The Long Way Home

by Richard Chizmar

  So we put the hover car down in Sector 6 and paid a visit to Block 5, Intersection 7. This six-block area is ours for protection purposes. You know how it works. We take no responsibility for any of the robberies or killings that go on in the area. What the store owners are paying for is protection from us busing in hardcores. That’s how coppers keep getting their protection money. Buncha store owners start to slide a little on the monthly payments, you just fill up a ground bus with a bunch of dregs and bring them in for a few days. The store owners are only too glad to see them go. Glad enough to pay you off.

  We walked in and Neely said, “You owe us three months protection money.”

  Davis said, “My wife’s dying of cancer.”

  Neely said, “According to you, she’s been dying for eight years. Now where’s your money, asshole?”

  Neely could be a real bitch when she wanted to.

  ****

  In the hover car, Neely said, “Something wrong?”

  “I was just thinking about his wife. Her being sick and all.”

  “He doesn’t have a wife.”

  “He doesn’t?”

  “Huh-uh. I checked. He’s gay. He lives with some guy.”

  “Well, maybe his boyfriend’s sick.”

  “You want your share of these credits or not?”

  “Sure.”

  After a while she said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said what’s wrong? You’re not talking tonight. Usually I can’t get you to shut up.”

  I looked over at her. “You know what I just found out?”

  “What?”

  “My wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She had boyfriends.”

  “You just found that out?”

  “You mean you knew about it?”

  “Sure. A lot of coppers were punchin’ her ticket, Mulligan. A lot of them.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I wanna throw up.”

  “That’s just how my husband would feel if he ever found out about you and me. Sometimes I think my daughter suspects.”

  “How come?” I said.

  “Just little hints. She caught me putting perfume on one night before we went out on patrol. She thought that was real odd. Told me so.”

  “You knew and you didn’t tell me, Neely?”

  “I figured you knew, Mulligan. A guy should know things like that about his wife.”

  “There were a lot of them, you said?”

  “Well, a ‘lot’ is one of those relative words. But quite a few, yeah.”

  “Jesus, I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mulligan, but it’s not the worst thing that could happen to a guy.”

  “Oh, yeah, what could be worse than finding out that your wife’s been unfaithful?”

  “Well,” she said, “getting your dick cut off, for one thing.”

  ****

  An hour later, one of the robot dispatchers pressed the emergency signaler and I picked up.

  “Yeah?”

  “A man named Epperson wants to talk to you.”

  “He’s probably a bill collector. Tell him to fuck off.”

  “He says this is about the Bridges case.”

  “Better take it,” Neely said.

  So I took it: “Yeah?”

  “I want to turn somebody in.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Son-of-a-bitch told me he was going to pay me two hundred credits then he stiffs me and pays me a hundred.”

  “Who’re we talking about here, pal?”

  “Graves. Doctor Graves.”

  I bent over and checked the recorder. Everything was being kept for posterity.

  “He paid you to do what?”

  “Dress up like him and take a rocket to San Diego.”

  “While he was doing what?”

  “You’d have to ask him. I was just going up to his office when I saw you and your partner there. After he stiffed me, I decided to call you.”

  “We’ll need an official statement from you,” I said.

  “You’ll get it, the son-of-a-bitch.”

  ****

  Graves’ apartment was on the 118th floor, even higher up than his office. The elevator was silent and fast.

  A chunky man with a day’s growth of beard greeted us at the door. He wore the money-green suit of all shysters. After the Shyster Massacre, in which more than sixty thousand attorneys were killed in one day of fighting, the federal government decided to make them an endangered species. Now there were huge fines for even hassling them. The most you could do was spit at them. They wore the green suits for identification…and for protection.

  “My client admits that he considered killing Mr. Bridges the other night,” the shyster said, “but he got cold feet at the last minute.”

  “Where is your client now?” Neely said.

  “Resting.”

  “From what?” I said.

  “Ever since he found out that Mr. Epperson talked to you, my client has been in a deep depression. He was appalled to find out that Mr. Epperson — a life-long friend — had betrayed him in this way. My client has almost no faith in humanity left at all.”

  “The poor dear,” Neely said.

  “We want to talk to him,” I said. “Now.”

  The shyster was about to object when my communicator started braying.

  I put it on silent mode and pressed it against my ear so only I could hear.

  After I was done with the message, I put my arm back at my side and said, “You just lucked out, asshole.”

  “I did?” the shyster said.

  “Yeah. Somebody else confessed to the crime.”

  “They did?” Neely said.

  8

  There were six cars hovering around the apartment house when we got there. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered below in the alley. They were bathed in red neon from the emergency lights.

  A window had been opened on the appropriate floor. We pulled right up and stepped into the building without using the elevator.

  A number of coppers stood around the apartment door.

  “Where’s Mrs. Bridges?” I asked.

  “Inside. With her daughter and the Chief.”

  Neely and I went in and stood in the dining room while the Chief concluded his questioning of Mrs. Bridges, who sat next to him on the couch.

  “So after you killed him, you did what?”

  “I, uh, ran into the alley and got rid of the murder weapon.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “Threw it in the river.”

  “How much blood did you have on you?”

  “Not very much. I was very careful.”

  The Chief, a prim, gray-haired woman who just happens to be the mayor’s aunt, looked at Neely and me and said, “Then you saw these two?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they questioned you?”

  “Yes.”

  The Chief stood up. “You’ll sign the confession, Mrs. Bridges?”

  “Yes.”

  The Chief didn’t say anything for a moment and I sensed something was wrong.

  Eileen Bridges said, “Am I going to the precinct?”

  “Yes,” the Chief said.

  “What’ll happen to my daughter?”

  “She can stay with me,” a pretty blonde girl said. She walked out of the shadows in the hallway.

  “Thank you, Cindy,” Eileen Bridges said.

  Cindy…Melissa had been at her house watching the holo while her mother was downtown murdering her father.

  The Chief looked at Neely and me. “You two have any questions for her?”

  “Nope,” I sai
d.

  Neely shook her head.

  “Can I go put some things in an overnight case?” Eileen Bridges said.

  She looked drawn and tired. Her loose gray dress and messy hair didn’t help the impression any.

  The Chief nodded.

  When Eileen was gone, the Chief said, “It just doesn’t feel right.”

  “What doesn’t?” I said.

  “The confession,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  I smiled. “I can’t believe you’re going to turn down a confession.”

  She smiled back, looking natty in her pressed gray uniform with all the medals on the chest. “I’m being crazy, aren’t I? Case like this, the most important thing is to wrap it up quickly, restore public confidence.”

  I looked out the window. The newsies were hovering out there now, trying to get video by shooting through the windows.

  The Chief went over and started closing curtains.

  Melissa came over, her face puffy from crying. “Can I go in and help my mom?”

  “Sure, honey,” I said.

  “Nice kid,” Neely said, after Melissa had gone.

  “Yeah,” I said. “She sure is.”

  I went over to where her friend Cindy was sitting on the arm of a chair. I couldn’t help but wish that my daughter dressed and behaved more like this girl instead of her viddy rockers.

  “Here’s my ID number,” I said, handing her a small card. “Things get rough for you with Melissa, just let me know. We’ve got different ways to help.”

  “Thank you,” Cindy said. Then: “She used to be over at my house all the time. This’ll sort of be like old home week. She hasn’t been there for almost a year.”

  “Well, you need help, you remember my card.”

  “Thank you, officer.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I walked back to Neely and she said, “You hitting on her?”

  “Very funny.”

  “She’s cute. I wouldn’t blame you.”

  “Yeah, and she’s probably all of fifteen.”

  We heard the crying then, great gasping sobs, mother and daughter in the bedroom.

  A minute later, the Chief led Eileen and Melissa out of the bedroom.

  “You want to take Mrs. Bridges out to the hover car?” the Chief asked one of the uniformed guys.

  The uniform nodded and then took a step toward Mrs. Bridges and that was when I remembered what Cindy had just said.

  “Wait a minute,” I said to the Chief. “I think you’re arresting the wrong person.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Mulligan?” the Chief said. I had the impression she didn’t exactly think I was a class act.

  I looked at Cindy. “Didn’t you say it’d been almost a year since Melissa had been to your house?”

  Cindy glanced at Melissa. She clearly didn’t want to get her friend into any trouble. But just as clearly she wasn’t sure how to handle this moment. “Uh, yeah.”

  “And Melissa,” I said, “didn’t you say the other night that you’d been over at Cindy’s watching holos when you saw the news about your father?”

  “Don’t say anything, don’t say anything at all,” Eileen Bridges said.

  She put out her hands and said, “Take me to the police station right now. That’s what you were going to do, and I demand that you do it.”

  But the Chief had eyes and ears only for me. “What the hell are you talking about, Mulligan?”

  “Dammit!” Mrs. Bridges said. “Take me to the police station!”

  “Oh, Mom, shut up!” Melissa said.

  And then took her mother in her arms, and the two of them began weeping.

  ****

  “That was pretty good, Mulligan.”

  “Thanks, Neely.”

  “Maybe the Chief will give you a blowjob or something.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Seriously, she was real impressed.”

  “Uh-huh. Let’s see if it makes any difference in my next paycheck.”

  She yawned. “God, am I tired.” She looked over at me. Smiled. “You want to fool around, Mulligan?”

  “Not tonight, I guess.”

  “You should be celebrating. You’re gonna be a hero. At least for a couple of days.”

  “You shoulda told me, you know.”

  “Told you what?”

  “You know, about my wife running around.”

  “Oh, man, Mulligan give it a rest, will ya. She’s dead, so what difference does it make?”

  ****

  But it did make a difference so after the shift was over, I took a ground bus out to the cemetery and knelt down in front of my wife’s gravestone and just kinda talked to her about it.

  I don’t know how you coulda done it to me, babe. I never stepped out on you even once. And believe me, I had plenty of chances…well, maybe not plenty. But I had a few anyway.

  I sat there for a long time and thought about breakfasts in bed and walks in the moonlight and holding hands in a darkened movie theater. I thought about bike rides in the park and shopping trips to the square and so many other things I would never experience again.

  And then I started crying, right there in the broad morning daylight, and this old bastard who was also talking to some dead person looked over at me and shook his head and fixed me with a steely eye.

  “It’s a bitch when they’re dead, ain’t it?” he said. “You’re never sure if they’re hearing you or not.”

  (Written with Ed Gorman)

  MISCHIEF

  Jim Hall was finishing up a phone call when Warwick poked his head into the office.

  “Wait till you hear what—”

  Jim held up a finger, silencing Warwick, and said goodbye to the councilwoman on the other end of the line. She had a loud, grating voice and he was glad to be rid of her.

  “Sorry about that. What’s up, boss?”

  Warwick glanced around the office and made a face. “This place is a pigsty.” He was five-four, weighed a Snickers bar away from two hundred pounds, and seemed in perpetual need of a haircut and a mustache trim. His employees called him The Walrus, but never to his face. This discretion was based on kindness, not fear. Warwick was well liked by his staff.

  “You say that every time you come in here.”

  “Because it’s true.” Warwick moved a stack of file folders from a chair onto the floor. He sat down and wiped his hands on the front of his pink golf shirt. “It’s fucking disgusting.”

  Jim scribbled a follow-up question for the councilwoman on a notepad before he could forget it. Definitely an email, he thought. No more phone calls. He looked up at Warwick. “It’s not disgusting, it’s just…cluttered.”

  “Your mind is cluttered.”

  “Yes, it is, and you pay me to write the news, not to clean house, so what’s up? You looked excited when you first graced me with your presence.”

  “I am excited.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m trying.” He looked around the room again. “It’s hard to concentrate.”

  Jim sighed. “Just tell me.”

  His boss leaned forward and smiled. That was another thing: Warwick had braces. The clear kind that were supposed to be invisible but weren’t. Add them to his cherub face and big brown eyes and overall shaggy demeanor, and he looked a lot like your typical high school sophomore.

  “You remember that series you wrote about the Inner Harbor murders?”

  “Sure.” Jim picked up a pen and started fidgeting. Click. Click. Click.

  “Didn’t make us many fans in the police department, but the readers ate it up.”

  Jim nodded. He remembered. Click. Click. Click.

  “Well, someone else—som
eone pretty interesting—just recently got their hands on it, and I think it’s safe to say you have a new number one fan.”

  Click. Click. Click. “Tell me.” Warwick was a natural born storyteller and loved to drag things out. Jim was used to his dramatic flourishes.

  “Does the name Lester Billings mean anything to you?”

  Jim dropped the pen onto his desk and sat up. “The Aquarius guy?”

  Warwick’s smile got bigger. “One and the same.”

  “What about him?”

  “He read your series and loved it.”

  “And?”

  “He wants to meet you.”

  Jim got up from behind the desk, heart starting to pound in his chest. “When?”

  “As soon as it can be arranged. His attorney is calling me back later this afternoon.”

  “Jesus.”

  Warwick rubbed his hands together. “You just won the lottery, Jim.”

  “All these years, he’s never talked to the press.”

  “Nope.”

  Jim started pacing, his mind working. “Is he still in Pennsylvania?”

  Warwick nodded. “Pittsburgh.”

  “He’s gotta be…what, in his sixties by now?”

  “Sixty-seven.” Warwick stood up and offered his hand. “Congratulations, Jim. You deserve this.”

  Jim skipped the handshake and went in for a hug. “Thank you, boss.” He slapped Warwick on the back. “Thank you.”

  ****

  Lester Everett Billings. White male. Devoted husband. Father of two lovely daughters. College educated. Local business owner. Avid fly fisherman. Volunteer volleyball coach. By all accounts, a good family man, neighbor, co-worker, and friend.

  And one of the most prolific serial killers in modern history.

  A resident of Hanover, Pennsylvania, from the time he graduated with honors from college in 1972 to the day he was arrested for the murder of Susan Blake in March of 2007, Billings eventually confessed to killing nearly twenty other people between the years of 1990 and 2007.

  His victims ranged from the ages of sixteen to fifty-three. Eleven females and eight males. Sixteen Caucasian. One African-American. One Asian. One American Indian. The murders occurred in his home state of Pennsylvania, as well as Maryland, Delaware, New Jersey, Virginia, and West Virginia. Fourteen had been strangled to death. Four had been bludgeoned. One had been stabbed over thirty times.

  It was soon discovered that the only common trait shared by all of Lester Billings’ victims was the time of year they celebrated their birthdays. All nineteen were born between January 19 and February 18, falling under the eleventh astrological sign of Aquarius.