Bad Signs

by R.J. Ellory

  John didn’t hear her comment, didn’t ask her to repeat it. His mind was on the last comment the last interviewee had uttered as he’d left their house. Damned shame, they’d said. That girl never had a bad word for anyone. Sweet as pie. Just as sweet as pie.

  That’s what her killer thought, John Cassidy had wanted to say, but he didn’t. He’d held his dark tongue and his dark thoughts, and he’d smiled and thanked them for their time, and left their house without sharing his shadows.

  “Think he’s gone by now,” John said. “I think he blew in and blew out like a tornado.”

  “You reckon he attacked anyone else?”

  “While he was here? We haven’t heard of anything, but you never know.”

  “What does Sheriff Powers have to say about it?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him. Just with Mike Rousseau.”

  “You’d have thought that something as important as this would have warranted attention from the sheriff, not just the deputy.”

  “It doesn’t work that way anymore, sweetheart. Bob Powers is a politician. He’s running a reelection campaign. All the duty rosters, assignments, supervision, case reviews … everything gets handled by Mike Rousseau now. It’s better that way. I’ve always worked better with Mike.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s good. The twins are moving schools. They had some difficulty. He said that Caroline was going to call you about some clothes she wanted to bring over for the baby.”

  “I saw her today,” Alice said. “She’s planning on bringing them at the weekend.”

  There was quiet for a time. Just the sound of the oven, the sound of plates, of cutlery, of the refrigerator door opening and closing. Sometimes he wanted music in the house. He liked some of that new jazz that came out of Phoenix. Not now. Now he wanted quiet. His mind was a storm of things. Thoughts, sounds, colors, images, the pattern of blood in the nap of the carpet … He closed his eyes for a moment. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, felt a shiver along his spine as he considered the kind of human being you would have to be to do something such as that to a girl like Deidre Parselle.

  Mike Rousseau, deputy sheriff for only three years and already frayed at the edges, told him that it was more than likely a vagrant, an opportunist thief who had seen the girl entering her apartment and come in for money. Finding little—simply because girls like Deidre Parselle weren’t the kind of people who hid hundreds of dollars in their homes—he decided he was going to take something else from her.

  “Animalistic, that’s what it is. Some kind of animalistic thing comes in on them, and they just go wild.”

  Who they were Rousseau didn’t go on to clarify. It was assumptive. Everything was assumptive until it was not.

  Cassidy didn’t buy opportunistic or animalistic or anything else. He believed he knew the motivation behind the attack: necessity. He believed the perpetrator needed to do that to Deidre. He was of the viewpoint that there was a dissociative mental condition, a condition where the rational parts of the mind disconnected from the irrational, and a new perspective came into play. It was not insanity in the clinically validated way. The people he was considering were more than capable of carrying on their lives like anyone else, but only so far. At some point something gave way, and then an impulse or an urge came into force, and it was an impulse and an urge that could neither be denied, rationalized, anticipated, inhibited, or prevented. It had to be satiated. That was all. The impulse had to be carried forward into action, and only then would it be satisfied. Then it would sleep—for a while—and the individual would spend some time trying to convince themselves that they had not been present for the enactment of the impulse, and perhaps they would feel a sense of guilt, but the dissociative state helped them overcome that guilt. It was not them. It was another part of themselves that they could neither predict nor control. How else could someone do this kind of thing, and then go smoke a cigarette and buy a soda? How else could—

  “John?”

  He looked up. Alice stood there with a plate of food.

  “Elbows?”

  He moved his elbows and she set the plate down ahead of him.

  “Stop thinking,” she said. “Start eating.”

  John and Alice Cassidy were in the sitting room when the visitors came. The knock at the door was brusque and certain. John got up, frowning. It was past eight thirty.

  He flicked on the outside light. Through the frosted glass half-moon in the upper part of the front door he saw two broken-up silhouettes. Two heads with hats. He hesitated, glanced back at Alice, who stood in the sitting room doorway, and then he opened the door.

  “Detective John Cassidy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good evening, sir. Sorry to bother you at home. My name is Garth Nixon, and this here is Ronald Koenig. We’re from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and we’d like to come in and speak with you.”

  IDs were presented, and John Cassidy stood there for a moment, and was certain of nothing but the fact that their appearance was due to the attack on Deidre Parselle.

  Koenig was evidently the more senior of the pair. Cassidy put him in his early fifties, and he had that authoritative, almost military bearing that made you feel he should be respected. The younger one, still a good ten or twelve years older than Cassidy himself, was also businesslike, matter-of-fact, straight to the point.

  Cassidy took them in the sitting room, asked if they wanted coffee, water, anything? They declined politely, and they waited silently until it was obvious that Alice needed to leave the room before they would speak further.

  Koenig did all the talking, seated there with his hat on his knee, his voice calm, his attention focused.

  “A convicted murderer by the name of Earl Sheridan was being transported from Baker, upstate California, to San Bernardino, for his execution. En route the convoy was slowed by a storm, and they decided to hold Sheridan in a juvenile facility in Hesperia overnight. Sheridan killed a guard and took two of the inmates of the facility as hostages. He escaped from Hesperia and headed southeast into Arizona. On the way a waitress in Twentynine Palms by the name of Bethany Olson was killed, also a man called Lester Cabot in Casa Grande, two more men in a convenience store in Marana, and then—while attempting to rob a bank in Wellton in Yuma County—four more people were killed and the sheriff was wounded. Sheridan himself was killed as he tried to escape from the bank, but one of the hostages, a seventeen-year-old by the name of Clarence Luckman, took one of the bank employees hostage, a young woman by the name of Laurette Tannahill, and got away in the sheriff’s car. In the few moments before Sheridan died he said that Luckman had been the one to rape and kill the Olson girl, and that Luckman had been an accomplice to the murders in Marana and Casa Grande. He also said that he and Luckman had killed the other hostage from Hesperia, a teenager called Elliott Danziger. We have now learned that Luckman and Danziger were in fact half brothers, same mother but different fathers. Danziger was the older by a year and a half. Luckman went on the run, and on the I-10 near a town called Gila Bend he stopped at the house of a man called Gil Webster. Here he locked Webster in the basement, and then he took the girl from Wellton into an upstairs room and beat her senseless.” Koenig paused. “He attacked her very brutally, Detective Cassidy, very brutally indeed.” Glancing at his watch, he sighed and shook his head. “We learned just an hour or so ago that she didn’t make it. She died in the hospital.”

  “So Luckman is now on the run, unaware that he’s wanted for her murder as well?”

  “Whether he believed he had killed the girl or not, we don’t know, but irrespective of whether he killed the Olson girl, or was accomplice to the other murders, he is now wanted for homicide in his own right. And after he assaulted this girl he took Webster’s pickup, which we have now traced to Tucson. We arrived just a little while ago. We spoke with your deputy sheriff, Mike Rousseau, and we are of the opinion that Luckman has been in Tucson for some time—”

  “And he
is the one who attacked Deidre Parselle?”

  Koenig was silent for just a heartbeat, and then he nodded his head. “We believe that this is the case. Rousseau told us of this incident. The manner of assault, the brutality inflicted … these things have led us to believe that we are dealing with the same perpetrator.”

  “And you have this Gil Webster’s pickup here in Tucson?”

  “Yes, we do. It has been impounded by your sheriff’s department.”

  “So now he’s either on foot, hiding, or he’s secured another vehicle,” Cassidy said.

  Both Koenig and Nixon said Yes in unison.

  “And my assault case has now become a federal homicide case and I am excused from the investigation?”

  Koenig smiled understandingly. “Not quite,” he said. “We believe that Luckman will head out of Arizona as fast as he can. Considering the route that he has taken thus far, we believe he’s going to continue into New Mexico, perhaps even Texas. We have instigated the highest alert possible, all county police and local units are being apprised of the situation. Until now we have limited our dissemination of this information to the federal offices in each area and the relevant police and sheriffs’ departments, but soon we will widen the zone of activity. Radio announcements will be made, Luckman’s picture will be distributed to gas station owners, convenience store owners, banks, motels, and suchlike. This will soon be the biggest single manhunt that the state has seen. Myself and Agent Nixon here have to follow him, of course, which means that we cannot stay behind in each town or city to investigate an incident. We have to leave that for the local authorities. The reason for speaking with you is to introduce ourselves, to present you with the facts you need to know, to answer your questions, and to gain your cooperation.”

  “In what way?” Cassidy asked.

  “That any and all facts you might uncover in your investigation of the Parselle girl’s attack be passed directly to our Anaheim office, and they will ensure that the information reaches us wherever we might be.”

  “Yes, of course,” Cassidy said. “I can do that.”

  “Excellent,” Koenig replied. “And now, are there are any questions you have for us?”

  “You have given pictures of this—is it Clarence Luckman?—to Deputy Sheriff Rousseau?”

  “We have, yes. He has assured us that copies will be made and distributed to all of his mobile units and beat officers.”

  “And the pickup that was taken from Gila Bend is impounded here and will stay here?”

  “It will stay here, yes, but we have specialists coming down from one of our field offices in Mesa and they are going to take the thing apart to look for any further clues that may assist us. It is unlikely that there will be anything, but we have to be as thorough as possible. In such cases the slightest thing can be very helpful.”

  Cassidy said nothing for a few moments, and then he rose from where he was sitting and walked to the fireplace. He rested his hand on the mantel and looked back at the two agents.

  “Can I ask why Clarence Luckman and his half brother were in the juvenile facility?”

  “They were there as orphans,” Koenig replied. “Danziger’s father, as far as we can understand, left before the child was even born. Luckman’s father murdered the boys’ mother when Luckman was five, and then the father, James Luckman, was shot and killed while trying to rob a liquor store.”

  Cassidy frowned. “The facility at Hesperia was a state orphanage?”

  “No, it was a juvenile criminal facility.”

  “But neither boy was there for having committed any criminal act?”

  “Well, originally Luckman was at a juvenile facility at Barstow, but he assaulted a member of their staff and he was sent to Hesperia. There was a question as to whether the assault was purely self-defense, but he was sent anyway. The brother went with him.” Koenig smiled wryly. “Seems Clarence Luckman was just very unlucky from the get-go, which is ironic, considering his name.”

  “And he and this Earl Sheridan killed Elliott Danziger?”

  “This is what Sheridan reported to the police at Wellton before he died. Danziger was the older of the two brothers, and was a source of trouble at Hesperia. He was guilty of numerous infractions of facility regulations, incidents of violence and mayhem, and there was a strong possibility he would have been transferred to the state penitentiary when he reached nineteen years of age.”

  “At San Bernardino?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Which is where this Earl Sheridan was going to be executed.”

  “Right.”

  “And Sheridan and Luckman killed Elliott Danziger?”

  “Yes, it seems they did.”

  “Why?” Cassidy asked.

  Nixon looked at Koenig. Koenig looked at Nixon. They both turned back to Cassidy.

  “We have a theory,” Koenig said.

  “Which is?”

  “Sexual.”

  Cassidy frowned.

  “Earl Sheridan had a long history of homosexuality. He was involved in sexual encounters with numerous men at the prison in Baker. We believe that he was sexually involved with Luckman, and that Danziger might have been openly critical of this involvement. We believe, in all likelihood, that Sheridan killed Danziger as a response to some comment or reaction to what he was seeing between the two others.”

  “But his own brother?”

  “Half brother,” Koenig said. “And if the incidents that have transpired concerning the girl at Wellton and the Parselle girl here are anything to go by, I don’t think we are dealing with anything even remotely approaching a sane and rational human being. We are dealing with a psychotic, and there is nothing predictable about the behavior of such individuals.”

  “Two’s company, three’s a crowd,” Cassidy said.

  “Precisely,” Koenig replied. “We don’t think that Luckman killed Danziger … well, we didn’t at first think that Luckman killed Danziger, but then when the girl from the bank was attacked, and now this one in Tucson …” Koenig left the statement hanging.

  “Situational dynamics,” Cassidy suggested. “Until he meets Sheridan there is nothing to provoke the homicidal or sociopathic tendency, but when he finds someone of like mind it lights the fuse, so to speak.”

  “You sound like you have some experience with this sort of thing,” Nixon said.

  Cassidy smiled. “An interest, that’s all.”

  “What you’re saying is a very strong possibility,” Koenig said.

  “And this girl in—where was it? Twentynine something-or-other?”

  “Twentynine Palms. A woman called Bethany Olson. She was raped and murdered.”

  “So Sheridan didn’t limit himself to sexual encounters with men.”

  “Sexual preference might be men,” Koenig said. “His appetite for sexual sadism could be reserved exclusively for women.”

  “But the ones who were killed at the bank. Men as well as women, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Cassidy said, “I don’t envy you your task. Your case is federal, and it’s a homicide now. I have just the one stabbing to contend with.”

  “We hope you have just the one, Detective Cassidy. There is the possibility that you may yet find another victim here in Tucson. And there’s always the possibility that the Parselle girl wasn’t attacked by Luckman. Doubtful. We know he was here. The pickup gives us that much for certain. The likelihood that we have two sociopathic maniacs on the loose in the same city is slim, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would, yes,” Cassidy said.

  “So that’s where we stand,” Koenig said. “We have our vehicle specialist on the way from Mesa, but I don’t think he will tell us anything further. We hope that there are no more victims in Tucson, and we have our work cut out trying to predict where Clarence Luckman will go from here.”

  “You have left contact details for your Anaheim office with Deputy Sheriff Rousseau?” Cassidy asked.

  “We have.�
��

  Both Koenig and Nixon rose to their feet.

  “All of this has to be kept under wraps for as long as possible, Detective Cassidy,” Koenig said. “I believe you understand enough of what has happened here to appreciate the necessity for the utmost confidentiality.”

  “Of course, yes, it goes without saying.”

  “I can also tell you that we are approaching this with a view to immediate resolution. If this Clarence Luckman is seen, then we have orders to address the matter with the most extreme prejudice.”

  “You have a shoot-to-kill policy in force?”

  Koenig smiled knowingly, but said nothing in response.

  “I understand,” Cassidy said.

  They shook hands, all three of them, and Cassidy showed them down the hallway to the front door.

  Alice appeared from the kitchen and joined him as he stood watching the federal agents drive away.

  “Bad news?” she asked for the second time that evening.

  “Yes,” he replied, and yet couldn’t shake the question that had come to mind the moment he’d been told of Clarence Luckman. Why would an apparently honest teenager, having spent twelve years of his life in state facilities, having never really gotten into any kind of trouble, suddenly become a brutal sexual sadist? Not only that, but an individual capable of killing his own half brother. Because he met someone of like mind? Because he had been withheld from enacting his impulses and satiating his appetites while incarcerated? Perhaps, perhaps not. It was hard to conceive of the idea that a seventeen-year-old would be capable of doing the kind of thing that had been done to Deidre Parselle, and before that the girl taken hostage from the bank. Again, it was further evidence that cultural structures and social restraints were coming apart at the seams, and out through the gaps the very worst kind of people were escaping. Were things getting worse, or was he just becoming more cynical and intolerant?

  John Cassidy closed the door on the darkness without, and followed his wife back to the kitchen. Omitting names and specific locations, he relayed to her precisely what he’d been told by Nixon and Koenig. She sat there silently, listening intently, and when he was done she didn’t say a word for quite some time.