“I’m okay, really.”
Hank sat forward in his chair. “Mr. Williams, I know how upsetting this must be for you, so I’ll try to make this brief.”
“Sure, anything. Just catch the bastard. I still can’t believe Rich is dead.”
“So you didn’t know your friend was fighting with your assailant?”
“No, it was all a blur.”
Officer Silverman came into the room, balancing three steaming coffee mugs on a tray. He set the tray down on the coffee table. “I reheated what was in the coffee pot.”
Kate smiled at the officer. “Thank you.”
Silverman nodded. He stepped away, occupying a spot on the other side of the room.
Kate looked at Hank. “Any word on how Debbie is doing?”
Hank glanced over his shoulder at Silverman.
“I just got off the phone with the hospital, sir. She’s under sedation.”
“Keep me posted. I’ll want to question her once she wakes up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hank turned his attention back to Vic. “So, tell me about the—” Hank paused to pull a handkerchief out of his pocket. He took a moment to blow his nose. “Sorry. Did you get a good look at the man that robbed you?”
“I saw his face.”
“Great. Then I’ll need you to come down to the station. You can go through our mugshots while everything is still fresh in your mind. I’m sure this guy already has a record.”
“I’m afraid I would be wasting everyone’s time.” Vic tossed the thawed bag of peas onto the coffee table.
“You just told me you got a good look at his face.”
“I did.”
“I’m a little confused.” Hank turned suddenly, coughing into his hand. He reached into his coat pocket and took out a small packet of sanitizing wipes. He took a moment to clean his hands.
Kate clasped her hands together. “Before you ask my husband any more questions, there’s something you should know about him.”
“Oh?”
“Have you ever heard of prosopagnosia?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“Vic doesn’t recognize faces. His condition is often referred to as ‘face blindness.’”
“I never heard of such a thing.”
“It’s true,” Vic said. “I’ve had it since I was a child.” Vic took a sip of his coffee. “The only thing I can tell you is he was wearing a dark, hooded sweatshirt. My parents could walk into this room, and I wouldn’t recognize them.”
“So, does this affliction have anything to do with your eyesight?”
“On the contrary, I have twenty-twenty vision. No, I believe it has to do with a defect in the brain. To tell you the truth, I don’t think they really know.”
“That is odd. So, what do you . . .? Excuse me.” Hank paused to cough. This time it sounded croupier. “I hope I’m not losing my voice. So what do you see when you look at someone’s face?”
“I see a person’s facial features, I suppose, like everyone else. I just have no idea who they are. If Kate, my own wife, left the room and came back in, I wouldn’t even recognize her.”
“That is weird.”
“It does have its challenges.”
“How do you function at work?”
“I can usually recognize my co-workers by their voices, the way they dress, their body types. Plus, they’re pretty good at giving me indicators. Name tags help immensely. But if I saw their faces in a newsletter, I wouldn’t know who they were.”
Hank cleared his throat. “Did the man who attacked you get a good look at you?”
“Yes, when I thought he was going to kill me.”
“Meaning he knows what you look like.”
Kate sucked in a deep breath. “You don’t think he’ll come after Vic?”
“It’s a possibility—especially if he thinks Vic can identify him. He does have Vic’s wallet, so he knows where you live.”
Vic slammed his mug down on the coffee table. “Christ! What do we do?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll catch this guy. In the meantime, I’d stay vigilant if I were you. Call us if there’s a problem.” Hank handed Kate his business card, then dabbed his runny nose with his handkerchief.
Kate slipped the card into her coat pocket. “Hope you feel better.”
“Yeah, me too. This cold has been a real pain. I miss not being able to go for a jog.” Hank hawked up a loose wad of phlegm deep in his chest.
“Try some honey and hot tea. Works wonders for me whenever I’m feeling like I’m coming down with a cold,” Kate suggested.
“Thanks. I’ll give it a try.”
“Maybe you should take a sick day.”
“Not with my caseload.”
Vic stood up from the couch. “So, can we go?”
“Sure. I’d stick around the house. And, whatever you do, don’t trust anyone!”
* * *
For the days to follow, Vic was an addled wreck.
Why had the detective urged him not to trust anyone?
Vic was so paranoid, he hadn’t set foot out of the house once since Rich’s murder—not even to retrieve the newspaper off the stoop. Every time he peeked between the curtains, someone would drive by or stroll down the sidewalk. Sure, they were probably only his neighbors running errands or taking walks. But to Vic they were all faceless people, meaning any one of them could be the killer.
Vic wanted to stay holed up in his house, but there was Rich’s funeral to attend. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t pay his respects. After all, Rich had saved his life—only to lose his own. It was only right.
* * *
It rained the day of the funeral.
The mourners huddled under their black umbrellas. Rich’s coffin was suspended over a freshly dug grave. Vic and Kate sat next to Debbie to offer their condolences.
The dismal weather accentuated the dark mood.
Every so often, Rich glanced over his shoulder.
And every time, he caught a stranger’s face staring at him.
Would the killer be so bold as to show his face at the funeral?
Vic prayed not. Then how would he know?
After the minister finished with his parting words, Debbie led the procession, tossing handfuls of dirt onto Rich’s coffin.
Vic grabbed Kate’s arm and started dragging her toward their car.
“Vic, what in the world are you doing?”
“We need to get home.”
“Don’t forget, we’re gathering at Debbie’s. I made a casserole.”
“You’ll have to go by yourself. I need to get—”
Before he could say “home,” he spotted a sinister figure standing in the rain, wearing a hooded sweatshirt.
Vic bolted for the car.
“Honey! Wait for me!” Kate called after him.
“I can’t! Get a ride with someone!” Vic jumped into the car. He started the engine and raced out of the cemetery. He sped past a stop sign, narrowly missing another motorist.
By the time he reached his first traffic light, he’d regained some of his composure.
While he waited for the light to turn green, a truck pulled up alongside him.
The driver was wearing a hooded sweatshirt.
Vic flipped open his glovebox where he’d hidden his Taurus .22 caliber pistol. Ever since the attack, Vic had kept it handy, and he’d decided to leave it in the car for the funeral.
He glanced up.
The man in the truck stared straight ahead.
Vic raised his gun, finger braced on the trigger.
The man drove through the intersection.
Vic lowered his gun. He trembled, knowing he had almost shot the wrong person.
An impatient motorist blasted a horn.
Vic slipped the pistol into his jacket’s side pocket. He tromped on the accelerator, gunning the car down the street. He reached up and grabbed the cigarette packet off the visor. The pack was empty. He crump
led it up and threw it on the car seat.
He needed a cigarette bad.
Luckily, a liquor store was up ahead.
He pulled into the tiny parking lot, then got out of the car and did a complete three-sixty, checking for anyone suspicious.
Hell, to Vic, everyone looked suspicious.
Inside the store, he didn’t recognize the man at the register. He’d probably seen him numerous times, as Vic often stopped here. The clerk didn’t seem to recognize Vic—or, if he did, he didn’t mention it.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.
“Give me a carton of generic lights.” Vic arranged his money on the counter.
Half a dozen shoppers milled about the store.
The clerk placed the carton of cigarettes on the counter and opened the register to count Vic’s change.
Two people argued behind Vic.
“Hand it over!” A man in a hooded sweatshirt snatched a cereal box away from a woman.
“Jesus!” Vic bolted for the automatic doors, abandoning his purchase on the counter. He scrambled to his car and almost hit a station wagon as he pealed out onto the street.
Vic kept checking the rearview mirror as he raced down the road.
A black sedan followed two car lengths behind.
The driver sported a black sweatshirt with the hood casting a shadow over his unrecognizable face.
Vic ran a red light. He made a hard right, nearly clipping a school bus.
He checked the rearview mirror.
The car remained on his tail.
Vic sped up his driveway and parked.
The black sedan stopped at the curb.
Vic sprinted across the front lawn.
A man in a black sweatshirt, sweatpants, and sneakers exited the car.
Vic pulled his gun. He pointed it at the stranger who was coming up the driveway. “Stay away from me!”
The man extended his hand. “Hand it over!”
Vic pulled the trigger.
The man ducked, dropping to one knee. He drew a small revolver from under his sweatshirt, then returned fire, striking Vic in the shoulder.
Vic dropped his gun. He clutched his shoulder and fell onto the grass.
The man walked over to Vic.
A blue car arrived. Kate got out, hesitated at the passenger door, and leaned back in to the driver. “I’ll be right back with my casserole.”
She gasped when she found a man pointing a gun at her husband, who was on the ground.
The man looked over at Kate. He pulled the hood away from his face.
Vic waved at Kate with his good arm. “He’s been stalking me! He killed Rich.”
“Vic, have you lost your mind?”
“It’s him, I tell you!”
“Vic! It’s Detective Jenkins!”
“It can’t be! I heard his voice! He doesn’t sound anything like the detective!”
Hank put away his gun. “That’s because I’m over my cold. Even went for a jog this morning. I came by to thank your wife for that remedy of hers.”
13
CASE NUMBER: 18-07-248
Clare looked up as the detectives descended the grassy slope to join her at the construction site. Hank held a travel coffee mug. Bill popped the rest of a glazed donut into his mouth, then licked his sticky fingers.
They studied the man wearing a jogging outfit. He lay flat on his back with rebars sticking out of his chest.
Clare gave the detectives the rundown. “I figure time of death somewhere within twenty-four hours. Judging by his position, I’d say he rolled down the hill. There’re blades of grass stuck to the bottom of his running shoes, suggesting the lawn may have been wet, causing him to slip and fall.”
“Poor sap.” Bill stole Hank’s coffee to wash down his donut.
“Hey!” Hank objected. He tried to grab for his mug, but Bill polished it off. Hank turned back to Clare. “Find any identification?”
“No, his pockets were clean. Not even a house key.”
“That’s strange,” Hank said.
“We should probably get someone to post signs warning people of the danger so no one else has an accident,” Clare advised.
“Good idea,” Bill agreed.
“Yeah,” Hank said. “I’d hate to see another innocent person get hurt.”
* * *
Thirty-six hours earlier . . .
Marcus opened his eyes. A blackbird glided across the gray sky. He wondered, as he often did, why birds could perch, congregating wherever they pleased, and it seemed so natural, but whenever a homeless man slept in a park, folks found the image appalling.
Marcus was only thirty-five years old, but sleeping on the uneven ground had gnarled his spine like a derailed train. Even though the tattered tarp he’d used for a ground cloth had kept him dry, it had proved an insufficient barrier against the damp chill that had seeped into his weary bones.
He peered through a leafless patch of brush serving as a moderate windbreak. Mallards drifted on a pond in the man-made park of manicured lawns and jogging trails snaking through the new-growth woodlands.
Marcus drew his blanket around his shoulders. He slowly rose to his feet. He gave his scraggy beard a fierce scratch. He pulled a grimy, green woolen cap down tight over his ears. Long strands of greasy brown hair curled up around his shoulders.
He wore multiple layers of clothes: two T-shirts, a heavy flannel shirt, a bulky sweater, an overcoat, plus thermals under his sweat pants. Both of his big toes poked out of the same pair of holey socks he’d been wearing for the past two weeks straight.
He stepped into his boots with the cardboard inserts. He didn’t have to bother tying them, as they didn’t have shoelaces. He gathered up the tarp, his pillow made of packaging foam, and the threadbare blanket, and stuffed them in a battered shopping cart.
He then ducked behind a tree to urinate.
Ferreting in his overcoat pocket, he discovered a hard remnant of jerky. He slipped it into his mouth. He sucked on the tasty morsel, working up a savory juice. He swallowed, deceiving his stomach into thinking food would follow.
Marcus observed a man emerging from the front door of his home a short distance away on a block of luxurious houses. He wore dark sunglasses, a black jogging suit with white piping, and running shoes. He hustled down the walkway. He broke into a sprint and ran across the street into the park. He ran rhythmically, wearing earbuds and listening to music on the iPod cinched to his right bicep.
Marcus pulled back the frayed cuff of his tattered overcoat. He checked the time on a wristwatch he’d found in a trash bin. Despite the cracked crystal and kinked band, the timepiece was relatively accurate.
The jogger was right on schedule.
Marcus watched the man dash up a grassy knoll, descend the other side, and dart past the perimeter of the construction site of an outdoor amphitheater. The jogger disappeared into the grove of cottonwoods separating the rural parkland from the neighboring string of houses.
Marcus pushed his shopping cart onto the sidewalk with no real destination in mind. What he hated most about being homeless was the wandering.
He knew how it felt to be scorned. Even the organizations that pledged to help the homeless had shunned him. On cold nights, he would stand in a line for hours, freezing to death, stomping his feet to stay warm outside of a shelter with hundreds of other poor souls, only to be told when he reached the doors that they were full.
Only on rare occasions would someone show a smidgen of compassion. They’d give him a thin blanket, a mat, and a space on the hard floor. The next morning, when six o’clock rolled around, he and the others would be ordered to vacate the premises and would be ushered back out onto the streets; shelters were places for sleeping, not for daytime congregations.
Stray mutts in animal shelters were given more respect. At least, during the day, they were provided with roofs over their heads and regular meals, if only for a short period. Marcus wondered how long it would take before the city
began treating the homeless the same way they treated unwanted pets.
It seemed even the police despised him. If a couple were cuddling on a park bench, enjoying the day, and a cop strolled by, the officer would give them a pleasant smile and a kind greeting. But if Marcus rested on the same bench, and the same cop showed up, Marcus would be accused of vagrancy and told to move along.
He remembered the time he’d been so distressed, he’d actually walked into a police station and asked for help. One officer behind a counter had given Marcus a referral number and told him to use the payphone down the hall. Marcus might have considered making the call if he’d only had the money.
Soup kitchens meant standing in line for most of the day without any guarantee of receiving a meal. Often, he would reach the front of the line, only to be told they’d run out of food and that he should come back for the next scheduled mealtime. When he was fortunate to land a free meal, it was disconcerting how the stern-faced servers piled the scooped food onto his tray, like farm hands feeding slop to a hog.
If he didn’t make a pest of himself, a few store owners would take pity on him. Sometimes his gray-toothed smile would earn him a sandwich or a beverage, and if his eyes became weepy, he might even score a small bag of groceries.
Panhandling was always degrading. If he wanted something hot to eat or drink, he needed money. Usually, he would pick a spot on a busy sidewalk or by a corner market. People who didn’t have much to spare were usually gracious enough to hand over their change, maybe even a dollar. But the affluent? Those folks driving shiny SUVs? They were less generous.
When he wasn’t begging, he’d scavenge the back alleys. Though he didn’t make a habit of it, he’d resort to dumpster diving rather than starve to death—something he was not particularly proud of.
He could honestly attest to what it felt like to be a feral animal.
Like clockwork, he would wander the suburban streets before dusk, rummaging through garbage and recycling bins left out by the curb the night before collection day, the homeowners unaware of the unkempt stranger sifting through their discards. He would amass redeemable bottles and cans and exchange them for cash at recycling centers.
In Case of Carnage Page 12