Kiss Them Goodbye

by Joseph Eastburn

  “Good God,” Rodney muttered.

  Fowler shone his light up at the body. He didn’t say anything.

  Gluckner was leaning forward in the air slightly, as if bowing flamboyantly, one arm out in front of him, the other up in the air. He was dressed in a tux jacket, bow tie, cummerbund, shoes, and nothing else. His throat had been cut and he had been disemboweled.

  From a corner of the building, they heard a whimper. Fowler walked over and he shone his torch down in the shadows; it fell on a form. Ballard was lying on his back, his head rocking back and forth. He was murmuring nonsense as if having a seizure. He was covered with dark red streaks. In his right hand, sticky with dried blood, was a long stiletto.

  43

  BY THE TIME twelve police cars had come roaring up the hill into the old station, Fowler was disgusted. Their revolving flashers sent beams of light out across the entire county, he thought, and their sirens erupting over the next few hours only announced their impotence.

  When the EMS team loaded Ballard into the back of the ambulance, Fowler had to remind one of the team to make sure the boy was tested immediately to see if he had been anesthetized. He showed the two green plastic caps he had found to the crew men, who nodded, correctly identifying them as covers for disposable needles.

  Fowler had managed to get his investigative work done before the police arrived. Rodney had given him a little time. Fowler had taken several photographs of the body, bloodstains, the walls, had found gloved prints on the ladder and on the doors of the old station lobby. Then he got one break: In the dust, among the bloodstained dance steps, he found traces of tar. His mind leapt back to the day he had stood on the roof of Ardsley.

  Of course, first murder. Start over.

  Before he left, Fowler waited for Sergeant Robby Cole to arrive on the scene. When Cole stepped out of the cruiser, the two men sized each other up, quietly, acknowledging each other with cold stares.

  Robby Cole was astounded to see Fowler back in town and didn’t exactly disguise his contempt. He stared at Fowler silently as the blond man told him everything he knew—respectfully handing Cole the needle covers—suggesting that he take the girl home and get out of his hair. He turned to leave.

  “That why you left Buffalo, Fowler?”

  Nick turned. “Pardon me?”

  “Soft on crime, huh?”

  Fowler just gazed at him, nothing to say, walking away. “Yeah, that’s me, old softie.”

  “You’re out of your league here, pussyfoot.”

  Fowler turned. “Don’t ever say that.”

  “You better disappear, mister.”

  Nick kept walking. “Watch me.”

  When he was getting into Rodney’s squad car, Nick saw Maureen McCauley getting out of her old blue Rambler in the dark. He froze when he saw her red mane in the revolving beams. He knew she saw him too, and he noticed her hesitate ever so slightly before she decided to walk past him.

  Fowler couldn’t help himself. He was angry as hell at her and he didn’t intend to hide it. She stopped in front of him and put her feet together. He stared at her and an electrical current seemed to jump along the side of his jaw.

  “Excuse me,” he said, and walked around her.

  She reached out and touched his arm. “I’m sorry. I never meant to get you—”

  “Like hell you didn’t,” he said, and gave her a wide berth, whipped open the car door, and got inside. Janine was sniffling. He started the car and patted her shoulder.

  “Don’t worry. Cary’s going to be all right.”

  He pulled the car out. The beams of his headlights caught Maureen’s back as she climbed up the platform steps in her heels. She turned abruptly and stared into his headlights. He kept backing away until the beams swept away from her out onto the road.

  Maureen showed her press pass to the duty officer and after asking a few questions, was handed a gas mask and led to the place of death. She took out her pocket camera and started taking flash pictures—mainly of the bloodstains on the floor. She glanced at the walls and shuddered. She took a half roll of film of the bloodstains.

  Several policemen stood glumly around in the stray lights, smoking or staring off, some talking, some looking at her—especially one—Robby Cole. He stared at her as his men worked the scene, watching every movement of her body. She didn’t pay any attention. She never spoke to Cole, only nodded at him before she left, and drove straight down to the darkroom at the paper.

  AS SOON AS Nick Fowler had rented a car that evening, he drove to the Thirsty Moose, sat down at the bar, and ordered a gin and tonic. He bummed a cigarette off the bartender and pulled on his drink. Somehow he had to figure out how the killer had managed to get Ballard to help in the killing—without the kid knowing it. Or had Ballard been unconscious?

  He ordered another gin and felt the frayed edges of his composure begin to rebuild themselves. He knew if he had another gin, this would reverse itself and his equanimity would plummet off the graph. He had to do something before that happened. He planned to have several tonight.

  He walked to the pay phone, and dialed the number for Ballard’s mother, Muriel. When she answered the phone, he could tell she was sloshed. She seemed casual about the news, even flirty until he mentioned her son would need a lawyer, and a good one. Then she became argumentative, as if it had been Fowler’s fault that Cary was involved. He explained he had been fired, and why, that he was still working on the case privately—for his own reasons—but for no money. That seemed to shut her up. She said she would think of something and rang off.

  He called Edwin R. Koenig, who he guessed would be handling the autopsy. The doctor told him he could view the body unofficially after the police left. He thanked him and said he would call in another hour.

  Fowler walked back to the bar, ordered another, and stared at the blue-and-red neon sign in the window. He watched the way the light in the tubes changed colors. He thought about the boy with the clown face in the car. Was he an accomplice? Was he Arthur Murray? He began to realize, when his faculties had been dulled enough, that the killer, whoever he or she was, would stop at nothing to achieve his ends. The end had already been stated as his own death. That’s when he ordered a double.

  AT THE TRI-COUNTY Hospital emergency room, Cary Ballard was on a gurney being pushed urgently through a corridor. At the side of his gurney was an armed policeman. The boy had been admitted an hour before in a state of shock. The tentacle of an IV was dangling into the vein of his left arm. When another patient was released, they had a room for him.

  Ballard was installed behind a curtain in a drab blue cubicle surrounded by equipment. The policeman assigned to bring him in asked the attending physician, a pleasant dark-haired woman in green scrubs, what she knew about his condition. She asked the cop to wait outside the curtain while she administered more tests.

  By the time Sergeant Cole and Marty Orloff arrived, the doctor emerged, telling both men that Cary Ballard was suffering from shock, had regained consciousness, but was now asleep.

  “Was he given a drug?” Sergeant Cole asked.

  The doctor looked down at a report she was holding. “There’s a toxicology screen, Officer, so we need to know what we’re expecting, or we have to test for every drug. And most of these drugs don’t have antagonists.”

  “Was he knocked out? That’s what we want to know.”

  “Well, the patient remembers being out, but doesn’t remember for how long. We tried to narrow it down.” She looked wearily down at her clipboard. “We ruled out volatile fluids. We tested him for benzodiazepines and barbiturates. We’re running tests for Thiopental—which knocks people out for twenty minutes—Ketamine—about fifteen minutes—but which persists as analgesia for two and half hours. There are many others.”

  “When will you know?”

  “If we say it’s an emergency, the lab could have it tonight.”

  “It is,” Cole said.

  “He received a severe blow to the chin,
but other than increased ocular movement and pulse due to emotional distress, his vital signs were normal.”

  Cole listened to this information quietly. “Doctor,” he said, “the fact I want you to keep in mind is: Cary Ballard was found holding the murder weapon at the scene, was a suspect prior to this incident, and is to be kept under armed police guard at all times.”

  The doctor nodded, looking down at their guns.

  EDWIN R. KOENIG admitted Fowler through the back door of the funeral parlor. They nodded to each other solemnly and proceeded in silence down the dim hallway into the examining room. Inside the room, the overhead lamp was out. Fowler didn’t look in the direction of the body.

  “This is very irregular,” Koenig said, pulling on a pair of yellowish elastic gloves in the near darkness.

  “I know,” Fowler said quietly. “But as far as I know, the man now in charge of this investigation is not aware of the intricacies of the case.”

  Edwin R. Koenig’s eyes seemed to be coming out of an eclipse. They flickered for an instant on the man standing across from him. He snapped the fluorescent light on above the examining table. The room was shocked into brilliance.

  When he peeled the sheet down, they both tried not to look at the eviscerated midsection. The doctor started talking immediately. “The police were concerned with urine, bile, and gastric contents. These were sent to the lab an hour ago. Emergency results should be available shortly.”

  “Good.”

  “First, he put up a fight. I scraped the undersurface of the nails when I saw that several were broken. It revealed a layer of skin shaved from the perpetrator. An abrasion caused by striking is visible here on the knuckle of the right hand.”

  “All right.”

  He laid the hand back down and moved up the body to the head. “The back of the head sustained blunt trauma. You can see the layers of skin piled up opposite the direction of force. Subdural hemorrhages were produced.” The elastic fingers roamed down to the neck. “Again, the victim’s throat was slashed with a sharp instrument. Again, an incised wound, not as deep as it is wide, as you can see. Notice the ligature mark just below the chin, the deep lividity of the face. He was stabbed, then hanged.”

  “Like the others.”

  “Again traces of alcohol on the lips, salivary activity along face, neck, and upper body.

  “I see.”

  “And notice the deep furrows along the wrists, underarms, waist—presumably from a thin-gauge wire.”

  “I found the body. They were piano wires.”

  Koenig’s eyes lifted and fastened on Fowler. “I beg your pardon.” His hands now floated below Gluckner’s waist as if nothing was unusual. “An eighteen-centimeter medial laceration, very deep, multiple transverse lacerations severing portions of liver and spleen. Large intestine is ripped, a long section of large intestine appears to be missing . . . he’s just . . . opened up—”

  He broke off and pulled the top of the sheet up over the area, took a breath. “Excuse me.”

  “Thank you,” Fowler said, turning away also.

  Slowly Dr. Koenig regained himself. He was visibly upset. “This is the worst I’ve experienced in thirty years. I can’t believe it.”

  “That’s why I came back, Doctor. I’ve got to stop it.”

  In a rare moment of feeling, Koenig studied Fowler with bloodshot eyes. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  The doctor turned back to the body. He lifted the lower part of the sheet up to the pubic bone, exposing the legs. “Again, there were vaginal secretions present on the victim’s genitals.”

  “Any foreign hairs?”

  “In the pubic area, yes.”

  Fowler sighed, an early hangover starting to throb. “Were the hairs forcibly removed?”

  “Some had roots, yes.”

  “Can we get a workup on the donor?”

  The phone in examining room rang. Koenig pulled off an elastic glove and snatched up the receiver. “Yes?” He listened, scribbling words on a pad by the phone. “Yes,” he said, writing furiously. “Are the hair samples ready? . . . I see . . . Then I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Thank you.”

  He hung up and turned to Fowler. “There were traces of Scopolamine present in the victim’s urine—a drug that acts on the nervous system. It was delivered by injection, which means it probably took about ten to fifteen minutes to act, then knocked him out for about a half hour. That’s the favorite of prostitutes in the city, I’m told, when they want to roll their johns.”

  “Okay.”

  “They won’t have the microscopic characteristics of the various hair samples until tomorrow, but they were able to determine the hairs came from the victim and two other donors.”

  “Two others?”

  “Yes. As before, we can’t be sure of the sex unless there are residues of drugs that point to gender.”

  “Right.”

  Koenig sighed heavily. “Where can I reach you tomorrow?”

  “At the Grotto, the motel out on the strip. I moved back in. Leave a message, I’ll call you back.”

  “Fine.”

  Fowler took a step away from the examining table.

  44

  WHEN FOWLER LEFT the funeral home, he wanted another drink and walked back over to the Thirsty Moose, his shoes scuffing the gravel in the parking lot. There was a single sulfurous streetlight burning down, sending long shadows as he walked. It occurred to him he had spent far too many hours in places like this.

  Just outside the bar’s front door, he heard voices and loud music wafting from under one of the windowsills. He stepped up to a pay phone cupped in a silver egg-shaped receptacle and shoved a quarter into the slot. It rang four times, then was picked up.

  Bill Rodney’s dry voice rasped into his ear. “Yeah, hello.”

  “Bill, it’s Nick, sorry to bother you at home.”

  “Not to worry. Just got in. What’s up?”

  “Anything on the rented car?”

  There was a hesitation on the line. “You’re going to love this.”

  “What?”

  “We found the car. It was parked behind the Taco Bell out on the strip. Stolen.”

  “Great.”

  “Nontraceable, of course. The men are dusting it for prints now. They’re supposed to call me if anything unusual shows.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Nick said under his breath.

  “The kid at the counter said a man, kind of husky, wearing a black cloak, drove up, bought a diet soda, and walked back across the strip into town.”

  “Any further description?”

  “They all said he wore heavy white makeup, was tall, had a deep voice.”

  “A clown face painted on?”

  “You know him?”

  “Sure, we go way back . . . Bill, this is the first time the killer has appeared without the scarf.”

  Rodney laughed on the other end. “Nick, go to bed, huh? It’s too late to worry yourself—just think, you have all day tomorrow.”

  “You’re a walking affirmation, know that?”

  “I’m just jealous of all the money you’re making.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Look, if you want to stay here, I think the wife could be talked into it.”

  “But she wouldn’t love it. No thanks. I appreciate the offer though.”

  “Talk at ya later.”

  “Bill, do you know the results of Ms. Coates’s tests?”

  “Good news and bad news. The tests linked her to the perfume, the lipstick; the blood test linked her to hairs on the body—but under severe interrogation, she proved not to crack. The kicker, of course, she was still in custody when Gluckner was slaughtered today.”

  “I had a feeling. Bill, can I call you for further developments?”

  “Of course you can.” There was a silence on the line. “But you know, you’re putting me in a spot.”

  “You mean, if Weathers found out you were passing me official information?”
/>   “Of course.”

  “Tell you what, Bill, I’ll follow all this up on my own.”

  “Cole is in first thing tomorrow. When he pulls out, if I’m alone, I’ll buzz you.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up.

  Fowler stepped toward the door of the bar, but as he pulled on the handle, something caught his eye in the reflection of the glass. He turned around.

  Standing at a distance, silhouetted by the streetlight at the end of the parking lot, a tall woman was staring at him. The figure stepped forward and a glimmer of light picked up red hair.

  She stood perfectly still. Her voice was quiet and—from that far away—merely a whisper. “You didn’t believe me,” he thought he heard. “I never wanted you to get fired.” The voice seemed disembodied, almost an echo.

  “It didn’t look that way,” he said quietly across the parking lot.

  “I went too far.” Her voice was getting closer, a murmur on the still air. “And I’m incensed that Mr. Sleaze, Robby Cole, has taken over. Serves me right.” She stepped forward and the face went into shadow again. The words seemed to be floating very faintly toward him.

  “Forget it. You did me a favor.”

  She was moving slowly. “How so?”

  “I always thought I could go private, now I’m forced to.”

  The high heels entered the light. It shot up the calves, across the green dress, onto her face. “Is that why you came back here?”

  He looked at her. “No. Why did you kick me around like that in the paper, Maureen?”

  The corners of her mouth squirmed. “I’m sorry. I felt stuck here. I was trying to hold on to the story, and I was mad that you wouldn’t work with me. I’m really sorry.”

  A rush of anger shot up the center of his chest. “You should be,” he said harshly. He shifted his weight. He was looking up at the streetlight when he realized she was five feet away now.