by J. A. Kerley
He can be absolutely charming, humble. An interesting person to be around, normal, relaxed. Moments later he is demanding, dictatorial. His changes are mercurial and, I am beginning to think, difficult to control, though still contained. He sublimates his impulses exceptionally well, especially what I perceive as an anger toward women.
I doubt the sublimation can continue.
I read, fascinated, a brief entry occurring two months later.
Today he asked me, “Do people really taste like chicken, Rudolnick?” A minute later he was striding forcefully across the floor, appearing to make business decisions. Then he sat and read several of the magazines lying around, general-interest. Later, putting the magazines away, I discovered he had scratched the eyes blank in the photographs of several women, probably unconsciously.
There were more observational visits, Rudolnick commenting on the patient’s(?) state of mind. The doctor’s observations seemed circumspect, veiled, almost as if watching from behind a glass window. The next long entry was the penultimate entry. I noticed the writing was looser, less controlled, as if written in a hurry or in a stressful situation.
When I arrive, he is waiting. His first question: Do I think women’s blood differs from men’s blood? I am becoming a magnet for him. He needs me, but does not realize it. I cannot fathom what will happen if he develops a dependency. He asks me to walk in the woods with him. I am reminded of photographs I have seen of leaders at Camp David, slow-walking down paths bordered with trees, heads bowed in discussion, hands folded behind backs. Except instead of discussing world events, all he discusses is sex and control and death. Not philosophy, but methodology.
I lie – what are my choices? – and assure him his thoughts are normal, and as a psychiatrist, I am perfectly qualified to make such assurances – everyone has such thoughts.
He talks of “escaping” without going into detail; though several meanings can be inferred, none good. In the best of all possible worlds I would be allowed to medicate him. Forestall what I feel is the inevitable.
It is not an option.
For a few moments he becomes agitated and angry. There are clouds in the sky and I point upward and remind him of the relaxation techniques. I never know what creates such moments. It is like walking beside a normal and respected person who has decided to become a suicide bomber, never knowing when he will grasp the plunger.
Then, a week later, the final entry:
This marks the last of this series. I have made my decision to extricate myself from this situation. Everything is a spinning mirror and my share of the blame is large and horrendous. I suspect the subject has come to see me as an enemy. How do I know? He is nicer to me than he has ever been, solicitous of my health. Gentle.
I smell his hand on the plunger.
I must get out.
Five weeks later, Rudolnick was dead.
“What do you think?” Harry asked when I had finished reading.
“I think there’s a decent chance he was treating our killer,” I said, a cold knife tracing circles over the base of my spine.
“I figured you’d agree,” Harry said.
Near midnight, I got a call from the reporter, Ted Margolin. Dani, bless her, had contacted him. She had told Margolin two local dicks were wondering how certain political procedures worked in Montgomery.
“Naturally,” Margolin said, “it intrigued me.”
“We’re interested in a former Mobile County officer, Benjamin Pettigrew. He is not – repeat, not – the subject of any form of investigation. We’d like to know, in general, how Pettigrew got hired.”
“I got a real good source for that kind of stuff,” Margolin said. “I’ll need time to make some calls, maybe wait until a friend can get to some locked files. How about we get together late tomorrow morning?”
I didn’t try to hide my surprise. “You’ll have it by then?”
“If it’s have-able. Oh, Detective Ryder?”
“Yes?”
“I haven’t talked to DeeDee in a few months. She sounded pretty down. She all right?”
“She’s fine,” I said. “Something to do with the change in the weather.”
After wrestling with the notion for several minutes, I decided to call Dani, thank her for the assistance. Maybe buoy my conscience. Her number was still first on my speed dial.
Tap. Connect. Ring.
“Hello?” Her voice tentative. “Carson?”
“It’s me, Dani. I just wanted to let you know that –”
“Buck’s here,” she whispered.
I clicked the phone off and stared at it for several seconds. I pulled up my call list and deleted her number.
CHAPTER 32
Harry and I went to the office in the morning and caught up on every bit of paperwork the case had generated. We had the feeling that something was due to break. We wanted to be caught up if the shit got delivered to the fan.
The Crandell character had come to light and we were using it to leverage Barlow. A four-year-old murder appeared to have been done by Taneesha Franklin’s killer. I suspected Dr Bernard Rudolnick had treated – or at least observed – the perpetrator. The man who killed Rudolnick had been poisoned after being interviewed by our primary victim, Taneesha. It was a rat’s-nest of tangles, but we were picking it apart a twig at a time. Something was going to bust loose on one of the angles.
At ten forty-five we headed to Harry’s house, where we’d arranged to meet Margolin. The day had turned too hot for sitting outside, so we paced in the living room, Harry north to south while I went east to west. After a few crossings we got the rhythm right. At eleven thirty we heard a car door slam and Harry went to the window.
“He’s here.”
Margolin strode into the living room with a black leather bag over his shoulder. He was a small, fit guy in a blue seersucker suit and white shirt, no tie. His eyes were dark and electric, his steel-gray hair buzzed short. He moved like a Jack Russell terrier, fast and choppy. The guy looked closer to fifty than sixty, investigative journalism must have agreed with him.
We did introductions. Margolin took the couch, Harry and I pulled our chairs close.
“What you got?” I asked.
Margolin reached into the bag, dug out a folder, set it on his lap.
“First off, don’t get the idea I jump like this for anyone. Cops especially. I’m doing this because DeeDee told me to. I do mean told, like an order. I owed her one for a tip she passed on last year. This is me paying back.”
“Understood,” I said.
Margolin snapped open the folder, put on reading glasses.
“Pettigrew, Benjamin Thomas. Started with the Montgomery force four years back. Patrolman second grade, the rank owing to three years’ experience as a county cop. Made detective one year later. Nicknamed ‘Bulldog’ because of his investigative tenacity. A perp once found out Pettigrew was on his case, came in and surrendered. Actually, I think that’s happened twice.”
“Pettigrew’s not a guy to give up,” Harry said. “And known for it.”
Margolin looked over his glasses. “If you’re looking for a downside to Pettigrew, I never found one. This boy’s all silver and no tarnish.”
“Actually, we’re more interested in how he was selected,” Harry said.
Margolin shuffled through his papers, reviewed one for a few seconds.
“Pettigrew got lucky, actually.”
“Lucky how?”
“The city got a special grant to add cops that year. I mean, like the week before. Over a half million bucks drops in from a KEI grant –”
Like touching me with a live wire. I jerked forward, waving my hands in the time-out motion. “Wait a minute, Ted. KEI?”
“Kincannon Enterprises, International.” Margolin’s reporter sense kicked in. “I say something interesting, guys?”
Harry said, “Keep going, Ted.”
“KEI tossed big money on the table, special one-time grant – use it or lose it. It was a
little out of KEI’s range to provide funds for direct hiring, but welcomed by the city, of course.”
Harry said, “Would folks at KEI have any sway over who was chosen?”
“If the Kincannons had a candidate for a cop position, the candidate would get heavy consideration. No, he’d flat-out get hired.”
Harry said, “What if the Kincannons wanted a guy out of their hair? They’d do the same, right? Have him plucked away by Montgomery?”
Margolin started to reply, but his eyes turned cautious. He looked between Harry and me.
“I’m late for an appointment. That’s all I know about Pettigrew. I do know the Kincannons are rumored to have inroads into law enforcement.” Defiance in his voice, and veiled anger.
Harry held up his hands. “Wait a minute. You think we got you here under false pretenses? Maybe dope out your view of the Kincannons?”
Margolin picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, stood. “Nice talking to you fellows.”
Harry reached out and snatched the bag from Margolin’s shoulders.
“Hey!” Margolin snapped.
Harry slid the bag over his cannonball shoulder. Margolin looked between his bag, Harry’s shoulder, and Harry’s face.
“Have a seat, Ted,” Harry said. “Please,” he added.
The reporter sat warily.
“You need a quick history lesson,” Harry said. “Buck Kincannon helped me create an inner-city baseball team. A year later, when the team’s mentors wouldn’t play dirty political ball with family interests, Kincannon deep-sixed the dreams of about fifty kids I cared about. I’d personally like to rip Kincannon’s face off and shit in it.”
Margolin studied on that for a moment, then looked my way.
“I have my own story,” I said. “It isn’t his face I want.”
Harry said, “Someone we know described the Kincannons as using one hand to give while the other takes. Everything’s quid pro quo. Fit anything you know, Ted?”
“The old Kincannon quid pro quo …I got one: the Montgomery Chamber Orchestra. The Kincannons were trying to schmooze their way into Montgomery society, wanted to impress the social register types. They approached the symphony and donated money to create a chamber orchestra. Three months later, music.”
“And?” I said.
“You can’t wash stripes off a skunk. The Kincannons can’t bear giving without getting. Every time the family had a bash for their political ass-kissers up in Montgomery – and they have a lot of ’em, bashes and ass-kissers both – the MCO was expected to perform gratis. After a year of freebies, the musicians rebelled. The funds quietly dried up over the next couple years.”
Margolin shifted his gaze between Harry and me. “That’s a funny story and no one was hurt. I’ve heard other stories, never verified, that weren’t funny, you get my drift. I’ve always wanted to put a tight lens on the Kincannons. Maybe it’s time.”
Harry slipped the bag from his shoulder, handed it back to the reporter.
“Watch your back,” Harry said.
Margolin winked, said, “One of the things I do best.” He skittered out the door, all sauce and energy.
I turned to Harry. “Pettigrew is checking into the killing of Ms Holtkamp. He’s got a rep as a guy who finds things out. Suddenly the KEI dumps a shitload of the big green jizzle into the kitty in Montgomery, says hire some cops. And by the way, there’s this guy in Mobile County …”
Harry nodded. “Pettigrew is called to the big city. Barlow slides into place and becomes a wrecking ball.”
“Crandell arrives on the scene and works some kind of magic,” I added. “Problem solved.”
“Four dead bodies, a funky Wookiee, and a high-level fixer. What the hell have we stepped into?”
Harry’s cell went off in his pocket. He fumbled it free, looked at the screen for the incoming number, didn’t seem to recognize it. He put the phone to his face, brightened.
“Hi, Arn, what’s up?”
Harry paused. Leaned forward. “What? When?”
He listened with his hand on his forehead. Grunted a few times. Hung up. Turned to me.
“Cade Barlow was found in his garage this morning. He shut the door, cut the gas line to his water heater in the garage. Then he sat on his shiny Harley and rode into the sunset. Or wherever.”
I slammed my fist on my thigh. “He leave a suicide note?”
“Nothing but a body on a bike, the asshole.”
I thought for a few moments.
“He was already dead, Harry.”
“What do you mean?”
“Arn Norlin said Barlow was a decent cop until four years back. That’s when he got odd. Arn described Barlow as seeming like he’d lost someone he loved. Maybe he traded his integrity for thirty pieces of silver. Or chrome, in this case.”
“Barlow lost himself when he sold his honor? That’s what you’re saying?”
I shrugged. “It fits.”
Harry leaned back in his chair with his mouth open and tapped a yellow pencil against his cheek. It made a hollow sound.
“Wonder who bought it?” he said. “Barlow’s honor.”
CHAPTER 33
Rather than second-hand Clair’s take on the Kincannons, I wanted Harry to hear it from her own lips. I had a growing sense that our complicated journey was about to take us into the realm of the Furies.
She didn’t sit behind her desk, but in a wing-back chair in the corner of her office. Harry and I sat close. Clair wore a cream pantsuit tailored to the millimeter, a bright silk blouse, lavender. She crossed her long legs and leaned forward, aiming the big blue headlights at Harry and me.
“Here’s the condensed story, Harry: money is power. The only restraint on power is personal morality. That’s not innate, it’s learned. Trouble is, the Kincannons never had that on their lesson plan. If they had a coat of arms, it would say Me First. If you had to characterize the family as a single entity, it would be a devious child.”
Harry said, “Why do people bend at the waist when they hear the name?”
“The Kincannons spend vast sums to appear like benevolent royalty, to be adored by the public. It doesn’t hurt that the boys look like movie stars.”
Harry said, “Carson told me about the one hand giving, the other taking. It sounds like, if they had a third hand, it’d carry a knife.”
“Don’t gamble that it doesn’t, Harry. Do you actually think they, or one of them, has something to do with your case?”
“There’s no hard evidence,” Harry said. “But the circumstantial pile is growing.”
“There’s nothing to go after them with?”
Harry rubbed his temples and shook his head.
“We’ve discovered some things from a reporter, but we need personal insights. Not how many lawyers or PR people they have, not how many millions they keep in the Caymans. Something about them as people. History. Personalities. We need to know if they have any ghosts in the machinery we can leverage.”
Clair stood, brow creased in thought. She walked to her window and tapped her nail against its surface as she gazed into the day, her graceful form backlit by filtered sunlight. I felt my breath catch and turned away.
“Ory Aubusson,” she said, turning.
“Roy Orbison?” Harry said.
“Ory Aubusson,” Clair corrected, going to her desk. She picked up her BlackBerry, tapped the keys. “Ory was Buck Kincannon Senior’s best friend years back. Ory’s got money, but nothing like the Kincannons. Ory married a woman who made him slow down. Buck Senior married one who pushed him into hyperdrive.”
“How do you know Aubusson?” I asked.
“He was part of a crowd I hung with when dating Zane. Ory’s a piece of work, in his seventies now, bawdy, cantankerous. Smarter than he looks, one thing to keep in mind.”
“You think he’ll talk to us?”
Clair picked up her phone, a slim finger poised over the keypad. “If I ask him to see you, he will. If he decides to kick you
off his property two minutes later, he’ll do that, too.”
The call got through. Clair chirped, purred, told a couple of stories. Then slid us in the door. She hung up.
“He’ll see you tomorrow morning. I’ll get you the address.”
We headed for the door. Clair got there ahead of us, pushed it shut. She leaned against the door, her eyes tense.
“If you’re wrong, if you screw up, the Kincannons will tear you to pieces, hound you with lawyers, get you kicked off the force. Even if you’re right, it could happen. And you don’t even know if you’re right.”
“We’re right,” Harry said. “Still doesn’t negate any of the other possibilities, though.”
Clair stepped aside. Harry started down the hall, pulling out his cell to check for messages. She turned to me, her voice low.
“Are you all right, Ryder? With your personal upheaval?”
“Keeping busy. I think it’s the answer.”
“Too busy to get together and talk? That was tomorrow night, you know.”
“Sevenish, if I recall.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. Gave it a gentle squeeze. Said, “Stay safe, Carson.”
The door reopened and I followed after my partner, a bell-like ringing in my ears.
Harry had to go to the Prosecutor’s Office to straighten out a time line on an upcoming trial, and I envied him a few moments thinking about something else, even if it was another murder. I dug out our mass of paper and started at the beginning, the Wookiee jumping from the Mazda and running into the truck’s headlamps. The knife in the rainy gutter. The oddities with the extra water in Taneesha’s car.
After a half-hour I dropped my head to my hands and rubbed my eyes.
“I know that look,” said a voice at my back, Tyree Shuttles. “Frustration, pure and simple.”
“This isn’t simple frustration, Tyree,” I said. “This is the new and improved frustration – a hundred per cent more for no added charge.”
