The Thief of All Light

by Bernard Schaffer

  “That’s what we wanted to talk to you about, if you don’t mind.”

  “Are you cops?”

  Carrie flashed him her badge and said, “What’s your name?”

  “Zack. I’m the bar manager.” He reached back into his car and pulled out a second crate of records. “I’m surprised nobody contacted me. What took you so long?”

  They watched him turn and head for the front door. Carrie picked up the crate resting on the hood and followed him. “I asked Darren, the owner, for a list of employees, but he couldn’t give me anything.”

  “That makes sense,” Zack said as they entered the bar. “We have a lot of turnover. People think it’s going to be all glamour and sequins when they come here, but it’s actually a lot of hard work.”

  “I’m sure,” Carrie said.

  A stage with a stripper pole dominated one end of the room, with large stacks of speakers on either side, used to pump pulsating dance music to the audience floor. Tall, winding staircases on either side of the room led up to the bar area, where people could talk and mingle, away from the crowd. The club was used on different nights for different styles of music and dance, with the occasional musical act performing. Mr. Darren was not particular about who leased his venue or what they used it for, as long as they paid.

  Zack’s arms and shoulders bulged against his skintight T-shirt as he leaned forward and said, “So, what did you want to ask me?”

  “Did you know the man who got killed?” Carrie asked.

  “No. I don’t think anyone did. I saw his picture on Facebook and we were all asking around, but no one knew who he was. He’d never been here before, that’s for certain.”

  “Would you know that?” Rein asked.

  “I’ve been running this club for three years and grew up in the scene,” Zack said. “It’s not like we’re in the big city out here. It’s a small group, and we stick together.”

  “How about anyone else that night who was new?”

  “Our deejay brought a few friends in from New York, but they stayed and partied all night. Ran up a four-hundred-dollar tab and shorted me out of a tip. Can you believe it?”

  “How about anyone that wasn’t part of a group?”

  Zack ran his fingers through his hair and looked up at the ceiling, concentrating. He snapped his fingers. “Yep, there was someone new that night. Real pretty blonde calling herself Dominique.”

  Rein cocked his head at Carrie, letting her know this part was important. She pulled out her notepad and pen and began writing. “White or black?”

  “White. Definitely.”

  “About how old?”

  “It was tough to say with all the makeup and the wig. Maybe in her thirties? Maybe not?”

  Rein stopped him. “Listen, I hate to ask, I really do, but it’s important. I’m not real clear on the right terminology for this, so forgive me if I sound stupid. When you say her, are you talking about someone born with a vagina or a penis?”

  Zack’s eyes fixed on Rein in irritation. “You really need to work on your understanding of gender and human sexuality. Especially with a beard like that.”

  Rein’s face fell as he resisted the urge to glare at Carrie, and said, “Can you help me out here? I need to be clear.”

  “I’m referring to a biological man, as in, born with a penis and testicles. Is that specific enough for you?”

  “Yes, thanks,” Rein said. “Can you tell us anything about Dominique?”

  “She didn’t stay long. Had one drink, then left. Seemed new to the whole thing. Not talkative or enjoying herself at all. I tried chatting her up, but she seemed to want to be left alone.”

  “Did she say anything? Anything at all?”

  “She had an accent, I remember that,” Zack said.

  “What kind of accent?” Carrie said.

  “Southern. Real thick, too. Like the kind that makes someone sound dumb, no matter how smart they are. I asked her where she was from, and she said somewhere in Louisiana.”

  Carrie looked at Rein. “And she just happens to be all the way up here and pops in at the local nightclub dressed to impress?”

  “It’s not that odd,” Zack said. “We get businessmen in here every once in a while, finally far enough away from their families and friends that they can try a walk on the wild side.”

  Rein was deep in thought, arms folded and right fist pressed against his mouth. Whatever he was searching for, it wasn’t coming.

  “Well, anyway, it was real nice talking to you both,” Zack said. “I hope you catch the person who did it. Everybody’s scared it’s homophobic hillbillies. I’ll be shocked if anyone even shows up tonight.”

  As Zack went to leave, Rein said, “Where in Louisiana? Did he say?”

  “Hodor,” Zack replied. “No wait. That’s from that show. Um, Horton, maybe?”

  Rein looked stricken. His voice was grave as he said the word, “Houma.”

  * * *

  Carrie found him in the parking lot outside, at the edge of the woods staring down at the parking space where they’d found the victim. The club’s door shut behind her. She shoved her notepad and pen into her pocket as she jogged toward Rein. She winced at the stink of bleach still heavy in the air. The chemical had seeped into the ground behind the parking lot and cooked onto stones in the lot, trapping the copper stench of blood.

  Rein did not move. The wind picked up, blowing gently against his beard and ruffling the short, shaggy locks of his hair. “Ronald Dominique,” Rein said, staring into the woods. “From Houma, Louisiana.”

  “Who the hell is Ronald Dominique from Houma, Louisiana?”

  “He killed twenty-three men. Men he met at gay bars, raped, and murdered. Bars just like this.”

  “Did he chop them into pieces, too?” Carrie asked.

  “No. He strangled them,” Rein said. “Which means something went very, very wrong that night for our killer to react the way he did. The victim must have forced him out of character.”

  “What character? What are you talking about?”

  “That would explain why he struck so soon after this event,” he said. “That was the part I couldn’t reconcile. For an intricate planner, it didn’t make sense to kill just a few days later.”

  “Would you stop babbling and tell me what’s going on here!”

  “You don’t understand,” he said, looking at her. For the first time, she saw fear creeping in at the edges of his eyes, and it turned her insides to water. “The phone call your first victim’s mother got. The lamp, the stew, that’s all Ed Gein. This victim, the club, the name, the biographical information he gave the bartender, that’s all Ronald Dominique. Your friend, posed like Regina Kay Walters.”

  “What are you saying?” Carrie lost her footing backing away from Rein, feeling her knees loosen.

  “After Robert Rhoades killed Regina, he dumped her body in a barn at an abandoned farm. That picture,” he said.

  The image of Molly backing away from the camera flashed in her mind, but she shook it off. “She’s not dead. Fuck you, Rein! She’s not dead.”

  He stood in the darkness, staring at her. “We need flashlights and a list of every farm that’s up for sale within driving distance.”

  Tears spilled down her face as she spat at him, “She is not buried in some fucking barn!”

  “Listen to me, goddamn it!” he shouted, grabbing her by both arms. “This bastard doesn’t want to be a serial killer, do you understand? He wants to be them. He wants to be all of them, Carrie! There is only one monster standing at the top of that mountain, and we both know what his name is.”

  “Oh my God. He’s going to imitate Krissing next.”

  “I think so,” Rein said. “And right now, he has a child.”

  22

  BILL WAYLON WOKE UP TIRED. THAT WAS NOTHING NEW. NO MATTER what time he went to sleep, it was never enough. The sun was coming strong through the curtains and blinds, and there was movement and muffled conversation throughout t
he house, so he knew it wasn’t one of the times when he’d woken up two hours before his alarm and would be able to go back to sleep. He’d slept as long as he’d meant to, and it still wasn’t enough.

  He stretched out in bed, groaning, feeling pops along his spine when he twisted his hips side to side. He lay there, cracking his joints, thinking about retirement. It was going to be lovely. First thing he was going to do was get rid of his alarm clock and never let another one into the bedroom, no matter what Jeri said. He’d spent his entire adult life needing to be places he did not necessarily want to be. Shifts that had to start on time, or he’d be disciplined. Court hearings that had to get underway on time, or he’d face contempt charges. Now it was meetings with council people and covering the goddamn school crossings, all of which had to be seen to on time, or else.

  But not for long, he thought. When I retire, I’m going to spend the rest of my life not having to be anywhere, or do anything, unless I absolutely feel like it.

  He had the age and the pensions to do it. He’d worked twelve years as a street cop before getting bumped up to County Detective. Twelve years vested him to receive a half pension. He worked another fifteen years at the County, which gave him the other half. Once he started collecting his pension, he’d make his whole salary sitting on his butt, doing nothing but grilling burgers, drinking beers, and fishing.

  It wasn’t long after Rein went to prison that the flame went out inside of Waylon. He wanted to retire. To be done with it all. Hand the whole sloppy shit sandwich over to the younger generation and let them try to eat it. He told Jeri he was going to work in the plumbing supply aisle of Home Depot and tell people where the bathroom was. He could think of nothing that would make him happier.

  She told him if that’s what he needed to do, she’d stand by him. But then, in her gentle way, she reminded him that the girls needed braces still, and braces cost a lot of money. So did cars and car insurance. And both of them were going to college, whether they liked it or not.

  That’s when the mayor of Coyote Township called him up, an old man whose voice creaked like a wooden chest. “I knew your father, Bill. He always did the right thing for us. I’m looking for a new chief, and I was hoping you might come do the right thing for us now.”

  The old man’s political connections, bailing him out one more time, Waylon figured.

  Coyote was a small little town with small little town problems. The cops there were slow and steady, like tortoises. Well, for the most part, he thought. All except Carrie. That kid was a race car, just dying for the chance to let out the throttle. A small-town PD was going to either sap the soul right out of her or drive her mental. He was glad she was getting the chance to dig into a large investigation. He wanted her to get a taste of the bigger picture, and he hoped the day came when she told him she was leaving for the FBI, or the attorney general’s office, or even, god forbid, the County detectives.

  Once this case of her missing dingbat best friend was settled, he intended on suggesting that Carrie move on in no uncertain terms.

  She’d argue, of course. The girl was loyal to him, and he knew it. They had a kind of father – daughter bond, partly because she was only a few years older than his own daughters and partly because of the drunken sad sack she called Dad. He cared about her enough to force her to leave because it was good for her. Somehow, he’d find a way to make her understand that too.

  It wouldn’t be easy. As a man living in a house with three grown women, he knew what he was talking about.

  Waylon knocked on the master bathroom door before opening it. Jeri was sitting on the toilet, flipping through a magazine.

  “Hey,” she said without looking up. Her red hair was pulled up in a makeshift bun, and her face was still pink from a vigorous scrubbing. She was about to turn fifty, but her legs were still shapely, despite the faint purple lines running up and down them.

  “Good morning,” he said, walking over to her.

  He bent down to give her a kiss, and she pulled back. “I’m peeing.”

  “You even pee beautiful.” He kissed her and started peeling off his T-shirt and boxer shorts. He turned on the water, reaching to feel if the spray was getting warmer. “You want to get in here with me?”

  “I can’t. I have to drive Kate to softball practice.”

  “Abby can’t take her?”

  “She has orientation. She wants to go drive around the campus to figure out what buildings her classes are in.”

  “Right,” he said. He felt the water again and then slid inside, letting it run over the top of his head. “You sure you can’t jump in just for a little bit?”

  “Hang on, I need to flush.”

  He stepped out of the way, pressing his back against the wall as he heard the sound of the toilet flushing. The water splashing his feet turned ice cold for a minute, then warmed up again. The shower curtain parted, and Jeri stuck her face in. “Tell you what. Take us out to dinner tonight to celebrate Kate’s big day tomorrow, and me and you can take a nice hot bubble bath together after we get home. How’s that sound?”

  Waylon reached for the soap. “Sounds like the perfect end to a long, long week.”

  * * *

  He shaved in the shower, going up and down his neck and sides of his jaw, lifting up the corners of his dangling mustache. After the shower, he peered close to the mirror, making sure it was undamaged. It was still thick and bristling, even though it had more gray hair than black. He could no longer see his upper lip and was tired of tasting his breakfast all the way up to dinnertime. He took a pair of scissors out of the mirror and began trimming. Drawers were opening and shutting inside the bedroom, with the sound of hangers scraping across the closet’s metal bar. “Hey, honey?”

  “What?”

  “Sam Elliott in Tombstone or Sam Elliott in Mask?”

  “Which one was Mask?” Jeri asked.

  “The one with Cher and the kid with the messed-up face. Mideighties.”

  “Which one’s more bushy?”

  “Tombstone, definitely.”

  “I always did like Cher,” she said.

  Waylon chuckled and leaned closer, snipping the scissors as he went.

  The girls were sitting at the table by the time he went downstairs. Jeri had heard him coming and started pouring already, setting a large, steaming mug at the head of the table, almost white with milk and sugar. Perfect.

  He kissed his younger one, Kate, on the top of her head while she munched cereal. “Morning, Dad.”

  “Hey, babycakes.” He crossed toward the older one, holding his arms wide. “There she is. My big girl, all grown up.” Abby stood up and hugged him, and he kissed her on top of the head too, smelling how clean and fresh it was. He stepped back and looked at her, knowing it made her embarrassed, but he smiled anyway through his thick mustache. “First day of college tomorrow. I can’t believe how beautiful you are.”

  “Dad,” she rolled her eyes.

  He bent his head toward her, making her look back at him. “But you know what I always tell you, beauty is only skin deep. It’s a lot more important to be smart and brave and good. You’re all those things, and I know it. So you go to that school and you get as much out of it as you possibly can. This is the whole foundation for the rest of your life, and I know, I just know, you are going to do great things.”

  “Thanks, Daddy,” she said, hugging him again.

  He patted her on the back and said, “Most important, if a boy says he wants to show you something in the planetarium after hours, you run like hell.”

  Jeri laughed from the stove. “Ain’t that the truth!” Then she added, “Of course, in our case it was a hay barn, and if it wasn’t for that conversation, Abby wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “Ew!” both girls said at once. Waylon laughed, crossing toward Jeri and putting his hands on either side of her waist. He leaned close to her ear. “As I recall, it was your idea to visit the overhead loft at the barn that day.” Dozens of pancakes s
izzled on the griddle, and she’d stacked bacon and sausage across the entire upper row. It smelled intoxicating. “What happened to you all going vegan?” he asked.

  “We didn’t go vegan.” Jeri laughed. “We went pollotarian.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “We can eat chicken,” Kate said.

  He pointed at the bacon and sausage. “That doesn’t look like chicken.”

  “Shush, it’s a cheat day,” Jeri said.

  “Pollotarian, huh?” he said, taking his seat at the table. “And here I thought we were Presbyterian.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. “Do they give you a Dad joke instruction manual when your first child is born, or does it just come natural?”

  “It’s more like a defense mechanism one develops when you’re outnumbered three to one in your own house.” He raised his coffee cup in salute. “If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry.”

  The first chords of Waylon’s cellphone’s ringtone erupted from the foyer. Waylon slumped forward and groaned. “What the heck now?”

  “I don’t know, but make it fast. We are eating together as a family after I made all this food,” Jeri said, waving her spatula at him.

  “All right, all right,” he said. “Give me one second.”

  He entered the foyer as the phone pulsated on the cabinet. He muttered he was coming as he lifted the screen and saw it was Carrie calling.

  “Hey, kiddo. You got good news for me?”

  Instead he heard Rein’s voice saying, “Bill. We found something.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Waylon was in the car, the phone docked on his dashboard. “The Baylor Farm, do you remember it?” Rein said.

  “I think so,” Waylon said, stepping on the gas, grabbing the steering wheel with one hand while holding a half-finished pancake and his phone in the other.

  “The kid who shot his grandparents with the twelve-gauge? Eyeball stuck to the curtain?”

  “I remember,” Waylon said. “Off Route 129?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned sharp at the corner, taking a different street, a faster one that would get him closer to the on-ramp. “What makes you think that’s the one?”