“The way I read it, the only possible meaning of a black sun is the death of active intelligence, and the river probably represents the twists and turns of fortune. The fact that your river was wide shows that you have a great destiny, whatever that means. You know what seems odd. The ancient stones, arched supports, and big muddy water, it’s as if you’re describing the Ead’s Bridge. You know, down by Laclede’s Landing.”
“This is all so complicated. I feel like I need some professional help.”
“Doll, I can help you. I’m all you need. Together, we can get through this. Trust me. I’m here, Deacon. I’m with you. I’m part of you. I promise.”
Deacon dragged himself from the bed, showered, and drove to the lab for a blood test.
THIRTEEN
“Well?” Doc asked as Deacon entered the office.
“Well—what?” Deacon’s mind was elsewhere.
“What did they tell you at the lab? What’s your blood type?”
“I don’t know yet. The place was a mad house. I asked one of the nurses if they’re always so busy. She said their business has quadrupled since Magic Johnson announced that he has AIDS.”
“I don’t give a shit about Magic Johnson. When are we gonna know your blood type? Shield said he’d stop by this afternoon with the Medical Examiner’s report.”
“They said it would be two days because of the backlog.”
“Shit that means we have to wait until Friday.”
“Actually, no, the HIV scare got me to thinking. I asked them to do a whole battery of tests, including HIV and drugs. I don’t know anything about all this shit. But, I thought maybe all the booze has caused some kind of a chemical imbalance, or somethin’. I’m just grasping at straws and hopin’ for answers. Maybe, with your help, I’ll bump into one. Or, with my luck, someone will cram the answer down my throat. Either way, at least I’ll know the truth.”
“Deacon, you’re off on a tangent.” Doc sounded impatient. “When are we going to have the lab report?”
“Monday afternoon.”
“Shit, at least we have a date.”
The autopsy report, from the murder of Cynthia Ann Thomas, arrived that afternoon. Locked in their office, Doc read it aloud.
“Victim was a twenty-four year old blonde Caucasian female; her clothing was found scattered around her bedroom. She was completely nude.
“Articles of clothing, found closest to the bed, were a black pleated mini-skirt, thigh-high opaque stockings, black high heels, and a white silk blouse. Detectives noted they found no undergarments in the room. No traces of blood or other foreign objects found on clothing.
“Body was free of lacerations or bruises with the exception of extreme, inverted, Y shaped bruises on wrists and ankles. Victim’s legs and arms were bound to four bedposts with silk scarves. Single, surgically precise, laceration to the throat was consistent with scalpel or straight razor. Larynx severed between Hyoid and Cricoids cartilages.
“Victim blood type, O negative. Stomach contents and toxicology results show high, oral consumption of champagne. Victim’s pubic area was combed; twelve dark brown pubic hairs were found, which were inconsistent with victim’s hair. Foreign strands tested as male, blood type AB negative, consistent with sperm residue found inside vagina. Note: Also present were female secretions, blood type AB negative, which were inconsistent with the victim.
At the end of the report, the Medical Examiner rendered his opinion based upon the medical evidence.
“It is my opinion that Cynthia Ann Thomas, a twenty-four year old female, was entertaining a male lover. The presence of what was close to a liter of champagne in the victim’s system would indicate that the man was probably not a first time caller.
“The victim’s clothing had been worn, but contained no foreign particles, except those consistent with objects found inside the apartment. It is unlikely that the victim had been outside the apartment in that clothing. The lack of evidence of a struggle and the absence of under garments would indicate that the victim was expecting her lover, had willingly allowed, or had removed her own clothing, and helped in the tying of her restraints. “The victim participated in sexual intercourse. At some point, the victim struggled in her bonds, which caused bruises on her ankles and wrists. The assailant then cut her throat. The cause of death was loss of blood caused by the complete severing of the larynx.
“The presence of fluids from a second female, mixed with the assailant’s semen and the victim’s secretions, indicate that the assailant had intercourse, with a second woman, sometime within the preceding eight hours.
“The victim’s head was found on a platter as though it was put on display. Absence of male fingerprints indicates premeditation. The manner was homicide.
Doc and Deacon, both pale as ghosts, looked away from the report and each other.
Ten minutes passed in silence. “Now what do we do?” Deacon was the first to speak.
Doc answered in a matter of fact tone. “It’s horrific, I know, but we have to keep our cool and focus on the details. The killer is AB negative. That’s an extremely rare blood type. No doubt, on Monday, we’re going to find out that you’re type O, or something equally innocuous, and that’ll be that.”
“I hope you’re right, Doc. I pray you’re right.”
*****
Star stretched, diagonally across the bed, and pressed her warm feet against his bare side. With a single, powerful thrust, she scooted him to the edge of the mattress. “Deacon…Deacon, your goddamn alarm…get up and turn it off.”
*****
Deacon awoke, startled. His thoughts clouded with an irrepressible sensation of impending doom. He rolled over, hit the alarm, curled up, and exhausted a heavy sigh. Blood test results day, a feeble voice inside his head, whispered. He had not told Star about the test. Too much was at stake. He could not risk losing her.
The variations in her personality were enigmatic and often a strain. When she was alert, everything was always perfect. She was caring, devoted, sensitive, and sweet. When she drank too much or was not fully awake, she could be caustic, abrupt, and even cruel. The caustic, cruel part he feared. However, it was his fear, and his alone, not to share with anyone, ever. Never did a single syllable, of a solitary word pass his lips that might be construed as a negative reflection on the love of his life.
Ten minutes of snooze time passed in the unblinking of an eye. The alarm resumed its irritating wail. A light tap and the clock radio stopped its incessant buzz. He resisted the urge to crawl back into bed.
The steaming shower was invigorating. Aided by fragrant lather from green soap, it washed life back into every pore. It’s a shame, he thought, relishing the pelting hot water that not every moment can be like this one. I have to go back out there and face my problems no matter how terrible. I suppose, if there were only good times, they would not seem so great. I only hope this hole is not too deep. He closed the faucet and wrung the water from his wavy hair. The thick cotton towel felt reassuring as it wicked away every drop of moisture.
Deacon strode anxiously to the kitchen, thinking of cereal. His stomach growled, eating itself. He thought soft food might help. He drank most of a glass of orange juice in one gulp. A sharp, nerve-induced pain struck. He retched in the sink.
“So much for eating,” he told the trashcan as he dumped the cereal.
Deacon was the first to arrive in the laboratory parking lot. He showed his ID, paid the bill, and walked back to his car. He sat and stared at the sealed envelope for a long time. His hands trembled. With his switchblade, he slit the fold and reluctantly pulled out the pages. Printed across the top, he verified, James David Jones along with his address. Mostly meaningless information filled the sheet. HIV negative leaped off the page. His search ended with blood type. Deacon gasped.
*****
Exhausted and tightly wound, Doc paced the showroom floor. He had hardly slept all night and had arrived at 4:30 in the morning. It was 11:00 a.m. still no word from
Deacon. He checked the time; a minute later, he looked again.
At 11:30 a.m., Doc spotted Deacon’s car in the parking lot. Deacon sat motionless behind the wheel. Doc ran to the car, and tried the locked door.
Deacon stared straight ahead with steadfast, lifeless eyes.
Doc tapped on the glass, but Deacon did not move. The car’s engine was idling, and the automatic transmission was set in drive. The combination of the parking lot incline and a curb, located about four feet from the white laid-block wall, held the vehicle in place.
Doc pounded the glass with his palms, “Deacon, Deacon,” no response. He removed the large folded knife from the case on his belt and banged on the glass.
Deacon jerked and looked wildly about. His was the visage and eyes of a crazy man. Deacon swung his arms; his head rolled unevenly about his shoulders. He bumped the accelerator, and the car leaped over the curb.
Astonished, Doc fell backward. With a low thud, the car came to a stop against the building.
Deacon’s erratic movements ceased; a semblance of cognizance returned to bewildered eyes. The car rolled backward, stopping with the front tires resting against the inside of the curb.
Doc tapped on the glass. Deacon unlocked the door, and Doc pulled it open. “Deacon, you all right, what happened?”
Deacon handed him the crumpled paper. Doc scanned the words, AB negative. He sat down, hard, on the tarmac. “Oh—my—God, holy shit!” He read the words again. There was no mistake. Deacon’s blood type matched that of the sperm, and the pubic hair, taken from the body of Cynthia Thomas. “Shit!”
The pair sat in their office. No words passed between them. Palpable fear and distrust hung in the air. Everything was wrong, even their friendship. Doc considered the possibilities. He struggled to convince himself that Deacon was innocent, but there was so much evidence. The facts were incontrovertible. He stared hard at a single marred spot on the tile floor, unable to lift his eyes, unable to look across the room at the distorted face of his partner.
*****
Deacon fixated on an over-sized calendar in the middle of an otherwise blank wall. His life was over; his arrest was eminent. He hated himself. He would never again be able to look at his reflection or say his own name. He had become his nightmare. His father was right. He had walked willingly into hell, and now he was a part of the evil.
Dawg, the counterman, knocked loudly. “Deac’, there’s a couple a suits out front. They wanna see ya.”
“I’ll go,” Doc whispered. “You stay here, out of sight. Keep a low profile ‘til we sort this shit out.” He switched off the lights and slipped quietly out of the office.
Deacon sat alone in the dark, very afraid.
*****
“Gentlemen, good morning, how may I help you?” Doc threaded his way through gleaming motorcycles. He extended his right hand.
The taller lanky man spoke first. “Are you James David Jones?”
“No, I’m Edward Williams, his partner. Can I help you?”
*****
Deacon clamped his ear to the door. Thin ribbons of light invaded the small office and drew uneven lines on shadowy walls. He listened intently but heard only muffled voices. He thought of his trips to his father’s study. The waiting is always worse than the punishment.
*****
“I’m Detective Jensen; this is Detective McNeil. We’re with the St. Louis Major Case Squad. We would like to ask Mr. Jones a few questions.”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid he’s out.”
“Sir, do you know where we can find him?”
“No, I don’t. He took the day off. He told me he had some errands. He said he would be in tomorrow.”
Jensen handed Doc a business card, an embossed gold badge marked the corner. “When you see him, tell him to call me at this number. If we don’t hear from him, we’ll be back in the morning.”
“I’ll be sure and tell him.”
“Was it the cops?” Deacon asked nervously.
Doc sighed, leaning against the closed door. He shivered. “Yeah, two Major Case detectives, I told ‘em you weren’t here. They’re comin’ back tomorrow.”
“Now, what are we gonna do?” Deacon cradled his face in his hands. “It’s over, isn’t it, Doc? I’m finished.”
“Deacon, I need to ask you a question. Bud to bud and you have to tell me the truth. No matter what it is, or what it means. Promise to tell me the truth.”
“Doc, you have been my only family for years. You and Katherine are the best. Until I met Star, I thought you would be the only real family I would ever know. I promise to tell you the truth.”
Unblinking, Doc locked on Deacon’s gaze. “Did you do it? Did you murder those people?”
Tears streaked Deacon’s cheeks. “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I can’t remember a thing. Doc, I’m losin’ my mind. There’s just so much evidence against me. I’m terrified that I did do it. I just don’t know. Doc, please help me.” Deacon dropped sobbing to the floor. “Help me, I’m begging you.”
Doc knelt beside his friend. “What do you want me to do, Deacon? You are my brother. I’ll do anything to help you, but we can’t—I can’t, cover up two murders. I taught my children to tell the truth and always obey the law. I told them since they were very small that honesty is the cornerstone of society. Without respect for others and the system, everything would break down. We would descend into chaos. I taught them these things because it is my value system. I cannot contradict those beliefs, not for anyone, not even you.”
“I understand. I wouldn’t ask you to help me cover anything up. The sane part of me agrees with you and shares your principles. I’m asking you to help me find the truth, once and for all. When I know what it is, then I can do something about it.”
“What do you mean, exactly—do something about it, turn yourself in?”
“No, if I’m locked up, I may never know—I may never be able to find the truth. Hell, they could convict me with circumstantial evidence. I’d spend the rest of my life in prison, or in an institution with only the memory of what supposedly happened. That would be unbearable. I couldn’t live with the guilt.”
“Deacon, what’re you tellin’ me? Do you think there’s an easier way out, like suicide? You can’t do that. I can’t let you. It’s wrong. It’s a shortcut to the chaos, a permanent solution to a temporary problem. It’s against the laws of God and man.”
“Doc, remember all of the conversations we’ve had about wearing helmets?”
“Of course, I do. But, what does that have to do with this? You’re anti-helmet, so what. You sayin’ not wearing a helmet is like a death wish?”
“No, I’m referring to something you said.”
“What did I say?”
“You told me you believe riding a motorcycle is dangerous, with or without a helmet. You said it’s possible to be killed, or permanently injured, either way.”
“I remember, but what’s that got to do with suicide?”
“You’ve always said that if anything catastrophic was to happen, you’d rather someone pull the plug than live the rest of your life as a vegetable. For me to live with the memory, with the realization that I’m a monster, is unacceptable. I’d rather be dead. If necessary, I’m prepared to pull my own plug.”
“I understand your analogy, but I couldn’t stand by and watch or allow you to do it.”
“I hope if it comes to that, you’re not around. But, now you’ve gotta make me a promise as my best friend.”
“You know I’m willin’ to do anything for you just as long as it’s not illegal or immoral.”
“It’s both, but, more importantly, it’s humanitarian. If I am guilty, if I completely lose my mind, if my dark side takes over, and the Deacon that you know totally disappears, I want you to do this service for me. Doc, I want you to pull the plug. I want you to end my life.”
“Oh, my, God, Deacon, I can’t do that. How could I ever live with myself? The answer is no, absolutely not.”<
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“I am not asking you to kill me as you know me. Don’t you see, it will be the monster I have become? You’ll be saving my soul. You will set me free. Perhaps God will forgive me. Maybe I’ll end up in a better place. Certainly, he would pardon you. Doc, you’re the only person that can help me. You are the only one that I can ask to do this.”
“Deacon, do you realize what you’re saying? Have you lost all touch with reality?”
“In this moment, I’m completely aware of what I’m saying. I am begging you to do a good thing, a just thing. You won’t have to be ashamed. If I’m a killer, an amoral creature, you will be doing society a favor. No one will ever question your morality for having defended yourself from a crazed murderer. As far as living with yourself, you can be happy. You will know that you have shown me the greatest love of all, unconditional love. You will have saved my immortal soul. Please, Doc, if it comes to that, do it for me.”
Doc stumbled weakly to a chair and sat down. Ten minutes passed. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, but if it does, if we find irrefutable evidence that you’re guilty, if you lose your mind and become that thing you describe, I swear—I swear that I will end your suffering. I know you would do the same for me.”
The deliberate tick of the clock was the only sound in the room. It was well past dark before either man moved.
Deacon finally broke the silence. “What should we do now?”
“First, we need to know exactly why the cops want to talk to you. If it’s just routine, then maybe you should talk to them. However, if you’re a suspect, that’s a different story. We can’t afford to chance you being arrested. You need to be able to move around. We have to conduct our own investigation, and we’ll have to do it on the DL.”
“I agree. But, how’re we gonna find out what the cops are doin’? We can’t very well ask them.”
Dark Star Page 17