Sitting around McCarthy are Sergeant Wilde, Deputy Gomez, Officer Hendrix, and Doctor Olson. The conference room in the police headquarters is as shabby as the other rooms, and smells stuffy. Apart from Wilde, none of the men present seems to have slept. Hendrix, charged with looking into Laura Henderson’s disappearance, is as pale as death, with a black right eye; Gomez, responsible for questioning old Jimmy’s few acquaintances, gives the impression he was still working on it until less than an hour ago. As for Olson, he must have gotten drunk to forget the matter of the tongue.
“Where’s Jaspers?” asks the sheriff.
“He’s completing the search of the pickup with a couple of guys from forensics,” replies his deputy.
McCarthy remains silent for a moment.
“First, the important thing is to establish that old Jim was in fact a drug mule—”
“Old Jim?” Wilde interrupts with a hint of irony. “I didn’t know you were buddies!”
The sheriff gives him a look. “Sergeant, in Watertown people get to know one another. It’s nothing to do with being buddies, it’s just a neighborly relationship. Maybe that’s something you can’t understand.”
Wilde is about to justify himself, but McCarthy doesn’t give him the opportunity. “Jaspers will contact you soon. If it turns out that Jimmy Henderson did indeed travel for Hiscock, then we’ll have a serious line of inquiry, especially now that his employer has just been murdered.”
“So you think the two killings are related?”
“I can’t exclude it.”
“In the meantime, the case has been assigned to the Boston South Police Department…”
“We’re collaborating with them. The moment anything comes up to support the hypothesis of a link between the two crimes, we’ll take over the entire investigation.”
The atmosphere in the room is electric.
“And on our case, what do we have?”
Doctor Olson clears his throat. “For my part, I have to admit there’s nothing conclusive, nothing we don’t know already. An initial, mortal gash to the throat, delivered by a sharp weapon with a broad, relatively thick blade. Possibly a chef’s or butcher’s knife… Then the incisions in the cheeks, the eyeballs, and the tongue, using a much finer blade… Not as fine as a scalpel, though.”
The sheriff looks up. He asks, “Do we know the time of death?”
“Between five and six in the afternoon.”
And to think I was just down the street! thinks the sheriff. There was nothing extraordinary about that in itself. Last year a man stabbed his wife in the police station parking lot when Gomez and Hendrix were on duty. By the time they arrived she was dead. Basically, they were just as ineffective as they would have been if the murder had taken place down some dark alley dozens of miles away. You sometimes hear that a police presence no longer discourages criminals. It’s presented as a new phenomenon, and in some respects it is. But there have always been times when a man loses control, is carried away by passion. There may be cops around, a whole army of them… but what difference does it make? The guy lashes out in spite of it.
“Anything else?”
“Just a few trivial details: he didn’t have any drugs in his system at the time of death; he had recently eaten a pizza and had breakfasted on a bowl of cornflakes along with a few beers. There were traces of blood on his hands from the piece of venison that was on the seat. No trace of gunpowder.”
“In that case, he hadn’t been hunting,” interrupts Wilde.
“So how do you think it goes, Sergeant?” mocks McCarthy. “You leave home with your rifle and come back two hours later with a nicely wrapped package of meat?”
Wilde isn’t disconcerted. “I’ve never had the opportunity to appreciate the joys of hunting, Sheriff. So I’m counting on you to explain to me what that carcass was doing in his vehicle.”
“According to our information, Henderson went to see a hunter friend of his, outside Boston. There he picked up a piece of the venison he’d entrusted to him a few weeks earlier to have cut up and frozen. Anything surprising in that? City folk often do that kind of thing… A whole deer carcass is a bit inconvenient in a tiny apartment. You’ll also note that, depending on the species, the law requires two hunters for one animal.”
“And this poacher—”
“Hunter. He had a permit.”
“So you’ve investigated this… hunter?”
“Gomez paid him a visit. Now, if your curiosity about hunting has been satisfied, I suggest we let the doctor continue—”
“I’m afraid I’ve nothing else to add.”
“Do you know if the CSI people found any fingerprints or traces of DNA?”
“Nothing.”
“Thanks,” says the sheriff, disappointed.
Next, McCarthy turns toward Hendrix. “What about you?”
“Well, I got hold of Laura Henderson as she was on her way home.”
“So she never went to Philadelphia?” asks Wilde.
“She came back. She says Marshall and her had a violent argument on Friday evening, that he came home totally stoned and insulted her. She took offense and hit him, he responded by throwing a plate of soup into her face, and then they smashed up a good deal of the place before she took off for Philly.”
“At what time, approximately?” intervenes the sheriff.
“At around ten at night.”
“Marshall claims he didn’t come home until toward sunrise.”
“According to her, he went out again just as she was leaving.”
McCarthy and Wilde take notes.
Hendrix continues. “In Philly she went to the place of a friend called Marilynn Bayle. She says she spent the rest of the night there.”
“And she came home this morning?”
“Around five, because of her father’s death.”
“She found out about it in the middle of the night?”
“Yesterday evening, from the newspaper. Marilynn Bayle advised her to spend the night at her place, and that’s what she did to start with. Except she says she was overcome by remorse, couldn’t sleep, and decided to come home.”
“Remorse?”
“For her, there’s no doubt that Marshall is the killer… Apparently he confided in her that he meant to ‘settle the old guy’s hash.’”
“That’s pretty explicit,” concedes the sheriff.
“So you think it’s him?” asks Wilde.
McCarthy throws him a murderous glance. “I’ve already told you I don’t think anything. I’m going to question him again, and we’ll see. As for you, Sergeant, do you still think there’s a link between our case and the Sherman Valley one?”
Wilde smiles. “Like you, I don’t want to rule out anything.”
McCarthy gives him a fierce look before turning to Gomez. “And what about you?”
“Nothing substantial. I saw the store where Henderson bought his beer and a few frozen items, met a couple of fat Latinos that he argued with in the laundry, and a clergyman with a goatee that he used to see now and again… There’s still the reading group for Western novels—”
Wilde guffaws. “What bullshit is that?”
“I belong to it too,” says the sheriff shortly. “I expect your spare-time activities are more honorable, more fashionable, more thrilling. Mine are unpretentious, like Henderson’s.” He raises his voice. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to keep your mouth shut until this meeting’s over.”
“You’ve no right to order me to keep silent.”
“I’ll answer for it to the DA.”
The deputy continues his report. “Nothing there either. Then there was the hunter the sheriff mentioned, a poor bastard who cried a bucket when I got there but couldn’t tell me anything except that Jimmy was a good buddy and not much of a hunter.”
“That doesn’t take us very far.”
“I know. But they didn’t tell me anything more than what we knew already: that Jimmy wanted to pay to send his gran
ddaughter to a good school. They said it was an obsession of his, that he talked about it all the time. Except that…”
“He didn’t have the means.”
Gomez nods.
“So he went to work for Hiscock, and started moving drugs.”
“Do you think that’s reason enough?” interrupts Wilde.
McCarthy turns toward him. “Didn’t I ask you to keep your mouth shut, Sergeant?”
“And didn’t I answer that you’ve no right to do that?”
In silence, the two men stare at one another defiantly.
In a voice he is trying to keep calm, but in which the irritation – never mind the anger and contempt – is evident, McCarthy breaks the silence: “Sergeant, it may be that you’re not very familiar with what the general population calls ‘money problems.’ In that case, I’m happy for you.”
Wilde doesn’t flinch. The sheriff goes on: “You’re asking if that’s reason enough to begin carrying a little powder across a border now and again? Yes, Wilde, it damn well is. And it’s even more so, if you’ll allow me to say so, when it’s not just your own bread and butter at stake, but someone you love, and this someone is your own granddaughter. Have you read the reports on Henderson?”
“Yes,” replies Wilde, icily.
“Then you know that little Julia was the last chance he had to make something of his life, and for that he was ready to traffic drugs, but also, I’m convinced of it, to steal, commit arson, and maybe even kill. You’re a winner in life, Wilde, an up-and-comer, so don’t be angry! You’ve a brilliant career ahead of you. But keep in mind that people who have sunk too low in life are capable of doing terrible things, totally crazy things! They’re capable of almost anything.”
“I see…” answers Wilde, not altogether convinced but being diplomatic.
“What I ask myself is how Henderson managed to get a finger in the pie… I can’t imagine him spending time with the gangsters of the Le Carré clan, nor in filthy dives like the Jaguar Club, nor in fitness clubs—”
“Someone might have found out he needed money, and made him a proposition,” suggests Gomez.
“Yes… But who was the contact…?”
“Everyone I talked to knew about his money problems… There must have been one or two in the bunch who couldn’t have been entirely clean.”
“Possibly. But the fitness club is in Fort Owl, and apart from his cousin and a former social assistant, nobody lives out that way.”
The door creaks on its hinges, and Jaspers makes a noisy entrance. “Sheriff!”
McCarthy looks at him in amazement. His officer looks distracted, almost panicked.
“What’s up? Have you seen a ghost?” McCarthy asks, with a hint of reproach in his voice.
“So what did you find in that truck? Another dead body?” Wilde chips in.
“No…” replies Jaspers.
Wilde raises his arms to the heavens and exclaims, “I knew it! I bet you didn’t find a thing! Nobody’s finding anything today!”
“That’s enough!” shouts the sheriff in a trembling voice, leaping to his feet.
“Are you going to hit me?” asks Wilde, who now seems amused by the whole scene.
“No, but I’ve asked you to keep quiet!”
Wilde also gets to his feet. “Very well, if that’s what you want! I’ll note that you are obstructing collaboration between our departments, and blocking my investigation. Now, if you’ll allow me, I’ll go and dunk a warm croissant in some coffee. All the same, I’m happy to have gotten to know the cream of the police force in this town, who value a fair distribution of wealth and hunting above finding the killer of one of their fellow citizens. Have a nice day.” He turns on his heel and leaves through the still half-open door.
McCarthy, Gomez, and the others seem stunned by what has just taken place. Jaspers is first to break the silence. “What should we do?”
“I suggest you answer my question at last!”
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry,” Jaspers answers hastily. “Here it is: the two guys from forensics and myself were searching the truck… Well, first I should tell you that my brother-in-law has exactly the same pickup as Henderson… Except it’s a more recent model… Naturally, the color isn’t—”
“How is that relevant?”
“I’m coming to that, Sheriff! Right, well, my brother-in-law, the other day, after filling the back of the pickup all the way, loaded twenty or so big logs inside the passenger compartment. Then he closed the door, but it was too full and a log shattered the plastic cover on the inside door light.”
“And that’s what’s got you all excited?”
“It’s just that, yesterday, when I was searching the vehicle for the first time, I took a look at the lights… I was thinking that” (blushing) “if we didn’t find anything, I could maybe take one of the covers for my brother-in-law…”
“I suppose that’s not a terrible crime…”
“Well, this is what I’m trying to say: yesterday the cover on the passenger side door was in good shape, and this morning it was cracked.”
McCarthy is beginning to understand his officer’s agitation.
“So you mean to say that—”
“Yes, Sheriff, somebody must have removed it and put it back again—”
“Between the two searches!”
“He must have forced it a little too much, and—”
“So who can have done that?” asks McCarthy, turning to the others.
“No handyman, obviously,” declares Gomez.
“But a cop, that’s for sure,” says Hendrix.
18
Leaning against the left rear fender of the 300C, Franck has just finished filling the tank. It is sunny and dry; the sidewalks are gleaming. He withdraws the nozzle, screws on the cap, and takes a deep breath of icy winter air and gasoline vapor. Wrapped in his black coat, his features relaxed, he shows no trace of the stormy outbursts of the night before. At the next pump a bearded individual in a fur-lined winter jacket is filling up, while inside the vehicle a woman gnaws hungrily on a chicken thigh. What ferocity! thinks Franck, as scraps of skin and flesh fall to the floor, onto her knees, and between her thighs. They have Quebec plates. They’re on their way to Florida for the winter. Most likely own a mobile home they’ve bought on credit. The woman’s fingers and lips gleam with fat. The man has dirty hair and a beer belly. As usual, there’ll be lots of fun this year: getting baked on the beach, and cluttering up the Fort Lauderdale old folks’ homes and the suburbs of Orlando. He turns away from the couple and goes into the Shell Mini Market.
Inside, a generously endowed blonde named Jenny – she’s wearing a name tag – is smiling broadly at a stocky, pimply guy who is insulting her copiously. In a mixture of English and Spanish this individual informs her that she is a fat sow, a fucking cow, and that if it wasn’t for her lovely butt cheeks he’d already have made sure she got what she deserved. Jenny, never relinquishing her smile, carefully bags the boor’s purchases – a razor, some powdered beef jerky, and a pack of cigarettes. She hands them to him. He responds with a grimace, assuring her once again that she’s a stupid bitch, and leaves the shop.
“He’s a regular,” she explains to Franck.
“Quite a charmer!” he exclaims.
She giggles. “Can I help you?”
“I just filled up at pump number two.”
Jenny had been reading the newspaper. Franck can see the headline: Suspect Denies Being Killer.
“Oh, still the business about that poor old guy?”
“Yes,” answers Jenny. “How horrible!”
“Exactly how horrible do you find it?”
“Pardon?”
“What I mean to say is what would you be prepared to do to the killer if you got your hands on him?”
She blushes, but her smile doesn’t fade. “Well… I… I suppose I’d call the police and—”
“You wouldn’t kill him?”
“Oh, no!”
“Reall
y? But after all, he mutilated his victim!”
Embarrassed, Jenny looks at her cash register, then at Franck, and then back at the cash register before asking, “Will that be all?”
Out of the corner of an eye, Franck notices the Quebecker, who has entered the shop and made a beeline for the frozen food section.
“No, I’d also like a booklet of matches, please.”
The Quebecker, pretending to examine the plastic trays of lasagna he is holding in his right hand, uses his left to spirit away several packages of frozen foods. Jenny seems to have noticed the maneuver too. She continues smiling nevertheless.
“That comes to $48.86, please.”
Franck takes out a fifty-dollar bill and hands it to her, then picks up his change and starts to leave. But he stops in the doorway, eager to witness the outcome of the little scene being played out inside the shop.
“Pump number one,” announces the Quebecker.
“Will that be all?” asks the girl at the till.
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you taking the frozen peas as well?” she asks.
“What frozen peas?” answers the Quebecker in a flat voice.
“The ones you have under your coat,” she says, still smiling.
He reluctantly puts them down on the counter, pays for his gas, and goes out at the same time as Franck, who gives him a long look that contains a hint of awe.
“What are you gawping at?” asks the man in the winter coat.
“Nothing at all! I just find you—”
Three Drops of Blood and a Cloud of Cocaine Page 10
