Cul-de-Sac

by David Martin

  “You want to hear how you can get that appointment to the academy all on your own?” Camel asked.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Three bodies have been found today, murder victims, decapitations—”

  “Who? Where?”

  “You said you were listening.”

  Kempis nodded.

  “I’m going to tell you who killed those people. You take this information to the jurisdictions handling the investigations, be a hero.”

  “And your angle?”

  “I want you to give me a couple hours, an hour … I have to get to a judge and explain how I happened to find the bodies. I already got that manslaughter charge against me and I can’t afford—”

  “That charge has been dropped.”

  Camel was surprised to hear it.

  “The guy I just talked to, who told me Gray was suspended? When I asked if you were really out on bail he said you didn’t need bail ’cause the charges against you were dropped.”

  “Okay, good, now let me tell you what I know about these killings—”

  “Oh shit.”

  He waited to hear whatever bad news Kempis had just remembered.

  “Friend of yours, Annie Milton?”

  Camel went cold in the belly.

  “She was assaulted this afternoon and came here trying to—”

  He pointed a finger at Kempis’s face so he would concentrate on the two questions Camel wanted answered before anything else was said, “Where is she now, what’s her condition?”

  “She’s okay, I turned her over to Parker Gray.” Kempis watched Camel’s face for a reaction.

  “Come on, talk to me Jake.”

  “Parker and McCleany came to see me, said they could grease me an appointment to the academy if I did a little work for them … keep an eye on you, report whatever happens around here involving you, so when Mrs. Milton got in that wreck I called Gray and he came and got her.”

  “Where’d he take her, he wouldn’t use a state police facility if he’s been suspended.”

  “Teddy I didn’t know he’d been—”

  Camel had already turned away from Kempis to search through the debris around his desk until he found the sheet of paper on which Annie had written the phone number at Cul-De-Sac, directions how to get there … these were for Camel when he was still planning to go get Annie’s husband and bring him back here to thrash out the truth.

  Kempis came over. “I assumed Gray was taking her to a substation for—”

  “No he took her back to Cul-De-Sac, some property Annie owns.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.” Camel grabbed the phone and punched in the number … busy. He tried it again, still busy, then got an operator and told her it was a police emergency she’d have to break in on the call. The operator referred the request to a supervisor who told Camel there was no call to break in on, the busy signal was a result of a malfunction on the line.

  Phone ripped out. Camel went to where he’d stashed McCleany’s .38, Kempis trailing him and saying, “I’m coming with you Teddy.”

  “Jake this isn’t your—”

  “I gave them the key to your office.”

  Camel looked at him. “That’s how McCleany got in to toss the place … McCleany also gave a copy of the key to Annie’s husband.”

  “I fucked up.”

  “Yeah you did.”

  “So give me a chance to square it.”

  “All right,” Camel said, moving to the door.

  “You want to hear what Mrs. Milton told me about who assaulted her?”

  Camel was already in the hallway. “Tell me walking.”

  On the way to Cul-De-Sac, following Annie’s directions which Jake Kempis read for him, Camel drove the ’65 Fairlane faster than he should have … thunder road. They got lost, had to retrace the route, it was dead dark before they found the turnoff to Cul-De-Sac’s lane marked as Annie had indicated with two brick pillars, one of them looked like it’d been sideswiped. The graveled lane ran straight for half a mile into a little bowl of a valley, no other houses in sight. From over the treed hills walling this valley shined a dull glow of commerce that reflected onto the underside of the night sky, ruining all hope of ever seeing Orion.

  Although once centerpiece of a 220-acre estate Cul-De-Sac now sat on only an acre’s land to call its own, the surrounding valley and hillsides remained unbuilt-upon because they were deeded to people rich enough to employ land as a buffer, keeping shopping centers and suburban sprawls (all that light from over the hills) away from their horse farms and fox hunts.

  Camel doused his headlights and drove around to the side of the building, parking behind a car with its trunk open.

  “That’s Gray’s,” Kempis said. “The one he took Mrs. Milton off in.”

  Camel walked over and looked in the truck which was empty but smelled heavily of gasoline.

  Kempis smelled it too. “He got a leak in his tank?”

  Pointing to two round indentions in the trunk’s mat, Camel said, “Hauling cans of gas.”

  “What’re we going to do, call the sheriff’s department?”

  “I don’t know who else is in on this with Gray and McCleany, first thing we’re going to do is find Annie … then we’ll worry about who to notify.”

  Camel and Kempis went to the side of Cul-De-Sac and tried two doors, both locked.

  “What do you think?” Kempis asked.

  “Find away in.”

  “I wish I had more than a can of pepper spray.”

  “Listen Jake you walk around the building that way, don’t use a flashlight, check for any door that might be unlocked but don’t open it, don’t go in. We’ll meet around back. You okay?”

  Kempis said he was.

  “All right, see you around back.”

  Camel pulled McCleany’s little stainless steel revolver from his pocket, he had already familiarized himself with it … a Smith & Wesson Model 640, .38 Special, loaded with five hollow points. Walking around the back of the building, stopping frequently to listen, looking for signs of occupation, Camel spotted a window that was open.

  Not waiting for Kempis he climbed in and threaded his way carefully through a storage room full of boxes and filing cabinets and broken chairs, Camel finally stepping out into a hallway lit by bulbs burning dimly like they weren’t getting enough juice, the smell of gasoline a lot stronger here in the corridor where a man with his back to Camel was holding a five-gallon container, pouring gas out on the floor.

  “Parker,” Camel said quietly.

  He stopped pouring and straightened up, the gas container still in his hand.

  “Put the can down, turn around, keep your hands where I can see them … you know the drill.”

  Gray did as he was told except on one crucial point … after placing the gas can on the floor he managed to sneak a hand inside his suit coat and, when he turned to face Camel, Gray was holding a 9mm semiautomatic.

  39

  “Murray dear what are you doing?”

  Elizabeth Rockwell was just coming out of the bathroom when she heard a booming floor-thump in the back bedroom … she’d warned Murray repeatedly about his weights, they belonged in the garage not the house.

  “Murray?”

  The door to the bedroom was closed, Murray wasn’t answering her … until he made a strange sound, like a pig grunting. That was a new one even for Murray.

  Walking toward the bedroom Elizabeth wasn’t pleased to hear another crashing thump, another pig grunt. “Murray darling Mommy’s had a bad day, she has a splitting headache and isn’t in the mood for silly buggers.”

  Just then the bedroom door opened, presenting Elizabeth with the second most extraordinary sight she’d ever seen in her life … the most extraordinary being when she walked into Donald Growler’s room seven years ago and found Hope’s head on a shelf.

  He stood there half naked, wearing black trousers but no shirt and no shoes. Strips of white c
loth torn perhaps from a sheet and soaked through with blood wrapped Growler’s left foot. He held his left arm crooked and close to his body like a broken wing that was swollen in one specific spot as if the forearm were a snake that had swallowed a softball … the swollen area horribly discolored. Growler’s hair was wild, in his right hand he held a machete that Elizabeth recognized … Murray had seen it in a catalog and pestered her until she bought it for him, he said he could use it to “clear brush,” though of course there was no brush around Elizabeth’s house and Murray ended up keeping the machete in the garage where he would occasionally play with it, maybe pretending he was leading a safari and fighting off natives, you never knew what films played in Murray’s mind. Blood was everywhere on Growler, it specked and splattered his torso … and that normally handsome face looked like half the sufferings of hell, his expression mixing pain and anger and betrayal with a kind of wild demonic joy.

  The black trousers were loose and rode low on his hips and Elizabeth could see, just above the waistband, tattooed blue on Growler’s lower belly, the eyes and horns of Satan … as if Satan were peeking out from Growler’s pants, maybe to guide him what should be done next.

  Her pistol was back in the kitchen drawer.

  “Where’s Murray?” she asked.

  “I know who killed Hope,” Growler said.

  “Where’s Murray?”

  “You’re going to make a phone call, arrange a meeting at Cul-De-Sac.” Considering Growler’s ruined condition he spoke with amazing clarity and calm … having within the last hour used his entire stash of cocaine, some externally on his spiked foot, the rest internally up his nostrils, an amount of powder that should’ve wired him like Broadway but in fact simply managed to counterbalance what he would have otherwise been suffering.

  “Please tell me you haven’t hurt Murray, he’s just a boy.”

  “Murray’s in on the bed,” Growler said reassuringly. “Now let’s make that call. Then we’ll go to Cul-De-Sac and—”

  “I want to talk to Murray.”

  “Need you to drive because the last cabbie I had really freaked out—”

  “I want to talk to Murray first.”

  “Jesus.” Growler turned to speak into the bedroom. “Murray, say something to Mommy.”

  40

  It was a variation on the classic Mexican standoff … Camel and Gray each holding a side arm but neither man pointing his weapon at the other, their respective handguns kept down at their sides ready to be brought up and fired if it came to that.

  “What’re you doing here huh?” Gray asked with a sour expression, as if Camel owed him a lot of money from a long time ago.

  “Where’s Annie?”

  “She’s safe.”

  “Safe where?”

  Parker Gray shook his head and worked his mouth like he was biting the insides of his cheek … Camel had seen men looking and acting the way Gray was now, men who were suspects in a felony crime and obviously worried about being charged but you could see their minds were still scrambling, they were still thinking I can beat this.

  “Destroying evidence?” Camel asked, indicating the gas can at Parker’s feet … another can, presumably full, at the end of the corridor.

  “Doing what I should’ve done a long time ago … this place has been the ruin of me.”

  Camel remembered the phrase from an old song. “ ‘The House of the Rising Sun.’ ”

  “What?”

  “It’s been the ruin of many a poor boy.”

  “What’re you talking about huh?”

  “Before your time I guess … where’s Annie?”

  “I told you she’s safe.”

  “You stashed her someplace, then came here to burn down this building?”

  Gray didn’t answer.

  “Hoping those pictures get destroyed in the process.”

  “All the trouble I got, you Sherlocking my ass on top of it. Why don’t you just leave huh?”

  “Tell me where Annie is and I will.”

  “I could arrest you right now for violating bail.”

  “Charges against me have been dropped, you’re on suspension … your whole world caving in because of those photographs.”

  “Jesus you’re asking for it,” Gray warned, his right arm tensing as he weighed the chances of raising that 9mm and shooting Camel before Camel shot him.

  “Seven years ago you were screwing that girl, Hope Penner, and you got caught on film, got blackmailed into covering up for whoever really killed her … or was it you Gray? Killed that little girl and then butchered her to make it look like Growler—”

  “I didn’t kill her!” Gray’s arm tensed again then relaxed, he wasn’t going to shoot Camel … or burn Cul-De-Sac either. His mind had stopped scrambling for a way out of this, there was no way out except dead. “She wasn’t a little girl.”

  “Seventeen—”

  “Seventeen going on forty.”

  Camel said nothing.

  “I know what that sounds like, some asshole on a statutory. But the truth is I was twenty-nine years old and Hope was seventeen but she was twice my age in maturity. You want to hear how pathetic I was with that girl?”

  “I want to know where Annie is, is what I want to know.”

  “Hope was beautiful … and smart and talented. She spoke three or four languages, a master at chess, played the piano, when she wanted to she could make you feel like you were the only man left alive on earth, like everything you said was wisdom and …” Gray’s memories flew around in that dreamland for a few moments before falling onto a hard reality. “Of course I didn’t know she was fucking everybody else along with me, didn’t know she was taking pictures of it, didn’t know that whole side of her. I’d seen Hope a little drunk on champagne and I thought that was the extent of her wildness, getting tipsy on champagne, I didn’t know she was into blow, God knows what else. So here’s how pathetic I was with her, Camel … I asked Hope to marry me. Said I’d divorce my wife, wait until custody arrangements were made with our kids, wait until Hope turned eighteen, then Hope and I could get married. You know what she says to me huh? She holds my head on her chest and says, ‘You’re so sweet.’ There I was, been a trooper for almost six years, just made detective, married nine years, three children … and this seventeen-year-old girl was comforting me like I was the lovesick kid and she was the older woman. An older woman who … I don’t know, who was charmed and a little amused that this puppy was proposing marriage to her.”

  “So she turned you down and you killed her.”

  “No … asshole. I loved her, I would’ve never—”

  “Her uncle killed her and blackmailed you into—”

  “You’re not all that good as a detective are you huh?”

  “McCleany.”

  “How many guesses you get?”

  “You covered for your partner.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Biggest mistake of my life. Among the other ten million things I didn’t know about Hope, she was fucking that fat slob McCleany too. How could she?” Gray’s eyes were wet. “J. L. Penner hired us, McCleany and me, to do security work for him, not strictly kosher but Penner paid well, liked having cops around, on his payroll, that’s how McCleany and I got to know Hope. We were here at Cul-De-Sac for something, turned into an all-night party, I got drunk and passed out, McCleany got drunker but didn’t pass out, instead he shows up in Hope’s room and figures he’s going to knock off a piece … Jesus.”

  “Hey Parker why don’t we—”

  He held up his left hand, the one not holding the pistol. “Except this particular morning Hope wasn’t in the mood to get pawed over by that drunken slob. As charming as Hope could be, she could be ten times as mean if you pissed her off. She said some things that put McCleany over the edge, plus he was drunk enough … he said he hit her just once but that it killed her.”

  “Houdini.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Truth be told
I don’t think McCleany ‘accidentally’ killed her with one punch, I think he was in a rage and beat her head against the floor … but however it happened he killed her, comes to me and says we’re going to pin it on the weird nephew, Donald Growler. I said bullshit … I never liked McCleany to start with, I could’ve killed him myself for what he did to Hope, but he’d already been in conference with J.L. who knew about the secret camera rig. I guess J.L. and Hope used to look at the pictures for yuks … and when McCleany started showing me the photographs, all those men Hope was fucking, the things she was doing with all those men, things she’d done with me … I went a little crazy.”

  “Felt she’d betrayed you.”

  “Played me for a fool. And I’d asked her to marry me? I kept thinking how she and her uncle must’ve got a big laugh out of that one.”

  “So you and McCleany framed Growler for the killing.”

  “McCleany wanted to do it for obvious reasons, so he wouldn’t get charged with Hope’s murder, and J.L. wanted to do it so he’d inherit Hope’s share of Cul-De-Sac … and I went along with them because they said they had all kinds of pictures of me and Hope.”

  “They said?”

  Gray nodded. “At first it seemed easy, Growler this weird twenty-six-year-old who was still a kid the way he acted, who kept a collection of animal heads in his room, had a lot of strange friends, he was either queer or bisexual. The frame seemed a natural. McCleany did the actual …”

  “Cut off her head.”

  Gray wasn’t able to answer aloud, had to nod.

  “McCleany put her head in Growler’s room.”

  Another nod, then Gray found his voice again. “J.L. promised he would destroy all incriminating photographs but obviously that was a lie. We made so many mistakes … found out after the evidence was planted that Donald wasn’t even at Cul-De-Sac, he spent the night with a friend of his.”

  “Kenneth Norton.”

  “Yeah. So we were forced to come down on Kenny’s nervous ass, he had a boyfriend at the time, an underage kid, and we threaten to arrange hard time for Norton unless he withdraws as Growler’s alibi … we told Norton a bunch of mumbo jumbo, I don’t know if he believed it or not, he was mainly just scared of us … we told him Growler had really killed Hope but the time of death had been screwed up by the medical examiner and Growler was going to get off on a technicality unless Norton cooperated.”