The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “More pie, Darrell?” Ann smiled as she pushed the platter toward him.

  “Well, okay. Thanks.”

  “I’ll let you cut your own slice.”

  “Okay.”

  I saw him frown as he picked up his knife and gravely positioned the platter on the table before him. Across the table, Billy watched closely as Darrell began cutting a polite-size slice. Beside Darrell, projecting a teen-ager’s aura of detached boredom, Dan pointedly ignored both Darrell and his younger brother. Already, Dan had taken two phone calls during dinner, at least one of them from a girl. Obviously, as soon as he could, he’d leave for the evening.

  I looked down the length of the table at Ann. She was drinking her after-dinner coffee, gazing at me over the gold-striped rim of her cup. For the dinner tonight, she’d used her best china, her mother’s Haviland. The flatware was silver; the stemware was crystal. The message was clear. This evening, with Darrell and me, was a special event.

  Sipping my own coffee, I smiled at her. Before the evening was over, I would hold her close to me and thank her. At the thought, I realized that I was sexually aroused. It had been more than a week since we’d made love. It would be another two weeks before we could be together again. I would miss the pixy lilt in her grey eyes, and the murmur of her drowsy voice in the bedroom darkness.

  Literally, I’d known from the first moment I saw Ann that, for me, she was something special. Beneath her quiet, serious manner I’d sensed a certain excitement: a boldness in love, uncloyed by guile or false modesty. I’d been right. From the first, we’d fitted each other perfectly. Yet, when I was with her, I felt myself withdrawing. It was an involuntary withdrawal, the result of some deep need to protect myself. I could sense its origins. My divorce had left me defeated. Another commitment would risk another defeat—risk the loss of whatever peace I’d found for myself during my past twelve years, alone.

  I’d soon realized that, for Ann, the risk was the same—the risk, and the fear. So we’d made a wordless bargain. We took each other a day and a night at a time, glad for what we found. Before my father had deserted his family, he’d been fond of repeating a favorite axiom: expect the best, but prepare for the worst. Finally, I was taking his advice.

  “Pass the pie,” Billy said.

  “That’s your third slice.” Dan slid the platter toward his brother.

  “Well, I don’t have pimples,” Billy retorted. “I can eat anything I want, and I won’t get any pimples.”

  “That’s because you aren’t old enough to have pimples.” Dan spoke with long-suffering resignation.

  “Zits, he calls them,” Billy said, speaking to me. “That’s what he calls pimples. Zits. His friends, too.”

  “Oh, God.” Dan raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  Suppressing a smile, Ann turned to Darrell. “Your father says you’re a fisherman.”

  With his mouth full, Darrell first nodded, then shrugged. Finally, swallowing, he said. “I guess so.”

  “If you go up Cache Creek about five miles north of our cabin,” Ann said, “you’ll find good fishing.”

  “Is there trout?” Darrell asked.

  She shook her head. “No, the water in Lake County is too warm for trout, and Cache Creek runs too slowly. But there’s bass. Lots of bass.”

  “I caught three bass in about three minutes,” Billy said. “And we had them for dinner that night, one each. And Dan tried for about an hour, and all he caught was a red horse.”

  “What’s a red horse?” I asked.

  “It’s a sucker,” Billy announced. “They’re full of bones. And they feed on the bottom. That’s why they’re called suckers. They’re all Dan ever catches. Just suckers.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Dan’s eyes returned to the ceiling. “Sweet Jesus.”

  Still speaking to Darrell, Ann said, “There’s one thing you have to be very, very careful about, especially when you’re fishing. And that’s snakes.”

  “What kind of snakes?”

  “Rattlesnakes,” she answered. “Lots of them.” She turned to me. “Really. Lake County—especially Long Valley—is filled with rattlesnakes.”

  “I’m glad you told us,” I answered drily.

  “You also have to be careful of deer hunters,” she said. “I didn’t think about it until just now, but last Saturday was the opening day of deer season in Lake County. Which means that, especially on weekends, the woods are filled with maniacs who’ll shoot anything that moves. Anything.”

  I smiled. “In my business, you learn to duck.”

  “Really, Frank—I’m serious. They drink, too. They ride around in Jeeps, with their rifles and their red hats and coolers filled with beer. They’re like boys, playing war. Except that they kill things. They …”

  “I was almost bit by rattlesnakes,” Billy interrupted, his eyes large and lively. “Twice, I was almost bit.” He crammed a huge piece of pie in his mouth.

  “No fooling?” Darrell asked, turning to face Billy. It was their first spontaneous exchange.

  “No fooling. Twice. And one of them was five feet long. My dad killed it, and I’ve got the skin in my room over my bed. With the rattles. We tacked it on a board, and put it in the sun to dry. And the rattles are on the board, too. Twelve of them.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Sure. Come on.” Billy suddenly pushed back his chair, grating its legs on the polished oak floor.

  “May I be excused?” Darrell asked Ann. Looking at him, I blinked. I couldn’t remember his ever asking permission to leave the table.

  She nodded. “Yes, you may.” She watched the two boys go down the hall, and agreed that Dan could make a phone call, provided he helped clear the dishes later.

  “More coffee?” she asked.

  “Not now. It was a wonderful dinner, Ann. I appreciate it. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Were you exaggerating, about the rattlesnakes?”

  She shook her head. “Certainly not. Be sure Darrell is careful.”

  “Have you ever actually seen a rattlesnake?”

  Speaking with slow, deliberate emphasis, she said, “That cabin has been in my family since I was a little girl. I’ve seen”—she paused, eyes thoughtfully wandering away as she calculated—“I’ve seen, I’d say, fifty rattlesnakes. I’ve killed three. And all three of them were right around the cabin. So, you see, I’m not exaggerating.”

  “How do you kill them?”

  “A shovel is best. Or big rocks. Or a shotgun. A rifle or pistol are no good.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you have to hit them in the head. If you don’t—if you hit them in the body—you’ll never kill them.”

  I smiled. “Never?”

  She nodded emphatically. “Absolutely. The old adage is true: snakes don’t die till sundown. I’ve seen them cut in two, and seen the heart still beating hours later. Also, the head is always dangerous. Even if it’s severed from the body, the head’ll still bite. It’s reflex.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What you’ve got to do,” she said, “is first of all immobilize the snake. One whack with a shovel will do that, if you break its back. Then you keep whacking, until you cut it in two. Then you cut off the head. And then comes the most important part of all.” She paused, looking at me expectantly. Privately, I smiled. It was a schoolteacher’s trick, compelling the student’s closer attention.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “You’ve got to bury the head.”

  “Bury the head?”

  She nodded slowly, solemnly. It was another schoolmarm’s mannerism. She was preparing to drive the point home.

  “Why’re you grinning?”

  “I’m grinning at you—giving me a lesson. Next you’ll be asking me to take a test on what I’ve learned.”

  “Well, it’s true. You’ve got to bury the head.”

  “So it won’t bite someone?”

  “Of course,” she answered primly, lifting h
er chin and sitting a little straighter in her chair. I’d never been able to poke fun at Ann. Her ex-husband, a society psychiatrist, had tried systematically to destroy her sense of self-esteem, usually with savagely barbed humor. Even after two years away from him, she still couldn’t laugh at herself.

  “Suppose you don’t have a shovel. How do you cut the head off?”

  “With a knife,” she answered. “You have to step on it, just behind the head. Then you cut the head off.” She shuddered. “That’s the really grisly part, if you have to step on it. Because the body keeps writhing. The first one I ever killed, the body wrapped itself around my leg.”

  “I think,” I replied, “that, first of all, I’m going to avoid them. But if I stone one to death, I’m not going to bury the head.”

  “It’s your civic duty.”

  “I do my civic duty all year long. It’s my trade, remember? Besides, you’ve got me spooked.”

  “Good. That was the purpose.”

  “Any other rattlesnake tips?”

  “If you get bitten, the most important thing is to stay quiet—stay calm. And you shouldn’t cut the fang bites. If you can, cool the leg. Immerse it in water, and keep it cool until you get to a doctor. But you must stay calm. And you’ve got to—” She was looking at me suspiciously. “There’s that grin again.”

  “How do you stay calm when you’ve just been bitten by a rattlesnake?”

  “I said quiet. Don’t move.”

  “You said calm.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean it.”

  “Now that I know how to kill a snake, and how to save myself after it bites me if I don’t kill it, how do I avoid it?”

  “You walk in the sunshine in the summer, and in the shade when it’s cool,” she answered promptly. “And you don’t step on sticks, especially near streams and river banks. And most of all, if it’s summer, you watch where you walk at night.”

  “At night?”

  Again she nodded primly. This time, I didn’t smile. “If it’s hot during the day, snakes hunt at night. They’re coldblooded, you know. They’ve got to regulate their own body temperature. If they were to be exposed to hot sun for even an hour, they’d die. So, during the summer—especially if it’s hot—they hunt for food at night. Either at night, or else early in the morning or late in the evenings.”

  “What happens to them in the winter?”

  “They hibernate, silly. Didn’t you ever take natural history?”

  “Probably.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want more coffee?”

  “I’m sure. I’ve decided that one cup after dinner is enough for me.”

  She glanced at the hallway, in the direction the two boys had gone. “I like Darrell,” she said softly. “He’s serious. Like you.”

  “I’m glad you like him.”

  “He likes you, too.”

  I looked at her down the length of the table. We were seated at the head and foot, like parents presiding over a family dinner. All during the meal, I’d been conscious of reverberations from other places, other times. She felt it, too. I could see the shadow of wistful memory deep in her eyes.

  “You’re worried about something,” she said finally. “Is it Darrell? This visit? Is that it?”

  “No. It’s … something else.”

  I’d never discussed my business with her. I’d always believed that talking about trouble makes it worse.

  “You’ll feel better Friday,” she said. “There’s nothing better than rolling down the highway, on vacation, with everything behind you.”

  The thousand dollars in the brown paper bag—the anonymous phone call—the Internal Affairs inquiry. Could I leave it all behind?

  I pushed my chair back. “Maybe we should say good night, Ann. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  She rose, and we walked slowly toward each other, down the length of the table. Wordlessly we came together, and for a moment, as we held each other close, I could feel the poignancy in our embrace. For a few hours, we’d almost been a family.

  Seven

  “ARE YOU FAMILIAR WITH the term ‘pits’?” Friedman asked, slumping down in my visitor’s chair.

  “Pits?”

  “It’s an expression the kids use. Derived from armpits. If something is the pits, it’s the shits.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Well,” Friedman said, “witnesses are the pits. Especially establishment-type witnesses, with the most to lose. They think.”

  I put my pencil down on the desk before me and pushed myself back in my chair. “What you’re saying is that our witnesses didn’t make Keller. Is that it?”

  Friedman regretfully sighed. “That’s it. They—”

  My phone rang. Impatiently, I picked up the receiver.

  “This is Canelli, Lieutenant.”

  “What is it, Canelli?”

  “Well, Lieutenant Friedman sent me out here to your neighborhood to see if I couldn’t find some other witnesses, or something. Which, so far, I haven’t been able to find, I’m sorry to say. But, anyhow, I was thinking that—”

  “Listen, Canelli, get to the point, will you?”

  “Oh, sure, Lieutenant. Sorry. I know how busy you are, getting ready to leave town tomorrow and everything.” I raised my eyes to the ceiling, slowly shaking my head. Smiling, Friedman said sotto-voce: “It must be Canelli, building the suspense.”

  I nodded.

  “… so I was thinking,” Canelli said, “that maybe I should ring your bell and pick up your kid. Your son. I could bring him down to the Hall, if he’s up, and maybe show him the pistol range, or something. We talked about that yesterday. Going to the range, I mean.”

  “Good idea, Canelli. Thanks. Why don’t you come to my office before you go to the range? Maybe I can go with you.”

  “Okay, Lieutenant. Fine. Sorry I bothered you.”

  “That’s all right, Canelli. I appreciate the thought.”

  “I like your kid. Darrell, I mean. He’s a lot like you, the way he doesn’t say much unless he’s got something to say. And he even looks like you, too.”

  “Thanks again, Canelli. Goodbye.” I hung up the phone and turned to face Friedman. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  “I was saying that our witnesses are the pits. The teen-age girl across the alley from your building didn’t change her story, but it wasn’t much of a story to begin with. Just a shadowy figure with maybe a limp. The one we needed was the goddam ex-Naval officer—the one who said yesterday that he saw the subject’s face. And, sure enough, today he wouldn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. But he didn’t say yes, either.”

  “Did you lean on him?”

  “As much as I could. But this is one of those overblown taxpaying types who knows all his privileges by heart, and has friends at City Hall and drives a Cadillac. Obviously, when he had a chance to think about it, he decided that he didn’t want to get involved. It’s the same old crap. He’s afraid he might get his tires slashed.”

  “Where’s Keller now?”

  “He’s in the waiting room. The two witnesses, so-called, have gone.”

  “I want to talk to Keller.” Purposefully, I stood up behind my desk.

  “Yeah. Well—” Friedman heaved himself reluctantly to his feet. “I figured you would. And, as bad luck would have it, Keller wants to talk to you.”

  “Bad luck?”

  Friedman stood between me and my office door. His eyes were serious. “I don’t want to see you overmatched, Frank. And that’s exactly what could happen, if you mess with Keller. What you’re doing is exactly what a lawyer does when he refuses to hire another lawyer to defend him. He’s got a fool for a client. You’ve got a fool for a victim. You.”

  “When I’ve talked to him, I’ll know whether he put that money in the basement.”

  “How will you know?”

  “By his reactions. I know this guy. I know how he thinks. Once I’m satisfied one way or the other, I’ll give him to you.” I stepped f
orward. Friedman refused to move.

  “What is it with you and Keller?” he asked quietly. “What’s this two-step you’re doing with him?”

  “Listen, Pete, don’t try to—”

  “You visited him in the hospital—which was stupid. Now you want to interrogate him—which is stupid. Why?” Plainly, he had no intention of stepping aside until I answered. Beneath his steady gaze, I felt my own gaze falter, then fall uncertainly away.

  “The truth is,” I said, “that I’ve never been totally convinced that Keller’s kid was guilty. The investigation got away from me. An assistant D.A. was determined to clean up those gay bath houses down on Folsom Street, and Jason Keller’s case was made to order for him. I think the assistant D.A. was a little gay himself. Maybe that’s why he was so hot to nail the Keller kid. Anyhow, that’s what I always figured.”

  “So you felt sorry for Keller.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You felt a little guilty, maybe, when the kid got killed in prison.”

  I shrugged.

  “Long before you made sergeant, let alone lieutenant,” Friedman said, “you should’ve figured out that guilt feelings are for civilians. Not cops.”

  “I’m not arguing with you. I’m simply telling you that I—”

  “You should also have figured out that, whether or not his kid took a wrong fall, this guy Keller is bad news. Very, very bad news. Not only is he crazy”—Friedman held up a thick forefinger—“but he’s also smart.” A second finger joined the first. “And, even worse”—the third finger came up—“he’s got the money to finance his little war with you. That’s three strikes.”

  “I’ve got two for you.” I put my forefinger in front of his face. “First, we aren’t sure Keller is our suspect. And second”—I waggled two fingers—“he’s just one man. One skinny, middle-aged man.”

  “If that’s your rebuttal,” Friedman answered, “then frankly I think you’re way out in left field on this one.” His voice was tight, dead level. His eyes were narrowed. Friedman and I had been bickering for years. But we’d almost never had a serious argument. This one, I realized, could be serious.

  Speaking in the same hard, uncompromising voice, he continued: “If you were in charge of this case—if you weren’t personally involved—you’d play the percentages, just like I’m doing. You’d approach the investigation professionally, in other words. So you’d have to figure that Keller had both motive and opportunity. You’d also figure that he has the money—the thousand dollars. When you consider the limp, then you’ve got maybe a thirty-percent make. Then you add in the car. You’d realize that the odds against finding that particular car with that particular dented door by random chance are something like five hundred thousand to one. So, if it were my investigation, I’d figure the car makes it maybe seventy percent certain that Keller was at your place Tuesday night. I’m not saying the D. A. would call it evidence, or take the case to court. But I am saying that as a good, competent cop you’d figure that, yes, Keller was a bonafide suspect.”