Secrets of the Righteous
Page 6
I had to reconsider the fact former Councilman Hallett did not seek re-election and went back to maintaining his limited law practice. Several of the undesirables who worked at Kanotex were no longer to be seen anywhere in town. The old ways were slowly being swept aside. At this point it was yet to be seen what might replace it.
It was natural for me to think about Natalie Dixon and the possibility of a life with her. Strange as it seemed, in order to stop thinking about her, I looked into other examples of multiple killings by a single perpetrator. It was a way of trying to understand. Why did she bring herself to do it? Why did she keep it hidden and let it eat at her? Why couldn’t someone see she was hurting and try to help? I might never figure it out but I had to try. I believe Sandy Clevenger’s reading on other newspapers beside the Traveler gave her special insight into such crimes. Truth be told, as the secretary of the newspaper, she found other big city papers more fascinating. She gave me a list of things to look up in the library, going so far as to contact the head librarian, Mrs. Bentley, to let her know I was doing some research. We certainly didn’t want Mrs. Bentley to be afraid of the local police.
The Whitechapel Killer in London, known as the Ripper and H.H. Holmes from Chicago were the most violent and deadly. But I knew of a Carl Panzram, originally from Minnesota, and a Peter Kurten from Germany, who were executed in 1930 and 1931, respectively. I knew about military plunderers and rich noblemen and women from long ago but all of it seemed distant, not connected to anything from today. Panzram and Kurten were vicious and without remorse, not on a mission of vengeance, but driven by some other demonic force. Panzram’s career as a serial killer, rapist, arsonist, and burglar spanned nearly twenty-five years in nearly a dozen states. Kurten, on the other hand, had a nine-month killing spree in Dusseldorf. Time and geography didn’t matter as both these men were pure monsters. Maybe I was justifying what Natalie had done. In trying to divert my thoughts from possibilities which no longer existed I wound up remorseful, just a dopey guy unable to connect to people in a social way.
The course of forty years had taken me from the tough streets of the North Side of Chicago to the madness of a global conflict to the supposedly quiet streets of a small Kansas town. I had been a thug, a soldier, a friend, a cop on a mission. Twenty years removed from the war and I still had dreams, not as bad as they used to be thanks to Dr. Brenz. Four years after ‘Crazy’ Jake Hickey’s end and my childhood still lingered, not Baron Witherspoon’s wholesome upbringing but Eric Kimble’s rough-and-tumble youth. As it stood, I had been many things and nothing through forty years, and I still had the rest of my life.
Chapter Fourteen
I didn’t like it when things were quiet. It wasn’t based on a fear of something sneaky going on or perhaps unseen forces were planning a wave of devastation. Since I didn’t have hobbies and was no longer actively seeking companionship of a personal nature, the peace and quiet led to profound boredom. You sit and take stock of your life and realize you are looking at the wide vista of an infinite corn field or a never ending dirt road, a great deal of emptiness with nothing filling it. I would go to the station, read reports, check the teletype, re-read reports, offer to help anyone and everyone, even empty trash cans for the janitor. Maybe Baron Witherspoon, the real guy, the Kansas farm boy who sought action and excitement and a sense of duty, maybe he wouldn’t have minded. The new Baron Witherspoon, the boy who used to be Eric Kimble, was feeling his oats once again.
It reminded me too much of the war. Everyone could understand the loud clamor of battle, the uncertainty of sudden death, the bleak and gray surroundings. What most people had a hard time realizing were the times in between when the silence pierced your ears like a dull thud and your heart was beating so fast you thought it was going to pop right out of your chest. Those were the times you thought you were dead.
On occasion, my face felt as though it were a piece of paper sliding off my skull. There wasn’t the pain of years past. Instead, it seemed as though the muscles were no longer able to hold on to the grafts quite as securely as they did. Perhaps this was due to the technique or my age. Dr. Brenz concurred with my suspicions and showed me some exercises and massages I could do. They looked funny when he did them in front of me so I did them only at home. Then, after looking in the mirror while doing them, I decided they seemed awkward to me as well.
I went and saw The Adventures of Robin Hood and laughed when it was appropriate and found myself churning in my seat during the sword fight scenes. I would love to have been Robin Hood, or at the very least, Errol Flynn. Having a devil-may-care attitude, being every guy’s best friend, being every woman’s dream, and fighting for what was right. Well, I figured I had the last one sewn up.
Miss Banister cooked and baked far more than Mrs. McGuire. This isn’t a bad thing, except she kept offering me all sorts of things I wasn’t quite used to eating. With the lack of activity and the extra cakes and cookies, my waistline was ballooning up.
I was daydreaming about Olivia De Havilland as Maid Marian when I was called into Chief Richardson’s office. I eagerly stood at attention, waiting while he had his head bent over a folder and then ruffled through some papers on his desk. He hadn’t yet looked up at me which was unusual.
“Wichita Police Department is requesting your presence for a…consultation.” I didn’t respond. I didn’t understand what that meant. The chief finally looked up. “They’ve got a series of crimes similar to what you…worked on three years ago.”
“The men who were brutally murdered?”
“Says here,” he remarked holding up the folder, “several women have been stabbed. Among other things.” Again, I remained silent. While our case was extreme, certainly for our part of Kansas, I was certain a big city like Wichita would have had the resources to investigate such a case.
“Why me, sir?”
“Seems they heard about your investigation and want your feedback.” I nodded, as it was the only other thing I could think to do. “You can drive up today. Better pack a bag in case you have to stay a bit. Oh, and save your hotel and meal receipts and the department will reimburse you.” At least now I had something to do.
As I started to walk out, I turned back and shut the door again.
“Chief, do they…know about me?”
“About what?”
“My, well, my face and, you know, my scars.”
He dropped the folder on his desk, flustered but trying to hide it with a moderate anger.
“Witherspoon, you’re a police officer. They’re police officers. They are currently investigating what appear to be horrific killings. They are not going to be concerned with your war wounds.”
I nodded and politely left his office knowing there were many people who would not consider these merely war wounds but something closer to a monster like Frankenstein. They were so keen on having me assist them; what would they think when they saw me? My doubts did not go away.
As I went home to pack a small satchel, I became more annoyed at Chief Richardson’s cavalier attitude. Being a cop didn’t mean you were part of some brotherhood. Maybe in a bigger city like Wichita. But I knew all kinds of guys who were policemen in Ark City and they were just, well, guys. Farm boys. Transplants from other areas. Just guys looking for a job. Moreover, they were human with the same fears and prejudices as anyone else. Baron Witherspoon or not, when I came back from Europe with a face resembling a scarecrow, it took a while for people to look at me, I mean really look into my eyes. These were people who had known Baron Witherspoon all their lives and even they found it difficult to have any kind of face to face conversation.
I had to believe in the chief, had to accept his notions. Going up there to help out was part of my duty and obligation. I took no issue with that. If I were to have a negative attitude about it beforehand, I would be incapable of offering assistance in the way they needed it. Beside my bag, I brought a notebook I had started, almost like a journal of all my readings in these types of
crimes. You never think it could happen again but it is always best to be prepared.
Parked in the department’s garage was a rickety Model A Ford, 4-cylinder no one was using at the time. The bumpiness of the ride and the incessant squeaks as it bounced were probably the reason. In order to drown out the noise on my nearly hour and a half drive, I thought of Natalie. At first, she was the subject of a murder investigation. I guess my mind thought this way on account of the reason for my journey. But I couldn’t think of her as a criminal or how she ended up. I never knew her when she was younger, never saw the lovely young lady and sweet older sister she had been. Several times the word ‘maybe’ popped in my head, followed by ‘what if.’ I knew the past couldn’t be changed. I just went back to listening to the squeaks and feeling the bumps in the road.
Ahead of me was another challenge. It was what I had to focus on. That and whatever future I was to really have.
Chapter Fifteen
I remember reading a book about Richard the Lionheart, journeying from England to the Holy Land on the Crusades, seeking to kick out the infidels, praise the Lord, and ransack the magnificence of Jerusalem. It was my own interpretation. I can only imagine what it must have been like for him to emerge from the desert and gaze upon the splendor before him.
Wichita was nothing like a holy city, although it surpassed anything I had seen since growing up in Chicago and a darn sight more fast-paced than Ark City. There were by far more cars which meant more frustrated drivers. If more women fancied being behind a steering wheel, it might have been catastrophic.
By the time I arrived in the city, all thoughts preoccupying my mind seemed to vanish like an afternoon spring rain. I was on an assignment and nothing else occurred to me. It took a bit to find the police headquarters. I didn’t realize they made them as big as it was. Seemed more like a castle to me.
I walked in through the front entrance, head held high, a feeling of pride because I was being asked to assist in something so important. When Jay Davis ran up to me, I understood where the whole thing started. I wasn’t too cocky to believe I had earned a large reputation from my showdown with Jake Hickey or my investigations into horrific murders. Somehow, Jay Davis blabbed to his fellow cops in Wichita about a hotshot cop named Baron Witherspoon in his old town of Ark City who was real smart and could probably help out. I was hoping he didn’t build me up too much.
“You made it,” he said, a smile plastered across his face.
“So it was you?”
He leaned in close, like we were speaking of the Devil while in church.
“It’s been real bad. No one wants to admit it. I figured you had more know-how than most of what they got passing off as detectives.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and started guiding me through the station house. I noticed other officers turning away, not even saying anything to Jay. My earlier bravado was starting to dwindle. It’s not that I had any doubts about myself or concerns about my appearance. The whole notion of not knowing who I was when looking into a mirror, the conflict between being Eric Kimble and becoming Baron Witherspoon, the uncertainty about the future—all of this had been brought under control to a point where I could manage living each and every day. It wouldn’t have bothered me if a young child stared at me or cried or even laughed. But these were police officers, like me, who, one would imagine, had seen far worse things than a man with a scarred face. Without so much as speaking with me, it hurt knowing I was already being rejected.
The painted name on the glass door was CHIEF O.W. WILSON. Jay stopped suddenly.
“I told them you were what we needed. Don’t disappoint me.” He smiled like a kid handing in his term paper and hoping he wouldn’t flunk.
A brief rap on the door was followed by a gruff response to enter. Chief Wilson sat behind the largest office desk I had ever seen, head down looking through a thick file of paper and photos. Behind him were a U.S. flag and the flag of the state of Kansas, placed like columns surrounding him. Citations of all kinds were on the wall. A photo of the chief with former governor Alf Landon and another photo of him with President Roosevelt hung like proud children just behind him between the two flags, each photo closest to the flag which represented them correctly. A theater stage could not have been set up more appropriately.
When Chief Wilson finally looked up, he stared at me. His face was blank, without any emotion, not giving away his thoughts. I’m sure he was trying to reconcile the description of me given to him by Officer Jay Davis and the strange looking man before him.
“You Witherspoon?” he asked. There was a tone of uncertainty in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” I replied at full attention, harkening back to the army days. As far as I was concerned, Chief Wilson was my superior officer.
“We’ve been plagued with a series of murders our detectives have thus far been unable to crack. Officer Davis here says you have a certain degree of experience in these matters.”
Realizing this wasn’t a military base and Chief Wilson didn’t require the spit-and-polish attitude, I let my shoulders fall and allowed my tone to be more conversational.
“As Chief Richardson may have indicated, I was the lead officer investigating three rather brutal murders no one in our jurisdiction had ever previously encountered.”
“And Chief Richardson indicated the case was never solved.” It wasn’t a question. He already knew the answer. It finally dawned on me Chief Wilson never wanted an outside party coming in to his investigation. Perhaps he had politicians like we had in Ark City who, shall we say, insisted he do everything possible to find a solution to his problems. Jay would take a lot of heat if I didn’t come through. Chief Wilson was not going to be supportive thinking someone other than his own men might solve the case even if it meant further murders. He was also not going to act like he was the host of a cocktail party, either.
“We believe we had a viable suspect who more than likely died as there were no further killings. We also feel our investigation was close to apprehending the suspect based on all our research and discovery. In essence, the case was solved, sir. We just didn’t have the necessity of a trial.” It was like slowly pushing a blade into his gut. I knew where he stood; it was time for him to get to know a little bit about my attitude.
His tight-lipped stare reminded me of an ancient oak tree, firmly embedded with roots as deep as the earth’s core. This man was the type who was always right. I had to maintain my dignity and honor as a police officer regardless of the local politics at work.
“Davis, go get Roach. He’ll be Officer Witherspoon’s…liaison.” He threw the word away like used butcher’s paper.
Jay made no effort to make eye contact as he left. He understood the situation as clearly as I did. I stood there before Chief Wilson in his office for what seemed like the length of a Catholic funeral mass. Despite nothing being said, there were strange sounds, ceiling fan moving papers, the tapping of his fingernail on the file, the sounds a room makes despite the fact it is not a living thing.
The office door opened suddenly.
The cleaned, pressed and starched uniform and the meticulously combed hair were the only things indicating this individual was a police officer. He was somewhere in the neighborhood of five foot six inches and had the angelic face of a teenager in his high school years. His eyes had the kind of clarity found in a country stream on a warm summer day. He looked more like an usher at a wedding than a member of law enforcement in the largest city on Kansas.
“Roach, you’re familiar with Officer Witherspoon from Arkansas City?”
“Yes, sir. Officer Davis had apprised me of Officer Witherspoon’s arrival.”
“Show him every courtesy, including access to all files and the detectives working on the case.” Chief Wilson’s tone was matter-of-fact and not inviting. I was a party crasher but I was here and not going anywhere.
The young officer turned sharply like a soldier, opened the door for me, and we stepped out.
“Like ‘Le Grenouille’, Guy Roché, the Canadian bootlegger?”
He smiled for the first time.
“Same name, yes. But my mother would absolutely die if he were related to us.”
I took further notice of his uniform and manners.
“I haven’t seen this kind of discipline since my army days,” I casually commented.
“If I am to be taken seriously, Officer Witherspoon, I need to present myself professionally and never back down.”
Our footsteps echoed down a long hallway. With his shoulders firm and his back straight, I imagined Officer Roché had far more to him than his fellow officers realized.
Chapter Sixteen
The large room where I was escorted contained four desks, all with phones, lamps, and several files on them. Roché advised me this was the special office occupied by the top detectives in the department, two of who were working on this case. Currently, the room was empty.
“Hmm, they said they would be here to meet you.”
“Who?”
“Rackler and Sells. They’re the two assigned to the case.”
Like a vaudeville show, two large men entered on cue. The first one was younger, maybe in his mid thirties, built like a war horse but with a look of total anger and chaos, eyes that seemed to stare rather than see. There was something bullish about him, as though he were a runaway train, rolling over anybody and anything in its path. The man behind him was a good ten to fifteen years older than me, as big but seeming more like a large sack of flour with the same pale whiteness, looking like he had just awoken from a sound sleep. His steps fell heavy as he walked.
“This the guy?” blurted the younger man.
Roché pointed to the first and then the second man.