"Fair enough. I was–"
Karl's head lifted a couple of inches, like a hunting dog that hears the far-off sound of geese approaching. He said, "Pardon me," and started walking rapidly toward the open bay door.
"Something wrong?" I called after him.
"Think I hear the radio." Can't beat those extra-sharp vampire senses. It was nice to have them on my side, for a change.
I chatted with Cecelia for another minute or two, then Karl came back in the garage. "Stan."
"What's up?"
"Radio call. It's McGuire."
He turned and went back out, and I followed him. Over my shoulder I said to Cecelia, "Gotta run. Talk to you after the post, OK?"
I saw her nod and then I concentrated on getting out to the car without quite running. McGuire wouldn't get on the radio personally just to ask us to pick up a pizza.
As we reached the car, I asked Karl, "Did he tell you anything?"
"Better hear it from him," Karl said.
No, definitely not a pizza run.
I got in, and grabbed the radio. "This is Markowski."
"This is McGuire."
Yeah, I knew that already – get to it.
"Yes, boss."
He said, "Sefchik and Aquilina are in the house, but I thought I'd try to reach you first. Figured you might want this one, since it concerns Rachel Proctor."
Please don't tell me that she's the latest witch to be burned. Please, for the love of God, don't tell me that.
"What happened?" I didn't yell, but everything in me wanted to.
"For starters, she's OK. So cool those jets of yours."
Guess McGuire could tell that I'd wanted to yell.
"All right, boss. What's up with Rachel?"
"Looks like our witch burner may have made a try for her tonight."
"And…?" I asked.
"She had a spell of some kind ready, and she zapped the bastard," McGuire said.
"Good for her – but 'zapped' how?" I already knew she couldn't have killed him. White magic, and all that.
"Froze him in place, apparently. Maybe you ought to get over there, have her thaw out the suspect, and bring him in. There's a black-and-white on scene already, but I figured you'd want in on this."
"As my partner likes to say, Fuckin' A. Where's 'over there'?"
"Rachel's house," McGuire said. "I guess the guy made his move on her front porch."
"We're on the way. Markowski out."
As I started up, Karl said, "Fuckin' A? You stealing my lines, now?"
"I was only borrowing that one, Mister…?" I let my voice trail off, figuring that Karl would get what I was doing.
He did. He gave a laugh, then said, in his best Sean Connery imitation, "Renfer. Karl Renfer."
The black-and-white unit, red and blue lights flashing, was parked in front of 1484 Stanton Street, and I slid our car in behind it. Rachel's front porch light was on, and under its illumination I could see Rachel, two uniformed officers – and a strangely posed mannequin. At least, it looked like a mannequin.
As we approached the porch, I could see that one of the uniforms was talking to Rachel, his notebook and pen in hand, while the other one stood next to the thing that looked like it belonged in a display window at Boscov's, or maybe in Madame Tussauds wax museum.
We mounted the creaking steps and went over to Rachel, who looked like she'd had a shock but was holding herself together pretty well. Karl probably would have said that she appeared shaken, but not stirred.
I nodded at the uniform who'd been talking to her. His name was McHale, and I'd been seeing him around for the last five years or so. He was tall and broad, the dusting of freckles across his nose an odd contrast to his King Kong physique. He took a couple of steps back as I approached Rachel.
"How you doing, kiddo?" I said to her.
"I'm not bad, considering, and stop calling me 'kiddo'."
I tried not to smile. Same old Rachel.
"Wanna tell me what happened?"
"As I was saying to Officer McHale, I got home about half an hour ago. I was standing in front of the door, sifting through my keys to find the right one. I heard a sound off to my left. I looked, and he–" she pointed with her chin toward the still figure "–was coming at me quite fast, his arm extended the way you see now."
"You didn't notice him before that?" I asked. I glanced around her porch. "There isn't anyplace to hide up here."
"The porch light was off – I only went inside and turned it on after the excitement was over. He'd been hiding in the shadows over near the side railing."
"Gotcha. So you look over your shoulder and see him coming at you. Then what?"
"As I told you when we talked last, I had a spell ready, the kind I could invoke with a single word – and the proper gesture. So I made the gesture, said the word, and voila – instant statuary."
"Nice casting," I said. "I'm glad you were prepared."
"Me, too." Her lips compressed grimly. "Especially considering the fate I would probably have suffered, if this motherfucker had been successful in abducting me."
Rachel rarely swears. The fact that she'd done so meant that she wasn't feeling quite as calm as she looked. Not that I blamed her.
"So then I went inside," she said, "turned on the outside light and got my phone out. I called 911 and reported the attack, then realized that I probably should have called 666 instead. So I did."
"Never hurts to cover all the bases," I said, then turned to Karl. "Keep Rachel company for a few minutes, will you? I wanna check out our perp."
"Sure," Karl said, stepping forward. "Hey, Rachel. How's the witch business?"
"Not bad, Karl. How the vampire business?"
"It kinda sucks, but that's not always a bad thing."
I left those two to trade bad puns and went over to the human statue.
If this was a museum, the exhibit could be titled "Cat Burglar – Early Twenty-first Century". Or maybe the guy had Googled "Commando", then clicked on "Illustrations" and copied the results – to the letter.
His wiry build was right for the role, anyway. He looked flexible and strong, but without a lot of bulging muscles. Rachel's attacker seemed to be around thirty, and that was all I could tell about him, apart from the outfit.
He was dressed completely in black – pullover sweater, gloves, jeans, and shoes. I'd have to check later, but I was betting he wore black socks, too. To top it off, he even had the black stocking cap pulled down low over his ears. Put some black camo paint on his face – the one part of the look he'd passed up – and this role-playing asshole would be all ready for a raid on some Nazi ammo dump. He was perfect.
His posture now looked like what you get when you hit Pause on your DVD player. His feet were well apart, one in front of the other, as if he'd been moving fast when the magic hit him. His right arm was extended, fist clenched. He was holding something white in his clenched hand, so I stepped close for a look and saw what appeared to be a folded handkerchief. Then I stepped closer, and took a whiff. Chloroform.
Old school all the way. Jesus.
He was being guarded, if that's the word, by the other uniform, whose name was Perrotta. I'd seen him around before. He had smart-looking brown eyes, and the thick mustache that covered his upper lip was within department regulations, but only by a millimeter or so. I nodded to him and said, "Have you advised the prisoner of his MirandaStoker rights, yet?"
Perrotta shook his head. "No way for him to show that he understood 'em, Sarge, the way he is now. Don't want some shyster lawyer gettin' him off later on a technicality."
"Good thinking," I said. "We'll Stokerize him ourselves, once he's thawed out. You frisk him?"
"Sure, Sarge. He had this on him."
Perrotta produced an evidence bag – which is just a plastic sandwich bag with "Evidence" stamped on it – and handed it to me.
It took me a second to realize what I was looking at. "Christ, it's a fucking blackjack," I said. "I haven't
seen one of those in years." I handed the bag back to him. "Anything else of interest?"
"Just the usual – wallet, keys, handkerchief, pocket change. I left it all in place."
"Did you check the wallet for ID?"
"Yeah, I did – and get this: there was nothing."
"No ID, you mean?"
"I mean no nothing," Perrotta said. "Only thing in the wallet was cash. No drivers license, no registration, no credit cards, not even a fucking library card."
"How much cash was he carrying?"
"Exactly $440."
"You mentioned keys," I said.
"Just a set of car keys, left front pocket."
I reached into the guy's pocket and pulled out a key ring. No helpful bauble dangled from it – I'd been kinda hoping for a plastic tab that said Witch Burners Club, with an address and phone number. But my luck never runs that good. All I got were two Ford keys on a plain metal ring.
I handed the keys to Perrotta.
"Once Detective Renfer and I have secured the suspect, I want you and your partner to check every Ford vehicle parked on this block, until you find the one that the keys fit."
"OK, Sarge."
"You shouldn't have to look real hard – he's got to be parked close by. You don't go carrying a limp body any distance around this neighborhood, even at night."
"Maybe the scumbag had an accomplice," Perrotta said.
"One who drove off when Rachel zapped this guy? Yeah, could be. But we gotta look for the car, anyway."
"Yeah, I know. What do you want us to do, assuming we find it?"
"First thing, check it over, including the trunk. I wanna know if this dude was carrying a can of gasoline and maybe some rope. Stuff like that."
Perrotta nodded. "Sounds like you like this guy for the witch burnings."
"Yeah, and I'll like him even better for it if there's rope and gas in his back seat." I handed him my card. "If you turn up something, I want you to call me – ASAP."
"Sure, will do."
"Then have the vehicle towed to the impound lot. Tell whoever's on duty that the vehicle is not to be released to anybody without my specific authorization."
"Got it, Sarge."
"Be sure to get a receipt from the impound lot. Leave it, with the keys, in my mailbox at the house. If you didn't find the car, then just leave the keys. There's no big hurry about that last part," I said. "I won't get to the car until tomorrow." I looked at the frozen figure next to me. "I'm gonna spend the rest of tonight having a nice chat with Chuck Norris, here."
I went over to where Rachel and Karl were quietly talking. "Rachel, did you happen to notice if some vehicle, maybe one parked nearby, took off in a hurry once you took care of that guy?"
Rachel bit her lip for a few seconds, then shook her head. "I don't remember anything Stan – but I have to admit I was kind of distracted for a while there."
"OK, just thought I'd ask. Now, you wanna thaw this jerk out for me? We're taking him down to the station house, and it's gonna be tough getting him in the car if he can't bend."
"Sure, Stan. The sooner you take this garbage off my porch, the better."
She stood facing the still figure. "Tell me when you're ready."
Karl and I positioned ourselves on either side of the still figure. "OK," I said. "Go ahead."
She pointed her index finger at the frozen man and said what sounded like "Keslungi pasha notro!" – then she dropped her hand abruptly, with a slicing motion.
A second later, the guy lunged for her, but Karl and I were ready for him. We each grabbed a wrist and twisted his arms up behind his back. We had handcuffs on him before he fully knew what was happening.
"What? Hey, let go of me! Where'd you come from? Let me go, dammit!"
He was struggling to get free now, but it was a waste of time and energy. Karl held his arm on one side, and I had a tight grip on the other. With my free hand, I showed him my badge. "Police officers," I said. "You're under arrest for trespassing, attempted abduction, attempted assault, and a bunch of other stuff we'll think of later. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. If you are a supernatural being, you have the right–"
Our commando prisoner gave a nasty laugh. "Supernatural being?" he said. "Are you fucking kidding me? Do I look like one of those subhuman scum to you?"
I shook him hard enough to get his attention. "Shut up until I finish. If you are a supernatural being, you have the right to have someone of your own kind present during questioning, in addition to an attorney. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"
"Yeah, sure, I understand. I want a fucking lawyer!"
"You can call one after you're booked," I said. "Let's go."
He didn't fight us as we got him down the steps and over to our car, then put him in back. I glanced over my shoulder towards the porch and saw that one of the uniforms had resumed taking Rachel's statement while the other one bagged the chloroform-soaked rag the suspect had dropped when he unfroze. A few seconds later, we were on our way to the station house.
The commando didn't say anything en route. There was a time when I might have tried to draw him out. Once he's been Stokerized, anything he says in the car is admissible, although we're not supposed to interrogate him without his lawyer. Back in the day, I might've said to my partner, a little louder than necessary, "Boy, that witch sure looked scared, didn't she?" If the suspect wanted to offer his opinion, who were we to stop him?
But not with a vampire riding up front. If the DA tried to introduce as evidence something commando boy said in the car, his lawyer would claim that Karl had used Influence to get him talking – and how could we prove otherwise?
Back in 1975, the Supreme Court ruled in Barlow v. Maine that information obtained under Influence was inadmissible in any trial, criminal or civil. The DA won't even allow Karl in the room when a suspect is being interrogated, even if the perp's lawyer is present.
I've been learning that there are some advantages to having a vampire partner, but getting information from suspects under arrest isn't one of them.
Of course, that doesn't apply when we want to know something from a guy – or creature – who wasn't under arrest. I hoped Karl would get better at using Influence soon. It would come in handy when talking to informants who we thought might be holding out on us.
At the station house we brought our commando prisoner upstairs, where we turned him over to the booking sergeant. Tonight that was Ron Beck, who's been booking suspects longer than anyone can remember. Some say he once fingerprinted Jesse James, but I don't believe it. Everybody knows Jesse never got this far north. Ron's got thick white hair and a potato nose whose color suggests some experience with alcoholic beverages.
We brought the suspect over to Ron's desk and took the handcuffs off. If commando boy tried anything cute, there were plenty of cops in the room to stop him.
"Have somebody bring him upstairs when he's processed, will you, Ron?"
"Absolutely, Stan," he said. He took our prisoner firmly by the arm and led him off to be fingerprinted.
In the squad room, Karl and I briefed McGuire about the attack on Rachel and the guy who had tried it. I was describing what the perp had been wearing when my phone started playing music. I glanced at it and said, "I'd better take this, boss."
McGuire nodded, so I answered the call.
"This is Markowski."
"Sarge, this is Officer Tom Perrotta from the crime scene earlier tonight."
"Right, Perrotta. What've you got?"
"You pegged it right, Sarge. Three houses down from Rachel's place, other side of the street, we hit the jackpot with an Econoline van. You want the tag number, all that?"
"No, I want to know what you found inside it."
"It was just like you said. In the back of the van he had a five-gallon can
of gas, full, and a couple coils of nylon rope. Oh, and a Bible."
I asked, "Which version?" Catholics still stick with the Latin Vulgate edition, while Protestants use the King James. It might give us a clue as to which side of the Christian fence our perp called home.
"Version? Hell, beats me, Sarge. I don't know there was more than one."
"It's all right, forget it – you and your partner did good. Now get that van over to Impound, will you?"
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