by B K Stevens
“I can’t wait to see this guy’s bedroom,” Carlson said. “I bet he sleeps with stuffed animals. And I don’t mean the kind you buy at Wal-Mart.”
But the bedroom was an anti-climax—just a narrow metal bed covered with an Army blanket, a chest of drawers, a bedside table. I picked up a small framed picture.
“I bet this is him and his father,” I said. “Maybe it’s the last time he was happy.”
The boy in the photograph looked about twelve, the man in his mid-thirties. They stood with their arms around each other, both smiling broadly, both holding rifles. At their feet lay three bloody deer and a small heap of rabbits and squirrels.
“Ah, yes,” Carlson commented. “A little quality time with dad—taking a walk in the woods on a sunny afternoon, chatting about school, sharing ideas about life, blowing away everything that moves.”
“My father took me hunting when I was a boy,” I said. “I never cared for the hunting, but I liked being with him. It was quality time, believe it or not. Well. We’d better get started.”
I went back to the living room. All the trophies and certificates were for hunting, marksmanship, or loyal service to the American Firearms Association. There was a scrapbook, too, full of clippings about his father’s arrest, trial, and death. Probably, it was natural for Wayne Spat to keep these—but he’d kept them in within easy reach. He wouldn’t let that anger die.
Carlson had also found a scrapbook. “Under his mattress,” he reported. “Maybe we could re-open the investigation into the dead animals at the Dodd house, get a warrant for that.”
In this scrapbook, the clippings were short—just a few lines from the Police Report column, saying State Senator Karen Dodd had found a dead crow or a dead raccoon on her doorstep. But each clipping was centered on a separate page, as prized as any of his trophies.
“That’s quite a find, Carlson,” I said. “But no clippings about the rabbit she found Easter morning. That’s odd—that’s the incident that got the most press. His book collection is odd, too. Lots of James Fenimore Cooper, Poe’s short stories, some Hemingway, some Faulkner. All American. That’s interesting.”
“Because it shows he’s patriotic?” Carlson asked dubiously.
“No.” I had to stretch clear back to high school for guidance. I’d avoided American literature in college. Studying American literature in college meant studying Ralph Waldo Emerson, and that single fact had made me decide English literature had American literature beat all to hell. “But his collection seems—selective. No Hawthorne, no Twain. Wouldn’t you expect someone who likes American fiction to like Twain?”
“You bet.” Carlson hid a yawn.
I thought for a moment. “Of course. Hunting. That’s the common element. The Leatherstocking novels—Cooper must be a real favorite for Spat. And Hemingway hunted, and Faulkner wrote some great stories about hunting. But how does Poe fit in?”
“Hey, Poe!” Carlson said, his interest returning. “Now, that guy I liked. Remember the story where the crazy guy hates the guy with the weird eye? So he kills him and chops him up and hides him under the floor, and he can still hear his heart beating. Great, huh?”
“Great,” I agreed, wondering if I’d just gained a disturbing insight into Carlson’s enthusiasm for police work. Maybe the department should work questions about literary tastes into the screening process for recruits.
“Yeah, but there’s one thing I never got,” Carlson said, his face intent and serious. “A neighbor hears the old guy scream and tells the cops. But by the time they get to the scene, the perp’s already dissected the guy and hidden the pieces and cleaned up the blood, and that’s got to take a few hours, right? I mean, have you ever heard of a lousier response time? Guess they could’ve used a 911 system back then, huh, Lieutenant?”
“I guess.” I put the volume of Poe back on the shelf. Would the goriness of some Poe stories appeal to a hunter? Or Poe’s fascination with death—was that the connection?
I shook the question off. This was no time for literary games. “Well, we didn’t find much,” I said, taking a last, dissatisfied look around.
“You said we wouldn’t find the murder weapon,” Carlson pointed out, “and that makes sense. Any murderer with half a brain would dump it after using it. And Jacqui Liston’s gun is missing.”
“That could be a coincidence,” I said, not believing it. “Or someone could’ve taken her gun and used it to frame her.”
“Then why not leave it at the scene?” Carlson asked.
I shook my head. “That way, she’d know she’d been framed. We’d suspect it, too—even drunk murderers don’t tend to leave their guns lying next to their victims. No, a nice, loose frame works best. Jacqui Liston can’t be sure she was set up, and we naturally assume she used her gun and got rid of it.”
“I still assume that,” Carlson said. “So, what’s next?”
“I’m not sure. Spat’s probably camping out somewhere, but I’d guess he’s a better woodsman than anybody we’ve got. If he wants to stay hidden, he probably can.”
“Yeah, it’s not easy hunting down a hunter,” Carlson said. “Ironic, huh?”
Ironic—the same word Carlson kept using the first night. Somehow, it felt like the key to the whole case. I glanced at my watch. “After five. Have you finished with those restaurants I asked you to visit? No? Then do it now. And I’ll drop by the American Firearms Association.”
*
I’d expected to be too late, and I nearly was. But a silver BMW was still in the parking lot. Jackson Haywood walked toward it, digging in his pocket for his keys. I turned into the lot sharply, bearing down first on the gas, then on the brakes, so my car stopped with an appropriately ominous screech. Haywood dropped his keys.
“Well, Lieutenant.” He glanced at his keys but didn’t pick them up, probably unable to think of a graceful way of managing it. “I was just thinking what a novelty this was, making it through an entire day without having you drop by.”
I got out of my car but kept the door open. “I won’t take up much of your time,” I said, “because I don’t have much time myself. I just want to give you one last chance to reconsider. Wayne Spat’s in hiding—he hasn’t slept at his apartment for two nights. And I’ve now got solid evidence linking him to the dead animals left at the Dodd house. Add that to the evidence suggesting he was near the house on the day of the murder, his actions at the funeral home—he’s in trouble. If you’re protecting him, so are you.”
“You could be bluffing.” He stared down at his keys, not meeting my eyes.
“I could. But ask yourself if I’ve lied to you before. Did you tell Wayne Spat to keep an eye on Karen Dodd? Did he follow her home from the airport on Friday?”
The sky had darkened steadily, and a light, cold drizzle had started. Neither of us took any notice. We stood silently, Haywood still staring down at his keys. I leaned against my car, watching him.
“I told him to keep an eye on Randy Dodd,” Haywood said at last. “I knew about Jacqui Liston but didn’t have proof. I thought if I got proof, Mrs. Dodd might withdraw from the gubernatorial race, for fear of scandal. Wayne wanted to watch her, too, but I told him not to. He hated her so much—I was afraid he’d lose control. He promised to stay away from her. Maybe he lied. He lied about the animals. Every time it happened, I asked him, and he denied it. Even after she came into my office with that rabbit, he denied it, more vehemently than ever. I said I’d fire him if it didn’t stop.” He shook his head. “It stopped. That’s proof, I suppose.”
“Do you have any other proof you can give me, Mr. Haywood?”
He looked up sadly. “I have a signed confession. He confessed to vandalizing Detective Carlson’s car and swore I had no knowledge of it. I made him write that out, for my own protection, when I fired him. I promised not to show the confession to anyone if he stayed out of trouble. But he hasn’t. That dead deer in your house—and today I found a dead skunk on my kitchen table.”
&n
bsp; “Then you can consider yourself released from your promise. Will you give me the confession?” It wasn’t much, but it would get me a warrant.
He nodded. “It’s in my office safe.” Finally, he picked up his keys. He unlocked a door, and we stepped out of the thickening drizzle. At the sight of Wayne Spat’s desk, he paused. “I hope he’s all right,” he said. “The last time I saw him, he was crying. Well. Let’s get this over with.”
He unlocked the door to his private office and switched on a light. My eye was caught by a blur of red above the cases—“JUDAS,” spray-painted on the wall in large, childishly uneven letters. My hand started toward the gun in my shoulder holster, but I stopped it. In the corner, next to the stuffed brown bear, Wayne Spat sat crouched, wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt, his hair matted and thick with grease. Poised on his knee was a rifle, pointed directly at my head.
“Stop.” His voice sounded oddly clear. “Don’t move your hand, or I’ll shoot.”
“All right.” I left my hand suspended, absurdly, in mid-air.
“Wayne, for God’s sake!” Haywood cried. He’d frozen a few steps ahead of me. “Put that down! What are you—”
“Quiet! Let me think!” He moistened his lips. I could see the sweat starting down his face. “You’d better sit down, Jackson. Yes. Walk slowly to your desk, and sit down.”
Haywood hesitated, then obeyed. Wayne Spat’s mouth twitched in a brief, satisfied smile.
“Good. Now you.” He riveted his eyes on me, concentrating fiercely, keeping his rifle in position. “I want—no. Wait. Where’s your gun?”
“In a shoulder holster.” I kept my voice flat. “Under my left arm.”
“All right.” He tried to blink the sweat away, hunching his shoulder up to wipe at his cheek. The rifle gave him confidence, clearly, but confusion was deep in his eyes. He wasn’t used to talking to his prey. “Then I want—wait. Use your left hand. Put your right hand behind your head, and use your left hand to get your gun. No, wait! Just two fingers. Take your gun out of your holster, drop it, and kick it over here.”
“I don’t think I can manage that,” I began, but he cut me off furiously.
“Do it! Right now, or I swear to God I’ll shoot you! I swear to God!”
“I’ll try.” The gun probably wouldn’t do me much good anyhow. He was already in position, and undoubtedly a quicker, surer shot. My only hope was to keep anyone from pulling a trigger. Slowly, I hooked my right hand behind my neck, groped at the holster with my left hand, got the gun out, and let it fall, with a dull clatter that made us all jerk back. I gave the gun a kick, and it spun across the floor.
Again, the brief, satisfied twitch of a smile. He nearly toppled over when he reached for the gun but righted himself, pocketed the gun, and swung his rifle back into position. “Good. Put your left hand behind your head, too, and lace your fingers. Good.” He beamed, pleased with himself for handling a new and difficult situation so well.
It’s not hopeless, I thought. He didn’t shoot immediately: probably, he doesn’t want to shoot at all. “I don’t think you killed Karen Dodd, Mr. Spat,” I said, quietly. “I think you can help me catch the person who did kill her. If you do, I’ll talk to the prosecutor about the other things you’ve done. I’ll help you.”
“So you want to help me.” He laughed bitterly. “That’s exactly what the cops said to my father. Just tell us what happened, Mr. Spat. We’ll talk to the prosecutor. We’ll help you. Trust us. So he told them everything. Then they arrested him, and they sent him to prison, and that’s where he died. And now you want me to trust you.”
The man did have a point. “Your father killed two people. The police couldn’t do much for him. You haven’t killed anyone, have you? But I think you could tell me who did.”
He thought this over. “I could tell you. But you wouldn’t believe me. My father told them he’d fired in self-defense, he’d thought that creep had a gun, but they didn’t believe him. They wouldn’t believe me, either. It’d just be my word, and I know what my word’s worth. It’s worth shit, isn’t it?”
That was true, too. The prosecutor would probably see Wayne Spat as a dangerous loon, and a jury would probably agree. “But you have proof,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t see the flaw in the argument. “You have the gun, don’t you? If you give it to me, I could use it to—”
“You’d use it against me.” He took one hand off the rifle to push the sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. “If I give you the gun, that just proves I killed her, right?”
“Wayne, please,” Haywood said, and I glanced at him in surprise. I’d almost forgotten he was in the room. “Put down the rifle. I’ll get you a lawyer—I’ll pay him. I know it’s frightening, but you don’t have any choice.”
“I have a choice.” Spat grinned briefly. “I can hide. I’m good at hiding, Jackson. I hid in the empty office next door for two days, and you never knew. After I leave here, I’m going to Canada, way up north, where there’s nobody, and I’ll live off the land. I can do that forever. I’ll get a dog, and I’ll be happy. Happier than I ever was here. Lieutenant, do you have handcuffs?”
“On my belt,” I said. “Do you want me to—”
“No!” He readjusted the angle of his rifle. “Don’t move your hands. I’ll get them myself. Afterwards. Then I’ll throw them to you, Jackson, and you can cuff yourself to your desk, and when the security guard checks the office, he’ll find you. You’ll be fine. Just don’t tell them about Canada. They won’t be able to find me, not where I’m going, but give me time to get there. You owe me that.”
Haywood glanced at me. “What about Lieutenant Ledger?”
“You won’t get in trouble for that,” Spat said. “I’ll leave the rifle here, with my fingerprints, so they’ll know.” He nodded. “See, Jackson? I’m thinking of everything. I’m taking care of you. You hurt me so much, but I’d never hurt you.” He raised his rifle an inch. “Now. Turn around, Lieutenant. Face the door.”
I hadn’t thought it would go this far. I shook my head. “I won’t make it easier for you. If you’re going to shoot me, you’ll have to look me in the eyes when you do it. Just tell me about last Friday. You followed her home from the airport, didn’t you, and parked near the house. Did you think she had a lover, and he might come over while her husband was at work?”
“I thought—I just thought she should be watched.” His lower lip quivered. “God, it was dumb. I wish I’d never gone.”
“I understand that. You thought maybe you’d witness some indiscretion, but you ended up witnessing a murder. That must’ve been frightening.”
The rifle shook in his hand, and his voice grew soft. “It was awful. I hid in the backyard, and I heard the shot, and I ran to my van. I saw the car leave; I knew I should call 911, but I was too scared, too excited. I followed the car, instead of helping her.”
“You couldn’t have helped her,” I said. “She was already dead. But you can help her now, by making sure her killer gets punished. Who was it, Mr. Spat?”
He seemed about to relent, then shook his head. “You’re just trying to get me worked up, thinking about that day, so I’ll be too upset to shoot. You think I’m afraid to shoot. You think I’m a coward.”
“I only wish you were a coward. I know you’re not. I know you’ll shoot if you think you have to. I’m just trying to show you that you don’t.”
“I do.” Something new came into his eyes, a new hardening of desperation. “I have to do it now, before you mix me up more. Turn around.”
“Wayne, for the love of God!” Haywood cried.
Wayne Spat didn’t look at him. He pushed his glasses up on his forehead and put his eye to the sights. “Be quiet, Jackson. I’ll get this done. Lieutenant, turn around.”
“No.” I felt my spine tighten. He might, I thought. I have to try something else. I took a step toward him. “I’m not armed, Mr. Spat—I can’t hurt you—but I won’t stand here like a target. If you do it, it’ll be messy.”
I took another step forward.
A shot exploded, pounding into the wall behind my left ear. “Stand still, damn it!” Wayne Spat shouted. “Turn around!”
“No.” He could just as easily have shot me, I told myself. “I’m taking the rifle, and we’re calling the prosecutor. We’ll say the gun went off accidentally.” One more step, I decided, and risked it.
“Damn it, stop!” He shrank backwards, bumping softly against the bear. “You think I won’t shoot? I’ll show you! I’ll show you I’ll shoot!” He swung his rifle around, sending two bullets smashing through the glass display case. “See? And I’ll blow your stupid face off if you—”
One more shot, and it caught Wayne Spat square in the chest. He looked down, amazed, and toppled forward, still clutching his rifle.
Jackson Haywood stood at his desk, holding a pistol out stiffly. “Careful, Lieutenant. He may still be dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said, but felt sure Wayne Spat would never be a danger to anyone again. I rolled him onto his back. His face was limp and dirt-streaked and childish. Gently, I eased the rifle from his hands.
Haywood set his gun down. “Is he dead?”
“He’s bad. Call 911, quick.” I ripped off my coat and pressed it against the wound. But the bleeding inside, I thought. That’s got to be worse.
Wayne Spat’s eyelids flickered. “Was it Jackson?” he managed. “Jackson doesn’t carry a gun.”
Haywood finished his call and knelt by his friend’s side. “I’m sorry, Wayne,” he said, taking his hand. “I couldn’t let you kill him. Can you forgive me?”
It wasn’t quite a nod, but his head moved forward slightly. Then he opened his eyes, wide, and fixed them on my face. “I didn’t kill the bunny,” he said.