by A. W. Gray
“Not that I can remember,” Lackey said.
“Okay,” Favor said. “End of interview.” He switched off the recorder. “Now, Mr. Ferguson. You’re off the tape. Now why don’t you quit fucking us around?” He didn’t change the tone of his voice, asked the question matter-of-factly, the same way he’d spoken during the recorded question-and-answer session.
There was a quick tightening in Lackey’s throat. “Beg your pardon?”
Henley ground his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Come on, Lackey. Good-looking broad like that flouncing around in a tennis dress, you sat around and talked about building this bathhouse, huh?”
“That’s what I was there for.” Lackey’s voice rose an octave; he couldn’t help it.
Henley grinned, but his eyes were dead as unlit bulbs. “You ain’t queer or nothing, are you?”
“No. No, I’m not.”
“But you didn’t even notice that this was a good-looking broad you were talking to. I’d have damn sure noticed it. Wouldn’t you have noticed it, Mr. Favor?”
Favor made a pyramid of his hands and rested his chin on his fingertips. “No way I couldn’t have.”
“Well Lackey here didn’t notice,” Henley said. “He didn’t have nothing on his mind but that fucking bathhouse.”
Lackey swallowed. “Well, yeah. Sure, I noticed her.”
“That’s what I thought.” Henley fished in his shirt pocket for his crumpled pack, popped another cigarette into his mouth, paused with a disposable lighter inches from the tip. “That’s a good-looking bedroom.” He flicked the lighter, applied bluish flame to his cigarette, dragged and inhaled. “Lot of expensive furniture. That’s some four-poster bed, ain’t it?”
Lackey shifted his position and regarded the table. He wanted to meet Henley’s gaze, but was getting too nervous to think clearly. “I already told you, I only was in the kitchen.”
“I didn’t say you were anyplace else,” Henley said. “I just said it was a nice-looking bedroom. But since you said, I thought you were in the sitting room, too.”
“That was earlier. When I was talking to both of them.”
“You know, that’s funny,” Henley said. “Mr. Hardin didn’t say nothing about that, that they talked to you earlier. You sure it wasn’t just you and Mrs. Hardin in the sitting room? While her husband was gone?”
“No, him, too,” Lackey said. “That’s where he told me I should see his banker.”
Henley had taken charge now; it was as though it was just him and Lackey, one on one, and as though Morrison and Favor were a couple of store-window dummies. Henley laid his lighter on the table, regarded it thoughtfully, flipped the lighter over. “You fuck a lot of broads you was in the army, Lackey?”
“Huh?”
“Fuck a lot of women. Most guys do, you were overseas and all.”
Lackey did his best to look casual, but his heart was pounding and his fingertips were shaking. “I guess I did. A few. Like you say, most guys in the service.”
“Yeah, most guys. How you like to do it?” Henley said.
“I don’t get what you’re asking,” Lackey said.
“I mean, me and my old lady been married nineteen years, we always do it the same way. Always her on top, she can get her jollies better. But guys like you do a lot of different broads, you try different shit?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe some. I’m engaged now, I don’t mess around with other women.”
“You maybe like to jack off on women?” Henley said. “Show „em who’s boss?”
“Jesus Christ.” Nervous he was, but Lackey was getting a little bit mad as well. “Jesus Christ, I’ve had enough of this. I got to go.”
“Where you got to go?” Morrison broke in, the first time he’d said anything since the interview had begun.
“Go to work,” Lackey said. “Unless you guys got something else important to ask, not just a bunch of shit about my sex life.”
“You got a point,” Morrison said. “Henley’s a horse’s ass sometimes, don’t let him bug you. But, hey, before you go, there’s a couple of things we’d like for you to do.”
“Yeah,” Lackey said. “Sure, anything to help.”
“Sure, you want to help.” Favor’s voice was higher-pitched, milder than either of the detectives’, and Lackey blinked in surprise. He’d forgotten that the Assistant D.A. was even in the room. “And so we’ll know you’re not fucking us around,” Favor said, “we need to gather some physical evidence. You mind giving us a pubic hair?”
“Huh?” Lackey swept all three county men with his gaze.
“A dick-hair, Lackey,” Henley said. “So the lab guys can compare it with one or two we found on Mrs. Hardin. Since you’re such an innocent guy we know you won’t mind. We’ll even furnish the tweezers, and it won’t hurt but just for a second. One little ouch is all. The second thing we want, that’ll take a little longer, but it won’t hurt at all.”
“What second thing?” Lackey said.
Favor cleared his throat. “We need a semen sample, too, Mr. Ferguson. Take a sperm count for comparison. You’ll have to sign a form that you’re giving us this stuff voluntarily, otherwise I’ll have to get a court order. And that’s a pain in the ass and might look to somebody like you don’t want to cooperate.”
“I don’t know about this semen sample,” Lackey said, shifting nervously and crossing his legs. “How you going to take that?”
“We’re not,” Henley said. “What you’re going to do is, you’re going to jerk off into a bottle. I got to tell you I won’t like it any more than you do, „cause I got to watch you to make sure it’s your own sweet love-juice we’re getting. You got any problem with that?”
Lackey looked from Henley to Favor to Morrison, all three men watching him, all three looking as though they didn t believe a word he’d told them in the interview. Jesus, why did he have to see the ad for the bathhouse to begin with? He was really beginning to hate this Henley and was getting the idea he was going to hate the guy a whole lot more before this was over. He stood and leveled his gaze at Henley. “Naw,” Lackey said. “I don’t have any problem with that, as long as you’re going to watch me. You act like that’s something you’re wanting to do.”
It was something he’d never admit to Nancy, not if they were married for sixty years, but Lackey thought that the last time he’d masturbated had been when he was twelve. He’d done it in his bedroom, one time after Ronnie Ferias’s older sister Toni had dropped him off from school. Lackey had been sitting in the middle of the front seat on the way home, between Ronnie and Toni. Toni had been sixteen at the time and had just gotten her driver’s license; it had been in the late spring and she’d been wearing a bathing suit. When she’d pulled to a stop in front of his house, Lackey had climbed over Ronnie and run like hell through the front door so that Ronnie and Toni wouldn’t know he had a hard-on. That particular time, picturing Toni’s caramel-colored thighs stretched taut over the fabric of the car seat, Lackey hadn’t had any problem jerking off at all. But here in the men’s room at the D.A.’s office, seated in a chair by the sink while Detective Henley leaned against a water closet and kept an eye on him, Lackey thought he was never going to be able to do it. The only way he finally did was the same way he’d done it the other time, closing his eyes, blotting out the image of Henley, and bringing up a picture of Toni Ferias in her bathing suit. When he was through, Lackey cleaned himself with toilet paper and offered the specimen bottle to Henley.
“Wrap a paper towel around it,” Henley said. “I don’t want to touch it.”
“I sort of thought you did,” Lackey said. “Seems like you and me, we both got the wrong idea about each other.”
The last person that Lackey expected to see at the D.A.’s office, with all of the county lawyers, uniformed deputy sheriffs, and civil service people lurking about, was Nancy Cuellar. So when Nancy came up to him in the hall outside the men’s room, Lackey didn’t know what to say to her. She was wearing a be
ige pleated summer weight skirt and a white blouse. She came running, her brown high-heeled shoes clicking rapidly on the tiles, threw her arms around his neck and hugged him as though she hadn’t seen him in a year. She’d been crying and there were a few streaks in her light makeup.
Lackey gripped her shoulders, held her slightly away from him as he said, “Hey. Hey, babe, nobody’s died or anything. How’d you know where I was?”
“Ronnie,” she said as though she was choking, and then said softly and tearfully, “Ronnie called the office. I’ve talked to everybody in the sheriff’s office, it seems like, and nobody wanted to tell me where to find you. Mr. Brantley donated to the sheriff’s campaign last election, finally he got on the line and pulled a few strings. What are they doing to you?”
He held the point of her chin between his thumb and forefinger and raised her face, looked over the soft olive-complexioned cheeks, the wide, dark eyes like a doe’s eyes in hunting season. Lackey winked at her, and hoped he looked a lot more confident than he felt. “Nothing,” Lackey said. “Not one damn thing, babe, and don’t you worry about it. Let’s get out of here.” He put his arm around her and steered her down the hall to the elevator. On the way they passed two uniformed deputies who were wearing holstered pistols. Nancy put her arms around Lackey’s waist and hugged.
“How can I not worry?” Nancy said. “The way this is happening.”
“Because I’m not worried,” Lackey said. “And the worst thing we can do is go around hanging our heads, making people think we got something to sweat about.” He held her tighter. “Hey, Nance, you won’t believe what I’ve just been doing. Never in a million years. Wait’ll we get out of here, I’ll tell you about it.”
Lackey and Nancy left the coolness of the building, walked onto the baking sidewalk, and blinked against the glare of the sun. Mid-afternoon downtown traffic was sparse; a lowslung Mercury went by, its radials click-clicking on the red brick pavement of Belknap Street. Over near the curb, standing midway between two parking meters, Assistant D. A. Favor was holding a news conference. He was standing at attention, his fleshy jaw thrust forward, while a circle of newspeople—two young women, a blond and a redhead, both wearing business suits, and a thin, thirtyish man wearing a plaid sport coat and slacks—pointed cordless mikes and fired questions. Two guys in shirtsleeves held minicams up on their shoulders with the lenses pointed in Favor’s direction. Detective Morrison, his blond hair waving in the light hot breeze, stood beside one of the cameramen. Morrison was sweeping the streets and neighboring building with his gaze like a guy on the lookout for snipers. He spotted Lackey, touched one of the cameramen on the elbow, and pointed. The cameraman spun around and aimed his minicam, at the same time saying something over his shoulder to the redheaded newswoman. Now her face turned toward Lackey as well. She left the group and approached Lackey with her mike held ready. Lackey recognized her, the good-looking redhead from the CBS affiliate, and thought she was thinner than she appeared on TV. Her hair was permed into tight ringlets. She said loudly, “Mr. Ferguson. Mr. Ferguson, any comment on these charges?”
Nancy’s breath caught and she uttered a little sob. Lackey held her protectively around the waist and gave the newswoman a wide berth as he went past her. “No. Hell, no,” Lackey said. “Leave us alone.”
The newswoman moved the mike close to her own lips. “According to the District Attorney, you’re the prime suspect in the murder of Mrs. Percy Hardin. I should think you’d want to comment.” She thrust the microphone practically in Lackey’s ear.
Lackey froze, and his jaw slacked. To Nancy he said, “Back in a minute, babe.” He left her there and strode purposefully by the newswoman in the direction of Favor and Morrison and the reporters. Lackey’s teeth were clenched and his hands were balled into fists.
The blond dish—Lackey recognized her as well, from the ABC station, a real head-turner with rumors floating through the local papers about her possibly going to the network as the five o’clock anchor—turned toward Lackey as he approached. She appeared flustered for an instant, then composed herself and said, “Do you want to make a statement?” Her lips curved into a smile that appeared painted on. Lackey ignored her. The second minicam pointed in his direction as he went by, looking neither right nor left, and headed straight for Detective Morrison.
Morrison watched Lackey approach, and the expression on the detective said that he sensed what was coming. He spread his stance slightly and raised his hands, then drew the front of his coat aside and started to go for his pistol.
Morrison never had a chance. Lackey grabbed the knot on the county cop’s tie and yanked, thrust his own jaw forward and placed the end of his nose inches from Morrison’s. Then Lackey shoved. Hard. Morrison stumbled backwards, flailed his arms for balance, then went over the curb and tumbled into the street in a tangled pile of arms and legs.
“You son of a bitch,” Lackey said. He turned to the newspeople. “How’s that? That enough of a comment for you?”
8
Everett Wilson knew good and well that he needed to ditch the gun in the creekbed and get the hell away from there, but he couldn’t stop watching the girl. He remained still as a picture, crouched behind the thick trunk of an elm which stood tall over sycamores and weeping willows in the woods. Everett’s lips were pulled back from crooked teeth in a half-smile, half-snarl, as he peered out at the soccer field.
The girl was around fifteen years old, and she was beautiful. Soft brown hair was tied at the nape of her neck and hung straight down her back nearly to her waist, bobbing and flying in the wind as she moved. She was practicing alone, dribbling a black-and-white soccer ball between dancer’s feet, trotting a few steps, picking up speed, long lean legs flashing, smooth muscle rippling below the hem of her shorts as she thudded the side of first one foot, then the other, into the bounding ball. Firm buttocks tightened and relaxed in turn under blue satin fabric as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
In his hiding place, Everett breathed in rhythm with the girl’s stride: one graceful step forward, inhale, one catlike hop to the side, exhale. Everett’s organ was throbbing; he squeezed himself through his pants, first touching the flaccid head and then moving his fingers down to encircle the hardened shaft, finally stroking himself up and down, back and forth, in rhythm with the steps of the girl and his own breathing.
He hadn’t noticed the girl as he’d left his Volvo on an adjacent side street, then scuttled crablike through the park with a plastic garbage bag—containing the .44 Bulldog, the rubber gloves, and the shirt and pants he’d worn into Marissa Hardin’s house, along with a three-foot garden spade—slung over his shoulder like a troll headed for the treasure cache. Just as he’d been about to clamber down the earthen bank into the creekbed, the thud-slap of shoe against inflated leather had reached his ears, and he’d paused to glance in the direction of the sound. Then he’d set the bag aside and squatted behind the elm tree. He’d been rooted in place now for almost half an hour as he watched the girl.
But he had to be moving on. Had to. Couldn’t sit here watching the girl, playing with himself like some fucking pervert with this murder evidence just inches from his knee. Not a smart guy like Everett Thomas Wilson, no way. He forced himself to rise and hefted the bag onto his shoulder, walking in an embarrassed crouch to shield his hard-on from view—though no one was watching. At least he was embarrassed, which to Everett’s way of thinking proved that he wasn’t any fucking wacko. He went down the bank and stood beside the creek.
He’d chosen the park some time ago, had even come to the murky creek and tested the softness of the soil on the bank. The park was in Arlington, a good thirty-minute drive from where Everett lived. The odds against anyone finding the gun, gloves, and clothing were a hundred to one, minimum, and even if someone should stumble onto the buried sack—and even if they should match the gun to the Hardin killing—they’d never tie any of it back to Everett Wilson. Never in a million years.
H
e opened the bag to remove the shovel, then refastened the twist-tie and went to work. Sweat beaded and ran down his sloping forehead. In less than ten minutes he had dug a hole a foot-and-a-half wide and two feet deep. Everett was a tireless worker—one of the few times in prison when he hadn’t been in solitary for whipping ass among the perverts, he’d picked two hundred pounds of cotton in a single day—and he was as strong as an ox. The TDC guards had known about his strength and had kept their distance when calling him Monkey Man.
He raised up, panting, rounded shoulders hunched, and allowed himself a few seconds to admire the hole he’d made, sniffing the odor of fresh-turned earth. Then he dropped in the sack and refilled the hole. The covering up took less than half the time that the digging had taken; Everett packed the soil by tamping it with the flat side of the shovel, then stood back and studied. Only a small mound was visible, and after one good rain there would be nothing. Grinning with satisfaction, he half-ran back up the bank to stand on level ground among the trees.
The girl was still there, still dribbling the soccer ball, seemingly no more winded than she’d been a quarter of an hour ago. Everett liked it that the girl was strong. Christ, how could she keep that up? Everett needed to be on his way. Had to go, but couldn’t. Acting like some fucking . . .
He carried the shovel tucked under his arm and left the trees at a slow trot, approaching the girl from the rear, his hands going to his zipper, pulling it down, exposing himself as he moved in closer. He stopped a scant five yards from her, just as she aimed a kick in the direction of the goal. He tried to speak but couldn’t, his gaze frozen on her flashing legs.
Finally he cleared his throat and said, hoarse-voiced, “Hey. Hey, you like this?” His hand was moving rapidly back and forth along the shaft of his penis; soft flesh moved over swollen hardness between his fingers.
She was smiling as she turned. The smile froze; her lips pulled back from her white teeth in a grimace of fear. Her eyes widened. She raised her gaze to look at his face, then looked back down at his erection. Her lips parted; she threw back her head and screamed at the top of her lungs.
