Anyway, I didn’t care what they called themselves, so I never said anything.
You want to know something funny? In the Army, I never learned one useful thing for the World. In prison, I never learned one useful thing for the World either. But the stuff I learned in the Army helped me in prison. And I guess, if I’d gone to prison first, it would have helped me in the Army. Weird, huh?
Anyway, I got out of both. I came back to the World each time.
What I do now, I drive a truck. So I’m on the road a lot. I never really had a home, and that was okay. Until I met Noreen. She was working in one of the truck stops. I don’t mean “working” like when they say “working girl.” See, all the truck stops have hookers. “Lot lizards,” they call them. You can even call ahead on the CB, make a reservation if you want. But Noreen was a waitress. She cooked too, sometimes.
I really liked her. She talked about stuff I didn’t know anything about, but I always liked to hear her say it anyway. You know what I liked best about her? She wrote me letters. On the road, so they’d be waiting for me at the next stop. All the time I was in the Army, I never got a letter. All the time in prison neither.
Noreen was a single mother. That’s what she said, “I’m a single mother.” I wasn’t even sure what she meant, until she explained. She had a son. Lewis, his name was. He was nine years old. Lewis didn’t have a father. I don’t mean like Noreen was divorced, she was never married. She said she knew who the father was. She said he knew it, too. But he never came around after she told him she was pregnant. She told Lewis his father died in an accident. Before he was even born. Lewis, I mean, not the father.
Noreen and I got married. She had this little apartment. Only one bedroom. Lewis slept in the bedroom, and Noreen slept on a fold-out couch in the living room. After we got married, she asked me, did I want us to sleep in the bedroom? I told her that was Lewis’ room. She hugged me so tight it hurt.
I think Lewis really liked me. He never said much—but that’s okay, because I never say much either. But we did some things together. Mostly watched TV and played cards. And computer games—he was real good at those. I never took him fishing or nothing like that. Lewis wasn’t into sports much—he didn’t even like to watch them on TV.
In the little house, Lewis still had his own bedroom. Noreen and I had one too, right across the hall. It was nice. I was always glad to come back. With Noreen and me both working, we did okay. That’s how we got the down payment for the house, saving together. I bought it on the GI Bill. That was the first time I ever got anything out of being in the Army. I didn’t even know you could do that, but the man at the bank told us about it.
Lewis used to ask me about the Army. I never told him much. I don’t mean I told the kid to shut the hell up and not bother me or nothing—I would never do that. I just told him it was a long time ago, and it was different things to different people, depending on who you asked. He asked me something once, though. His class was going on a field trip to Washington, D.C. You know, where they have that monument to all the people who got killed over there? Anyway, Lewis asked me, did I want him to look up the names of anyone I had served with? I told him nobody I had served with ever got killed over there. I was sorry to lie to him, but the truth would have been harder. Noreen was always doing things that made it harder on herself so she could make it easier for Lewis, and that’s what I wanted to do too.
I even read a book on it. Being a good parent, I mean. But it didn’t make sense to me. I mean, there was nothing so great in there. It’s like the person who wrote it didn’t get it. Or maybe I didn’t.
Lewis asked me if I got any medals once, too. I told him no. They didn’t give out any medals for what I did.
I guess I’m rambling all over the place with this. Noreen says I do that when I don’t like what I’m going to have to say. Say I’m going to be gone for a few weeks on the road—it takes me hours just to tell her that.
Anyway, it was just a little fight. Between two kids. This guy Hank’s kid—his name is Hank, too; they called him Junior—and Lewis. I guess Lewis got beat up a little bit, but not too bad. He wasn’t all that upset about it. But this guy Hank, he was mad. Even though Lewis didn’t win the fight, I guess he hurt Junior.
Lewis didn’t think he won, but maybe Junior didn’t think he did either.
So Hank came over to our house. He pounded on the door. I wasn’t home. Noreen told me about it. Hank was screaming that Lewis should come out of the house and take what was coming to him. Noreen got mad. I’m not sure what happened next, but I know Hank hit her. Slapped her, really, I guess. Then Lewis got real mad and tried to stab Hank with a kitchen knife. Hank got it away from him and he punched Lewis. Noreen really tried to get him then, but she couldn’t. This was all while I was away.
I don’t think Noreen would ever have told me about it. But she knew Lewis would, and she figured maybe it would be better coming from her. I told her I wouldn’t lose my temper, and she believed me. That was fair—she’d never seen me lose my temper.
I went over to see Hank. He came outside. I told him what he did was wrong. He shouldn’t have hurt my wife or my kid. He said Lewis wasn’t my kid. That made me feel real bad. Not for me, I don’t care, I guess. But I know how kids are. And if Hank was saying that then probably Junior was saying that. And maybe all the kids were saying it too. Lewis always told everyone I was his father, so it was like calling him a liar. Lewis is no liar, just like his mother.
Hank said other things too. About Noreen. I think he was trying to make me mad. He told me he was over there. In the Nam. He was a Green Beret, he said. Trained in hand-to-hand combat. He was training Junior, and Junior was going to really get Lewis one day.
I didn’t get mad. I told him I’d been there too. And I learned fighting like that was stupid. I learned that over there. He said I was a punk. That was okay—I know how people talk.
He asked me, did I want to step outside? I told him we was already outside. That just made him madder.
Then he said we’d have to settle it. He asked me if I knew where this old factory was. On the edge of town. It’s abandoned now, empty. Even the kids don’t go there to play, because there’s all kinds of busted machinery lying around and they could get hurt. Noreen would never let Lewis go there.
I told him, yes, I knew where it was.
Hank asked me, did I have a gun at home? I told him yes.
He said he had one, too. And we’d have to meet at the factory and settle this thing. I told him he was crazy. Gunfights, they don’t happen in the World. He said, if I didn’t do it, next time I went on the road he’d go and see Noreen. He said that was the real World. He said some other stuff, too.
So I’m here, at the factory. Waiting for Hank.
It won’t take long. I did this before. A lot.
After I got done with Infantry, I got my real MOS. The one I could never use in the World before this.
Hank’s head fills the scope. I rest the crosshairs on the bridge of his nose, tracking him as he walks forward. He has a pistol held down at his side, right against the thigh of his camo-pants.
I wait for my breathing to be perfect. Between heartbeats, I do it.
Then I go back to the real World.
for Walter Anderson
PERP WALK
1
“It’s all set up, Tracy.” It was the Chief’s bulldog voice, thick from the pressure of all the media attention. “Bring him on down,” he said.
I keyed the microphone in the cruiser. “ETA under fifteen minutes, sir,” I promised.
“I’ll meet you out front. And, Tracy . . .”
“Yes, Chief?”
“This case is a career-maker, son. I won’t forget who cracked it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I replaced the mike, glanced over my shoulder to the cage in the back of the prowl car. Wallace John Loomis sat back there, hands cuffed behind his broad back, a three-day stubble on his pockmarked face, dull eyes s
taring straight ahead like he was watching one of those TV cartoons he loved so much.
“You think he’ll beat it? Take an NGI and go to the state hospital?” the fresh-faced young trooper behind the wheel asked me. He’d only been on the job for a year or so—he still loved the cop slang.
“Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity? Not a chance, kid. Old Wallace ain’t crazy, he’s just slow in the head, that’s all. Real slow.”
“But isn’t that the same as—?”
“Nah. Remember Homer Sistrunk? He had the IQ of a potted plant. But he was smart enough to rape and kill that old woman, right? They fry retards in this state, kid. And in a case like this . . .”
2
They were all waiting for us in the parking lot. Four in the afternoon, timed just perfect for the evening news. Better to let the TV people lead off, the Chief always said. It’s more dramatic. Besides, people don’t read the way they used to years ago—let the newspapers hold until the morning editions.
I could see the bright-yellow Channel 29 van right in front of the steps to the station house, the blonde-woman half of the evening anchor team already set up in the floodlights, a wireless microphone in her hand. The working press was there too—I recognized the red-haired guy with the gray trench coat from the Herald Dispatch. A phalanx of uniformed troopers kept the crowd behind wooden sawhorse barriers.
The kid pulled the cruiser as close as he could. I got out and opened the back door, motioning for Loomis to get out, holding my hand gently over his head so he wouldn’t bump it as he exited.
Then we did the Perp Walk. Loomis first, me next to him, right hand tight on his left biceps. The reporters shouted questions at him:
“Did you kill Mary Jo?”
“Do you have a statement to make?”
“Was anyone else involved?”
But Loomis didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead, putting one foot ahead of the other, moving slow like he always did.
3
Once we got him locked up in one of the isolation cells, I came back outside. The chief was talking to the press, telling them how I had found the little girl’s gym shorts in a shed at the back of the falling-down dump Loomis lived in all by himself. The little girl had disappeared the night of March 31.
“Good old-fashioned police work,” the chief said. “That’s how these cases are solved. Not with computers, not with those FBI profiles—with classic investigative techniques. And I’m proud to say that, when it comes to investigators, we’ve got one of the best in the business.”
He gestured with his hand and I moved in next to him on top of the steps. “I can’t stop and answer any of your questions now,” I told them all. “The defendant has indicated he wants to make a statement and—”
“So the Blue Moon Murderer hasn’t demanded a lawyer?” one wise guy in the press corps asked me.
“No, he hasn’t,” I said calmly. “In fact, we’ve already had quite a long conversation right after I placed him under arrest. I think his conscience . . . I better not say any more at this time,” I cut myself off. “Talk to the chief. He’s in charge. I’ve still got work to do.”
4
I spent the whole night with Loomis, just him and me in the interrogation cell. Loomis doesn’t talk much. Hell, he can’t talk much. Mostly just mumbles and grunts. He liked fried chicken, though—I found that out.
I got him a whole bucket of that fried chicken, all for himself. With a double order of cole slaw and mashed potatoes. A six-pack of beer, too. And a portable TV set with a VCR, so he could watch cartoons.
We smoked three packs of cigarettes between us by four in the morning. Nobody came near us, letting me do my job. When Loomis finally fell asleep, I covered him with a blanket.
Then I called the chief.
5
It was almost noon before we were ready to go. This time, the national media were there. The word had gotten out—the Blue Moon Murderer was going to walk us right to the scene of the crime.
Loomis looked pretty good. I made him take a shower and shave, and one of the guys brought him in some old clothes that were a pretty good fit.
I led the way in the Ford Explorer we used for the back country. You need four-wheel drive in some of those gullies, even in the dry season. I let Loomis ride next to me in the front bucket seat. He was handcuffed, and I controlled the lock to the passenger door, so there wasn’t any risk.
We gave the media a half-hour to set up, then we started the walk. Me and Loomis, so close together I could hear his breathing. The rest of the guys stepped back, gave us plenty of room—they didn’t want to do anything that might spook him. Every once in a while, I’d lean in real close and he’d say something to me.
The ground was so hard and dry it hadn’t even picked up the tracks of the Explorer—you couldn’t tell the last time somebody had been in that area.
I kept talking to Loomis. The cameras watched from a distance. Even the most rabid members of the press didn’t want to spoil this one chance of finding Mary Jo if she was still alive.
We walked for a long time. Finally, we came on an old shack. It was so decrepit only three walls were standing. I whispered to Loomis. He pointed toward the shack.
I bowed my head. The forensic squad moved in. Loomis just stared stupidly into space. It had taken me a long time to get him to understand he should point like I told him.
Right to where I’d buried Mary Jo’s body.
for Greg Posner-Weber
GOOD FOR THE SOUL
“It ain’t like I’m her father, you understand?”
“Sure. You want another smoke?”
“Thanks, man. I mean, how many guys would marry a woman with a kid, right? Her real father, it’s like the guy don’t exist. Never sends a dime of child support, never writes to the kid, nothing.”
“She even know who he is?”
“Not a clue. You ask me, I’m not even sure the little tramp’s mother knows, you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah. Happens all the time. They want to party, but they don’t want to pay the freight.”
“That’s the truth. I mean, I work hard. I could be spending all my money in strip clubs, you know what I mean? But, no, I bring it home.”
“The mother don’t work?”
“Cheryl? You gotta be kidding, pal. I’m the breadwinner in that house. Just me. That little part-time job of hers doesn’t hardly pay enough to cover her car and insurance.”
“Must be rough sometimes . . .”
“Hey, I can deal with it. But . . . it just got to be too much, you know what I’m saying? I work all day, okay? Then I come home and Cheryl throws some TV-dinner crap in front of me, tells me she’s gotta get to work, leaves me to watch the kid.”
“She’s . . . how old?”
“Nine, last birthday. Sounds like a little kid, right? Let me tell you something. I don’t know if she gets it from her mother or what, but that is one wise kid, believe me when I tell you. She knows exactly how to get over.”
“So when the mother . . . Cheryl?”
“Yeah, Cheryl.”
“So when Cheryl would leave you alone . . .”
“No, it wasn’t nothing like that. I mean, I may have . . . played with her a little before, but this . . . thing, it was only that one time.”
“Why do you think—?”
“I was drunk. Simple as that. I mean, I usually have a beer or two after work. Just to unwind, okay? But that night, Cheryl said she was gonna be late, trading off with another girl on a split, and I was just watching TV and I guess the booze just got away on me. I mean, I was drunk. The next thing I know, it’s like I just woke up. And she was . . .”
“The mother?”
“Yeah, she caught us. I mean, the kid was in bed with me. And I was still drunk. And I guess she just . . .”
“The mother?”
“No, the kid. She just—I mean, look: I was drunk. I never did nothing like that before.”
“Su
re, I understand. Let me ask you something: was that the first time you ever got drunk?”
“In my life? Come on.”
“Yeah. So, when you got drunk before, you rape any little girls?”
“Huh? What’re you—?”
“Me? I’m just trying to figure this out. Trying to help you help yourself. You want it to work, it’s gotta sound right. Now, you did it because you were drunk. The booze made you do it. But you got drunk before. And you didn’t do it then, right? So something had to be different. . . .”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Sure. I’m telling you what was different. That little slut, that’s what was different. If I’d been sober, she never would’ve gotten over on me like that.”
“Yeah. I hope you didn’t say any of this to the cops?”
“Hey, man, I said I was drunk, not stupid. I ain’t saying nothing until I see a lawyer.”
“Good. No way they’re gonna take that kid’s word over yours, right?”
“Well, there was some . . . blood and stuff, I guess. But there’s other ways it could’ve . . . I mean, I done some reading about it and—”
“You read about it before it happened?”
“Well, not about it. Just about—you know what I’m talking about. Hell, the guards told me you’ve already been in a long time—”
“Eight years, seven months, and eleven days.”
“Jesus. For what?”
“Murder.”
“Oh. Then what’re you doing here in the County? They told me this is the pre-trial tank.”
“I got another charge.”
“From when you was—”
“Yeah. Downstate.”
“Damn! You got nothing but bad luck, huh, partner? Anyway, like I was saying, you got fuck-books in prison too, right? That’s what I heard. This book I was telling you about? It was called Daddy’s Doll. I got it at the video store. And it said how these little bitches sometimes get you so—”
“Yeah. You didn’t leave the book lying around, did you?”
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