The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  "You have the right to remain silent. Anything—"

  "Cut the rights recital, will you. Is he dead?"

  Wasser blinked at me. This was not a member of the Boston Police Homicide Squad. This was a member of a small-town, selectman's nephew, incompetent detective squad. I had picked the site carefully.

  "Is who . . ." he started to say, then shook himself and ran through the rights as though there were no spaces between the words.

  I acknowledged I understood them and asked if there was anything he'd like me to sign. He turned the card over and back `a few times.

  "Not on the card," I said, "there's a separate form."

  He blinked some more.

  "If I were you," I said, "I'd call for reinforcements."

  He stopped blinking and took a bite of his sandwich. Then he hurried out of the room, and I dozed off for real.

  "Are you awake?" said a voice with some juice behind it.

  I looked up into the eyes of a hard-chiseled face. Short black hair, not much gray. Wasser stood behind him, chewing.

  "My name is Lieutenant Parras." He spelled it for me. "I understand Detective Wasser read you your rights and while you understand them, you want to speak to us anyway. Is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  Parras said, "We didn't find any identification on you. What's your name?"

  "John Francis Cuddy."

  "Address?"

  "It's not there anymore."

  His eyebrows knitted. "What?" he said.

  "It's gone, my apartment house. Somebody blew it up."

  Parras smiled condescendingly. "Is that how you got hurt, Mr. Cuddy?"

  I looked down at my right arm. The bandages showed, bulged even under the loose-fitting hospital johnny.

  "I wouldn't expect Deli-Master over there to recognize it, but surely the doctor who treated me told you that I'd been shot."

  Wasser, incredibly, was still chewing on something.

  "Mr. Cuddy-" Parras started.

  "Your questions also mean you haven't been down behind the auto shop yet either, have you?"

  Parras' eyebrows knitted a few more stitches. "What auto shop?"

  I sighed. "Where am I?" I asked.

  "St. Jude's. The hospital, I mean."

  "You have a street named Breston in this town?"

  "Yeah, about . . . Why?"

  "On Breston Street, in a warehouse district, there's a deserted auto shop. Fender and body work."

  "Maybe. Why?"

  "Oh, for Christ's sake." I said. "I'm a private investigator. I turned an old Pontiac that was following me and trailed it there. I got suckered into leaving my car and walked behind the place. I got ambushed. I got one of them, right at the car as he was getting out of it. The other guy drove off."

  "What the—"

  "I got back to my car and made it to some kind of shopping area when I blacked out."

  "Do you mean that you . . . That there's a body . . ."

  I put my good hand up to my face and did a slow burn which shut him up. "Lieutenant Parras, I'm not sure who or what is where, but I've got a pretty good idea you ought to start at that auto shop." I shifted and grimaced. "I'm sure as hell not going anywhere for a while."

  "You, you mean—" Parras broke off. Not as much juice as I thought. "Wasser, better call the Chief."

  Wasser checked his watch. "It's four-forty-five A.M., Lieutenant. Maybe you better call him."

  I closed my eyes and smiled on the inside. Perhaps I had underestimated Wasser.

  * * *

  Chief Kyle was stocky and bald, and bore a striking resemblance to Edward Asner, the actor. He arrived just before 6 A.M. I elaborated for him the story I had summarized for Parras, who stood where Wasser had, Wasser having disappeared. Kyle did not much like my story and said so.

  I shrugged, then clenched my teeth from the resultant pain in my arm. "Sorry, Chief, it's the only story I've got."

  Kyle looked like he wanted to spit but was barely civilized enough to refrain. His next remark was cut short by a knock at the door and the head of Wasser around it.

  "Chief?" said Wasser.

  "Yeah?" said Kyle.

  "He's here."

  Kyle nodded, gave me a disgusted look, and said to Parras, "Stay here but don't talk to him." Kyle didn't wait for an acknowledgment. He just banged open the door and left.

  I made faces at Parras for about ten minutes before the door banged open again. Kyle came back in with one Lieutenant Murphy, Boston P.D. Wasser shuffled in behind them, dragging a couple of hard plastic chairs but carrying no obvious forms of nourishment.

  "Cuddy."

  "Lieutenant."

  Murphy and Kyle sat in Wasser's chairs. Parras and Wasser stayed standing. Murphy looked to Kyle, who motioned him to go ahead. Murphy said thank you and turned to me.

  "Why don't you tell me what you say happened, Cuddy?"

  I did.

  Murphy leaned forward a bit, resting his chin on his uptumed palm, elbow on his knee. The Thinker.

  "You turn the tail and follow him to the auto shop. You didn't make the plates?"

  "Like I said, no front plate and no light on the back. "

  "And you're not sure which model or year either?"

  "It was a big, old Pontiac. It was dark, and I didn't want to get too close."

  "How long were you in claims investigating?"

  "About eight, nine years."

  "And you couldn't ID a car better than big, old, Pontiac?"

  "Big, old, dark Pontiac."

  "Big, old dark Pontiac?"

  "That's right."

  "And after all the shit you've been through in this case, after somebody bombing your place and all, you followed somebody into an alley—"

  "Well, more like a business-—"

  "I been there!" snapped Murphy. "It looks like an alley."

  "Okay, an alley."

  "So you followed somebody into an alley all by yourself?"

  "With a shotgun."

  "That you got through a guy whose license to sell firearms is hanging by a thread."

  "I try to support marginal but vital—"

  "Oh, cut the shit, man! You blew a guy up last night."

  "I did."

  "With a shotgun."

  "That's right."

  "Where'd his gun go?"

  Nice shift of gears. I hoped Parras and Wasser were learning something.

  "I don't know. He threw a shot at me from the passenger's side, then I pumped two shots at him as his partner hit me. I was close, maybe six feet. I let fly another shell, but I think the guy was already on his way. I got up and got only close enough to the guy I shot to know I'd finished him. I never saw a gun."

  "How do you know he had one?" snapped Kyle.

  "Because he shot at me, Chief."

  "Ah, how do you know it wasn't his partner?" ventured a hesitant Parras.

  "Two different reports."

  "Whose reports?"

  "Not written reports, Parras," I said. Though he had the same rank as Murphy, he didn't belong on the same level in my mind, so I accorded him no title.

  "Report as in sound of the shots. Two different weapons."

  "What kinds?" said Kyle.

  "Sorry, but I'm not that expert, Chief. I could just tell there was a difference in the noises."

  I stole a look at Murphy. He was not pleased at the useless tangents being pressed by the locals, but politely played invited guest. He waited till it was quiet, then resumed.

  "So you didn't take any gun from him?"

  "No."

  "Or anything else?"

  I shook my head.

  "Cuddy, the man had nothing on him. No keys, no wallet, not a label in his clothes."

  "I can't explain that."

  Parras broke in. "You see anybody in the area who could have stripped him?"

  "Shut up, Parras," said Kyle.

  Murphy didn't bother to let me answer.

  "And you figure that the dead man is th
e guy who killed your friend?"

  "That's what I figure. Matthew Crowley. The dead man is about the right size. I spotted him in the files I reviewed in Washington. You can call a Colonel Kivens at—"

  Murphy closed his eyes and held up his hand. I stopped. "If you volunteer it, it'll check out."

  "It should just be a matter of checking his fingerprints," I said.

  "Chief?" said Murphy.

  Kyle shook his head, then stood and slouched toward the door. Murphy got up, too, and Kyle followed him out. Parras muttered something to Wasser, who nodded. Parras followed the first string out of the room.

  I looked over at Wasser,

  "Deli-Master, huh," he said.

  I drooped a little onto my pillow. "I'm sorry about that. I was a little pissed off."

  "Forget it," said Wasser, digging around in his parka pocket. "You were in 'Nam, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  "Me, too."

  I looked at Wasser. "Outfit?"

  “First Cav."

  The First Cavalry, Airmobile. The helicopter unit that was caricatured in the "Death from Above" sequence in Apocalypse Now. A unit that in real life caught a lot of tough fights.

  "You?" he said, trying another pocket.

  He squinted at me, as though trying to judge something. "Tet?"

  "Yeah." .

  "Your friend, too? The guy the stiff killed?"

  "Yes."

  Wasser came up with a candy bar. He gestured with it toward me the way soldiers probably have since the Caesars. The gesture that said "you-want-half?"

  "Thanks, no."

  He shrugged, unwrapped it, took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. "You know," he said, "one thing I don't figure."

  "What's that?"

  "I seen a lotta dead guys."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. Mostly in 'Nam, I admit. But a lot." He took another bite of his bar. "Never saw anybody hit as bad as that stiff leave so little blood."

  I thought about the volume of blood Crowley must have left in the Pontiac. "It was pretty cold out there. Retards the bleeding."

  "Probably." Just kept chewing. "Only thing is"—he swallowed—"that round the partner threw at you, shoulda been in your left arm, not your right."

  I thought about it, felt a little flush around my ears.

  "I must have turned or something." I sounded hollow. '

  He finished the bar, sucked on his finger. "Maybe," he said, "but you weren't dressed warm enough for this time of year and I don't see the partner stripping the stiff, especially not cuttin' the labels and all. I also don't see the missing gun. And to top it, I sure don't see you being close enough to ID the stiff but not the car before you took his face off."

  "So?" I said, not liking the turn our talk was taking. He didn't reply immediately. He examined his lingers for any missed traces of chocolate, then focused on me. "So, I figure you set the guy up somehow."

  "No way. "

  "The black guy, Murphy, he figures it that way, too."

  I shook my head.

  Wasser didn't continue.

  "So, what are you going to do about it?" I asked.

  "Me?" he said, then giggled. A faraway giggle.

  "The stiff, he aced your buddy, right?"

  "Right."

  Wasser yawned, dug around again but fruitlessly in his pockets. He moved to the door. "Fuck it," he said and walked out.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  -•-

  I SLEPT FOR REAL A FEW HOURS AFTER WASSER left. A nurse awakened me so that a doctor could speak with me. Fortunately, he happened to be both my "admitting" and "treating" physician. After a brief exchange of information about hospital room rates, the effect of shock and blood loss, and my absence of medical insurance coverage, we agreed I could be discharged that afternoon. He also told me there were several reporters interested in an interview with me. I declined, but said I would love to see a newspaper. He said he would ask the nurse and departed.

  I spent the next thirty minutes or so wondering if I should call Nancy, since I had already decided that I would wait to confirm Eddie Shuba's compaction of the Pontiac. I resolved against using any nonpublic telephone for a while.

  I was about halfway through the mental accounting of where the "J.T. Davis" money would go when the nurse popped in with an "early stocks" edition of the Globe. Crowley and I had made the small box on the right lower corner of page one. Few details, and those given were misleading. They got the hospital's name right, however.

  A different nurse looked in on me an hour later and changed my dressing. She gave me a printed list of instructions for further "outpatient care," interlineating a few suggestions of her own. I promised her I would come back in two days so the doctor could check my progress. She helped me on with my clothes, the local constabulary not having impounded them. She said an orderly would be by somewhere between ten minutes and two hours later to wheel me down. I thanked her and waited patiently (no pun intended).

  A Bahamian man, in white togs and about thirty, came by for me half an hour later. I settled in the chair, and we left the room. No police outside my door, no reporters. His name was Bragdon Bailey, and he was as sunny as a Caribbean morn.

  "Somebody here to fetch you, my friend?" he asked.

  "No. I thought I'd take a cab."

  "My cousin, he have a taxi. I can call him, no problem."

  We pulled up to the elevator. "Thanks. I'd appreciate it."

  "Hey, my pleasure. The gentlemen of the press, they real interested in you. We can go out the back way. Avoid them."

  "That would be a blessing."

  The elevator doors opened. Bailey pushed me in and hit a button.

  "The chap you shot?"

  "Yes?"

  “Must have been a bad fella!"

  "He was."

  "The police letting you go?"

  "I haven't heard otherwise."

  He chuckled. The elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened. He wheeled me down a corridor into a small office.

  "You don't have no insurance, you settle up here. I'll call my cousin."

  I thanked him. I gave the cashier's clerk Nancy's address and telephone number. The clerk was a lot more courteous and understanding about the situation of a homeless, ID less man than I expected, and I told her so.

  She smiled and tapped the news account folded open on her desk. “You're a celebrity. They're always better treated."

  I returned her smile.

  "Where are you headed?" she said.

  "To see my wife," I said softly.

  "That's good. Kids?"

  “No."

  "Too bad. My Sam and me got three. Whats your wife's name?"

  "Na—" I stopped, blinked. "Beth," I said, a little thickly.

  She reached over, patted my hand lightly. "Don't worry, you've been through a lot. She'll understand? She always has, I thought, but just nodded. Bailey stuck his head around the corner.

  "Ready, Mr. Cuddy?" `

  The woman and I both said yes at the same time. We all three laughed.

  Bailey wheeled me through a rear corridor, making small talk. We hit the back door and cold, bright sunlight.

  We went down a ramp toward an orange and white taxi.

  "Mornin', Mr. Bai1ey," beamed a heavy-set man who got out of the driver's side and came around to help me.

  "Fine mornin', Mr. Delton," replied Bragdou.

  "This gentlemen is Mr. John Cuddy. He had a tough time of it last night, and I want you to be good to him." Delton held the door as I got up from the wheelchair and entered the back seat.

  "My pleasure," said the driver. "Where are you headed, Mr. Cuddy?"

  "East Fourth Street, South Boston."

  Delton and Bailey stopped talking and exchanged questioning looks.

  My mind was turning to mush. After the school busing controversy, South Boston was a part of the city where a black was not safe, daylight or dark, even in a car. "I'm sorry," I said, "it never crossed my mind . . ."

>   Bailey held up his hand. "No problem. My cousin can take you there. No worries."

  Delton stayed silent, coming around to the driver's side. I started to protest, Bailey shushed me and closed the door. I rolled down the window jerkily with my left hand and stuck the hand through the opening.

  "Good meeting you, Mr. Bailey," I said.

  He took my hand, shook it sideways. "Good luck to you, Mr. Cuddy."

  "If I still had a card, I'd give you one. Private investigator. Call me if you ever need—"

  Delton had started the car. Bailey mock saluted, and we pulled off.

  At the first traffic light, I rapped two knuckles on the Plexiglas shield between the driver and the passenger compartments.

  Delton turned his head.

  "Mr. Delton," I said loudly, "make that police headquarters instead. Berkeley and Stuart streets, downtown. There's someone I want to see first."

  The light changed. Delton strained his neck to watch the road.

  "Look, my friend, I stand by what my cousin promised."

  "I appreciate that, honest. But I still have to stop there first."

  Delton smiled, bobbed his head, and turned on the radio. The station was playing some Reggae music, and both of us were able to enjoy the ride.

  Cross told me to wait. As she walked away, I thought about asking her whether she had heard back about her "probationary check-up," then decided that the way my mind was working, I would reserve the question. She beckoned to me from Murphy's door.

  "He'll see you."

  She moved back toward her desk. I entered Murphy's office, closed the door, and sat down. Murphy was behind his desk, running the index finger of his right hand rapidly down the lines of some report while he sipped tentatively at probably too hot coffee in a cracked mug.

  "Well?" he said, without looking up.

  "What do you think Chief Kyle is going to do?"

  Murphy stopped tracing but kept sipping. "Why ask me and not him?"

  "Because I think you know what he's going to do and will tell me. I think he doesn't know what he's going to do and wouldn't tell me even if he did."