The Witchfinder

by Loren D. Estleman

  “Whom,” I corrected.

  “Dead word. Like incarnadine.” He went on humming.

  “When did I ever hold out on you?”

  “Let’s see; when was the last time you asked that question?”

  “I don’t look good on camera, Barry. I come off like a lox.”

  “We can computer-scramble your face, give you a falsetto.”

  “I get to be a state-of-the-art Deep Throat?”

  He stopped smiling.

  “There never was a Deep Throat. Guys like Woodward and Bernstein use that saw to cover up sloppy investigative work. A quote’s worthless without a source.”

  Sore point. I changed the subject. “I may owe you another pint before I leave.”

  He shook his head. “Spoiling the sponsors with too much good whiskey is counterproductive, and I can’t afford to keep the stuff around. Gimme a lead.”

  “How many mikes does this room have?”

  He stretched an arm and threw a knife switch. “Main breaker,” he said. “The walls are soundproof.”

  “You’ve got to sit on it until I say go.”

  He waved his good hand.

  “Jay Bell Furlong.”

  “He dead yet?”

  “Not yet. And not in California. He’s in town.”

  “I should’ve guessed. He was taking longer to die than Saturday Night Live.”

  “He’s dying all right, but on his clock.” I spelled it out: the job, the Arsenault kill, Nate Millender’s disappearance, my shooting in his apartment. I held one thing back for use later. Barry remembered his sandwich and finished it while I spoke.

  “You’re even luckier than I was,” he said over his milk. “How’s your vision?”

  “I’ve been seeing single all day.”

  “Enjoy it while you can.” He sucked mustard off his index finger. “This starts to sound like King Lear. How big is the inheritance?”

  “It can’t be small. ‘How much’ isn’t in his vocabulary.”

  “What’s Millender’s physical description?”

  “Why?”

  “Detectives. Jesus. Because I asked.”

  I ran it for him. He threw the breaker back on and played the computer keyboard with his left hand, boogie-woogie style. The white console was on a swivel. He turned it my way. “That him?”

  I stared at the bilious green letters.

  FLATROCK 6/16

  COMPLAINANT JULIUS MELROSE NO MIDDLE DOB 4/9/60 UNEMPLOYED 4102 EMPIRE TAYLOR REPORT DECEASED FOUND WEST BANK DETROIT RIVER 1100 6/15 WELL DEVELOPED MALE CAUCASIAN BLONDE/BLUE EARLY THIRTIES 5 FEET 5 130 MOLE UPPER LEFT ARM SCAR ONE CENTIMETER RIGHT FOREHEAD COAGULATED BLOOD BONE SPLINTERS BACK OF HEAD BELOW CROWN BELLY DISTENDED WHITE SHORTS NO OTHER CLOTHING

  He’d lost his long-billed fisherman’s cap, probably when the sail boom struck him from behind.

  I sat back. “You’re patched into the police computer?”

  “Just the blotter. The stuff on the upper floors has alarms and tracers hooked up to the access codes. The kid who empties the wastebaskets here did the hacking for me. He starts at Redford High this fall.”

  “You wonder why he’d bother.”

  “The squeal came over this morning. I took note. You never know what might connect to the Right and Honorable Exalted Paterfamilias of Palermo and Vegas. I’ve been following the Arsenault burn too. The Feds and RICO have busted up the old gang pretty good, but just when you think they’re six feet under they bounce back up on their pointy alligator shoes and kick you in the boccie balls.”

  “Colorful.”

  “Thank you. I used it last week.”

  “The boccie balls part is a little much.”

  “Fuck you. Halberstam loved it.”

  “If it is Millender—and it sounds like him right down to the wardrobe—you can count them out this time.”

  “Could be they’re taking on indy work. They’ve had a bad decade.”

  “That’s the trouble with you mob watchers. You see guys in fedoras under every bed. They don’t hold exclusive franchise on murder for hire.”

  “You sound like a man with a hole card.”

  “I didn’t tell you about Millender’s close chum,” I said. “The light of his last days.”

  He scratched the end of his stump. “I’m all ears and a yard wide.”

  “Royce Grayling.”

  He blinked. Then he beamed all over.

  I crossed my legs. “Thought you’d like it.”

  “God, I love my job. I’d give my remaining leg to keep it forever. Who needs two when you’ve got floppy disks? R-O-Y-C-E G-R-A-Y-L-I-N-G.” He punched each letter on the board as he recited it. “Speak to me, Silicone Valley.”

  It spoke.

  And spoke.

  Twenty-four

  GRAYLING ROYCE BORN TADEUS ROSCOE GRODNO HAMTRAMCK MI 3/31/49

  “Tadeus?” I asked.

  Barry grunted. “Hebrew, with a Polish spin. Thaddeus was one of the Twelve Apostles. Saint Jude to you.”

  “I didn’t know you were up on the New Testament.” “I burned my share of candles at St. Boniface when I was twelve.”

  “He’s older than he looks.”

  “These sons of bitches age on a sliding scale. Most of them ferment twice as fast as the rest of us. The ones that don’t must like what they’re doing.”

  “He seemed pretty contented.”

  “Psychopath,” he said. “The world’s largest minority.”

  GRADUATED UNIVERSITY OF DETROIT BA BUSINESS/ROMANCE LANGUAGES 4/10/70 HARVARD UNIVERSITY MA POLITICAL SCIENCE 6/11/76 SERVICE RECORD 101ST AIRBORNE RANGERS VIETNAM 1970–71 CAMBODIA 1972 PURPLE HEART BEN SUC 9/23/71 PURPLE HEART PHNOM PENH 1/2/72 BRONZE STAR KAMPUCHEA 10/15/72

  I said, “I’m surprised we didn’t see him over there.”

  “Who would, in the glare from all that metal?”

  CIVILIAN AWARDS AND HONORS FIRST RUNNER UP NATIONAL PISTOL CHAMPIONSHIP OUTDOOR CONVENTIONAL 1976 FIRST PLACE STANDARD PISTOL US NRA INTERNATIONAL SHOOTING CHAMPIONSHIP 1978 TIE FIRST PLACE NATIONAL INDOOR RIFLE CHAMPIONSHIP 1982 POLISH AMERICAN CITIZEN OF THE YEAR POLISH CONSTITUTION CELEBRATION BELLE ISLE DETROIT MI 1986 MARRIED DAWN MARIE ZAEMMLER 6/19/82 DIVORCED 2/10/84 NO CHILDREN

  “She probably came out and asked him what he did when he wasn’t competing in shooting matches and kissing Polish babies,” Barry said.

  “At least he didn’t breed.”

  EMPLOYMENT SPECIAL CONSULTANT WAYNE COUNTY BOARD OF SUPERVISORS 1977–81 FIELD AGENT OAKLAND COUNTY PLANNING COMMISSION 1981–83 MANAGER IROQUOIS HEIGHTS CITY PROSECUTORS OFFICE 1984 CURRENTLY ATTACHED CITY OF DETROIT NO TITLE OR OFFICE DUTIES UNSPECIFIED

  An address was listed in Detroit. I asked Barry if that was still current.

  “As of January when I updated the file. He doesn’t camp around as much as he used to. Why should he? He’s got a steady gig.”

  POLICE RECORD NONE

  “Not even a traffic ticket,” I said.

  “Writing him up would be like asking for permanent assignment to the war zone.”

  “So far he’s cleaner than me.”

  “Dresses better, too. Would you like to see this month’s American Express bill?”

  “Not unless he charges his ammunition.”

  “This file’s just for the suckers. Buckle up.”

  He entered a new code. The details of Royce Grayling’s exemplary public life dropped from the screen. The cursor darted to the upper left corner, gunned its motor twice, and towed out a new string of words.

  GRAYLING ROYCE A/K/A SUICIDE SAM

  I looked at Barry, who gave me his square grin.

  “I did the scutwork on this,” he said. “There’s no program for it at Egghead Software.”

  The cursor vamped. My pulse kept time with it, thumping in my stitches. After two seconds the file kicked in.

  CLEMENTS E EDWARD WAYNE COUNTY TREASURERS OFFICE SHOT TO DEATH VACATION HOME FORD LAKE 11/18/78 WC SHERIFFS OFFICE RULED HUNTING RELATED NO SUSPECT
S SEE FILE

  INGRAM ADELAID NO MIDDLE COMPTROLLER GILLIAM CONSTRUCTION COMPANY WIXOM MI REPORTED MISSING 2/25/82 CASE OPEN SEE FILE

  GALLOWAY IAN MICHAEL OAKLAND COUNTY PLANNING COMMISSIONER DECEASED FARMINGTON HILLS MI HOME 8/1/82 BROKEN VERTEBRAE SEVERED SPINAL CORD OC CORONER RULED DEATH BY MISADVENTURE SEE FILE

  “Those stairs are murder,” I said.

  “Split-level house,” said Barry. “Fell about six inches onto a carpet.”

  BOGARDUS GORDON WALLACE IROQUOIS HEIGHTS MI CITY COUNCILMAN SHOT TO DEATH IROQUOIS HEIGHTS 7/12/84 TWO BULLETS UPPER LEFT THORAX NO WEAPON ON PREMISES IMPLICATED PHOENIX BUILDING & REALTY KICKBACK CONSPIRACY OC CORONER RULED SUICIDE SEE FILE

  I said, “Somebody told me about that one.” Barry flicked another key, blanking out the screen. “It stank up the place even in the Heights, not the freshest-smelling six square miles this side of the sulphur works. That’s why Grayling left there after less than a year.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not lately. He’s been on his Sunday behavior since coming to the big city.”

  “Until now.”

  “Assuming it’s not just coincidence that people in delicate positions tend to drop off like moths wherever he lands, the killing’s only part of it. The smallest part. Whether by threats or just his own not-inconsiderable presence, he gets things done without leaving a paper trail for the muckrakers to follow. In any democratic government there’s always a place for the Graylings.”

  “What are you, a Communist?”

  “I’m an alcoholic. The world’s second largest minority.”

  “How did you pick up on him?”

  “I said he never leaves a paper trail. The body count is something else. This is all speculation based on the law of averages. He could sue me out of my Dutch leg just for showing you this file.”

  “What did he do in Nam besides get decorated?”

  “Sniper. Westmoreland hung a bronze star on him for picking off a hundred and eighteen Cong and NVA regulars over a thirty-six-hour period.”

  “What about the Purple Hearts?”

  “The first was nothing, a piece of shrapnel in the web of his left hand from an NVA mine that blew his company commander into Reese’s Pieces on the road at Ben Suc. That’s a maybe; it was raining hard and nobody was around to report what happened but Specialist First Class Grayling. The second one was a bullet in the back.”

  “Not unusual. I spent my whole tour looking for a skirmish line.”

  “I Corps wasn’t so sure. There was some evidence that it was fired by one of his fellow Rangers; but they’ll still be sorting out the fragging incidents from legitimate combat casualties when the next war has come and gone, so the hell with that. Anyway the slug banked off a tree or something and went in all out of shape, plowing up muscle tissue and ligaments. He was laid up in Saigon for six months.”

  “Any permanent damage?”

  “He’ll be a little slow turning to his left.”

  “Good to know.”

  He killed the monitor.

  “Don’t let him draw you into a firefight, Amos. He isn’t an ape with a shotgun and a comic accent. He’s a Washington-class closer. They never leave witnesses.”

  “He can be taken,” I said. “Neglecting to drop the gun at the Bogardus kill was Mickey Mouse. Either he slipped up or he was hot-dogging, telling God and everyone he didn’t have to bother making it look like suicide to get a verdict. Either way it’s a flaw in the wall.”

  “He’ll tip you over with one hand on his way to his next big hit.”

  I met his flat sad journalist’s eyes. “Just in case you’re right, don’t buy it when you hear I clocked myself.”

  “I’d never buy that. You hang on like a weed.” He sat back. “You’re right about one thing. Grayling was definitely thumbing his nose at the Iroquois Heights City Prosecutor’s office. Well, you’ve met Cecil Fish.”

  “Fish is a cut-rate corrupter, strictly Kmart. Bribes in the Heights barely pass minimum wage. No wonder Grayling took a powder.”

  “His pattern’s changing,” Barry said. “Not counting the Ingram woman, who disappeared somewhere between her house and the bus stop, all of the victims up through Bogardus died at home, in private. No eyewitnesses and very little chance of any. Okay, so maybe Allen Park’s another exception. Arsenault buys it at work, in a semiprivate garage where anyone might happen along. A little buzz now and then keeps you from going stale. But then Millender dies in an open craft on one of the busiest stretches of water in North America. If those are Grayling’s, he’s losing caution. Gone rogue.”

  “I said it was a flaw.”

  “That’s good for you if it means he’s forgotten how to cover his ass; bad for you if you’re counting on the standard inhibitions to protect you. He might shoot you at the airport or cut your heart out in Cadillac Square in the middle of the morning rush hour. Mad dogs don’t heel.”

  “It’s a thought.”

  “While you’re thinking it, here’s another one.”

  I waited. He’d pulled over his artificial leg by its harness and was tugging up his trousers to strap it on.

  “Right now, chances are he’s sitting in front of a computer somewhere reading about you.”

  It’s bothersome not knowing when was the last time you ate.

  I remembered vaguely eating a fried-egg sandwich on a bus stop bench, but that was as gone from my system as the precise details. Barry’s ham and cheese, which characteristically he had not offered to split with me, had reminded me how empty my stomach was; and with nothing there for my blood to work on it went straight to the gash in my temple. The hammering drowned out the big 455 under the Cutlass’s hood. I swung into the first driveway that promised food.

  It belonged to a bar and grill, a squat building with an electric sign on the roof and gum wrappers and crumpled cigarette packages growing in a strip of earth with a painted rock border along the path to the front door. I must have driven past the place a hundred times and never noticed it. It had just opened for the day—the Sunday blue laws were in effect—but there were already a half-dozen cars parked in the lot.

  Inside was a moist dark cave hollowed out of stucco. The atmosphere was a kind of mulch of sour mash, hot grease, and old nosebleeds. There were booths along the wall with napkin dispensers and laminated menus in clips, but no takers; the regulars, piles of collapsed protoplasm in clothes that made no statement, preferred the stools at the bar. I took one of the booths, inconveniencing the bartender, who made his way over finally to take my order. He was one of those numbers who took a size 6 hat, 32 long jacket, and fifty-inch trousers, shaped like a water balloon.

  “Would you have any aspirins?” I asked.

  “This ain’t no Rexall counter.”

  “My mistake.”

  I ate a burger with a thick slice of raw onion to kill the taste of last week’s lard, drank two Stroh’s to put the snap back into a plate of fries, and watched the lowlights of yesterday’s Tigers game on the TV mounted under the ceiling. A round table discussion followed onscreen, involving two ancient athletes, a sportscaster who combed his hair with Valvolene, and a print journalist with an advanced case of the rummy shakes. Ostensibly they were making predictions about the remainder of the season, but since the sound was off they might have been debating the works of Oscar Wilde. When at the end of ten minutes I found myself still watching their lips move, I laid down a couple of bills and headed for the door. One more case like this one and I’d have my own stool.

  “Hey!”

  I looked at the bartender. He threw me a small bottle.

  It was glass with a metal screw-off cap. There were two senile-looking aspirins inside. It must have been twenty years old.

  “Are they safe to take?”

  The bartender grinned. He had a cleft lip. “What do you care?”

  I went back to the table, placed another bill on top of the others, and left.

  The aspirins tasted like corn plaste
rs, but they did the trick. Maybe it was the food. The throbbing in my head dulled to a half-pleasant hum, I was ready for the next item on the agenda. I went home to snooze.

  Head injuries are counterproductive to detective work. They take the edge off that tickle at the base of the brain that lets you know the sky’s about to cave in.

  I felt it just as I entered the kitchen through the side door from the garage. My hand was still on the knob. I tore it back open. The hoarse shout came in the same instant.

  “Freeze or die!”

  Twenty-five

  I FROZE. As choices go it was a no-brainer.

  Officer Redburn of the Allen Park Police Department looked like a lethal infant behind the oily blue barrel of his 9mm Glock. He was all round eyes and Dennis the Menace cowlick blocking the doorway to the living room. Everything about him said he was scared to his socks.

  I couldn’t see any way to put a good spin on that combination.

  “Cool your jets, Duane. Can’t you see the man isn’t carrying?”

  I looked at Sergeant St. Thomas seated in the breakfast nook. He was wearing the same three-piece suit he’d had on at the scene of Lynn Arsenault’s murder. His silver-framed glasses glittered against his blue-black skin. A department-issue .38 Chief’s Special revolver lay on the table in front of him with the city seal on the grip. He wasn’t in any hurry to pick it up. He would go on not being in a hurry until I did something rash. Then I’d have a .38 slug in me before Redburn squeezed off his automatic. Some things you just know.

  There was a moment when nothing moved. I could hear the air in the room. Then the Glock came down.

  I relaxed my arms. “ ‘Freeze or die’?”

  “Duane has every episode of NYPD Blue on tape. He looks a little like a young Dennis Franz, don’t you think?”

  “That depends on whether he considers it a compliment.”

  “With me it was Dragnet. The one in black-and-white, not the other. Hats and cigarettes. How about you?”

  “M Squad.”

  The sergeant’s forehead wrinkled. “The one with the hippies?”

  “That was Mod Squad. This one had Lee Marvin.”

  “He drove that big black Ford with tailfins. I remember. You’re older than you look.”