The Headsman

by James Neal Harvey

  Chief McDermott said no suspects have been apprehended. He urges anyone having information on the crime to contact him at once.

  Mrs. Donovan was the former Janet Cowles. Funeral arrangements have not been completed.

  As Jud read the piece, he felt the hairs stir on the back of his neck. He looked at the other clippings. One of them was a background piece on Mrs. Donovan, and another featured opinions of the locals as to what had happened. Just as in tonight’s telecast, the people interviewed said the murder was undoubtedly the work of the headsman. There were several other clips, the dates spaced some days apart, and each of them reported more or less the same thing—that no progress was being made in solving Mrs. Donovan’s murder.

  He laid the clippings on the table and lifted his gaze to Sally, who was eyeing him intently. “Was this all?” he asked.

  “Yes. After I found those, I hunted for stuff on that killing or anything else that might have to do with the headsman, but I couldn’t find anything. I asked Maxwell about it, but he said that’s all there was. He grew up hearing tales about the headsman, of course, and he remembered the Donovan case well. In fact, he not only worked on the story, but he knew the family at the time it happened. He said the case was a sensation, and that everybody in Braddock was convinced the headsman had killed her.”

  Jud shook his head. “So you’re gonna fan the fire on the headsman angle even more? You don’t really believe it, do you?”

  “Believe what—that Mrs. Donovan was beheaded and nobody knows to this day who did it? I certainly do.”

  “You know what I mean. About the headsman.”

  She paused for a moment. “The truth is, I just don’t know. But I’ll tell you one thing—when I found these old stories and read them it sent chills up my spine. And you know something else? I’ll bet you had the same reaction just now. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  He opened his mouth and closed it. Then he said, “Okay, so I did.”

  “Sure. I thought so. Look—nobody with any sense believes ghost stories. That’s for kids and bumpkins. But it’s a fact that we’ve had two murders where people had their heads lopped off. And that’s just two we know about.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the legend had to start someplace. You saw what that piece said, didn’t you, about the woman’s death reviving the stories? I’m just sorry the Express doesn’t go back further.” She gestured at the clippings. “What about before that? What other killings might have taken place?”

  He snorted. “Take it easy, will you? You’re so hot for the headsman angle you’re trying to convince yourself it’s true.”

  “Okay, but what’s your explanation—it’s a coincidence?”

  He got up and went to the fridge for another beer. “You want a drink?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He made her a fresh bourbon over ice and handed it to her, then sat down again at the table and opened his beer. “You want to know what I think? I think that in each of these cases, somebody used the legend to make people think the murder was the work of the headsman. Each time it gave the killer a perfect way to screw up the investigation. It just added to the confusion. That’s what I think.”

  “You might be right.”

  “Hell, maybe it was the same guy did both of them.”

  “Oh, come on. Over that span of time? Every twenty-five years or so he commits a murder and now he’s ninety and still at it? What is this—the George Burns murder case?”

  Jud drank some of his beer. There were times when she could get to him.

  She smiled. “You mad at me?”

  “Moderately.”

  “Aw.” She reached under the table and squeezed him.

  He put his hand on hers. “You’re really asking for trouble, aren’t you?”

  She brought her mouth close to him. “I certainly am.” She fastened her lips to his in a warm, wet kiss. It lasted a long time, and when she pulled away a little she said, “That got the desired effect, though, didn’t it?” and squeezed again.

  Jud put his beer down, then took the glass out of her hand and set it down on the table. In one motion he scooped her off the chair and stood up, holding her in his arms. As he stepped toward the bedroom he said, “All right, smartass. Now you’re really gonna get it.”

  She kissed his ear. “I hope so.”

  5

  Jud lay awake for a long time with Sally nestled close to him, her head on his chest. Usually after making love he was asleep in seconds, but tonight he kept seeing ghosts—Marcy Dickens, his imagined impression of Mrs. Donovan, and finally a vague picture of a dark, hooded figure brandishing an ax. Which was ridiculous, he told himself; he was as bad as every other fool in town who was hooked on the headsman bullshit. But the images refused to leave him alone.

  He sent his thoughts in another direction, going over possibilities in the case, thinking out what he might do next. Running down more of Marcy’s friends was a must, of course. Because regardless of what he might think of Pearson personally, the inspector was right about one thing: in the majority of homicides the victim and the perpetrator knew each other well. Jud had had that drilled into his head often enough, in MP and civilian police lectures and the reading he’d done, as well as in his own experience. Even in manslaughter cases resulting from saloon brawls, the combatants were usually acquainted.

  But Buddy Harper? All Jud’s instincts said no. He’d keep an eye on the boy, of course. Maybe work him over again, see if he could trip him up. But his gut told him Buddy was clean.

  It was still possible, of course, that this had been a murder committed while another crime was in progress, maybe during a break-in. But that theory wouldn’t fly, either. Nothing in the house had been disturbed, and there was no evidence of forced entry. The intruder apparently had gone directly to where he knew the girl would be sleeping, and then had killed her with such efficiency he’d left no sign of even a struggle, let alone a fight. Except for that cut in the floor, there’d been nothing. No—Marcy had been a target well known to her assailant.

  He went back to thinking about Buddy then, working out a scenario that had Buddy going up to her room and Marcy telling him she was pregnant, threatening him. But that was flimsy; any kid who wanted an abortion nowadays could get one without much trouble. And besides, the autopsy would reveal a pregnancy if there was one, as well as determine blood type if there was a residue of semen in her vagina. And since Buddy had already admitted having intercourse with her earlier, what would that prove?

  Jud tended to trust his hunch, that Buddy had told the truth, but that was all the more reason not to let himself overlook anything. Could there have been something else going on—maybe to do with drugs? Smoking pot was another thing Buddy was into, so maybe there was something there. There were a couple of small-time dealers in town, and it was about time the cops came down hard on them. Even if the police couldn’t put together a case, they could make the bastards wish they’d gone into the ministry. Leaning on them would be worth it, if only for the satisfaction.

  And Marcy’s other friends—the ones he had yet to talk to? Jud knew a few of them. Pat Campbell was the blond cheerleader with the great body. She was also the daughter of Loring Campbell, probably the richest man in Braddock. Jeff Peterson was a star on the high school basketball team. And there were a number of others.

  Then there was the murder weapon. He’d try to ascertain the type of ax the killer had used. If it had in fact been an ax. That was another thing to work on.

  And what about the point Sally had raised in connection with the old story she’d dug up on the Donovan murder? Had there actually been other headsman killings before that? He’d check with the county attorney’s office, ask them to pull out the records on the Donovan case. Braddock’s police department couldn’t have been too great back then, which might explain why the case had never been solved.

  Emmett Stark could probably help, too. In all likelihood the retired chief would ha
ve some ideas. Jud would get over to see him, and soon.

  The illuminated dial on the bedside clock read 2:10. As gently as he could, Jud eased Sally’s head off his chest and down onto the pillow, thinking as he did that once she was asleep he’d have to fire a gun to wake her up. He got out of bed and stepped over to the window, moving the shade aside and peering out to see if it was still snowing. He couldn’t tell; it was too dark out there. He went to the closet and got out a robe, putting it on along with a pair of slippers. He left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

  In the living room he took his old Gibson acoustic out of its case and sat down on a straight-backed chair. He tuned the instrument, holding an E chord while his long fingers picked the strings. He didn’t have the best ear in the world, but he could play fairly well for somebody who was entirely self-taught. Well, not entirely; he’d listened to James Burton and Chet Atkins by the hour. And also to Merle Travis and B.B. King. And most of all to his number-one favorite, Willie Nelson.

  The encouraging thing about Willie was that he didn’t seem to have that much talent either. He was only a fair guitar player, and his voice had that reedy twang. But put that together with his ability to write country songs and deliver them as if he’d opened a door in his heart, and he could knock you down. Not that Jud would go so far as to compare himself to Nelson, but he’d certainly learned a lot from listening to Willie’s records.

  He picked aimlessly for a while, strumming slowly and just practicing chord changes, C to B flat, G to A, then increasing the tempo, feeling his fingers grow nimble. The sound of the guitar had a clean, clear quality in the quiet of the room.

  After that he slowed it down again and sang a chorus of “Georgia,” imitating Willie, and followed it with “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before.”

  Then he sang one of his own:

  Listen to the wind

  Listen to the wind

  Telling me the things I ought to know

  Telling me the way it was

  With lovers long ago

  Listen to the wind

  Listen to the wind

  I can hear the words that ebb and flow

  Softly now reminding me

  That love will come and go

  Listen to the wind

  Listen to the wind

  Now I know which way the wind will blow

  As the notes died away he wondered if the song was any good. The melody was all right, he thought, but maybe the lyrics were just a touch pretentious. He couldn’t imagine Nelson or Chet Atkins using a phrase like ebb and flow, but what the hell, he needed the rhyme. And anyhow, nobody but himself would ever hear it. Sometimes he thought about taping a few of his songs and sending them to somebody. A record company, maybe, or a singer. But he knew he never would.

  We all have our secret dreams.

  And come to think of it, that might be another song idea. If it was, he’d work on it sometime.

  He picked aimlessly at the strings for a while, his thoughts wandering through all the things he had to do tomorrow. It would be good if the snow would quit; that was one more problem he’d just as soon not have to deal with. He suddenly felt tired, as if all the weight of the day had at last come down on him.

  He put the guitar away and went back into the bedroom, taking off his robe and tossing it over a chair. The air in here was frigid. He slipped in beside Sally, smiling to himself as he noted she didn’t so much as stir. He moved close to her warm body and put his arm around her and in seconds he was asleep.

  Four

  ON THIN ICE

  1

  ON SUNDAY MORNING Karen slept late, even though she’d gone to bed early the night before. In theory Saturday nights were for going out on a date and having a good time, maybe to dinner and then later someplace where you could have a few drinks and dance. And if the guy was somebody you really liked you might end up making love.

  At least that was what Saturday nights were supposed to be for. And when she was seeing Ted Barton they had been, for a while. Until her moodiness and the headaches had turned him off. So last night had been just like any other; she’d had dinner at home with her grandmother and afterward she’d gone up to her room and read. She was still miserable and it was a relief to go to sleep.

  This morning she looked out and saw the new-fallen snow. The sun was shining and the snow blanketing the ground and hanging from the tree branches was dazzling white, so bright it hurt your eyes to look at it. But as beautiful as it was, the sight failed to lift her spirits. She felt dull and logy, and the prospect of sitting around all day with nothing special to do was depressing. In an effort to pick herself up she took a bath and washed her hair, and by the time she’d finished blowdrying it she was feeling a little better.

  She put on gray flannels and a white blouse and her blue lambs-wool sweater and went down to the kitchen. Her grandmother was sitting at the table reading the Sunday paper when Karen walked in; the old lady looked up and said good morning and Karen returned the greeting, bending down and kissing her forehead.

  Her grandmother’s eyes were magnified by the thick lenses of her hornrimmed glasses. With her slim body and her hair dyed a soft honey color it would be hard to guess her age, although Karen knew she was in her seventies. She’d been a widow since Karen was a small child; Karen couldn’t remember her grandfather at all. He was a civil engineer, she knew, and Karen’s mother had been their only child. After her death Karen had come to Braddock from Shippensburg, where she’d grown up, to make a new start. She got along with her grandmother well enough, although sometimes the old lady’s opinions got on her nerves. And her grandmother had an opinion on everything.

  “There’s fresh coffee on the stove,” the old woman said. “And some Danish in the oven.”

  “Fine. Smells good.” Karen got a cup and saucer out of the cupboard and poured coffee for herself. “Care for some, Grandma?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had three cups already this morning. Any more and I’ll get the jitters. You sleep well?”

  “Very well.” She cut herself a slice of the pastry and put it on a plate, then sat down at the table. When she bit into the warm Danish she realized she was hungrier than she’d thought.

  “This murder,” her grandmother said, “it’s just ghastly.”

  Karen froze.

  The old lady shoved the front section of the Express toward her. In large black type the headline read:

  BRADDOCK TEENAGER SLAIN

  DAUGHTER OF BANKER DECAPITATED

  LEGEND OF HEADSMAN REVIVED

  There was a photo of a pretty darkhaired girl and the story covered most of the front page.

  Karen suddenly lost her appetite. She had known what the girl looked like even before she saw the picture. Her voice was a whisper. “How awful.”

  “It was on the TV last night, but you were already up in your room. Whole town’s going crazy over it.”

  Karen read through the story quickly, an icy lump forming in her stomach. All of it fit, all of it confirmed what she’d seen in those horrible images two nights ago. The vision had come to her precisely when the attack occurred—when the monster had stood over the helpless girl and swung that huge ax.

  She studied the girl’s features. The face seemed so young, so full of hope, so charged with excitement. Here I am, the expression seemed to say, at the very beginning. Ready and eager for life and all the good things it can bring me.

  Instead it had brought her a hideous death.

  “That poor kid,” Karen said. “And her parents. God.”

  Her grandmother was watching her. “Isn’t the first time, you know. You saw the rest of the story, about the headsman?”

  “Yes, I read it.”

  “That last one was twenty-five years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. Same situation, too. The Donovan woman was a hell-raiser. Married and had a little girl, but she played around plenty.”

  Karen found the smug conclusion irritating. “Same situation?”


  Behind the thick glasses her grandmother’s eyes narrowed. “Come on, Karen—you know what these kids are like today. All they think about is sex and drugs. Wasn’t just some accident that he picked her out.”

  “You think that’s why it happened?”

  This time the old woman didn’t answer immediately. She seemed to be gauging Karen before she replied. Finally she said, “You may think that headsman story is just an old wives’ tale, but a lot of people in Braddock know better.”

  Karen found it hard to breathe. “But what do you think?”

  Again the old woman paused before answering. “I think there’s a lot of evidence says it’s true. Every so often, each time years apart, he comes back here. Somebody’s been messing around, up to no good—whack. He takes their head off. You asked me what I think? All right, I’ll tell you. That kid was into something, you can bet on it. And if the police ever come up with so much as a clue, I’ll be surprised.”

  Karen read through the story again. It was by a reporter named Sally Benson, and the writing had a breathless quality about it. The article described in graphic detail how the girl’s head had been severed, and how the murder weapon had unquestionably been a large ax.

  When she finished reading it, Karen went through the rest of the paper slowly, as much to avoid getting into a further discussion of the murder as for any other reason. Most of what she read didn’t register at all.

  Until she saw a piece buried on one of the inside pages, next to an ad for an appliance sale. The headline said,

  BOY STILL MISSING

  The story wasn’t much—a few lines on the Mariski child, more or less a rehash of what she’d seen yesterday. But reading it brought her an almost overwhelming sense of guilt. She pushed the paper aside and sat back in her chair.

  As much as she dreaded it, what she had to do now could not have been more clear. Nor did she feel she had any choice. She got up and scraped the remainder of her Danish into the garbage pail under the sink, hoping her grandmother wouldn’t notice. Then she washed her plate and her cup and saucer, drying them with a dishtowel before putting them away.