by Alan Russell
“I am a poet.”
“It must be a very powerful individual,” he said, “someone who is quite confident of his position in society and quite certain he is above the law.”
“Sort of sounds like you, doesn’t he?”
“Or you?”
“How can I be above the law when I’m part of it?”
“When we were walking in the fire, any notion of morality was burned away,” Haines said. “The only thing that separated the two of us from being murderers was the tiniest bit of pressure withheld on your part. I know how close you came to emptying your gun into me. On two occasions, I remember, I feared to breathe, afraid if I even twitched under your gaze it would mean my life. I’ve thought about those moments many times. You were ready to murder me. I’ve wondered what prevented you, and the only thing I can think of was that you needed a fellow Sherpa to carry Sirius. Had he died, I have not a doubt but that you would have murdered me.”
Sirius’s ears were up, responding to Haines using his name. I stared at Haines but said nothing. He was right, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
“I hope you remember your lessons from that night. Your survival might depend on it. If your enemy dares to set your house on fire, do you think he’ll hesitate in harming you in any way that he can? The morality of right and wrong serves no purpose to a dead man. You need to reach out to him.”
Haines wasn’t telling me to reach out. He was telling me to murder.
“I’d be afraid of doing that,” I said. “I’d be scared of being put into a cell adjoining yours.”
“All you have to do is whissss-per a name to me,” Haines whissss-pered.
I found myself leaning closer to him, hanging on to his words.
“There will be no blowback,” he said. “You will be untouchable in this matter. And you can take comfort in your belief that your enemy’s transgressions warrant his death. You need not worry about him using his power to hurt you, or those close to you. You would not want societal constraints and the narrow window offered by your badge to result in your death. And you cannot let his position dictate to you. Alexander the Great and his groom by death were brought to the same state.”
I was sure Haines was citing some classical reference in talking about Alexander the Great, but all of that was window dressing. He was offering to put an untraceable hit on Drew Corde. There was a time when I would have taken great umbrage at such a proposal, but I stopped thinking in absolutes long ago. I am not saying I was tempted to whissss-per Corde’s name, but imagining his death was a pleasant enough way of passing the time.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass.”
“I hope your righteousness doesn’t kill you. Do you resist doing this because you are worried about your immortal soul?”
I made the sounds of sniffing. “The smell of sulfur does tend to get me thinking about it.”
“I’ve missed our visits. Why is it that you stopped seeing me?”
If I had told Haines that seeing him wasn’t good for my immortal soul, it would have been close to the truth. Instead I said, “You weren’t providing me with the kind of information deemed useful by the FBI and their Behavioral Science Unit, and I got tired of wasting my time.”
“What if on your next visit I promise to answer all the tedious questions contrived by their small minds?”
I thought about it. He’d snared me nicely. “Then I guess the two of us will soon be making the Quantico headshrinkers very happy.”
“My L.A. vacation will probably last only the one week,” he said. “I’m hoping you can visit at the onset of fall.”
“I can’t wait: falling leaves, changing colors, and doing trick-or-treat with a serial killer.”
“Seasonal affective disorder killer,” he said.
“Are you and J. Glo still working on that scam?”
During one of my last visits to San Quentin, Haines had confided in me that he and his mouthpiece were working on a legal appeal based on SAD—seasonal affective disorder. The claim was that he had strangled all his victims during severe Santa Ana winds. The devil hadn’t made him do it, he was asserting, but the winds had.
“The deleterious effect of gusting winds on the human psyche is well documented,” he said.
“Most people go out and fly a kite, not commit a murder.”
“You should know that I am doing my best not to involve you in my appeal,” he said.
“Why would I be part of your appeal?”
“I have often wondered if you would lie again on the witness stand. Imagine this scenario: moments after raising your right hand and making your oath to God, my counsel would be asking you, ‘Detective Gideon, did you ever read my client his Miranda rights?’ If you lied again, wouldn’t that constitute a mortal sin? Wouldn’t that condemn you to hell?”
“You seem awfully concerned with my spiritual well-being.”
“As I said, I am trying to save you from what I am sure would be a terrible dilemma. That’s one of the reasons I am testifying in this trial. What I say should prove useful for my appeal.”
“Why is that?”
“I was convicted of a murder I did not commit. That fact helped to paint my guilt. And it also brings into play fruit of the poisonous tree.”
“During your trial, you admitted your guilt.”
“I said I was guilty, but I never provided specifics.”
“I heard through the grapevine that you’re not only here because of the trial. The word is that you’ve been providing investigators information about other unsolved homicides of which you supposedly have insider knowledge.”
“Ever watch a dog drool over a steak? That’s how subtle your comrades-in-arms have been. While I’ve been discussing how practice makes perfect and how experience shows you the way, your Keystone friends have been oh so very interested in hearing about my early performances. All I need do is mention a detail or two, and that starts the drooling.”
Haines turned his gaze to my partner. “I beg your pardon, Sirius. I didn’t mean any offense at the dog and drooling remark.”
Sirius growled. I really couldn’t blame him, and he heard no “phooey”—or “pfui”—from me.
“So all this is just a show,” I said, “and when the time comes to admitting further guilt, the only thing you’ll offer up is a performance of you playing the detectives.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I will testify truthfully. I did not murder the woman that the court identified as victim number nine. The inept use of the garrote on her should have made it clear to everyone that her death was the work of a copycat and an amateur. They know who killed her now, and they know it wasn’t me.”
It was believed that Haines had strangled eleven women, but statements he’d made recently put the number of his victims at more than fifteen and hinted that manual strangulation had not been his early MO. One of the cryptic comments he’d offered to the investigators was that the answers to his early crimes “were blowing in the wind.” This had led them to identifying half a dozen other potential homicide victims who had died in the middle of raging Santa Ana winds prior to his strangulation murders. All the women had suffered severe lacerations that had likely been inflicted by a machete.
“It’s all a game to you, isn’t it?”
“I wish it was. During one of my interviews I told one of the gendarmes that I grew up at Camp Crystal Lake and my favorite childhood activity was playing hockey. Can you imagine me playing hockey? It took them a week to figure out what I was saying.”
Haines had referenced the villain from the Friday the 13th movies, a villain who wore a hockey mask and liked using a machete on his victims.
“Are we done here?” I asked.
“We are not even close to done, but if you so choose, we are finished for now.”
I called out to the sher
iff’s deputy that I was ready to leave. J. Glo must have been nearby, because she reappeared at the door. When I stood up, Haines remained seated.
He spoke so that only I could hear: “To whom should I give your regards?”
Saying the name would be like sending off a UAV to kill. I could take out Drew Corde long distance. I want to say it wasn’t tempting, but it was. I want to say I didn’t think about offering up his name, but I did.
“Broadway,” I answered, and it was my turn to soft-shoe my way out of the room.
CHAPTER 17:
THE TELL-TALE HEART
The house was at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. Even though most of the homes were more than half a century old, they were well kept, and their add-ons and sprucing made them appear more contemporary than their years. All the houses had small yards; the majority had been built up with an added second floor. The house I was visiting had that upper-story addition. Judging from the basketball hoops, soccer nets, and chalk art on the driveways and street, it was a neighborhood with a lot of young families. Because it was a school day, those children weren’t anywhere to be seen.
A Camry with a fresly applied bumper sticker of “Corner School Proud” was parked in the driveway. Since the shooting, many of The Corner School parents were making that pronouncement in a variety of forms. The bumper sticker gave me hope that Mrs. Pullman was home.
I went up the walkway to the front door and rang the bell. A dozen seconds elapsed before I heard a woman’s voice asking from behind the closed door, “Yes?”
I held up my wallet badge to the peephole. “I’m Detective Michael Gideon,” I said. “Yesterday I visited The Corner School along with my K-9 partner Sirius. The two of us did a little show for the kids, and then I had the pleasure of meeting up with some of the students afterward. Matthew Pullman was one of those students. Am I talking to his mother?”
The door opened, and I was greeted by a big smile that seemed to cast light on the attractive face of a woman whose ancestors had to have hailed from Ireland. “I’m Kelley Pullman,” she said, extending her hand, “Matt’s mom. All he could talk about yesterday was you and your dog.”
She leaned forward, making sure her hand extended beyond her protruding stomach. Kelley Pullman looked to be well along in her pregnancy. She was wearing a sleeveless maternity dress that was stylish even with her large baby bump. Topping out at around five foot two, her frame, when not pregnant, would have been petite, but now she was busting out at the seams. Her russet hair was slightly up, and her bangs were down.
“I came bearing gifts,” I said. “I happen to have a shirt that’s too small for me, but after yesterday I knew just the right person for it.”
I showed her what was in my hands. The yellow Lakers jersey was the real thing, with the exception that, instead of a player’s name and number on the back, there was the designation “MVP” and below that the number “1.” After Sirius and I had survived our encounter with Haines, the Lakers organization had sent us some gifts. The shirt actually wasn’t too small for me, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk around in a jersey that proclaimed me as their most valuable player. At the same time it wasn’t something I could part with easily as it had been signed by the Lakers team.
That’s what Kelley noticed. “It’s autographed!” she said.
“The jersey is a few years old,” I explained, “and most of the players who signed it are no longer even on the team.”
“Still, it’s a collectible. I’m sure it’s valuable. I’d consider buying it from you, but I couldn’t accept it. That would be too much.”
“My work prohibits me from taking money for it, and the truth is that I’ll never wear it, so I really do want Matthew to have it. The jersey’s not doing me any good gathering dust in a drawer.”
I extended it to her, and she reluctantly took it from me. “Matt is going to go crazy for this.”
Then she opened the door wider. “The house is a mess, but please come in, Detective—I’m sorry I don’t remember your name.”
“Detective Gideon,” I said.
I followed her into the house. By my standards it looked clean, but she began apologizing again. “I meant to start tidying up after taking Matt to school, but then I went and nodded off. It seems like all I do is nap these days. I was just about to get a cup of coffee. Would you like one?”
“I definitely would,” I said. “I’m operating on vapors. Last night there was a small fire at my house, and as a result I barely slept.”
“That’s terrible!” she said. “What happened?”
“The fire department is looking into it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was an electrical fire.”
Actually that would surprise the hell out of me, but that was the easiest explanation to offer.
“You’ll have to do the sniff test on the jersey,” I said. “It might have picked up some of the smoke smell.”
“I can’t imagine after dealing with a fire you’re not home recovering. And to think you actually made a special trip here to deliver the jersey.”
I was getting tired of hearing what a nice and thoughtful person I was. I was the wolf in sheep’s clothing—or at least the Lakers jersey. “I do better when I’m working,” I said.
And working was what I was doing. I had no idea what I was looking for, but with glances I hoped weren’t obvious I was trying to take in as much as I could. Off the entry door was a small living room full of familial bric-a-brac.
“Let me get that coffee,” she said. “Why don’t you grab a seat in the living room?”
As Kelley went to the kitchen, I looked around the living room. There were lots of family pictures. Matthew was the star of most of the shots. Even though he was only a third-grader, there were pictures of Matthew with soccer, football, baseball, and basketball teams. Youth sports seemed to be his life.
Kelley’s voice came from the kitchen: “What do you take in your coffee?”
“I’ll take cream and sugar, if you have it.”
It wasn’t my usual order, but I hoped it would take longer to prepare and give me more time to look around.
“I’m afraid we only have milk,” she shouted.
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
From the kitchen I could hear the microwave heating up our coffee. I went from picture to picture and started seeing some older photos that showed life before Matthew. There were a number of pictures of Kelley with a man I assumed was her husband. I had seen the blurred images of the Reluctant Hero taken on the camera phone, and there was a resemblance. Both men had short, dark hair with intense brown eyes and an olive complexion, and looked to be around five foot ten. But The Corner School assistant principal was right in her description of Mr. Pullman as being heavier and less “vigorous” than the Hero. While he wasn’t fat, his more recent pictures showed him with a slight gut and a face that was becoming jowly.
I continued scrutinizing pictures. There were several wedding shots. It looked like theirs had been a large wedding, as the picture showed six bridesmaids and six groomsmen. All the groomsmen were wearing tuxes except for the best man, who was outfitted in his military dress uniform. He had on a tan beret and a uniform of green. There was no question as to the familial resemblance; the best man had to be brother to the groom.
Everyone in the wedding party shot was smiling except for the best man. There was something of the thousand-yard stare in his expression. I wondered if he had come from war or knew he would soon be returning to it. His lost expression set him apart from the other faces, especially his radiant brother’s. I’ve known too many grooms who, in their nuptial photos, looked as if they were going to the gallows instead of their wedding. That wasn’t the case with Matthew’s father. This was his moment of triumph. His bride didn’t look as ebullient. Weddings are stressful, and Kelley’s smile couldn’t quite mask her anxiety.
“I�
��m surprised you didn’t drop off the jersey at the school,” yelled Kelley from the kitchen.
There wasn’t a good answer, but I tried to offer a plausible explanation.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay with accepting it for Matthew, and I was in the neighborhood anyway.”
I was afraid her next question would be to ask how I had learned where Matthew lived, so I kept up my patter while continuing to study the pictures.
“I should be the one making coffee. I’m sure these days it’s hard being on your feet.”
“I’m glad to have something to do,” she said.
I could hear her putting coffee cups on a tray, and that was my signal to move away from the wedding photos back to the sports pictures. As Kelley entered the living room, I turned to her and said, “Let me help.”
“No need,” she said, placing the tray on a table and then handing me my cup. “Here’s your blonde with sand.”
“My what?”
“I worked in a diner while going to college. One of the old-time waitresses used to always call coffee with cream and sugar ‘a blonde with sand.’ ”
“I’ve eaten too many meals in too many diners, but I’ve never heard it called that. Of course usually I just order it black.”
“Shirley called that ‘high and dry.’ ”
“It sounds like you learned as much at that diner as you did in college.”
She laughed. “That might be true. When people ask where I met my husband, I’m never sure whether to tell them it happened on the job or at college.”
“Which was it?”
“Both.” Kelley smiled. “I was a freshman at Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo, when D.C. was a senior. D.C. was in the computer engineering program, and I was studying business. I worked nights at the diner, and he always came in to get his coffee fix, or at least that’s what he led me to believe. Only after we started going out did D.C. admit he didn’t really even like coffee. It was the cheapest thing on the menu, and it gave him something to linger over, but mostly it gave him an excuse to see me.”