by H. B. Berlow
“Meatloaf. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Side of green beans.”
“I thought you didn’t like meatloaf.”
“When did I say that?” Her smile made me aware I passed the test.
I was sopping up the last bit of gravy when Larry Hammer came in and sat next to me. Dixie had a cup of coffee on the counter in front of him before his back side hit the seat. He’s what you might call the King of Regulars. He indicated he had retired but was still doing odd jobs for Shell on account of the fact no one could do what he could. There wasn’t a machine he couldn’t work or fix. He figured retiring simply meant he wouldn’t have to wake up as early anymore. Since he knew everyone in town for as far back forty years, Larry was the one I turned to often for the whos and hows and whys.
“Where you been?” he asked.
“Wichita.”
“Thinkin’ of moving?”
“Heck, no! I’m a darn sight happy to be back. Nothing up there for me except a madman. And I figure the police up there can catch him for themselves.”
“Then why were you up there?”
I had to admit he had a point. A bigger city. More police. More detectives. They had everything going for them we didn’t have. If anything remotely like those crimes happened here, people would be moving out of town like it had the plague. It really didn’t make any sense Wichita couldn’t get their man.
Then I remembered all the efforts of the officers, detectives, and Department of Public Safety of Cleveland. They had considerably more resources, more manpower, and they were staring at a stone wall when it came to locating a monster. Whatever abilities I had or whatever abilities someone else thought I had, I was only one man. I shook the tree but no fruit came falling down. Maybe, if anything, I gave them a new way of looking at this thing.
“Damned if I know, Larry.”
All I knew was I had to stop thinking about the man in the shadows. He was starting to remind me of the man in the mirror.
Chapter Thirty-Six
When I wasn’t arresting drunks, tracking down lost dogs, or breaking up marital fights, I basically floated through life. There was nothing to ground me to any kind of reality. Or maybe it was any other kind of reality. This had been my world since getting back from the war, a face filled with scars and a head clouded by uncertainty. It was driving headlong into a storm to become Baron Witherspoon and become accepted on the Ark City police force, and with Dr. Brenz to keep me upright and mobile, I turned into something worthwhile. It was a responsibility I freely accepted, even though it contained no excitement.
There had been occasional pain in my face and periodic feelings like it was melting right off my skull. Doctie figured it was the techniques they used back in ’18, indicated they were doing much better work now, and I would have to just deal with it if I didn’t want to go someplace like Chicago or Philadelphia for more surgery. There was nothing thrilling about the prospect; by the same token, I had these dreams someone was slowly pulling a mask off my face. If it were to happen, what would they really see?
I would finally be able to go to Arkalalah, the city’s official fall festival the following week in late October. I was usually stuck on duty or doing something else while the rest of the guys were enjoying the festivities. This was to be the tenth anniversary, and the Chamber of Commerce was going all out for it. Kathryn Curfman was this year’s Queen Alalah. She had short hair pulled back to reveal a regal forehead and an endearing smile both uplifting as well as engaging. It’s the way the Chamber of Commerce liked their queens to be.
Like Heather Devore and Jake Hickey and Natalie Dixon, the killer in the shadows in Wichita started to fade from my mind and with it any desire to be caught up in the workings of the big city. As a matter of fact, most of my desires and interests were starting to fade. At forty, I felt old, perhaps older than I was. An elderly man with false teeth and no hair and a cane to get around. I wasn’t a member of a gang wearing silk suits, nor dead because of it. Twenty years later, I didn’t feel much like a war hero. I missed a chance to save two women. The only thing keeping me going was stalking my prey like a hunter. I was good at it for whatever reason but now my chance was gone.
The briefest of thoughts entered my mind about transferring to the Wichita Police Department or taking Gallison and Lindsay up on their offer to work in Cleveland. But after ten or fifteen years, I would be in the same spot with no real purpose in life and no one to share my few joys and many fears.
The winter didn’t give us a lot of snow but it was cold. The wind would cut through any clothes you were wearing making you feel naked and dead. My feet were stone blocks and my face was numb quite a bit of the time. The drunks stayed inside and so did the dogs. It was the kind of quiet farmers sensed before a tornado passed through. There was nothing for me to do but wake up every morning and go to sleep every night.
It was the first day of spring in 1939 Linda Kuchenberg advised me I had a call from Captain Randolph Merton of the Wichita Police Department.
“Officer Witherspoon, we’ve had another murder by the same killer.”
“Rather unfortunate, huh?”
“Chief Richardson agreed with my assessment your prior evaluation was vital in our investigation.”
“Which is in the hands of Detective Sells and Detective Rackler.”
There was a pause. His tone was straightforward and direct. It also sounded like he was trying mighty hard to be courteous perhaps because he wasn’t used to it.
“Detective Sells has…retired. Detective Rackler personally requested your further assistance. You have been temporarily reassigned to the Wichita Police Department’s Detectives Bureau. Your living expenses and accommodations will be provided by our department. How soon can you be here?”
My first reaction was anger and a feeling I was some kind of slave or piece of property to be bought and sold. My footsteps fell hard moving down the corridor to the chief’s office but I didn’t blow in like one of those tornadoes.
“It’s political, Baron.” It was so little to say but it meant so much. “Mayor Corn, City Manager Wells, and Chief Bowery visited our City Council.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“Why wasn’t I told about it?”
“You’re being told now.”
I stared at him. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. Then it dawned on me this was what I wanted. To once again face the demon and force him back into the darkness. Or perhaps to bring a monster into the light? This time I packed a bigger bag. I left it in the car while I went to the main detectives’ office. Rackler’s hair was combed better than the last time I saw him. He stood up quickly and was right in front of me with his hand out in no time.
“Glad you’re here.”
“What happened?”
“The case went as cold as Christmas morning. There were no further killings and the pimp down in Delano and the Madame weren’t as helpful with us. Sells was feeling poorly, went to the doctor right before New Year’s Eve and was told he better quit before he popped a gasket. So then it was only me. And then this.”
He showed me a picture of the latest victim, Marie Whitaker, another one of Carson Stankey’s girls. I guess she must have been a pretty girl. Photos of the dead don’t give you much. Perhaps she had a vivacious smile at one time but it was now gone forever. All I could see was a silk dress, a white lace blouse, bright red lipstick, and the knife wounds. They seemed similar to the previous victims but with more passion and aggressiveness. There was no telling why he had not continued killing as regularly as before. But one thing was for certain: he was back and he was angrier. He would either be more dangerous or, and this was the only hope we had, more prone to making a mistake.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
There had been interviews and follow-up interviews and staring at photos and autopsy reports. There were phone calls to Cleveland but only with Lindsay and Gallison as Eliot Ness was no longer in a position to comment, having burned down Kingsbur
y Run and getting in a heap of trouble for it. I called Sandy Clevenger at the Traveler because I trusted her research abilities more than anyone else’s but she didn’t have access to anything other than our newspaper and the material was limited. I was beginning to feel like Sells and hoped my health wasn’t going to suffer for it.
Right at the end of my first week there, I ran into Ronnie Roché. There was a noticeable gasp when he saw me, not necessarily pleased but more surprised. He stood in front of me without saying a word.
“Hello, Officer Roché.”
“Officer Witherspoon. I didn’t know you had come back.”
“Temporarily reassigned.”
“On account of Sells?”
“On account of someone butchering women. Well, maybe the third time’s a charm.”
“Like the Trinity.” He looked away for a moment, lost in thought, before turning back to me. “Mother…My mother would like to have you over for dinner.” It was a surprising comment considering he was just aware of my return then. “She indicated if you were ever back in town to please invite you.”
“It will be a pleasure. Will tonight do?”
“Yes.” He smiled and continued down the corridor. He had the disquieting appearance and attitude of a small puppy dog, and I wondered if he would ever amount to anything as a cop. He seemed efficient and professional but I guessed it was more about his upbringing from everything I had previously seen. Even a bulldog like Rackler had the moxie to say what was on his mind and go after something even if he was wrong. Ronnie was content to follow.
It was my intention to revisit all the witnesses as I read my notes over again for the hundredth time. I felt like there was something in there, beyond a figure in the shadows. However, it was frustrating to keep going back to them knowing they couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t say anything more or different. I realized it was because they were comfortable. They were in their own house, so to speak. I had to make them feel as though something were at stake. For Carson Stankey, his business could be in jeopardy. I told Rackler to bring him in to the station.
“On what charge?”
“Make something up. Jaywalking. Spitting on the sidewalk. I don’t care. But we need him down here and without that brute Montisse backing him up.”
Rackler brought Carson Stankey in, shoving him forward roughly by the forearm, practically forcing him into the chair like he was stuffing an extra pair of pants into a suitcase. Stankey offered minimal resistance. His facial muscles were tenser than mine could ever be and his eyes were focused like the sights on an Enfield rifle. He was smart enough to not add any real charges to the excuse for which he had been brought in.
The room was a grayish green. One door. One rectangular wooden table. Two wooden chairs. No windows. No phone or papers or files. Just a room. There was nothing to distract your mind which meant you had to focus. You couldn’t make up a story using details from the room for your imagination. You could only respond.
“All right. Stop,” I said and stared at Rackler. He left the room as my gaze followed him out. I turned my attention to the tall man sitting quietly before me.
“You arresting me?”
“I don’t see any handcuffs. This look like a cell to you?” My face ached. Each scar felt as though a small worm underneath the skin tried to push its way out. It wouldn’t have surprised me if I was twitching. “First Chantelle and then Marie. You don’t seem to be able to take care of your ladies.”
A momentary burst of anger zipped through his body like a lightning bolt, eyes widened then recessed, right hand clutching the lip of the table, turning red. This was what I needed, for him to be uncomfortable enough to make it worthwhile to work with me.
“I take care of them just fine.”
“The man in the shadows play any part in this?”
“Don’t know. Marie was killed at home after she was done working.”
“Tell me about her home.”
He made his face a stone block trying to keep in control, acting like it was the private club in Delano. His features finally softened after a bit, probably because he realized I could keep him there all day, maybe all night, and without having any control it was going to take a lot more effort to remain a block of stone.
“A flop.”
“You own it?”
“How did you know?”
“I guessed. Go on.”
He breathed in deeply, licked his lips, and exhaled like he was in a confessional at church.
“Got a lady runs it. Bunch of rooms, maybe fifteen. One kitchen, one bathroom. They don’t do business there. No men allowed. Sleep, eat, use the john. That’s it.”
“So, are you telling me one of the girls cut her like that?”
He leaned forward harshly, held back by imaginary shackles.
“I ain’t telling you nothing.”
“And if you keep telling me nothing, seems like more of your girls are going to get cut up. Less inventory. Business closes. You know there’s a Depression going on, right? You might wind up selling apples on the corner of Douglas and Main.”
He leaned back and started rubbing his forehead like he had a headache. I honestly didn’t know what this pimp was going to be able to tell me but I had to find out everything he knew or remembered, even if it was just a small kernel of something.
“The other girls are telling me there’s a guy, more like a boy, been hanging around outside the building. A couple of them say they seen him when they was out and about.”
“Why do you say he was more like a boy?”
“Short, thin, almost like there was nothing to him.” He was running on his own train of thought. I could see his eyes light up, not with anger. It was more like he was finally starting to put something together. Then he threw his hands in the air. “Nah, couldn’t be him. A pipsqueak. He couldn’t be doing this.”
“Why not? Someone slight and gentle and boyish. The girls might consider him cute, certainly not threatening, allow him to get close. The cuts are deep, true, but wouldn’t require a great deal of strength, especially since the girls are surprised. They let their guard down and he walked right up to them. This boy as you call him.”
I don’t know why I said all of it. I should have simply been thinking and contemplating for myself. At this point, however, it was necessary to talk with someone who was more familiar with the darker side of street life, the world all respectable people never wind up seeing. I knew all about it as a kid but as time passed I had developed a respectability which brought me farther away from the life of callous brutality. It was something Jake Hickey reminded me of from many years ago.
“You need to have Montisse follow the girls around at night,” I continued, “see if he can’t spot this guy, get a description of him, maybe even identify him.”
“What you really mean is you need me to have Montisse out there doing your job. Isn’t that right, cop?”
Carson Stankey was the type of guy who needed to be in control, even if it was simply the appearance of it. However, I needed to be the one pulling the strings. This was a police investigation into multiple murders carried out over a period of time, just like the Torso Killer in Cleveland. We, the police, needed to be in control, and not let the criminal element take care of this for themselves. Citizens needed to know their cities were safe. The notion this man thought he could pull my strings after all I had been through made me angry.
I could feel the twitching. Those worms under my skin and the scars pulsed. I leaned in closely, my face inches from him.
“You’re going to cooperate, Stankey. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you. Otherwise, I will make it my life’s mission to find a way to lock you up in a cold dark cell for the rest of your miserable life. You’re an ant. You’re nothing to me. And I will squash you and think nothing of it.”
He finally realized I was nothing like Sells, a tired and weary veteran, or Rackler, for all his bravado. I was the same monster that had been butchering women in Wichita.
It was a shock to think I could feel the same way. Maybe now I could understand him better. First, I would have to find him.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
When I was told I had been “temporarily reassigned,” I knew it meant a long-term stay. I wound up packing more than a satchel for a few days. Truth be told, I had never been anywhere long enough that required more than a uniform and a fresh pair of socks. I was actually hard pressed to find a couple of clean shirts and pants appropriate enough for church, assuming I was the kind who went to church.
A dress uniform certainly wasn’t ideal for my second formal dinner at the Roché residence, even though I was a policeman the same as Ronnie. I felt for some reason Deanna deserved a well dressed and respectful house guest. I certainly wasn’t prepared for how the evening would turn out.
Ronnie greeted me at the door, somewhat like a servant or dutiful butler. As we were both wearing dress clothing, neither one of us resembled policemen in any fashion. He responded to me courteously but as though he had never met me before. I was escorted directly into the dining room, where Deanna stood in an elegant green velvet gown in a shade of dark moss with a deep cut revealing a healthy cleavage. It was formal yet inviting at the same time. I couldn’t figure out, however, what the invitation was for.
I approached gallantly, kissed the hand she held before me, acting like one of King Arthur’s knights. I was lost in a different world. It wasn’t the bad boy from Chicago living the life of a Kansas farm kid. It was misty and covered in fog, dreamlike, even though I knew I wasn’t sleeping.
The meal was more sumptuous than the first time. A roast with various herbs. Honey and gingered carrots. Whipped potatoes with butter. And, surprisingly, wine. Only two glasses. Near her plate and mine.
The dinner conversation was limited to the weather, the differences between Wichita and Arkansas City, and the power of prayer as exemplified by Sister Celeste. Eventually, the evening at the revival became the primary focus of the discussion. While she was pleased Sister Celeste had taken to me so deeply, I sensed a kind of envy as though Deanna was not as important.
