Spell Blind

by DAVID B. COE

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’d know.”

  She smiled and stood. “Then come on.”

  We walked to the interview rooms, where suspects were interrogated and stopped first at the observation room. Each interview room had video cameras in the ceiling corners. The signals from the cameras came here. The room was brightly lit and it seemed to vibrate with the hum of fluorescent bulbs. Four television screens lined one of the walls. Three of them were off. The fourth showed a large, muscular man with a military style buzz cut and a square face. He sat on a metal chair in front of an empty table. The TV was black and white, and the signal wasn’t the best, so I couldn’t tell from here whether he was a weremyste, much less one who was powerful enough to have left that vivid crimson wash of magic on Claudia Deegan’s face and body.

  Gann was antsy. He was slouched in his chair, one of his legs bouncing, his eyes flicking up toward the camera every few seconds.

  Kona watched me, expectant.

  I shook my head. “I can’t tell anything from here. I’m going to have to see him in the flesh.”

  “Yeah, I was afraid of that.”

  “Hibbard?”

  “Damn right, Hibbard. I’d rather the Federal boys didn’t see you here either, but I’m more worried about old Cole. Calling you to the Deegan place was one thing. But if he finds out that you were here, meeting with his suspect . . . ?” She shook her head. “One day you’re going to have to explain to me again why it is he hates you so much.”

  “I’ll keep my mouth shut and you can tell Gann I’m visiting from one of the precincts, or something.”

  We made our way back to the interview room and went in. Gann sat up as soon as the door opened, his gaze darting back and forth between us. I leaned against the wall near the door, and stared at him. Kona began to pace the perimeter of the room, her lips pursed, her eyes on the floor. This was how we’d always started our interviews. Kona and I hadn’t been in one of these rooms together in a year and half, and yet it felt like no time had passed.

  After a few moments of silence, Gann started to get real nervous. He stared at me and narrowed his eyes. I guessed that he could tell I was a weremyste. But it also seemed he didn’t want to admit that if he didn’t have to. After a moment or two, he turned his attention back to Kona.

  “Who the hell are you guys?”

  “We’re priests, Mike,” Kona said, still pacing, still not looking at him. “We’ve come to hear your confession.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “The guys at Robo’s say different.”

  I watched him as his eyes followed Kona. He was definitely a weremyste. I could see a faint shimmering around his face and shoulders. It might have been somewhat stronger than the blurring I’d seen on Sophie and on Robby Sommer, but it wasn’t as obvious as what I’d seen on Luis. It wasn’t even close. And Luis’ power was no match for that of the Blind Angel. There was no way this guy had left that magical residue on Claudia. Asking him to cast a spell that powerful would have been like asking a ten-year-old little leaguer to hit a home run off a major league pitcher. He didn’t have the strength or the skill to pull it off.

  “I just went in there for a minute,” Gann said. “I heard music and I wanted to see who was playing.”

  “It said out front who was playing, Mike. Randy Deegan’s name was on the marquee, in the windows, on the door. Unless you can’t read, you couldn’t have missed it.”

  Gann glared at her, but didn’t answer.

  “What were you doing there?”

  He crossed his arms and stared at the table.

  Kona flicked a glance my way, a question in her eyes. I shook my head, drawing a frown.

  “All right, Mike,” she said, sounding like a parent who’s disappointed in her kid. “You give that question some thought, and I’ll be back.”

  Kona and I stepped out into the hallway and she closed and locked the door. I knew better than to say anything right away. We started back down the corridor toward the detective’s room and once we’d put some distance between ourselves and Gann, she glanced my way.

  “Well?”

  Before I could answer, two guys came around the corner in front of us. One of them I didn’t know. The other I recognized, but couldn’t name. He must have remembered me, because he stared at me the way he would a guy he knew from a wanted poster. He muttered a hello to Kona, but his gaze kept swinging back in my direction. I’m not one to feel self-conscious, but in that instant I wanted to make myself invisible. Had I been more comfortable with the spell, I would have spoken it.

  A moment later, we turned that same corner and were alone again. I exhaled.

  “Justis?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s not our guy.”

  She did nothing to mask her disappointment. “You’re sure?”

  “Pretty sure. Unless he’s found some way to dampen his magic and make himself appear to be less of a weremyste than he really is, it couldn’t be him. I didn’t see that much power in him.”

  “Is what you just said possible? That part about dampening?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure, Kona. I wouldn’t know how to do it, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

  She started to say something, then stopped, shaking her head.

  “You really think he’s our killer?” I asked.

  Kona rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. “Maybe,” she said with a sigh. “He’s the best prospect we’ve had since that groundskeeper at Red Mountain you and I brought in two years ago.” She smiled faintly. “But that’s not saying much.”

  “If this was a normal case I’d agree with you,” I said. “But whoever this guy is, he’d not a typical serial killer. He’s smart and he’s ruthless and he has a specific goal in mind. A magical goal. He’s building up to something. I don’t know what it is yet, but there’s more to this than trying to get back at the Deegans. And there’s more to our killer than I saw in Mike Gann.”

  “I’m not the only one who likes him for this,” Kona said. “Hibbard is giddy as a little girl who just got her first pony.” I snorted and she grinned. “Yeah, and I can tell you, that’s not a pretty sight.”

  I laughed.

  “The Deegans are convinced he’s guilty,” she went on, her smile disappearing, and her voice falling to a whisper. “And the Feds are about this close”—she held her thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart—“to taking him themselves. They’re leaning pretty hard on Latrelle and Hibbard to release the guy into their custody and be done with it. And with the assistant chief and the commander of violent crimes pushing us, that’s probably what’s going to happen. I’ve never seen pressure like this. Randolph Deegan is one powerful man.”

  “Do you want me to keep poking around?” I asked, whispering as well. “Hibbard doesn’t have to know. Whatever I do, I can claim that I’m working for Wriker and the Deegans.”

  She eyed me. I could tell she didn’t like the idea, but she was considering it just the same. “Where would you go?”

  “I’d start with Robo’s, maybe learn a bit more about Gann. And then I’d go see Brother Q.” I hesitated, but only for a second. “Truth is, I was planning to see Q anyway. I talked to Luis Paredes last night, and he seems to think that Q might know something about our guy.”

  “And when were you planning to tell me all of this?”

  I smiled. “I hadn’t decided yet.”

  Kona shook her head. “I don’t like putting the future of this case in the hands of Orestes Quinley, Justis. The man’s certifiable.”

  “He’s eccentric.”

  “My grandma’s eccentric. Q is nuts.”

  I didn’t say anything; I didn’t have to. All I needed to do was watch her make up her mind.

  “Yeah, all right,” she said. “Let me know what you find out at Robo’s.”

  “And Q?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Sure, tell me what he says, too. Just keep him the hell away from me.”


  “You’re starting to sound like Hibbard,” I said with a grin.

  “Great,” she said. “That’s what I want to hear.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Robo’s was one of the hottest music and booze joints in Tempe. It was upscale enough to serve all the best beers and trendy drinks, and to provide its bands with a professional stage and quality sound equipment. But it was also seedy enough around the edges to seem cool to the university kids. On nights when there was live music—Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays of most weeks—the line to get in could stretch all the way around the block.

  When I got there, the doors to the place were closed, including the second set of glass ones past the window where patrons paid the cover charge. As Kona had told Gann, the marquee read “Electric Daiquiri: Featuring Randy Deegan and Tilo Ruiz.” Inside one of the windows was a black and white picture of the band standing in front of some vague photo studio backdrop. Randy stood at the center, wearing jeans and an untucked dress shirt. The guys around him came across as cool and a little unsavory, which I’m sure is what they were going for. But Randy couldn’t help but look like an all-American kid, even with that serious, “I-really-am-a-badass” expression on his face.

  It didn’t surprise me at all that a place like this would be interested in having Randy Deegan’s band headlining for it. What did surprise me was that a buttoned-down guy like Randy would stoop to play there. Then again, from all I’d seen in the papers and on television over the past year or so, I had the sense that Randy wanted to follow in Dad’s footsteps, and maybe he figured anything that made him out to be a regular guy would help.

  Despite the locked doors, I could hear music coming from inside, so I knew the place wasn’t empty. I knocked several times until at last a large man in a Robo’s t-shirt came to the door and tried to shoo me away. I pulled out my private investigator’s ID, which has a terrible picture of me and looks official enough to impress.

  “My name’s Jay Fearsson. I’m doing a little work on behalf of the Deegans.”

  He frowned, glanced back over his shoulder, clearly unsure of what to do. But then he shrugged, perhaps figuring that I was Randy’s problem and not his. He let me inside.

  The music was cranked to an ear-splitting volume, but I could tell right away that Electric Daiquiri was a decent band. They were in the middle of an up-tempo instrumental piece with a Latin beat and a lot of tonal modulation. Randy played bass but was obviously the group’s front man—not that I would have expected anything different. The band also included a guitarist, a drummer, a keyboardist, and a saxophonist, who was in the middle of a blistering solo. The stage lights were on, but the rest of the place was dark and I doubted that any of them could see me. The sound guy acknowledged me with a quick nod, but then went right back to fiddling with the mixing board. I took a seat in the back of the bar and listened to the rest of the piece, which went through a keyboard solo, a drum break, and a final go-round of what must have been the original melody. All of it was very tight, and when they finished I clapped.

  Randy shielded his eyes from the spotlights. “Who’s that?” he asked, squinting against the glare.

  “My name’s Jay Fearsson,” I said. “I was at your house the other day.”

  “The guy Howard talked to?”

  “That’s me.”

  He glanced at the guitar player, and then at the other musicians. “Let’s take a quick break, guys.”

  Randy and the guitarist took off their instruments, hopped down from the stage, and joined me at my table. The rest of the band wandered backstage.

  I shook hands with Randy, and he introduced the guitar player as Tilo Ruiz. He was a tall, good-looking Latino kid, with black curly hair and large dark eyes. He was rail thin and was dressed like a model in his black jeans and white t-shirt.

  “You were Claudia’s boyfriend, right?”

  “That’s right,” he said with a puzzled frown. “How’d you know that?”

  I didn’t think it would be too smart to bring up Robby Sommer, so I shrugged. “Must have read it somewhere. You both have my deepest sympathies.”

  “Thank you,” Randy said, sounding anything but grateful. “I have to tell you Mister . . . uh . . .”

  “Fearsson.”

  “Right. Mister Fearsson. I think it was a mistake for Howard to even talk to you the other day. He shouldn’t have asked you to do any work for us. I’m not comfortable with that at all, and neither is my father.”

  “I understand. But first of all, he never gave me any money, so he didn’t hire me in any true sense. And second, even if he had, I’m bound by both ethics and the law to keep any work I do for you completely confidential.”

  “That didn’t stop you from talking to Billie Castle.”

  My smile was reflexive; I would have preferred to smack the kid in the mouth. “If you read her piece the other day, you would have seen that I told her nothing, and that she was feeling pretty snippy about it.”

  “And now you’re here,” Randy went on, as if he hadn’t heard me.

  “Yes, I am. You probably know that the police have a man in custody.”

  “Mike Gann,” Tilo said.

  “Right. I came here to learn what I can about him. The fact that I happened to find you here is a coincidence. You have my word.”

  Randy had narrowed his eyes. “You’re doing work for the PPD?”

  “You read Billie’s article. I used to be a homicide detective. I worked the Blind Angel case for a year and a half before I left the force.”

  The Deegan kid still wasn’t ready to declare me his closest pal, but my explanations seemed to have satisfied him, at least for the moment.

  “You think this guy Gann is the Blind Angel Killer?”

  An honest answer would have raised questions that could get Kona in trouble. “I don’t know. He certainly had it in for your family.”

  “Yeah,” Randy said. “I’m sorry if I came on too strong just now. It’s been . . .” He averted his gaze. “It’s been a rough week.”

  “I understand. I won’t trouble you anymore. But can you tell me who I should talk to about Gann? I have a few questions about his work here and how he got along with his coworkers. That sort of thing.”

  Randy nodded. “Kenny Moore is the person you really want to talk to. He’s the manager. But he’s not in today, and he won’t be again until Thursday night.” His expression brightened. “You should come then. We’re playing, and I can reserve a table for you up front.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be that close to your speakers.”

  Tilo laughed.

  “In back then,” Randy said, grinning. “But that’s your best bet for finding Kenny.” He furrowed his brow. “The other person who might help you is Doug Bass. He’s the janitor, and he’s been here forever. He’d have known Gann.”

  “Is he here now?”

  Randy nodded. “In back.”

  “All right, thanks.” I shook hands with both of them, and started toward the back of the club.

  “I meant what I said,” Randy called to me. “Come Thursday night. There’ll be a table reserved for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll try to make it.”

  I found Doug Bass in the alley behind the club, sitting on an old, rusted metal folding chair, smoking a cigarette. He was a big African-American man with white hair and a mustache to match. He eyed me suspiciously and didn’t seem at all impressed with my PI license. When I told him Randy had recommended that I talk to him, he stared straight ahead and took a long pull on his cigarette.

  “I ain’t never voted for his old man.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. Me, neither.”

  No response.

  “I can’t make you talk to me,” I told him, pulling out my note pad and pencil. “But the police are getting ready to charge Mike Gann with the Blind Angel killings, and while I don’t think I’d want Mike for a friend, I also don’t think he killed all those kids.”

  Doug studied me
through squinting eyes. Then he took one last puff on his cigarette, dropped it on the street, and crushed it with his sneaker toe. I thought for sure he was going to get up and leave me there. But he didn’t.

  “Mike Gann’s a fool,” he said in a deep voice. “Bigoted son of a bitch, too. But he ain’t the Blind Angel Killer.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “This Blind Angel fella—he’s smart. He’d have to be, the way he’s been avoiding the police for so long. Like I say, Mike’s a fool. He’d have got himself caught a long time ago.”

  “Did you ever notice anything . . . weird about Mike? Stuff he did, or stuff that happened around him, that you couldn’t explain?”

  “You mean like magic?”

  I opened my mouth, closed it again. After a few seconds I gave a little laugh. “Yeah,” I said. “Like magic.”

  “Mike talked about magic all the time. Used to tell me and anyone else who’d listen that he could do stuff. Spells, you know? Now, I believe in all that. I seen folks do it down in Mobile, where I grew up. I saw some shit on full moons that would have scared you half to death. But I never saw Mike do much more than light a match without strikin’ it. Rest was all talk.”

  “Could he have been holding back? Maybe he didn’t want to show too much.”

  Doug shrugged. “Then why all the talk?”

  Good question. “Did you ever see him around the full moon?”

  The old man shook his head. “He made himself scarce around then. Didn’t want no one to see him.”

  I knew how he felt. “Was there anything else strange about him, anything that made you nervous or made you want to stay away from him?”

  “Nah,” Doug said. “He was a typical poor white boy. He said some stupid stuff now and then, stuff that would have made me hit a white boy I didn’t know. But he was all right most of the time. The one thing that set him off was the Deegans. Any mention of them, and he got all quiet and intense, you know? It wouldn’t surprise me at all to find out he killed that girl. But there’s no way he killed all those other kids.”

  I nodded, jotted down a few last notes, and put the pad and pencil away. I started to reach for my wallet to give him a few bucks for his time, but Doug shook his head.