The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  He drew a long, truculent breath before returning to the attack: “So much for your first argument. As for the second argument, you should know that one man can be more of a problem than two or three, simply because there’s no one to inform. Also, if the one man is a nut, he’s got nothing to lose. Which is why nuts are so goddam dangerous.”

  “Oh, Jesus”—I waved a hand in grudging agreement—“I’m not arguing with all that, Pete. I’m just—” I broke off, uncertain how I’d intended to finish the thought.

  “You’re stubborn,” he grumbled. But now the tension in his voice had softened. The moment’s threat of serious disagreement was behind us.

  Shrugging, I conceded his point. Yes, I was stubborn.

  “I can’t change your mind, huh?”

  “No.”

  Exasperated, Friedman shook his head as he turned away. “As the kids say, you’re too much.” He opened the door. “I’ll send him in. When you’re finished with him—or, more like it, when he’s finished with you—I want to see him. Put him back in the waiting room.”

  I sat down behind my desk and flipped the switch that activated the hidden microphone of my tape recorder. I couldn’t use the tape for evidence, but I wanted a record of the conversation.

  Almost immediately, the door opened and Keller strode into my office. He was thinner than I remembered him; he probably weighed less than a hundred fifty pounds. His face was emaciated: parchment-dry skin stretched taut over bones that outlined a death’s head. His eyes were sunk deep into dark-rimmed sockets. His lips were drawn in a tortured grimace, revealing teeth tightly clenched. His hair was sparse and greying, untrimmed and uncombed. His head was held at a stiff, unnatural angle on a drawn, corded neck. He was dressed in a nondescript sports coat, wrinkled trousers and a soiled white shirt without a tie. His shoes were scuffed; his oversize jacket hung open to reveal a shirt stained brown down the front. His pale cheeks were smudged by a grey-stubbled beard, about three days old. Hanging from sleeves that flapped on arms without substance, his hands were blue-veined and bony, clutching the air as he spoke.

  “It’s finally happened, hasn’t it? They’ve finally found out about you.” His eyes, alive with hatred, burned deep into mine. His voice was low and indistinct, a sibilant whisper that pulsed in the small office like demons muttering in darkness. I remembered that soft, hoarse voice, excoriating me in the dimness of his hospital ward. Then and now, he was choking on his own hate.

  “Sit down, Keller.” I gestured. “And close the door.” I was applying the first principle of interrogation, conditioning the suspect to obey small, seemingly insignificant commands.

  Still with his eyes locked to mine, he reached behind him, found the door’s knob and swung the door. It closed with a sharp click. Something in the controlled precision of the gesture unnerved me.

  Friedman had been right. The victim was a fool.

  “I’ll stand,” he said. “Just like you stood—with your hand on the Bible, swearing to tell the truth.”

  “I did tell the truth, Keller. You know it, and I know it. And the jury knew it, too.”

  In my own ears, the statement had a dull, unconvincingly dogged rhythm.

  “They wanted someone to send to jail,” he said. “That’s why they were in the courtroom, to send him to jail. And you were there to lie.”

  “That’s not true, Keller. I—”

  “You took the weakest one you could find. You got in your car, and you drove down Folsom Street, and you found someone. You put him in prison and took the money they gave you. Then you had him killed, to conceal your lies. Because you knew that as long as he lived he was a danger to you.”

  “Listen, Keller”—I rose to my feet, facing him across my desk—“Your son was guilty as charged. So he went to prison. That’s the whole story.”

  But I could still hear the unconvincing note plain in my own voice. I knew why. I knew that, at bottom, I didn’t believe Jason Keller had been guilty.

  “Don’t you count death, Lieutenant?” He asked the question with sly, malevolent satisfaction, as if he’d successfully tricked me. “The story ended when they killed him, not when he went to prison. They got their orders, and they killed him. That’s the whole story.”

  “It had nothing to do with me, Keller. I—I’m sorry it happened. But I don’t know the particulars, and I’m not responsible. And, furthermore, if you’re implying that he was killed as part of some kind of a plot, then, frankly, you’re suffering from delusions. They’ve got a name for that. It’s called paranoia.”

  Stretched in its death’s-head leer, his mouth writhed. “Don’t patronize me with big words, Lieutenant. I’ve got three degrees. Which is probably three more than you have.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I’m not patronizing you, Keller. Just the opposite. I’m trying to make you see that you’re being irrational. Common sense should tell you that, for one thing, your son wasn’t important enough to be the object of an elaborate frame-up. It’s just that simple.”

  His eyes blazed. “Would you like to know how they killed Jason?” His voice was very soft.

  “No. But I would like to know—”

  “They cornered him in the shower room. There were three of them. One of them had a nail. It was a twenty-penny nail, according to the coroner’s report. He’d stolen it from the carpentry shop the day before. He sharpened the first inch until it was sharp as a razor, with two edges, and a needle point. He wrapped the rest of it with tape, for a handle. He wrapped the sharpened part, too. He wrapped that in cloth, so he could conceal the nail in his rectum. Because, in the shower room, they were checked for weapons. The murderer’s name was Frank, too. Did you know that, Lieutenant? Did you know that his name was the same as yours?”

  Realizing that I might learn more if I listened to him instead of opposing him, I sat down behind my desk, gesturing for him to tell the story.

  “Frank Bates,” he breathed, “age twenty-three. He’s a convicted murderer. He had two men with him. They crowded Jason into a corner. It was a big, white-tiled room with a drain in the center. I saw the pictures. I saw the shower room before the murder, and I saw it after. In one picture, everything was white. In the other picture, everything was white and red. The red was Jason’s blood, spattered on the walls and running down the drain in the center. And there …” Momentarily, his manic eyes lost focus. His demon’s grin froze. “And there was a picture of Jason, too. But he was dead, in the picture. And dead bodies all look alike. They’re just a mound of flesh and hair, flattened on the bottom. They …” Blinking, he broke off. Suddenly his eyes were anguished: a father’s eyes, remembering. I looked away. Friedman had said it: guilt was for civilians. Guilt, and sympathy—a policeman couldn’t afford to feel either one.

  Keller was speaking again: “The two men held him while Frank Bates used the nail. They’d planned it very carefully. In the trial, it came out that they’d practiced with a sackful of rags, in the kitchen. Bates criss-crossed Jason’s stomach with the nail until his intestines came out. Because the nail could only cut an inch deep. So it was necessary to cut and cut and cut—sixty-eight times, the coroner said. And then, according to Bates’ plan, he intended to take the tape off the nail, and put the nail down the drain. Then the three of them would swallow the tape, in equal parts. And then the three of them would take a shower, to wash off the blood. And then—” He broke off. Again, the blazing eyes helplessly lost focus. The tightly drawn lips began to tremble, still stretched across his clenched teeth.

  “Listen, Keller, there’s no point in getting yourself—”

  “And then, they’d all walk out of the shower room. That was the plan. Except that a guard came in. And they were caught. They—”

  “They were caught,” I interrupted, “and they went to trial and they all drew life sentences. Isn’t that true?”

  Standing with his long, knob-knuckled fingers working spasmodically, still with eyes gone blank, he couldn’t hear me.

  “Th
ey were caught,” I repeated, speaking slowly and distinctly, “and they were found guilty. They’ll never leave prison. If the death sentence is reinstated, they’ll die. So you can’t say justice wasn’t done. You can’t say it was a setup, either. No one told Bates what to do. He was one man—one kook, with two sick friends. It happens all the time in prison. Every day. Spontaneously. For no rational reason. No reason at all.”

  “The three of them weren’t sick,” he mumbled. “They were already dead. That’s why they were chosen. They were the instruments. Your instruments.”

  “Jesus—” Exasperated, I slammed the flat of my hand down hard on the desk. “Nobody chose them, Keller. Bates was—” I hesitated. “He was in love with your son, and Jason was giving him a hard time. So Bates decided to waste him. That happens all the time, too—in prison, and sometimes out of prison. It doesn’t make sense, but it happens. And it’s tough, if it happens to you. I can sympathize with you. That’s why you’re here, in this office. That’s why I saw you in the hospital—because I was sorry for you. I’m still sorry for what’s happened to you. But, for God’s sake, if you’re going to blame someone, blame Bates. Look at the facts.”

  As I’d been speaking, his eyes slowly came back into bright, manic focus.

  “I’m not blaming Bates,” he said softly. “I’m blaming you. Just you.”

  “And so, night before last, you tried to set me up. Then, yesterday, you phoned Chief Dwyer. Right?” I spoke harshly. I’d wasted enough time with this sick, vicious man—enough time, and enough energy. Yet somewhere deep inside, I was unaccountably trembling. Was it fear? Or was it just exhaustion, the result of a kind of psychic drain I always experienced when I interrogated psychotics?

  “Are you recording this?” he asked suddenly.

  Startled, I looked at him. “What?”

  “I’m an electronics engineer,” he said. “And I think you’re recording this.”

  “If I am,” I said, “it’s just for information. Not for evidence. In your trial, it won’t be used against you.”

  “My trial?” Asking the question, his mouth twisted into a grotesquely patronizing smile.

  I nodded. “We’ve got you placed in my building Tuesday night, Keller,” I lied. “We know you’re trying to set me up on a bribery charge. We’ve got you cold on at least three felony counts.”

  He began to shake his narrow, bony head in a slow, measured arc, revealing alternate profiles each time he turned his head. In his scrawny neck, Keller’s Adam’s apple bulged like a malignant growth. In his eyes, a mocking complacency smoldered.

  “No, you haven’t got me cold, Lieutenant.” He was staring at me again. “I’ve—got—you—cold.”

  “You planted that money. And made the call. Didn’t you?” I spoke very quietly, very deliberately.

  Just as deliberately, he slowly, silently nodded. It was an admission I’d never be able to prove—an admission, and a threat. Keller would never give up. The thought frightened me.

  I rose to my feet. “I’ve done everything I can for you, Keller—for you, and your son. You don’t believe that, I know. But it’s true. Now, though, you’ve used up all your credit. If you’re not careful, you’re going to jail. If you keep on with this, I’ll see to it myself. Do you understand? I’ll do whatever’s necessary to put you away.”

  Once more he nodded, still taunting me with his madly dancing eyes. This was the game he’d come to play. And the rules were his, not mine—the rules, and the opening advantage.

  “All right”—I pointed to the door—“you can go now. Get out.”

  “I’m supposed to wait for Lieutenant Friedman.”

  “Wait for him outside, in the waiting room.” Again, I pointed.

  Without a word, he turned and left the office. Swearing to myself, I picked up the phone and angrily dialed Friedman’s interoffice number. “He’s all yours,” I said. “He’s in the waiting room.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “He did it, all right. There’s no doubt.”

  “So what now?”

  “So he’s all yours. I’m leaving town tomorrow. The hell with him. And the hell with Dwyer, too, if he tries to keep me from leaving.”

  “Tough talk.”

  “That’s right,” I answered. “Tough talk. Are you going to talk to Keller?”

  “Yeah. Pass him in, will you? I promised Communications I wouldn’t leave the office. We might have a shootout coming up.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “You know the good guys,” he answered tersely, “but not the bad guys.”

  “Why bother with Keller if you’re busy? He’ll keep.”

  “I’m not busy,” he said patiently. “I’m merely waiting for Communications. That’s what police work is all about, Lieutenant. It’s a waiting game. Like war.”

  “What’re you going to ask Keller?”

  “I’m going to try a few curves on him,” Friedman said airily. “None of which I’m going to tell you about. The less you know, I figure, the more you’ll enjoy your vacation.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ll pass him in.” I hung up the phone and crossed my office to open the outer door.

  On the far side of the waiting room, seated three in a row, I saw Canelli, Darrell—and Keller. It was a shock, seeing my son sitting beside a man who hated me so irrationally—who would harm me if he could.

  Darrell and Canelli were deep in conversation, turned toward each other. Sitting in his chair as if he were poised to spring, Keller was watching me with his terrible eyes.

  As I approached them, Darrell and Canelli both rose.

  “Hi, Dad,” Darrell said. “Canelli’s going to take me to the shooting range. I can watch him qualify, he says.” Darrell spoke with quick, unguarded exuberance. It was, I knew, a spontaneous response to Canelli’s often childlike simplicity. The two had become friends.

  “Go into my office,” I answered shortly. “Both of you. I’ll be with you in a minute.” As I said it, I saw the animation fade from Darrell’s eyes. Later, perhaps, I could explain.

  I waited for my office door to close behind them, then motioned for Keller to get to his feet. With Keller beside me, I walked to the uniformed officer on duty at the desk.

  “He’s to see Lieutenant Friedman,” I said. “Right now. He’s expected.” Nodding, the patrolman got to his feet, gesturing Keller to a seat beside his desk. Keller was now his responsibility.

  As I turned away, Keller raised a hand toward me. It was a parting gesture—a gesture of derisive benediction.

  “Your son looks like you, Lieutenant.” He spoke with quiet malice. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “He looks just like you.”

  I took a half-step toward him, involuntarily clenching my fists—then turned away, without speaking.

  Eight

  I SWITCHED OFF THE engine and turned to face Ann. The time was almost midnight; we were parked directly in front of her house. Behind the half-drawn drapes of her living room I saw a phosphorescent TV glow flicker as a figure moved in front of the window. Her sons were watching a late movie. In my own home, two hours ago, I’d left Darrell in his room, also watching TV. On impulse, I’d called Ann, saying that I wanted to see her before I left for Lake County. As soon as I heard her voice, I knew that I’d done the right thing. She’d watched for my car, and come outside as soon as I pulled up in front of her building. With her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing sneakers, jeans and a light sweater, she’d looked like a young girl as she’d slipped into the car beside me. I’d intended to take her to a nearby bar, for a farewell drink. But when she kissed me, I decided instead to drive down to the bay and park. Again, it had been the right thing to do.

  Now, in the dim glow from a streetlight, I saw her smile.

  “I think I was eighteen, the last time I parked with a boy. Do they still call it heavy petting?”

  “I think it’s called making out.”

  “No. Making out is when you actually have interco
urse.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  Her smile widened as she murmured, “Anyhow, we almost qualified.”

  I touched her throat at the V of her sweater, then moved my hand gently down, caressing her. I saw her eyes soften, and felt her body respond to my touch. Then her smile widened, warmly mischievous. She raised a forefinger, pressing firmly against the tip of my nose.

  “When you were eighteen,” she said, “you would’ve been hazardous to my virtue.”

  I chuckled. “Don’t be too sure. My childhood was very sheltered.”

  “I’m not talking about your childhood. Eighteen, I said.”

  “The same thing applies. I was a slow starter.”

  “I don’t believe you. I remember how it was, with high-school football heroes. I can distinctly remember stalking a boy named Clancy Walker for months. He didn’t even glance at me. Not once. He was all-city guard.”

  “That only shows that all linemen are thick-headed.”

  “Did girls follow you? Did you notice them loitering around, trying to be casual but hoping, really, that you’d walk them to your next class?”

  “You don’t expect me to deny it, do you?”

  “In college, too? Did you see them following you around in college?”

  “In college, too. Naturally.”