by B. A. Morton
“And maybe they knew that,” pondered Gerry.
“Sounds like you need to have a little talk with the guys, Gerry. See who’s got their hands in whose pockets.”
Gerry shrugged. Maybe he did. “So where is he?”
“Gibbons?” Connell gave a sly smile. “He was moved. I kind of went along for the ride.”
“Where to?”
“Lakes Sanatorium. You know it? Try searching there. I mean I couldn’t be sure, but that’s where I ended up and we started the journey nose-to-nose. I reckon if you check out the basement, you might locate him. Send in the cadaver dogs. He’ll be easier to find that way. He has a certain ambience. The dogs will love it.”
“So rewind, Tommy. What happened to you? One minute you’re playing, hunt the dead guy and the next you turn up here looking like you’ve been playing zombie wars.”
Connell shrugged. He had no real idea what had happened - or more crucially, why - only that someone other than Frankie was playing games with him and the stakes were being raised. “I’m not sure, Gerry. Seems like there’s a storm brewing and I’m currently sitting in the eye.”
Gerry sighed. “You could be right but I don’t think it’s just you who needs to find cover.”
“Why?”
“Because we now have two killers on our hands and every one of the policemen murdered by our friendly neighborhood serial killer was either known to Mr. Brown in a professional capacity or doing deals with Frankie.”
“So the killer’s working for Frankie?”
“Or Brown.”
“Brown? How could a truck driver afford to pay a hired killer and why would he want to? So he’s been stiffed a few times by the cops - big deal, who hasn’t? Go let down the air out of the tires on a squad car, throw a stone at the precinct window, go jump an officer when he’s alone in a darkened alley, but hire a killer to eviscerate a whole fuckin’ platoon? Nah, I don’t think so.”
“Who said anything about payment? Serial killers aren’t motivated by money. It goes much deeper. It’s a need which is satisfied only when they kill.”
“So what’s that got to do with Brown?”
Gerry got up from the couch and wandered over to take in the view with Connell.
“Brown shared a cell with two others while awaiting sentencing. One was our mutual acquaintance Detective Musgrave, the other was a guy called Luther Pearce. By strange coincidence, Pearce is an exceptionally tall individual, rather like the man who zapped you with a taser. I know that because the prison authorities had to order in a longer bunk.” He twisted his face as if the thought of pandering to prisoners caused him physical pain. Gerry was old school. He believed the best place for convicted felons was on a chain gang, preferably kept short of water under a noonday sun. “Mr. Pearce was awaiting trial for the murder of a local sheriff suspected of raping a twelve year old.”
“So are you saying Pearce is our man?”
“No. Pearce is still incarcerated.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying three men were holed up in a cell. One petty criminal, one crooked cop and one killer.”
“This isn’t one of those lame Irishman jokes, is it?”
Gerry raised a brow indulgently. “Two are dead.”
“So Brown is definitely dead?”
“I believe so.”
“You believe so or you know so?”
Gerry paused as if seeking an explanation that would forestall further questioning. Connell was about done with the circular discussion. “Cut the crap, Gerry. You either know or you don’t. You either trust me or you don’t. I don’t give a shit either way, but if you want to keep me jogging along with you on this, then quit playing games.”
“We are awaiting identification on a body pulled from the river,” Gerry answered shortly. “I’m assuming that it’s our missing driver, Brown. It’s just a question of a signature on a coroner’s report, red tape and bureaucracy.”
“And when were you going to tell his kids?”
“When it was safe to do so.”
“What do you mean ‘safe’?”
“Well, while your concern for Mr. Brown is admirable, Tommy, I think you’ve overlooked something.”
“Yeah?”
“Mrs. Brown is also missing … and no, before you ask, she has not turned up with a tag on her toe, yet.”
“You think she’s being held?”
Gerry shrugged. “Or maybe hiding. Or she’s run off with a guy she met at the mall. Who knows? I really have no idea but I think you’ll agree it takes a pretty shitty mom to walk out on her kids, particularly if she knew they could be in danger.”
“So where does that leave us? We have two killers. One who topped Gibbons and Brown and another who’s finished off everyone else.”
“And the one name connecting them all is Frankie Vasin, but we still don’t have anything other than the current vice investigation against him.”
“So, I repeat, where does that leave us?”
“I was just getting to that. Mr. Pearce, who spent six months cozying up to Musgrave and Brown, and who has remained silent since the outset of his incarceration, has finally agreed to grant an audience, with you.”
Connell turned back from the window. “With me?”
Gerry studied him a moment. “There isn’t anything you’re not telling me, is there?”
Connell pushed the strange messages he’d received to the back of his mind. “Like what?”
“For starters, our serial killer seems mighty interested in you.”
Connell shrugged “He’s playing games, leading me somewhere for some reason. I’m probably keeping him amused, falling over clues, screwing up crime scenes. Mr. Professional, that’s me.”
“And now a convicted cop killer wants to talk to you.”
“What can I say? I’m a popular guy. I’m also on first name terms with Frankie, and you know what, it doesn’t mean shit.”
Gerry narrowed his eyes, seemed about to say something and then thought better of it.
“What?” Connell pressed. “You got something to say, spit it out.”
“All I’m going to say is, be careful. Remember where the line is. It’s easy for a little smoke to get wafted into a mighty flame if you forget who you are.”
Connell took a step forward. Instant defiance slammed weariness aside and adrenalin rushed to fill the gap. Gerry forestalled him with a raised palm.
“Remember, what you’re being paid to do is not necessarily what you’d like to do.”
“Gibbons and Scott are dead. I think my work is over. In fact, I’d say that lets me off the hook and I’m pretty much free to go. So if you don’t mind, buddy, you can go chat over old times with Luther Pearce and I’ll call it a day.”
“Your job’s not done, Tommy, far from it. We still have Frankie to contend with. His house was clean. He’s threatening all kinds of legal action. Police harassment, character assassination, you name it.”
“And you lost your witness.”
Gerry smiled. “Not entirely. We have you and we have Marty.”
“Leave Marty out of this.”
“I wish I could but you dragged him along. You sent him after Gibbons and the Eastern European girl. According to you, he witnessed the altercation between Frankie’s men and Gibbons. I’d say he was an important witness, wouldn’t you?”
“Bullshit. I’m the one who found Gibbons’ body. I’m the one who was shoved in the trunk and delivered to the local crazy house.”
“Exactly.”
Connell turned away, realization dawning. If he wanted Marty kept out of things, he needed to play ball with Gerry to the end of the game and under Gerry’s rules.
Marty had been right all along about trusting Gerry.
Chapter Nineteen
It was late evening when he got the call to meet with Luther Pearce. Gerry had pulled strings and called in favors and whatever else needed doing to allow a visit after lockdown. He’d insi
sted on driving him down there but Connell had refused. He needed time on his own to think about the way things were headed and didn’t need Gerry breathing down his neck making sure he didn’t mess up.
Given the option, he’d rather have gone straight back to the farm and Lizzie. He had a pain in his chest that wouldn’t shift and knew it was because of all the assumptions and mixed messages that had gone on in the last week or so. There was so much unsaid between them, and although he wanted it out in the open, he was a little scared at what he might hear. She had his heart, there was no doubting it; he just prayed that when all was said and done he’d still have hers.
He didn’t call her, though the temptation to hear her voice was immense. He didn’t want to lie when she asked how he was or how his day had gone. Instead he gathered the last of his troops, his mom and dad, the two people he could rely on beyond all others, and placed them where they could do the most good while he spent one last night away from home. And it would be the last, he was determined about that. Gerry could do his worst. There was no way he was giving any more time to this or any other case. With Gibbons and Scott out of the picture, Molly was safe. Come morning he was done with the whole sorry goddam business.
He’d called his parents, and suggested they might like to go visit with Lizzie and the kids. His mom was delighted to spend time with Joe and his new friend, and to catch up with Lizzie. His dad, who was no fool and knew Connell as only a father could, read between the lines and advised that maybe it was time his son got a new job. Connell concurred. He also agreed that it was probably wise if Lizzie didn’t get wind of his concern. After all, there was absolutely nothing to worry about. It was just a matter of tying up loose ends and he was clear in his head what he had to do.
He was less clear after speaking to Frankie’s man Porter. He’d called and suggested a meeting to discuss property deals, which in the language of those who were permanently on the wrong side of Gerry’s line, meant any goddam illegal activity you could dream up. This time it was Porter doing the screwing around, stringing him along, amusement coloring his voice as he jerked him this way and that and Connell could do little but suck it up and wait for Porter to call back with a time and place. He had to get in to see Frankie. It was all part of his deal with Gerry. He didn’t really see what good it would do when Frankie was protected by a bullet proof legal vest and all those who might have spoken up had either been killed or feared they were next on the list. If a multi-agency task force was currently unable to pin Frankie down, he doubted he would fare any better. Then again, as Gerry had quite rightly pointed out, if anyone could rattle Frankie, Connell was the one to do it.
As he sat and awaited entry to the interview room, he pondered on the latest developments and how all of these seemingly unconnected threads were being woven into a cord that was tightening around his own neck.
One more day, that’s all he needed, to report back on whatever Luther Pearce had to say, disassociate himself with Hamilton’s hunt for the serial killer, have a wired-for-sound chat with Frankie, and if he was real lucky, wangle a little real estate deal while he was there.
Four little tasks. Easy.
He checked in his gun and cell phone, handed over his keys, and passed through the metal detector. It was weird how the ground shifted constantly beneath his feet. That morning he had picked up his gun reluctantly and now he was reluctant to let it out of his sight. He wasn’t sure what that meant.
“Busy night?” he asked the guard, trying to be friendly, more as a distraction than anything else. Despite his focus on the four easy steps to freedom and eternal happiness, he couldn’t get the notes and the text message out of his head. The guard grunted with obvious delight at being dragged away from the TV to come babysit some jacked-up nobody.
“Interview will be recorded,” he recited as if reading from a card. “No touching. No passing anything across the table. No fucking’ around with the prisoner whatsoever. He’s crazy enough without you getting him worked up over nothing. You got five minutes max. Then we pull you out, whether you like it or not. This isn’t a fucking hotel pal, and it’s way past lights out.”
“Crazy?” Pearce was in for murder. Gerry hadn’t mentioned anything about crazy. The guard gave a sly, half crazed smile of his own.
“I take it you don’t know a whole lot about Luther.”
“I guess not.”
“If you’d done some background research before charging down here and screwing up my rota, you’d know that Luther’s partial to knives.”
Oh yeah, that sounded familiar. “Isn’t everybody? I know a lot of people who like knives. Chefs, boy scouts - it doesn’t make them all crazy.”
The guard’s smile extended into a full blown manic grin. “I guess it’s what you do with them that makes the difference, and sets the madman and the righteous apart.”
“What did he do?”
“He castrated a rapist and sat watching while he bled to death. The guy howled and screamed till he ran out of noise and blood, and Luther just sat there, smiling.”
“How do you know?”
“ ’Cause Luther filmed the whole damned thing.”
“Nice.” This guy had better be restrained.
The guard shrugged. “Well, I guess if he hadn’t done it, the little girl’s daddy would be sittin’ there waiting to be interviewed in his place. ‘Cause you would, wouldn’t you, if some peddy snatched your kid off the street.”
“Not that crazy, then? Did he know the family?”
“Might have done. Who knows? The daddy says he never laid eyes on him. ‘course he’s not going to admit to a connection, is he? And Mr. Pearce aint said a single word since he got here - until today, when he asked for you.”
Connell forced a smile. “I guess I should be honored.”
The guard paused outside the interview room door and tapped out a code on the electronic entry pad. “Or maybe, you’re the one with the connection.”
The room was typical of every other interview room he’d been in. At its center, a metal table bolted to the floor, a chair either side. He knew there were cameras recording visual and audio, and at the first sign of trouble, he or the prisoner would be removed swiftly from the room. He didn’t feel threatened by the situation, merely curious why this man who had remained silent for best part of six months should suddenly decide that Connell was the person he wanted to bare his soul to.
He took a seat as instructed and waited.
When Pearce arrived he was escorted by two guards who manhandled him to his seat. They handcuffed his wrists to the chair, and when they were satisfied that he was immobile and sufficiently docile, they nodded curtly to Connell and left.
Connell wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but Pearce’s resemblance to the lizard guy left him momentarily without words. It wasn’t that they were particularly similar in looks, in fact, taken separately, his features were quite different - less lizard and more hawk. Put together as a whole, there was just something so uncanny about him that the hairs on the back of Connell’s neck stood to attention and the bells in his head began to jangle mercilessly. They weren’t alike but they were of the same breed, and it was that mocking laughter held in the eyes that confirmed it. The guard had been right. Here was a crazy guy who liked to play with sharp and shiny things, and Connell was suddenly very thankful he was chained to his seat.
“You asked to see me, Mr. Pearce. I’m not entirely sure why but here I am.”
The man was all arms and legs, folded awkwardly around the wooden seat. His knees touched the underside of the table. The left jerked continually as if a nerve was trapped or he had an uncontrollable tick.
“Mr. Connell, Thomas, Tommy? May I call you Tommy?”
He had a Southern drawl, but it wasn’t an accent Connell recognized. Maybe he had some foreign blood in there or a slight speech impediment. Whatever, he was missing something in his diction, and because of it Connell found himself leaning in to ensure he didn’t miss anything. H
e couldn’t keep his eyes off his face, particularly the side disfigured with a burn that ran from beneath his left ear along the line of his jaw. When he spoke, the pink skin stretched taut. It was the shape a flat iron would make if held against the skin.
“Sure,” he replied eventually, dragging his eyes away. The guy could call him Santa Claus if it meant they could get past the introductions and onto the reason for the visit.
“And I’d be much obliged if you’d call me by my given name, Luther.”
Connell nodded. “Luther, I understand you have something you want to get off your chest.”
Pearce smiled. His teeth were crooked and black. One side of his chin was a mass of two day stubble and healing nicks, the other shiny and raw. Connell wondered whether he was allowed a razor or whether the shaky hand belonged to someone else.
“Did you have an uneventful journey?” asked Pearce.
“I guess so. The traffic was a bitch but what’s new?”
“Rentals can be temperamental in my experience.”
Rentals? Connell burned to ask but caught himself before the words were out. He narrowed his eyes and tried to see past the hideous scar to the man beneath. He knew how this game was played; he had interviewed lots of guys who thought they were smarter than him despite the fact they were sitting in a cell facing jail time. He wasn’t about to let this guy think he was the slightest bit interested in details that by all rights he shouldn’t know.
“I haven’t got all night. You got something to say or not?”
Pearce cocked his head, ghoulishly angling his disfigurement as if he sensed Connell’s unease at the sight and was enjoying his discomfort. Was it the cause or the result of his madness? Connell wasn’t sure, just relieved he didn’t have to live with it and, if he were honest, a little disappointed at his own judgmental reaction.