Head Case

by Michael Wiley

  Vargas should have looked more terrified. Mostly he looked angry. He reached – slowly, as if he’d done this before – into his pocket and removed a set of keys, which he put on the table.

  Rodman said, ‘What were you doing with Scott Jacobson last night? Did it include shooting at a man named Alex Kovacic?’

  ‘Screw you,’ Vargas said.

  Rodman slipped the snub-nose Colt from his pocket. He set the barrel next to Marty’s on Vargas’s skull.

  ‘Why not?’ Kelson said. He pressed the KelTec against Vargas’s head too. ‘What’ll we find in your car and house?’ he said. ‘What if we tear this place apart?’

  ‘See,’ Rodman said, ‘we’re pretty sure Scott is causing a lot of damage, hurting a lot of people. And last night, you were his sidekick. You were with him when someone shot up an alley.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Vargas was calm as calm.

  Then a door from a storeroom behind the bar swung open, and Frida came in, carrying a twelve pack of Dos Equis. She wore little white leather boots, a white miniskirt, and a fuzzy white top that exposed her belly. She stopped sharp at the sight of the men. She stared at Kelson.

  ‘Sam?’

  Rodman said, ‘It isn’t quite what it looks like.’

  Marty said, ‘It’s exactly what it fucking looks like.’

  ‘I wish it weren’t,’ Kelson said, ‘and sorry about last night.’

  ‘Keep your eyes on the prize,’ Rodman said to him.

  ‘I wanted to be with you,’ Kelson told her.

  ‘Jeffrey?’ Frida said to Vargas.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Vargas said. ‘Everything’s under control – you get out of here now.’

  But she set the twelve pack on the bar and stared hard at Kelson.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘You didn’t show up when you said you would,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh, no, the girl’s high maintenance,’ Marty said. ‘Take it from me – never ignore her. You should hear Janet when I fuck up.’

  ‘Guys,’ Rodman said.

  ‘Go on, Frida, get out of here,’ Vargas said.

  Frida looked at her boss uncertainly – looked at Kelson the same way. Then she went back into the storeroom and returned with a white winter coat.

  She pointed at Kelson with a long fingernail and said, ‘I don’t understand you.’

  She crossed the bar and went out into the cold.

  ‘I’ll call,’ Kelson yelled after her.

  Marty lowered his gun and scooped up Vargas’s keys from the table. ‘We’ll see about this,’ he said.

  Vargas said, ‘If you touch my car …’

  Rodman said, ‘You get one chance. What were you doing with Scott Jacobson?’

  Vargas said nothing – so Marty went out to the street.

  They listened.

  An engine raced outside.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Rodman said.

  ‘Goddammit,’ Vargas said.

  The tires screeched, and the Porsche roared away.

  Vargas said, ‘If he so much as …’

  Tires screeched again in the near distance – then the car roared past, going the other way.

  ‘He’s an excellent driver for only one hand,’ Rodman said.

  Tires screeched – screeched – screeched.

  ‘Is he doing donuts?’ Kelson asked.

  ‘Goddammit,’ Vargas said.

  The car roared past again. Then, down the street, there was a terrific, metallic crash.

  Vargas was speechless.

  ‘I hope he wore a seatbelt,’ Rodman said.

  They listened – for twenty seconds, thirty.

  Then the door to the club opened and Marty came in, dangling the keys.

  ‘Sorry.’ He waved his empty coat sleeve at Vargas. ‘I lost control.’ He told Kelson and Rodman, ‘The car’s clean. No gun, no blood, nothing. Want to check his house?’

  ‘No,’ Vargas said.

  ‘No?’ Rodman said.

  Marty said, ‘But this is getting good.’

  ‘Scott didn’t shoot at anyone,’ Vargas said. ‘We passed right after it happened.’

  Rodman pulled his gun an inch from Vargas’s scalp. ‘You passed? You didn’t think to stop?’

  ‘Why would we?’

  ‘A man in need? Good Samaritan? All of that?’

  Vargas scowled. ‘Bullets flying. I like my skin without bullets in it.’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Vargas said.

  Rodman touched the Colt barrel to his head again.

  ‘Ready for a house party?’ Marty said, like it was all good fun.

  ‘All I’ll say is, you got it wrong about Scott,’ Vargas said. ‘He didn’t shoot at anyone. He’s had it hard – harder than anyone I know. You won’t hear a lot of people say they respect him, but I do. He’s loyal to the people he loves. I respect that loyalty.’

  ‘That kind of attitude gets you a club like this, I suppose,’ Kelson said. ‘It gets you a Porsche. Only you don’t have the Porsche any more. I wonder how long you’ll have the club.’

  ‘I’m for ripping down his house,’ Marty said.

  ‘You’ve got to watch out for the little ones,’ Rodman told Vargas. ‘Always have something to prove.’

  ‘Me?’ Marty said.

  ‘I’ve told you all I can,’ Vargas said.

  So Kelson hit him with a question from the side. ‘Who were Josh Templeton and Deneesa Smithson?’

  ‘You haven’t already figured that out?’ Vargas seemed almost relieved he didn’t get something harder. ‘You must not know the right questions or the right people to ask.’

  ‘I guess you’re the right people, then,’ Kelson said.

  Marty drew his .44 Magnum as if he would set the barrel against Vargas’s head again.

  Vargas glared at him. But he said, ‘When Scott’s mom died, Jeremy Jacobson sent him away for treatment. Deneesa Smithson worked at the clinic.’

  ‘Nope,’ Kelson said. ‘Deneesa Smithson lived in Indiana and worked with foster kids. Scott Jacobson went to a fancy place outside Milwaukee.’

  Vargas turned the glare to him. ‘She divorced Josh’s dad in Milwaukee and moved to Fort Wayne. For Christ’s sake, she’s not that hard to find.’

  ‘Huh,’ Kelson said. ‘So, why did she die?’

  Vargas said, ‘You’re asking the wrong person.’

  ‘And how would Scott even know about Josh Templeton?’

  ‘Do you have kids?’ Vargas said. ‘D’you keep pictures in your office? Josh’s mom did.’

  Kelson said, ‘Right.’

  ‘Christ, you’re stupid,’ Vargas said.

  ‘Cut that,’ Marty told him.

  ‘But why kill Josh?’ Kelson asked.

  Again Vargas said, ‘I’m the wrong person to ask.’

  ‘But he’s asking you,’ Marty said. He raised his gun now and held the barrel a couple inches from Vargas’s nose. ‘I’m out of patience.’

  Vargas paled but he said, ‘You’re a mean little bastard, aren’t you?’

  ‘You know who calls me that?’ Marty said. ‘My girlfriend. So leave that the fuck alone, OK?’

  ‘What’s the story with Alex Kovacic?’ Kelson asked. ‘What else aren’t you telling?’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Vargas said. He kept his eyes on Marty.

  Marty moved the gun barrel closer.

  ‘I’ll lose everything I have,’ Vargas said, ‘everything I am.’

  ‘If Marty goes off on you, you’re lost too,’ Kelson said. ‘There’ll be nothing left.’

  To prove the point, Marty touched the gun barrel to Vargas’s nose.

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Vargas’s voice sounded hollow.

  ‘You take chances,’ Marty said. He exchanged looks with Kelson and Rodman.

  Then, he pulled his gun from the man and stuffed it inside his parka. Rodman dropped his snub-nose into his coat pocket. Kelson stuck his KelTec in his
belt.

  Marty stared at Vargas with the kind of admiration brutal men sometimes show those who resist them. ‘You didn’t even sweat.’

  But Marty overestimated him. Vargas took his glass from the high-top table and downed his drink. It hit his belly wrong. As Kelson, Rodman, and Marty left the club, he was on the floor retching.

  FIFTY

  ‘That’s enough to act on,’ Rodman said, as they sat in Kelson’s car outside the club. A half block down, Vargas’s Porsche was wrapped around a utility box. ‘More than enough.’

  ‘You think he told the truth about Scott not shooting at Kovacic?’ Kelson asked.

  ‘I think he was puking up his lies.’ Marty settled into the back seat.

  ‘There’s something else going on,’ Kelson said.

  ‘One guy can tell us for sure,’ Rodman said.

  ‘Scotty?’ Marty said.

  Kelson turned the key in the ignition and pulled from the curb. ‘Thoughts about where to find him?’

  ‘Family first,’ Rodman said.

  The receptionist in the security office at Clement Memorial shoved her chair back and stood when the three men entered. ‘Not this time,’ she said.

  Marty reached into his parka.

  ‘No, Marty, no,’ Rodman said.

  Kelson said, ‘We need to see Rick.’

  The receptionist shook her head. ‘Unless you schedule—’

  ‘Let’s schedule right now,’ Rodman said, and gave her the nicest smile. ‘Please.’

  The receptionist looked from him to Kelson and back. She looked at Marty. He tried to imitate Rodman’s smile.

  ‘Where is he?’ Rodman asked.

  She hesitated. ‘On the third floor?’

  ‘We’ll wait,’ Kelson said.

  They waited. The receptionist radioed her boss, telling him Kelson had returned with two friends. Five minutes later he came into the office, accompanied by two uniformed security guards. The guards, working hard to look tough, squared off with Rodman and Marty.

  ‘Fun and games,’ Marty said.

  Rick asked Kelson, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Where can we find your brother?’

  Rick glanced at the receptionist. He glanced at the others. ‘You two stay here,’ he said to Rodman and Marty. He walked toward his office door.

  Kelson followed him, closing the door behind him.

  Rick leaned against his desk but looked ready to fight. ‘What do you want with Scott?’

  ‘Mostly I want to lock him up where he can’t hurt anyone else.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Patricia Ruddig. Josh Templeton. Daryl Vaughn. Suzanne Madani.’

  ‘He has nothing to do with them.’

  ‘Deneesa Smithson—’

  ‘Stay away from him.’

  ‘One way or another, I’m going to get him,’ Kelson said.

  ‘If you ever do anything to hurt him—’

  ‘I just had a conversation with a friend of yours who talked the same way about his car.’

  Rick wavered between anger and confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Totaled. The utility box it hit too – beyond repair. Where’s Scott?’

  ‘Stay away from my family.’

  ‘Which is your way of saying, you don’t know where he is?’

  ‘Which is my way of saying that my dad has connections in this city – political and legal – and he’ll use them if he needs too. Stay away.’

  ‘Do you really think that’s possible?’

  The men went back down to the parking garage, then drove through the late-afternoon traffic to Jeremy Jacobson’s North Orchard Street greystone. Under the darkening sky, the green Land Rover, which was wedged between the tall hedges on the driveway, looked like a black shell. Kelson pulled to the side, blocking it in.

  He popped the trunk, and the men got out.

  Marty grabbed Rodman’s Walther semi-automatic. ‘D’you mind?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Rodman said. He took the Beretta.

  Kelson grabbed the Springfield, released the magazine, checked that it was loaded tight, and snapped it back in place. ‘All right then.’

  The men went up the stone path, and Kelson rang the doorbell.

  No one came.

  Kelson rang again.

  No one.

  He tried the knob.

  Locked.

  ‘Fuck it,’ Marty said, and booted the door.

  The door held.

  ‘Fuck fucking it,’ Marty said, and aimed the Walther at the lock.

  ‘Marty?’ Rodman said.

  Marty lowered the gun.

  Rodman hit the door with the palm of his hand.

  The door pushed inward an eighth of an inch or so from the frame.

  Rodman hit it again.

  The door swung open.

  ‘Honey, I’m home,’ Marty said, and stepped inside.

  Kelson followed him. Rodman limped in and eased the door shut.

  Kelson called out, ‘Scott?’ His voice echoed in the high-ceilinged hall.

  They looked into the living room. The chairs and sofa were plush and floral. A set of bay windows, sided by golden drapes, faced the street in front.

  On the other side of the front hall, the men looked into a formal dining room – its table and sideboard gleaming with polish.

  Rodman called out now. ‘Scott?’

  They went up the hall to the kitchen. A freezing wind blew in from a door that opened into the backyard. Someone had knocked it in too.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Marty said.

  Then two gunshots blasted from inside a large pantry. One hit the doorframe next to Marty. The other shattered the glass front of a kitchen cabinet.

  Alex Kovacic appeared at the front of the pantry. ‘Ah, shit,’ he said, ducking back inside. Then he stepped into the kitchen. He held his hands in the air, one of them gripping a revolver – pointing it at the ceiling, a finger on the trigger. He said, ‘I thought you were him.’

  ‘Who?’ Marty almost squeaked he was so angry. ‘Scott Jacobson? What the fuck? I mean, Jesus fucking—’

  A siren interrupted – sounding from in front of the house.

  Then another siren, also in front.

  A third seemed to be approaching.

  Kovacic lowered his revolver and stuck it in a hip holster. He slid toward the back door.

  Marty squared the Walther on him. ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’

  Kovacic reached the door. ‘I can’t be here. I …’ Then he was gone.

  More sirens sounded in front. Car doors slammed.

  Marty followed Rodman and Kelson to the living room, where they stared out through the bay windows. On the street, there were six police cars and a tactical van. Five cops stood on the pavement with their guns drawn. Venus Johnson climbed out of one of the cars.

  ‘Wreck my fucking day,’ Marty said.

  ‘Maybe for the best,’ Kelson said.

  Marty gave a look like Kelson was insane. ‘You’ve got strange ideas of best.’ He drifted back toward the hallway. He asked Rodman, ‘D’you mind?’

  ‘Go on,’ Rodman said.

  Clasping the semi-automatic, Marty went down the hall and out the back door.

  ‘Huh,’ Kelson said.

  The cops outside were coming up the stone path.

  Rodman set the Beretta on the living-room floor. He stepped away, where no one could mistake his intentions.

  Kelson put his Springfield beside Rodman’s gun. But then he went back into the hallway and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  As the cops waited for orders on the front porch, Rodman went up the stairs after him.

  They stopped at the landing. Six doors branched into separate rooms. A light was on in one of those rooms, and Kelson moved toward it.

  It was a bathroom. On the tile floor, there was a pair of khaki pants, folded neatly. Next to the pants, there were a blue crewneck sweater and a white long-sleeve T-shirt. In
the tub, there was a man in white underwear and blue argyle socks. Scott Jacobson. Next to him, on the tub side, was a bloody razor blade. His wrists were slashed. He also had a single cut on the right side of his neck. His skin was pale, his eyes glassy. He was breathing – a very little bit.

  Kelson reached for him, but Rodman pulled him back and said, ‘No.’

  Footsteps charged up the stairs. Low voices spoke on the landing. Loud voices shouted downstairs.

  Venus Johnson stepped into the bathroom. Her eyes were wild. She gripped her service pistol in both hands. She aimed it at Kelson, then Rodman.

  Their eyes were wild too. They raised their hands above their heads.

  ‘Hell, no,’ she said. She looked down at the unconscious man in the tub. She aimed her pistol at him and said, ‘You’re under arrest, you asshole.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  ‘What – you thought we had our heads up our asses?’ Venus Johnson said. She sat with Kelson in the icy interview room at the Harrison Street station.

  Kelson said, ‘I didn’t think you—’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘you didn’t think. I hear stories about you. Sam Kelson, the miracle man – shot through the head but still sharp. Still able to work out the hardest problems. You know what I call those stories?’

  ‘Bullshit?’ Kelson said.

  ‘Now you’re thinking.’

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘it wasn’t your job then, and it isn’t your job now.’

  ‘Technically, that’s not true. Technically, Jose Feliciano hired me. My job.’

  She glared at him.

  ‘By definition,’ he said.

  ‘By definition, I should string you up by your balls,’ she said.

  ‘How did you figure Scott Jacobson did it?’

  Johnson sighed. ‘Jesus Christ. How long after you got shot in the head did your wife divorce you?’

  ‘About eighteen months.’

  ‘She’s a saint, putting up with you that long.’

  ‘How’d you figure it?’

  She shook her head – more at herself than at him. ‘Mostly it was the dead kid.’

  ‘Josh Templeton?’

  ‘And the doctor too – Suzanne Madani. But mostly the kid.’ She considered Kelson, and went on. ‘Nothing added up right about the car accident. Why was there damage on both sides of his car? Then the driver who called it in disappeared. Maybe that wasn’t so strange, but along with the damage, it pointed at least to a hit-and-run – and maybe to someone who intentionally ran Josh Templeton off the road.’