A Simple Act of Violence

by R.J. Ellory

  ‘Excuse the melodrama,’ he said. His voice was raspy. It caught in the back of his throat. ‘Gonna die sooner or later, you know? Figure there’s some scenery left so I’m taking the long way round. Never fucking smoked, had a drink maybe five, ten times a year. Did my job, stayed faithful to my wife, raised my kids good, ’cept one of them turned out to be a faggot, for God’s sake . . . do everything right ninety percent of the time and this is what I get.’ He raised the mask and breathed deeply once more, and then he looked back at Miller and Roth.

  ‘I was a precinct captain . . . I had the politics and protocol, I had funerals of Killed In Actions, I had overtime budgets and IAD all over the place, all the shit that goes with that neighborhood. I sent a guy out to Port Orchard, I get this McCullough in exchange. He makes some noise, some black CI gets killed, the bust goes to hell, it’s all over within a handful of days. Things moved so fast down there, you know? Even when the shit hit the fan there was very little of it that stuck to the blades, know what I mean?’

  Miller nodded.

  ‘So what you got?’ Young asked.

  ‘We have a lot of questions about a lot of people,’ Roth replied. ‘Seems every victim was screened as a government employee.’

  Young smiled. ‘You don’t say?’

  ‘We don’t have an explanation for that,’ Roth said. ‘And McCullough doesn’t appear on that system, and there’s no record of where he went after he resigned, and even his pension goes to a bank account that never received the money.’

  ‘A ghost you have then,’ Young replied. ‘You think he was federal?’

  ‘We don’t know. Line we’re looking at is whether or not the victims were witness protection, and whoever is killing them—’

  ‘That was my thought,’ Young cut in. ‘Witness protection people are screened through that same system as far as I know. Whatever the fuck anyone tells you about that program, their names and addresses, their pictures, their aliases, all that shit is kept on files which you can access in most police precincts. Witness protection isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

  Roth leaned forward. ‘And then there’s John Robey,’ he said quietly, and he glanced at Miller, and the mere fact that Miller didn’t look back at him disapprovingly, the fact that Miller kept looking right at Young to gauge his reaction to the name, told Roth that Miller was interested in anything that Young might be able to help them with.

  ‘Who?’ Young asked.

  ‘John Robey,’ Miller repeated. ‘He’s a guy we’ve got floating around the edges of this thing.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Young said. ‘Tell me who this guy is.’

  Miller leaned back in his chair. He started talking - went right back to Natasha Joyce, the fact that someone went to the projects with Catherine Sheridan to see Darryl King, that Robey had been identified from the photographs beneath Sheridan’s bed, all the way to the last discussion about Nicaragua in Robey’s apartment, the connection to the newspaper clipping beneath the mattress . . .

  Young was silent for some time. The only sound in the room was the strain of his breathing. After a few minutes he reached for his oxygen mask again and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes and leaned back. For a moment Miller thought he might have drifted off.

  ‘Special Forces,’ Young said eventually. ‘Special Forces or Delta maybe. Ex-military. These guys are all for hire for the best price. Some of them lose it, you know? They become mercenaries, hired guns. Some of the worst messes we ever got into as a country have been started by people like this. The thing with Bush Senior and Noriega. He put that asshole in power back whenever, and as soon as Noriega started unloading too much coke Bush sends in the gunships. They had a crew of ex-Delta and Special Forces in Old Town, hooked them up with the anti-Noriega rebels, and what the fuck happens? The gunships bomb the wrong target, blow the hell out of everyone down there so there’s no-one on the ground to back up the incoming troops. Those kind of people do this kind of work.’ Young breathed deeply; his eyes rolled backward as if he was truly exhausted.

  Eventually he looked up, anemically pale, his eyes clouded over, spittle covering his chin. ‘Seems to me you have a bigger mess than I imagined, detectives. Looks like you have someone out there disconnecting people from something. Has to be a link between the victims. Maybe not the black woman, I don’t know. Maybe she got herself killed because someone thought it made sense to tidy up the playing field. But these others? All of them have questions about their respective identities. Too many coincidences, but hell, I’m telling you something you already know.’

  Miller nodded in affirmation.

  ‘Dangerous fucking ground you’re walking on,’ Young said. ‘Chasing ghosts over thin ice, right?’

  ‘I don’t understand what we have—’ Miller started.

  ‘Want my advice?’ Young asked. ‘Hell, for what it’s worth, my advice is stick with what you have, not what you don’t have. You like this guy Robey for this thing?’

  ‘For something, yes. I don’t know that he’s the one.’

  ‘Well, he’s a name. He’s a face. He’s someone right there in front of you. The victims . . . well, they’re victims, right? They’re not gonna tell you anything they haven’t already. And McCullough? He’s somewhere, God only knows where, but you don’t have him right now. You have John Robey. At least he’s talking to you. He might not be saying a helluva lot, but at least he’s saying something. Work that line, that’s my advice to you. Work on Robey and see what he gives you.’

  Miller looked away. He wanted to tell Young about the hairbrush, could feel it right there in his jacket pocket, wondered what he’d have done had he been alone with the man. But he could not. He would not have known what to say. The position he had created for himself was untenable, almost unbearable, and he hoped like hell that Robey would let him back into his apartment, if only to give him a chance to return the thing.

  Roth glanced at his watch. ‘He’ll be out of school in a little while,’ he said.

  Miller rose from his chair. At once he saw something in Young’s expression - perhaps some relief that they were leaving, a chance to rest, to recover something of the strength he had expended - but also a feeling of loss.

  Miller did not embarrass Young by trying to shake hands, but merely stepped forward and gripped the man’s shoulder firmly. ‘You have helped us a great deal,’ he said. ‘I’ll come let you know what happens.’

  ‘Before I read it in the funny papers, right?’ Young said. He tried a smile, but he was too fatigued.

  Before they left the facility they thanked Carol Inchman for her help, told her that Young had been of great assistance.

  ‘Don’t think he’ll be around for much longer,’ she said. ‘Hell of a thing, a man like that. He lost his wife a few years ago, and—’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t want to hear this, and I shouldn’t really be telling you.’

  Miller extended his hand. ‘We have to go,’ he said, his voice sympathetic. ‘We have to catch up with someone before they disappear.’

  Carol Inchman shook hands with Miller, with Roth also, and then returned to her office.

  Neither detective spoke until they reached the car. Then Miller said, ‘Back to the college. See if we can’t get there before he leaves for the day.’

  Inevitability.

  I’ll tell you about inevitability.

  Death and taxes, right? They’re inevitable.

  Tell you what else is inevitable. Love, that’s what. Inevitable like gravity.

  Taxes you can avoid. People cheat death, or at least postpone it. You read that in newspaper headlines. Man Cheats Death kind of thing, you know?

  But show me someone who’s never loved anyone.

  I’m not talking about lust. Not talking about wanting to be with someone so bad it hurts. Not talking about fraternal, maternal, paternal, avuncular. Not about adoring someone, or worshipping, or caring for someone more than anyone you’ve ever cared for before . . .

  I’m talking ab
out love.

  Love so strong you can’t see it, feel it, touch it, taste it; can’t hear it, can’t speak it, can’t define or describe or detail or delineate; cannot explain or rationalize or justify or reason it all out over a glass of bourbon and a pack of Luckies . . .

  Love so strong you don’t really know how hard it’s holding you until you try to move . . . And you find you can’t.

  You’re stuck tight, and you realize that what you’re experiencing is something that’s as much a part of you as anything you ever believed was your own.

  It is you. You are it.

  And you’re done for.

  It’s something you feel for so long, and you feel it is so much a part of you, that whatever happens, whatever the person you love might do, you’d consider it inhuman not to go on loving them for ever.

  That’s love . . . what I felt for Catherine Sheridan.

  And something else that’s inevitable? That Robert Miller will find me. He’ll find me because I want him to. Because we finally concluded that this thing had to end.

  I recall Don Carvalho, the question I wanted to ask so many years before. I can see him sitting there in front of me, see the expression on his face, the quizzical light in his eyes.

  ‘You have a question? You want to ask me if there was someone within the United States Intelligence community who organized, orchestrated, paid for, or in some way contributed directly or indirectly to the attempt to kill President Reagan?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’re not going to tell me that that sort of thing really happens, are you?’

  Carvalho smiled. ‘Kennedy?’ he said. ‘Both Kennedys, Martin Luther King - even Nixon was assassinated in his own special way.’

  I said nothing. I knew, but I did not want to know.

  ‘You heard what Reagan said when his wife came to the hospital?’

  ‘Some line from a movie . . . something about forgetting to duck, right?’

  Don Carvalho nodded. ‘Honey, I forgot to duck. That’s what he said. Why would he say that, John? He forgot? Surely you only forget what you’ve already been told to do.’

  ‘He was told to duck?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ Don said. ‘I don’t have an opinion about this one way or the other. Specific events mean nothing. Reagan’s assassination attempt will be forgotten in five years’ time. It’s not the attempt to kill him that means something, it’s that someone could even get that close that’s really the disconcerting fact here.’

  ‘But what about Kennedy?’ I asked. ‘Kennedy said that anyone could be killed if the killer was prepared to lay down his own life.’

  Don laughed. ‘Of course he said that. Kennedy said a lot of things. Doesn’t mean that they were true. Kennedy was the golden boy, the one to save the nation, and then he became a pain in the ass just like the rest of them. They created him, just as they’d created every single one before him, and when they had him they realized it had been a terrible, terrible mistake.’

  ‘What does Lawrence Matthews call it? The sacred monster?’

  Carvalho smiled. ‘Better believe it, my friend . . . you better fucking believe it.’

  FORTY-THREE

  Miller and Roth drove to the college campus, learned that Robey had left some minutes before their arrival, and it was at that point that they decided to separate.

  ‘McCullough,’ Roth said. ‘That’s what I want. Young said that he replaced the original guy assigned to the Seventh. Well, he must have come from somewhere. He must be in the system—’

  ‘Thing I’m learning on this one is that nothing is what it’s supposed to be,’ Miller replied.

  ‘Regardless, the guy was a cop. There’s the records we found at the Fourth when we spoke to Gerrity . . . at least that’s a start.’

  ‘See if you can’t find out what the earlier drug bust was all about, the one from September,’ Miller said. ‘The one where the stuff went missing from evidence.’

  ‘I’ll find whatever I can,’ Roth said. ‘So - Robey’s apartment next?’

  They reached the corner of Franklin and New Jersey and pulled over. ‘Going to walk the last block,’ Miller said.

  ‘And if he’s not there?’

  ‘I’ll find a coffee shop or something. I’ll wait half an hour or so and then go back to the apartment.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘We don’t have anything concrete. Six days since Catherine Sheridan was murdered, right?’ Miller shook his head slowly. ‘We haven’t even gotten to Natasha’s apartment, let alone the other victims’ houses for God’s sake. Do whatever you can on McCullough, and see if you can’t get Metz and Oliver to get some of these records together on the phones and the internet usage.’

  He got out of the car. Roth came around the front and got in the driver’s side.

  Miller buried his hands in his pockets, watched until Roth drove out of sight, and then started walking to Robey’s apartment.

  ‘Detective Miller,’ John Robey said matter-of-factly when he opened the door.

  ‘Professor Robey. Have some more questions if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact I’m rather busy marking some test papers. Could this wait for another day?’

  Miller took a deep breath. He felt the weight of the brush in his pocket. ‘I’m sorry, no, it really can’t wait. I am following numerous lines of investigation relating to these murders, and there’s certain questions I have that I think only you will be able to answer for me.’

  There was a momentary flash of exasperation in Robey’s expression, and then he stepped back, opened the door, asked Miller to come in.

  ‘You want some coffee or something?’ Robey asked.

  ‘Yes . . . please, that would be good.’

  ‘How d’you take it?’

  ‘Cream, no sugar,’ he said. ‘And could I possibly use your bathroom again?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You know where it is.’

  Miller made his way down the corridor, entered the bathroom, ensured the door was locked securely behind him, and then carefully withdrew the plastic evidence bag from his jacket pocket. He waited a couple of minutes, and then he depressed the flush lever, used the sound of rushing water to obscure the rustling of the bag as he took out the hairbrush, opened the medicine cabinet above the sink, and replaced it precisely where he’d found it. He folded the bag neatly, tucked it into his pocket, and then turned on the faucet as if washing his hands.

  The sense of relief he felt as he stepped back into Robey’s front room was immense. He knew how utterly reckless and ill-considered his action had been. He could not bear to think what might have happened had Lassiter or Nanci Cohen learned of what he’d done.

  ‘Your coffee,’ Robey said, and indicated a cup on the low table centering the room.

  They sat in facing chairs, Robey with his back to the window.

  ‘So you have some further questions, detective.’

  ‘I do, yes. Last time we spoke . . . last time I was here, you were talking about Nicaragua. You talked about a lot of things . . . some of them I don’t remember too well.’

  ‘You were very tired I think,’ Robey said. ‘I myself have spent a little time thinking about who you might believe I am . . .’

  Miller smiled.

  ‘You find that amusing?’

  ‘Amusing? No, not amusing. People don’t just smile when something is funny. They smile when they recognize a truth where it wasn’t expected.’

  ‘And what truth did you recognize?’

  ‘That we spend so much of our time concerning ourselves with what others might think of us.’

  ‘My interest wasn’t prompted by vanity or egotism, detective. Perhaps self-preservation . . .’

  ‘Self-preservation?’

  ‘Everything we do is driven by self-preservation, and if not self-preservation then the preservation of something that we consider is ours. Your killer here, he does these things because something is threatened pe
rhaps.’

  ‘An individual who does these things must be insane. He must be, or he wouldn’t do them.’

  ‘By whose standards?’

  ‘Ours,’ Miller said. ‘Society’s standards. The rules and regulations we have agreed to.’

  ‘And that is the standard against which you can consider someone insane?’ Robey asked. ‘You forget so easily the discussion we had last time you were here?’

  ‘About what? About Nicaragua? About the cocaine that was smuggled into the U.S.?’

  ‘Is being smuggled, detective. This still continues today. Would you not consider that such things were the work of insane men?’

  ‘Of course I would . . . certainly by men who believe money has greater worth than human life.’

  ‘You have to look at the bigger picture,’ Robey said.

  ‘And that would be?’

  ‘I’m sorry to harp on about Nicaragua,’ Robey said, ‘but it’s a subject that’s close to my heart—’

  ‘Why is that, Professor Robey, why is Nicaragua so close to your heart?’

  ‘I lost a friend some years ago. He was a good man, a colleague of mine. He found out that his son was a drug addict. He came to me, he asked me for help, but I knew nothing about such things. The son overdosed before his father could do anything effective to help him, and the loss hit him so hard he never recovered. Four months after the death of his son he committed suicide. He was a truly exceptional scholar, and I can honestly say that I have never felt so impotent in my life.’

  ‘And how does this connect to Nicaragua?’

  ‘That’s where he was from. At least that’s where his family was from. He managed to get out before Reagan’s war really tore the country apart, but his son stayed behind, fought with the Contras for a while, and that’s where he first became acquainted with drugs.’

  ‘I am sorry, professor—’

  Robey waved his hand nonchalantly. ‘Like I said, it was all of twenty years ago. The experience taught me something however. It taught me that pretending not to see such things does not lessen their effect. In fact, it has been said that the less one faces something the greater the chance it has to master you . . . like your little difficulty some months ago.’