“You’ve got a ruptured disk and you’ll probably need an operation,” Long told him, and referred him to an orthopaedic surgeon in New Philadelphia.
He asked, “How much is this going to cost?”
Long said, “You got hurt at work, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Workers’ Compensation should pay for it. Haven’t you filed a claim?”
When Rankins said he didn’t know how to go about filing a claim, Dr. Long told him he would have to do it through his employer. He went from the doctor’s office to the feed store. He was limping badly and his trunk listed to the right. Hamberger was behind the counter. He scowled when he saw Rankins walk in. “I told you you’re fired.”
“I need some papers filled out so I can file for compensation.”
Hamberger walked around the counter and stood in front of Rankins. He lowered his face so that their noses almost touched. “You’re a fake, a crazy goldbricking dwarf. Get the hell outta here before I throw you out.”
Elsie Harrelson, the woman who owned the house in New Philly at which he roomed, watched him limping around, finally asked him why he wasn’t going to work. He told her what had happened.
She wiped her hands on her apron and gave a short laugh. “Noah Hamberger won’t give you nothing. You better see a lawyer.”
She had a nephew who knew someone with a similar problem. She called her nephew and was told that George Horner in Canton was the best compensation lawyer around. She told Rankins, “Canton isn’t that far. Why don’t you call this Horner and see if he’ll take your case?”
The 25-mile ride to Horner’s office in Canton, on his black Yamaha motorcycle, was pure torture. While he waited in the lawyer’s anteroom, he had to get up every five minutes and pace the floor to try to relieve the ache in his leg. He filled out the blue Workers’ Compensation forms the secretary gave him and, finally, she beckoned him into Horner’s private office.
The lawyer looked up from reading the form Rankins had filled out and saw the pain in his face.
He asked, “Have you seen anyone but this Dr. Long?”
“No.”
“Would you like to see an orthopaedic surgeon here in Canton, or would you prefer to be treated in New Philly?”
“Makes no difference to me. I just want to get rid of this pain.”
Horner gave him Dr. Russell Marino’s name and address. “Maybe he can see you today. I’ll have my secretary call.”
He was lucky. Marino had a cancellation and would fit Rankins in.
Dr. Marino’s examination confirmed what Dr. Long had told him. He had a herniated disk. “There’s a test we’ll have to do, but I’m pretty sure it will show what I expect.”
The nurse gave him a requisition and directions to the Stark Medical Imaging Laboratory. “After you finish the scan, go home. We’ll get in touch with you and tell you what you have to do next.”
It was six-thirty in the evening by the time the technician placed him on the examining table enclosed by a huge sewer pipe-like tunnel for a magnetic resonance imaging study. It was all he could do to keep from screaming with fear, confined in the apparatus. In spite of the air conditioning, he was drenched with sweat by the time he emerged.
He ignored the red-labeled warning on the bottle, “Do not drive after taking,” and gulped down two of his remaining codeine tablets before he got back on his motorcycle to return to New Philadelphia in the dark. He stopped four times along the way, got off the cycle and paced to try to shake out the ache that drilled into his left leg.
For the next two days, he remained in his room, lying on the floor on his back next to his bed. The only way he could get a little relief from the pain was by putting his legs up on the bed in order to flex his knees and hips.
Mrs. Harrelson was shocked to find him lying in that odd position when she came in to tell him that Dr. Marino’s office was on the phone.
He hobbled downstairs to the phone. Dr. Marino’s nurse was on the line. “Your scan showed that you have a large disk rupture. Dr. Marino has made arrangements for you to go into St. Agnes Hospital here in Canton. Be there by three this afternoon.”
“Is he gonna operate on it?”
“He’ll let you know when he sees you tomorrow morning.”
When Rankins told Mrs. Harrelson he was going into the hospital, she told him he was in no condition to drive up himself. “I’ll call my nephew and have him take you to Canton,” she said.
He put a few of his belongings into his beat-up suitcase and waited until the nephew arrived in his pickup to drive him to the hospital.
* * *
Rankins crushed the empty Kentucky Fried Chicken bag and tossed it out of the window of his van. He drove back along State Route 21, past the mass of gray buildings that housed Massillon State Hospital, until he reached the city. He was thinking about Jason Peterson. That slimy, smooth-talking son of a bitch, he thought. He said all these nice things to Rankins’ face, but in his mind he was probably thinking how he could screw him.
Watch out for Peterson. He’s a slimy, smooth-talking son of a bitch. Says all these nice things to your face, but in his mind he’s thinking how he can screw you.
Rankins turned his head slightly and spoke to the back of the van while he drove. “That’s just what I was thinking.”
He drove to his garage, locked up his car, then walked back to the mortuary.
Peterson was waiting for him upstairs in the office. He got up from his desk when Rankins came in. “I’ll grab a bite and be back in about an hour. Some of the Prattle family are in the chapel. See if they need anything.”
Rankins followed him with his eyes as he walked out of the office. When he heard the downstairs door close, he took the small bible out of his pocket and started to read.
EIGHTEEN
Annie Maharos was unusually quiet as she sat across from her father in Darrow’s restaurant. Al Maharos’ attempts to make conversation with her were met with brief nods, shrugs or one-word responses. He had just finished telling her about Karen Vandergrift. Annie had looked at him with those big brown eyes; long eyelashes fanning while he spoke. Her mouth was set the way Marcie’s was when she was peeved.
“Look, baby, I don’t like living alone. You know that.”
“Then why did you leave Mom?” Her voice was tight. Close to tears.
“Hey, wait a minute. You know better. It wasn’t me that wanted out of our marriage. We went through that before, we don’t have to rehash it now, do we?”
Annie’s head dropped. Her hair fell over her eyes. “It’s only that—.“
He waited but she didn’t finish. He reached across the table and put his hand on hers. “I want you to meet her, okay? Don’t make any judgments until you have a chance to see what she’s like.”
Annie raised her head. Her eyes were teary. “Sure, Dad. I want you to be happy even if it means I’ll be losing you.”
He smiled and shook his head slowly, “Annie, Annie, how can you say that? You’re never going to lose me. No one is ever going to come between us. Ever.”
Her lips quivered. “Promise you won’t marry her right away.”
“I’m not going to run off and get married to anybody—yet. Listen, I don’t even know if she’ll marry me if I ask her, which I haven’t done anyway.”
He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes, looked up at him and smiled weakly. “When am I going to get to meet her?”
“That’s better. How about next Sunday?”
She bobbed her head up and down.
“How about some dessert?” He waved at the waitress.
Annie ordered a piece of dark Dutch chocolate cake and was working to get the few remaining crumbs on her fork, while Maharos drained his coffee cup. He said, “Come on, I’ve got to get you back to your mother.”
They walked out of the restaurant, his arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist.
* * *
The detective squad room was its usual bedlam the morning of June 30.
In one corner of the large room, divided by low partitions into a dozen small cubicles, Detective Third Grade Schaeffer was booking a twenty-five year old black man. He had brought the man in after he had been caught in a closed liquor store, filling a pillowcase with bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label. He sat opposite Schaeffer in a straight-backed wooden chair, his hands cuffed behind him. He shouted, “I want my lawyer. You motherfuckers ain’t got no respect for a man’s rights.”
Schaeffer was pecking away at his computer, looked up. “I read you your rights. You already called your lawyer. I don’t see him running his ass down here at eight in the morning.”
“I ain’t answerin’ no more questions ‘till my lawyer gets here.”
“No one’s asking you any questions. Anyway, what’s to question? Why you were doing your Fourth of July liquor shopping at four in the morning, in a store that closes at eight in the evening?”
In another cubicle, Detective Second Grade Andrews sat with a two hundred pound woman in her late fifties, clad in a housedress. One shoulder strap of the dress was completely ripped exposing a bulging brassiere above and a slip below. She wore no shoes or stockings; her feet were black with dirt. “Can you imagine, the son of a bitch was tryin’ to rape me!” She shrieked. Andrews leaned away from the woman, trying to cover his nose with a handkerchief. No, he couldn’t imagine anyone trying to rape her.
Two of the other three detectives on the day watch were out responding to calls. Maharos sat at his desk, his feet up on one of its corners. He was reviewing his notes on a stabbing homicide he had investigated three months before. He was due to testify on the case in Mahoning County Common Pleas Court at ten. Although he had to be present at that time, he knew he’d be lucky if he took the stand by eleven. The lawyers’ motions and their conferences with the presiding judge at the start of the day’s proceedings could devour as much as an hour. More likely it would be close to noon and, since the direct questioning by the district attorney and the cross-examination by the defense attorney would undoubtedly take more than an hour, his appearance would run up against the noon recess. He would have to be back when court reconvened at two. Another day shot.
He had trouble concentrating on his reading. Last night, he had phoned Marcie to be sure he could take Annie to meet Karen Vandergrift Sunday. He had run into resistance from Marcie. It was Fourth of July weekend; she and Sam had made plans for a Sunday picnic with the family. He had a rare shouting match on the phone with his ex-wife, but they finally agreed that Maharos would take Annie on Saturday instead. As things turned out, it was just as well. Saturday was the Fourth of July and Karen had the day off, otherwise she would have had to make complicated shift switches.
At nine-thirty, Maharos put on his jacket and started out the door on his way to court. Halfway down the corridor, he heard his name called. He turned to face Sandy Ehrlich, the Herald reporter.
Ehrlich said, “What have you got for me on the Horner investigation?”
“Still working on it. Nothing new to report.”
“What’s the connection with Harwood in Canton?”
“I haven’t established that there’s any connection.”
“How about the Graves case in Canton and the Hamberger case in New Philadelphia?”
“Same answer.”
Ehrlich smirked. “How are you getting along with Deputy Vandergrift?”
Maharos had been walking while Ehrlich at his side, fired questions at him. He stopped and faced the reporter, bristling. “Are you getting personal?”
“Not unless you are.”
Maharos smoothed Ehrlich’s tie, snugged the knot close to the reporter’s chin. “My personal life is no concern of yours, do I make myself clear?” He did not wait for an answer and walked off leaving Ehrlich staring at his back. Just as he reached the door to the parking lot Maharos turned. He was grinning. He called back down the hall, “You’re a good reporter, Sandy. I respect you for that.”
It was three-fifteen when the judge leaned over and excused Maharos. He had been on the witness stand from eleven-thirty until twelve-fifteen. After the lunch recess, he returned but found that the lawyers were closeted with the judge in his chambers arguing a plea-bargaining arrangement. No agreement had been reached, so the legal maneuvering resumed.
Maharos smiled pleasantly as he passed the jurors on his way out of the courtroom. Several avoided his glance; others sat stone-faced with their arms crossed. The defendant glared at him when he passed.
* * *
The sign on the door of the corner top floor office in the two-story professional building on Boardman Canfield Road read:
Marc Sussman, PhD
Clinical Psychologist
In the lower corner of the glass panel was a small sign that said:
Walk in. Please be seated
Maharos had made his appointment for five and was five minutes early. No one else was in the small waiting room, furnished with a love seat and two upholstered chairs. He leafed through a four-month-old copy of People magazine while he waited. From an overhead speaker, an FM station played music by Montovani. In three minutes, Maharos’ lids drooped.
At precisely five o’clock, he heard the sound of a close-by corridor door close and moments later, the waiting room door to the inner office opened. The face that peered out belonged to a fifty-year-old rotund body wearing a rumpled shirt, the top button undone, the knot of the orange and black tie pulled down. Marc Sussman’s smile showed teeth that were encircled by a full dark beard and mustache. Thick eyebrows overhung his dark eyes. With all that facial hair, none was left over for the top of his head. A fringe of graying hair wreathed his shiny pate.
“How do you do, Alexander the Not-So-Great.”
“Same to you, shrinker-of-heads.”
Maharos followed Sussman into his office. He glanced around at the cluttered cubbyhole. The single window was covered by a thick, brown drape, a bookcase along one wall was crammed with books and bound journals, the desk top was covered with papers, folders and stacks of unbound journals. Maharos sank into one of the two upholstered chairs and motes of dust rose from it and danced in the light from a desk lamp, the only light in the room.
Maharos said, “I see your cleaning lady hasn’t made it in again this year.”
Sussman shrugged, “You want a sharp office or a keen mind? So, how’re things, Al?”
“Not too bad, Marc.”
“What do you hear from Marcie—and Annie?”
Sussman had counseled the Maharoses during their marital problems. He was the psychology consultant to the Youngstown Police Department, a relationship of twelve years. Old-timers thought it was bullshit. They claimed they weren’t about to lose any sleep if they shot the ass off some rapist or a knife-wielding junkie wired on PCP. On the other hand, even the most hard-nosed admitted that the black-bordered plaque hanging in the headquarters lobby included, in the dozen rows of photos, several of their late comrades who had used their hard palates for targets.
“Marcie’s happy. Annie’s whatever a teenager is supposed to be.”
“And you?”
“I’m doing okay.”
“Still eating and sleeping alone?”
Maharos grinned. “I didn’t come here to use your couch for myself. Your sizeable bill goes to the city. I want your thoughts about someone who’s going around juking some citizens.”
“ ‘Juking’? Who are we reading now, Leonard? McBain? Or is this Youngstown P.D. new-speak?”
Sussman listened while Maharos told him about the series of homicides. The psychologist scribbled notes in a long yellow pad on his lap, occasionally grunting as Maharos talked. When he finished, Sussman scanned his two pages of notes. Nodding, he said, “Heptamania.”
“What?”
“I shouldn’t have to define it for you.”
“Hepta. That’s seven in Greek.”
“Smart lad.
Heptamania is a syndrome that describes someone who has a fixation on the number ‘seven’.”
“Why seven?”
“Seven is a very important number: seven days in the week, you crap out—or win—with seven in dice, Rome was built on seven hills, the guy in Grimm’s fairy tales wore seven league boots—“
Maharos broke in. “You sail the seven seas, drink Seven-Up, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs—.“
“There you go. The guy you’re looking for is a heptamaniac.”
“Guy?”
“Sure. You’ve heard me give lectures on the subject. Serial killers are almost all white males in their early thirties with histories of bad childhoods—broken homes, abandoned in infancy. This one has an obsession-compulsion with the number seven. He commits his murders on the seventh of the month, he delivers the deathblow by shooting them through the seventh vertebra in the neck and the seventh vertebra in the thoracic spine. I suppose if the lumbar spine had seven vertebrae instead of five, he’d shoot them there too. He even delivers them to the place where he kills them along Interstate 77.”
Maharos said, “Is heptamania common?”
“Well, there are a lot of people running around who have an obsession-compulsion related to seven—they wash their hands seven times, count to seven repeatedly throughout the day, chew each mouthful seven times, and so on. But they’re otherwise normal—they don’t go around killing people. In fact, they’re not even considered psychotic. Neurotic, maybe.”
Sussman stared at the ceiling in deep thought, tapping his lips with his pencil. “I’m trying to think where I’ve seen a patient who was a heptamaniac and who was also psychotic, a schizophrenic as I recall. It might have been at Massillon State Hospital or Lima State, I’m not sure. I’ll give it some thought. If I can remember I’ll let you know.”
Maharos started to get up. “Well, your profile is a big help. I’ll have everyone in the department checking out the restaurants. See who chews everything seven times.”
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