Secrets of the Righteous

by H. B. Berlow

  “Miss Meeks, we’re looking into Tangerine Smith’s killing. Perhaps you might know something…”

  “Don’t know nothin’ ’bout Miss Tangerine’s death.” It was a reflex, not a response. She was desperate for a fix. I wasn’t sure if it might help or hurt this situation.

  “Where did you get your stuff?” I knew I had to be direct. Officer Roché stood as he usually did about two or three paces behind me. This gal was something he had never seen before.

  Shirley looked left and right and over my shoulder, trying to be certain no one else who might be dangerous was around.

  “You won’t tell nobody?” I nodded my head. “Miss Tangerine took care of me. You see, I got the illness and she made sure, well, she made sure I got took care of.”

  “And since she’s been gone you’ve been ill. Right?” She nodded impatiently. “Did you see anyone with Miss Tangerine the night she was killed?” She looked at me and then at Ronald and then back again. She shook her head violently. “You hear anything?” She stared straight ahead blankly, eyes wide, almost ready to pop out of her head.

  “I heard her say, ‘You got to go now’ but I thought she was talking to me.”

  “Thank you, Shirley. I’m going to make sure someone comes by to help you take care of your illness.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She disappeared inside, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

  “What’s going to happen to her?” Officer Roché asked innocently.

  “Unfortunately you’ll need to send a patrolman by to pick her up and bring her to the state mental hospital. The girl isn’t going to make it on her own, not with Tangerine Smith dead.”

  It was sad when someone was too far gone they couldn’t take care of themselves and had no one to take care of them. It was my own biggest fear.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ronald stared straight ahead at the road, his hands clutching the wheel as though the car was going to take over and drive on its own. I thought I saw him blinking quickly as though he might have a twitch. It was apparent he had seen and heard things over the last couple of days he could never imagine would ever be part of his life. Like the young cops in Ark City, he held a kind of vision of what it was like to be a cop, something out of a grade school reader perhaps, and so far from the realities of, well, life in general. As though everything he thought he knew about police work came from a recruitment poster. Unfortunately, I saw a lot of the same look in the war. Kids eager to be doughboys who had no earthly knowledge or understanding of death, cruel and ugly and vicious death. I guess growing up on the North Side of Chicago prepared me for more than I realized.

  Detective Sells had been around quite a while. A bull like Rackler wouldn’t melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. But Ronald Roché was better suited to writing parking tickets than viewing dead bodies and interviewing drug addicts and prostitutes. I had to wonder if he still wanted to be a detective.

  “Would you join us for dinner, Officer Witherspoon?” Before I had a chance to inquire as to whom he meant, he continued quickly and nervously. “My mother, well, she said you should have at least one home cooked meal while you were in town. It would be the…Christian thing to do.”

  Outside of Beth Handy’s wedding three years ago, I hadn’t been exposed to a lot of religion. I didn’t begrudge anyone’s worshipping in whatever fashion felt right but after going through the war, I saw Hell and I hadn’t yet found anything resembling Heaven.

  I would have preferred to go back to my hotel room and spend the evening going over the files and sorting through our interviews. I realized accepting his invitation was the more polite thing to do for a young man I was beginning to gather didn’t have a bunch of friends.

  After cleaning up a bit, I followed his directions and drove to a house on Park Place. It was one of those Victorian homes, even more fancy and elaborate than Miss Becky’s place. The roof had a sharp angle. It gave off the appearance of a regal being, something placed here to oversee the rest of the sinners. Perhaps a house of the holy inhabited by the righteous.

  When Ronald answered the door, he appeared far different from the young police officer who was escorting me around. His hair was combed and parted. His shirt was buttoned and the knot in his tie was perfect. His shoes were even more polished than those he wore for work. He opened the door wide to allow me entrance.

  The foyer showed off an ornately carved staircase to the right, a mirror set in against a carved oak wall straight ahead, and a set of French doors to the left which opened into a parlor. The wood floors held an intricate inlaid design and were practically shining. The love seat, sofa, and two chairs had thin padding to make lounging uncomfortable after a period of time. There was a print of the Last Supper, another in sepia of Jesus with a halo, and a large ivory cross affixed above the fireplace whose hot fire was making me sweat almost instantly.

  A cross above a hot fire. Heaven and Hell right here in a parlor.

  Despite the wood floors and the fact she was certainly wearing shoes, the woman who entered seemed to glide, almost like a ghost appearing at will. I wasn’t sure how long her hair was but it was fixed up with pins whose heads appeared to be painted enamel. The dark green velvet gown was secured tightly to her ample figure, the long sleeves reaching down to just at the wrist. Her intention may have been to cover her body but the tightness of her dress accentuated her buxom physique. What surprised me the most was her age. She appeared even younger than me. I was expecting a matronly woman, someone who had a child later in life and was perhaps overly protective. What I saw was someone who could have been Ronald Roché’s older sister.

  Her hand was extended toward me, and I knew enough to hold it gently in mine and place a small peck on it. I think it was Chief Taylor or his wife who had instructed me accordingly many years prior.

  “Deanna Roché,” she announced.

  “Baron Witherspoon.”

  “You wear the marks of a hero, Officer Witherspoon.” No one in nearly twenty years had referred to my facial scars with such an eloquent description. It was alarming as much as it was pleasing to hear.

  “I thank you for your courtesy, ma’am. To be honest with you, I did nothing heroic to get these.”

  “But you survived. That may be the most heroic thing of all.”

  I couldn’t disagree with her there. I survived the war. I survived Jake Hickey. I had mostly survived the notion of not being sure who I was at any given point in time.

  She took my arm and guided me toward the dining room which seemed large enough to hold King Arthur and all his knights. She sat me at the head of the table while she and Ronald took seats on either side of me. I followed whatever example she set.

  “Precious Lord,” she intoned as we bowed our heads, my eyes sneaking a peek of her face, “we thank you for the gifts of your bounty which we enjoy at this table. As you have provided for us in the past, so you may sustain us throughout our lives. While we enjoy your gifts, may we never forget the needy and those in want.” There was a brief pause but I was unwilling to get out of my prayerful pose until I was sure it was okay to do so. “So, too, give strength to men like Baron Witherspoon who, with firmness of purpose, wield your sword of justice and cleanse the world of indignity and vice. In your name we give all thanks. Amen.” Ronald reiterated the salutation. I whispered it.

  “I am grateful for those kind words, ma’am.”

  “Please do not stand on ceremony. It’s Deanna.”

  I had many questions running through my mind but knew it was impolite to ask. Ronald’s father and Deanna’s husband. How she made a living and paid for all this beyond Ronald’s wages. How she prepared such a large meal (roast, mashed potatoes, gravy, beets, candied carrots) all without any house staff. What she did to occupy her days and nights. She intrigued me and fascinated me in just a brief period of time.

  My purpose in Wichita was to assist the police department in the investigation of a series of brutal murders. These thoughts of Ronald Roch�
� and his mother were passing distractions, notions to pull me away from the fact I was really doing no good and would not be taken seriously.

  After the meal, Ronald took the dishes to the kitchen while Deanna guided me back to the parlor. It started to feel somewhat uncomfortable sitting there with her on the love seat and realizing we were about the same age. She had the same ethereal quality Natalie Dixon had when I first met her as well, only there was a peaceful feeling. Right now, I just wanted to leave, and I couldn’t determine exactly what caused this discomfort.

  “Might I?” Deanna raised her hand and held it several inches away from my face. “Touch your marks?” She would not say the word ‘scars’ as though it were an offense. I had no idea why she would be so fascinated by these lines in my face, pale pink, often tight and on occasion, depending on the weather, with a tingling feeling. I nodded to indicate my approval.

  Her forefinger delicately traced the lines from forehead, down the cheeks, and across my chin. She looked at the scars themselves, not my face, not into my eyes, as though there were ancient hieroglyphics inscribed, some kind of code or symbol my face represented, perhaps a message from the one she worshipped.

  The sound of Ronald coming out from the kitchen into the dining room startled her for a moment and caused her to stop abruptly.

  “I regret we have no sherry to offer you. We do not consume alcohol in this house.”

  “Plus, there’s still Prohibition in Kansas,” Ronald chimed in.

  “That’s quite all right, ma’am,” I said in defiance of her earlier edict. “Besides, I best be going. Still much work to be done.” She had a look of pride, more than the kind mothers have for their children. “Ronald, I’ll be getting to the station house earlier than you. I’ll use the empty office you first brought me to.”

  Deanna Roché stood up and escorted me to the door. Her gaze turned toward mine, her eyes searching now. Maybe she was still looking at the scars. She opened the door for me, then held both my hands.

  “May the Lord keep and protect you, Baron.”

  She leaned in and pressed her lips lightly to both of my cheeks. I moved softly toward the door and in doing so pulled my hands from hers. This was the most normal place I had visited in the last two days which really wasn’t saying much.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I don’t know if I didn’t get much sleep because I was eager to get to the station or if something else was bothering me. It was the city and its ways churning around in my head. Rather funny to consider I grew up in Chicago, in the middle of the Windy City, hunkering down with other Irish toughs, before going off to the war. For nearly twenty years, small town life had settled on me like a warm woolen coat, comforting and snug, so much so the city now felt like an enemy. Time changes you along with your memories.

  Mornings at the police station in Ark City were usually quiet. There was very little crime to speak of and not as many officers as bigger cities. If I felt like going in early to catch up on paperwork or read reports from other areas, I could do it in peace. Perhaps I was expecting such peace in Wichita but it wasn’t to be.

  If it weren’t for the privacy of the unused office, I would have been distracted by all the commotion from the officers and other personnel continually passing through the corridors. The fact they were unaware of this office made it fortunate for me. I could see the shadows of bodies but did my best to focus on the reports and my notes from the previous two days.

  My process was the same as it was in Ark City, back when three men were brutally murdered: identify similarities and patterns and try to create an image of the perpetrator. The women were vastly different. The first victim, Jessica Rabal, was a petite blonde who worked as a laundress. Found in the alley behind the establishment. Completely different from any of the other victims. Perhaps the killer was learning how to kill. Chantelle Boudreau was from New Orleans, possible Cajun or Creole. Angela Ramirez was Mexican. Aurora Chao was Asian, thought to be Chinese. They were prostitutes. Valeria Delsin was a Russian émigré and a dancer. Tangerine Smith was a white woman in her late thirties where the other five were in their early twenties. She ran a restaurant and took care of those in need even if doing so meant breaking the law. There was really nothing to tie these six women together.

  All of the victims were stabbed in the abdomen. The penetrations were deep and in three of the five there were what appeared to be tearing wounds as though the object were slicing upward or sideways. Based on the location of the point of entry and the heights of the women, the perpetrator was calculated to be roughly five foot six inches to five foot nine inches. A great amount of strength was not required based on the type of wound. However, the perpetrator would have had to get close enough to the women. In this regard, all six were of a trusting enough nature, either by profession or disposition, to allow such closeness.

  A nice guy approaches a woman, then stabs her with a resolute thrust in the belly, perhaps silences her with a hand over her mouth, and keeps pushing his blade in deeper until the victim passes out from loss of blood. A height and a personality. That’s all I had. It was still necessary to figure out why.

  It was approaching nine in the morning. I had gotten here slightly before six. Nearly three hours without food or coffee and my head was spinning. I needed Dr. Brenz to listen to what I had and make some order of it but he was in Ark City. Some coffee would have to be the next best thing.

  Sells and Rackler were at their desk in the detectives’ room, heads down and buried in files; they looked up when I entered.

  “So, who’s the killer, buddy?” I could count on Rackler to play the role of stagecoach driver, whipping the horses in a frenzy to make them go faster.

  “You have anything?” Sells was more matter-of-fact, trying to keep it as professional as possible even though I knew he didn’t like me almost as much as Rackler.

  “Yeah. The killer is a nice guy with a big smile.” I kept the same matter-of-fact tone, saying the words as though they were a new revelation. They couldn’t be sure if I were joking or actually had some strange notion. Rackler’s eyebrows tightened into what passed for an attempt at thought, and his mouth was open and slack jawed. Whatever he was trying to say didn’t make it out.

  “What makes you say so?” Sells was driving the stagecoach now, keeping everything at a steady gallop.

  “The killings are not vicious and wild. They’re calm.”

  “You think someone who’s calm kills women like that?” Rackler had only one train of thought: he was a better cop than me.

  “Yes. I’ve seen killings where there were multiple stab wounds, blood all over the victim’s clothing. All of these murders were initiated from a single entry wound. That takes someone who is calm and controlled.”

  “You saying this guy is not a raving lunatic?” Rackler’s lack of experience was showing. Sells wasn’t going to stop his partner from looking like a fool. It was certainly one way to learn, perhaps the best way.

  I took measured steps and approached Rackler, a smile on my face, my arms down by my side. He squinted, trying to look past my scars, into my eyes, and clear through to my intentions. The problem was he was intellectually blind.

  “I’m not a raving lunatic and I just got close enough to stick a bayonet into your belly.” He looked down and saw a letter opener in my right hand before jumping backward. I turned back to Sells, in part to let Rackler know I wasn’t going to actually assault him. Sells had a smirk on his face. Seems like Rackler would have several teachers.

  “None of these women, not even the prostitutes, are going to let a raving lunatic approach them. This killer is warm and charming, maybe even sweet, possibly younger. I don’t know. But he looks normal, whatever that means.”

  “Like you?” Rackler was still three or four feet behind me but it sounded as though he had whispered in my ear. I turned suddenly, sharply, this time my gaze locked on his like a bloodhound finds a coon.

  “No, Detective Rackler. I certainly don’
t look normal. If I weren’t wearing a uniform, there is hardly any female who would let me get intimately close to them. No, our murderer is as charming as, well, you.”

  My face was cold as stone and as blank. We stood staring at each other for what seemed like forever. The thing was I had already experienced forever and I could take it.

  “John, you got anything relevant to say?” Sells was trying to give me a chance and keep his partner from starting an unwarranted fight. Rackler sat back down at his desk, looked up at me, and pouted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Sells looked back to me. “All right, you got a nice guy with a smile. What’s his name? Where does he live? What does he do for a living?”

  What Detective Sells did right there was to take all my hard work and evaluating and throw it into a trash basket. He and Rackler didn’t care for motivations or character types. They needed hard facts, answers to one simple question: Who had killed six women? I couldn’t blame them for their attitude because I understood them. Someone thought I had all this special knowledge and amazing skills and I was going to walk in and point to someone on the streets of Wichita and say, “There’s your man” and then everyone would be happy. I was alone in the big city, completely out of my element, with only my instinct and will to live and survive.

  “We figured out this much, we’ll figure out the rest.” I was being gracious by saying ‘we’ but it didn’t seem to matter.

  “Well, until then,” Sells continued “he’s still out there killing.”

  Sells asked the question any cop would ask but did so without even acknowledging this analysis made sense or could be useful. As far as I was concerned, I could have spent another day driving around the city, stopped off at a restaurant for a good steak, and driven home, leaving guys like Sells and Rackler to wallow in their own pig sty. But I was a cop, too. My hope was they would eventually see I wasn’t the enemy.