True Detective

by Max Allan Collins

  We turned and looked over where, in the doorless doorway of the kitchen, Mary Ann, in a baby-blue bathrobe that covered her from neck to slippers, stood, arms folded, rather cross. Pouty.

  "I just wanted to say good night," she said.

  "Good night, darling," her father said.

  She came over and hugged him again, remembering, I guess, that it was me she was irritated with, not him; and she kissed him on the cheek and smiled at him, then glanced over at me and put the smile away and went over and got her suitcase and turned her back and padded out with it.

  I called out to her: "Good night, Mary Ann."

  "Good night," she said, like a child, her back to me. already through the doorway and halfway down the hall.

  John Beame studied me. like he might a difficult patient.

  "That's something she didn't inform me of," he said.

  "What's that, sir?"

  "That she's in love with you."

  "Well, uh…"

  "Are you in love with her?"

  "Sir, I…"

  "She's a wonderful girl. Difficult. Childish. Self-centered. But quite unique, and loving, in her way."

  "Yeah. Wonderful."

  "You do love her, don't you?"

  "I guess I do. Damned if I know why, if you'll excuse me for saying so, sir."

  "John." he said, smiling wryly. "I love her because she's my daughter. Nate. What's your excuse?"

  I laughed. "I just never met anybody like her before."

  "Yes. And she's attractive, isn't she?"

  "No argument there, sir… John."

  "Spitting image of her mother, rest her soul. More coffee?"

  "Please."

  He brought the pot over and filled my cup; his gloved hands seemed able to cope pretty well. I tried not to look at them.

  "Oh. these hands of mine function well enough, Nate," he said. "I can even give chiropractic adjustments with them, though I haven't practiced for years, in terms of hanging a shingle out. I was afraid, with some justification I might say, that my patients would be repulsed by my hands being disfigured. Of course I could've worn gloves. but even then- with only two fingers on my right hand and considerable pain in those early years- it didn't seem worth the trouble. My friend and mentor, B. J. Palmer, offered me a position teaching at his college, which evolved into my managing his radio station. WOC was the second licensed radio station in the United States, you know. At any rate, it's been, and continues to be, an interesting life. And certain of my friends still come to me privately, gratis, for chiropractic care. I have a room with an adjusting table upstairs."

  "Mary Ann said you injured your hands in an automobile accident."

  He looked into his cup of coffee; stared in. "Yes. Years ago. when she and Jimmy were very small."

  "They were in the accident, too?"

  He nodded. "I often took them on house calls. I had one out in the country, one evening, a farmer who'd twisted his back in a hayloft fall. A lot of my patients were rural I come from rural stock myself. It was my father's greatest disappointment that I didn't follow in his footsteps as a farmer, but I had a brother who made him happier, by staying in that field, if you will pardon a pun. But you asked about the accident. It was dark, and the road was narrow, unlit… a dirt road with deep ditches. Some drunken fool, driving without lights, ran into us, and… I was not entirely blameless. Like him, I was driving rather more fast than would seem in retrospect prudent… anxious to get my children home, wondering why I'd used such bad judgment in bringing them along on an evening call… but then, widower that I was and am, I had no one to stay with them, so I often took them along…"

  He stopped. Sipped the coffee. The cup in the thumb and forefinger of the gloved hand looked like an affectation, and added to the peculiarly formal tone of our conversation.

  "Mr. Beame. John, I was just curious- it's my nature as a detective, I guess. If this is something you'd rather not discuss…"

  "Nate, there's not much left to tell. The collision was head on; both cars ended in the ditch, and there was a fire. I burned my hands pulling my children from the wreckage; burned them worse pulling the drunken fool from his wreckage but he died anyway. His head had hit the windscreen with such force the glass cracked."

  "Mary Ann and Jimmy, were they injured?"

  "Minorly. Cuts. Scrapes. They needed considerable chiropractic care. They'd always been close, being twins, but with a boy and a girl, you might expect them to be less close than if they'd been of the same gender. But this experience- this brush with death, if you'll allow an old man his melodrama- brought them even closer together than before."

  "I see."

  "They were, if I recall correctly, seven years old at the time. I believe the experience may have also encouraged their flights of fancy. The world of make-believe was always a better place than the world of reality. for them."

  "That's true for all children."

  He nodded, sadly. "But most children grow out of it. Jimmy- and, as you can see, Mary Ann- never abandoned their romantic fancies. A boy reads Treasure Island and wants to be a pirate when he grows up; but then he grows up and he is an accountant or a lawyer or a teacher. A girl reads Alice in Wonderland and wants to dress up and chase mythical white rabbits down holes; but then she grows up and is wife and a mother to her own little girls and boys."

  "Sounds like you don't believe in Peter Pan."

  He smiled sadly again. "Unfortunately, it would seem, my children do."

  "Aren't you being a little unfair, sir? Your daughter is an actress, and that's a recognized profession, in which she seems to be doing rather well."

  -

  He shrugged. "With some help from me."

  "Let me tell you some facts of life about the big city. You can get strings pulled for you, to get into a job; you can have a relative with money or position buy or clout your way in for you. But once you're in. if you don't cut the mustard, you get cut, but fast. If Mary Ann wasn't doing a good job for those radio people, she'd've had her pretty- rear end fired by now, if you'll excuse the crudity."

  He folded his gloved hands, the fingers of his left hand resting over the knuckles of his right, where fingers had been. His smile was gentle. "I'll excuse it gladly, Nate. Because you're right. I suppose I have been unfair, where my children are concerned. Mary Ann is doing quite well. I only hope Jimmy is."

  "Tell me about him."

  "You have to understand something. During the years Jimmy was growing up, the Tri-Cities was a wild place… in the Chicago, gangster sense, that is. And it still is, to a degree. At any rate, the papers then were full of gunplay and sensationalism, as events admittedly warranted. A gangster named Looney trained his own son as a gunman, and when the son was shot down by rival gangsters, Looney ran on the front of the scandal sheet he published- which he used for purposes of extortion- a photograph of his dead son in his coffin. He accused the other, legitimate newspapers in town of hiring the murder."

  "Your son was a little boy when this was going on?"

  "Yes. And I would sit at this very table and, I must say, rant and rave about this deplorable situation; and my wide-eyed son would sit and take it all in, impressionable lad that he was. I would tell my son that this Looney gangster, by publishing his scandal sheet, was disgracing one of America's most honorable institutions: the press. That he was making a laughingstock of one of our greatest freedoms: freedom of the press."

  "And that's when Jimmy caught the newspaper bug?"

  "I suspect so. That, and the lurid stories that even our respectable papers were printing, because those things were indeed going on- bootlegging, wide-open gambling houses, houses of ill repute, riots in which innocent bystanders were slain, gangland slayings, all of it. It captured his imagination."

  "That seems normal enough."

  "Then, when he was older, I introduced him to Paul Traynor, a police reporter with the Democrat."

  "When was this?"

  "His high school days. Paul like
d Jimmy; endured the boy's questions, let him accompany him to trials.

  took him home and he and Jimmy would talk for hours. I admit to feeling jealous of Paul, a bit. But I saw nothing unhealthy about it. though Jimmy's fascination with gangsters- he often brought home Chicago papers, and kept a scrapbook of bloody clippings- disturbed me greatly. And Looney's gang had by this time been replaced by another, equally vicious bunch, some of whom are still around."

  "What about Paul Traynor? Is he still around?"

  "Oh yes. I can arrange for you to talk with him. if you like."

  "That might be helpful. Did your son live here with you while he was going to college?"

  "Yes. He attended Augustana. which is just over in Rock Island. I thought I had him convinced to switch to Palmer, when he left."

  "Rather unceremoniously, I take it."

  "I'm afraid so. My initial bitterness over his going came from Jimmy's manipulation of me. You see, for several years- since his last years in high school, in fact- we had quarreled on the subject of his future. But that last week he had changed his mind, he said. I know now he was only pretending to agree with me, to avoid conflict, to be able to slip away quietly. And, in fact, I had given him several hundred dollars, for his Palmer tuition. He was very convincing. Mary Ann is not the only person in this family with acting ability, it would seem."

  "I see. What were his personal habits, those last few years he lived here?"

  "He was out nights, often. We quarreled about that, as well, for what good it did. All the Sen Sen in the world could not disguise the fact that he had often been drinking, which he knew was anathema to me."

  "So for a while after he left. then, you felt, 'good riddance.'"

  "That's harsh, Nate. But I suppose it does sum up the way I felt, yes. But that was well over a year ago. I had thought surely he'd get in touch with us by now- perhaps not me, but his sister, as close as they were…"

  "She hasn't heard from him."

  "Nor have I, and I am concerned. Now I am concerned."

  "Well, I'm going to do my best to track him down. But it's a big country, and a young guy like him could be most anywhere and up to most anything."

  "I understand that. But I do appreciate your efforts, Nate, and I appreciate Mary Ann's concern for her brother's welfare."

  "I need to talk to some people. Besides Traynor, was anyone else close to Jimmy?"

  "There was a fellow named Hoffmann at the radio station, a boy in his early twenties who was an announcer and did a bit of sportscasting. But he's not with WOC any longer- he moved on with no forwarding address. He broke in our new boy before he left, however, and perhaps it would be worth talking to him- the new boy. I mean."

  "Would he have known Jimmy?"

  "No. Dutch has only been with us a few months. But he and Hoffmann were socially active, and Jimmy may have come up in conversation. He's worth talking to."

  "Anyone else?"

  "I can't think of anyone. Jimmy's high school and college chums have graduated and scattered to the four corners of the earth, for all I know. And outside of journalism, he wasn't very active and had few friends. Mary Ann was probably his best friend in that period, and I'm sure you've questioned her thoroughly about those days."

  "Yeah. Well, the two names you've given me are a start. This sportscaster, when could I meet him?"

  "Tomorrow morning. I'll put it in motion. And I'll arrange an appointment with Traynor in the late morning or early afternoon."

  "Good."

  "Let me show you where you'll be sleeping, then. It's Jimmy's room, upstairs."

  The house was as modern inside as out: pale plaster walls and wood floors, wood beam ceilings, a minimum of wall decoration. Only Beame's study, a large book-lined room with several comfortable-looking leather chairs and a matching couch, looked lived in. This I glimpsed as we walked down a hallway and around to the stairs. I took my overnight bag up with me.

  It was a corner room, not terribly large, with a double bed and little else; there were some shelves on two of the walls., but they were empty. Any traces of Jimmy's presence were missing from the room; this must have registered on my face, because John Beame picked up on it.

  "I'm not one for maintaining shrines. Nate." he said, with his sad smile. "I'm sure Mary Ann will be unhappy with me. for removing the model planes and pirate ships and the antique crossbow and the rest of Jimmy's paraphernalia."

  "Well, the way he took a powder, who can blame you for tossing the junk out."

  I'd used the word "junk" to test the old boy, and he passed: he flinched as I said it.

  "I didn't throw his things out, Nate," he said. "They're crated away in the basement. Except those damn scrapbooks of his. Those I burned"

  He touched his face, for a moment, with a gray-gloved hand; he wasn't as strong as he liked to think. Then he excused himself, saying he'd let me get settled and come back later, and I stripped down to my drawers and got into bed. I looked over toward the window, where the moonlight was coming in. though I couldn't see the moon itself.

  I thought about Mary Ann, in a room nearby: next door maybe. Part of me wanted to go looking for her: part of me wanted her to come looking for me.

  And part of me didn't want anything to do with her. not tonight, anyway. Not here. Not in her brother's room. His bed. That would've bothered me, though for the life of me I didn't know why.

  Thunder woke me.

  I sat up in bed; rain was at the windows, rattling them, pelting them. I checked my wristwatch on the small table by the bed: just after three. I tried to go back to sleep, but the insistent tattoo of rain, and the ground-shaking thundercracks. worked against me. I got up and went to a window and looked out. That nasty sky we'd driven here under had finally kept its promise, and I was glad I was inside and not driving across Illinois in a Chevy. Then, while I was still there at the window, the sky burst open, showering hailstones; it was like a dozen Dizzy Deans were up there hurling baseballs at the house. It made an incredible racket.

  "Nathan?"

  I looked back and Mary Ann, still in the baby-blue robe, arms folded to herself protectively, was rushing across the room to me. She hugged me. She was trembling.

  "Just a hailstorm, baby," I said.

  "Please. Get away from the window."

  Down on the lawn, the hailstones were gathering. Christ if they weren't the size of baseballs. One of them careened off the window, and I took Mary Ann's advice.

  We stood by the bed and I held her.

  "Let me get in under the covers with you." she said.

  She sounded like a kid; there was no ulterior motive here: she was really scared.

  "Sure." I said, and went over and shut the door.

  She curled up against me in bed, clinging to me. and. gradually, her shaking stopped, though the hailstones kept up for a good twenty minutes.

  "I'm sorry about today," she said; I could barely hear her over the hailstones.

  "We were both a little childish," I said.

  "I suppose maybe I am sort of a snob," she said.

  "Who isn't?"

  "I do love you, Nathan."

  "You do, huh?"

  "I do."

  "Why?"

  "I'm not sure. Do you know why you love me?"

  "Besides the physical? I'm not sure, either."

  "I feel safe with you, Nathan."

  "That's nice," I said, meaning it.

  "You're stronger than me. You see the world as it is."

  "In my trade, you see it any other way, you don't last long."

  "I guess I've always seen it through rose-colored glasses."

  "Well, at least you know that. That means you're more of a realist than you think."

  "Everybody who sees the world through rose-colored glasses is a realist. That's why they put the rose-colored glasses on."

  "Come on now, Mary Ann. You've had a nice life so far, haven't you? I mean, you don't exactly seem to've had it tough. Your father appeal's to be a terrifi
c guy."

  "He is. He's wonderful."

  "And you obviously got along well with your brother, or you wouldn't be going to all the trouble of hiring me to track him down."

  "Yes. Jimmy and I were very close- I- would crawl in bed with him sometimes, like this. Don't get me wrong. It wasn't like- like that. I suppose we played doctor and kissed and did the silly things kids will do growing up. But I wasn't in love with my brother, Nathan. We didn't do anything wrong."

  "I know."

  "I know you know, because you're the only man I've ever been with. And you know that's true."

  "I know."

  "But Jimmy and I… we banded together. Daddy is wonderful, but he can be- distant. He's sort of formal. It's the doctor side of him, I guess; or the professor side, maybe. I'm not sure, exactly. I grew up aware of not having a mother. I grew up aware of her having died giving birth to me. And Jimmy, I used to cry about it, at night, sometimes. Not often- don't get me wrong- I'm not neurotic or anything. The psychiatrist I go to is simply for understanding myself better- that's only healthy for an actress, don't you agree?"

  Sure.

  "Did my father tell you about the accident? When he burned his hands?"

  "Yes."

  "It was my fault. Did he tell you that?"

  "No…"

  "I saw the other car. I saw the other car coming at us. and I got kind of- hysterical, I guess, and I grabbed Daddy's arm, and I think- I've never said this out loud to anybody but Jimmy- I think that's why Daddy couldn't avoid the other car."

  "Mary Ann, have you ever talked to your father about this?"

  "No. Not really."

  "Look. The other car was driven by a drunk driver. Without any lights on, is what your father told me. Isn't that true?"

  "Yes," she admitted.

  "So if it was anybody's fault it was that guy's. And even if it had been in some way your fault, you were a little kid. You got scared, and so what? You should let 20 of this."

  "That's what my psychiatrist says."

  The hailstones were trailing off; the rain kept at it.

  "Well, he's right," I said.

  "I just wanted to tell you about it. I don't know why I wanted to. It's just something I wanted to share with you… if 'share' is the right word."