with tape.

  “He’s no Peter Lisbon, is he?” Cassel asked.

  “Stanley Pendleton, age twenty-nine. In case you’re wondering, those scars are from a childhood accident. Also left him in a wheelchair. Last night, our perp cut off his ear.”

  There were a few whispered profanities, someone said, “Jesus Christ,” and someone else said, “Fuckin’ nutbird.”

  “I don’t mean to sound crass here, but Pendleton’s loss is our gain. We finally have some more facts about Galaxo, a lot more.” He relayed everything Pendleton told him the night before, with Matthews supplementing a couple of times, then Dunbar filled them in on what Pendleton’s mother had said.

  “Jesus,” the Belmont cop said. “This guy maimed a cripple.”

  “And took his little old mother out with a stun gun,” Cassel said.

  “And don’t forget, folks,” Spader said, “he killed two other people, as well, left Lisbon’s little kid without a father.”

  “Why didn’t he slice up the mother?” Fratello asked.

  Spader shook his head. “We don’t know at this point, of course. My guess is, she either wasn’t the type he likes to torture, or he has an agenda we don’t know about and she simply wasn’t on it.”

  “Lucky lady,” Fratello said.