Bouncer

by Tyan Wyss

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m sorry I don’t remember any more. Is she involved in all this?”

  Nick smiled. “Hard to say. Thanks, Rudy; you’ve been a big help.”

  “I love Trish Fisher, Inspector, and would protect her with my life, and I swear on my brothers’ graves she was never involved in any part of her husband’s murder.”

  Rudy teetered his way out the door and down the hall, his footsteps shuffling in the hall.

  “We’re fortunate he didn’t see this one.” Roger scooped the other sketch from the floor, the brutal rape screaming for revenge. “The woman’s real, then. So how did you come up with this?”

  “Images come and images go. If I draw them, they stay.”

  Roger whistled. “No wonder they call you a spook. Fox is mighty unsettled about your little gift.”

  “It’s the nature of the beast,” dismissed Nick. The phone jangled.

  “Thayne, this is Officer Phelps. Eddie Murdock is being booked on suspicion of murder. Dr. Koh just phoned. Charlie Murdock’s teeth marks are a definite match to the bite on Connie Judson’s shoulder.”

  “And the kid?”

  “Under surveillance. No one can get an intelligible word out of him.”

  “You’re a pip,” said Nick, suddenly straightening. “Come on Roger. I need you to look at something else before we play tag with Chief Rollins.”

  Chapter 23

  There are cold dark places that no one should ever wake up to. They smell of formaldehyde and dust and death. They have shelves loaded with everyday things intermingled with the vile and hideous. Lea gasped at the seemingly innocent face before her as the truth settled into place, her nostrils flaring before a prick in her arm sent her into a dreamless void. The killer wondered if it was necessary to remove the P.I.’s finger after death. But hey, why break with tradition?

  Louise’s Boarding House was fairly, quiet except for an obnoxious poodle that kept yapping and sniffing at Roger’s sandals as Nick unlocked his room.

  “Get away, you putrid beast,” growled Roger at the pretentiously groomed white fluff ball.

  “Not a dog lover, Roger?”

  “I like ‘em well enough if they have a dignified bark and some flesh on their bones. God save me from a toy poodle.”

  “Come on in, buddy. You’d better find a chair before you redesign your face on my carpet.”

  Roger sank gratefully in the overstuffed chair positioned in front of the large TV screen. “This is where you stayed before—last time you were here on that missing person’s case.”

  “That’s right. I’d break ole Louise’s heart if I dared go elsewhere. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Yeah, some of Fox’s bourbon,” Roger grumbled.

  “Humph. A diet coke for you.” The can hissed before finding its way into Roger’s tired hand. He took a sip and smiled.

  “God bless caffeine. So, why did you drag me here?”

  “I need you to look at something; something you have to promise you’ll share with no one else.”

  Roger balked. “I share everything with Susan. She’s my right-hand man.”

  “Not this time, buddy. You’ve got to promise me.”

  Roger thought long and hard. “Alright,” he said finally. Why did it feel like a betrayal of his marriage vows?

  Nick unearthed his portfolio from the bottom drawer of the pale chest of drawers and handed it to his friend. Roger unwound the string, and within seconds, let out a long whistle.

  “You’re quite the artist.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Roger squinted at the first drawing. The gangster’s t-shirt stated Big Rapper in slasher-style letters across the front. A dead body lay ominously still at the teen’s feet.

  “It was his shirt that enabled Rick and I to finger Mendez. The search warrant revealed the discarded top in the clothes bin and the rival gang victim’s shirt held traces of Julio’s blood. He was tried as an adult. It didn’t hurt that Mendez confessed.

  “And this one? It’s just of a building.”

  “The place where the Wiederitz twins were being held. Luckily, my partner Rick was familiar with the area and recognized the coffee shop on the corner. The kidnapper was a pedophile who dealt in child trafficking. He was the biggest sicko I’ve ever met.”

  “So, how does it work?”

  Nick cracked his neck, the sound unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet room, and sank down at Roger’s feet. “I don’t know, it’s sorta like . . . I absorb scenes or information that is unvoiced and it in turn ends up on the paper. When I go about my daily work, I meet lots of people; people who may or may not be criminals or victims. Usually, when I’m working on one case, I can pinpoint the sketches’ origins, but sometimes—like at the precinct—I run in to so many people with so many pasts that I have no clue as to who or what the sketch refers to. That’s why there’s a ton of drawings in my portfolio that have no point of origin. I can’t make heads or tails of them.”

  “Freaky. So you’re like a sponge, absorbing significant images, but not always able to decipher how they’re important. But, what sparks your impulse to produce the pictures?”

  The truth was embarrassing. “It usually happens when I drink. Something flows out of me and the pencil flies across the paper and images appear. I always use pencil, but sometimes, like here . . . a color is so vivid I have to put it in.” A little girl’s face peered fearfully at Roger. She sat on a rickety bed clutching a threadbare stuffed dog, the bright blue ribbon in her hair the only startling color within the entire drawing.

  “This was another kidnap victim?”

  “Yeah. I call the gift the flow because it seems to flow out of my brain into my fingers and onto the page. Thank God I was working on that case, or I wouldn’t have known how to reference the picture.”

  “So that’s the real reason you quit the SFPD?”

  “For the most part. Every night after a few beers, I’d produce 4 or 5 of these. Imagine me the next morning, trying to wade through their meanings and relevance. It was driving me crazy. Plus, I lived too close to my dad. Another unfortunate incident motivated me to leave the force; I connected a flow with someone I truly believed was innocent. It became too much of a bitter pill for me to swallow when I learned the truth.”

  “I see. Mind if I examine the rest of these?”

  “Not at all, if you have the stomach for it.”

  It was an exhausting 30 minutes for both of them. Roger was thorough, studying every sketch and occasionally breaking the silence by asking pointed questions.

  “I take it the ones with the star to the right remain unsolved?”

  “Yeah, nearly two-thirds of them. Some crime-solver, huh?”

  Suddenly, Roger drew in a sharp breath. He had examined over 100 sketches and was nearing the end of the hefty pile. The last few drawings were encased in a top folding sketchpad, the dates scribbled on the lower right hand corner indicating they were current.

  “Good God!”

  Nick leaned forward and sighed. “Yeah, that’s a beaute isn’t it?”

  Lane and Jeremy Fox hung from a huge oak tree skirting a potato field. On the periphery of the horrific scene, an obese man dressed a three-piece suit, his back to the viewer, impassively smoked a large stogie.

  “This is one image never released to the papers. And of course, the mystery man was never in the original photograph. I wonder who he is? Fox would kill you if she knew you’d drawn this. When did you do it?” Roger shuddered slightly. He’d helped cut the bodies down.

  “The other night after a royal binge. I completed the next one as well.”

  A man’s head rested against the steering wheel, the gunshot wound to the back of his head oozing black-penciled blood. “Shit,” burst out Roger.

  “You know who he is?”

  “That’s John Weinberg, the third man killed that night. Worked for Fox and was popped off as he waited in the car. Christ, man. It’s like you photographed these
but from a different angle and perspective.”

  “It’s almost enough to make me stop drinking,” snorted Thayne. He wished he could take a long, cool drink right now.

  “The soda can with the finger and the two of the girl—that’s all you can link to this case?”

  “Nope, there’s this last one, but I’ve already identified the subject.”

  Roger made a sharp noise. “The oldest Montanari boy?”

  “Yup, Anthony Jr., army uniform and all.”

  “Show me the other two—the ones of the girl.”

  Nick rose and wandered to the dinette where he’d tossed the plastic bag housing the three sketches. He tossed them onto Roger’s lap. “What do you think?”

  Roger tapped his finger on the pretty redhead’s face; her locks were the only part of the picture with color. “So, we at least know her name’s Miss Delly.”

  “Yup. And in the second frame, she’s being raped by a dark-haired man. God, look at the terror on her face.” He cleared his throat. “I’m inclined to believe it’s Montanari Jr.”

  “Maybe—or the senior. It’s hard to tell from your sketch.”

  Nick sighed. “So what’s the use of the damn gift if I can’t figure out the most important facts?”

  Roger leaned back against the pillow and scratched his stitches absently. “I take it you inherited this special gift from your maternal grandmother? You referred to her once as a ‘seer.’” He sighed deeply. “You know, Nick, gifts are gifts, and you’ve got to learn how to use them to your advantage without letting them destroy you.”

  “Kinda like Spidy, huh? But how credible would it be to show the sketches to a suspect?”

  “Now, now, you can’t expect to have complete acuity regarding the flow can you? You know, there are a few simple things we can do, like run this sketch all discreet-like through the system and see if there’s a match. The key, in my opinion, is finding someone who can link you to the meaning of the drawing.”

  “Like Fox, who has all the details of her family’s murders?”

  “Yeah, or me perhaps. What happened, as far as I can surmise, is while you were around Fox, the images surrounding the unsolved murder of her relations crowded into your subconscious. I’m sure the reality of that triple murder never really quits her mind. Those images, sparked by Fox’s passion to find her family’s murderer, flowed out later during your binge. Because you’d heard of the case, you were able to make the conscious connection to the Fox murders. But the tantalizing question is where did the figure of the fat man come from?” He lifted a finger, his dark eyes intense. “That’s the challenge, my friend.”

  “That’s why I’m a spook.”

  Roger laughed. “That you are! So, be cautious with whom you share the magnitude of your gift. The advantage is you’re not on a force anymore. You can work alone—or get yourself a team who accepts the gift for what it is: a useful tool.”

  Nick scoffed. “So, I find a few compatriots who are willing to work with a freak?”

  “Freak is a relative term. I prefer uncomfortably gifted. Imagine the unstoppable force you could become as a detective.”

  “And just where do I find these compatriots? In Fox?”

  “Yeah, our bitchy Ms. Fox would be a fine foil to your methods.”

  “Oh, give me a break. She’s so pragmatic they could dedicate a Dragnet episode to her.”

  Roger chuckled and then immediately clutched at his painful stitches. “Just the facts madam—just the facts,” he quoted. “I can see what you mean. But you’ve made a start by sharing with me. I can help and most definitely keep a secret. Susan would divorce me if she knew I’d held out on some of our past escapades.”

  Nick grinned evilly. “Speaking about topics for blackmail . . .”

  Roger rose heavily. “Drive me over to the station and I’ll run this through.”

  Thayne ran his damp fingers over the front of his perfect trousers. “You don’t find all of this a little bit odd?”

  Roger nodded. “Of course I do—you’re a first class wacko—but then again, I always knew something else was up with you besides just being a plain old pain in the ass. And, if you knew some of the weird relatives I have . . . your little gift is almost mundane. My cousin May Ling swears trees and plants protest to her about the agonies of pruning. My uncle Titus only goes trout fishing stark naked, and my brother-in-law is a coroner, for God’s sake. Talk about weird. You should witness our dinner conversation whenever Steven visits. Moo Goo Gai Pan combined with discussions of hypoxia and vagal inhibition can really stimulate the salivary glands, I tell you. I least now I understand you. Now, run me to the station and I’ll put this through.”

  Randy Phelps was bucking for an award as the world’s best junior officer. Not only did he accept the sketch unquestionably, but promised to call Ruth Montanari to see if she remembered Miss Delly’s last name.

  A familiar, deep baritone voice greeted them. The face was welcome.

  “Well, hello, Inspector Thayne. And you, Detective. Ain’t you supposed to be in bed?” This Philemon directed to Roger, who was hanging onto the counter while Randy assisted Nick.

  “They sprung you?” smiled Nick, genuine relief on his face. Philemon looked no worse for wear, but hugged his Bible against his chest like a shield. His clothes might be rumpled, but his spirits were high.

  “You bet they did. I just had time to call Darcy to come pick me up—when they handed me back my wallet and watch and whatnot—and presto, here I am—a free man. Between the facts that I was at choir rehearsal every night last week practicing for our Fall Festival and they’ve pulled in someone else as a suspect, I guess they just couldn’t keep me.” He beamed, his dark eyes turning misty behind his glasses.

  “I’m happy to hear it. So, now what?”

  “They say I’m not to leave town. That poor young woman’s finger was found in a soda can I’d drunk from, so I’m still not totally off the hook. I explained that cream soda is my downfall—I must chug a six-pack a day, and I have a tendency to leave the cans everywhere. I just hope all comes right. Meanwhile, I’ll see if Mrs. Simms wants me tomorrow. I can’t imagine that little old lady is able to cope with that garden of hers. I long to be among the flowers and trees again. Ain’t a lot of ‘em here.”

  Roger agreed. “That’s for certain.”

  Nick edged close to Philemon. “It you ever get tired of cutting grass, why don’t you give me a ring.” A tasteful business card was pressed into the older man’s hand. “Not certain I could pay you much more than you make gardening, but I sure could use someone with your kind of savvy around.”

  “You’re aware of what I’ve been?”

  “Never convicted, were you? All hearsay, I’d say. And I know you work hard—that’s one mighty fine garden on Chester Street.”

  Darcy burst into the station, bypassing the understanding receptionist.

  “Phil, Phil! You alright honey?” She gripped the slight man stoutly, pressing him forcefully against her plump bosom. She smelled of vanilla and cinnamon and children’s laughter.

  “Don’t cry, missy, I’m coming home. There, there.” He patted her gently; nodding to the two detectives over his wife’s shaking shoulders. Finally, in hopes of calming the distraught woman he asked, “What’s for dinner? I’m hungry.”

  Darcy Jenkins pulled away and sniffed, searching for a crumpled handkerchief in the recesses of her large black handbag. “Bless you, Philemon. You can eat the entire backside of a horse and still be hungry. It’s meat loaf, with my special homemade gravy.”

  “Better than that truck they serve up here.” Philemon took her hand firmly, and waving the Bible at the pair, proudly escorted his wife through the wide glass doors of the station.

  “What about the sketch?” asked Roger pointedly.

  One of the many drawings in Nick’s portfolio had depicted Philemon standing over a still corpse, a silencer in his experienced hand.

  “That was long ago. He wasn’t wear
ing glasses and sported more hair. And who am I to mistrust the reviving and forgiving power of Jesus? We’ve gotta go. Thanks, Randy. Keep in contact.”

  The freckled rookie nodded while feeding a copy of the mystery girl’s sketch into the fax machine.

  It was a quarter to seven, and after tucking Roger into the cramped bucket seat of the Mustang, Nick scooted to the golf range to wait for Chief Rollins.

  Just like clockwork, Richard Rollins showed up at seven on the nose. He parked his car in front of The Range and maneuvered his heavy body out of the sedan; his face was drawn and pale. He didn’t bother to wait near his car, but immediately scuttled through the wire gate where golfers would line up to tee off. Nick and Roger followed him discreetly, partially hiding themselves behind the equipment shed. Chief Rollins paced and kicked at the dirt. It was mostly empty at this hour, the nearest golfer a hundred yards away at the other end of the driving range. Pretty soon the purr of an expensive car, followed by the clatter of high heels filled the evening calm. Nick wasn’t remotely surprised to see Trish Fisher.

  “Hello, Trish,” said Chief Rollins, reaching out his arms to enfold her. She gracefully pushed him away, keeping her distance. Mrs. Fisher was still dressed in black, but this time, had draped an expensive fox stole around her shoulders, animal rights clearly not one of her charity priorities.

  “It’s all going to come out now,” said Trish abruptly. “And if you don’t come clean, your job may be forfeit. I have that much clout with the mayor, Richard. She has a personal hatred of bastards who lie.”

  “I know,” said Richard heavily. Clearly this interview wasn’t going how he planned. “I’ve been thinking about retiring anyway and taking Nancy away somewhere. All this is weighing too heavily on my shoulders. I should never have made that stupid promise to Anthony.”

  “This town is full of secrets,” said Trish. “Too many secrets, in my opinion. And I, for one, have had enough of them. You know that gardener Philemon Jenkins didn’t do it just as you know I never hired him. The man is retired, for heaven’s sake. He’s practically purchased the new steeple of the Southern Baptist Church single-handedly with his tithings. God, I hate born-agains!”