Barry Friedman - Dead End

by Barry Friedman

  THIRTY-FIVE

  With Vandergrift hunched forward in the driver’s seat, the Olds raced along I 77 at 90 miles an hour.

  They were level with the Akron-Canton Airport when Cassidy’s voice came over the speaker. “Maharos. Caddy has turned off on State Route 173. Appears headed east. State Patrol car 86 is trailing. State patrol car 92 approaching on I 77 from the north for assistance.”

  Maharos said, “That’s the next exit, just up ahead.”

  Vandergrift nodded and veered into the right lane.

  Cassidy again. “Contact lost with car 86.”

  One hundred yards ahead, lights illuminating the exit ramp to 173 appeared. Vandergrift slowed to 60 miles an hour and started down the ramp. Halfway down, the headlight beam picked up the figure in the middle of the road ahead waving both hands in the air. She jammed the brake to the floor while she turned the wheel sharply to the left. The car skidded to a stop a foot from the two overturned patrol cars.

  Maharos stared at the wrecked cars for a moment. Then shifted his gaze to the highway patrol officer hobbling toward him, hatless, a trickle of blood running from his forehead to his chin. He leaned out of the window. “You all right?”

  The officer glanced at the red blinking light on the roof of the Olds. “Just shook up. I’m Schulte. The other guy is still in his car. I don’t know how badly hurt he is yet.”

  Maharos and Vandergrift started to get out of the car to help. Schulte held the door on Maharos’ side keeping it from opening. “Look, we’ve just been down a few minutes. The Caddy is just ahead. Why don’t you go after him? I’m pretty sure my radio is still working. I’ll call in for help.”

  Vandergrift said. “We’ll call in for assistance on our set.”

  She swung the car over on the shoulder, drove through a roadside ditch and came back on the pavement beyond the wrecks.

  The beat of helicopter rotor blades emerged overhead and its searchlight beam illuminated the road. Maharos was telling Cassidy to send help to the officers who were down. Over the noise of the beating rotor blades he shouted into the mike, “The bird is here. Tell him to cruise ahead and pick up the Caddy.”

  Rankins spotted the dirt road and turned on to it. In the distance he heard a beating noise that drew closer. They were chasing him from overhead. A helicopter. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Can’t they see, he had to do this? It was the only way. He was about to get his manhood back. He shut off his headlights and slowly drove on in the dark. The ruts in the unpaved lane served as tracks for the car wheels, guiding the car along. All he had to do was keep his hands lightly on the steering wheel to keep it from going into the underbrush alongside the path.

  He stopped the car, turned off the engine. Too dark to make out landmarks, but he knew he was close to the spot he had stashed the motorcycle the day before. He remained seated in the car as the overhead noise came closer. A searchlight beam swept slowly from one side of the road to the other. For a few moments the engine noise seemed to be hovering directly overhead, but the searchlight beam passed just beyond the white car. The helicopter passed on, its engine noise gradually ebbing.

  Rankins got out of the car, looked up at the sky for a silent moment. A warm feeling surged over him. Delicious. It was the same feeling he’d had with each of the others, but stronger this time, much stronger. He closed his eyes to savor it, then reached down and felt his crotch.

  On the floor in the back, Schneider felt the car stop. The throbbing at his temples became more intense. The sound of the helicopter engine came closer. Oh, God. Please. Please. As the motor sound moved off, grew fainter he tried to cry out. No. Come back. Please, come back. His eyes stung with tears, he felt them roll down his cheeks.

  Maharos and Vandergrift listened to Cassidy relaying reports from the helicopter, but so far it had not spotted the Cadillac. They drove slowly, carefully surveying both sides of the road.

  Vandergrift said, “He can’t have gone much farther than this. If he’s not on the main road, there’s got to be a turn-off.” Her right hand was on the steering wheel. With the left she manipulated the car’s searchlight, sweeping its beam from one side of the road to the other. Maharos watched the aircraft’s searchlight beam in the distance, saw that it was starting back towards them. Like a huge paintbrush, it had been sweeping from side to side. Now it remained fixed on the right side of the road, shining directly down.

  Rankins stood alongside the Cadillac. They were not going to stop him now. Not when he was so close. He blinked to shut out the blazing white light that suddenly enveloped him and the car. He glanced up, moved toward the back car door. He had waited so long. There was no hurry now. He knew what he had to do. Nothing else mattered.

  “GOT ‘EM!”

  Cassidy’s voice boomed through the speaker in the Olds.

  Vandergrift gunned the engine, speeding the car toward the helicopter’s light. Maharos spotted the entrance to the dirt road, shouted to Vandergrift. She slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt. Judging by the distance they were from the searchlight beam, Maharos estimated that the Cadillac was about two hundred yards into the woods. The beam was not moving. He reasoned that the Cadillac had stopped, caught in the searchlight’s beam.

  In the helicopter, a sheriff’s deputy sat next to the pilot. He knew that below him a man was being held hostage, but peering down through the tree branches, he saw only one person. He raised a bullhorn to his mouth and aimed it at the ground. “PUT YOUR HANDS ON THE HOOD AND DON’T MOVE.”

  On the ground, Rankins heard the voice coming from the helicopter. What was the son of a bitch yelling for? He was busy. Didn’t want to be bothered by some voice in the sky. He opened the car’s back door. The prick doctor was lying on his back, his bound-up feet just inside the doorframe. This one was no different from the others. The fright in their eyes like that of cats he’d strangled when he was a kid. Muffled cries came through the gag, partially drowned out by the noise of the helicopter engine. Beads of sweat on his bald head reflected like pearls. Rankins took from his trouser pocket the .25 cal automatic and stepped into the car just beyond the doctor’s bound feet.

  Schneider raised his head from the floor of the car. For the first time since this unbelievable affair began, he saw the man who had tied him hand and foot and driven him here. Had he seen him somewhere before? A gun in his hand! Each beat of his heart sent a pang of pain surging through his chest and left arm. He knew he was about to die. Adrenaline surged through his body and, as though the lower part of his body were detached from the rest of him, he felt his knees draw up to protect his exposed chest and belly. He felt his legs shoot out like a leaping giant bullfrog and his feet crashed into the man in his upper belly sending him flying out of the car. He could no longer see him, but over the noise of the helicopter could hear the gasping sounds as the man fought to get air back into his lungs.

  Rankins was finally able to breath. He slowly climbed to his feet. This one was a fighter. He had to be careful. He walked around to the other side of the car and opened the back door. Now he was staring down into the doctor’s face, gazing down into his eyes, wide open in fright. He was almost there. Almost. He placed the muzzle against the doctor’s forehead and tightened his finger on the trigger.

  Turn him over!

  Rankins turned his head, looked around. “What?”

  Turn him over!

  He nodded once, understanding. It had to be done correctly, ritually.

  Lying on his back, Schneider knew he was already dead. Hadn’t he seen the gun muzzle at his forehead, the man’s finger on the trigger? Couldn’t understand why he was still able to watch as the man came at him from the other side of the car, toward his head. Saw him tuck the pistol in his belt and felt him grasp him by the shoulders. Trying to turn him over? No, he might be dead but he was not going to let him do it. He struggled until the man stopped trying. Watched him back out of the car and bend down to pick up something from the ground. Saw him raise his arm over h
is head, something in his hand. Saw him start to bring it down.

  Rankins stood over the doctor’s body as it twitched spasmodically for a few seconds, then lay still. Blood poured from a deep gash in his forehead where he had hit him with the rock, but his chest moved, he was breathing. Good. That’s not how he must die. He climbed to the back seat and maneuvered the doctor on to his back.

  Vandergrift and Maharos left the Olds parked at the entrance to the dirt roadway. Maharos grabbed a flashlight from its clip on the dashboard. With their guns drawn, they ran down the dirt road in the direction of the helicopter’s light, Maharos playing the flashlight beam on the rutted roadway. Fifty yards into the woods, the roadway took a turn. Past the bend they could see the Cadillac illuminated by the helicopter’s light one hundred yards ahead. As they ran, they saw Rankins’ arm raised in the air, suddenly come crashing down.

  “FREEZE. POLICE.”

  They shouted almost in unison as they ran crouched, one on either side of the narrow dirt roadway, their guns pointing toward the sky. Rankins disappeared into the car without even looking in their direction.

  In the car, Rankins stood over the doctor’s body, one leg on each side. He gently placed his fingertips on the bony prominence at the base of the unconscious man’s neck. Yes, there it was. The first thoracic. Above that the seventh cervical. Now. He marked his place with the tip of his index finger and slowly brought the muzzle of his gun towards it.

  Maharos was now directly behind Rankins, a foot from his head, his extended hands holding his service revolver in front of him. He flipped the safety catch off. “DROP IT NOW!”

  He waited one second, watched as Rankins continued in slow motion to position the muzzle of his gun at the man’s neck. For only the second time in his life, Maharos squeezed the trigger of his gun while it was aimed at a person. This time he didn’t miss. The back of Rankins’ skull suddenly disappeared.

  Maharos remained frozen, his gun extended in firing position. Rankins slowly fell forward on top of the unconscious doctor. His legs protruded spread-eagle from the doorframe. For a moment there was no further movement, then Rankins’ right leg began to twitch violently. Maharos counted silently as the leg jerked—two, three, four, five, six, seven times. Then lay still in the dirt road.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Vandergrift almost fell backward out of her chair as flames shot halfway to the ceiling from the sagan-aki, a goat cheese flambé, the waitress was holding.

  “Oompah!”

  Maharos and the Sussmans shouted in unison along with a dozen other diners in The Athenian Restaurant.

  Marc Sussman guffawed. “Karen, you’re going to have to learn to get used to these fireworks when you eat in a Greek restaurant.”

  She shook her head slowly. “I hate to wait around and see what comes out of the dolmas Al ordered for me.”

  It was two weeks following the chase down I 77 after Rankins. A few days after it was over, Maharos had called Marc Sussman to invite him and his wife, Annabelle, to dinner. “I owe you one for your help on the case. You called it.”

  “You mean the heptamaniac. Yeah, I read the gruesome report in the paper. Are you still on administrative leave?”

  “No. They gave me back my gun.”

  “You feel okay?”

  “You asking if I need a session on your couch?”

  “Don’t be a macho wiseass. I happen to know that inside that hairy chest there beats a heart.”

  Maharos said, “No, really, I’m feeling fine now. I did have a couple of bad nights after it was over, but I convinced myself that I had no choice. I gave him a chance. It was either Rankins or Dr. Schneider.”

  “How is Dr. Schneider?”

  “Except for a row of stitches that make his head look like a National League baseball, he’s all right.”

  Sussman said, “Last time I talked to you, you were cursing because you had been subpoenaed to appear as a witness in the trial of that decorator in Canton—the one that had been arrested for killing his lover. Whatever became of that?”

  “Yeah, Lance Harwood. The charges were dropped after we found evidence that Rankins had killed Burnstein. There was another guy too, Roy Young, who was being held in jail in New Philly. They had booked him for killing Hamberger. Of course, they let him go.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that it’s rough being an executioner, but—.“

  Sussman said, “I know what you mean, Al. It resolved a lot of problems. You know, of course, that Rankins would probably never have gone to trial. With his background, he’d have ended up in Oakwood or some other institution for a few years. Then—well who knows?”

  “You’re probably right even though there was no question that he had killed the seven people—six on his list and one bonus. We had collected a file full of evidence. Incidentally, we got a match on the blue fibers from his sweater, also on his shoe prints with those we found at a couple of the murder scenes.”

  “I’d love to write a paper on him for one of the psych journals. You know, a guy who’s impotent, paranoid-schizophrenic, heptamaniacal—and does serial murders.”

  “Would it help your paper if I told you that he also had dandruff and athlete’s foot?”

  Sussman chuckled. “I guess you’re over your depression.”

  “Seriously Marc, I know the guy had scrambled eggs for brains—although he was not stupid. But you’ve always told us that most of your psychotics are not dangerous. What made this one different?”

  “I can give you an answer, although I can’t vouch for its accuracy. My theory is that he was getting instructions from one of the characters in the Bible.”

  “Voices?”

  “Uh-huh. Schizophrenics have auditory hallucinations at times. Some of his testimony at the preliminary hearing when he was brought in on charges of killing his landlady strongly suggest that he was hearing voices that were in his head.”

  “That’s still not a reason to kill someone.”

  “Of course not. But we know that he was impotent, had been all his life, probably on an inherited hormonal basis. Give someone with paranoid-schizophrenia an idea that his failure to get an erection is due to something like an operation on his genitals—for example, the circumcision—and you’ve got, what in his mind, is a reason to kill. In this case, the doctor who performed the circumcision, and anyone else in any way connected became a potential victim.

  “Notice that all his victims were male, except for Abelson’s paramour. We’re quite sure that she wasn’t an intended victim. He probably had some weird idea that the sexuality of the men he killed would be transferred to him if he got rid of them. In that case he would see his victims as sacrificial.”

  “One thing that had us puzzled was his using a different gun for each of the killings. We wondered why. He put his signature on each of the victims by shooting them in the same place, so he wasn’t trying to fool us on ballistics.”

  Sussman said, “Of course, we’ll never know. But my guess is that the voices in his head told him that he had to use a clean sacrificial instrument for each one.”

  “Speaking of sacrificial instruments, we never did find the guns he used.”

  “They’re probably at the bottom of a lake—maybe several lakes.”

  Maharos said, “You guys have an answer for everything.”

  “Ask and ye shall receive. How about a little therapy?”

  “No thanks. I’m handling it all right. But thanks for the offer.”

  Now, seated in the Greek restaurant, Annabelle Sussman said, “Karen, have you ever had this lemon soup before?”

  “Never. I’ve been missing a treat.”

  Marc Sussman said, “You’ve been hanging out with Alexander the Great for over a month and he hasn’t introduced you to gyros and spanakopita yet?”

  “Do hot dogs and hamburgers count?”

  Sussman threw up his hands. “For the next occasion I’m going to give you a copy of the Joys Of Greek Cooking.”

&nbs
p; Vandergrift dropped her gaze and examined some crumbs on the tablecloth. Annabelle Sussman looked from Vandergrift to Maharos. A suppressed smile touched the corners of Maharos’ mouth.

  Annabelle said, “It’ll make a great wedding present.”

  Vandergrift’s face turned pink.

  Marc Sussman spread a glob of cheese on a piece of pita bread. “Isn’t that just like a woman? For God’s sake, Annabelle, just because they look at each other like a couple of lovesick school kids it doesn’t mean they’re picking out silverware patterns.”

  Maharos put his hand over Karen’s. “Well, we’re not ready to make an announcement, but Karen has put in for a transfer to the Mahoning County Sheriff’s Department.”

  Sussman smiled, nodded his head slowly. “There’s real romance for you. Whether or not they get married, depends on a clerk in some bureau finding the right stamp—what are you staring at, Al?”