Burning Time

by Glass, Leslie

  “I’m going to tape your mouth again. You want that?”

  “No, no, no—”

  “Then shut up and let me concentrate. I’m almost finished.”

  “But I can’t hold it. You want me to pee in the bed?”

  “I want you to lie still and shut up.”

  “But I got to pee,” she protested. “It’s not my fault.”

  “You can pee when I’m finished.”

  She started to cry. “Let me go. Oh, God, are you going to let me go? Oh, please.”

  He turned on the machine again and freehand, while she was moving around, made a quick question mark in the soft under part of her upper arm.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she cried. “Oh, it hurts. Oh, God.”

  And suddenly the bed was wet. Troland jerked back.

  “Shit!” The bitch wet the bed.

  Now she was crying harder. “Oh, let me go. Oh, God. It’s all wet. Please.”

  She wet his mother’s bed. He could see her coming out of the wall, shaking her head with disgust. Can’t you be clean. Can’t you ever be clean?

  Troland turned away from her to the girl on the bed. The girl was all wet. Wet from all the A and D ointment he had used. Wet with tears and snot and the heavy stink of sex and sweat and urine. She was still crying, begging for release. It went too far inside Troland’s head for him to come back. He struck without thinking. He leaned forward with his two hands spread, his right thumb on top of the left. The left one was the strong one. He pressed hard. He was a fixer. He fixed the place where the sound came out. Easy. One two three and her larynx was crushed.

  A few minutes later, when he realized she was dead, he was upset. He had forgotten he had to brand her first. Now it was too late. He had no interest in branding a dead thing. He chided himself. He hadn’t gotten it right. Then he studied the tattoo. It was gorgeous. He took a few minutes to finish it. Then he snapped a Polaroid so he could see it whenever he wanted. He studied it critically. He was pleased there were no bruises on her neck. She was a little strange around the mouth. Waxy and slightly blue. And even with her eyes closed, the tension was still there. He’d never killed anyone with his own hands before. It was interesting. It was even good. She deserved it. She didn’t do what he said.

  See that, Willy. She didn’t do what I said.

  He didn’t hear a word of complaint from Willy, so he ate an orange and took another picture without the head showing. That was better.

  When night came, he dug a small deep hole under the huge bougainvillea where he had played as a child years ago. He put her inside several extra-heavy, garden-sized garbage bags, sealed them carefully, and placed her in a crouched position in her grave.

  26

  “What was that all about?” Mike Sanchez asked.

  April cleared her desk for the second time, tucking the letters into her bag so she could look at them later.

  “Probably nothing,” she said. She didn’t see any reason to tell Sanchez. She didn’t want to tell him Ellen Roane might have been found dead in the California desert, either. She’d handled the parents by herself. The medical information she wanted she’d have tomorrow or the next day. She could only hope the match would not fit Ellen.

  “Must be something,” he said.

  They headed out of the squad room toward the stairs.

  The precinct was built like a school. The squad room opened at the beginning of a long, wide corridor that led to other departments. A right turn took them to the stairs.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  April slung her bag over her shoulder. If she had her car, she wouldn’t need a ride out to the range. She didn’t have it because she had lent it to Jimmy two weeks ago. He needed to drive to New Jersey and didn’t want to take his own car. She had even been thoughtful enough to fill it up with gas for him. He must have done whatever he had to do by now. It was time she got her car back, and she knew she would have to take action to get it. He wasn’t just going to drive it home without her making a fuss.

  Sometimes she had a hard time dealing with Jimmy. He wanted what he wanted, and didn’t take no for an answer. When they first met, she didn’t seem to notice how bossy he was. But that was back when she was working in the 5th. She didn’t know a lot of things then.

  “Maybe I can help,” Sanchez offered with a smile.

  She still didn’t know what Sanchez’s smiles meant. He pushed the front door open and held it for her. There were blue uniforms everywhere, watching him hold the door for her. Why did he do that? She looked at her feet and walked out to the street.

  “Hi,” she responded to the greetings of some uniformed officers. “I don’t need any help,” she told Sanchez.

  “Everybody needs help.” Sanchez shrugged. “You can help me whenever you want.”

  They walked the few steps to the lot where his car was parked. Sanchez unlocked the Camaro on the passenger side and opened the door for her. April wasn’t used to that. She looked guiltily around before getting into the car. It was low and red. It occurred to her that although she and Jimmy had done some monkey business together, it wasn’t a passionate thing, the way she thought love was supposed to be. And yes, Jimmy did hold out the possibility of their getting married some day, but he had never really asked her, and never showed any eagerness for such a day to come.

  “Why do you want to help me?” she asked.

  Sanchez shrugged. “We’re in the Bureau, on the same team. We work pretty well together. I think you have a lot of potential. Why not?”

  Could be sneaky. Could be to steal her credit, make her lose face. Could be for monkey business. Lose more face. She was very quiet on the way to Randall’s Island.

  At the range, she took a place at the end of the line. There was already somebody next to her, and somebody next to him, firing almost at the same time. Sanchez had to stand way down at the other end. April wanted him far away so he wouldn’t be able to judge how she shot. Jimmy Wong took her to the range at the Academy once, and said she was one lousy shot. He said she took too long to get her rounds fired off and would be dead already.

  He seemed to enjoy saying it. “You’re dead already, kiddo.”

  Every time she went there, she remembered his satisfaction. Wouldn’t want to be her partner, he said smugly.

  Now the thunder got to her before she even started. Even with the sound muffled, there was the vibration. She could almost see the air shimmer with it. It used to be hard for her to keep the gun from kicking up when she fired it. She still had to work out on her own to keep her arms and hands strong enough so that when she pulled the trigger, the recoil wouldn’t make the shot fly wild every time. By now she’d had enough practice to be able to shoot into the paper torso of the man most of the time. Sometimes when she felt really mad and wasn’t too guilty about her thoughts being not so nice for a girl, she could pepper the whole region of the heart. At this distance with a pistol, though, precision wasn’t too important. They were .38 slugs. If you got him anywhere, he’d go down. Today she shot with concentration, and when she checked her score, she found she had done a lot better than usual.

  “Thanks for bringing me,” she told Sanchez. “See you,” as she finished up and passed where he was still firing.

  He lowered the gun and pulled the headset off his ears. “What?”

  “Thanks for the ride. I’m going now.”

  “Hey, wait a minute. I’ll take you home.”

  She shook her head. “It’s out of the way.” She knew he lived in the Bronx. She lived in Queens. They were in opposite directions, and he would have a lot of problems with the bridges. She hadn’t expected him to drive her home.

  “It’s no problem,” Sanchez assured her.

  “It’s all right,” she insisted, heading down the line as people continued to fire around them.

  “What? You’ll have dinner with me,” he said. “Great.”

  “I said I’ll take the subway!” she shouted as all the shooting stopped. The other
officers on the range stared.

  One laughed. “You tell him.”

  Sanchez followed her out, and they handed the headsets back. “Yeah. Where are you going to get it?”

  “Okay, you can take me to the subway,” she said.

  They found his car and got in.

  “Why don’t you tell me about the case,” he suggested.

  “Which one?” She rolled down the window for some air, thinking about subway stops.

  “The new thing. The letters.”

  “I don’t know yet. It’s probably nothing. Wife is getting some letters. They’re kind of crazy, but they don’t threaten her or anything.” April looked out of the window.

  “So why come to us?”

  “Well, the husband’s some kind of doctor, and she’s in a movie.” They hit the bridge traffic and came to a standstill. April studied the fat man in the turquoise Toyota next to them. Why was she telling Sanchez this?

  “No kidding. What movie?” He was interested, as she knew he would be.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say. He just thinks it might be some kind of Hinckley thing. You know, like a stalker.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I just got it. I’m not supposed to do anything anyway.” Maybe that would shut him up.

  Sanchez was quiet for a minute. “So, who’re they from?”

  “I told you they don’t know.”

  “Where are they from?”

  “Don’t know that either.” The traffic started to creep forward.

  “The postmarks, I mean.”

  “They’re illegible. There must be something wrong with the machine. It’s not canceling right. Where are you going? This isn’t the way to the subway.”

  Sanchez headed out to Queens.

  “I know a really great Mexican restaurant. It’s near you. We could talk about the case. And then I could find out where these letters are coming from.”

  “Thanks, I can’t.”

  “What’s the matter, don’t you like Mexican food?”

  “I really can’t.” April looked out the window.

  “Why not?”

  “Are you asking me for a date?” April said, still looking out the window.

  “What’s the right answer? I like being with you. Is there anything wrong with that?” She had her head turned away and didn’t see it, but she knew he was smiling.

  “I guess you’re involved with someone,” he said when she didn’t answer.

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Oh, because the way you treat me, I kind of get the idea it might be something else. Like from your point of view there might be something wrong with me.”

  “I don’t know you that well, Sergeant, but as far as I can tell, there isn’t anything wrong with you.”

  “You’re just not interested.”

  “I, uh, wouldn’t be interested in anybody in the Department,” April said. “It wouldn’t be professional.”

  “I thought your boyfriend, what’s his name—Jimmy? Isn’t he in the Department?”

  “This is close enough. I can get out here,” April said angrily.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just get the feeling that things between you aren’t so—How shall I put it?”

  “You know something I don’t?” April snapped.

  “Me?” He shook his head. “I don’t know a thing. Look, I’m sorry. I just wanted to help, that’s all. It’s better when you work with someone you like.”

  April was silent, thinking it over. He was clearly checking on her, and possibly checking on Jimmy. But then, she’d done some checking on him, too. She knew he’d been married and it didn’t work out, knew he lived with his widowed mother in the Riverdale section of the Bronx. Having to check everything out seemed to come with the territory. She couldn’t exactly blame him for it. And suddenly he was making her wonder why she hadn’t bothered to do a little investigating herself into what Jimmy was so busy doing that he couldn’t return her car or even call her in over two weeks. And she knew that was what Sanchez wanted, because she could read his mind.

  “Okay, so what could you find out about the letters, then?” she demanded, finally turning her head to look at him.

  “I have a friend at a lab. You never know. He might be able to tell you where they’re from.”

  April hesitated for a long time. “There’s probably nothing to it. But thank you.”

  They rode in silence.

  “It isn’t all tacos and burritos, you know.”

  “What?” April looked straight ahead.

  “Mexico. It isn’t some little island in the Caribbean like Puerto Rico. Mexico has thousands of years of history. A whole culture. Art, literature, everything. I mean, does Puerto Rico have a whole wing in the Metropolitan Museum?”

  April didn’t know. “It’s not the food. My mother expects me,” she said softly. “Anyway, Puerto Rico’s okay. What’s the problem?”

  “Everybody thinks I’m Puerto Rican. Does Puerto Rico have Carlos Fuentes? Diego Rivera? Huh?”

  April didn’t reply. She had no idea who Fuentes and Rivera were. “I don’t have anything against anybody,” she said finally.

  “I’m Mexican-American. My father fought in the Second War. I have a proud history.” She could see he felt strongly about it.

  He turned the corner, and headed down her street. She had planned to tell him to stop on the corner, but his speech about Mexico made that impossible. The red Camaro stopped in front of her parents’ house where she lived in the upstairs apartment, and where her mother expected her to live one day with the long-dreamed-of Chinese husband and children. Shit. Now she had insulted him, and her mother was probably standing at the window watching her arrive with a Mexican. It was all very difficult.

  “I’ll tell you about the postmarks tomorrow,” Sanchez said, holding out his hand for the letters.

  “Thanks,” April said. She opened her bag and gave him the first five. She didn’t know what she thought about it all, as she headed up the steps to where her mother had already opened the door to the smell of Chinese food and a thousand questions.

  27

  Jason called Charles as soon as he returned to his office. Charles got back to him in twenty minutes.

  “I spoke to the police,” he said gloomily, “and I think I’m going to have to handle this myself.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Charles asked. “You don’t know who the guy is or where he is.”

  “I’ll do a profile. I’ll find him,” Jason said.

  “So?” Charles said worriedly. “Then what?”

  “I’ll go talk to him.”

  “I don’t know, Jason,” Charles muttered. “That doesn’t sound like a good idea. Why don’t you do the profile, give it to the police, and let them take care of it? I’ll even help you.”

  “We’ll see,” Jason said.

  “Come on, it’ll be like the old days. Remember the old days?” Charles pressed.

  “Yeah, I remember them.”

  Jason wasn’t quite as nostalgic about the past as Charles was. He’d been unhappily married during their training when they were part of a team and worked long hours at the Psychiatric Center. He remembered the stints they did in different parts of the hospital, meeting every day for endless evaluations and reports on the psychotics and potential suicides that came in to the ER every day.

  Charles remembered it enthusiastically because he had been wealthy then as now, and none of his patients these days were very sick people. If he was so interested in this, he must not have a whole lot to worry about, Jason thought.

  “We’ll work on the letters together,” Charles said. “Maybe we can get Emma to help us. She must have some idea who it is.”

  “I told you she thinks it’s me,” Jason said.

  “Do you want me to talk with her?” Charles asked.

  “Maybe later.”

  “You want to start in the morning?”

&n
bsp; Jason looked at his watch. Did he want Charles involved? Yeah, he guessed he did. “Okay,” he agreed.

  At six-thirty the next morning Charles leaned back against the leather sofa in his office and stretched. His jacket was on a chair and his sleeves were rolled up.

  Jason looked up from the chart he was making.

  “Tired?”

  “No, no, I’m fine,” Charles said, yawning.

  They had been working since Jason’s arrival forty-five minutes earlier.

  “When do you think the police will have something to tell you?” Charles asked.

  “I don’t know if they’ll ever have anything to tell me. I told you the detective wasn’t very impressed with the case.” Jason checked his watch. He had a seven o’clock appointment.

  Charles took a sip of his cold coffee.

  “Breaks a man’s heart like a wheel. Was that a movie or something?” he asked after a minute.

  “I don’t know.” Jason shook his head. He wasn’t sure they were getting anywhere with this. They had never had to put together a profile based on written material alone. The kind of writing samples they got always came from people they knew, who were desperate to explain, to clarify what they felt, who they were, what was wrong. These letters were from someone who didn’t want them to know who he was and what he intended to do. They were in code. The signature drawing showed that the writer liked to decorate things, had some artistic outlet. Others, added to the last few letters, were illustrations of his fascination with power and motion and fire.

  “Yeah, with Sally Field. Wasn’t that the one where they lose the farm?” Charles persisted with the line.

  “I don’t know,” Jason repeated. He didn’t go much to the movies, probably never would again. He pulled himself together and tried to concentrate.

  It looked to him like the guy was becoming more focused, at the same time as he was coming apart. His thinking was confused, but his drawings were precise and painstakingly done. Jason knew there were experts who could predict by letters and past behavior what a psychopath was likely to do next, and even what he would be wearing when he did it. But he and Charles were not experts. Not only that, they had no idea what kind of background this guy had and what kinds of acting out he had done in the past. They were trained for clinical evaluation, for living people in front of them talking their hearts out. They couldn’t do a history with none of the facts.