The Headsman

by James Neal Harvey

  “Yeah. I’ll remember.” He got up and walked to the door.

  “Just one thing,” Jud said.

  Buddy had his hand on the doorknob. He looked back.

  “Think about all this. Think hard. Anything comes to your mind that might interest me, you call. I’m not here, leave a message. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Got it.” He opened the door and slipped out, closing the door behind him.

  Jud looked again at the list of names on the yellow pad. Then he sat back in his chair. The best thing that could happen would be for the cops to pick up the guy who’d killed Marcy Dickens and find he was a drifter. Somebody from somewhere else—anywhere else—and somebody they could build a good case on. Good enough to put him away forever. Or at least for twenty-five years, which was how they defined forever in the state of New York nowadays.

  But if it was somebody from one of the old families who were important in Braddock, then that would be another thing entirely.

  3

  News of Marcy Dickens’ death flashed through Braddock as fast as people could spread the word. They telephoned friends and neighbors, stopped each other on the street, brought it up in stores and restaurants and at gas stations. The talk was different from ordinary gossip, because it was tinged with fear.

  “You hear about the Dickens girl—Ed Dickens’ daughter?”

  “No, what about her?”

  “Headsman chopped her head off.”

  “What? When?”

  “Last night.”

  “The headsman? Jesus, you sure?”

  “God’s truth. Went into their house, went right up to her room and chopped her with his ax. Took her head clean off.”

  “They sure it was him?”

  “Oh, yeah. Some of the neighbors saw him. Big fella, all in black. Police won’t let anybody talk about what they saw, though. I hear he came out of the house carrying that ax and just disappeared. One minute he was there, next minute he was gone.”

  “What was the girl up to?”

  “Nobody knows for sure. Except maybe the cops. People say it was drugs. Ran around with a wild bunch.”

  It was early afternoon when the story reached Boggs Ford. Karen Wilson had just come back from lunch when she overheard the salesmen talking about it. A customer had told Fred Guzik, who told Jack Morrow and Ed McCarthy, who told anyone they could find who hadn’t heard.

  Karen listened to the recounting, and was stunned. Her headache returned, and with it the nausea and an overwhelming sense of dread. She turned away, refusing to be drawn into the discussion. Trying desperately to shut the subject out, she stayed at her desk, busily taking data off the computer and typing customer correspondence.

  As far as she was concerned, the less she knew about the murder, the better. As long as she could prevent her consciousness from receiving more information on it, she could keep it separate from herself.

  Which was foolish, of course. Because the instant she stopped thinking about what she was doing, the instant she so much as blinked, the images returned to her mind. She saw the hooded man, saw the ax, saw the girl’s severed head. And now she knew that the awful event hadn’t taken place at some other time, somewhere far away. It had occurred here in Braddock, on the night the vision appeared. Last night.

  So she was burdened with not just one terrible perception, but two: one of a hooded killer who struck with an ax, the other of a drowned boy whose family was suffering the agony of uncertainty.

  There was nothing she could do about the first, but there was about the second.

  She wished there weren’t.

  By the time Boggs closed for the night Karen was sick to her stomach and her head ached fiercely. She went into the ladies’ room and soaked paper towels in cold water, pressing them to her forehead until she had her headache somewhat under control. Finally she put on her coat and walked out to her car.

  What had she ever done to deserve this?

  4

  By early evening the cops had run a sweep of the town and the surrounding area that produced four suspicious characters. Three of them were drunks the police had pulled in on other occasions, harmless sots who panhandled nickels and dimes to get from one bottle of muscatel to the next. The fourth was a guy who said the world was approaching a cataclysm and they should repent. This one had long gray hair and a beard and smelled even worse than the winos. A check showed he had spent Friday night praying in the Baptist church on Wheeler Street.

  Jud told Sergeant Joseph Grady to lock all of them in the drunk tank and let them go in the morning. At least they’d be out of the cold until then, and they’d get a couple of decent meals out of it. He didn’t know where Pearson and Williger were; he hadn’t seen them since that afternoon. He was glad Pearson wasn’t around to say I told you so.

  Jud had also questioned several more of the kids who’d been in class with Marcy Dickens, including Joe Boggs and Billy Swan-son, but that had produced nothing of value either. There were others he wanted to talk to, but he’d have to get to them tomorrow.

  It was a little before ten o’clock when he left the stationhouse. The action they’d get tonight—fights, car accidents, whatever—was yet to come, but he’d let Grady handle it. He wanted time to think and plan what he’d be doing on the Dickens case. The state police inspector might be in charge of the investigation, but there was no way Jud was going to just step aside and ignore it. Not as long as he had this job and lived in Braddock. Marcy Dickens’ murder was the biggest thing that had happened here since he’d joined the force.

  Every few minutes, it seemed, the picture of Marcy’s severed head would come back into his mind, the features twisted in pain and horror, the eyes staring. He’d push it away, force himself to stop thinking about it, but then a short time later, without warning, it would be back.

  So it was clear that what he needed to do now was call it a day and get out of here. It would help to relax over a couple of beers, maybe play his guitar a little.

  The building that housed police headquarters was the town hall, an ugly red stone structure that had been erected in the nineteenth century. There was a parking lot behind it, and as Jud stepped out the rear door and walked toward his cruiser he noted that the snow had begun falling in tiny flakes, a shimmer of white that could produce an accumulation of several inches. Snow was beautiful, but to a cop it was a pain in the ass.

  He got a brush out of the car and swept off the windshield, thinking as he climbed in and started the engine that from October through April, living in this part of the world could be a drag. As he often did, he wondered what it would be like to work someplace like Florida or California. Sunshine, palm trees, bikinis. He could stand that.

  His place was only two miles from headquarters, a three-room cottage he rented from an old lady who lived in a larger house down the road. After stopping to get his mail out of the box, he pulled into the driveway and left the car beside the cottage. As he walked in and turned on the lights he wondered if there was anything to eat.

  The mail was all junk: bills, circulars, an L.L. Bean catalog. He dropped the pile onto the kitchen table and pulled off his leather jacket, draping it over a chair back. Then he peered into the fridge. Nothing much there to speak of, and he was hungry as hell, not having eaten since breakfast. He’d meant to get a hamburger or something but it had slipped his mind. There were some eggs, however; at least he could scramble a few of those. And there was also plenty of beer. Praise God.

  He took out a can of Coors and popped the top, then drank half the can in one long swallow. It was ice-cold and prickled the back of his throat as he drank and it tasted wonderful. Carrying the can, he walked into the bedroom and set it down on his dresser, then stripped off his gunbelt and put it beside the beer. As he pulled off his clothes he realized his back and his shoulders were stiff. Probably from the tension and from sitting on his butt. He stretched, and after that touched his toes a dozen times, which seemed to help.

  The shower was blazing hot
, and he stood under its needle spray for several minutes, soaping and resoaping his body. By the time he got out and toweled himself down the stiffness was gone entirely. He put on a flannel shirt and khaki pants and moccasins, and then he finished his beer and went back into the kitchen for another.

  As he opened a fresh can, he heard tires crunch on the gravel driveway. He peered through the window and saw a car pull up behind his. Its lights went out, and Sally got out of the car and approached the house. She was carrying some things, but in the dim light he couldn’t make out what they were. He went to the door and let her in, and she gave him a quick kiss as she stepped past and headed for the kitchen. He followed her.

  The object in her right hand was a large pot, and the one in her left was a grocery bag. She put the pot on the stove and set the bag down on the counter. Then she unslung her shoulder bag and took off her polo coat, hanging them on a hook beside the back door.

  Jud smiled. “What’s this, a rescue mission?”

  The range was an old-fashioned gas model, and as she fired it up she spoke over her shoulder. “It sure is. I was afraid you might starve.”

  “Don’t want that, do we?”

  “I certainly don’t. I’d rather have you all nourished and full of energy.”

  He stepped close behind her and cupped her breasts in his hands. “So I can shovel snow?”

  She put her head back so that her cheek was against his. “That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  He turned her around and kissed her, and as her mouth opened and her body pressed against his he felt himself respond. His hands moved over her, and he was conscious of her warmth and the fragrance of her and the way her mouth tasted. Desire rushed through him like an electric current.

  “You’d better let me get this ready,” she whispered, “if you want to eat dinner tonight. You do want to eat dinner, don’t you?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  She smiled, and pushed him away. “First things first. Why don’t you make me a drink?”

  “Sure. Bourbon?”

  “That’s fine.”

  He got a bottle of Wild Turkey out of a cupboard and filled a glass with ice and whiskey, handing it to her.

  “Cheers,” she said, and sipped some of it. She waved at a chair. “Make yourself comfortable while I get this going. I made it earlier. All I have to do is heat it up.”

  Jud dropped into the chair. As he drank the cold beer he realized that until now he hadn’t relaxed for an instant since morning. He was also aware that this was Sally’s way of being supportive, letting him know she understood what he’d been going through. “I’m glad you came over,” he said.

  She fussed at the stove. “So am I.”

  “You write your story?”

  “Yes, and Maxwell’s giving it quite a play. Wait till you see the Express tomorrow, it’s practically the whole front page. With a byline, too.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. It’s the first time he’s let me cover anything important.”

  “That’s great.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “I just wish it didn’t have to be on a subject like this one.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “You do understand, don’t you? On the one hand I’m horrified by what happened. But on the other, I’ll confess that I’m thrilled to work on something this big. What’s gone on here is mind-boggling. My God, what a story.”

  “Sure, I can understand how you must feel.”

  The meal was ready in a few minutes. It was one of Jud’s favorites, a thick beef stew with potatoes and carrots and peppers and onions, and she’d brought a loaf of French bread, which she heated and served with chunks of butter. She’d also made a salad of tomatoes, Bibb lettuce and mushrooms. He thought he’d never tasted anything better.

  As they ate, she asked what progress the cops were making.

  “Not much,” Jud said. “Inspector Pearson’s running the case, as you know. He just wants to use my force as gofers.”

  “Doesn’t that gall you?”

  “No end. And I’m also catching a lot of crap from other sources.”

  “Such as?”

  “The mayor, for one.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Sam Melcher. I suppose he’s howling because you don’t have the case all wrapped up.”

  “More or less.”

  “That blowhard. I hope you ignored him.”

  “I wish I could. But as long as he’s the mayor, I think it might be a good idea to be cooperative.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s just that it’s not fair.”

  “All part of the job.”

  “Have you questioned many people? Or has Pearson?”

  “A few.”

  “How about Marcy’s boyfriend—the Harper boy?”

  He put his fork down. “Listen, anything I say about this is off the record, okay?”

  Her eyes widened. “Since when is it wrong for a reporter to ask the chief of police questions about an important case? In fact, probably the most important case this town’s ever had?”

  “Hey, you know what I mean. I wouldn’t want anybody to think I was giving you special treatment. So just be damn careful how you use anything I say. Don’t write anything that would embarrass me or the department. Deal?”

  “Deal. Now what about Harper?”

  “What about him?”

  “Come on, Jud. He was the last one to see her alive, and I know he was questioned all afternoon.”

  “The kid’s clean, I think. Pearson interviewed him after I did, and he’ll stay under suspicion and be questioned again. But I don’t think he did it, or that he has any idea who did.”

  She thought that over. “You brought in other people too, didn’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. We picked up some vagrants.” Jud finished the last of his stew, and as Sally served him another helping he told her about the sweep and how it had given them nothing worthwhile.

  “What about the other kids—Billy Swanson and the rest of them?”

  “Same thing. No leads so far.”

  Once more she was thoughtful for a time. “It’s really awful, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “I mean, not just the murder itself. That was hideous. But the idea that whoever did it is still on the loose is terrifying, when you think about it.”

  “I’m sure that’s all part of why Melcher’s so upset. Tell you the truth, I don’t blame him.”

  “Hey, it’s almost eleven. Let’s clear this off and catch the news.”

  They put their dishes into the dishwasher and then went into the living room. Jud turned on the TV, and they sat together on the sofa as they watched the broadcast.

  The show was from Albany. It opened with a roundup of the national and international news, covering disasters from a fire in northern California to more fighting in the Middle East. When the local news came on, the lead story was the Dickens murder.

  A reporter delivered an on-the-scene commentary, and Jud recognized him as the same one who had done most of the talking when he and Pearson had emerged from the house to speak with the press. Watching Pearson answer questions, Jud thought the inspector seemed even more pompous on the tube than he was in person. Jud was also acutely aware of how he himself looked, standing there like a dummy while Pearson spoke.

  The reporter then said that people in Braddock were especially frightened by the crime because it revived memories of the headsman legend. As if to prove his point, that was followed by brief interviews with a number of the local citizens. Each of them said more or less the same thing, that the headsman was back and he’d chop off more heads before he was through.

  When the piece ended, Jud turned off the set. “God—talk about sensationalism. All that shit about the headsman. That’ll get people even more stirred up.”

  Sally was quiet for a moment. “Jud?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s something I want you to see.”

>   “What is it?”

  “Let’s go back in the kitchen, and I’ll show you.”

  They went into the room and sat down at the table. She opened her bag and took out a manila envelope. “There was another murder, back in the sixties. People said that one was the work of the headsman, too. Are you aware of that?”

  “Yeah, of course I am. But that was a long time ago, and as far as I’m concerned, it was the same kind of half-truth, half-spook story.”

  “You think so? The victim then was also a woman. And because I’m a good reporter, I went down into our morgue at the Express and got out the clips on it. I figured it’d make an interesting angle. I also thought you’d like to see the stories.”

  “You mean you put that stuff in the piece you wrote?”

  “Hey, it’s relevant, isn’t it? And the murder was never solved. But wait till you read this. It’s creepy, the way it’s a lot like the Dickens killing.” She opened the envelope and withdrew some yellowing scraps of newsprint. “Nowadays everything’s on microfilm, of course. But at that time the paper was still keeping files by hand.”

  He took one of the clippings from her. It read:

  WOMAN SLAIN IN AX MURDER

  BRADDOCK RESIDENT BEHEADED

  KILLING RECALLS LEGEND OF HEADSMAN

  Mrs. John Donovan, 29, of Cedarton Road, was found dead last night by her husband upon his return from a business trip to Albany. A housewife and the mother of the Donovans’ six-year-old daughter, Mrs. Donovan had been decapitated. Her headless body was in the living room of their home, and signs of a violent struggle were present. Mrs. Donovan’s head was missing, and no murder weapon was found.

  Chief of Police Elwood McDermott, who is conducting the investigation, said the slaying appeared to have been carried out earlier that evening, and that the murder weapon probably had been an ax. This immediately inspired longtime residents of Braddock to conjecture that the infamous headsman had returned. The ax-wielding public executioner was employed here early in the eighteenth century, shortly after the village was settled. According to the legend, the headsman has returned from time to time and slain townspeople, then disappeared.