INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS

by Jack Ketchum

  “My rights? Why? Am I a suspect in some crime?”

  “No, no. Of course not. It’s just a precaution.”

  Mrs. Galante snorted and waved her arms as though to indicate her agreement.

  Baker read Mrs. Galante her rights, and then said his and her names and the time and date for the recording.

  “How long will this take?” Mrs. Galante asked. “I don’t want to leave Johnny alone for too long.”

  “Why’s that, Mrs. Galante?”

  She stared at Baker as though he was plain stupid.

  “Come on, Mrs. Galante, I asked a reasonable question. Why can’t your husband be left alone?”

  The old woman seemed to sag a bit, as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “I told you when you called that Johnny is sick. The doctors say he is clinically depressed. He hardly eats; he can’t sleep. He just stares out the window. I can’t hardly communicate with him.”

  “And this happened right after your grandson was kidnapped?”

  Mrs. Galante skewered Baker with a hateful look that surprised the cop. Just as Lieutenant McIlroy had described her, Baker thought the woman looked like the prototypical loving grandmother. He didn’t think she had it in her to express so much vitriol in a look. But then he felt a surge of adrenaline. Maybe a person, even an old lady like Susan Galante, who had that much hate in her, could be involved with murder. He suppressed a smile. “You know—”

  “Eric wasn’t just kidnapped, Sergeant Baker,” Mrs. Galante slowly said, venom in her voice. “He was abused, tortured, and killed.”

  For an instant, Baker thought steam might erupt from the woman’s mouth. “I understand—”

  “You don’t understand a thing. If you did, you wouldn’t waste your time questioning me. You’d be out on the street arresting perverts and murderers who prey on innocent children.”

  “We’re trying to do just that, Mrs. Galante. But we can’t have vigilantes break the law.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ricardo Cruz. We found his body three days ago in an abandoned shack out on the edge of town. He’d been dead for two months. Someone slit his throat and left him to bleed out.” Baker watched for some reaction from the woman, but saw nothing.

  “Who’s Ricardo Cruz?”

  Still no reaction. “We compared his DNA against DNA found on your ... grandson’s body. It matched. Cruz was a sexual predator. We’ve already tied him to crimes from California to Pennsylvania.”

  For the first time, the woman smiled. Her face turned absolutely gleeful. She instantaneously looked ten years younger. “Good,” she said after a long beat.

  “That’s murder, Mrs. Galante.”

  “That’s God’s justice, Sergeant.”

  “There’s no mention of God’s justice in the criminal laws of this state.”

  “Maybe there should be.”

  “There are others,” Baker said.

  “Others?”

  “Two other men were murdered in the last sixty days. Their throats were slit just as Cruz’s was.”

  “Were they criminals like Cruz?”

  Baker just stared at Mrs. Galante for a long moment. “Yes,” he finally said. “They were convicted child molesters, too.”

  She smiled again, her eyes closed. Her hands together as though in prayer. “God’s justice,” she repeated.

  Baker sat back and slowed his breathing. He needed to take a different tack with this woman.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your husband? What sort of man is he?”

  Mrs. Galante tilted her head to the side and frowned. “What do you care about what sort of man my husband is?”

  Baker shrugged again. “Just interested.”

  She went quiet and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “I’m not saying another word until you tell me why you brought me down here. What do the deaths of three monsters have to do with me?”

  Baker tried to stare the old woman down but gave up after fifteen seconds. He needed to shock her. Maybe that would get her to crack.

  “We found something under Ricardo Cruz’s body.”

  She tilted her head and widened her eyes.

  “What we found could tie directly to your husband.”

  The woman straightened her spine and glared. “And what might that be?”

  “A challenge coin. A military challenge coin.”

  “What in the world is a challenge coin?”

  Baker reached into a suit jacket pocket and pulled out a silver dollar-sized coin in a small, sealed plastic evidence bag. Its rim was brass-colored with black capital letters that read Military Assistance Command Vietnam. In the center of the coin was a red and yellow shield with a sword. He flipped over the bag and showed her the obverse side, with the words Duty, Honor, Country, and Proudly Served around the edge. In the center were a smaller version of the shield from the front side and a map of Vietnam. “Military types often carry them,” he said. “When they go into a bar, one guy might slap down his military unit coin, challenging others to show their coins. If one guy doesn’t have his, then he has to pay for drinks.”

  Mrs. Galante laughed. “You think my Johnny dropped some stupid coin next to Cruz after he murdered him? After he slit his throat? Then he somehow found his way home. My Johnny, who can’t walk to the bathroom without help?” She sneered at Baker. “How old was this man, Cruz?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  She laughed again. “Johnny Galante slit the throat of a guy less than half his age?”

  “I checked. Your husband was in Special Forces assigned to MAC-V in Vietnam in 1971–72. As best as I could determine—because most of his military records had been redacted—he was involved with some sort of Black Ops over there.” Baker paused and then added, “You know there was a group over there called Studies and Observations Group, made up of Army Special Forces personnel. SOG worked closely with CIA and South Vietnamese special operations forces. They did all sorts of things in Vietnam, from night raids on North Vietnamese radar installations to more mundane activities like funding and logistics.” He stopped, took a breath. “You know what else they did, Mrs. Galante?”

  She shook her head as though she couldn’t believe what she had just heard.

  “Assassinations. SOG personnel slipped into North Vietnam and slit the throats of North Vietnamese officials. According to one study, SOG achieved a 100–1 kill ratio.”

  “So, because my Johnny was in Special Forces, and because he served in Vietnam, and because some of his records are redacted, you’ve concluded he was an assassin with this group you call SOG. And from that you’ve decided he must be a killer? Because of what he may have done over forty years ago?”

  “Maybe he was able to use skills he learned while in the Army to murder Cruz. Maybe the others, too.”

  “I have no idea about any of that. Johnny never told me a thing about what he did in Vietnam. But I’ll tell you this much, my Johnny couldn’t hurt a soul, let alone kill someone.” She hesitated a beat and then asked, “How many men in Wynnfield served in Vietnam? How many were assigned to MAC-V? Could be a whole bunch of them live here.”

  “I have no idea. But I’m checking on that.”

  “And maybe the coin belonged to Cruz. Coulda got it from a friend. Maybe his father served in Vietnam.”

  Baker just stared.

  Mrs. Galante slowly shook her head. Then she chuckled and said, “You workin’ on the Kennedy assassination, Sergeant? How about Benghazi? Any other conspiracies?”

  Baker felt his face turn hot. His blood pressure was on the rise. He was losing control of this interview. He forced a smile and spread his arms. “Come on, Mrs. Galante, give me a break. Tell me about your husband. Maybe you can help me eliminate him as a suspect.”

  She seemed to think about that for a minute. “You asked about Johnny. I’d be happy to tell you about my Johnny.” She paused. “Maybe you could get me some water. This may take a little time.”

  Baker w
alked from the room, suddenly optimistic. He grabbed a bottle of water from a refrigerator, hustled back to the room, and handed her the bottle. He watched her struggle to twist off the bottle cap.

  “I don’t know why they make things so hard to open,” she said. “Cans, bottles, especially those blister-pack things.”

  Baker took the bottle from her, removed the cap, and passed it back. She nodded her thanks, took a drink, and placed the bottle on the table.

  “So, you want to know about John Galante?”

  Susan Galante lowered her head and rubbed both hands over her face, as though to organize her thoughts. Then she lowered her hands and looked back at Baker. “John Galante was born in Philadelphia in 1944. His parents were Italian immigrants who raised their kids to tell the truth, love their country, work hard, and get an education. They had six children and every one of them earned a college degree. The three boys served in the military after college, and all of them volunteered to go to Vietnam. One of Johnny’s sisters is a doctor, another a teacher, and the third is a nurse who also served in Vietnam.”

  “That’s really more detail than I—”

  “I’ll tell my story the way it needs to be told. If you don’t like the way I tell it, I can stop and leave.”

  Baker raised his hands in surrender.

  “Johnny and I grew up in the same neighborhood in South Philadelphia. We were two years apart in high school. Our parents were friends. After Johnny and I dated for a while, his mother pulled me aside and told me something I’ve never forgotten. She said in her heavy Italian accent, ‘I can see you love my boy. And I know how he feels about you. Johnny’s my rock, and he’ll be your rock, too. You’ll always be able to count on him to do the right thing. But even rocks can be broken. He’s strong but he’s vulnerable. Every heartbreak can chip away pieces until there’s nothing left. Don’t ever break my Johnny’s heart.’”

  She looked at Baker, as though to make certain he was paying attention. After a long sigh, she said, “I saw the first piece of rock fall off Johnny when his older brother, Frankie, was killed in Vietnam. It was a huge loss for Johnny, but he was such a strong person, he could afford to lose a bit of himself.

  “We married after college, after he returned from Vietnam, and eventually had two children. The kids were about ten when Johnny’s parents both died, when their car was hit by a drunk driver in a pickup truck. That incident knocked more chunks off the rock that was Johnny. Even more chips fell off when the driver that killed his mother and father got off on probation. Didn’t serve a single day in prison. But my Johnny got through that awful time. Sure, I could see something in his eyes that was different, but he’s always been a strong man.”

  She drank some more water. “We’ve had a good life. Our children have been successful and we haven’t had the major illnesses some families have suffered through. Really, the only major crisis we had was in 2008 when the economy went south and we lost our business in the crash. But Johnny was a rock through all of that, too. I could tell he lost a bit of himself then, because he felt the leadership of our country failed the people. You see, he was raised to believe in the greatness of America and he saw the crash as a failure of leadership. But, as always, even if some of his hard core sloughed off, there was still plenty of rock left.”

  Tears suddenly slid from Mrs. Galante’s eyes. She took a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes.

  “You want to take a break, ma’am?” Baker asked.

  She stiffened and said, “I want to get this over with so I can go home.” She patted her eyes again, put away the tissue. “We got through that. Johnny got a job. We paid off our debts. Now we’ve been able to put a little into savings. We thought life would be good again. Then ...”

  “Your grandson?” Baker said.

  “Yeah, our grandson, Eric, was murdered. And you guys couldn’t find the maniac who did it.”

  “We had some leads, Mrs. Galante. We learned Ricardo Cruz was in town. We just didn’t have enough evidence to bring him in.”

  “Evidence, procedure, laws. They’re all there to protect the criminals. What or who protects the innocent?”

  Baker hunched his shoulders. He didn’t want to go down that road. “You were saying ...”

  “When Eric was killed and no one was arrested, my rock, my Johnny, disintegrated. There was nothing left. Don’t you see? John Galante believed in goodness, kindness, hard work, love of country. He believed if you worked hard and always did right by others, everything would work out. He was raised to believe that. But his parents were wrong in one respect. They did him and his brothers and sisters a disservice. They never prepared them to be able to confront real evil. Johnny wasn’t prepared for the evil that men like Ricardo Cruz represented. When Eric was killed, the evil of it broke him apart. It shattered my rock.”

  She swept a hand over her head to push back long white hairs that had fallen over her forehead. She sat there, slightly hunched, seemingly worn out.

  “One more question, Mrs. Galante. Did your husband ever have one of these challenge coins?” He pointed at the coin on the table.

  “I never once saw such a coin,” she said, with strength in her voice and fire in her eyes.

  Baker felt deflated. He’d wasted his time. And he’d taken a chance when he showed the woman the coin. He’d stupidly disclosed evidence in the hope she might tell him something, might crack.

  “Okay, Mrs. Galante,” he said. “You can go now.”

  She stood and wagged a finger at Baker. “Do your job, Sergeant. Haven’t we been through enough?”

  Baker stared at her as she exited the room. He felt depressed when he saw Lieutenant McIlroy escort the woman toward the street. McIlroy had probably watched the whole interview through the glass of the interrogation room. He’d seen him reveal evidence. And he’d seen him fail to get a damned thing out of Mrs. Galante.

  Susan Galante drove home. As soon as she closed the front door behind her, she walked to the front window, and stared out at the street and the car parked in front of the neighbor’s. Maybe one of Baker’s men. Couldn’t be certain. She closed the curtains, draining the room of all light. Then she crossed to where John Galante sat in a recliner, staring straight ahead.

  “How ya feeling today, Johnny?”

  He grunted.

  “That Detective Baker thinks you might have killed Cruz. Two other guys, as well.”

  Susan was just able to see a small smile crack Johnny’s rigid features.

  “I heard a little boy was molested yesterday.”

  John just grunted again.

  “The police are looking for a man named Milo Davis. He has a record of child molestations. Been in and out of prison a couple times. The bastards keep releasing him on good behavior. Can you believe that?”

  John slowly shook his head.

  “Your VFW buddy, Lieutenant McIlroy, told me when I left the station where he thinks Milo Davis might be. He stays with a friend in a two-room apartment in a basement on the west side of town.” She paused and took in and let out a huge breath. “Probably planning his next assault.”

  Johnny cleared his throat. It sounded more like a growl.

  “But you’ve got to be more careful this time,” Susan said. “You dropped that damn Vietnam challenge coin when you did Cruz.”

  “Sorry about that, babe,” Johnny said. “It won’t happen again.”

  THE HANDMAIDEN’S TOUCH

  BY DOUG BLAKESLEE

  Nidaria scratched her neck, trying to quell a persistent itch now that her gill flaps were sealed. They’d dried out by the time the procession reached the outer edge of the goblin market. Her lungs, struggling to acclimate once again, labored to bring in air. The thin, orange tentacles that made up her “hair” hung limply down her back, swishing against her pale blue skin. She stumbled and found that her underwater grace did not follow her to land.

  She hated the quiet pall that hung over the goblin market. Buildings built on broken dreams and shatter
ed hopes along with brick, wood, and mortar loomed in desperate menace. Today they were empty and soulless, devoid of the purpose and meaning that drove commerce without pause.

  Thousands of merchants should be hawking goods and wares at bargain prices. A memory that would never be missed, perhaps a strand or two of hair, or a future service. Voices—once raised to attract the unwary, the naive, the desperate, to tents of bright colors and waving pennants—were stilled and hidden. None dared to practice their deceptions, to lay honesty by the wayside in the name of business, trade, and profit.

  Today, she walked amongst the stalls and tents in silence. Guards in armor of silver and gold lined the roads, stationed to ensure that none disrupted the peace, allowing the Fae lords and ladies to gather undisturbed for their ceremony. Today’s visit was special for many reasons.

  “Nidaria! Come along, there’s no time to tarry or wait for you to pick yourself up,” Brolga said. A green-scaled hand pointed to the marble tower. “I do not wish to be the last to arrive.”

  “Yes, mistress.” She scampered to catch up, bowing her head at the gaze of disdain. Her footsteps fell heavily on the cobblestone surface, unsure and awkward. Snickers from the retinue that died under the same eyes. Brolga Dister, The Lady of the Waves. Mistress of the Deep Keenings. One of the six Fae Lords and Ladies that held sway over this part of Arcadia. Her mistress and liege. She pulled at the gown of seashells and coral, adjusting to relieve the chafe on her scaled body. Undine handmaidens dressed to complement their mistress, not for personal comfort.

  “Have you been practicing your skills, lovely Nidaria? It is my duty to provide gifts to the others. It would be a shame if something were to happen to them.” That comment drew looks of venom from the other Undines in the retinue.

  “The gifts are prepared as per your instructions.” She nodded toward the chest carried on the back of a giant salamander. This was the first time in her service to be assigned this honor, one that came with a heavy price. “You will be pleased at the mixture of glass and shells, mistress.”