No Good Deed

by Michael Rupured

  Terrence held his gaze. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes. I’m certain. And I promise, I’m going to do whatever I can to help you.”

  “Me too,” George said. “Wow. Check out all the police cars.”

  Over the long hood of the Thunderbird, Philip saw the scene unfolding in the parachute factory parking lot. “They’ve cornered him.”

  Chapter Fifty

  TRIPP PULLED into the parachute factory parking lot and headed toward the river. Steam drifted toward the bridge from the grate. He noticed the crates were gone. Burned, judging from the pile of ashes next to the concrete trestle.

  He stopped the car, removed the keys from the ignition, and walked to the back of the Continental. The thumping coming from the trunk earlier had stopped, but it resumed the second he turned the key and sprung the latch.

  The smell of urine hit his nose. He wasn’t surprised. They’d been in the trunk for hours. And it wasn’t like he could make a bathroom stop. No doubt they were thirsty and hungry too.

  At least he no longer had to worry about his family finding out. He’d told them everything and, as he’d feared, they didn’t understand about the demon that had plagued his soul and haunted him for so long.

  God would forgive him for their suffering. All he need do was confess, and the river would wash away his sins. And with the sacrifice he planned to make, he knew this time he’d vanquish the demon once and for all.

  The sight of his wife and sons lying in the trunk made him cry. He’d used most of a roll of duct tape to immobilize his family. Frightened eyes watched his every move. Duct tape covered their mouths, preventing them from making more than muffled grunts as he hefted them one at a time over his shoulder and then lined them up like potato sacks along the passenger side of the Continental. So they could see the river. Witness his absolution.

  He stood before them, the Walther in his hand, his back to the water that would cleanse him of his sins. His hand trembled as he raised the gun, pointing it at the family, who stared at him in terror. “I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. He told them again about his demon—tried to make them understand how it had visited him throughout his life, starting that day with Billy Fleming. He explained through his tears the extraordinary efforts he’d undertaken to defeat it, and how his discovery of Asa in the Bible had provided him a path to salvation. As he talked, he removed his clothing, passing the Walther from hand to hand as he unbuttoned, unzipped, and undressed.

  Naked, he turned to Harriet. “Though I wasn’t always able to perform my husbandly duties, I’ve always loved you, Harriet.” He pointed the gun at her. “You’ve always made me proud to call you my wife.”

  Her eyes grew wide. He stepped closer, and she jerked her head from side to side, pleading for her life.

  A line of squad cars poured into the parking lot and fanned out in a semicircle around him. He was trapped now, the river behind him, a bristling sea of men in blue aiming rifles at him from behind open car doors.

  He raised his hand, eying down the barrel to the woman he loved. “Because I love you so much, I’ll sacrifice you first, Harriet, so you won’t have to see what happens to your sons.” He pulled the trigger, then aimed the pistol toward Ivy. “This is all your fault,” he sobbed. “If it hadn’t been for you, none of this would have happened.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  SHIRLEY WHITE stooped behind the open door of her squad car and peered down the barrel of her rifle at Tripp Clarkson. He was naked, holding a pistol in his hand and waving it back and forth as he talked to someone she couldn’t see.

  “What’s going on up there?” she barked into her radio. “Anyone got a visual?”

  The radio squawked. “Subject is buck naked and brandishing a weapon.”

  She shook her head. No shit. “Can anybody see who he’s talking to?”

  Clarkson fired the pistol. “Dammit!” She dropped the radio and reached for her rifle. The pistol rang out again. Her training kicked in. She raised the rifle, aimed, and fired.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  PHILIP WATCHED in horror as a naked Tripp Clarkson appeared to leap backward and then disappeared from view. An army of police crept forward, guns drawn, before swarming the Continental.

  He opened the car door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” George asked.

  Before Philip could answer, Terrence pushed past him and ran for the yellow car. He had his camera out, and a rapid fire of flashes in his wake indicated he was using it.

  “Terrence, stop!” Philip called, running behind him. “Come on, George!”

  By the time he and George reached the Continental, both huffing and puffing from the exertion, police officers were removing duct tape from the hands, knees, and ankles of a distraught young man. A woman and another young man, both bound and gagged with duct tape, lay dead next to the car. Closer to the river, a lifeless Tripp Clarkson was sprawled on the ground.

  Where was Terrence? Philip saw no sign of him or the flash of his camera. Then he noticed two policemen holding someone with a mass of blond curls facedown on the ground. Beside them, another officer rolled back and forth on his back, his knees raised, with both hands cupping his privates.

  Philip nudged George and pointed. “Someone we know might need a good attorney.”

  “I thought I told you to stay at the station,” Sergeant White said from behind them.

  Philip said, “No, you said we couldn’t come with you. We didn’t. We came on our own.”

  “Yes,” George chimed in. “We thought we might do a little fishing. Imagine our surprise to run into you here.”

  “Let me up! My lawyer will make you pay for this, I promise!”

  Sergeant White stood with her arms folded across her chest, watching a furious Terrence thrash beneath the men who held him down. “Potter, you gonna deal with this, or shall I?”

  “I’ll handle it. Call off your dogs,” Philip said, taking a step toward the fracas. “Terrence, they’re not going to let go until you calm down.”

  “Hicks. Johnson. That’s enough. Let him up.”

  The two officers looked at each other, making sure to release him at the same moment as they both leaped out of his way. Terrence came off the ground, kicking in every direction. The genitally impaired officer rolled away and tried to stand, still holding his crotch.

  Philip stood just out of reach, watching Terrence, waiting for him to calm down. For such a scrawny kid, his ability to intimidate much larger men—and police officers, at that—was rather impressive. “All right, Terrence. That’s enough.”

  He stomped over to Philip. “That asshole took my camera. George, can he do that? I want to sue his ass.”

  Sergeant White answered, “Son, you better watch yourself. You assaulted a peace officer.”

  Terrence stepped toward her, clenched fists by his side. “He took my camera!”

  George stepped between them. “Come on, Terrence. Let’s me and you take a little walk.”

  As they ambled off, George’s hand gripping Terrence’s elbow, Philip pleaded with Sergeant White. “Give the kid a break, please. He’s been through a lot since Christmas. Clarkson killed his boyfriend, another friend of his from the shelter, and then his best friend.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “Potter, you’re a good man, and I appreciate your interest. But you should know better by now than to try to tell me what to do.”

  He was about to apologize when he saw her smile.

  “Because I like you, we’ll pretend this little scuffle over the camera never happened.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I’m forever in your debt.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  HAROLD DESPISED everything about his foster family. His deceased family had gone to church every Sunday. But outside of church and Poppa’s occasional speeches, though Harold would have disagreed had he been asked a month earlier, they weren’t very devout practitioners.

  Living with the Palmers had shown him
the difference. They prayed when they got up in the morning, before every meal, at bedtime, and throughout the day at the slightest provocation. He’d blessed, prayed, and given thanks more in the last two weeks than in all his previous years combined. The irony was he’d never been more miserable.

  Placing him with the Palmers—a study in drab and boring—was cruel and unusual punishment. At least his crazy father had an appreciation for beautiful things, and though Harold never agreed with Poppa’s style choices for him, the same selections had looked good on Pete. But this ugly home sucked the life out of him, and he’d wear burlap bags before he’d put on anything he’d seen on the mother or her three daughters. No telling what they wore under the hideous garments.

  He sighed, wishing he could remember something about that awful night, yet hoping he never would. The facts, presented to him in a straightforward manner by the social worker, were bad enough.

  Remembering didn’t mean as much to him as did the fact he couldn’t. The last thing he did remember was his father aiming a gun at him. Without the marks on his cheek and wrists from the duct tape, he never would have believed how far things had gone. He was lucky to be alive.

  Sometimes he wished Poppa had shot him instead. His father had never bothered Harold much or been able to change him. He’d always known his father was the crazy one, and as he’d never taken his criticism to heart, he’d emerged from the hell of his youth more or less intact.

  Things had been different for Pete. Other than his time at school and nights when Poppa hadn’t been home, Pete had never escaped his scrutiny. The constant criticism had demoralized Pete, keeping him from becoming the outgoing, all-American boy he would have been with any other father. He’d deserved better. They both did.

  Losing his mother was hard. At least he had the suitcases she’d packed for herself and a room of his own—with a lock on the door that worked, though he found out they had a key they’d use if he refused a request to open the door.

  After he’d worn the same clothes for a week, Mrs. Palmer had asked if he had something else in those suitcases to wear. But she hadn’t been at all pleased when he’d come down for dinner in Harriet’s pink suit with the matching capelet. Although pink, it was the only outfit she’d packed with a hat, and since he didn’t have a wig, he had no other choice. Next to the dowdy daughters, the fact that pink wasn’t really his color didn’t matter. He was still the prettiest girl in the room.

  Then they’d gone shopping for him. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for a nice pair of navy slacks—or even a pompom-festooned sweater. Anything beat the flannel shirts and denim pants, two of each, they’d purchased for him at the dime store. That he’d had to do extra chores to pay back the money they’d spent was the last straw.

  Rather than the creative and imaginative dishes his mother had prepared, Mrs. Palmer’s bland, tasteless food always came out the same. Her meatballs with marinara sauce looked and tasted the same as her fish and chips, which made him think she was playing a game, calling the noxious, oily gruel something more enticing at every meal to make it go down easier. But he’d watched her enough to see that she appeared to use the right ingredients. The process was the problem. The only thing used more than the toilets in that prayerful home was Mrs. Palmer’s blender.

  When Philip, the goateed man who’d dropped his handkerchief at one of Poppa’s speeches, came to see him, Harold had thrown himself into his arms and begged to be rescued from the horrid place and the awful family. Harold hoped Philip meant it when he’d promised to see what he could do. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  SERGEANT WHITE closed the file she’d been reading as Philip walked into the office. “Philip Potter!” She got up from her desk and walked around to shake his hand. “Thank you so much for coming to see me. I know you’re a busy man.”

  He didn’t know what to think of the new, friendly version of Sergeant White before him. It sure beat the woman who thought he was a murderer. “It’s good to see you again, Sergeant White.”

  “That would be Lieutenant White now.” She pointed to the stripe on her shoulder.

  “A promotion!” Philip thought about patting her on the back but decided against it. “And well deserved, I might add.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled him close and hugged him. “And I don’t think it would have happened without your help.”

  Philip hugged her back, wondering what had happened to the woman he’d once feared. “My help?” He shook his head. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Well,” she said, stepping back and smiling. “That’s not entirely true.”

  “Do I need my attorney?” Philip grinned back at her.

  She laughed. “No, not this time.” She sat behind her desk and pointed. “Take a load off.”

  Philip sat, crossed his legs, and folded his hands on his knee. “So what did I do?”

  “Thanks to you, Mr. Walker, and Anthony Vincent’s files—” She leaned back in her chair. “—we were able to close more than half a dozen murder cases in as many jurisdictions. With Clarkson dead, we’ll never know for sure whether or not he killed anyone else, but at least the cases we could tie to him are now closed.”

  “I’m glad he’s dead,” Philip said. “A trial would have been difficult for a lot of people, especially Harold.”

  She nodded. “How’s the boy doing?”

  Philip shrugged. “About as well as can be expected considering all he’s been through. He despises the Palmers—that’s the family they placed him with. They’re good, solid citizens, but he’d be a lot happier and do much better if the court would place him with me.”

  “Pardon me for asking, but do you really think he’d be better off with you than in a home with a mother and a father?”

  The question surprised him, coming from her. She meant no offense, and if Philip got his way, she likely wouldn’t be the last to ask. “Seeing how having two parents worked out for Daniel Bradbury, Lanny Summers, and James Walker, I do. Better one parent who wants and loves the child than two who do not.”

  “If it were up to me, he could move in with you tomorrow.” She shrugged. “You know the law. Technically, there’s no way you could legally be granted custody. But there’s a certain judge with an unusual medical condition who owes me a big favor. Let me see what I can do.”

  “Lieutenant White, I’d be forever in your debt.”

  “I believe the debt is mine.”

  “Nonsense. I didn’t do anything more than anyone else would have done in the same circumstances.”

  She shook her head. “I wish that were true. My job would be a lot easier. Helping us find Clarkson isn’t all you did.”

  He raised an eyebrow, confused. “What else did I do?”

  “Thanks to you, Robinson and five other bad cops will need to find new lines of work—after they get out of prison.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Favor for a friend.” She dipped her chin and winked at him. “They haven’t been tried yet, but the Mattachine Society files contain more than enough evidence to convict them on charges ranging from blackmail and obstruction of justice to tampering with evidence and everything in between.”

  “That’s certainly good news.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “They say one bad cop gives the entire force a bad name. Getting rid of six should make a difference.”

  “I wish I could promise we got them all and that you don’t have to worry about homophobic police any longer.”

  “Lieutenant, every journey begins with that first step.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  PHILIP SURVEYED the dining room of the Mayflower Hotel. He saw George standing beside a table halfway to the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear and waving to get his attention. Rather than his customary Brooks Brothers suit, he looked downright casual in a double-breasted navy blazer with khaki pants and a striped shirt with a red tie.

  “A blazer and a striped sh
irt? I didn’t realize we were slumming tonight,” Philip said, extending his hand as he approached the table.

  George took his hand in both of his own and shook it. “That’s not all. Check this out.” He pointed down and lifted the cuff of his khakis, revealing tasseled loafers.

  “I suppose next you’ll be wearing sandals and tie-dyed shirts!” They took seats across the table from each other. Philip couldn’t believe how good George looked and how thrilled he was to see him.

  A waiter materialized at George’s side. “Can I bring you gentleman a cocktail?”

  Philip started to order a Manhattan, but George cut him off. “Bring us a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Walker,” the waiter said, backing up a step. “Right away.” He headed toward the kitchen and disappeared.

  “Champagne?” Philip asked with a raised eyebrow. “What’s the occasion?”

  “This afternoon I closed on that office building on Dupont Circle—the one I showed you near New Hampshire Avenue.”

  Philip could see George was bursting with pride. “Congratulations! That’s certainly something to celebrate. I know that’s what you’ve always wanted.” He was glad to be here with George. Their schedules had prevented them for spending much time together. He didn’t want to admit how much he’d missed seeing him.

  The tuxedoed waiter reappeared with the Dom Pérignon in a silver bucket full of ice and two champagne flutes that he placed an inch above each man’s knife. He pulled the bottle from the bucket, wiped it dry with a folded linen napkin, then presented the label to George.

  George glanced at the bottle, nodded at the waiter, and turned his attention to Philip. “What have you been up to the last few weeks?”

  “Work, of course. Other than that, keeping up with Terrence and Harold keeps me pretty busy.”