Take Your Turn, Teddy

by Take Your Turn, Teddy (epub)

  “It’s not ‘Mommy stuff.’ If some low-life hit you upside the head and knocked your ass unconscious, wouldn’t you hope your partner would do this very thing for you? And I’ll tell you another thing, if you’re telling me only women are capable of doing this, then the whole damned department just crossed over to completely useless.”

  Strode felt a tickle in his face. He felt like shit, but listening to Finch tell Burklow off made him want to smile.

  Finch noticed and put a hand to Burklow as she asked Strode, “Are you with us, man?”

  She folded the rough, wet washcloth and held it over Strode’s forehead. The coolness of the cloth was bringing him back.

  Strode raised a hand and held the cloth himself, taking over for Finch. “What the hell happened?”

  Burklow pushed off the wall and said, “I came in, and Finch was yelling. She said you were down in the basement screaming at someone. She said she went downstairs, gun in hand to see what was going on, and the door was closed.”

  “I came down the stairs as you yelled, but when I got closer to the bathroom, you went quiet,” Finch said.

  Burklow, not seeming too disturbed by what happened to Strode, took another long drag on his cigarette and again blew it without a care of whose face it was beating into. Finch waved the smoke from Strode’s face and mumbled, “Jackass.”

  Finch smoothed the hair on her head. Again, not a single curl strayed out of place.

  “I tried to open the door,” Finch went on. “I could tell it wasn’t locked, but there was something against it. It was you. I called your name, but you didn’t answer. It took nearly everything I had to push the door open. No thanks to my partner.”

  Burklow gave an insincere chuckle. “I didn’t know what the hell was going on.”

  Finch rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. But, Strode, do you remember seeing someone down here? What happened?”

  Strode held the washcloth to his head and tried to sit up. He was queasy and still a bit out of it.

  Finch grabbed his shoulder and said, “Easy now. Just stay put and tell me what happened.”

  Strode’s eyes investigated the bathroom and found pieces of the soap dish on the floor. He reached for a piece and held the sharp glass between his fingers.

  “He made this fall while he was laughing at me.”

  Finch arched her eyebrows in question. “Who did?”

  Burklow pushed through. “Strode, was there someone in my house? In my wife’s shop?”

  With a new sense of care, Burklow became upset. His fingers shook around the cigarette he was holding. He held it tighter between his middle and pointer fingers. “The fucking nerve of some people.” Burklow locked his lips around the dwindling Marlboro and blew the smoke directly onto Strode. “The fucking nerve.”

  Strode only coughed as renewed pain slammed into his head. The intensified pressure took him back to the moments before the ordeal.

  What the fuck happened?

  As if she received a telepathic cue to explain, Finch said, “You were yelling, Strode. I was making the coffee, and you yelled at someone.”

  Burklow smacked the back of one hand into the palm of the other. “A name. We need a name. Or anything to indicate who might’ve been in my fucking house!” Burklow’s eyes spotlighted Strode. “Well?”

  Strode was still confused and trying to piece it all together. “I really can’t remember. Did I say a name, Finch?”

  Finch bit into her dark lips and ran her palms over the top of her head. “You didn’t say a name. But he upset you. You asked him how—”

  Finch gave Strode a similar look to the one she gave the Williamson boy, filled with empathy.

  “What is it?” Strode asked.

  She sighed. “You asked him how he knew Jackie and the Blackwood boy, Teddy. You told him to tell you where they are. You called him a ‘creepy fucker.’”

  Strode remembered. “The clown.”

  Burklow was taken aback. “A clown was in my house? What clown?”

  Strode saw splotches of yellow and blue dance around the room. His stomach burned from vomiting, and his head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He pointed to the picture that hung above the toilet and saw lettering that he hadn’t recognized before.

  Burklow stepped into the bathroom. Strode felt pinned to the back wall, with all three of them huddled in that cupboard-sized space.

  Burklow looked to the picture, “What about the clown?”

  Strode’s eyes were tiptoeing back and forth across the line of present and long-gone.

  “It was him. He knew about the kids,” Strode said.

  Burklow and Finch turned to one another. Strode’s eyes allowed him a peek at how crazy he truly was becoming, and he watched his new partners eye one another. Neither of them was sure what to do next.

  Strode knew he needed to fix things, or just as he had back home he would be sent home and off the case. He grabbed onto the bathroom sink, finding it was a bit lower than he expected. He overshot his hand, and it felt like it was free-falling to the surface. With minor gagging and a bit of headrush, he pulled himself to his feet.

  Strode could see it then. There wasn’t a Gacy-copycat with a bloodied face with him that afternoon. The clown was a picture. He had blacked out.

  A complete 360 from how Strode felt just moments before, his body was surging with energy, one that he felt he couldn’t pinpoint as it moved through him. He supposed he had been more upset about the body earlier than he initially thought. It was probably more triggering than he had allowed himself to think. But what did he feel then? Shame? Embarrassment? He imagined anger too. That had to be the explanation for the unrest in his ailing body.

  Too many feelings unchecked make your episodes even more manic, Dr. Evers would say. Strode hated that she was probably right. The last two days had been more stop-and-go than Strode had been in months. He had to fix it.

  Finch and Burklow stared at him like a wild animal, whose next move could be worse than the last, maybe even catastrophic.

  Strode shrugged his shoulders. “I think I’m still feeling the drive, and I haven’t eaten much.”

  Finch said, “You’re right. You did look a bit pale when you asked where the bathroom was.”

  Finch turned to Burklow. “I was making him coffee. Why don’t you go throw a pizza in the oven? We can eat before we go to Derek’s cabin.”

  Burklow’s face lit up like a kid at Christmas. “I’ll get one delivered. Everyone good with pepperoni?”

  Burklow was already headed out of the beauty parlor and pounding his feet up the spiral staircase before they could answer.

  Strode found a clock on the wall to the left of the mirror at the center of the salon. It had been nearly three hours since they had arrived at Burklow’s. The morning had gone and afternoon was upon them.

  Strode shook his head. His anxiousness, his “fits,” had always cost him time, and he hated that it may have cost others too.

  With shameful eyes, Strode turned to Finch, ready to apologize.

  But Finch didn’t seem to even notice him. She was looking at the picture on the wall.

  “It was this clown you saw? And he was talking to you?”

  Strode’s cheeks flushed. “I know. I know. I’m out of my damn mind. Right?”

  Finch ignored him. She went right up to the photo and smoothed her hand over the clown’s face. “I’ve always hated this clown.”

  Strode stared at the clown. The little yellow hat. The particularly pointy teeth. Strode remembered how the hat had bounced while torments spat through its teeth.

  Finch crossed her arms and said, “The Clowns. It was a negro team. Did you know that?”

  Strode swallowed and couldn’t help but feel awkward. He wished he knew what to say, but she went on.

  “My grandfather played for them. You know?”

  Strode curved
his lips in an upside-down U shape. “Really?”

  Finch’s eyes locked on the clown. “Yes. He wasn’t too good, and only played a few seasons, but he used to tell my brother and me what it was like traveling around the country as a negro team. He said negro players were welcome to play ball in the sunny afternoons, but if their bus wasn’t out of town before sundown, there was hell to pay.”

  Finch bit her lip and narrowed her eyes.

  “People celebrate it but never talk about the way the players were treated, especially on the road.”

  Strode saw her eyes soften as she sighed.

  “So, yeah. I’ve always hated that clown.” She threw her hands up. “Although, some good came from that team. In the fifties, the Clowns signed a seventeen-year-old kid. My grandfather said he was like the John Henry of baseball, worked hard day and night, swinging the bat and getting stronger every day.”

  Finch turned to Strode, grinning. “Do you know who that kid was?”

  Strode shrugged. No idea.

  She stepped from the bathroom, “Hank Aaron.”

  The cold, frail look fell from Strode as excitement took over. “Wow. On the Clowns?”

  Finch nodded and waved for Strode to follow her as she headed to the bottom of the steps.

  “I know what it’s like. To have so much weighing on you, I mean. Our minds play tricks on us. That creepy clown is bad for a lot of reasons, more than people would like to admit, but there’s some good there too. From the Clowns came one of the best baseball players of all time. Giving Black kids like my brother and me a little more hope.”

  Strode nodded, trying to be present and follow where she was going with this. Doing it all at once was difficult for him.

  Finch put her hand on the railing of the spiral staircase and one foot on the bottom step. She started to head up, but she stopped and looked back at Strode.

  “There’s been a lot of bad with this case, Strode. People, good people, innocent people, have gotten hurt. Police officers in higher positions than yours and mine have called us crazy for looking into it. For asking questions. There’s always going to be bad associated with this case when people look back on it.”

  Strode couldn’t help but feel a bit defeated, and he let it pour out. “That’s if they look back on it. If we can find something that could make anyone believe us that there’s more here.”

  Finch nodded.

  “We have the bad: the clothing samples, the photographs, the victims, the disappearances. We’re still learning the bad, and I’m sure worse is yet to come. But I think it’s up to us to put the good in it too. To figure it out and maybe stop something like this from happening again. To show people that things aren’t always as they seem.”

  * * *

  Strode and Finch climbed the final steps and smelled a cigarette Burklow had lit along with the coffee Finch made for Strode.

  Strode went to the files at the table and began picking them up, stuffing the battered bodies’ images and reported evidence found at the scene back in their files.

  Finch put a hand on Strode’s wrist, stopping him. “What are you doing?”

  Strode turned to Finch to see a genuine look of concern on her face. Burklow was sitting in an ugly brown leather chair with his legs spread far wider than necessary in the corner of the living room.

  Strode looked to him for a clue, but Burklow puffed out a cloud of smoke and smiled. The saying “ignorance is bliss” ran through Strode’s mind.

  Finch sat at the dining room table and tapped the empty spot next to her at the head of the table.

  Strode sat.

  Finch gave Burklow a stern look that brought him to his feet. He dragged himself to the table and sat next to Strode.

  “Burklow, what time will the pizza be here?”

  Burklow pulled the cigarette from his lips. Strode wondered how his chubby fingers didn’t smash the damn thing.

  “Should be here in the next fifteen.”

  Finch nodded.

  “Strode, are your belongings in your car or at the hotel?”

  Strode didn’t understand. “Uhm, in my car. I just had one bag. Why?”

  “You’re staying here. You can sleep downstairs on the pullout couch, and Burklow will take down the picture in the bathroom.”

  Strode rubbed his palms together as he tried to figure out what to say. “That’s okay. I’m fine at the hotel. Besides, we don’t know how long I’ll—”

  Finch raised a hand. “That’ll do.”

  Burklow turned to Strode and said, “I’m afraid Finch has spoken. I’ll get the bed made up.”

  Burklow looked at Finch, and Strode couldn’t help but smile at the way the old officer seemed to be asking his trainee if he was free to go. She nodded, and Burklow poured himself a drink, emptying the Daniels bottle before pounding his feet down the steps.

  It was just heading into the late afternoon. What were they doing?

  On top of one of the open files was a single note in scribbled handwriting, “You can solve this.”

  Strode pulled it toward him and raised his eyes in suspicion. “What is this?”

  “It’s my note. When I was tearing through the early details of these files, we got some of the information right as it came in, and some I still learned later just in the past few days. I made that note for Burklow.”

  Strode closed the file and slid it to the side. “But why?”

  Finch brought her hands together and gave Strode a look that demanded his undivided attention.

  “He was hesitant and wasn’t sure we needed to bring anyone else in. But then we found Nate Williamson.”

  Strode nodded.

  She lowered her chin so her eyes seemed to level with Strode. “Then, I was certain you could solve this. I was certain that if anyone could do it, you could.”

  Strode sank in his chair and hung his head. “Because I was the one who found the Warrens and the Blackwoods.”

  “Right. But it’s more than that. You found some of the Warrens and Blackwoods, and you kept looking for the rest.”

  Strode smiled. Validation. Was it possible for someone to offer so much of it in such a short timeframe?

  Finch gave Strode a reassuring nod.

  “But, if you’re going to help me, I need you to be on top of things. Now, I don’t want to hear it. You’re sleeping here, and we’re going to spend the night studying these files. We’ll have our dinner at three o’clock like retired folks, and hell, we’ll order another if we have to.”

  “But what about the cabin, Finch?”

  She closed her eyes and exhaled. “It will be there tomorrow.”

  Strode felt as though she was trying to convince not only him but herself too. She really was trying to take care of him.

  “But I think we should go—”

  She raised her hand, cutting him off just as she had before with an unwavering sense of authority.

  Strode couldn’t help but think, If this woman is a rookie, I’m a minnow.

  She repeated, “It will be there tomorrow. We’ll go first thing in the morning.”

  Strode admitted defeat and grabbed at one of the files. He looked over his shoulder, checking for Burklow, and whispered, “Thank you,” to Finch.

  9

  Burklow had driven Finch to her car around eleven the night before. She and Strode had studied the pictures and reports of the case files for hours. He could still feel the strain in his eyes, but Finch was up-and-at-’em first thing the next morning.

  Using the spare key under the mat, she woke him and Burklow up, started the coffee pot, and had them both out the door in twenty minutes.

  Finch did a quick look at her reflection in the car’s window and smoothed any loose hairs. Strode wondered what the hell that woman could’ve possibly seen. Every hair was in its place. He was beginning to think if that ever weren’t true, he’d be suspicious. Like
there wasn’t any way a woman with a few loose strands of wind-corrupted hair could be the real Finch. If her hair was ever out of place, Strode thought, it would be my first run-in with a doppelganger.

  Finch looked to Burklow in the drive and gave him a nod as if to say, We’re all set.

  Burklow twirled the cabin key above his head and hopped in the squad car that read Three Oaks Police on the side in an off-putting brown color. Strode began to feel anxious. In the off chance they could run into the deranged maniac who had mutilated those poor people in Warren Woods, a police car might be too telling. If the guy was working from the woods, or even just revisiting the scene, he would run or hide at the sight of them.

  “Burklow!” Strode called. “Come here for a second.”

  Burklow’s cheeks jiggled as his feet stomped down the driveway. He raised his eyebrows. “What is it, Strode?”

  Strode eyed the police car in the drive. The sun was coming up quick.

  “I think we should take two cars. You can come in the back way, and Finch and I can take my Pinto to the cabin.”

  Burklow cocked his head, not following.

  “If this guy is still in the woods, if he’s anywhere near the cabin, I don’t want him to take off when he sees your car.”

  Finch agreed. “He’s right. We’ll check out the cabin. You keep your distance and come up the other way. Give us twenty minutes to walk the cabin, and then we’ll meet you at the far entrance, near the housing subdivision. Okay? Only the neighborhood kids use that entrance anyway.”

  Strode felt his anxiousness ease. It was reassuring. For the first time in a while, he wasn’t told he was overthinking everything. Instead, he was treated as though his thoughts, his concerns, were part of his skilled and tactful police work.

  “Alright, then. I’ll grab one of my fancy cigars from the house to keep me busy.”

  Burklow shot finger guns at his partners, tossed the cabin’s key to Finch, and then carried his jiggly body up the drive and into the house.

  Finch climbed inside of the Pinto, and the grace period of no questions began to fade. She eyed Strode, and he then realized how much he was sweating. He pulled the neck of his shirt up and wiped his face dry.