Paint It Black

by P J Parrish

  “Right, and this is Agent Farentino,” Louis said, nodding behind him. Horton gave her a cursory smile.

  “Dan said you’d get here first. He’s about five minutes out.”

  “Where’s the victim?” Louis asked.

  “Interrogation room one.” Horton led him down a hallway, crowded with uniforms. “A passing patrol car picked him up. He was a mess when he got here. We bagged his shirt, pants, and apron.”

  “Apron?” Louis said.

  “He’s a waiter. We also scraped his nails and checked his hands. Maybe we’ll pick up a skin sample, a fiber, who knows?”

  They came to a stop in front of a window. Louis stared at him.

  He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with tawny brown skin and a short-cropped tuft of dark brown hair. He was small-framed but wiry, his sinewy arms exposed in a white cotton T-shirt. His bare feet were visible beneath the baggy orange jail pants. His head was bowed and his hands were wrapped around a Styrofoam cup.

  “Is he hurt?” Louis asked.

  “Bruises on his neck, but that’s all.”

  Louis glanced down the hall. He was anxious to get in there, but he knew he should wait for Wainwright.

  Louis suddenly thought about Mobley. “Have you called the sheriff?” Louis asked.

  Horton was staring at Emily, who had moved down the window for a better view of the victim’s face.

  “Chief?”

  Horton looked at Louis. “What? Hell no. I’ll roust his ass about five A.M.” Horton’s eyes moved back to Emily, and he leaned toward Louis. “Who’s that?” he whispered.

  “FBI. She’s been assisting. She’s a profiler.”

  “No shit?”

  Someone called Horton’s name and he disappeared. He was back a few seconds later with Wainwright. Wainwright looked as if he had run all the way from Sereno Key.

  “This is him?” Wainwright asked, looking in the window.

  Horton nodded. “Roscoe Webb. He’s a waiter at the Pelican Restaurant.”

  “That place down on MacGregor by the outlet mall?” Wainwright asked.

  Horton nodded.

  “Outlet mall? Isn’t that near Hibiscus Heights?” Louis asked.

  “Yeah, I guess it’s on the way,” Horton said.

  “What did you get from him?” Wainwright asked Horton.

  “Just what I’ve told you. I wanted to wait till you got here to talk to him.”

  “Thanks, Al. I owe you one.”

  Horton opened the door and the four of them went inside, Emily sliding in just as the door closed.

  Webb looked up them, his eyes skittering from one to the other.

  Horton walked around behind him and patted his shoulder. “Sorry to leave you alone, Mr. Webb.”

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. His hands, clasped around the cup, were trembling.

  “Mr. Webb, this is Chief Wainwright and Officer Kincaid from Sereno Key and Agent Farentino from the FBI. They want to ask you a few questions. That okay with you?”

  Webb nodded.

  Horton turned on a tape recorder and moved the mike closer to Roscoe. “Just talk normal.”

  Louis glanced at Wainwright, who nodded toward the table. Louis pulled up a chair and straddled it, across from Roscoe Webb.

  “Let’s back up, Mr. Webb. Where were you when he came up to you?” Horton began.

  “Coming out of the restaurant. We close at midnight. It was about twenty after. I noticed the boss’s car and this truck in the lot, which was weird ’cause there weren’t any customers in there when I left. But I didn’t see anyone so I just went to my car.”

  “What did the truck look like?”

  “Dark pickup, maybe blue. Rust spots, old.”

  Webb took a deep breath and a drink from his cup.

  “I was getting ready to unlock the door and I dropped my keys. I bent down to pick them up when I heard this explosion.”

  “Like a shotgun blast?” Louis asked.

  Webb frowned slightly. “I’ve never heard a shotgun, but yeah, it sounded kinda like I heard on TV. Loud . . . real loud and close.”

  “It hit the car door,” Horton said.

  Webb ran a hand over his face. “I keep thinking . . . if I hadn’t dropped those keys . . .”

  “Did you see him, Mr. Webb?” Louis prodded gently.

  Webb shook his head. “Before I could turn around, he grabbed me from behind.”

  Louis let out a breath, disappointed. “How exactly did he grab you?”

  “Put an arm around my neck,” Webb said, using his own arm to demonstrate. “I started clawing at his face, over my head, ’cause I read once how you could get away by scratching their eyes out, but I couldn’t get ahold of anything. Except his hair. I grabbed that.”

  “Can you describe his hair, Mr. Webb?”

  “I didn’t see—”

  “I know. What did it feel like?”

  Webb blinked. “Greasy, it was greasy like.”

  Louis glanced at Horton. “Hair cream maybe?”

  “I’ll tell the techs to look,” Horton said. He looked at Roscoe. “Mr. Webb, did you wash your hands yet?”

  Webb’s eyes went from Horton to the others. “Yeah, yeah, I did. I had to take a piss after that lab guy finished with me.”

  “Can you guess how long the hair was?” Louis asked.

  “I got a good handful, so it couldn’t be short. Maybe ear-length. I don’t know.”

  “Thick or thin?”

  “Thick, seemed like there was lots of it.” Webb paused and brought the coffee slowly up to his lips again. He took a sip and set it back down. He stared at his trembling hands. “Man, I’m sorry . . .”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Webb, you’re doing fine,” Horton said. “Go on.”

  Webb pulled in a breath. “Well, then he pulls this pole up and levels it across my throat.”

  “A pole? What kind of pole?” Wainwright said.

  “A long metal pole, like a pipe of some kind. It was maybe four or five feet long and he pulled it real tight against my throat. I barely got my fingers between it and my neck.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a shotgun barrel?” Wainwright asked.

  Webb shook his head. “No . . . no, I never seen no gun, just that pole.”

  “What about his hands? Can you describe them?”

  “He was wearing gloves, tan, I think, looked like leather. And long sleeves. Denim.”

  Louis glanced at Wainwright. “Could you tell how tall he was?”

  “Taller than me. I had the feeling my back was dead against his chest. And I could feel from his arm that he was pretty well muscled.”

  “How did you get away?” Louis asked.

  Webb rubbed his face. It was quiet in the room for a moment except for Webb’s labored breathing.

  “Mr. Webb? You all right?” Horton asked quietly.

  “Yeah, yeah . . .”

  “Take your time.”

  Webb pulled in a deep shuddering breath. “I knew I was losing it,” he said. “I couldn’t breathe and I knew I was losing it and I was going to die.” He paused. “I don’t know what made me think of it, but I remembered my corkscrew in my apron. I reached down and pulled it out . . .”

  He stopped, closing his eyes tight. His hands were clenched. “I flipped it open and just brought it down as hard as I could. I . . . it hit his leg.”

  Webb opened his eyes. The room was air-conditioned to arctic, but he had sweated through his T-shirt.

  “He let go,” he said quietly. “He let go and I ran.”

  “Did he chase you?” Louis asked.

  “I don’t know. I was blocks down the road when I saw the cop car.” He leaned back in the chair, spent, his eyes going from one man to the other.

  Louis looked up at Horton. “Your guys see anyone?”

  Horton shook his head. “The second unit was ten minutes out.”

  Louis sat back in his chair. Not much to go on. Maybe, if they were lucky, some hair or cl
othing fibers or a blood type off the corkscrew. He glanced at Emily, who was standing against the far wall. She was scribbling in her notebook.

  “Anything else, Chief?” Louis asked Wainwright.

  Wainwright hesitated, then came forward. “Mr. Webb, did he say anything?”

  Webb looked up at him. “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “What did he say? And try to recall his exact words.”

  Webb swallowed hard. “Shit, it’s hard to forget. He said, ‘You’re gonna die tonight, nigger.’ ”

  “He used those exact words?” Louis asked.

  Webb nodded.

  Louis glanced at Wainwright, then leaned closer to Webb. “Mr. Webb, was this man black or white?”

  Webb stared at Louis for a moment. “I didn’t see his face—”

  “I know. Was this man black or white, Mr. Webb?”

  His eyes went from Louis, up to Wainwright and Horton, and back to Louis. “I’ve been called a nigger by a black man and I’ve been called a nigger by a white man,” he said firmly. “There’s a difference.” He paused. “This was a white man.”

  Louis held Roscoe’s eyes for a moment, then leaned back, looking up at Wainwright and Horton. They were staring at Roscoe. Louis looked at Emily. She had stopped writing in her notebook. Her face was like ice.

  “Thank you, Mr. Webb,” Louis said, touching the man’s arm. “You did fine.”

  Webb nodded, his eyes empty. “I guess,” he said softly. “I’m alive.”

  They left the room, gathering just outside the door.

  “We’ve got him a hotel room for the night with a uniform, in case this asshole tries to find him,” Horton says. “We’ll take good care of him.”

  “Good job, Al,” Wainwright said.

  Horton nodded and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I guess I better go call Mobley and get this over with. I’ll keep you posted, Dan.”

  Horton left and they made their way back to the lobby and outside. They stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the cool, damp night air.

  “He might go underground after this,” Wainwright said, breaking the silence.

  “Why?” Louis asked.

  “This one got away. It could make him nervous.”

  “Or just madder,” Louis said. “I’ve got a feeling this isn’t going to make a difference one way or the other. I think he’s going right back out hunting.”

  Wainwright shook his head, looking at the squad cars parked at the curb.

  “White,” Louis said. “He said he’s white.”

  “Yeah, a white guy with long, greasy hair,” Wainwright said quietly. “Shit. I don’t know what to think now.”

  Louis looked at Farentino. She was staring at the ground.

  “What about you, Farentino?” Louis asked.

  She wouldn’t look up.

  “Farentino?” Louis repeated.

  Emily lifted her head. “I think we just wasted two days,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Tell me again about this guy, Van Slate,” Farentino said, as she turned a corner.

  Louis loosened his grip on the armrest and reached for his glasses. After the interview with Roscoe Webb last night, they had switched their focus back to white suspects. And now they were on their way to see Matthew Van Slate again. Louis had suggested to Wainwright that Emily come along this time to get a reading on Van Slate. Wainwright had agreed; he and Candy were following them in another squad car.

  Emily was driving the Sereno Key cruiser and she seemed to have two speeds: fast and get-the-hell-outta-my-way. Louis tried not to look at the water as they sped across the causeway. He opened Van Slate’s file.

  “Matthew Van Slate. Arrested and convicted of a racially motivated beating last summer. Served ten months. His father, Hugh, is a high-profile local who helped get the sentence reduced.”

  Emily reached down and turned up the air conditioner. “Tell me the circumstances,” she said.

  “He and two friends followed a black man and white woman from a bar, ran them off the road, and beat the guy up.”

  “How bad?”

  “Hospitalized him.”

  “What’s his beef with blacks?”

  “He thought his wife left him for a black guy.”

  Farentino was quiet for a minute, then asked, “Did they use weapons?”

  Louis closed Van Slate’s file. “Their fists and a board.”

  “Did they all participate?”

  “Yes.”

  Farentino shook her head slightly. “Did he confess when he was caught?”

  Louis reopened the file and read down the page. “Yes, after confronted with a witness.”

  “How many times has this guy told you to get lost?”

  “Twice.”

  Farentino was quiet as they pulled up to Van Slate’s apartment. She killed the engine and they sat there for a moment waiting for the second cruiser with Wainwright and Candy.

  “What do you think?” Louis asked Emily.

  “I’ll tell you when we’re done talking to him,” Emily said.

  Van Slate came out of his apartment just as Wainwright’s cruiser pulled in. He was carrying a small cooler. He locked his door and turned, freezing when he saw the two cruisers in the lot.

  “Is that him?” Emily asked.

  “That’s our hero,” Louis said, getting out.

  Van Slate turned back to his door, jiggling his keys, as if he was thinking about going back inside. But after a moment, he turned back and started out toward the parking lot, not even looking their way.

  “Van Slate,” Louis called out.

  Van Slate kept going.

  “Hold it, Van Slate.”

  He stopped and turned. Wainwright and Candy came forward. They formed a half circle around him and as Van Slate’s eyes moved over them, Louis could see him tense.

  “Who’s dead now?” Van Slate asked.

  “Stay cool, Van Slate. We just want to ask you a few questions,” Wainwright said. “Why don’t you come down to the station with us?”

  Van Slate set the cooler on the top of a black pickup. He looked at Louis.

  “What is your problem with me?” he said. “You’re not even a cop and you got these guys—the real cops—believing I’m some sort of serial killer.” Van Slate spat into the gravel. “And they call me the racist.”

  “We just want to ask a few questions,” Louis said.

  Van Slate spun around and slapped angrily at the bed of the truck, and took a few steps toward the apartment. Then he turned back. “All right. Ask. Right here. Right now. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Wainwright glanced at Louis, then rubbed his jaw. “Suit yourself,” Wainwright said. “We got a witness that says the killer’s truck is blue.” Wainwright nodded at Van Slate’s shiny blue truck parked a few spots away. “That’s one piss-ass fairy color but to me, it looks blue.”

  “Fuck,” Van Slate muttered, leaning against the black pickup. “Like I’m the only guy with a blue truck around here?”

  “You’re the only guy around here with a blue truck and a record,” Wainwright said.

  Louis looked at Emily and knew she was thinking the same thing, that Roscoe Webb said the truck he saw in the restaurant lot was dark, maybe blue, but definitely old and rusted.

  “How long are you guys going to hassle me over that shit?” Van Slate asked, his voice rising. “This is fucking bullshit.”

  Louis looked at Farentino. She was taking notes.

  “Own a knife, Van Slate?” Wainwright asked.

  Van Slate eyed Wainwright. “Christ.” He took a few steps and reached in the flatbed of the black truck he had been leaning against. He threw back the tarp and spread his arm toward it. “Be my guest.”

  “Is this your truck?” Louis asked.

  “Hell no. This piece of shit is the boatyard truck. I just drive it for work.”

  Louis’s eyes swept over the rust-pocked black pickup and then he glanced up at Wainwright. Louis stepped for
ward and looked inside the flatbed. It was filled with tools, white plastic tubs of paint. There was a large, plastic case that looked like a toolbox.

  “How about you open that for us, Van Slate?” Wainwright said, pointing to it.

  Van Slate reached in and popped it open. Louis peered inside. It was a tackle box, filled with the usual fishing paraphernalia. But there were also eight knives, different shapes and sizes.

  “We’d like to have those knives, Van Slate,” Wainwright said.

  Van Slate threw up his hands. “Go ahead, take them! You’ll get them eventually anyway.” He leaned against the truck, his arms crossed. “You won’t find anything on any of them, except maybe some fish guts and worm shit.”

  Wainwright nodded at Candy, who came forward, pulling a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. He carefully picked out the knives and bagged them.

  “I want them back,” Van Slate said.

  Wainwright spoke again. “You got any spray paint, Van Slate?”

  “Spray paint? Yeah, I got—” he stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”

  They didn’t answer him. Louis could almost hear the gears in Van Slate’s brains grinding. “Did this guy paint a message on the walls?” Van Slate asked. When no one answered, he smiled. “Manson did that, he painted ‘Helter Skelter’ on the walls. You know, the Beatles song?”

  Van Slate started singing the song, but then stopped suddenly. “No, wait! I got it. He wrote a message on the bodies or something, right?”

  “Can you go get the paint for us?” Wainwright asked.

  “They had paint on them. What color was it?”

  “You tell us,” Wainwright said.

  Van Slate shrugged. “White?”

  Louis glanced at Emily. She was staring hard at Van Slate.

  “Why white?” Wainwright asked.

  Van Slate was suddenly interested in the conversation. “Well, it makes sense, don’t it? I mean, these dead guys are all black, right? Why would anyone paint them black? They’re already black.” Van Slate locked eyes with Louis, and a slow grin came over his face. “Shit, if I was doing this, I’d paint ’em white. You know, make ’em lighter. Do a Michael Jackson on ’em. Improve on nature.”

  Louis resisted the urge to reach over and grab a handful of Van Slate’s T-shirt.

  Van Slate’s grin widened. “This is a real kick in the ass, ain’t it?” he said. “Me helping you guys.”