Suppose Buddy had actually murdered his girlfriend. In the annals of crime there was nothing unusual about that scenario. Lovers had been killing each other forever. Especially males killing females. The Chambers case came to mind, as well as the one involving that asshole on Long Island who’d strangled the girl and claimed it had happened during rough sex, copying Chambers’ defense. So that kind of homicide was possible here, too. And if Buddy had panicked and fled, it was obvious that he was guilty and running away.
Except that with Buddy it was hard to come up with a motive that made sense. Marcy hadn’t been pregnant, and the murder obviously hadn’t taken place in a moment of rage, caused by jealousy or whatever, the way lovers’ killings usually happened. Instead, this one had been thought out in advance. Whoever did it had gone to the Dickens house that night well prepared to carry out a plan. A plan to chop Marcy’s head off.
His phone rang and Jud answered it.
“Chief, this is Brusson, at the desk. Young lady here says she wants to see you. Name is Wilson. Karen Wilson.”
“I’ll be right out.” He hung up, wondering. Then he left his office and went out to the front of the station.
When he got there he was surprised by what he saw. Instead of the pretty young woman who’d joined him for coffee in Olson’s diner, the girl standing at the desk looked worn, haggard. Her face was pale, and there were bluish pouches under her eyes.
Jud approached her. “Karen—you all right?”
“Yes. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Sure. Come this way.” He led her back down the hallway to his office and asked her to sit down. “Sure you’re okay? Want a drink of water or anything?”
She sank into the chair and shook her head. “No, thank you. This is going to be difficult.”
He sat down at his desk. “Take your time.”
“Can it stay between us? I wouldn’t want anything I say to get out. There’s my job, among other things.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
She took a deep breath. “When I saw you in the diner the other morning? I didn’t tell you everything.”
He waited.
“Those … mental images you asked me about. It’s true. There are things I see, somehow, just the way you guessed. They’re like pictures or scenes that come into my mind. It’s happened for as long as I can remember. Ever since I was a small child.”
“And that’s how you knew where the Mariski boy was.”
“Yes. I was very upset over that. On one hand I wanted to help that poor family. And on the other I didn’t want to be involved. I didn’t want anyone to know this thing about me.”
“You were embarrassed by it.”
“More than that. A lot more. It’s been like a curse, always. Or not always. Sometimes I didn’t see the images for years at a time. I’d think it was over, I didn’t have them anymore. The visions, or whatever they are. But then they would come back. I’d see things again.”
He sat quietly, listening.
“Sometimes they’d be just flashes. Most of the time I never understood them, couldn’t connect them to anything or anyone I knew. I’d just—see something. And then it would be gone. But then there were other times, not very often, when I’d see someone I did know. And it was always—bad.”
“You mean you’d see someone you knew in a bad situation?”
“Yes. Although sometimes I didn’t know them. That little boy. I read the story in the newspaper, and then … I saw him.”
“You saw him—how? What did you see?”
She looked down at her lap, and then back at Jud, the strain now more evident on her face. “I saw him as he was at that moment. Under the ice. Dead.”
Jud felt an odd sensation, as if he’d been touched by a chill wind. “But how did you know where—”
“I saw the pond, and there was a stone wall and an old barn. When the boy’s father took me to Kretchmer’s, there they were. The pond, and the wall and the barn. Just as I’d seen them.”
“And you’d never been there before—never driven by the pond before that?”
“Never.” She was silent for a moment. “You should have seen how the Mariskis treated me. As if I were a freak.”
“They were distraught,” Jud said. “They didn’t want that kind of information. They were still hoping.”
“Yes, I understand. But anyway, that’s not why I’m here.”
From the hallway came the bustle of the station’s activities, cops and others talking, moving about. But in Jud’s office it had grown very still. He sensed what she was going to tell him next.
“The headsman,” he said.
“Yes.”
“What did you see?”
She clenched her teeth, and then seemed to force herself to speak. “I saw him. The night the girl died, I saw him. I saw him kill her.”
He continued to sit quietly, watching her. But he could feel the electricity. He leaned forward, forearms on his desk. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
Again she breathed deeply. “There was this man. Huge. Dressed all in black. A black top, like a tunic. Black pants, black gloves, and a hood with slanted eyeholes in it. And he was carrying this big ax. It had a double head, with blades on both sides. Then I saw—it’s hard to explain, but these things appear in flashes. I see these … pictures. Some of them aren’t even complete. Just—pieces.”
“It’s okay, just go on.”
“And I saw the girl. She was on the floor, screaming. The man stood over her and she was screaming and then he swung the ax.” She shuddered. “Afterward he—”
“Yes?”
“He held up her head and put it down on something. A table top, or a dresser.”
Jud tensed. Except for the cops and the coroner—and the girl’s mother—no one had known that detail. Marcy Dickens’ head had been placed on the dresser, all right; Jud would see it there, with the eyes staring at him, for as long as he lived. What this woman was telling him now was proof that she’d seen what had happened. It hadn’t been an illusion formed in her mind by all the publicity the case had generated. And it wasn’t something she’d made up, either as a result of hysteria or because, as Phil Mariski suspected, she was drawn to events like these by some macabre desire to be involved. She had seen what took place that night.
He continued to hold her in a steady gaze. “Then what?”
“Then nothing. It was gone. Afterward, the next day, I tried to convince myself it was nonsense, just another one of my creepy episodes. But then the story was in all the papers and on TV.”
“At the same time you were struggling with the vision you’d had of the Mariski boy.”
“Yes. And that made it worse. It convinced me that what I saw with the headsman was true. Not that I didn’t know it was. But I realized I’d been trying to talk myself out of it.” She dug a tissue out of her bag and blew her nose.
Jud waited for her to continue.
“Over these past few days I felt so … torn. I had nothing to base it on, really. Except these crazy experiences I’ve had. That’s why I decided I wouldn’t tell anybody.”
“What changed your mind?”
Her eyes locked on his. “I saw him again.”
For the second time, Jud felt an involuntary contraction of the muscles in his gut. “When?”
“Last night.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw the headsman fighting with a young man. They were sort of wrestling, and the headsman had him by the throat. The young man tried to hit him with something shiny. A metal tool, or something.”
Holy shit—the wrench.
“What did the young man look like?”
“He was slim, and he had long brown hair. There was loud rock music playing.”
Now it was Jud’s turn to conjure up a mental picture, and what he saw was Buddy, his hair flopping down over his forehead. “Go on.”
“Then the headsman threw the boy down and—and—” She bent over, struggling
to hold back tears.
“What happened then?”
“He kicked him. And then he—chopped him with the ax. There was all this blood. It was awful.”
“What then?”
She shook her head. “That was all. I’ve been going out of my mind. I haven’t been able to sleep or eat and I have this terrible headache. I keep feeling I’m going to be sick.”
“Listen, won’t you let me get you—”
“No. Thank you. All I want you to do is believe me and not let the news people get hold of me. I couldn’t stand that. See, I know how crazy all this is. That’s why it was so hard for me to tell somebody. But I kept thinking maybe I could help. Maybe I could help stop him from doing it again. But I know what would happen if what I’ve told you got out.”
“It’s okay. I won’t let anybody know.”
For a lot of reasons.
For one, if she really could help, he wouldn’t want her to be ripped apart by the press and by the cops as well. God only knew what Pearson would do with something like this. And who was to say anybody would believe her anyway? More than likely she’d be labeled a nut, just as she feared.
But if she could use this thing she had, this vision, to help him, then he had to protect her. To say nothing of another angle that suddenly occurred to him: if it became public knowledge that Braddock’s chief of police was relying on a psychic, or whatever she was, he’d look like a buffoon.
He sat back in his chair. “I’m glad you came in, Karen. It took a lot of courage.”
Tears formed again in her eyes, and she wiped them away. “Are you? Thank God. I wasn’t really all that sure about you, either.”
“You thought I wouldn’t believe you?”
“Yes. Or you’d think I was just off the wall, or something. But that morning in the diner you seemed to understand. A little, anyway. And you didn’t try to push me. For somebody I didn’t know, and a policeman at that, you were kind. At least that’s the impression I got. So I finally decided to trust you.”
“I’m glad you did. And now I’m going to tell you something. Last night a high school boy disappeared. He’d been working on his car in the barn behind his family’s house. Marcy Dickens was his girlfriend.”
She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, God.”
“Yes. His name is Buddy Harper. That name mean anything to you?”
“No. Wait—yes. Where I work—Boggs Ford? There’s a Peter Harper who’s a customer.”
“His father. As you can imagine, the media will give the boy’s disappearance quite a run.”
“I’m sure they will.”
“I want you to promise me you won’t say anything about this to anyone.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. I promise.”
“Where do you live, Karen?”
“Maple Street. With my grandmother. I came here from Shippensburg after my mother died.”
“Does your grandmother know anything about this—ability you have?”
“No. My mother never said so, but I think she was always a little ashamed of me. Not that she knew all that much about it. I think it also scared her, just the way it did me. So she never discussed it with other people, never let on about it. Not to anybody, including my grandmother. All my grandmother thinks is that sometimes I have emotional problems. And that they give me headaches.”
“I see. Is there anyone else?”
Jud saw the shadow of an ironic smile cross her face before she answered. “Some man, you mean? No. There’s nobody.”
He thought about what she’d told him. “Your vision. Can you tell when it’s going to happen? I mean, do you have any warning?”
“No. It’s always right out of the blue. And it could be any time of the day or night. But like I said, usually it’s just a little piece—a fragment of something.”
“Then you can’t influence what you’re going to see, can’t will yourself to receive anything?”
“Never. There have been times when I tried, just out of curiosity, I guess. But I’ve never been able to do that. I’d think, what if I could make myself see something really valuable. Like tomorrow’s newspaper. Or if I could see what was going on behind some closed door. But I couldn’t. All I get is what comes into my head, and most of the time when it does happen I don’t even know what I’m seeing.”
“All right. I’m sure you know where I was going.”
“Yes. But that’s something I just can’t give you.”
“As it is you’ve been a great help.”
“Have I really?”
“Yes, you have. I believe you.”
Her shoulders slumped as if in relief. “I’m so glad you do. I was so worried about how you’d react. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d—”
“If I’d what?”
“Nothing. But I’m glad.”
He stood up. “I want to show you something.”
He got out his keys and unlocked the closet behind his desk, then swung the door open. This was where he kept his personal files, along with anything else he wanted to secure. He reached inside and lifted out one of the paintings he’d brought from the Braddock Museum. It was the one that depicted the headsman waiting for his victim as soldiers dragged the condemned man onto the platform.
He turned and held it up so she could see it.
Her jaw dropped. “Oh, God. That’s the man. That’s exactly what he looked like.”
“Exactly? Here, take a closer look.” He passed the painting to her.
She studied it, holding the frame in both hands. “This is so strange. It shows him just the way I saw him. The hood, the eyes, everything. Even the ax is the same, with the double blades.” She looked up. “Where did this come from?”
“A friend lent it to me. Is there anything you see in it that’s different from what you saw last night? Anything at all about him that’s different?”
She stared at the picture once more, then looked up. “No, nothing. Even his size looks right. Tall, husky.”
“Okay, thanks.” He took it from her and returned it to the closet, closing the door and locking it.
He stepped to where she was sitting and held out his hand to her. “Thanks, Karen. I really appreciate this very much.”
She took his hand and shook it briefly as she stood up. “Is that it?”
“For the moment, yes. I want to think about what you’ve told me, and then I’ll contact you and we’ll talk some more. In the meantime, if you see anything, call me right away. Either here or at home.”
“I will.”
He scribbled his home number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “It’s in the book, but this’ll make it easier.”
She put the paper into her bag. “Okay. And Chief?”
“Jud.”
She smiled. “Jud. Thank you. I feel so much better, just from talking about it. It’s such a tremendous relief not to have to keep it all bottled up inside me.”
“Here, let me show you out.” He took her arm and led her back out to the front entrance of the station.
4
Inspector Pearson scheduled a press conference in the station house for 2:30 that afternoon. Grady asked Jud if it was about the Harper kid’s disappearance, and Jud said it was. Why get the press into it at this point, Grady wanted to know. Jud told him to ask Pearson. Grady muttered that Pearson was a dickhead.
Jud went out for a sandwich a little before two, and when he got back there was a cluster of reporters at the outer desk, Sally among them. Some of the reporters he recognized from the conference held after the Dickens girl’s body had been discovered, and from the sniffing around the press had done since. For them to get here this fast from Albany and Syracuse and Binghamton and wherever else they’d come from must have taken some doing. A couple of them greeted him and tossed questions at him, but Jud told them it wasn’t his show, Inspector Pearson would be briefing them.
Promptly at 2:30 Pearson walked in, Williger trailing as usual. The guy was well trained, Jud tho
ught. Pearson didn’t even have to tell him to heel.
The inspector looked especially crisp this afternoon in his gray tweed jacket and his white buttondown with a repp tie, red and black stripes this time. His mustache had been freshly trimmed and he’d combed his hair. All he needed was Ed McMahon urging the crowd to applaud. He stood with his back to the desk, and when the buzzing had quieted down he said he had an announcement to make. You could feel the tension; they were expecting to hear there’d been a break in the case, or maybe even that the cops had made an arrest.
Pearson cleared his throat. “We have a suspect in the Dickens homicide.”
Predictably, that set off a roar of questions, and Pearson raised his hands and shushed them. When the reporters finally quieted down he said, “The suspect’s name is Peter Harper, Junior, known as Buddy.”
“Hey,” somebody yelled. “Isn’t that the boyfriend?”
This time it took even longer to stem the noise. Over the uproar Pearson said, “I can’t give you information if you just stand here and shout. If you want to hear this, you’ll have to shut up.”
When they subsided once more, he continued. “The suspect was a friend of Marcy Dickens, yes. He was with her the night she was killed. He was questioned extensively after the homicide, but not charged because of lack of evidence. Last night he disappeared from his home without advising his parents or anyone else we’ve talked to about his plans. At this point he is considered a prime suspect, and we’ve put out a nationwide alert for his arrest. Harper is seventeen years old. He has brown hair and brown eyes. Five eleven, a hundred forty-five pounds. He’s a senior at Braddock High School. He could be armed and dangerous.”
Now the questions came in a flood: This guy’s the headsman? You find the ax? Why’d be wait until now to take off? You got any other evidence? Has he been in trouble before?
Jud stood in a corner of the room, and after a few more minutes of this he tuned out. There were a number of things he wanted to do now. One of them was to have Grady check the floorboards of the Harpers’ barn, see if he could come up with anything from that oil spill.
The Headsman Page 22