And to think he still squeezed in six hours sleep.
Frank returned to the cruiser with two coffees and a bag of cinnamon buns. They drove west up 78th and pulled into a Kinney System parking garage where the disgruntled attendant let them borrow a spot—the grimace on his face attested to the fact that he'd performed this service many more times in the past than he ever cared to. The city's parking garages were a common pit stop, providing a quiet place for the police to wind down, and here gave Frank and Hector a few moments to discuss the situation at hand.
"Oh, that feels good," Frank said, sipping his coffee. He closed his eyes and let the warmth spread through his stomach. "I need this bad."
"Not bad for a coffee cart." Hector's eyes had a lot of sleep in them, dark and droopy.
Frank uncurled the bag and dug out a cinnamon bun. "You know I'm never gonna be able to sleep tonight," he said, taking a bite. "Between obsessing about everything that's happened, and then trying to figure it all out, it's really got my mind racing."
"Let the sand settle a bit. You've been bombarded. We both have." He bit into the bun Frank gave him, washed it down with coffee. "You said you wanted to tell me something about the receipt?"
Frank took a deep breath, thinking the whole time since they left the Bronx that revealing to Hector everything going through his mind right now might not be the best idea. First and foremost, he knew that Hector would have a hell of a time considering the validity of it all, unless of course Frank could outright convince him: something entirely possible but potentially painstaking given his own lack of spirit, energy, and downright belief in what clearly seemed outlandish. And, of course, Hector's bull-doggedness.
But with everything he'd seen and been through over the past eighteen hours, something inside—his detective-identity—told him that his ideas could very well be valid, that somewhere, somehow, it all tied in, that it could really make sense to Hector if he just laid it out in black and white. Yes, Frank had to tell Hector. At least the rudimentary facts as he saw them. Spell it out as clearly as possible and keep his fingers crossed.
Of course, if Hector bought his ideas, then the two of them would have to search for proof. That was another story altogether, and where Frank would really need Hector's assistance if they were to break any ground. But first things first.
"The receipt," Frank revealed, displaying the small piece of paper from his jacket pocket, "is really only a small part of everything that's rolling around in my head. I grabbed it because I thought—and still think—that a visit to the store might provide us with some additional clues."
"Clues to what?"
Frank shifted in his seat, his body squared toward Hector. "I truly believe that this whole thing with Harold Gross runs much deeper than what just appears on the outside: that he's just some crazy lost soul, a sadomasochistic murderer running around preying on the penises of adolescent boys. I've been thinking about it over and over, and it just doesn't make any sense. Think about it. What in God's name could his motivation be? Sick pleasure? I don't buy that. He was too hell-bent on killing himself for what I guess is the fear of having to disclose some secret he's holding inside. Hect, there's more to this sick puppy than just his bark and bite."
"We'll have some answers tomorrow. I plan on questioning him myself."
Frank frowned, shook his head with dismay. "He's not gonna talk."
"We'll make him talk."
"How? By roughing him up? Besides, he has no tongue."
Hector nodded, a grin of truth confirming his thoughts. "So what are you thinking?"
"This afternoon, when Martin was going through all those sketches of the bald men, I couldn't help but think of Bobby Lindsay. You remember seeing pictures of him in the paper? A few days before the murder he shaved his head completely bald and kept it that way all through the investigation."
Hector grinned, clearly skeptical, but still attentive. "Go on."
"At every questioning, at every occurrence we came in contact with him until the day of his arrest, Lindsay wore black clothes and sunglasses. He'd been very defiant in removing his glasses when we questioned him. When he finally did, his eyes were like black orbs, the pupils wide and dilated. We already knew at the time that there weren't any drugs involved. He'd been tested. So we attributed it to shock."
Hector nodded, eyebrows raised in question.
"Hect, call me crazy, but I saw that same dark blank look in Gross' eyes. His pupils, they took up all the color, just like Lindsay's"
"Are you trying to persuade me to believe that Gross and Lindsay are somehow connected?"
"I think it’s a possibility."
Hector shook his head in doubt, then took a sip of coffee. "Frank, I don't think this is a time to let your gut do the talking, you're tired and upset about what happened with Lindsay—"
"Wait, there's more." There was a pause in their conversation as a parking attendant drove by in a black Lexus. "Gross was wearing gloves when he appeared in the alley, when he committed his crimes. Lindsay had been wearing gloves when he committed his crimes. There weren't any fingerprints at the scene. It's in my report."
Hector looked at Frank, made a hmph sound.
"Also, I find it very hard to believe that all those bald men wearing sunglasses we saw in the police computer were involved in personal, isolated incidents. Each sketch—what were there, twelve?"
"Something like that."
"Each had been of a man suspect in the disappearance of a number of young adult males, and each case had been covered up by the FBI. Remember the two men Martin researched after he'd done Gross?"
"Hilton and Farrell."
"Both were listed as suicides. Said so right in the report."
Hector leaned back, his brow curious, aimed skyward in thought. "Hmm. That's interesting. Gross was hell bent on killing himself."
"Yes. But he failed miserably. And another thing, Gross' victims were young males, like Hilton and Farrell."
"So how does that tie in with Bobby Lindsay? He murdered his sister."
Frank shrugged his shoulders. "That much I haven't figured out yet. But all the other similarities are there."
"So why go to the clothing store?"
"If Gross, Hilton, and Farrell are connected in any way, which I'll bet my left arm they are, and Lindsay too, then I'm guessing there's more of them out there."
"More of who? Bald men wearing sunglasses committing murders?"
"Yes, Hect. Absolutely. It's too coincidental to be overlooked. Something's going on, something very strange, cultish, and we're uncovering bits and pieces of it minute by minute. We almost have to check out every possibility. Not only whether Bobby Lindsay could have had a part in all this, but whether there are more. There almost has to be. I really find it hard to believe that we know of all of them."
Hector took a sip of coffee, looking out at the cars parked in the spaces opposite them. He twirled his moustache, eyebrows lifted in thought. "If there actually is a them."
Watch out for them...
"I'll almost guarantee it. It's a cover-up. We already know that."
"So what now?"
Frank smiled, knowing Hector already knew the answer to this one. Once again, Frank convinced his man—at least enough to warrant a further investigation.
"Village Clothing."
"You know, I haven't bought any of this yet," Hector said, starting the car. "As far as I'm concerned, our work is done. We've got the man that committed the murders in the alley, in less than eighteen hours, no less."
"I'm not looking to sell you, Hect. I only want you to check it out with me. I hate to repeat myself, but this story runs much deeper than just Harold Gross, and I'm prepared to prove it to you."
"You said that already."
Frank nodded, rolled his eyes. "Just to prepare you, there's much, much more—beyond what I've just told you."
"You got more theories, huh?"
"Care to hear me out?" Frank smiled. He'd built momentum,
and was now willing to spill it all.
"One thing at a time, Smoky. Let's go to Village Clothing first and test out your theory, see if it holds any water."
They pulled out of the parking garage, waving towards the attendant (who elected not to return the friendly gesture), then headed downtown.
Chapter Sixteen
Bobby Lindsay sat silently, brooding in the family dining room, his mother, step-father, and lawyer sitting opposite him, each of them ineffective in attempting to coerce additional information regarding his involvement in Carrie's murder. They dug desperately and incessantly, like treasure hunters, seeking any other response than I just don't remember doing it.
When not trying to pry words from Bobby's lips, Jo-Beth Lindsay argued relentlessly with her husband Jake and Bobby's lawyer Marvin Korn, their incessant words shooting back and forth like ongoing volleys at a ping pong game. For reasons still unexplained, Bobby had had a great deal of trouble making any sense of the English language since he'd been accused of the heinous crime, so their harried utterances sounded much like foreign words, garbled and unintelligible.
Bobby held his head in his hands as the three adults flung their frustrations back and forth in gunfire-like fashion. He rubbed the sweat from his palms into his dampened brow, staring through his sunglasses into the whorls of finished oak surfacing the dining room table. He tried hard to make sense of the conflicts consuming his thoughts—he still possessed the ability to communicate with himself inside his head, and wanted nothing more than to understand what the hell was going on around him—all at the same time trying desperately to block out his parents' painfully incomprehensible arguments. Their words went on and on, back and forth, Bobby blah blah blah eating at his brain. He realized he couldn't take it any longer: their voices, grating his spine, abrasive and cutting like long fingernails slowly scraping across the surface of a chalky blackboard. He rose from the table, ignoring their hails for him to return to his seat. He moved to the center of the living room, near the tapestry couch, leaning down to scratch an itch beneath the homing bracelet attached around his ankle, its heavy metallic grip chafing against his skin, leaving a crusty redness at the point of contact.
When the itch was relieved, he slowly stepped to within a few feet of the front window. He peered outside, staying back just far enough to avoid being glimpsed by the hordes of media gathered behind the police barricade set up just across the street, and from the police who were providing surveillance around the clock.
The whole damn scenario seemed so unreal. He had been accused of murdering of his sister! It sounded so horrific. Unbelievable. Two days following her disappearance, the police had searched the house, combing the place from Bobby's downstairs apartment all the way to the attic. When they finally revealed to the family that her mutilated body had been found in the hallway closet next to his parent's bedroom upstairs, Bobby felt as if he'd been struck in the heart with a great blow.
At once he refused to accept the loss of his sister, and had stayed unbelieving of the dreadful truth: that Carrie had been horribly murdered, her body stuffed into his very own suitcase like a slaughterhouse discard.
Apparently his vehement denial led police to believe that it was he who had committed the crime, and they started hounding him, keeping tabs on him, watching his every move.
Finally they brought him in. During the first interrogation they thrust a long line of sickening crime scene photos under his nose, one after another, each one depicting a bloody and brutal scene, the unendurable process seeming never to end. It was the first he saw of Carrie since her disappearance, and he had prayed it would be the last.
He didn't understand why he was being accused of her murder. And later rape, no less. Sure, things weren't right in his mind—the confusion, the amnesia—that much he realized, but he also knew he wasn't capable of such a heinous act: her innocence violated, her body beaten and sliced. Murdered. No, no, no, he could never do that.
So what evidence had the authorities uncovered that would lead them to believe that he was the guilty party? Throughout the investigation he knew they would be watching him close. His parents too. But they quickly turned their focus on him, questioning him, prodding him for answers.
Suddenly, inexplicably, at the onset of the first interrogation, he lost his ability to understand much of what was said to him. In turn he could no longer reply clearly or intelligibly to those querying him. Words spoken to him sounded like a strange foreign language, and all his defensive responses escaped his throat in uncontrollable, nonsensical blurts. This behavior in conjunction with his amnesia surely made it seem that he was hiding something, or was feigning insanity, and he was immediately bludgeoned with accusations. He realized that he had no choice but to sit mum, as his ability to comprehend and answer their intense probes was in unexplained collapse, his memories prior to Carrie's murder now completely lost.
When they finally came to the house and slapped the cuffs on him and read him his rights, the paranoia he experienced all along gave way to a sickening emotion so intense that words alone could never express how he felt.
Bobby's past hadn't been so decorated. He spent a good share of time hanging out with the wrong people, getting into trouble, involving himself in minor public disturbances and other menial crimes. Bored rich boy stuff. Once he'd been arrested for tossing a brick through the windshield of a parked car—his most serious offense. But never under any circumstanced had he ever considered hurting another human being, much less his little sister!
Staring out the window into the illuminated night, he felt the gaze of a single policeman pinning him, and he shied away. Damn! If only he could regain control of his crazed thoughts, remember something—anything—from the missing block of time in his mind, then perhaps he would be able to speak up and defend himself, maybe even solve the crime and exonerate himself.
He turned and moved back to the dining room table, his mother, step-father, and lawyer facing in his direction. Beads of sweat trickled down his spine.
"You ready to tell us something, Bobby? Mr Korn can't defend you properly unless you tell him the truth."
Bobby felt his jaw clench in frustration, the proper words unable to spill from his tongue. His tensed-up muscles sent jolts of pain into his head. "If I could remember anything, I'd tell you." It was still the only defense he could voice.
The three adults shook their heads, brows furrowed, their frustration as severe as Bobby's. Marvin Korn stood, arms stretched wide, his heavy-set torso pressing heavily against the buttons on his shirt. "Bobby—"
"I'm going to sleep. It's late, and I'm tired." A new utterance, a means of escape perhaps.
Jo-Beth Lindsay stood, placed an arm on Marvin's shoulder and squeezed. "That might be the best thing right now," she said, staring at Bobby. Her blond hair was still in place, despite all the harried events the day had brought. "Maybe when Bobby wakes up, he'll remember something." She looked at her son and smiled, its denotation clearly weak and false.
Something about that smile doesn't seem right...
Bobby nodded and paced slowly from the room, feeling a chill of shudders race down his spine, as if he had a gun pointed at his back. He opened the door leading to his downstairs apartment and took the flight one step at a time, careful not to allow his tired legs to stagger. He reached the bottom and passed the alcove where the washer and dryer leaned against the wall like a pair of modernized igloos.
The peace and quiet the apartment offered upon entering gave him immediate escape from the cruel, persecuting world. He lay on his bed, in the dark, staring across the room to the door in the kitchen. A policeman stood in the drainage recess at the bottom of the cement steps outside, his grainy moonlit shadow gently swaying back and forth behind the sealed curtains.
For the first time since coming home from the courthouse today, Bobby closed his eyes and attempted to allow his mind some rest. The month-long investigation had been hell, today being no exception, and he prayed for his
mind to erase that affliction, just as it cleared his memories prior to Carrie's murder.
He thought about everything that had taken place this morning, his being led from the holding cell, into the courthouse, facing the judge. At the time he would have bet his inheritance that the rest of his natural life would be spent rotting behind bars, the inmates strongly expressing their dissatisfaction with child-killers like himself. One could then imagine the shocking relief he felt when the judge actually went ahead and set bail, and then when his mother plopped down the big-time dough—it was like a heaven-sent dream come true.
Riding home in silence, he pondered the confusing situation, trying to make sense out of what had just occurred, his mother signing for the right to his freedom. It didn't make any sense, and it really bothered him because he couldn't comprehend her motivation. Why would his mother put up a million dollars cash when he had been accused of murdering her only other child?
Something about her smile tonight didn't seem right.
She's hiding something.
Staring into the darkness, his mind wandered, beyond today, beyond the interrogation—what was his name? Bolero? Balloro? Damn, if only he could remember something, anything from the missing time in his memory before the discovery of Carrie's body. Think, Bobby, think, what's the last thing you remember doing before you found yourself being questioned for the murder?
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