by G. P. Field
Idiot, he asked you a question, idiot, idiot.
‘I will take that as a no. Are you one of those eunuch creatures who’ve had their tongues removed?’ He tilted his head back and drew deeply on the cigarette before he leaned forward and stubbed it out.
Israel gathered his wits. ‘No, I have a tongue mister… Roy. Harvey invited me to stay here … I’m in town for a conference … He is in Carmel – with Scott. They’re having some time together.’
‘So sad. I’ve just had a terrible thing happen to me and I wanted to have a little chat with my friend Harvey. He’s one of the few I can confide in, you see.’
Israel’s eyes lit up at the possibility of intrigue. ‘I am a very discreet person … and I live overseas …’
The man motioned to the seat opposite. ‘Take a seat. What’s your name by the way?’
‘Israel … Israel Wren.’
‘How sweet.’ He leaned forward: ‘Now look here, why should I trust you?’
Israel gave his brightest smile and held up the keyring shaped like a large gold ‘H’. ‘I am a friend of Harvey’s and he has asked me to look after his home while he is away. He trusts me and you trust him …’ His voice trailed away and he thought he’d blown it.
The handsome man groaned and rubbed his eyes. ‘Oh God, I have to tell someone or I will simply die.’ He sat up straighter and adopted a more serious tone. ‘I wouldn’t normally do this but if you’re flat-sitting for Harvey then I know you’re a friendly. You can pass this on to Harvey, but no one else, understand? If I tell you this, I’m trusting you with nothing less than my career, comprehende?’
‘Yes, I understand, mister… Roy.’
‘Alright then… Have you heard about this character going around killing us all? You know, the one they call the Doodler?’
‘Yes, I have heard of this man. Harvey told me about him this afternoon. He attacked someone just recently did he not?’
‘Yes … very recently as it happens.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Almost an hour ago.’
‘Are you saying that you witnessed an assault?’
‘You could say that …’ The man closed his eyes and scratched the back of his head in gesture Israel found eerily familiar. ‘Let me start at the beginning. I’m in town shooting a TV series. You probably know it… anyway… This evening, after we finished up on set, I decided to go out to a little place called the Alley Cat over on Mason.’ He looked up and saw Israel pursing his lips with a frown. ‘Oh, I assumed – being a friend of Harvey’s that you would …’ He leaned in closer and whispered under his breath: ‘It’s a gay bar … I do a bit of cruising every now and then. But I’ll never work in Hollywood again if a scandal rag gets a whiff of all this.’
‘You can have confidence in my silence. Please proceed.’
‘Well I was over at the Alley Cat, and I was on a bender, God help me.’ He reached for another smoke. ‘There were simply mountains of gorgeous young men on display and I was having myself a good old time.’
The words just sounded wrong. They were such a contrast to the cultivated public image and the rich, refined voice.
‘Anyway, this young man approached me. He wasn’t anything special to look at but he was very charming. He told me he had been sitting in the corner sketching me. He showed me the picture. It was very good. It showed real talent. He asked me if I would pose for another. I told him sure, as long as I could keep drinking.’ That famous wolfish smile flashed across the living room at Israel. ‘Well, to cut a long story short, he impressed me so much that I accompanied him outside for some air. Just as we approached a nearby park I saw something flicker in the streetlight. It was a knife.’
‘So it was him; this Doodler?’
‘Yes. When I saw the knife, it all came rushing back to me. I knew the stories of course, so it wasn’t like I hadn’t been warned. I made a break for it.’ The hand holding the cigarette started to tremble.
Israel suddenly thought he saw a glimpse of the real man beneath all the stardom and the artifice. His heart went out to him. ‘Please, it is fine, you are safe… and there are millions of people who will be thankful for it. Do you think he knew who you were?’
‘Please, darling. Everyone knows who I am.’
‘Yes, of course … Can you remember what he looked like?’
‘Not really, I’m still in shock I think. All I remember is that he was quite plain, quite ordinary looking, not a hippy or a freak or anything, just kind of square.’
‘Did he have a moustache?’
That wolfish grin again. ‘Everyone except you and me has a moustache, babe. No, I, I can’t really remember anything else about him. I couldn’t tell you if his eyes were brown or blue, or whether he was wearing denim or a suit. Only that he looked kind of straight.’ The lightly hooded eyelids dipped towards a heavy gold wristwatch and he unfolded his long frame. He smoothed down his grey suit jacket and patted the top inside pocket. ‘Gotta run young man. Thanks for the friendly ear. It’s been real … therapeutic.’
Israel stood and walked with him to the top of the stairs. ‘You know you should report this to the police don’t you?’
The man gave him a charismatic sideways glance and grinned again. ‘You think so? I don’t think you know our police force very well.’
‘You are welcome to stay and talk longer,’ added Israel desperately. ‘In fact I would very much enjoy it.’
‘Thanks kid, but I got places I need to be. You’ve been a sport though.’ The man’s eyes crinkled and he threw a slow motion play punch towards Israel’s chin. ‘No need to come down, I’ll lock the door on the way out.’
Israel stood at the top of the stairs and listened to the back door close. He didn’t move a muscle for a full two minutes. Eventually he shook himself and went down to check the shop was secure.
Back upstairs he picked up his small brown case and warily made his way to the bedroom. He looked around the room, half expecting someone to jump out at him. There was nothing but the big bed. He sighed, placed his case by his ankles and plonked his butt down on the bed.
‘Whoa …!’ He threw his arm out as the bed gave way under him. Then it surged back and almost sent him to the floor. He stood and eyed the mattress off with a glare. Carefully, he leaned forward and pushed down. He watched wide-eyed as a ripple of fluid moved out across the bed. ‘Hmm,’ a deep guttural sound vibrated from him. ‘Right you are,’ he said aloud as he moved towards the cupboard. He found spare sheets and a blanket and tucked them under his arm. Then he picked up his suitcase and went out to the lounge. He tucked the sheets into the sofa, moved Roy’s dirty ashtray to the kitchen and unpacked his pyjamas on the coffee table. He sighed as he smoothed out the blankets on the sofa and lay down. Sleep would not come easily tonight, but he had to try.
The Westin St Francis Hotel stood solid and proud above Union Square downtown. Israel entered and breathed in the old-world art deco ambience of the lobby. He hunted around and found a wood-panelled sign indicating that the American division of the International Criminological Association was meeting in the Oxford Room on the second floor. He ascended via an elegant lift and then followed a stucco-walled passageway to the conference room. Once kitted out with an obligatory name badge and conference pack he entered and began the awkward social ritual of the mingle. The majority of delegates were pasty-looking academics but studded in amongst them he found battle-hardened street cops and their superiors.
One man stood out above all the rest like an oak tree in a field of corn and Israel felt drawn to him. Not just because of his physical presence, his booming laugh or the way people milled about him like water around a rock, but also because he was the only other person of colour in the room apart from the young lady serving the coffee.
He read the big man’s nametag. ‘Hello, Don. Pleased to meet you.’ Israel’s hand disappeared into the cool, dark grip of the giant.
‘Israel, huh?’ boomed the policeman, squinting down at Israel’s own tag. ‘That the name your momma gave y
ou?’
‘Indeed it is. What about you, Don?’
‘Don’t you be talkin about my momma Iz-ray-ell, not if you know what’s good for you. What are you anyway, some kind of egg head?’
‘Well, yes, you could say that. I work at the University of London studying multicultural policing methodologies.’
‘Oh that is fly, my man. Tell me something – you get out on the street much? You know what I’m saying? Cruise the hood, hang with the brothers?’
‘I do as it happens. I spend a lot of time with West Indian people on the streets of South London. I’m fairly sure they picked me out of the undergraduates to work on this project because of my skin colour.’
The big man’s face relaxed a little and he laughed with his eyes. ‘Yeah, I know where that’s at.’
‘Don, do you know about this killer, the one they call the Doodler?’
Don pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah … I heard about that cat. What about him?’
The static of a microphone cut into their conversation: ‘Attention everyone, please take your seats…’
‘You got a card or something?’
Israel shook his head.
‘Here, take one of mine.’ The card read Detective Don Sharpe, San Francisco P.D., Homicide Division. It looked like tram ticket in the policeman’s huge hand.
An usher wearing hotel uniform approached them: ‘Gentlemen, would you care to take your seats?’
Sharpe moved to the back of the room and took a seat next to a grizzled-looking man in a stained suit. Israel sat down where he was; empty chairs either side of him.
There were one or two interesting speakers during the morning, including a psychologist and an expert in handling physical evidence. Israel studiously took notes and tried to focus on what was being said, but every now and then he found his focus wandering back to the Castro and the strange killer that haunted the bars at night. At lunch Israel stood next to a man with the name badge that read: Captain James Barnes.
‘Hello Captain, I was talking earlier with Detective Sharpe about this serial killer, the one called the Doodler.’ He nodded towards the big detective.
‘Huh,’ grunted the senior officer. ‘Don’s not your guy for that. He ain’t got time for pansies. No, I’ll get you the guy you want.’ He looked around the room and fixed on a slender clean-shaven man in a well-fitted three-piece suit. ‘Hey Bart,’ he called out across the room, ‘come over here a minute.’
Lieutenant Hobart Nelson was an easy-going type and he was happy to chat with Israel about the case. According to Lieutenant Nelson, the SFPD had linked an astonishing fourteen deaths to the same method of killing so far. The man’s eyes darted nervously as he leaned a little closer to Israel.
‘But we got a couple of different problems on this one, my friend. First of all, most of the cops in San Francisco consider gays to be worse than the hippies when it comes to bringing our fair city into disrepute. And second, we have witnesses that can finger the killer but none of them wants to admit where they were when this guy sprung a knife on them.’ He crumpled the sheet of thick paper he’d been holding in his hand in frustration and tossed it on the table before saying goodbye. After Nelson had gone, Israel leaned over and un-scrunched the paper. The detective had been taking notes on the last session about handling physical evidence. Israel wondered if he always took notes in pencil.
The seminar was only a single day affair and it was over in a few short hours. The organisers had cited the pressing need to get police back out on the streets, but Israel suspected cost was factored in too. The Westin St Francis didn’t look cheap. Israel headed home on the tram. He watched as office workers in checked sports coats rubbed shoulders with longhaired hippies and braless girls in hotpants as the carriages clacked and squealed through the streets. He looked up and realised his was the next stop.
His shoes echoed on the wood flooring of Castro Camera as he headed upstairs to change. He flicked on the television in the lounge room. The news reported that the body of a woman named Carol Lee Booth had been found near her home in South San Francisco. She had been missing since March. He gave an involuntary shiver and changed the channel.
Israel made doubly sure all the doors of Castro Camera were locked before he left to find a quiet table for one. He hoped this would be his last dinner alone. The conference was over but he had one more night before he left for London. Harvey and Scott were due back tomorrow afternoon and he planned to do some sightseeing in the morning to pass the time until they arrived.
He woke the next morning with a sore back after a listless night on Harvey and Scott’s sofa. A dark shadow hung in the recesses of his mind. A fragment of a dream drifted in and out of his consciousness so quickly that only the faintest sense of it could be touched. He had a sense of the shadow of something, something bad. There was fear there, but more than fear. There was anger. Deep, simmering, vengeful anger burned away at the edges of his being. He blinked at the ceiling and swung his legs off the couch.
A flurry of gulls lifted off the wharf and wheeled away, their cries drifting out over the bay. The Birdman Tour to Alcatraz left from Pier 33. Israel checked the ticket in his hand and found the correct gangplank. A pair of terns perched on the bollard securing the top-heavy tourist ferry. Israel jostled with the tourists as they bundled across the gangplank onto the boat with a clatter of feet on metal. The engines juddered under their feet, the whistle blew and the boat began to pull away. Israel stood outside near the stern and watched the wharf drift into the distance.
‘Hey fella. You on holiday? Where are you from?’
Israel smiled and nodded at the slender man wearing flared jeans and an “I left my heart in San Francisco” T-shirt who steadied himself against the ferry rail nearby, but did not reply.
The man inched into his personal space and thrust a fine-boned face with a sandy moustache into his line of sight. ‘What’s the matter, buddy? Don’t you speak English?’
Israel backed away a few inches and deliberately moved his wallet from his back pocket to his front before addressing the intrusive character. ‘No, I’m not on holiday. I’m from London and I’m in this fair city for a criminological conference.’ He watched the man’s eyes as he said the words.
‘Oh cool, that’s great. I’m from Wichita, that’s in Kansas if you don’t know. I’m here to visit with my brother Bob. He’s getting married tomorrow over in Oakland.’ He grinned and rubbed his hands together. ‘She’s a great gal, just great. I reckon I’m a tiny bit jealous of old Bob.’
‘How nice, please excuse me.’ Israel smiled and nodded before he made his way into the cabin and then headed for the opposite end of the boat. He found a place to stand near the bow and watched as the island of Alcatraz slowly bumped closer.
Once they reached the island, a young tour guide led them down a path towards the main building. She paused in front of the main entry to address her tourist flock: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Alcatraz still has a reputation for being one of the nastiest jails in the country, but don’t worry, it has now been thirteen years since the jail was closed in 1963, so we won’t be meeting any unsavoury characters on our trip today …’ She smiled and led them on into the main building. ‘In fact 1976 has been a great year for Alcatraz. This year, the island was listed on the National Register of Historic Places …’
The tour was interesting enough and Israel kept up with the crowd. Karen, the guide, led them up to a small, dank room on the second floor. ‘This is the cell of prisoner number 594, Robert Stroud – The Birdman of Alcatraz.’
Israel craned his neck and looked through the crowd. He found Wichita man gazing at the guide with rapt attention and a vacant smile. Israel noticed the man had ended up uncomfortably close to him again. He edged away and frowned as the man shoved a hand into his jeans pocket.
The tour guide continued: ‘Mr Stroud was a dangerous prisoner but found fame caring for canaries, eventually writing a book, Stroud’s Digest on the Diseases of Bi
rds ...’
Wichita’s hand re-emerged with a piece of fine quality paper and small ballpoint pen. He wrote a brief note and shoved the paper back, deep into his front pocket. Karen led the tour group on and Israel let them go, watching the fine boned tourist through slitted eyes. Then he focused on the prison cell in front of him.
He tentatively pulled the door to the room half closed and then went over to the tiny window. All he could see was a smidge of grey cloud on the horizon. Against the wall there was a rough bunk that was presumably kept there to add colour to the tourist experience. He sat down on the edge of the bunk and stared at the wall opposite.
After a few minutes he stood and moved out into the corridor again. Ignoring the tour group, he found his way out of the building and started to follow a rough dirt track around the perimeter of the rocky island. On the leeward side he found a sunny spot, protected from the prevailing wind. He sat down cross-legged on a patch of mossy grass, his back up against the warm stone that formed his wind shelter. In front of him, an ornamental shrub grew, savouring the same warmth and shelter he had discovered. He was pleased to see an egret’s nest deep in the boughs. As he watched the nest, a pall of exhaustion started to overwhelm him. The long trip, the excitement of being in San Francisco and the two nights on Harvey and Scott’s sofa had started to catch up with him and his eyelids drooped.
‘Hey there fella, time to rise and shine! The ferry was going to leave without you but I said “where’s the little coloured fella” and they said “who?”’
Israel’s eyes blinked open and immediately narrowed into slits as he tried to focus on the shadow standing over him. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘I said, come on little fella, the boat’s going to leave without us if we don’t hurry up.’
A hand reached down and helped pull him to his feet. He blinked quickly and found Wichita man smiling at him.
‘I, err, thank you …’
‘No problem, we’ve got to look after our foreign visitors now, don’t we? Come on.’ He turned and strode off down the path.
