Suicide Season

by Rex Burns

  “What are you smiling at?” Uncle Wyn tossed his wool cap on the desk and eyed me. “A young man staring out the window with a goofy smile like that—it must be springtime.”

  “Just something personal, Uncle. There’s not much to smile at, anyway.”

  “I heard about Susan on the car radio. A hit and run?”

  “Yeah. But she was just unlucky. It was me they wanted.”

  “Oh, Christ, Devlin.” He stifled whatever he was going to say, the lips under the long, crooked nose pinching shut. Then he shook his head. “Just be careful, my boy.”

  “Don’t worry, Uncle.”

  “Easier said than done, but I’ll give it a shot. How’s Susan?”

  “She’s still in intensive care and still unconscious. I talked to Bunch this morning and he’ll call when he knows something.”

  “If there’s anything I can do …”

  “There’s not much anyone can do right now. We just wait and see.”

  “That poor girl. And damn anyone who would do that.”

  That was something else that had been buzzing around in my thoughts.

  “How are you and Mrs. Haas getting along?”

  I looked up. “Fine. I was thinking of her when you came in.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I figured.” He stood, a pending figure in a light gray topcoat considering carefully his next words. “I try not to stick my nose in your life, Devlin. You know that. But since Douglas died, I’ve sort of adopted you whether you like it or not. It’s because I do care. You understand what I’m trying to say?”

  “Maybe. Why don’t you just say it?”

  “Right. Okay, I will. Mrs. Haas is a wonderful woman. You wouldn’t care for her unless she was. And even if I don’t know anything about the security business, I do know a little something about women. You know,” he added with awkward formality, “affairs of the heart.”

  “‘Affairs of the heart? That’s an old-fashioned phrase, Uncle.”

  “Yeah, well, damn it, this is serious and I’m trying to be serious. A regular Dutch uncle. So believe me—I know a little something about women. I’m sure a woman like her isn’t interested in a quick affair. Just like I know you wouldn’t take advantage of … of her bereavement for that.”

  I waited.

  “So you of course are considering marriage.”

  I waited.

  “Yeah … ah … of course. What I want to know is, how much you’ve thought about the responsibilities, Devlin. Marrying a woman with two children is not only expensive but a tremendous responsibility.”

  “I have thought about it, Uncle.”

  “Well then, have you thought about what it means for your line of work? Somebody tried to kill you yesterday, you tell me, and they’re still out there.”

  I waited.

  “Well, damn it, here’s what I’m trying to say, and you’re not making it easy: have you considered what your line of work would mean for Mrs. Haas and her children?”

  “Yes, I have. I knew a number of Secret Service agents who were married, Uncle. And if it was a good marriage, it lasted. It will be a strain, but other people have managed in similar situations, and from what I know of Margaret, we would too.”

  He hesitated again. “This should be asked too: have you faced the idea that the kids are by another man?”

  I considered that. “I like those kids, Uncle. Very much. I don’t doubt that I could love them as my own. For one thing, they’re a part of Margaret. For another, they’re new souls just entering into a pretty harsh world. And I’d like to do what I can to guide and help and—yes—love them toward what they’ll have to face.”

  Uncle Wyn heaved a deep breath, his face tilted down to study the waxed top of the desk. “I know a little bit about jealousy, too. But you just taught me something of magnanimity. And you put words on something I feel about you, Dev.” He looked up, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “I think I worry more about you than about Ellen or Brenda or Allan. Well, maybe not Allan. But since he moved out to the Coast, you got to carry his share of my worry, too.”

  “I understand, Uncle. And I appreciate it.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s not be too magnanimous. But think about this: in a lot of ways, you still got a lot to learn about this world, Dev. Hell, we all do. But you’re in a dangerous line of work and now you’re thinking about getting instant family.”

  “Uncle—”

  “Let me finish—I just want you to hear this: there’s room in my firm for you. And not make work, either. It’s got responsibility and a lot of money in the future for some very hard work. It’s something I know you can handle. Wait a minute—I’ll be finished in a minute. I’m not leaning on you for an answer now; I just want you to know you got this alternative. If things go the way they seem and you find a problem between your present business and what you’ll owe Mrs. Haas and her children, the offer’s there. Always.”

  “Thanks, Uncle.”

  We talked about a few other things, but the man had said what he came to say. And when the door closed behind him, I sighed and got busy on the telephone.

  When, late in the afternoon just before I closed the office, the telephone rang, I picked it up expecting a call from one of the electronics suppliers in California. But it was Bunch.

  “She’s still unconscious, Dev. But the doc says her reflex actions are improving. He expects her to come out of it soon.” Bunch added, “I called her mother. She’s coming in tonight from Des Moines.”

  “Want me to meet her at the airport?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem. What about the CAT scan?”

  “The doc decided to wait.” Somewhere behind Bunch’s voice a flat metallic quack paged doctor somebody. “Dev, we’re not letting this one slide.”

  “I’ve been doing some thinking about that.”

  “And?”

  “And I figure they still want me.”

  “Have you seen them? By Christ—”

  “Not yet. But I want them to know I’m healthy. That they got the wrong one.”

  “I see.” Bunch thought it over. “We want to be careful with this one. I don’t want those bastards to get away.”

  Neither did I. Nor did I want to scare them off by going after them too quickly. That had been behind my earlier call to an acquaintance at a radio station that featured twenty-four-hour news: local woman jogger injured in hit-run accident; two people running with her escaped injury. The joggers were unable to give police a description of the vehicle. I thought that if one news source decided it was a story, others would follow; and, sure enough, the six o’clock local coverage on one of the television stations had a three-second item, while another station used it to lead into a thirty-second editorial against the growing animosity between joggers and drivers.

  “You think that’ll bring them back?” Restless, Bunch strode back and forth in front of the fireplace, his bulk shrinking my living room.

  “It’s all we have to go with right now. I can’t see us walking up and down Colfax Avenue with pistols in hand and yelling for them to come out and fight.”

  “Yeah. Well. Maybe we should just go over to Neeley’s office and wipe the goddamn place up.”

  “Evidence, Bunch. We want to know for certain he did hire them. Besides, I think it’s a personal thing with those two scumbags now. That’s why they’ll take the bait—getting Susan wasn’t enough. They’re after me because they couldn’t do it right the first time.”

  Susan regained consciousness, more or less, for a little while in the early evening, and when I turned up at her bedside with her mother, Mrs. Faulk, we all had the satisfaction of a groggy smile from her fever-cracked lips. Then the nurse shooed Bunch and me out of the ICU and I talked him into a drink at my house. There wasn’t much he could do walking up and down the corridor except get in the way of the nurses.

  “They’re talking brain damage, Dev.”

  “What?”

  “Th
e concussion. It did a lot of damage, and they’re not sure how she’ll come out of it.”

  “Jesus, Bunch.”

  “Jesus doesn’t have a damn thing to do with it. I learned that a long time ago when I saw what Jesus let people do to children.” Bunch crossed the room again and slammed the heel of his hand against the wall, rattling the window in its frame.

  “It’s too early to tell how badly she’s affected, Bunch.”

  “Yeah. Right. Except I’ve seen people, Dev: car accidents, bullet wounds, blunt instruments—all that crap that scrambles the brains. It does things—they can’t remember words, they can’t thread a needle or even hold a pencil. Sometimes they can’t even wipe themselves.”

  Bunch’s voice did not rise and he talked as if he were reading stock-market quotations, but the man’s hand had a slight tremor as it balled into a large fist against the stuccoed wall.

  “The docs don’t know yet, Bunch. They can’t know. It’s too soon to tell how bad the damage is.”

  “Yeah. I know.” The fist relaxed and Bunch dragged the hand across his sleepless face. “They told me I could come back at eight. I’m going to grab something to eat and go on over.”

  “I’ll be by after I check the job.”

  He nodded. “How’s AeroLabs? Anything you want me to do?”

  “No. I went over it all with Martin this morning. He’s set to go tonight.” The idea was to do much of the wiring and remodeling at night when the company was closed, both so production wouldn’t be disturbed and for security purposes. “I’ll see how it’s going and then come by the hospital.”

  Susan was asleep when, half-lost in the maze of softly lit corridors, I finally located room 522 where she had been moved since the afternoon. Mrs. Faulk, a slender woman in her fifties, looked up from a magazine and smiled welcome as I came in.

  “Asleep?”

  She nodded. “It’s the best thing for her.”

  Susan’s tanned and healthy face already had that yellowish cast that came from illness and hospitals. The swirl of blond hair over the pillow seemed limp and lifeless as well, and one of Bunch’s large fingers stroked a tendril of it gently. I set a potted plant on a table already crowded with flowers. “Has she said anything? Any change?”

  “She said hello to her mother,” said Bunch. “Mostly she’s been sleeping.”

  We watched the motionless form on the high, efficient-looking hospital bed.

  “Why don’t you two go on,” said Mrs. Faulk. “I know you’re working tonight, and there’s not a thing to do while she’s asleep like this.”

  But Bunch was reluctant to go and it was another half-hour before the two of us rode down the oversize elevator for the lobby and the parking lot across the street where the Ford sat in nondescript anonymity.

  “She’s scheduled for more x-rays and the CAT scan in the morning.” Bunch looked out the window at the lights gliding past. “They’ll have a better idea how bad it is then.”

  I swung the car toward the bustle and glare of Hampden and turned east toward the AeroLabs buildings. “Her mother’s staying with her?” A cot had been made up in a dark corner of the room.

  “Yeah. For tonight, anyway. I guess they let relatives do that if it’s serious enough.” He shrugged. “I’m not a relative, so I can’t stay. They didn’t even want to let me in the room with her after Mrs. Faulk got there.”

  I started to say something when the radiophone wheedled its electronic chirp. “Devlin Kirk.”

  “This is Vinny Landrum. We got to meet.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “Not over this thing. Man, I mean it—we got to meet!”

  “It’s Vinny. He wants to talk about something.” Then back to the radiophone. “I’m tied up for a couple hours. How about eleven at my office?”

  “Not there. Remember where I saw you last time? Don’t say it—just tell me if you remember.”

  That wasn’t too hard; it was Landrum’s office. “Yes.”

  “Outside there. Eleven.” The voice clicked off.

  “What’s that lint ball want?”

  “Whatever it is, he didn’t want to broadcast it.” That’s what a radiophone traded for convenience—a transmission frequency that anyone with a shortwave receiver could pick up. And whatever was bothering Vinny, he was trying to keep it from someone.

  CHAPTER 11

  “YOU GOT ME into this, Kirk. Now you got to help me out.”

  Bunch and I stood in a shadowy recess near the stairway that led up to Landrum’s office. A faint nightlight shone through the window of the quick copy center on the first floor and splashed a pale rectangle across a patch of worn yard toward the alley. On a corner glowed a serve-yourself gas station and beyond that was the steady flicker of automobile lights on a busy street. Here, in one of those neighborhoods that was still half-residential, Landrum’s hoarse whisper seemed to echo against the rear of dark homes across the alley.

  “Into what, Vinny? What did I get you into?”

  “Keep it down, man!” His sweaty face glinted as he peeked along the side of the house toward the avenue in front. “That Haas thing—you know, that fucking broad Carrie Busey.”

  “Me? I got you into that?”

  “Shh! Hell yes, you did. You didn’t take the case did you? So she came to me, didn’t she? And when I said we should work together you crapped on me, Kirk. You and meatball, here, you both crapped on me. So it’s your fault! You and that goddamned broad who’s causing all the trouble.”

  “What trouble, Vinny?”

  “She’s dead, that’s what trouble!” From somewhere in the distance, an emergency vehicle made a tiny howl in the dark. Landrum listened to it and wiped his nape with his hand. “Dead. Shot.”

  “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know who did it!” He caught his voice rising and stifled it, looking again past the corner of the house. “I don’t know who did it. She’s upstairs. In my office.”

  “Somebody got shot in your office and you don’t know who did it?” Bunch craned to stare up at the dark windows on the landing above. “You call the cops?”

  “Not yet, man—I wanted to talk to you first. Once they get ahold of me, shit only knows when they’ll let me go again.”

  “Well, Vinny, I’d say you got yourself a real problem. But I don’t know what you want Dev and me to do about it.”

  “It’s got something to do with that Haas case—that ‘suicide.’”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Figure it out. What did Carrie Busey hire me for?”

  “I told you to lay off Margaret Haas.”

  “Yeah? Well Carrie didn’t want me to lay off her. And she was paying the freight, Kirk. Not you.”

  “She’s not paying the freight now, Vinny. She’s dead.” I wrapped my hand tightly around Landrum’s arm and felt the muscle squirm under my fingers. “Now I’m going to pay you some freight.”

  “Wait a minute—wait, goddamn it all! Somebody killed her! It wasn’t me so it was somebody who wanted her out of the way. Because we were on to something.”

  “What something?”

  Landrum sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

  I lifted the man’s jaw with a knuckle. “What something?”

  “I don’t know, damn it! It’s just what I figure. Why else would she get killed? And I figure somebody thinks I know, too. You got to help me—it’s your fault!”

  “He’s got something there, Dev. She was killed for a reason. Let’s take a look before worm-breath calls the cops.”

  We went up in the dark, the stairs creaking under our weight. Inside, Landrum lowered the blinds and then flicked on the lights. Carrie Busey sprawled back in one of the two wooden chairs facing Landrum’s desk. One leg had jerked forward and stiffened; the other was still bent at the knee. Both hands were clutched tightly beside her purse which was on her lap and gaping open; and her head, with its stiffly piled blond hair, dangled face up over the back of the chair. Bet
ween her open eyes a purple hole had been punched and a small thread of blood had dried along one of the faint wrinkles of her forehead. Not much blood had spurted from the wound because most of it had gone out the back of her skull, spraying the wall behind the chair and then dropping in a gummy beard of sagging brains through her hair and onto the rug behind.

  “See? Fucking dead!”

  “We see, Vinny.”

  Bunch peered at the bullet hole with its corona of dark powder burn singeing the flesh. “Fired at close range. Less than a foot, I’d say.”

  The murderer probably stood just about where Bunch bent forward to study the wound. From the posture, Busey probably sat frightened and stiff in front of the pistol, straight up in the chair with her legs tucked under it and both hands clutching the purse for something to hold on to. Or to keep it from the killer. Then the shot. That close. That square to the target of forehead and between the terrified woman’s open eyes. The killer did not want to miss, and he had wanted her to see it coming.

  “How’d she get in here, Vinny?”

  “I—ah—she had a key.”

  “You gave her a key to your office?”

  “It’s the key to my apartment, too. I set the locks the same. I don’t like running around with a whole bunch of keys wearing holes in my pocket.”