Robby the R-Word

by Leif Wright

  That assuredness, however, didn’t keep him from shouting “holy shit” when his door burst open, slamming against the wall. In the doorway stood a pudgy, bald man with a wooden tire thumper in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.

  With a speed that belied his girth, the bald man ran into the room, closing the door behind him, while the hand holding the club had moved to his mouth, single finger held over pursed lips in the “shhh” sign. Brien’s eyes widened, and he wasn’t sure he could have made a noise if he wanted to.

  The man handed the paper to Brien and whispered, “Look at that picture and you’ll know why I’m here.”

  The bishop looked at the picture and the memory came flooding back. He had long ago repented, and it had seemed at the time to be a victimless sin. But the fact that this strange-looking man was here proved that someone had been a victim; someone remembered. The forgiveness he had sought from God hadn’t healed someone. Tears welled up in his eyes as he realized he deserved whatever this man was about to do.

  “There it is,” the man said in a low, confident voice. “You remember.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Sean Brien’s vision went white and he heard a dull thwock sound. He felt no pain, strangely, but he knew he had been hit in the head with the tire thumper. The second hit did hurt. Stars went across his otherwise black vision and he felt and heard his body hit the floor. He heard the man’s feet shuffle, then another blow rendered him unconscious.

  17

  “HEY, DECAF, I THINK WE MIGHT HAVE A WITNESS WHO CAN ID YOUR GUY.”

  Russell’s voice shook Bain out of the video-induced haze she was in. So far, she had noted five similar-looking cars at both locations at the appropriate times, and she had marked down their locations in the videos for further review after she was done with all the videos. Still, what Russell had said didn’t register.

  She rubbed her eyes. “Do what?”

  “New victim,” Russell said. “Same MO. This one is alive and can talk.”

  Bain shook her head. “My guy? The one cracking people in the heads?”

  “Yup,” Russell said. “He’s at the hospital, but he won’t be for long. Got his bell rung, but no permanent damage.”

  “Holy shit! Let’s get over there! You drive; I’m shot.”

  They ran to Russell’s squad car. Bain hadn’t realized how much she missed driving hot—with the lights and sirens—until Russell fired them up. This is what it felt like to be a cop. The hospital was only a couple of miles away, but it still felt good to be riding hot for a few minutes.

  “One more thing,” he said as he drove around a car stopped in a turn lane. No one ever knew what to do when red and blues were coming up behind them. “This guy, he’s the bishop of the Catholic Church around here.”

  “Seriously?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  A Catholic bishop might make a stellar witness, Bain thought. Maybe. “Who would attack a bishop?” she wondered aloud.

  “Gives a whole new meaning to ‘bop the bishop’,” he said.

  Bain punched him in the arm. “Gross,” she said without conviction. “Boys are so gross.”

  “Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails.”

  “Dork.”

  They arrived at the hospital, and because it was a marked car, Russell parked in front of the main entrance. A few badge flashes and they were being escorted by a nurse who looked put out at being asked to be a tour guide to two cops. The nurse, however, said nothing, instead guiding them to the exam room, where a young-looking bishop was sporting a bandage around his head, but looking otherwise none the worse for wear.

  “Bishop,” Bain said, “I’m Detective Bain and this is Officer Russell. We have a couple of questions for you if you have a few minutes.”

  “Are you Catholic?” he asked, to which both shook their heads. “Then just call me Sean.”

  Bain nodded. “My understanding is you got a good look at the man who did this to you,” she said.

  The bishop waved her away with his hand. “I’m not sure what qualifies as ‘a good look’,” he said, “but I won’t be pressing charges anyway, so I’m sure it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why wouldn’t you press charges against someone who assaulted you?”

  “The Lord tells us to turn the other cheek,” he said, touching a bruise developing on his. “I’m taking that literally.”

  Bain shifted from one foot to the other. “I really wish you’d reconsider,” she said. “The man who attacked you may have killed a woman and permanently brain damaged another man, and if you can help us catch him, we can keep him from hurting someone else.”

  The bishop appeared to consider. He spread the fingers in both hands, putting his hands together and bowing his head, like a prayer position, but with spread fingers. Other than the black outfit and the head bandage, he could have been any guy walking down the street.

  “I just can’t press charges,” he said finally, “but I can try to help you catch him. I won’t press charges if you do, though.”

  “Good enough for me,” Bain said, pulling out a notebook and pen from her back pocket. “Had you ever seen this guy before he attacked you?”

  The bishop sat down on the bed. “Excuse me, I’m still a little dizzy,” he said. “No, I have never seen him before. I would remember. He wasn’t what you would expect for someone who beats a bishop; he was short and kind of pudgy—not the scary kind of heavy, just kind of Pillsbury Dough Boy heavy. And bald.”

  “Wait,” Bain said. “You’re telling me the guy who beat one person to death and gave another brain damage looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy?”

  “No,” he replied, gingerly shaking his head. “You said that. I was describing the man who attacked me. I don’t know anything about other people. How do you know my attacker did those other crimes?”

  “We don’t,” she said. “But the method he used with you fits the pattern our guy used on the other people. Did you see the weapon he used?”

  Brien nodded. “It was a wooden tire thumper,” he said after a swallow. “You know, the ones that look like a little baseball bat? It was a dark tan color. I see them at truck stops all the time.”

  “That helps,” Bain said. “If we go get some of them, could you identify the one he used?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “I don’t remember,” he lied. “He might have, but I can’t seem to remember if he did. My brain just got scrambled, I guess.”

  “But you remember what he looked like?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess that’s a different part of the brain. I can still see his face. He looked kind of harmless, actually. You really think my guy killed someone?”

  Bain pointed to Brien’s bandage. “He clearly wasn’t harmless,” she said. “And we hope this is indeed the guy, because it doesn’t look like he’s planning on stopping.”

  “Could you identify him from a picture?” Russell chimed in.

  “I’m certain,” Brien replied. “I can still see his face.”

  18

  THERE IT WAS, BIGGER THAN DALLAS.

  On the traffic cam from the intersection near Pearl Edwards’ house, then the intersection near Richard Turner’s house, now the parking camera outside the rectory, was the same car over and over again: a cobalt-colored Chevy Cobalt—ironic, but kind of fun, too. Inside the car in two pictures was a chubby bald man, but only in one picture was his face slightly visible. The license plate from all three, however, matched.

  She had called for Keith Moore, the department’s IT guy, to see if they could get a good print from the one where the guy’s face was kind of showing, but he was dragging his damn feet. She found herself—not for the last time—wishing real police work was like TV, where someone could yell “Enhance!” and with a couple of keystrokes, some computer genius could sharpen and clarify a blurry, fuzzy photo, zoom in on a name tag, and the killer would be caught, just in time for the commerci
al. But real police work was slow, laborious, and the only “enhancing” going on was that of the prospects of early retirement due to exhaustion.

  Her office phone rang, the little blip afterward indicating it was an internal call.

  “Bain,” she said as she picked up the handset.

  “Detective Bain, I’ve got a psychologist …” the voice paused, then sighed. “Sorry, a psychiatrist at the front desk who says he has information about a murder and an assault on a bishop.”

  “Send him back, Nancy,” Bain responded. After three minutes, a well-dressed, kind of handsome man knocked on her door.

  “Detective Bain?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Dr. Henry Lipscomb. Is there any way I can come in and close the door?”

  Bain motioned him in. She had practiced not getting excited about things like this, but she had already caught a huge break with the bishop, and the videos looked like they might help too, so maybe this case was just going to go her way.

  Lipscomb came in and stared at the chair in front of Bain’s desk, which was currently doubling as a second desk, with a box of papers sitting on it.

  “Oh,” she said, pushing away with her hand. “Just put that on the floor.”

  “Thank you,” he said, bending over and picking the box up from the chair and setting it on the floor before sitting down. “I have a client who might be involved in some cases you’re investigating, but I could lose my license by telling you anything. I’m torn, because it seems to me he might not stop, but I’m not keen on losing my livelihood, either.”

  Bain leaned back in her chair. “I’m not sure what you’re wanting, Doctor—”

  “Lipscomb,” he finished for her. “I’m not sure either. I want to make sure he stops, but I also don’t want to destroy my career.”

  Bain stared at him silently, trying to judge his character just by the looks of him. He looked like what she considered to be a typical psychiatrist, well-groomed, expensive suit, understanding eyes.

  “Tell you what,” she said, leaning forward. “If you give me information that I can verify through other sources, I will use you as a confidential informant. Anything you say to me would be reflected on my reports as ‘CI’, and your name would never appear.”

  “Can we make sure the reports don’t say anything about therapy?”

  “Of course. I would omit anything that might identify you as the source. But if you give me bullshit, all bets are off—and I’ll probably arrest you for obstruction for wasting my time.”

  Lipscomb swallowed audibly. “I can live with that,” he said. “I can’t sleep if I don’t try to stop this guy.”

  “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  “Great place to start,” he said, small smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “I’ll skip the boring parts. A year or so ago, I got a new patient; a short, pudgy bald guy whose wife had left him for a swinging dick at his office. Sorry.”

  Bain laughed. “I’m a woman at a police station. You can’t say any locker room bullshit that I haven’t already heard. Just tell the story and don’t worry about my delicate ears.”

  Lipscomb returned the laugh. “The guy was all worked up about what a pansy he was,” he continued. “Most of our sessions were about him trying to figure out why he was such a tub of shit pussy. Forgive the … never mind.”

  Bain nodded.

  “Anyway, a few weeks ago, he changed. It wasn’t subtle, either. He looked like a million bucks, and he started asking me questions about confidentiality, what I could or couldn’t tell the cops about what we discussed.”

  “Which explains why you’re so worried about it,” she said.

  “Partially,” he agreed. “So after I told him I wouldn’t talk to the police about whatever he told me, he blurted out that he killed an old woman with a tire thumper.”

  “A tire thumper?” she interrupted. “He said that specifically?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I reviewed the tape just today.”

  “Did he know you were taping him?”

  “No. The tapes are for my ears only; they help me diagnose and treat my patients. No one ever hears them, and I find if patients know they’re being taped, they tend to perform instead of just talking.”

  “Any chance I—”

  “No. No way. I’m sorry, but I’m not willing to go that far.”

  “I understand. Damn.”

  “So at first, I thought he was kidding or fantasizing, but he went into great detail about how the woman defecated when he was beating her, about how she bit him, and how he slipped in her blood and excrement. I asked him if he was planning to hurt anyone else, and he said ‘I’m cured,’ and promised he wouldn’t. That night, I Googled the crime, and it seemed he might be telling the truth, but he seemed sincere when he said he wouldn’t do it again. But today, he told me he put a bishop in the hospital.”

  “A bishop?” The bishop’s assault hadn’t been publicized, and it didn’t seem that it ever would be.

  “Yes, a bishop,” he said. “He told me he hadn’t intended to kill the old woman, and he was proud of himself that he had only put the bishop in the hospital instead of killing him. He talked about it for forty-five minutes.”

  “Did he say why he was doing these beatings?”

  “No. He just kept saying they deserved it and they knew why he was doing it. He said the bishop even admitted he knew why he was being beaten.”

  “Hm,” Bain said unintentionally. “Did he say he had plans for more?”

  “No. But he said that after the old lady too. I think he does have plans to do more, and I think it’s dangerous for him to be on the loose.”

  “Did he mention hurting anyone else?”

  “No. But he alluded that there might have been another. He didn’t seem interested in clarifying.”

  “Got a name for this guy?”

  “Chris Jackson,” Lipscomb said. “I can give you his billing address, but you can’t let that come back on me.”

  “No problem,” she said. “Hey, could you identify him from a fuzzy picture?”

  “I stare at him for an hour every week,” he said. “I think I could pick him out of a crowd, yes.”

  Bain turned her monitor around.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “That’s him! You already had him!”

  “No,” she said. “I was just starting to sniff his tracks. But I have DNA from one of the crime scenes, so if I can get a warrant, I can confirm that he’s our guy. I gotta tell you, I’m going to go through a lot less caffeine because of you. My blood pressure is in your debt.”

  He laughed. “I didn’t do it for you, beg your pardon,” he said. “I have to live with myself.”

  “Good deal,” she said, handing him her card. “Will you call me if you remember anything else?”

  “Of course. Thank you for keeping my name out of it.”

  “If I haven’t arrested him by your next session with him, you should call in sick,” she said. “This guy is dangerous.”

  “No problem. I know this is bad for a therapist to say, but he creeps me out.”

  Bain laughed. As soon as he left, she couldn’t control herself anymore. “Fuckin’ A!” she shouted.

  19

  “I THINK YOU’RE GOING TO NEED MORE THAN A CONFIDENTIAL INFORMANT to get a warrant for someone’s DNA,” Chief Dreadfulwater said. “It’s good, but a witness who won’t identify himself falls short of probable cause in a judge’s mind.”

  If Bain hadn’t half expected that answer, she would have been crestfallen. Instead, she fired back. “The witness identified our suspect from traffic camera footage—the same suspect who appears near all three crime scenes.”

  “Still not enough, Decaf,” he replied. Bain made a mental note to kick Russell’s ass for letting the chief in on her new nickname. “See if you can get the priest to identify him from the video. Then you might get a warrant.”

  “Bishop,” she said. “He’s a bishop.”

&n
bsp; “Whatever. You’re doing a good job on this case. Start looking for area stores that sell tire thumpers. And I’ll call John Humphrey and tell him he’s a shitty investigator.”

  Bain laughed. “Don’t do that,” she said. “I like him.”

  “So do I. Which is why I’m going to tell him how awful he is at his job. Keep up the good work. Did your CI give you a motive?”

  “No. He said the perp just told him they deserved it, but wouldn’t say why.”

  “I have trouble believing an old woman deserved to be beaten to death on a toilet,” he said.

  “Never know, maybe she was a royal cunt.”

  Dreadfulwater spit out the coffee he had just sipped. “Get the hell out of my office before I ruin my computer,” he said, smiling. “I can see why Humphrey likes you so much. Jesus.”

  Bain smiled and turned around. This case was looking up. The jubilation, however, was short-lived.

  Back in her office, Bain found herself on the business end of a bishop suddenly clamming up.

  “I’ve decided cooperating with your investigation is precariously close to me taking out vengeance that belongs to the Lord,” Father Brien said. “I don’t know if you believe the Bible, but in the Old Testament, King David set the example for us when he refused to take God’s destiny for him into his own hands. I have to leave this up to God. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not asking you to take vengeance,” Bain said into the phone, bridge of her nose pinched between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m just asking you to identify the man who attacked you. Let God work through me.”

  “I’m really sorry, Detective. I hope you solve your case; I really do. But I can’t have a hand in it. I’m sorry.”

  Bain was about to speak when a dial tone interrupted her. Hung up on by a bishop. This day sure took a turn for shit creek.