“Sure would.” Martin took a big slug of coffee, then another. “Weird as hell.”
* * * * *
Meat Wagon
Trowbridge sat at his big oak desk, trying very hard to think about nothing. There was a catalog of police equipment in front of him, the kind of junk he received all the time, and he had been sitting there tearing it into confetti-sized pieces, one glossy page after another. He was about halfway through page 9 (“Special Prices on Riot Batons and Nightsticks, Limited Time Only”) when the intercom buzzed. Trowbridge stared at the thing as if he had never seen it before, but when it buzzed again he slowly reached over and pressed a button down.
“Yeah.”
“Chief? You wanted to know when Officer Slocum showed up. He just came in the door.”
“Okay.”
“Uh, you want me to send him to your office?”
“Yeah.”
“Will do.” The desk Sergeant’s voice, made tinny by the cheap intercom speaker, paused a moment. “Sir? Is everything okay back there?”
“No,” Trowbridge said, his voice dead as dry leaves.
He released the intercom switch and sat back in his chair, his eyes now focused on the closed door of his office. He looked nowhere else — not at the framed photos on the walls, the marksmanship trophies, the awards from civic groups, the manuals and periodicals that were as much a part of this job as the handcuffs and pistol he kept in a desk drawer. He just stared at the door until the knock came.
“Come.”
Corporal Earl Slocum lumbered in and closed the door behind him. A broad, heavy man with drinker’s veins on his nose and cheeks, Slocum had made Sergeant twice, each time getting busted in rank because of the booze. But he’d been on the wagon for over a year now, and the talk around the station was that Big Earl had a good chance to earn his Sergeant’s stripes, for an unprecedented third time.
Slocum plopped down into one of Trowbridge’s visitor’s chairs without waiting for an invitation. His heavy face was turned downward in a scowl, but the blue eyes showed a different emotion — something that looked a lot like fear.
“Where you been, all this time?” Trowbridge asked.
“The hospital— where else?”
Trowbridge nodded. “How’s Gislason doing?”
“Oh, pretty good. I mean, apart from being blind and totally fuckin’ insane. Other than that, I’d have to say he’s doing great.”
After a long moment, Trowbridge said, “What about his wife, uh—”
“Susan.”
“Susan, yeah. How’s she dealing with it?”
“How do you think?”
Normally, that kind of insubordination would have prompted Trowbridge to bore a bright, shiny new asshole in the cop responsible — even one he’d known as long as Slocum. But today….
Trowbridge tapped an unlabeled DVD that sat on his desk. “Gislason had his cruiser’s video cam going when he made the stop. You wanna see what it picked up?”
At first, Slocum stared at the shiny disc as if it were a grenade with the pin pulled. But after a couple of seconds, he took in a deliberate breath, let it out and said, “Yeah, sure. Why not?”
There was a DVD player and monitor on a shelf behind the chief’s desk. Trowbridge stood up stiffly and went over to the machine. He inserted the disc, turned on the monitor, and picked up the remote.
Back in his chair, he pointed the remote, pressed a couple of buttons, and then the disc started to play.
The images that came up on the screen were in black and white, but very clear and sharp. There was no audio track — police departments are usually more interested in who does what, rather than who says what. According to the digital date and time code running across the bottom of the picture, what they were looking at happened yesterday, starting at 10:18 p.m.
A country road at night. Held in the glare of the police cruiser’s headlights is a boxy-looking truck, the kind often used for making light deliveries. But this vehicle doesn’t seem to be the property of Sears or Home Depot, or even UPS. The left side is clearly visible to the camera, and there is no company name or logo to be seen there. In fact, the whole vehicle appears to be painted a dark color, possibly black. Its rear license plate is covered with mud or some other substance, so that the number is unreadable. Even the plate’s state of origin is impossible to determine.
The truck has apparently just been pulled over. Its brake lights are still glowing, as if the driver is hoping that the police officer will change his mind about the whole thing and just drive away. Then the rear lights suddenly fade to nothing, signaling that the driver has accepted the inevitable and decided to stay awhile.
Into view walks Officer Thomas Gislason. He is a lean man with dark hair. In the stark illumination provided by the headlights he appears handsome, in an intense-looking sort of way. And he is young, that much is obvious. Gislason can’t be a day over thirty.
Gislason follows proper procedure for a traffic stop. He approaches the truck slowly, his right hand on the Glock 10 mm holstered on his hip, left hand holding the big police flashlight.
The camera does not show the interior of the truck cab, but Gislason directs his flashlight beam inside, angled so as to shine right in the driver’s eyes. This, too, is standard procedure — it blinds the driver briefly, reducing any chance of aggressive behavior while giving the officer a chance to look around the inside of the stopped vehicle while the driver recovers his eyesight.
Gislason says something to the driver. Most likely he is asking to see the license and registration, since that’s the next thing the book says you should do at a traffic stop, and Gislason appears to be going strictly by the book.
Neither license nor registration is forthcoming. Gislason speaks again and holds his hand out. But nothing is produced by the driver.
Suddenly, Gislason wrenches the door open. Then he takes a step back and motions the driver out of the cab. Nothing happens. He motions again, impatiently, but the result is the same: the driver doesn’t budge.
Finally, Gislason draws his weapon, pointing it inside the truck cab. He is speaking again, and it is not hard to guess the gist of what he’s saying.
Slowly, the driver climbs out. He is a little man — judging from where he comes up to Gislason’s six feet one, it is a fair guess that the driver barely tops five feet five. He has a potato nose set amid a seamed face that has seen at least fifty years, and hard ones at that. His head, which seems too large for the rest of him, is completely bald — whether from nature or a razor is impossible to tell. His ears are tapered, making them look almost pointy. He wears a beat-up leather bomber jacket that seems, curiously, a perfect fit for his small frame.
Gislason’s next step should be to pat the little man down for weapons or drugs, but here for the first time he breaks procedure. It is not known if he heard something suspicious from inside the back of the truck, or whether he intended to look in there from the moment he turned on his red flashers. But instead of frisking the driver, Gislason motions him toward the back of the vehicle.
Once they reach the rear of the truck, Gislason gestures toward the door with his pistol and says something. The driver looks directly at Gislason, and in the harsh light from the police cruiser’s headlights a strange expression briefly crosses the little man’s remarkably ugly face: for a moment, he actually looks amused.
Then the driver assumes an air of resignation. Moving slowly, he reaches into a pocket and produces a set of keys. He inserts one in the lock built into the base of the rear door. It turns easily, as if the lock has been kept well-oiled. He withdraws the key and takes hold of the bracket-like handle placed a few inches above it.
The little man must be stronger than he looks, because one good heave brings the door up all the way until it disappears into its recess in the truck’s ceiling.
Inside is darkn
ess which even the light from the police cruiser’s headlights cannot penetrate. The little man takes a step back, allowing Gislason complete access to the doorway.
Gislason approaches cautiously, the flashlight in one hand and his pistol in the other. Standing a few feet from the rear bumper, he checks the inside of the truck systematically, moving the flashlight beam slowly from left to right. In the uncertain light, the walls and floor of the truck seem to be smeared with a dark substance, its color impossible to guess from the black and white video image. It might be more mud, or it might be something else.
Then the beam of light stops moving.
Gislason leans forward a little, the flashlight held still now. He appears to be calling out to whoever — or whatever — he sees in the back of the truck.
The video camera does not show what Gislason has discovered. The distance is too great, the light too dim, and Gislason himself is blocking most of the view. But there is something back there, something man-sized or maybe bigger. There is a hint of movement, and just for an instant, the flash of light on what might have been teeth — teeth that move rhythmically, as if they are chewing.
For a long, aching moment Gislason is frozen. Then he drops the flashlight as if it has suddenly become white hot. He takes a step back, then another. The pistol falls from his other hand, as if he has forgotten what it is for.
Even though there is no sound, it is abundantly clear that Gislason is screaming, even as he continues to back away from the truck and its contents. A few more steps bring him up against his cruiser’s front bumper and then Gislason falls backward, onto the hood. He is whipping his head back and forth now, like a man in mortal agony. The camera captures all of this, and continues to roll dispassionately as Gislason throws his hands up to his face and starts clawing his eyes out.
The camera also shows the truck driver in the background as he stands watching Gislason tear himself up. The little man makes no effort to help, or to summon assistance. His facial expression does not appear horrified, or even distressed. In fact, he barely looks interested.
Finally, after Gislason, bleeding from both eyes now, rolls off the hood of his cruiser and out of the camera’s view, the little man turns back to the truck. He looks into the darkness beyond the open door and seems to speak briefly. Then he reaches up, pulls the door back down, and locks it. His movements are unhurried and methodical.
Then, without another glance toward Gislason or the police cruiser, the little man climbs back into the cab of the truck, starts up, and slowly drives away.
Trowbridge pointed the remote at the DVD player and turned it off. “There’s not much else to see,” he told Slocum. “A motorist came along after a while, saw Gislason, and called 911 on his cell phone. The ambulance got there about ten minutes later. They put Gislason on a gurney, and they had to use restraints to stop the poor bastard from doing any more damage to himself. End of story.”
Slocum nodded gloomily. “Yeah. End of story.”
There was silence in the room for a bit. Then Trowbridge slowly moved a glass paperweight from one side of his desk to the other. “Gislason’s been on the force a little over six years,” he said.
“Yeah, seems about right.”
“You’ve been his partner the whole time.”
“Yeah.” Slocum was staring at his hands. They were big hands, to go with the rest of him, and they bore numerous small scars — souvenirs of the fights and scrapes and scrambles that the job had led him into, along with a few extracurricular bar brawls thrown in for good measure.
“I hate to ask this,” Trowbridge said, and sounded like he meant it. “But did you ever tell the kid about the Black Maria?” He pronounced it “Mariah,” like the singer’s name.
“‘Course I did. Jesus, you think I’d forget something like that?”
“Did you tell him everything?”
* * *
Six years earlier:
Slocum and his new partner Gislason are parked in a side street on the north end of town, watching for speeders and drunk drivers. They are on call via radio in case something bad happens elsewhere in town. It is a little past 1:00 in the morning, and traffic is sparse. The two men are passing the time in desultory conversation.
“The Jets sucked last season, and they’re gonna suck this year, too,” Slocum says, with utter certainty.
“Not with those two first-round picks they got,” Gislason replies. “I mean, their biggest problem was the offensive line, and this kid from Wisconsin they drafted—”
Then a truck comes barreling along the street they’re facing, running a stop sign and most likely speeding, as well. It is a small, delivery-style vehicle, painted a flat black, with no identifying commercial markings anywhere on it.
Gislason, who is behind the wheel, says “Got us a customer,” as he reaches for the ignition. He has been on the job exactly five weeks.
Slocum grabs his partner’s wrist before Gislason can turn the key. His grip is not painful, but it’s not particularly gentle, either. “Hold up a second, kid,” he says.
“What for? You saw the asshole run the stop sign, same as I did. I didn’t have my radar gun on him, but I’ll bet ten bucks he’s speeding, too. Which means he’s a good bet for DWI, besides. Let’s go get him.”
“Not this time. Not that truck.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I say so, that’s why!” Slocum’s grip on Gislason’s wrist tightens painfully for a second before he lets go.
Gislason takes his hand off the ignition and sits back, staring at the other man. “Christ Almighty, Earl, what is with you?”
Slocum is silent for several seconds. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm again. “Did you get a good look at that vehicle?”
“Bet your ass I did.”
“Think you’d recognize it, if you saw it again?”
“Yeah, most likely. Trucks like that, they usually have some company name plastered all over the sides and back. Haven’t seen too many that are just plain like that, and I never seen a black one before.”
“Okay, good. So listen up: if you ever see that particular vehicle again, you ignore it. You take no action whatever, I don’t care if it drives up on the sidewalk and mows down a whole class full of third graders. You understand me? You leave that truck strictly alone.”
“Jesus, Earl, why?” Gislason’s face is a study in confusion and dismay. “Who owns the damn thing, anyway? The Mayor’s kid, or somebody?”
“It don’t make any difference who owns it. You just remember that it is department policy to leave that—”
“Charlie Baker 3, we have a report of an armed robbery at the Quik-Save Minimart, corner of Smithfield and Morrissey. Can you respond?” The dispatcher’s voice is matter-of-fact, as if she has done this a thousand times before, which she has.
Slocum picks the microphone off its hook. “Roger, dispatch. Charlie Baker 3 responding. Should be at the location in two to three minutes. Out.”
He replaces the mike and looks at his partner. “You heard the lady. Let’s roll.”
Gislason looks at him for a moment longer, then turns away and starts the car. “Okay,” he says. “But later on, I want to hear more about this ‘policy’ you were goin’ on about.”
“Yeah, okay, sure. We’ll talk about it later.”
But, for one reason or another, they never do.
* * *
Slocum shrugged uncomfortably. “Maybe not, you know, everything— but I told him the important stuff. He knew enough not to mess with the Black Maria. I was real clear on that.”
“But did he understand why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, somebody else could’ve told him. I’m not the only guy on the force he ever talks to, for Chrissake.”
“No, but you’re his partner.”
“Yeah,” Slocum sa
id glumly. “I’m his partner. Or I was.”
Trowbridge sat back, the padded chair creaking under his weight. He opened the shallow drawer underneath his desk top, took out a manila file folder, and flipped it open. It contained old-looking newspaper clippings and a few photographs. Trowbridge took one of the photos and handed it to Slocum.
Slocum found himself looking at a faded black and white picture of three handcuffed men being herded into an old police paddy wagon. Just how old the photo was could be judged by the helmet-like headgear worn by the police officers in the shot. It was the kind of old-fashioned hat associated these days with the silent film era — Charlie Chaplin movies and frantic slapstick featuring the Keystone Kops.
Slocum studied the photo then asked, “What’s this?”
“Thought you’d like to see what an original Black Maria looked like. That’s what they called those wagons, a hundred years ago. Black Marias. They were used to transport prisoners.”
Slocum handed the photograph back. He didn’t say anything, but the question was in his face.
“I came across this folder when I first took over as Chief after Old Man Doyle… died, fourteen years ago,” Trowbridge said. “It wasn’t in the file cabinet with all the other stuff. I found it under the blotter, here.” He tapped the top of his desk. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe he left it for me to find.”
“Was that other stuff in there, too?”
“Most of it. I’ve added some, myself. Apparently, Chief Doyle had spent quite a bit of time putting together a history of the Black Maria’s appearances in this area. According to what he was able to find out, it all goes back quite a ways.”
“How far back we talking about?”
“1908.”
“Get outta here.” Slocum ran a slow hand through his hair. “You believe that?”
“I don’t know.” Trowbridge made a face. “But Doyle did, and he’d been a cop a long time. He knew how to dig.”
“1908.” Slocum shook his head. “Jesus.” Then, after a few moments he said, “Wait a second, that can’t be right. I mean, that truck we’ve been seeing, it’s no antique out of 1908. I never got close enough to get the make or model, but it’s just like a thousand other trucks on the road today, except for the paint job.”
The Devil Will Come Page 7