by David Grace
Chapter Fifty-Six
Elaine was putting the groceries away when she heard the thump. She wondered for a moment if one of the yogurt cups had rolled off the counter then nervously called out, “Mom?” When she got no answer she hurried to the bedroom. She found Phyllis on the bathroom floor, breathing but unresponsive.
The ambulance arrived within eight minutes but it took the doctors three hours to return Phyllis to consciousness. When Elaine entered the hospital room she was struck by how small her mother looked, as if in just a few hours she had shrunken to half her normal size.
An IV line was taped to Phyllis’ left wrist, and clear plastic tubes were plugged into her nose. Phyllis slowly opened her eyes and looked at her daughter with an embarrassed expression, as if to say, Oh, look at me now.
“Mom, how are you? Are you OK?”
Phyllis gave Elaine a sad little smile and said, “No, I’m not.”
“Mom, the doctor can–”
“Sweetie, we need to talk.”
“Mom–”
“Elaine, we’ve known this was coming. There are some things I have to tell you.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “The bank accounts and the key to the safety deposit box are in an envelope in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I had the lawyer prepare a power of attorney. You need to use it to transfer all the money into your name before . . . right away so that it doesn’t get tied up in the courts.”
“Mom, you’re going to be fine.”
“No, I won’t. The doctor says I’ve got a few days, maybe a week, and you need to get all that done before then. I want you to promise that first thing in the morning you’ll transfer all the money into a new account in your name.” Elaine started to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. “I want you to promise me, Elaine.”
A few heartbeats slipped by and, recognizing her mother’s determined expression, Elaine gave her mom a nod.
“I don’t want a fancy funeral. Cremate me and spread my ashes someplace nice, peaceful.”
“Mom, please! I don’t want to do this.”
“I don’t want to either, sweetie, but we have to. Use the money to finish school. Stay in the house until then. It’ll cost a little more than an apartment, but it will appreciate enough to make it worth it. The life insurance policy is in the envelope with the power of attorney and my will. You’ll need to send them a death certificate, but the hospital will help you with that.”
“Mom, please!”
“Sweetheart, it is what it is. This will be a lot easier for me if I know that you’ll be taken care of. I did what I did because . . . All I ever wanted was for you to be safe and have a good life, and I’ve done that the best that I knew how. Now, it’s time for me to go, but you’re a strong young woman. I know you’ll be fine without me.”
Elaine covered her face and sank into the chair next to the bed. Phyllis watched her for a moment then closed her eyes and waited until the sound of her daughter’s tears had faded away.
“Well,” Phyllis said, when she opened her eyes again, “I think that’s pretty much it. The bills are all paid up to date. When you open your new checking account you can use it to pay the mortgage and credit cards. Oh, yes, you’ll need to cancel my credit cards and raise the limit on yours. Your birth certificate is in the metal box at the bottom of my small file cabinet. . . Oh, don’t cry, dear. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“I’m sorry, mom,” Elaine sobbed.
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, sweetie. It’s just life. . . Is there anything else I need to go over with you? You know the lawyer’s name? You can call him if there’s a problem.”
“There is one thing,” Elaine said after a little pause. “Is dad’s name Virgil Quinn?”
“I told you to forget about him!” Phyllis said with sudden energy.
“I searched the Internet for Virgil Quinn and I found one who’s a U.S. Marshal.”
“He’s dead to me, to us. You have to accept that.”
“Mom, whatever your problems were with him–”
“You have to let the dead stay dead.”
“He’s my father, and–”
“Elaine, just let it go, please.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Elaine looked down then back up and shook her head.
“I need to know the truth.”
“Elaine, please just let it go.”
Elaine’s face twisted into a stubborn expression.
“I know his name and where he works,” she said. “If you won’t tell me what happened, he will.”
Phyllis’ face collapsed and for a moment she seemed on the verge of tears, then the old anger seeped through.
“You’d do that? Call him after I told you not to?”
“I will,” Elaine said, “unless you tell me the truth.”
“The truth!” Phyllis snapped. “You don’t want to know the truth.” She waited another heartbeat, but when Elaine held her stare, Phyllis took a little breath and continued. “All right, I’ll tell you the truth, but you’ll wish I hadn’t.” Phyllis waited a moment then reluctantly forged on.
“Your father was having an affair with that girl he worked with, Janet something. Stars in her eyes, that one. I suppose I shouldn’t be upset. She’s the one who helped us get away, though she only did it so that she could have your father all to herself. The little fool, as if your father cared about her any more than he did me.”
Phyllis paused but Elaine just stared. “Do you want the rest of it? . . . All right,” she said, sighing, “He never loved you. I never wanted to tell you that but now you’ve made me. He never cared about either of us. We were just a . . . a convenience to him. A wife and child because men like him, macho men, were supposed to have a little wife waiting for them at home to cook the meals and wash the clothes and take care of the children while they were off chasing criminals and drinking and spending time with their whores.
“I could have put up with that if he’d had a normal job, but I knew that sooner or later those criminals he was after were going to come for us, for you. I couldn’t risk your life, and his macho pride would have never let us go. He worked for the government. We never would have stood a chance in court against him even though he would only have done it to save face in front of his friends. He never really cared about us, about you.”
“But I remember him, I remember–”
“You remember a birthday party where he showed up for ten minutes before leaving for some stake-out. You remember him giving you presents on Christmas morning that I picked out and wrapped and put his name on. . . . Don’t you think he could have found us if he had wanted to? He was a Marshal. He found people for a living. He had the entire government at his beck and call. If he had cared about us, about you, do you think we could have stayed hidden all these years?”
“But. . . .”
“Sweetheart, admit it. He never found us, he never came for you, because he didn’t care. He just didn’t care.” Until that moment Elaine thought she had run out of tears, but she was wrong. “I’m sorry dear, but we don’t need him. Nothing’s changed. For us he was dead and gone a long time ago. Now do you understand why I told you that he had died?”
“I . . . .” Elaine began then nodded and tried to stop crying.
“Good, good. Now, let’s just forget all about him. I want you to promise me that you’ll let him go. He’s hurt us enough. Promise?”
Elaine pulled another tissue from her pocket and wiped her cheeks.
Could this frightened, tiny, pale, little woman, strung with wires and tubes be the mother who had done everything for me? Is this how life really works?
“Promise?” Phyllis begged.
“Yes, mom, OK, I promise.”
“That’s my girl. That’s my good girl,” Phyllis said with the saddest smile Elaine had ever seen.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The Ann Arbor cops found Yellen’s van around one a.m.
but Virgil convinced them to keep it under surveillance until he and Denny Ivers could arrive. Even dragged out of bed on a damp, cold night, Ivers looked sharp – black slacks, deep topaz shirt, brown loafers and a camel’s hair coat the color of warm butter. Sadly, his mood did not match his dress.
“Some punk with a limp scares a mini-mart clerk and you drag me out of bed for a drive to Ann Arbor? Really? Ann Arbor?”
“It’s your case, Denny.”
“Bullshit it’s my case. My case is the murder of Dale Atherton by person or persons unknown. I don’t know what the hell this, whatever this is, has to do with that.”
Virgil pulled around a lumbering tanker truck and pushed the Dodge back up to seventy-five.
“Your guy was killed by The Limping Man, and the guy we’re going after in Ann Arbor is The Limping Man. You see how that works?”
“He’s The Limping Man because he has a limp, is that it?”
“Now you’ve got it,” Virgil said, almost laughing.
“This is not funny. Getting me out of a nice warm bed with my nice, warm wife to go out on some wild-goose chase is not funny. . . . I could be getting laid right now. You understand that, right?”
“So, you’ll get laid tomorrow.”
“Tell that to my wife,” Denny snapped.
“Sure. Give me her number.”
“You’re just crazy enough to do it, aren’t you. Jesus! And to think I helped you move.”
“Denny, I’m doing you a favor.”
“Really? A favor? How’s that?”
“Don’t you want to be in on the arrest of The Limping Man? How many people do you think he’s killed? Eight? Nine? Ten? Are you telling me that you don’t want a piece of that collar?”
“Are you serious? Jesus, what kind of drugs are you on?”
“It’s called ‘positive thinking’. You should try it sometime.”
“Shit!” Denny cursed and reclined his seat another notch.
* * *
“He’s in room 203,” Norwood said, pointing at the third door from the end on the second floor.
“What about the back?”
“The only exit is through the bathroom window. I’ve got two guys with shotguns back there.”
“You see, Denny, Mike is taking this seriously.”
“Yeah, I see,” Ivers said, pulling his coat tighter against the chill air.
“Oh, sorry. Denny, this is Officer Mike Norwood, Ann Arbor PD. He saw our BOLO–”
“Your BOLO.”
“He saw the BOLO and tracked our guy to this motel. Mike, this is Detective Dennis Ivers, Detroit PD. He caught a homicide we like this guy for.”
“Detective, pleased to meet you,” Norwood said, extending his hand.
“Same here,” Denny said in a flat tone.
“Did you get a name off the register?”
“Yeah, he signed in as,” Norwood opened his pad, “Richard Yellen, that’s E-N. The name matches the registration on the van.” Norwood pointed to an older black van parked near the stairway leading to the second floor.
“What about the other rooms?” Virgil asked.
“We’ve cleared out 202 and 204. The judge phoned in the warrant for 203 ten minutes ago.”
“Then we’re good to go. Mind if we tag along?”
“Do you have a vest?”
“I don’t have a vest,” Denny called out.
“I didn’t bring one,” Virgil added.
“Then you guys should hang back until we get him cuffed up.”
“You got it,” Ivers said before Virgil could answer.
Norwood clicked his radio twice then pointed to the two other officers standing near the front of his unit and twirled his index finger in a little circle just above his head. One man drew his pistol and the other grabbed a battering ram. A moment later all three sprinted for the stairway to the second floor. Virgil, followed by a reluctant Denny Ivers, trotted along twenty feet behind.
When they reached the second floor Norwood and another officer positioned themselves on opposite sides of the door to room 203 while the third man heaved back on the ram. Norwood nodded then shouted, “Police! – Search warrant!” half a second before the ram smashed the flimsy door almost off its hinges.
Norwood and the second cop raced through the opening, both shouting, “Police! Get down! Police!” The third uniform dropped the ram and flipped the wall switch as he entered behind them. The lights caught Richard Yellen groggily trying to sit up, his head jerking left and right.
“Get down! Get down!” Norwood ordered, but since he was already lying on the bed there wasn’t much Yellen could do to comply. Norwood didn’t care and grabbed Yellen’s shoulders, twisted him over on his face, then pulled his skinny arms around to the small of his back.
The second officer kept his Glock trained on Yellen’s spine while the man who had wielded the battering ram hurried over and snapped on a pair of cuffs. Once Yellen was secured Norwood hoisted him to his feet while the second cop stripped away the bedclothes in case Yellen had stashed a pistol under his pillow.
“Richard Yellen. You’re under arrest,” Norwood half-shouted, then began the Miranda warning. “You have the right to remain silent. . . .”
Yellen stared at him with a classic deer-in-the-headlights expression. Now that all the excitement was over, Virgil and Denny Ivers slipped into the room.
“That’s your master criminal?” Ivers whispered. Virgil had to admit that Yellen didn’t look like a vicious, serial killer. Skinny arms and legs with a paunchy gut, dressed in a five-dollar t-shirt and sagging jockey shorts, Richard Alvin Yellen didn’t look like he could successfully rob a candy store leastwise get away with murdering eight or nine people.
“Let’s find out,” Virgil whispered and, getting a nod of approval from Norwood, walked over to the prisoner.
“Mr. Yellen, I’m glad to finally meet you,” Virgil said in a respectful voice. “I’ve been following your work for a very long time. I have to say, finding you wasn’t easy. You led us on one hell of a chase. I’m anxious to find out how you managed it all.” Yellen stared at Virgil as if he had two heads. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Virgil Quinn and this is Detective Dennis Ivers. It’s Richard, right?”
Yellen stared a second longer then seemed to find his voice.
“Yes.”
“Do you prefer Richard or Rich or Dick?”
“I don’t like ‘Dick’.”
“I hear you. Richard then?”
“Sure. Richard is good.”
As if just now noticing Yellen’s predicament Virgil turned to Norwood. “Officer, could you please take off Mr. Yellen’s cuffs and let him get dressed?” Virgil gave Mike a little stare and after an instant’s hesitation Norwood nodded for the third officer to remove the cuffs.
“Is that better, Richard?” Virgil asked once Yellen was dressed and his hands loosely cuffed in front of him.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Well, it’s not every day we get a man with your skills. You’re not just some punk stick-up guy. . . .” Virgil let the sentence hang until Yellen smiled. “I have to ask you one thing. Given all these years, everything you’ve done, I have to know, who was your first?” Virgil asked in a respectful, almost rapt tone.
Yellen stared at him, his face blank, while Virgil held his breath and silently counted “one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two . . . .” He had reached one-thousand-six when Yellen said, “Marty Frears. He stole my Walkman and gave it to Chrissy Pantano. He told her I was too stupid to even know it was him. Well I did know. I showed him he couldn’t fuck around with me.”
“How old were you?” Virgil asked in a hushed voice.
“Seventeen, that was junior year.”
“And nobody suspected a thing?”
Ptttfff! Yellen snorted.
“Amazing,” Virgil said, then turned to Denny. “This is what I’m talking about. This man is a pro. The things you could teach us,” he said turning back to Yellen.
“Are you hungry? Mike can we get Mr. Yellen some food here? What would you like, Richard? It’s on me.”
Yellen glanced around then looked back at Quinn.
“I am kind of hungry. Maybe a burger, a big, thick one. And onion rings and a chocolate shake.”
Virgil handed Norwood a twenty. “Mike, can you take care of that for us? . . . . Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable,” he said. Yellen looked around then settled into one of the chairs next to a little desk. Virgil took the other one and placed a digital recorder on the table between them.
“Do you mind if I record this? I don’t want to miss any of the details.” When he pressed the button it made a tiny click. Yellen stared at it for a moment then gave Virgil a nod.
“Yeah, I can understand that. I had a hell of a long run.”
“You sure did,” Virgil agreed. “I want to hear about all of it. This Marty Frears, how’d you do it? Tell me everything.”
“Well,” Yellen began, smiling, “I waited for him to come home after the dance. He always took this shortcut through the park . . . .”
He went on like that for six hours. Once he got started they couldn’t shut him up.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Virgil’s world seemed to rapidly speed up and then slow down. During the first few days after Richard Yellen’s arrest the regional media as far away as Chicago ran articles on the “super cop” who first broke the Mad Dog case and then followed it up by unmasking a serial killer.
Peter Fineman organized a press conference only slightly less theatrical than a three-ring circus at which Mayor Grantham simultaneously praised Quinn’s “brilliant and dedicated police work” while also reminding everyone that it was his idea to “borrow” Quinn from the Marshals’ Service to save the citizens of Detroit from the criminals who might otherwise have overwhelmed the city.
Virgil tried to stay in the background and say as little as possible, but that wasn’t enough to uphold his reputation with the members of the Detroit PD who now almost universally viewed him as a grandstander and a glory hog. The two exceptions were Stan Kudlacik who knew how instrumental Quinn had been in catching the Mad Dog Gang and Denny Ivers who, because of Quinn, had shared the credit for Yellen’s arrest.