Kiss Them Goodbye

by Joseph Eastburn

  “What was that?”

  “A ball commemorating something or other. I had to take every master in hand and teach him to waltz. It was a nightmare only Diaghilev could have produced. You’ve never seen so many left feet.”

  “Do you still have any records on their progress?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you take notes?”

  “Are you kidding? Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “It was all in my head, Lieutenant.”

  “Well, can you remember anything about the dancing skills of any of the teachers, any of them?”

  “That was a long time ago, Mr. Fowler.”

  “Any names at all pop into your head?”

  “Not really.” Mr. Pullen was beginning to fidget.

  Fowler looked down at the dusty patterns in the Oriental rug. “Would any of it come back to you, if you actually saw them dance now?”

  “Well, of course. Dance is nothing more than expressing emotion through movement.”

  “So you would remember?”

  “Primitive men danced with joy for a good harvest,” he said, lifting his arms to the ceiling.

  “Mr. Pullen?”

  “They danced with pain at their initiations into manhood, they—”

  “Sir, excuse me, but we have our own initiation going on here. It’s more like a sacrifice. Three boys have been murdered by someone who is dancing with their bodies. I need your expertise, your help, but most of all, I need your full attention.”

  Mr. Pullen’s eyes widened as he sat up, visibly chastened, his posture becoming more erect by the second. “For your information, I can talk on many different topics and still know exactly what’s going on in this room.”

  Fowler nodded. “I’d expect nothing less.”

  Mr. Pullen’s eyes seemed to soften. “I don’t really care for the attitude you’re taking with me.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m up against the wall here.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “No, it isn’t. But if you would agree to help, then . . .” He made a imploring gesture.

  “I told you I would.”

  Fowler shifted forward in the chair. “Then listen carefully. If there was a dance at a hall here in town—I’m just saying if there was one—would you be willing to come and observe?”

  “As long as there is no mention in the paper and no publicity. I value my life. You may not care, but I do.”

  “I value every life, Mr. Pullen.” Fowler held the man’s eyes for an extra second. “Just observe, that’s all. No fanfare. Not a word about you in the paper. Just sit in the back and study the guests, think back to when you were teaching the faculty, and talk to me afterward. That’s all.”

  Mr. Pullen sighed heavily. “So is there such a dance?”

  “If you say yes, there will be.”

  The little man made a quick movement, stood up, and stared through the dusty curtains. “How I got involved in this, I will never know.”

  THE STATE POLICE range boss didn’t ask to see a badge. Nick still had his ID; he flashed it, working his jaw in pain as he glanced at the gun racks. He saw the Colt .38, Smith & Wesson 9 mm, and Beretta—all good, solid, duty pistols. He noticed a shelf of 45-caliber Colts reserved for tactical units.

  The man reached his hands up. “Try something different today, Lieutenant?” His fingers slid down onto a fat barrel. “I acquired this Bulldog .44 Special myself, equipped with speed loader. One hell of a mean pistol.”

  “Got this old .38 I had fixed up.” Nick pulled out his father’s gun.

  The range boss cocked his head. “I lost my faith in .38s a long time ago.”

  Nick was looking at him. The man pulled a .45 Colt off the shelf. “This will take a man down, no questions asked.”

  Fowler nodded, looking up at the arsenal of startling firepower. “No thanks, I’ll stick with this antique.”

  He walked out on the range, swinging a pair of earmuffs. It was late afternoon and he had the place to himself. He strode along the firing line, stopping at the last stall. He liked the feel of his father’s gun. He touched the blue-black metal casing, the long sighted nose, the thin grips. He had taken it to a shop to be reconditioned. The gunsmith had offered to vent the barrel to keep the muzzle down on recoil. A good deal on ammunition.

  The silhouette target was nine yards in front of him. Nick thought of the first time his father had taken him out for target practice with a .22, can on the fence, sunny afternoon just like this one. He loaded the chambers with shiny brass .38 bullets.

  He leaned into a bent stance, left leg slightly forward, arms straight out in front of him, a two-handed grip on the revolver. He squeezed off six rounds. Five in the X ring. Not bad.

  He reloaded, tried drawing fast from the old holster, missed the target once altogether. He kept reloading, faster, squatting, moving, drawing, and shooting. After a while his pumping motion and his aim became more fluid.

  The range boss watched out of his Plexiglas booth at the man working so hard. He was puzzled. After a while he yawned when the rounds kept popping the inner circle.

  48

  UP INTO THE chamber. Switch on the light bulb, swinging, light splashed on yearbooks, light then dark, pennants, bulb swaying back and forth, pictures of boys flickering, swatches of hair, shine then dull, curled photographs, light then dark, name tags pinned on dank wooden walls, still squirming like live butterflies—the wind from below—close the trapdoor. Stop the fucking bulb—reach up. There.

  Have to apply dressing to the wound, not healing, pull away gauze, mute the scream, my mouth open, a silent howl, now chills, cold in here. But, quiet. Just the wind. My breathing. No adults.

  In the skin, a graze, furrow in the flesh where the bullet went by, bleeding for a night and a day, starting again—this is too good for you, Lieutenant. You get the end of a razor. You shouldn’t have raped her. Cut off your genitals and hang them on the clothesline. Let you bleed into a pit of rats, let them crawl inside you, munch your innards, while you’re still alive—how would that be?

  Dab the blood. Now pressure. Apply the salve. No voices. No rhythms. Just look at my work. There they are. Souvenirs from life. Keepsakes from a time before screams, changes. My change. Inviolate, perfect, out of fire, bones and blood, out of pain, and lovely terror.

  One more now. Just one sacrifice—then deal with them. By then my change complete, my new form shaped from psychic flaws, lead into gold, a perfect childhood, flawless revenge.

  All sweetness and light.

  49

  THE NEXT MORNING Ballard was standing before a magistrate in Reliance, the county seat, with Michael Lichtman standing next to him. The short lawyer was twitching. He moved his briefcase dramatically from one hand to another, sighing, scrutinizing the man behind the gavel with a petulant expression on his face.

  All Ballard could think about was the cold cell he had spent those five hours in: the nauseating yellow walls and bars, a bed with broken springs, the one square window, barred. His mother had arrived to bail him out at two in the morning. They had stayed in a motel under police surveillance. Cary was in a daze, his neck still aching from his fitful sleep. He stared over the massive bench at the frizzy gray eyebrows of the magistrate. He watched as if mesmerized by the vaporous blotches of hair that seemed to float over the small eyes of the balding middle-aged man in the black gown.

  The magistrate was poring over the request from police authorities for Ballard’s detention to the state juvenile center until his trial. On Cary’s other side, the prosecutor for the county, a tall gaunt man of fifty in a dark brown suit, was standing in silence, looking intently at the magistrate. He had just handed the man behind the bench an “information” naming the boy as the prime suspect in all three killings, stating the times and places of the crimes, aspects of evidence, as well as the nature of the charge: first-degree murder. After what seemed like an eternity, the magistrate raised his eyes and nodded to
the attorneys that the hearing could begin.

  Fowler sat beyond the rail that surrounded the bench, leaning forward, listening to the hushed tones of the lawyers in front of the magistrate. Next to him was Mrs. Muriel Ballard. On the other side of the aisle, sitting grim-faced, Sergeant Robby Cole.

  Muriel whispered to Fowler that she had borrowed her aunt’s life savings to post bail for her son. Fowler nodded sympathetically. He was straining to hear the voice of the prosecuting attorney making his opening statement. After a pause, the magistrate’s bushy eyebrows seemed to hover over the other attorney’s head.

  Michael Lichtman spoke in a slightly tremulous tenor. “The defense would like to request a waiver of the preliminary hearing, due to a lack of direct evidence.”

  “Denied,” the magistrate said quickly. “We have exhibits found in the defendant’s possession, affidavits from faculty and students alike swearing that the defendant was enemies with all three victims.”

  “The police took sworn statements from everybody but their mothers, Your Honor. That doesn’t make them true.”

  “Watch your tone, Mr. Lichtman.”

  Lichtman stared upward, impervious as the magistrate’s voice continued. “More important, Counselor, we will have depositions by an expert witness, a psychiatrist.”

  “You mean Nathan Clarence, the Doctor Death of Ravenstown?”

  The magistrate was slightly taken aback. “We have every reason to believe the defendant’s doctor could provide testimony as to the boy’s mental capacity to perform or abstain from certain acts.”

  “Has the doctor testified in closed session yet?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Your Honor, first of all, the defendant is a child. The prosecution should not prefer a charge of murder in the first degree against a minor.”

  “I’m aware of that, Counsel, but the heinous nature of these crimes forced me to—”

  “Has to be manslaughter, Your Honor, or it’s a mistrial.”

  “I’ll take your request under advisement, Mr. Lichtman.”

  “With all respect, Your Honor—”

  “We have a statement by a witness who saw the accused trying to conceal an article of clothing belonging to the latest victim. The file of evidence against your client is exhaustive.”

  “Your Honor, the defense also asserts there are extenuating circumstances that may point to my client being unfairly questioned. We suggest that this preceding amounts to a mistrial.”

  “In a multiple-murder case?” the magistrate said, opening his eyes in amazement as he stared at Lichtman. “Where did you take your law degree, young man?”

  “In the great state of New York, Your Honor, which allows that a defendant may secure his release from custody, especially if the allegations are false.”

  “You have to prove that, Mr. Lichtman.”

  “I can also prove that Cary Ballard was not read his rights before he was interrogated by the police.”

  The magistrate shook his head as if assailed by a bothersome fly. He gazed out over the small courtroom in Sergeant Cole’s direction and raised his voice. “Did you tell the boy he had the right to remain silent, Sergeant?”

  “Yes.”

  Lichtman turned and stared at Sergeant Cole then back at the magistrate. “My client has no recollection of this, Your Honor, and furthermore he did not sign a rights waiver before being interrogated.”

  The magistrate sighed wearily and looked over his glasses at the dark-haired policeman. “Robby, did the boy sign a waiver?”

  “He was not in custody, Your Honor. I spoke to him in the hospital. He was not interrogated.”

  Lichtman was up on his heels. “He was for all intents and purposes under police control, Your Honor. And he was denied counsel. I know, because I was forcibly taken from his side in the emergency room.”

  The magistrate sighed, looking over at Sergeant Cole. “Robby, you’re familiar with the laws. I suggest in the future that you allow counsel to be present.” He looked slowly at Lichtman. “No matter how difficult he is.”

  Lichtman stared at the magistrate. “Miranda v. Arizona. Do I have to quote cases? I’ve never seen such a dog and pony show.”

  “I’ll hold you in contempt if you don’t watch your mouth, Mr. Lichtman. The boy was not in custody when he was questioned. The arresting officer has said so.”

  Michael Lichtman was ready for takeoff. He pulled his blue suit down. It was riding up his heat-tempered limbs. “Your Honor, may I remind you, if there is any intent to use what the boy said against him in a court of law, he must be advised of his rights before questioning—I don’t care if he’s in the Dairy Queen.”

  The magistrate’s eyebrows were getting singed. “Don’t lecture me on the laws. If counsel can retrace a few simple steps, he will recall: The reason the boy was detained in the first place was because he was seen burying incriminating evidence—that was after he was interviewed by the police.”

  “Now we’re calling it an interview?”

  “I have no choice but to see the defendant bound over for detention in the juvenile center until his trial, Mr. Lichtman. And the charge of murder is too serious to allow release at this time.”

  A silence fell across the room as Muriel Ballard inhaled, almost gasping, from the front row. A different silence entered Cary’s insides, as if he was no longer standing in the musty courtroom. His eyes glazed over. In his mind, he was already behind bars.

  AFTER THE HEARING, Fowler stood outside the county courthouse, squinting into the sun next to Muriel Ballard, who put on her sunglasses and stood in silence.

  He turned to her after a long pause. “You know, something isn’t right here. I remember when I studied Cary’s school file, there was an abnormal interest—an obsession really—in the details of his past, his father’s death, his psychological problems, his behavior.”

  “Really? How strange. They never said anything to me.”

  “Almost as if that information was poised, waiting to be used against him—which now it has been.”

  “Can you check on that?”

  “Yes I can, but, Mrs. Ballard, I’d like to ask you for some information of a . . . personal nature.”

  “All right.”

  Fowler worked his jaw uneasily, as he took his hands out of both pockets and rubbed his face. “I’d like you to go home and think back over your life. Then make a list of every man you ever dated during Cary’s childhood.”

  Muriel turned suddenly around and she looked at him aghast. “Are you crazy?”

  “No.”

  “That’s none of your or anyone’s business.” She stood away from him on the steps, bristling, caught in a moment of indecision, not knowing whether to stay or go.

  Fowler put his hands back in his pockets and walked past her down the steps, stopped, then turned back to look up at her. There was an uncharacteristic emotion in his voice. “Someone is trying to frame your son, in case you’re interested, and I have to know everyone he’s come in contact with—even when he was a child.”

  “I have never in my life dealt with people like you. What do you want from me?”

  “Mrs. Ballard, I’m asking nothing more from you than—what someone is trying to take from your son. His soul.”

  Muriel stared at him, her mouth closing resentfully as she turned and strode across the grass toward her car.

  Fowler watched her, then rubbed his neck, feeling cramped from sitting in court so long. He decided to stretch his legs. He walked down the sidewalk in front of the courthouse, letting his mind roll.

  Fowler saw a blue newspaper machine and wondered if the “dance story” was out yet. He slipped in two coins and lifted the glass cover, pulling out the paper. In the social pages there was a two-column article about a dance being held in town at the Rotary Club auditorium, to which the community was invited. At the bottom of the page, a tentative guest list was announced; it included noted dance teachers and ballroom experts from New York City. Near
the bottom of the list it said “former Lieutenant Nick Fowler.”

  Fowler nervously wiped the back of his neck as he read the small type. On the page facing the announcement, he saw that Maureen had managed to interview prominent figures from the town on their reaction to the idea. Most of them, it seemed, had not followed the dance evidence on the case and therefore were not in the least shocked or even mildly disturbed by the idea. The mayor said it was just the kind of thing to “lift the town’s spirits.”

  Fowler was uneasy but understood this as a possible spiderweb in the making. If only the killer would come. Certainly Arthur Murray had proved himself to be an avid reader of Maureen’s columns.

  Nick stepped up to a pay phone and called the Rotary Club. He was told that tickets were selling out. He hung up and was about to put the paper away when he noticed a small headline and an article in the corner of the facing page. It said HEADMASTER OF RAVENHILL RUSHED TO EMERGENCY ROOM FOR NERVOUS EXHAUSTION.

  Nick thought about his father’s lost month in the hospital. At this instant, a flash hit him: He was sitting on his dad’s lap in a police station squad room, no more than ten years old, looking up at the man’s face. He remembered the muscle along his jawbone working in and out. Out of a clear blue he said, “Why did you become a policeman, Dad?” A couple of officers standing around overheard, laughed, said something about taking bribes, not having to wait at traffic lights, like that. Nick recalled a serious expression coming over his father’s face. He took the boy’s hand, looked down at him, and said, “Avenge evil, son. That’s the real reason.” This of course brought an uproarious reaction from the men. His father was slapped on the shoulder, jabbed a few times; finally he looked embarrassed and smiled. Nick shook off the memory. He knew his father was by no means perfect, but he also knew the man was utterly sincere, had meant every word, and had put himself in the line of fire to prove it. Nick dialed the van, feeling his father’s gun against his ribs.

  Bill Rodney’s voice was thick with smoke on the other end.