by Ninie Hammon
He only realized they’d stopped talking when the silence began to roar in his ears. He focused again, his eyes caught by the coal-black ones of the old woman.
“Don’t ’spect you to b’lieve it, but you said to tell the truth, and there it is.”
Diminished capacity.
Wouldn’t have been his first choice for a plea—particularly when he was convinced his clients were innocent. But it might be the only one that would get them off. Because it was clear now that these two people who seemed otherwise normal were the victims of some grand shared delusion. He’d never seen anything like it in his life.
Daniel’s cell phone rang. He looked at it and then glanced at Theresa. “It’s Jack,” he said, and took the call.
Theresa sat patiently, looking at him as Daniel spoke. The expression on her face disturbed Jeff, rattled him all the way to the core. It wouldn’t have had it been lunacy. It wasn’t. It was compassion.
Daniel hung up and addressed them both.
“Jack and Crock, Major Crocker, found the man from your drawing.” He must have seen Jeff’s confusion. “Crock arranged for an FBI sketch artist and then used facial recognition software.”
“The police found the man you said was in the house that day?” Jeff asked.
“Not the police. Jack. He and the major were working on their own.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason we couldn’t tell you what was going on,” Theresa snapped. “’Cause wouldn’t nobody believe them.”
“They identified the guy—an ex-con named Boskowitz. He should be in prison right now for murder, but ‘key evidence’ in his case got ‘misplaced.’ The judge was Chapman Whitworth.”
Jeff felt all the wind sigh out of him like somebody’d stuck a nail in his air mattress.
“Look Mr. Kendrick…Jeff…you don’t got to believe the why of it, but surely with all this, you can see that Chapman Whitworth ain’t who he claims to be.” She shook her head. “What happens to Daniel and me, that don’t matter. What matters is us stoppin’ him from sittin’ on the Supreme Court!” A tremor seemed to pass through her body. “You ain’t got no idea what pure evil can do when it’s took over a powerful man.”
“And you’re going to stop him?” It was a simple, direct question. By now, Jeff’s incredulity meter had so overheated it had blown a fuse and shut down completely.
“Not us. Senator LaHayne,” Daniel said. Then he looked like all the air had whooshed out of his air mattress, too. “If we could figure out a way to talk to him.”
Theresa reached over and patted him on the knee. “Don’t you fuss. God’ll provide a way. He always does.”
“Would you like his cell phone number?” Jeff saw the others staring at him and realized he’d said the words out loud. He was so rattled, he clarified. “Not God’s…Senator LaHayne’s.”
“You have Senator Thomas LaHayne’s cell number?” Daniel asked. From the look on his face it was clear his incredulity meter was still functioning just fine.
“Well, he’s not on my favorites list, if that’s what you mean. But I can get it for you. His son and I were fraternity brothers at Harvard.”
******
The manager of McComber Security Systems was more than happy to help the friendly police officer who bore an uncanny resemblance to Elmer Fudd with his bald head and big ears. She gave him the address of the technician who’d inspected the Centurion Hotel’s system Thursday morning, a trainee who hadn’t been back to work since, and handed Crocker a photocopy of the man’s driver’s license.
Well, attention K-Mart shoppers.
It was the second time today Crocker had seen that name beneath a picture: Edgar Wallace Boskowitz.
He tried to reach Jack with the news, but he must have had his phone turned off during his meeting with the ATF agent. Crock settled for leaving him a voice mail. The address on the photocopied license was a rundown apartment building in a part of town not shown on Harrelton, Ohio, Chamber of Commerce brochures.
Approaching the third-floor apartment, Crocker began to feel that tingly sensation in the pit of his stomach that was either a cop’s gut warning or incipient diarrhea, and even though he didn’t have enough probable cause right now to give the guy a parking ticket, Crocker drew his weapon and flattened himself against the hallway wall beside the door.
He reached over and rapped on the door. Nothing. But Crocker thought he heard movement inside. He knocked again and was sure of it this time. So he banged his fist on the door and called out, “This is the police. Open the door.” If you’re going to bluff, bluff big.
Three shots splintered the wood on the cheap door, the sound a cannon roar in the narrow hallway. Hand gun, not semiautomatic, six shots if it was a revolver, and he’d just used three of them.
Crocker stepped sideways, keeping his body well out of the line of fire, leaned back—he was way too old to be doing this—and kicked the door a couple of inches above the door knob. The jam shattered, the door flew open in a hail of splinters and he flattened against the wall again.
“Put the gun on the floor and slide it out,” Crocker called, knowing that was about as likely as water flowing up hill. “Then put your hands on your head and—”
He heard the squeal of metal on metal and instantly recognized the sound. The guy was on the fire escape, had just hit the release on the ladder that would extend the last fifteen feet to the ground. Crocker spun into the room, crossed it to the window. Below, he could see a man leap off the bottom of the ladder and take off down the alley. Crock couldn’t chase him. He was definitely too old for that.
His heart still felt like a lunatic woodpecker’d got loose in his chest, the adrenaline rush still pulsing as he holstered his weapon and concentrated on slow, regular breaths. Just then, Sonny and Cher informed him he was about to have company. Sirens, too far away for anybody else to hear, meant somebody in this neighborhood had actually called the police. Must have been a 911 butt call.
He turned from the window and looked around. The place was amazingly neat and clean. What sleazeball polished his metal refrigerator, for crying out loud? The dishes were set meticulously in the dish drainer. Not a couch pillow out of place. Safe bet this dude was over-the-top OCD.
And a classic movie nut. On a shelf in the bedroom was a model of the Millennium Falcon along with action figures—Princess Leia, the white orc from The Hobbit and a huge raptor. Beside the bed was a life-size replica of R2D2. The walls were adorned with movie posters. Not in frames, but held on the wall with white stick pins, and every poster had a torn movie ticket stub stapled neatly to the bottom. Star Wars—the original—Luke watching Yoda lift his ship out of the swamp. Lord of the Rings—Sam fighting Shelob. Jurassic Park—lizards with big teeth and small hands. The Hobbit, Titanic, Avatar. The biggest was for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows—Part 2 which hung directly across from the bed—Harry, Hermione and Ron looking all grown up. That poster had no torn ticket attached.
When you toss a house, you’re looking for evidence in two categories. One—something the perp doesn’t realize could be incriminating, like a parking garage stub that puts him at the scene of the crime. Two—something the perp knows is incriminating, like the murder weapon or stolen property. You’ll find Category One things in trash cans, glove boxes and coat pockets. You’ll find Category Two items hidden some place the perp thinks you’d never think to look—such as taped to the back of a picture frame or on top of fan blades, beneath a floorboard and even…yes…under the mattress.
Crock had learned during his years as an FBI agent not to try to outsmart the bad guys he chased. The point wasn’t to out-think a criminal. The trick was to in-think one. Get inside his head. Try to figure out what he would do by seeing the world through his eyes.
Crock concentrated. An OCD neat freak wouldn’t likely hang on to Category One items. What about Category Two? Where would a guy like Bosko hide something he didn’t want anybody to see?
Crocks eye
s surveyed the room slowly and came to rest on the life-size replica of R2D2. You don’t suppose…?
He crossed the room and knelt on protesting knees before the robot. Stifling an urge to cry in a falsetto voice, “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope,” he inspected the front of the life-size reproduction, looking for an opening. He found what looked like a CD slot right in front and stuck his fingers inside it. No CD, but something was definitely jammed into the slot. He could just catch the edge of it with his fingernails. When he dragged it out, he held it by the corner. An envelope.
The sirens were probably a block away now.
Using his car key, he opened the flap of the envelope by the edge, looked inside and noted the contents. Then he lifted the mattress on the bed and placed the envelope on the box springs. He went into the living room and was standing by the shattered door when the siren blipped off as a squad car slid to a stop out front.
The uniform who’d responded was Peterson—good. There were sharper knives in the drawer than Peterson.
“I tried to call for backup,” Crock told him. Trying to look as chagrined as possible, he held up his phone. “Dead. But all the action’s over now. I only stopped by to have a little chat with Mr. Boskowitz because a friend on the Cincy PD likes him for a series of burglaries, and I owe the guy a favor.” Plausible enough unless Peterson wanted to know who his friend was. He didn’t.
“I figure the guy wouldn’t have opened up like half-price day at the firing range unless he’s got something to hide—stolen merchandise, maybe drugs. Let’s poke around and see what we can turn up.”
Crock let Peterson find the envelope under the mattress.
CHAPTER 23
1985
Michael Rutherford grunted as he pulled a big box of baseball caps down off the top of the stack. He’d been here maybe three minutes and already his shirt was plastered to his back and his hair hung down wet over his forehead. His mother said fat people sweat more than thin people. If that was the way it was, he was as stuck with sweat as he was with fat, and he’d made his peace with fat a long time ago. It was what it was, no sense moping about it. You could make a place for yourself in the world as a fat, sweaty kid. You just had to try harder.
Trying harder was how he came to be unloading boxes of Little League uniforms. Michael couldn’t hit a baseball off a golf tee with a tennis racket. But he’d made the elite All-Star team by using his brain. He’d figured out Bishop Washington was going to need help maybe even before Bishop did. Everybody knew Isaac was supposed to be his father’s assistant coach. So Mikey showed up at just the right time and got himself appointed team manager. He was the bat boy.
And he had to be on the team. Daniel and Jack were on the team. And wherever they went, Becca Hawkins went. Being on the team meant Michael got to be near Becca, and that was the sum total of everything that mattered to him in life. Becca was unlike any girl he'd ever known. She didn't dress like all the other girls--in T-shirts with the neck cut out, hanging open over the shoulder, and a lone lace glove with the fingers chopped off. She didn't tease her hair, spray it solid and stick a big bow in it, either. Becca's hair hung straight down her back to her waist, looked like corn silk. He knew if he touched it--he longed to but had never dared--it would be as soft as a baby duck's bottom. Becca wasn't interested in being a Madonna look-alike. She was just...Becca. The most beautiful girl Michael Rutherford had ever seen.
The uniforms he was unpacking consisted of a cap and pants and a T-shirt with each player’s last name in big block letters on the back above the Bradford’s Ridge All-Star team logo. On the front, Bradford’s Ridge Rangers was printed above the logo of Prather’s Insurance Company, the local business that had purchased the team’s equipment in exchange for advertising space on the players. Team members were encouraged to wear their team T-shirts everywhere they went, not just during games. Michael intended to wear his every day all summer.
“You doin’ a fine job, son,” Bishop said when he arrived and saw how much Mikey’d accomplished.
Bishop was like that. He always had something kind to say, always made you feel good about yourself. Michael was sure most of the rest of the team joined him in hero worship of the man-mountain. Jack and Daniel certainly did. They met at his house once a week for a Bible study—which Michael would have sold his left leg to be able to attend, too. But Michael’s family was Catholic. End of discussion.
Team members started arriving before noon when practice was officially set to start.
Michael was leaned over digging in a box of T-shirts when somebody kicked him soundly in the backside and sent him flying into the dirt.
“Hel-lo Mi-key,” said Ronnie Martin. “How’s Fatty Cakes, the team fat boy—I mean bat boy—today?” Ronnie had taken a dislike to Mikey the day of the cookout at Bishop’s house.
Michael Rutherford didn’t miss much. When you were fat and slow, you better be alert or you’d get trampled. He’d been close enough, kept his mouth shut, listened to Daniel and Jack talking and figured out they’d gotten into a fight with the boys from Brewster Academy in the woods last week. And he’d been at the park—got out of sight at the first sign of trouble—the day the Brewster Academy boys had attacked Jack and Daniel. The day Becca had…Mikey didn’t know what she’d done. He didn’t understand any of what he’d seen that day. But he knew enough to keep his head down and look like he was minding his own business after that. He was scared of those guys in a way that was totally unreasonable.
Mikey got up off the ground and dusted his pants, planted a grin on his face.
“Doin’ just fine, Ronnie. I got your uniform all ready—right over there.”
Mikey felt like some small, black thing had sneaked in the back door of his head and was crawling around in there—slithering around in there. His heart was pounding. Why was he so afraid—terrified—for no reason at all?
Everything seemed…off…after that. Bishop handed out the equipment and assembled the boys in front of him.
“We gone get warmed up today, catch a few pop flies and have a little batting practice,” Bishop said. Mikey watched closely. The big man didn’t look at the six boys from Brewster Academy when he spoke and seemed to be straining to stay focused, concentrating hard. It reminded Mikey of watching his mother try to have a telephone conversation while his little brother and sisters were fighting. “They’s aerating the field Thursday and Friday so next full practice is Monday. Noon to five every day after that. Just got a few weeks to whip this team into shape. You boys need to come ready to play ball.”
The coach clapped his hands and sent the boys into the outfield to catch flies.
What happened shortly after that had more clarity than what came before, even though it happened so fast it was over in seconds.
Bishop called the boys in for batting practice. “Everybody wants to swing all-out and knock one over the centerfield fence,” Bishop said. “Don’’t nobody want to practice bunting. But in the strategy of baseball, you got to know how to look like you’s about to swing for the moon, but end it in a bunt instead. That’s what we gone work on now.”
Jack fired pitches into Daniel’s glove. Bishop stood beside the first few batters, showing them how to bring the bat down out of a full swing and hold it properly to bunt. Then he stepped back and watched—mostly lame attempts that landed somewhere between Jack and Daniel for what would have been an easy out at first base during a real game.
Roger Willingham was the first of the Brewster Academy boys to step into the batter’s box, and Mikey could see Bishop, Jack and Daniel tense. Jack threw the first two balls wide but the third was right in the strike zone, and Roger didn’t even try to bunt, just swung at it, a full roundhouse that caught a little piece of the ball and sent it foul along the baseline.
Before Bishop could dress him down, Roger mumbled, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Toss me another one, and let me try again.”
Jack started his windup. Only Mikey, Bishop an
d Daniel heard Roger mumble, “I’ll get it right this time.”
Bishop moved, like he was going to grab Roger or maybe knock him out of the box. But the ball was already in the air, and he was already swinging. The bat connected with the ball with a mighty crack. The ball whizzed past Jack’s ear, a bullet five feet off the ground, a line drive into center field.
The outfield had been goofing off since bunting practice wasn’t likely to send any balls their way. Joshua Harper saw the line drive coming, though, and went for it, running and diving, reaching out his gloved hand toward the ball.
The ball slammed square into the center of Josh’s glove, forced his hand backward and snapped his wrist. Mikey had particularly keen vision and saw it, like in slow motion: the ball striking the glove, the glove bending backward from the blow, the hand inside the glove snapping off the wrist like a dry twig, leaving the hand dangling from Josh’s arm, connected only by tissue and tendons. Josh crashed to the ground with his gloved hand under him. Didn’t even cry out until he rolled over and saw his hand bent crooked. Then he began to scream.
Mikey wasn’t the only one who saw what really happened. Others did, too, but they couldn’t translate what they’d seen into any frame of reference they had. Nobody could aim a ball like firing a bullet the way Roger had done; nobody could hit a ball so hard it would break the arm of whoever tried to catch it. So when somebody yelled that Josh had fallen on his wrist and broken it, even the ones who’d actually witnessed what happened up close altered their memories to match that explanation. Yeah, that’s what they’d seen. Joshua Harper fell on his wrist and broke it.
Mikey, Jack, Daniel and Bishop knew their eyes hadn’t lied. They also knew Roger’s aim had been a little off. If it had flown true, the baseball would have smashed into Jack’s face. His head would have snapped off his neck like Joshua’s hand off his wrist.