Twenty-Seven Bones

by Jonathan Nasaw

  “Sounds good to me. But what the fuck are we talking about?”

  “Hand grenades. Pineapples. Chuck and ducks. Pull the pin, toss it in, 3.5 to 4.5 seconds later, boom. No damn cave, no damn Cong.”

  “There are no Viet Cong on St. Luke,” Lewis pointed out.

  “You never know,” said Bungalow Bill.

  8

  The best way to approach a slam dunk crime scene is not to treat it as one. Take nothing for granted. But by late afternoon no clear signs of a third party to the events in the lime grove had been found, and everything else seemed to be falling into place.

  Layla and Dr. Parmenter had examined Shea’s entrance wounds, verified the powder burns as consistent with a point-blank discharge, traced the trajectories of the bullets and found them consistent with an entry from below and slightly to the side.

  The recovered shells, two from inside Shea’s body and a spent, flattened through-and-through found on the blanket, had all been fired by the .22 pistol found in Angela Martin’s hand, the pistol in turn had been identified as Angela’s by the other Wharf Street whores, and thanks to the Saturday night special’s shoddy Korean manufacture, even the antique 1970s-vintage spectrophotometer in Layla’s lab had picked up traces of gunshot residue on Angela’s left hand.

  Nor could Pender fault Layla Coffee’s proposed scenario. To wit: lying atop Martin, Shea had reached across their bodies to pin her outstretched right arm with his right hand and chopped downward with the machete in his left hand, leaving her left hand free to fumble for, and fire, the gun in her purse. This clumsy positioning, with his body angled awkwardly to the left, would have accounted for the first bullet exiting just below the rib cage; when he turned to his right, the next two shots would have been angled lower and hit the hipbone from the inside.

  But even so, by close of business Monday, Pender remained unconvinced, or at least uneasy. “Twenty-five years hunting serial killers,” he told Julian privately, in the chief’s office, “and I’ve never yet seen a perp and a vic kill each other at the same time. And I interviewed Shea Sunday morning, after the Bendt murder—he seemed kosher to me.”

  “Did he have an alibi?” asked Julian, somewhat testily, it seemed to Pender.

  “No, but according to Holly Gold, Shea was the first one to reach the Crapaud when she blew her whistle. If he were the killer, wouldn’t he have been more likely to stay away entirely?”

  “Unless he thought getting there first would make him look less guilty. In which case, it seems to have worked. On you. And what’s your alternative? The Machete Man waits in the lime grove, jumps on Shea’s back, chops off Martin’s hand, then finds the gun in her purse and shoots Shea from underneath, with the barrel angled upward? And what’s Shea doing all this time, jerking off?”

  “No, he…Or…” But Pender couldn’t come up with anything less far-fetched than the theory he’d worked up the previous evening. “What if there was more than one perp? One to hold the gun on Shea, one to—”

  “Edgar.”

  “—chop. What?”

  “It’s over—let it go.”

  “Julian, I have this hunch—”

  “So did Quasimodo.” Coffee opened the humidor on his desk, handed Pender a Monte Cristo. “Go home, smoke this. Enjoy the rest of your time on the island. Get laid. Go swimming. Go snorkling on what’s left of our coral reef. Get a tan.”

  “There’s a tropical storm out there, in case you haven’t noticed,” said Pender.

  “And in here, me son, you’re rainin’ all over the parade. Tomorrow morning I’m going to hold a press conference that will simultaneously reassure the public, keep the cruise ships coming, and still leave enough wiggle room to cover me rass, in the unlikely event you’re not entirely full of shit. But we’d all better pray to the gods of tourism that you are, because the Caribbean Princess is docking at the end of the week, and according to the governor’s office, they’re already talking about rerouting to St. Croix instead.”

  “And if another little girl like Hettie Jenkuns goes missing?” asked Pender.

  “I kiss your hunch in the middle of Government Yard and we start all over.”

  Julian went home. Pender closeted himself in his basement office, and with the case files in front of him and the ghosts of the drowned convicts of Hurricane Eloise looking over his shoulder, he scribbled notes on a legal pad, trying out one Machete Man scenario after another, subjecting each one to a check against the facts on file, then discarding or altering it when it failed to conform to those facts.

  This was known as the floating point strategy, but the point Pender started from, and the point to which he kept returning, was the Apgard murder. It was the pivotal moment in the Machete Man’s career. It marked a change in the concealment pattern. It brought in a suspect with a motive for the first time, then eliminated him with an airtight alibi.

  And except for the actual cause of death being a machete, the following murder, the Bendt murder, had so little in common with the previous ones that it might as well have been committed by someone else entirely. Hand left behind—no souvenirs. Up to then, the Machete Man had been a collector. For the collectors, the souvenir assumed critical importance for various reasons—self-esteem booster, fetish, a way to reexperience the thrill. For the Machete Man, leaving the hand behind was the equivalent of a bank robber leaving the money behind.

  Another big difference in the Bendt murder was that there had been no attempt at abduction. Again, for varying reasons—intimacy, control, sexual abuse, torture—almost all serial killers were abductors. If they weren’t, they were usually snipers or serial poisoners.

  But the two were different personality types, and killed for different reasons. It would be as out of character for an abductor to commit a hack and run like the Bendt murder as it would be for a collector to leave his souvenir behind.

  So forget all the other murders, especially the multiple in the lime grove, and run the old mind-tape all the way back to Hettie Jenkuns, then forward to the Apgard murder. The pivot point, as previously noted. Wife dies, you look long and hard at the husband. What condition was the marriage in? Does he have a lover? Did she? Had he suffered financial reverses? Was there much insurance on her? Because even if he has an alibi, there’s always the possibility of a contract job. Or a trade-off: criminals aren’t the only ones who know about the famous Hitchcock scenario.

  And if it was one of those Strangers on a Train deals, thought Pender, he’d had two “persons of interest” in mind since yesterday. The neighbors, the Epps. Who hadn’t seen or heard anything the night of the Apgard murder. And who had offered no alibi for Mrs. Apgard’s murder, but had an airtight alibi of their own for the subsequent, even more anomalous Bendt killing.

  Of course, it was still only a hypothesis—and a muddled one at that. He didn’t know whether the original Machete Man was Apgard, one or both of the Epps, Ruford Shea, or someone else entirely, or how many copycat killings there had been—somewhere between none and four—or what had actually taken place in the lime grove.

  All he was sure of was that he had to come up with something tonight, something that would convince Julian not to announce publicly that the danger was over and that everybody could relax and let their guard down.

  Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing that as far as the Corefolk were concerned, it was too late—their guard was already down.

  Chapter Nine

  1

  The news traveled fast. The police had all but dismantled Ruford Shea’s cabin looking for evidence when Holly returned with the kids after school, so everybody at the Core knew. With the storm still pissing buckets at suppertime, the communal kitchen, its tarps rolled down to cover the open sides, became the gossip nexus. Rain drummed steadily on the tin roof, the good old sixties’ smell of brown rice and veggies cooking in toasted sesame oil filled the kitchen, and the following conversation, or a variation thereof, was repeated a dozen or more times:

  “I can’t believe
it.”

  “I know. He seemed like such a nice guy.”

  “But you know, that’s what the neighbors always say, whenever it turns out there’s a serial killer living next door.”

  “Yeah. And remember the time when Ruford thought somebody had been going through his cabin—how mad he got? Started waving that machete of his around, I thought he was going to kill somebody then and there.”

  “Yeah, I always had my doubts about him after that. These down-islanders can be so volatile.”

  Unless of course a down-islander was taking part in the conversation, in which case these down-islanders became dose St. Vincent men.

  But the talk was harmless enough. Collectively and individually, they felt themselves betrayed; collectively and individually, they healed themselves as bio-organisms do, by forming scar tissue around the injured places. The real danger came when they let down their guard. Collectively and individually, literally and figuratively. Ding-dong, the witch was dead. No more convoys to the Crapaud, no more standing watch, no more tiki torches on the hill or lights in the tamarind trees.

  As for Dawson, whipsawed by two conflicting needs, for security and for love, she didn’t know what to think, how to feel. The night before had been wonderful, and this morning, at the Crapaud, she’d seen what she had hoped to see in Pender’s eyes, heard what she had hoped to hear in his voice. It was like that old Shirelles song, “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” And although the L-word hadn’t made its first appearance yet, clearly the answer had been yes.

  So happy as Dawson was to learn that the danger to herself and her neighbors had passed, her emotions were decidedly mixed. Because everybody knows that after the trouble in town is cleared up, the Lone Ranger always rides off into the sunset.

  Holly had no such contradictory emotions. She had no reason to doubt what Detective Hamilton had said, and she couldn’t wait for things to get back to normal. Tomorrow morning, she’d work at the rest home. Tomorrow afternoon she’d work at Blue Valley. And tomorrow night, she promised herself, she would do something for herself: she would drop by the Beda Club and buy the new barmaid a drink.

  Because if Holly had learned one lesson from this whole Machete Man episode, it was that old one about gathering rosebuds while ye may. And if Holly was any judge of women, that new barmaid, whom she’d met at the clothing optional beach at Smuggler’s Cove yesterday—the one with the butch haircut and the killer bod, who claimed to own all of Tracy Chapman’s CDs, and to have seen every movie Jodi Foster had ever made—was a rosebud ripe for the picking.

  2

  With time running out and the rain still coming down, Pender raided the equipment locker for binoculars and stopped off at the island’s only 7-Eleven for sandwiches and a thermosful of coffee before driving out to the Great House.

  He left his Panama in the car—the brim was starting to uncurl from the repeated soaking—and ascended the steps wearily, wearing the hooded yellow SLPD slicker that made him feel like a school crossing guard. He crossed the colonnaded porch, pushed the ivory bell next to the French doors, behind which the curtains had been drawn, blocking his view of the interior. He heard chimes, counted to thirty, rang the bell again.

  The doors opened outward. “Good evening, Agent…was it Pender?” Apgard himself. Loafers, white duck trousers, white T-shirt, white cardigan sweater—like a letter sweater, but without the letter. Golden blond hair tousled under his Dolphins cap. Body language, relaxed. Two, three stiff drinks’ worth of relaxed, Pender estimated.

  From here on in, it would be an improvisation, a chess game. “Good evening, Mr. Apgard.” Pender stopped there. Apgard’s move. Would he invite him in? Try to get rid of him?

  “All settled into the A-frame?” None of the above. Friendly approach, neutral tone, noted Pender. But his voice and stance were contradictory. Apgard had also taken a step forward, and was now standing in the doorway, barring the entrance both physically and symbolically.

  “Yes, thank you. I haven’t been back since this rain started, though—I hope everything’s still dry.”

  Apgard flipped a light switch just inside the door. Floodlights glared outside, illuminating the driving rain.

  “Still coming down vertical,” he said, peering around Pender. “Should be okay. Something I can do for you?” Clipped sentences: Apgard wanted to hurry the conversation to a conclusion.

  “Did you hear about the lime grove?” A promising opening, with limited permutations. There were only three answers, yes, no, and what the fuck you talkin’ ’bout, dude, none of which required thinking over. A hesitation would be a tell. One thousand one, one thousand two, one—

  “The lime grove?”

  A variation of what the fuck you talking about, but Apgard was two and a half beats behind. Might be a tell.

  Lewis’s first impulse had been to deny any knowledge of the lime grove—then he remembered that Artie Felix, probably trying to ingratiate himself, had called a few hours ago with the news. We got him, Mr. Apgard: he’s a deadah. Which meant they’d swallowed the scenario whole. Until now.

  “Oh, right,” he added hurriedly. “You mean about Shea being the Machete Man. Yes, Detective Felix called me this afternoon with the good word. In a manner of speaking. Not so good for that poor girl. I’m afraid I’ve been celebrating. Making rather merry, as Bob Cratchit would say.”

  Making rather merry? thought Pender. Fucker’s turning into Hugh Grant right in front of my eyes. Let’s see how the charm holds up. “May I come in?”

  “Now’s probably not the best time.”

  Pender, sweetly oblivious: “I’m sorry—do you have company?”

  “No, but—”

  “Great—this won’t take but a minute.” And with a pivot and a pirouette, moving light on his toes like old Jackie Gleason—and awaaaayy we go—Pender edged sideways past Apgard, through the outflung double doors into the enclosed vestibule. “I’ll hang this up here, shall I?” Pender’s slicker was dripping on the hardwood floor of the vestibule. “Or will I be putting the maid out of work again?”

  “I told you, this is not a good time for me,” said Lewis forcefully.”

  “It’s not a good time for any of us.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The vestibule wasn’t very large. Proxemically speaking, this was an intimate conversation. Pender lowered his voice to just above a whisper, bent his head to the shorter man. “I have reason to believe that it was not the Machete Man who killed your wife.”

  One thousand one, one thousand two, one thous—

  “Who, then?”

  “How well do you know your nearest neighbors, the Epps?”

  One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four…

  Endgame: the interview in the drawing room. Under the guise of brushing off the seat of his uncomfortable chair, Pender dragged it closer to Apgard’s silk wing chair and positioned it at a forty-five-degree angle.

  “What can you tell me about the Epps?”

  “They’ve been my tenants for six, seven years, something like that. I know they study bones, that they used to live in California, and that they spent the weekend in Puerto Rico at some kind of convention.”

  “What do you know about Bennie?”

  “The houseman? Not much. He’s Indonesian—from an island called Nias, I believe.”

  “Think he’d know how to use a machete?”

  “Bennie? He’s harmless.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You get an impression of people.”

  Apgard was starting to recover his composure, thought Pender. Time to make that bold move. “What would you say if I told you that a fingerprint matching the right index finger of one…”

  Pender took his note out of the inside pocket of his sorry plaid sport jacket, opened it at random, as if consulting an entry.

  “…Bennie Sukarto…”

  He’d pulled the name out of the air. Sukarno and Suharto, the
last two dictators of the country, were the only Indonesian surnames with which Pender was familiar. He was banking on the likelihood Apgard didn’t know Bennie’s real name either.

  “…was found on the machete recovered in the lime grove?”

  “I…Cheese-an’-bread, I—Wait a minute: are you saying that?”

  Oh-ho, thought Pender. John Q. Citizen says right off how shocked and surprised he’d be to learn such a thing. Or wouldn’t be. One or the other—what John Q. doesn’t do at this point is shadow box with his interviewer, go back and parse the question. Have to play it careful now, though. Don’t let him suspect that you suspect him. Instead, involve him.

  “We’re still waiting for confirmation from Interpol. Should have it by morning—then we’ll bring him in. What I’m trying to find out from you is, in your opinion, as someone who’s had dealings with them over an extended period of time, should we bring the Epps in, as well?”

  “By all means,” said Apgard, after a pause so long Pender lost count of the one thousands. “Bring ’em all in. Strap the electrodes to their privates and get the truth out of ’em. Now if there’s nothing else…?”

  “Nothing at present.” Pender rose. “Thanks for your time.”

  Apgard remained seated. “You know the way out.”

  3

  From the drawing room, Lewis heard the front doors open and close. A car engine started up; tires crunched the wet gravel. Then quiet: the grandfather clock, the rain. He sagged in his chair. Doomed, was the word that came to mind. I’m fucking doomed. The reason he hadn’t gotten up to see Pender out was that he hadn’t trusted his legs. He was also a little nauseous—for a moment there, back in the vestibule when Pender first mentioned the Epps, he’d thought he was going to spew kalaloo, as they say on St. Luke.