Rain Will Come

by Holgate, Thomas

  “Please, wake up.” The voice was calm, almost reassuring. Something, probably a finger, poked him in the shoulder. Annoying, but hardly threatening.

  At first he assumed it was the escort. The hell was her name? Bertha. He couldn’t remember where he was, so he assumed he must have fallen asleep next to her. But that had never happened before. And this was the voice of a man, not a woman.

  Again the voice said, “Please, wake up.”

  Once Czarcik was aware that there was actually someone in his home, in his room, tapping him on the shoulder, he shot up in bed, only to find himself staring down the barrel of a handgun. It was so close that, at first, his eyes could only focus on the muzzle.

  “Please, just remain calm,” the comforting voice warned. “I promise. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Experience dictated that if Czarcik was going to make a move, now was the time to catch his adversary off guard. But he had just been awakened from a deep sleep, and he questioned his alertness.

  Plus, for some reason, he trusted the voice.

  Czarcik’s field of vision stabilized. He watched as the man sat down in a chair that he had placed at the foot of the bed. The lamp on the nightstand was turned on. But the room was still fairly dark, and Czarcik found it hard to reconcile what he was seeing.

  The man wore thick glasses on top of which sat two caterpillar-like eyebrows. An even bushier mustache underlined a prominent nose. There was something familiar, iconic, about him.

  “Groucho Marx,” the man said, reading Czarcik’s mind. “I bought it at a Halloween store a few states over. Crazy how these holidays are now becoming a yearlong thing. I spent some time in Myrtle Beach a few years back, and they had an entire strip mall devoted to Christmas. Multiple stores, literally. One sold only Christmas trees, another specialized in wrapping paper and Advent calendars. Big business, evidently.”

  This was a good sign, thought Czarcik. If Groucho was planning to kill him, a disguise would have been unnecessary. Still, he wondered how much stock he could put in the rationality of anyone who showed zero compunction about breaking into the home of a police detective while wearing a Marx Brothers costume.

  “This is yours, actually,” Groucho said to Czarcik, brandishing the detective’s Glock 17. “I’ll give it back to you in a minute. But first, you have to listen to me.”

  Czarcik had no choice, so he remained silent. Unable to read his visitor’s face, he knew he was at a distinct disadvantage.

  “OK?” Groucho pressed.

  “You’re the one holding the gun.”

  Groucho adjusted the oversized plastic glasses on the bridge of his nose. “I appreciate that. Thank you for being so agreeable.”

  Czarcik waited for him to continue, his heart racing.

  “I’m the man you’re looking for,” Groucho finally said.

  “I’m looking for a famous vaudeville comedian?”

  The joke seemed to momentarily catch Groucho off guard. Then he laughed. “I appreciate your jokes, Detective. I really do. But right now I need you to hear me. I am the man who killed Luis and Marisol Fernandez. If for whatever reason you have cause to doubt me, I’m happy to furnish you with details of the crimes. Details not released to the press.”

  “I believe you.”

  Daniel was impressed by Czarcik’s stoicism. He assumed the detective had plenty of experience in precarious situations. But he had also read that longtime drug addiction caused irrevocable damage to various receptors in users’ brains, leading to muted or abnormal responses to stimuli—not so unlike his own situation. He had to make sure that Czarcik understood who was in control.

  “I’m going to toss you a manila envelope,” Daniel said. “Please open it.” He bent forward and felt around on the bed, never taking his eyes, or his gun, away from Czarcik. After a few seconds of groping, he found the corner of the envelope, picked it up, and threw it next to Czarcik.

  The detective stared at the object as if it were a poisonous snake preparing to strike. Daniel smiled, amused. “Go ahead, it’s not going to bite you.” And then quieter. “Literally, that is.”

  Czarcik was mentally going through his options.

  He considered feigning a seizure, a messy and generally ineffective ploy that actually had worked once in the past. Czarcik had been called to a South Side chicken shack to find some punk hopped up on PCP, holding up the place. Afraid the gunman was going to accidently discharge his weapon, Czarcik fell to the ground and gave the performance of a lifetime, momentarily confusing the suspect so he could be subdued.

  Right now, this was unlikely to work. As accommodating and slightly nervous as Groucho appeared, aggressive action on Czarcik’s part might change the dynamic. He had seen rational, seemingly agreeable criminals turn deadly once they were threatened. Although this wasn’t a man who seemed prone to impulsivity, Czarcik wasn’t taking any chances. The best thing to do, at least for now, was play along. It was Groucho’s game; he had the gun.

  Czarcik tore open the top of the envelope and tapped out a small pile of eight-by-ten glossies. The photos had all been taken over the course of the past week. The first few showed Czarcik entering his motel room, then leaving his motel room; his escort entering his motel room, and then leaving his motel room. A devious husband might be able to explain them away to a willfully ignorant spouse. That’s not really me. They were taken a long time ago. These pictures have been altered. Besides, all the photos really showed were Czarcik going in and out of various motel rooms, then provocatively dressed women going in and out of those same rooms. There were no time stamps on the photos, and even if there had been, time stamps were notoriously easy to manipulate.

  Less easy to manipulate were the photos of Czarcik in bed. Both he and the escorts were dressed; that wasn’t the problem. The problem was his service revolver and the cocaine, both of which were clearly visible on the nightstand. The final photos in the stack were close-ups of the incriminating items.

  The photographs had all been taken using a high-powered telephoto lens—through the blinds. Czarcik had taken so many unnecessary precautions but had forgotten to draw the shades completely.

  “What are you going to do with these?” he asked.

  “I hope nothing,” Groucho replied, adjusting his glasses again.

  Czarcik gathered up all the photos into a stack and returned them to the envelope. Groucho was studying his every move.

  “So what?” Czarcik retorted, full of bluster. “If you would’ve had the balls to have come inside, instead of skulking around outside, you could have gotten some even better photos. I don’t know how long you’ve been following me. But if it’s been a while, I imagine you must know that I couldn’t begin to give two shits what anybody thinks of me or how I choose to live my life.”

  “Is that why you frequent different motels, under different names, paying for different women every time?”

  Czarcik smiled. “If you’re trying to blackmail me, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Groucho considered the suggestion, nodding. “You’re right.” He took Czarcik’s gun and tossed it to the detective. It bounced once on the bed and came to rest against Czarcik’s thigh.

  Czarcik stared at the gun. A trick. It had to be. The second he went for his piece, Groucho would . . . but what could Groucho do? He couldn’t beat Czarcik to the gun, which there was no reason for him to have relinquished in the first place.

  The man was clearly out of his mind, the only logical explanation. Of course, Czarcik had a gun within his reach and wasn’t using it. So who was the crazy one?

  Finally, he picked up the weapon and pointed it at Groucho.

  Although he felt the familiar heft and instinctively knew that it was loaded, he half-expected a flag to appear with the word Boom written on it, or maybe even a stream of water. Groucho would then twirl his bow tie, breaking into some classic Marx Brothers routine, and skip out of the room, leaving Czarcik to ponder the most realistic dream he had ever had. Down
deep, he knew he wasn’t so lucky.

  Czarcik kept a firm grip on the gun but placed it in his lap and spoke forcefully. “So what’s to prevent me from blowing your fucking brains out all over my nice clean sheets? I’d be justified, of course. Breaking and entering. Self-defense by even the strictest definition.”

  Groucho nodded. “I have no doubt you’re right. I’m not up to date on the laws governing the use of deadly force, but I’ll take your word for it.”

  Czarcik lifted the gun. He threaded his finger through the trigger guard. “So I ask again, what’s to stop me?”

  “Right now, copies of those very same pictures are in three private mailboxes around the Chicagoland area. Only I know their locations. And unless I leave here unharmed, and collect my envelopes before the postman arrives tomorrow, those photos will reach the desk of the attorney general, Commissioner Parseghian, and Chief Watkins, in”—Groucho glanced at his watch—“approximately two to three days. Maybe a little longer. Sad state of the postal service nowadays.”

  “I already told you, I don’t give a fuck what anybody thinks. Least of all Watkins and the AG.”

  “Thinks. No, I know you don’t care what anyone thinks. But these photos show at least four or five egregious criminal violations. Felony drug possession. Solicitation. Failure to secure one’s weapon. And probably one or two more offenses an ambitious DA could drum up. You’d lose your job and, more importantly, your pension. You’d be left with nothing. Of course, I am aware that the department—specifically, the Chicago Police Department—tends to take care of its own. But you’re not really one of their own, are you?” He tilted his head to the side, as if considering a thought. “Then again, maybe Chief Watkins isn’t that much of a stickler for protocol. He seems like the type who’d put his neck on the line for a fellow law enforcement compadre, no?”

  The room felt warmer than usual, almost as if Czarcik’s anger had ratcheted up the temperature. He sneered at Groucho. Any amount of respect he once had for the man was gone. He considered calling the comedian’s bluff and redecorating the wall with his gray matter. If only he thought Groucho was bluffing.

  It was physically painful for Czarcik to get the words out. “What do you want?”

  Groucho flinched, his surprise evident by his body language, even if the mask didn’t register an expression. “Detective, it couldn’t be more obvious.” Czarcik didn’t take the bait, so Groucho continued. “I want you to leave me alone.”

  Under different circumstances, Czarcik might have found the whole surreal situation nearly comical. “You know I can’t do that,” he said finally.

  “I wish you could,” Groucho said. He hung his head. “I mean, in many ways, I’m doing your job for you.”

  Czarcik could no longer contain himself. He laughed contemptibly. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” Groucho’s tone was measured. Serious.

  Czarcik knew that the more he kept Groucho talking, the greater his chance of getting him to slip up. Getting him to divulge something that might reveal his identity.

  “Indulge me, then.”

  Daniel sighed. Maybe this detective wasn’t as sharp as he thought. After all, he had arrested the wrong man. About this, Daniel had given Czarcik the benefit of the doubt; this Oakes fellow must have had some connection to the Fernandezes. But maybe the detective was just incompetent.

  “I’ve been watching you, Detective. Every day since your press conference. I know you like old movies. Cop shows. The good ones. The classics.” Daniel assumed that Czarcik was proud of his discriminating taste. “I assume you’re familiar with Taxi Driver?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, then you remember Travis Bickle’s famous line.”

  Czarcik paused for a moment. “You talkin’ to me?”

  Behind the mask, Daniel smiled. “Yes, of course. But I was thinking of something more profound. And relevant to our current situation.”

  Czarcik shrugged. “I’m at a loss.”

  “It’s when we see Travis’s apartment for the first time, and he’s talking about the scum. You remember?”

  “I do.”

  Daniel leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. Behind the thin plastic of the glasses, his pupils contracted as he neared the light from the bedside lamp. “Well, Detective Paul Czarcik . . . I’m that rain.”

  Czarcik allowed the words to hang in the air. He spoke. “You’re crazy.”

  Daniel laughed, but it wasn’t a cruel and cutting laugh. It was relaxed, almost relieved.

  “We both know that’s not true, Detective. By any measure. I’m not a paranoid schizophrenic. I don’t suffer auditory or visual hallucinations. I know the government isn’t out to abduct me—although they probably would like some old parking tickets paid. My thoughts are the furthest thing from being confused or fragmented. In fact, I’ve actually been accused of lacking imagination. As for being a delusional psychotic, I’m not that either. I don’t believe God speaks to me and me alone. I don’t even believe in God, or any higher power for that matter. So I haven’t done what I’ve done at his behest, to gain his favor. Nor do I actually enjoy murder as some deranged narcissists do. To be honest, the thought of causing pain to others sickens me. Most serial killers—the real deviants—demonstrate antisocial tendencies at a much younger age. You know this, Detective. They usually start with small animals and then work their way up the food chain. Nobody who has these urges waits until they’re in their midforties to act upon them. So you see, even by the broadest definition of the term, I’m far from insane.”

  “Since you’re obviously a clinical diagnostician, what would you call somebody who decapitates a man, beats a woman to death, and then ties a dead chicken around her neck?”

  Daniel scratched his temple. “That depends on the circumstances.”

  “Really? In my business, we’d just call them a garden-variety nutjob.”

  Czarcik didn’t really believe this, but it’s all he had to work with. He needed to poke and prod, to pull back the bandages and pick at the scabs.

  “I trust you read the police report,” Groucho countered. “Did you see what those two monsters did?” Czarcik said nothing. “It wasn’t a rhetorical question, Detective.”

  “I did.”

  “Even under the best circumstances, I can only imagine how terrifying being a foster child must be. To be under the control of virtual strangers. With your entire well-being left in their hands. And let’s be honest, we both know how effective the child welfare agencies are. So what do you do when those same parents, the ones who have signed affidavits pledging to protect you, cast off the veneer of humanity? When they reveal their true nature?”

  Groucho shook his head, then continued. “The six-year-old had cigarette burns all over his body. Dozens of them. Then, after being slowly starved, his punishment for seeking food—the sustenance of life—was being tied up with a dead chicken around his neck. What evil could do that to a child? What evil could allow it?”

  The hint of a frown crept out from beneath Groucho’s mustache.

  “You and I, we both live in the real world, Detective. You tell me. Was a nominal jail stay a just punishment?”

  “How can I be sure you actually killed the Fernandezes?” Czarcik asked, ignoring the question. “Maybe Fenton Oakes really did do it—or maybe he didn’t; maybe it was someone else, and you’re one of those degenerates who gets a perverse thrill out of taking credit. You know the type I’m talking about. Whenever there’s a high-profile crime, from the Tylenol Murders to Dahmer, we’re inundated with calls from folks claiming they were responsible. I mean, what proof can you actually show me? Mr. Fernandez’s head?”

  “I disposed of the head appropriately.”

  “How convenient.”

  Until now, it had never occurred to Daniel that Czarcik might not believe him. Would he really have broken into Czarcik’s apartment if he were not in fact the killer? Would anybody in their right mind—or even in their
wrong mind—do such a thing? After all, it hadn’t been easy. This was no Watergate job. It took skill and planning. First there was the reconnaissance necessary to obtain all the photographs. After that, Daniel needed a foolproof way to obtain entry into the apartment at will. He picked a time when he knew Czarcik would be gone for hours. Wearing a utility-worker uniform, he hovered outside the front door to the building for less than five minutes before some blissfully ignorant resident ushered him inside. He smiled and thanked her, not particularly surprised; he had a trustworthy face. He knocked on Czarcik’s apartment door, and as he pretended to wait, he forced a fast-hardening liquid epoxy into the lock. From this, a key could be fashioned by any competent locksmith for the right price. And in Chicago, there were plenty of enterprising individuals more than happy to do so.

  As for the alarm, cutting the wires or destroying the transformer would only alert the security company. Daniel needed the keypad code. Fortunately, Czarcik often disarmed the system with his door still open. A tiny and extremely sensitive microphone placed flush against the doorframe, out of Czarcik’s sight, recorded the distinct electronic beeps. Daniel then ran them through a free computer program that translated them into the corresponding numbers. He found it especially funny that Czarcik’s code was 0000. The detective was either fearless or a fool.

  “Well, what proof do you need?” Daniel asked, speaking quickly, afraid his voice might crack.

  If Czarcik had had time, he could have crafted the perfect answer to trip up Groucho. Something to make him unwittingly reveal his true identity or, at the very least, his next victim. Unfortunately, the toxic cocktail of cocaine, adrenaline, and the last vestiges of sleep wasn’t conducive to analytical thought.

  “Why don’t you tell me about Judge Robertson? Why kill him?”

  The moment the question left his lips, Czarcik wished he could have reached into the darkness of the bedroom and yanked it back.