WIREMAN

by Billie Sue Mosiman

  "Me too," Jack said. "I just hope God’s listening."

  Chapter 25

  BY TEN 0’CLOCK the next morning Sam had received two phone calls from Jack asking if he had talked to Lieutenant Garbo yet. Sam assured Jack the Ringer house would be watched. He was not going to call Garbo about it. He was going downtown to the department, corner the lieutenant in his office, and get a promise from him personally. But first he wanted coffee and breakfast, and his advice to Jack was to sit on his hands and stay out of it. Sam doubted the advice would be taken seriously. He expected Jack at the door any minute.

  Sam dunked a fourth of his second honey bun into his coffee and bit into it. Maggie’s house was silent, warm, homey. She had a lace tablecloth over the red Formica kitchen table, and a dime-store vase of red silk roses nodded at him every time he jiggled the cloth. A cardboard print of an American Indian in full headdress stared down solemnly from the wall.

  Before Sam was finished with the second bun, the telephone in the hall rang shrilly for the third time that morning.

  "Dammit, Jack!" Sam said, getting up.

  He carried the breakfast roll with him to the phone, carried the phone back with him to the kitchen table, and did not lift the receiver until he took another swallow of black coffee. "I’m leaving in five minutes!" he shouted into the phone.

  After a moment’s hesitation a man’s amused voice said, "Well, I’m sorry to interrupt your leave-taking, but I wanted to tell you something, Detective."

  Startled, Sam tried to place the voice and failed. "Who’s speaking, please?"

  "Dr. Rubens, V.A. hospital." The psychiatrist chuckled.

  "Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor. I thought you were someone else."

  "No harm done," Rubens assured Sam.

  "What is it you wanted to tell me?"

  "The patient we were discussing last evening, he called early this morning and he’s decided to come in for an eleven o’clock session. I have something he wants, and the only way he can get it is to see me, so I suppose he’s reconsidered. At least for this one last meeting."

  Sam hunched over the table and fingered the fake roses. "What are you telling me?" he asked.

  "I can’t tell you his name, can I?" Rubens explained. "I was awake most of the night worrying about this man, pondering his innocence or guilt in the matter. I’ve never been in this position before and I’m not sure what to do. I shouldn’t be talking to you. I could get into a lot of trouble if anyone found out we had talked.

  "But, dammit, I have to live with my conscience--whatever other people say."

  Sam already knew what the psychiatrist wanted him to do. It was the long way around and it bordered on the unethical in Dr. Rubens’s point of view. But with a little work Sam could discover the identity of Dr. Rubens’s patient. All he had to do was be at the V.A. hospital before eleven, watch the patients entering, and narrow it down to the eleven o’clock appointment going into the doctor’s office. If he didn’t recognize the person, he could run a DMV check on the man’s car, find a name that way.

  "That was a clever move, Doctor, and I want you to know that I appreciate it. I’ll handle the rest."

  "That’s good, that’s what I wanted to hear. Now I know that I’ve done all that I can do without compromising my office beyond certain limits. I wish you luck."

  "Thanks for the help, Dr. Rubens."

  "We will never mention it," Rubens said firmly, hanging up.

  Fifteen minutes later when the hall phone rang again, Sam was gone.

  #

  Sam was at the V.A. hospital twenty minutes early. In the noisy corridor outside Rubens’s office he took a seat and watched the people. A young amputee shuffled past talking to himself. Behind him came a nurse who appeared to be all flat chest and big hair. She called, "You’re going the wrong way! Turn around, you’re not heading for the lab that way!"

  During the next ten minutes, tiring of the wandering patients and staff, Sam counted fifty-seven squares of shining white tile down the center of the hall, beginning with the one beneath his feet. Beyond fifty-seven his vision blurred and the lines between tiles vanished. No one seemed to care what he was doing there and Sam decided they were all too busy or self-involved to question his presence.

  He glanced at his watch. Eight minutes till eleven. What if Dr. Rubens’s patient did not show?

  A beautiful black girl came from Rubens’s office and rushed down the corridor to the ladies’ room. She rushed back before three minutes were up. Sam thought her pit stop must be one of the fastest in history.

  She nodded in his direction and disappeared into the office.

  Sam turned his head to scan the corridor. At the far end double glass doors opened and a familiar figure stepped inside, paused, and proceeded toward Sidney Rubens’s office.

  Sam jumped to his feet, turned away from the man, and made for the mens’ room as fast as he could. Even behind the protection of the restroom door, the shock of the patient’s identity caused Sam’s heart to race.

  Have I got a surprise for you, Garbo, he thought. Jack’s instincts are right. Nick Ringer needs surveillance.

  After what Sam thought was a reasonable amount of time, he left the men’s room, passed Rubens’s office without a glance, and left the building. He was on his way downtown. Finally he had something that would hold up under scrutiny.

  Chapter 26

  "I NEED SOMETHING stronger than Valium," Nick said, avoiding the penetrating stare of Sidney Rubens.

  "All right, Nick. I can do that for you."

  "You can?" Nick looked at the psychiatrist in surprise.

  "Sure, it’s no problem. I’m glad you came back to see me. Yesterday was a misunderstanding. I think we can talk about it, can’t we?"

  “I don’t know. I just flew off the handle and I didn’t mean what I said--about my brother and all." The young man seemed genuinely sorry.

  "I understand."

  "You don’t understand!" Nick shouted.

  Rubens held up his hand for peace, but he saw the sullen look creeping over Nick’s face. In his estimation it would take months, maybe years of therapy to reach Nick Ringer--and even then they might not be successful. They did not have time for that. The most he could hope for was reconciliation with the patient.

  He must not alienate him again.

  Rubens took a prescription pad from his desk drawer. "I won’t keep you from your work. I’ll give you something for your nerves and you try to see me again tomorrow. Is that fair enough?"

  "Yeah, that’s okay." Nick was obviously relieved the questions could wait for another time.

  Rubens watched him leave the office and knew he was going straight to the hospital’s pharmacy to have the prescription filled. He wondered if Detective Bartholomew had made it on time and found out Nick’s name in some way, The psychiatrist wondered too if he had done the right thing or if he had violated his patient’s privacy. The only thing he did know with any certainty was that his conscience was clear. Now it was up to the authorities to do the rest. God knows he couldn’t do much more.

  #

  Moments later Nick bent over the water fountain downing two Librium capsules. As he drove through the Houston noon traffic toward home, he felt the relief flood through him. He cursed himself for not taking Stevie Hagstrom up on his offer of a little dope. If he had, he would not be reduced to crawling back to a two-bit shrink at the V.A. hospital. But God, he hated that little twerp, Stevie. What kind of name was that for a grown man-- Stevie? He could at least call himself Steve, the little asshole.

  Nick thought about Daley’s name and laughed aloud. So maybe he was wrong. Daley sure did not look like a Dale. Then people might have called him "Chip" and they would be tagged like a couple of beavers from comic books.

  Nick tried to think, but found his mind totally out of control. He could not remember if Chip and Dale were beavers or chipmunks. God bless the comics. He and his brother’s only entertainment all through childhood. That and TV. And the
secret things they did on Ma’s ten acres. But not to think of that, not today, not now when he was on the way to face more of Daley’s music. Christ, but he was crazy since that old cop and his buddy showed up at the house!

  Thinking I fucked up because I told ’em to get lost. Thinking I’m up to something all the time, following me around…

  Nick quickly looked in the rear view mirror to check the cars behind him.

  Following me around to see what I'm doing, giving me hell because I didn’t go to work this week.

  Nick saw a black car go into a slow-motion skid in front of him and pulled into the right lane to avoid crashing into the rear-end.

  How can I go into work anymore? That’s what I fucking want to know. I’m too tired to work, always too tired, and I don’t care, can’t he see that? What am I gonna be, district manager or what? Fuck no. I’ll never be anybody, but a gofer. And where’s he have room to talk? Missing exams, skipping classes, hanging round the house grieving over Madra moving out and how the cops think maybe he’s not telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but...

  The streetlight changed to yellow and was red before Nick sped through it, narrowly missing a collision with a truck turning left.

  "Asshole," he shouted, looking in the rearview mirror for a patrol car.

  And the cops coming to the house, damn. What were they up to anyway? What fucking trap were they trying to set? It was all a trick, asking about Monday, March the first. They wanted to pin something on me, always me, it never matters what happens, Ma and Daley and the V.A. and the cops--everyone’s always convinced it’s me!

  He pulled the car to the curb and parked. He could feel the drugs taking effect, but his anxiety was not lessening. Unlocking the front door, he yelled, "Daley, you home?"

  "In here," came a muted reply.

  Nick closed the door and stumbled on the hall rug as he went toward the darkened living room. "Shit!"

  "More pills?" Daley asked sarcastically from the gloom. He looked like a lumpish old man with rounded shoulders hiding in the shadows.

  "Fucking A." Nick plopped into a chair across from Daley and with one hand rolled the vial of pills in his coat pocket.

  "You make me sick," Daley said.

  "Go fuck yourself."

  "You’re a goddamned junkie."

  "And you’re Mama’s little bright boy and never do anything wrong," Spittle came from Nick’s lips, he was so vehement.

  "They’re going to come back," Daley said solemnly. "And you’re not going to be ready for it."

  "But you’ll be ready, won’t you, Daley? You’ve got it all worked out, right?"

  "You don’t know what’s happening...” Daley began to plead.

  Nick stood up unsteadily. "Why do you have the damn shades pulled down in here? It’s too dark."

  "It’s going to stay dark."

  Nick turned before he reached the window. "Where’s the garrote, Daley, will you tell me that?"

  Daley smiled without humor.

  "Wipe that fucking smile off your face and answer me."

  “You know where it is, Nick. You’ve been using it," Daley said softly.

  "Me! Me! You want me to believe that, don’t you?" Nick’s face turned red.

  "It’s impossible to save you anymore, Nick.”

  Nick’s complexion suddenly paled, and his jaw tightened. He crossed the room, and stared Daley in the face. "You never fucking saved me." Nick was so intense there seemed to be a vibration thrumming through the room. "In Nam I saved you. I saved you."

  Time stood still in the silent darkened room. Suddenly the antique clock on the wall struck the noon hour and both men flinched, but their eyes never flickered from one another’s faces.

  "I have always been the one who saved you," Daley said, his hand moving to his brother’s shoulder.

  Nick jerked away and the scream that came from his throat was one of agony and betrayal. He kicked the coffee table across the floor into the brick fireplace, its glass top shattering.

  "I want the garrote," Nick screamed, tearing around the room, upsetting lamps, knocking ashtrays and books and dirty glasses to the floor.

  “Stop it, Nick!" Daley commanded sternly.

  Nick climbed the stairs, banging the wall with his fist in outrage.

  "I’m going to find it!" he howled.

  "Nick..."

  In Daley’s bedroom Nick tore the covers and sheets from the bed, upset the mattress, lifted the box spring and let it fall with a crash. Daley tried to grab his arms but was flung back against the wall.

  "I’m going to get rid of it!" Nick shouted.

  "Nick, I want you to calm down .... "

  All the drawers in the chest and dresser were yanked out and turned upside down on the floor, clothes and socks spilling around the two brothers.

  "Where is it? I want to know where it is!"

  "Nick, you’re deluding yourself. You have the garrote." Daley stood apart from his brother.

  The dresser was pulled away from the wall and tumbled forward, the mirror cracking on the foot-board of the bed. Nick threw open the closet door and furiously jerked clothes off hangers.

  Nick rushed down the hallway to the workroom.

  "Where are you going?" Daley asked, trying to stop his brother.

  "You’ve got it hidden in here," Nick said, pounding on the locked door.

  Nick looked at Daley, then without hesitation stepped back and ran into the door with his shoulder. The door burst open and smacked the wall behind it.

  “Don’t break up this room, Nick. You’ve lost your mind.”

  "It’s here somewhere. I know it."

  Daley stepped back into the doorway, and watched sorrowfully as Nick methodically demolished the antique pieces that would have been worth thousands when refinished. Before Nick was through, Daley turned away and went down the stairs, his shoulders drooping. There were no solutions, no help.

  In Nick’s bedroom Daley got the wooden box from beneath the bed and opened the lid. The garrote lay coiled on the velvet inside.

  The destruction upstairs finally ceased. The house filled with silence. Daley sat waiting, holding the box.

  Nick appeared at the bedroom door. His face glazed over when he saw what his brother held in his lap. It was as if a film of clear, tough plastic suddenly coated Nick from head to foot. He was frozen in the doorway for long moments while the two brothers stared at each other in silence.

  Finally Nick spoke. "You put it there," he whispered in total disbelief.

  Daley shook his head slowly. Nick was totally mad. His mind was shattered.

  "You did," Nick insisted. "You put it in my room."

  Again, Daley shook his head. Still without expression, Nick crossed the space between them, reached out both hands, and took Daley’s throat in his hands.

  Daley looked up into his brother’s eyes with a silent plea.

  The box fell to the floor and the garrote dropped from Nick’s hands into a spiraled loop, one of the handles resting on Nick’s shoe.

  Outside thunderheads covered the sun and a shivering cold rain deluged the city.

  Chapter 27

  SAM BARTHOLOMEW sat in an unmarked car across the street from the Ringer residence. Next to him in the driver’s seat was Officer Trumbine, who after three days had confessed his nickname on the force was "Patty" and it was all right if Bartholomew called him that. Patty barely made the five-ten height requirement for the department, and weighed, soaking wet and with his clothes on, a slight hundred and thirty pounds.

  In the backseat, against Garbo’s direct orders, Jack DeShane reclined smoking a cigarette. He slept in the car during the eleven-to-seven shift and after a brief run home to shave, shower, and eat, he climbed back into a police car to take up vigil. The officers assigned to watching the Ringer residence understood Jack’s involvement and were charitable about his constant presence, though it would have been easier if he were not around. He made them all feel as fidgety as hot grease poppin
g in a skillet.

  Sam always took the evening shift. Out of the four murders, two were committed at night, two during the day, so he wasn’t working percentages. He was responding to gut-level instinct. He felt convinced the next attempted murder would occur during the evening.

  All three men were weary and disgruntled. Since the evening Sam talked Garbo into a seven-day, twenty-four-hour surveillance on the Ringers, there had not been a single movement from the house. There were plenty of boring hours used up on suppositions, none of them very logical. The fact was no one understood why neither Ringer brother had come out of the house.

  The 1970 navy Chrysler Imperial registered in Daley’s name had a tracking device clamped beneath the back bumper. But they had not been tracking the car anywhere. The door of the house stayed closed, the shades drawn, and there was nothing to do on the eight-hour rotating shifts but sit and watch the street.

  Garbo did not like it. Earlier in the morning he complained to Sam, "I’m using thirty men, and I’m shifting everyone in the precinct for this. If they don’t move soon, I’m afraid I’ll have to call it off. We can’t afford it. Around here they’re referring to these three days of do-nothing as the ‘Dead Ringer Runaround.’ I can’t justify the cost and time if something doesn’t happen soon."

  "Something’s brewing, Garbo. Trust my instincts. They can’t stay locked up in there forever," Sam pleaded.

  "Screw forever. If they don’t come out within the next twenty-four hours, I’ll have to call my men off, and let you bring this Nick to the station for questioning.”

  "If you do that, Garbo, you’ll be making a mistake. We only have circumstantial. You’re not going to close down this case on what we have."

  "I also have some tired men who’d rather be at home with their wives to say nothing of a commissioner who’s going ape-shit every three seconds."

  "He’ll come out," Sam promised. "And when he does he’ll go after number five."