Kiss Them Goodbye

by Joseph Eastburn

  “Long enough for me to pour you some hot tea, give you some medication if I have to, and call Mr. Willers, who drives me over the mountain. He can stop by Brookside on the way out. He’ll be over when the canteen closes.”

  Ballard’s eyes landed on the clock face. “That’s three hours from now.”

  “Well, if you want to take those darn books and have me walk you next door to the library to study, that’s one thing. But I can’t let you walk home alone.”

  Ballard already knew she had made up her mind. He shrugged and mumbled something about the library. He heard Ms. Ross put the tea kettle on.

  Fowler was on the phone with Orin, the handwriting examiner. “What?” he said, adjusting himself into the cushion of the chair in his motel room.

  Again there was a long silence on the other end. Papers shuffling, labored breaths as if Orin was craning his neck to pick something off the floor that would verify what he was saying. Then the gruff voice. “I got nothin’ with the standards you give me.”

  “So then the killer wasn’t tracing the kid’s writing?”

  “No. Intentional disguise, yes—but these two letters in no way resemble the standards of . . . what’s his face?”

  Fowler sighed impatiently. “Cary Ballard.”

  “Right, or the other one you gave me—from the kid’s folder. I go back to my original theory.”

  “Which was?”

  “Nondominant hand.”

  Fowler pulled a sheet of stationery out of the desk, picked up a pen in his left hand. “Why do you say that, Orin?”

  “Because in the killer’s first letter, some of the words, okay, I’m lookin’ at . . . the first sentence here: ‘How did you know I was dancing?’ The o’s are formed by draggin’ the pen counterclockwise, the way a right-handed person would. By the end of the letter, in the postscript, the o in ‘another enemy,’ the pen has now been dragged clockwise the way a lefty would.”

  “How do you explain that?” Fowler was writing words with his left hand, studying the motion of the pen.

  “Because whoever wrote this letter started to adjust and began naturally forming letters in a new way. And all through the second letter—there’s an exception here and there—but, hey, for the most part, the pen was dragged clockwise.”

  Nick was still writing. “Isn’t there a therapy that utilizes writing with the nondominant hand?”

  “Yeah, some shit about . . . it puts you back into a child’s state of mind or whatever, I don’t know.”

  Fowler was watching his letters forming. “That’s it. You start having primitive feelings and—” He suddenly dropped the pen from his left hand. He sat up in his chair. “Just like in the dance,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “The hands were reversed when he danced with his victims—they were leading.”

  “That fits.”

  Fowler was silent now. “Thanks, Orin,” he said slowly. “You may have just given me a key.” He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. This was no coincidence. The killer had done two vitally important tasks with his hands reversed. Why?

  The phone rang. He grabbed at the receiver, knocking it off the cradle. He took a breath to calm himself and picked up the receiver again. “Hello?”

  It was Bill Rodney’s voice. “Excited, Lieutenant?”

  Fowler laughed nervously. “Yeah, a little anxious. What have you got, Bill?”

  “I called the antique clothing store.”

  “Right.”

  “They sold another full tux, cummerbund, garters, bow tie, and all, just yesterday.”

  “Any description?”

  “No one can remember. One clerk thought it was a tall woman.”

  “Did you get the size?”

  Rodney was heard paging through his notes. “Size forty-four long. That’s the thing, though, Nick. How many students in the school are that big?”

  “Check the football players,” Fowler said, then felt a cool tingling sensation running up and down his back. He had just remembered who else’s size it was: his own.

  31

  NICK FOWLER STOOD in the early twilight outside Madison Hall. He was waiting for Dr. Clarence to come out of his last class.

  After the students filed by, the main glass door opened. The doctor’s close-shaved head appeared in the opening, the pink-framed glasses—his signature—Fowler thought, reflected the streetlamps, glaring at him like two computer screens. The doctor stopped short on the sidewalk. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “I have to speak to you.”

  “You’ll have to make an appointment.”

  “I just need a minute.”

  Dr. Clarence seemed to stiffen. “Well, what is it?”

  “It’s about Cary Ballard.”

  “Yes, yes—what do you want?”

  Fowler put his hands in his pockets. “You said once he hallucinates. I asked you before what he sees, and you refused to tell me. I’m asking again.”

  “Well, again, I have to tell you—that is confidential. I cannot reveal the content of a patient’s sessions.”

  “All right, don’t reveal content, just answer yes or no.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Fowler leaned against a stone wall. “Has he ever seen a masked figure?”

  “A what?”

  “A man or woman dressed in a dark cape and hat, a scarf over the face.”

  Dr. Clarence stared at Fowler. “No.”

  “I see.”

  “Will that be all, Lieutenant?”

  Fowler looked distressed. He loosened his tie, his brow wrinkled. “Doctor, I’m at a loss here.”

  There was a flicker of a smile across Dr. Clarence’s face. “Come come, Mr. Fowler,” he said. “You don’t expect me to buy that, do you?”

  “What do you think of the killer?”

  Fowler noticed a tiny light of interest glinting in the doctor’s eyes. “He’s violent.”

  Fowler stepped forward. “Why?”

  Dr. Clarence seemed impatient. “Look, if you don’t have any real questions, I’m going to have to ask you to make an appointment.”

  “Do you think Cary Ballard had anything to do with these crimes?”

  The doctor shifted his weight. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Clarence stared at the lieutenant with surprise. “How so?”

  “Well, the evidence against him is overwhelming,” Fowler said sadly. “The first victim was hanged just outside his room, his own tie wrapped around the boy’s neck. Now, with the second killing, we found a knee impression in the dirt at the scene; later we found Ballard’s trousers with the same soil encrusted on the knees.”

  “I wouldn’t say that’s conclusive, would you?”

  “No, that’s why I’m looking for some indicator that Ballard might be violent. Who would know better than you?”

  Clarence seemed taken aback. He cleared his throat. “It’s a very complex topic, Lieutenant. Researchers have been looking for biological factors in the etiology of delinquent behavior for years.”

  “Biological factors, how do you mean?”

  “Perinatal difficulties, physical trauma. When Ballard was born, for instance, he was dropped on his head in the hospital.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  Fowler leaned forward again. “You dealt with this fairly regularly before, didn’t you?”

  “Before?”

  “Before you were let go from the psychiatric wing, Creedmore Children’s Hospital, wasn’t it?”

  Dr. Clarence’s complexion slowly began to turn shades in lapse photography, the hues of his skin flushing. He swallowed. “Yes, why?”

  “Routine background checks are part of law enforcement, Doctor.”

  “That’s invasion of privacy.”

  “Why were you let go, Doctor?”

  “That is none of your business.” The color had drained from his face now. He seemed pale and ti
red in the evening light.

  “A source on the hospital staff said you were inappropriately associated with a patient.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “An underage patient.”

  “That is an outrageous accusation.”

  “It makes you a prime suspect in this case.”

  “How dare you take hearsay as fact?”

  “I’m just telling you what we were told.”

  “I didn’t let you stop me on campus a second time so I could be accused and insulted.”

  Fowler stared quietly at the doctor. “Why did you let me stop you?”

  “To answer your infernal questions about the Ballard boy, but now I won’t discuss it at all.”

  “Except in court?”

  “What?”

  “We discovered a number of court records carrying your testimony. Should there be a case, would you testify that the boy has a temper, for instance, is violent enough to—”

  “He has an explosive disorder, for your information.”

  “What is that?”

  “A violent temper one minute and—look—”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “With an sleep electroencephalogram—for your information.” He waved his palms in a flat line. “But I’m not discussing this with you of all people.”

  “You’re going to predict dangerousness?”

  Dr. Clarence made an audible gasp. “I think we’ve reached our final impasse here.” He walked around Fowler.

  Fowler followed him. “So, without giving the boy any more than the standard intelligence tests, after seeing him for about a month, you’re going to predict he is a criminal. What’s your agenda here?”

  Clarence stopped on the walk and turned, glaring at him. “That’s it. This conversation is over!”

  His raised voice turned a number of faculty heads on the porch of Booth Hall. Some students walking by stopped, staring.

  “I hope that information about you doesn’t get out, Doctor; might be embarrassing.”

  The doctor lurched down the walk. “Good night, Mr. Fowler!” He broke into a run.

  THE DARK EYES watched carefully from behind the adjoining building’s shrubbery. The figure caught the open edge of a dark cloak on a shrub, cursed, and rushed soundlessly along the walk to crouch between two automobiles. It watched the man pulling away in a black squad car, his headlights fanning across the façades of the dorms.

  The figure slipped behind the wheel of a green compact, started the engine, and rolled silently down the street. The gloves seemed to peel away from the rubberized steering wheel cover with each turn of the road. A slight sticking sound in the empty car. Nothing else, no breathing, as if the figure had suspended the intake of air—all motor activity directed now through the eyes—vigilant, alert. The same eyes now saw the silhouette of a hand in the squad car ahead reach up to adjust the rearview mirror.

  Fowler saw the car behind him turn off when he drove out the main gate. He wondered about it.

  32

  AT THE FRONT desk of the library, Ms. Leach flipped her gray hair up. Her battered face—tortured at first by a fierce intelligence, then by too many library cards demanding her attention—had seen the Ballard boy enter the library and slouch to a table. Instinctively she scratched one of the giant stains under her armpits and went back to her book.

  Ballard opened his loose-leaf notebook and began reading from the section labeled “English.” He wondered if studying would help clear his head. Actually he felt numb. He watched his hands turn pages as if from a great distance. The print on the pages seemed microscopic—all he could see were indentations for the paragraphs.

  A grating noise from a leather chair came from the other side of the room. Ballard looked up. He saw a wide neck vault out of the chair. The back was muscular, the triceps quivered as the hands pulled some heavy trousers up and tucked in a white dress shirt. The skin on his arms and neck were tanned. Roy Gluckner turned around.

  His bull neck protruded from his collar. He squinted at Ballard with a wide smile spreading across his face. There was a space between his two front teeth that seemed to grow larger as he smiled.

  “I heard you fainted in somebody’s office.” He laughed.

  “Yeah,” Ballard said coldly. Ms. Leach glanced up from the front desk. Ballard just looked down at his notebook. He heard Gluckner’s shoes squeal on the polished wood floor—they seemed like little animals stalking his study table.

  Ballard kept looking down, remembering in an instant the first time he had met Gluckner, a postgrad student from Hawaii, a 235-pound fullback who had scored three touchdowns in the fourth game of the season—whose neck was too big to button the top button of his shirt, so even the headmaster never asked him to pull his tie up.

  Ballard saw a pair of brown loafers step around the table and plant themselves next to his chair. He looked up. Gluckner leaned on the table, barely able to repress his glee.

  “I thought only girls fainted, Ballard.” The boy did not respond. “And all this time, I’ve been hearing you’re such a ladies’ man.”

  Ballard felt his breath quicken as he smiled back at Gluckner whose face, he noted, though handsome, bore some resemblance to a bulldog’s. “Well, are you or aren’t you, Ballard?” he said. “You’re not the mover they say you are, are you?” he whispered viciously, bringing his jowls down toward Ballard’s face. “You’re scared, aren’t you? Just like a girl.”

  Ballard felt sweat break out on his forehead. His stomach felt hollow. “Leave me alone, Gluckner.”

  Gluckner stood bolt upright in a mock imitation of an insulted female. “Oh my my!”

  “Shhh,” whispered the librarian.

  Ballard looked back down at his book. “I’ve got no quarrel with you, Gluckner. Just go away.”

  “What if I won’t?” Gluckner said, taunting, smiling casually down.

  The boy kept staring down at his notebook, but the words blurred before him. “I’m trying to study.”

  “Poor little Ballard, now he’s all upset,” said Gluckner as he abruptly ran his hand from the back of Ballard’s head forward so his hair fell down in his face.

  Ballard stared up at him, pushing his hair back. “Where’s your leash?” he said quietly.

  Gluckner stared down at him. “What did you say?”

  Ballard noticed himself standing to face Gluckner for some reason he couldn’t explain. “I didn’t know they let you out of your cage at night,” he said, surprising himself, as he watched the words grab and take hold of Gluckner’s jowls.

  “Better watch your mouth, boy,” Gluckner said, his neck growing in size.

  “Oh, now I’m a boy. Maybe you don’t know the difference.”

  “Step outside and I’ll show you the difference, punk.”

  “Sorry, I’m busy.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said as he reached over with one fist, grabbed Ballard by the collar, and hoisted him up over the top of the table, which dragged against the wood floor.

  Ms. Leach now moved around the front desk, “Here, here, now! What’s going on?” Gluckner released Ballard’s shirt and pretended nothing was happening as Ms. Leach rushed across the buffed wood toward the study table. “If you boys wish to roughhouse,” she said, “go outside.”

  “We were just leaving,” Gluckner said calmly.

  “He’s leaving,” Ballard said.

  Ms. Leach uncrossed her arms and her underarms were now unveiled as her weathered face panned from one boy to the other.

  Gluckner snorted and stared down at Ballard with contempt. “Can’t always hide behind a woman’s skirt, Ballard.”

  “I’m not,” Ballard said, surprised by his own bravado.

  “Especially Janine’s.”

  Ballard suddenly saw Gluckner’s face fall away, moving into the distance, past the front desk of the library, the infirmary, past the stone arch and the canteen, down the hill toward the lake, through a peeling wrought-iron fence, and into the g
raveyard. He remembered the day he first saw her. He felt the color disappear from his face. He looked up at Gluckner, who was still smiling down at him, pulling his sports jacket over his bulky chest.

  “She told me about you, Ballard.”

  “She did not.”

  Gluckner laughed. “She told me all about you, everything.”

  “Liar,” said Ballard. Suddenly he struck blindly at Gluckner, who ducked, then laughed again, pleased that he had hit a nerve.

  “Ohhh, look out,” he said derisively.

  Ms. Leach stood between the two boys, her outstretched hands repelling them not by sheer strength alone. “Please, please, this is not a gymnasium—go outside!”

  Gluckner dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ll tell you what she said some time, okay?” With that he clamped his fingers over his nose, glanced at Ms. Leach, broke into a high-pitched laugh, and tip-toed in mock fear, all atremble, through the door.

  33

  BY THE TIME Ballard had put on his jacket, gathered his books under his arms, and stepped out of the library, Gluckner was already striding under the arch. Ballard followed him at a safe distance. He didn’t know what was giving him the courage.

  Marty Orloff, the little cop who still had Ballard under surveillance, glanced up from his magazine when Ballard went by him down the steps in front of the library. The boy was just disappearing around the corner of Booth Hall, heading under the stone arch. He stood up and started walking.

  Ballard watched Gluckner disappear over the crest of the hill in front of the school. He stood at the wrought-iron fence by Ardsley, his eyes following the blacktop drive that dropped at a steep grade. Halfway down, it split into a fork. Going to the right meant passing through the main fence, out of the entrance of the school. Going to the left led to South End, a small student house, then the graveyard, the lake, and a steep incline down on to the main street of Ravenstown.

  Ballard observed Gluckner’s cumbersome frame as it stopped in the middle of the road, looking back at the school. He headed to the left. Ballard stood in the shelter of the row of oaks that lined the drive as it descended down the hill. He kept his eyes on Gluckner’s back, seeing the lines of his navy blazer grow indistinct. He mused what would happen if he followed him all the way into town.