by J. A. Kerley
Though prepared for the worst, I felt as though I’d been kicked in the stomach.
“Just the father’s, Al.”
I walked to a picnic table in the back and made the call. Harry had been there before so he sat beside me for moral support. Not knowing Wilbert Pendel’s religious inclinations, I called the police chaplain and let him know he might be needed when we found the kid. Pendel wasn’t at his apartment or studying in the academy, though I wasn’t part of the search, Al Leighton stepping up to handle things.
I heard my name called again, this time by a chorus of reporters at the scene tape, yelling and waving me close.
“Why did you challenge a psychopath, Detective?”
“Was it intentional? Were you trying to smoke someone out?”
“This PSIT … is it true there’s no rules? You can do what you want?”
“I hear the reason your citation was revoked is because you lied about something. Is that true?”
Not a single question about the actual cases. I knew the questions were based on misinformation probably fed them by one of Baggs’s surrogates – Willpot, most likely – but it didn’t make the frantic queries any less inane.
“Detective Ryder, do you think you should be suspended for inciting a killer?”
I started toward the chattering simians but felt a hand tighten on the back of my shirt. “Focus, brother,” Harry whispered. “Be pleasant and make innocuous statements.”
I took a deep breath, nailed a politician’s earnest and joyless smile to my face, and sauntered over. “I was simply explaining sociopathic killers to my academy class,” I said. “I don’t know where the idea of a challenge came from.”
“Why did you put the video on the Internet?”
“Class members put it up as an instructional video because informational videos are common on YouTube. I was surprised when I saw it, but not fearful, as the recording has no inflammatory content, only a factual discussion of sociopathy.”
“That’s not how the video has been represented.”
“Perhaps you should consider your sources.”
“But it sparked a lunatic into killing people, right?”
I put my hands in my pockets and shook my head amiably. “The current horrors could just as easily have been sparked by a story in the media.”
That hit close to home. I glanced at Harry and he nodded good job.
A stiff-haired blonde woman from a local television station elbowed to the front of the herd, a pad in her hand. “But you did have a citation taken away, right, Detective? Chief Baggs gave you an award, then … what was the word? Nullified it.” She gave me a gotcha! grin. “So why would the Chief revoke your citation if you’re so innocent?”
I considered her question. It deserved a truthful answer.
“Because Chief Baggs is a horse’s ass,” I explained calmly as pens scribbled on paper and cameras rolled. “He’s unfit to command an ox cart, much less a police department.”
43
Harry moved me away from the frenetic reporters and we drove off to banging on our windows and Tom Mason calling with an update.
“Chaplain Burgess went to Pendel’s parents’ house, found the kid carrying away a sack of groceries and a six of beer. When Burgess told him the news, the kid totally freaked, punched Burgess, ran screaming back inside the house. The chappy tried to get the kid to come out, but nothing worked.”
“Pendel’s at the house now?” I asked.
“No one’s quite sure. And the father is—”
“A computer salesman on a trip to Seattle. Fastest he can get here is three hours.”
I U-turned in the street and headed to the Pendels’ home.
“What’s the kid like?” Harry asked.
“Wendy Holliday had the best description: Wilbert Pendel watches people through a weird crack in space-time. You can see him, but you can’t touch him.”
We were there minutes later, Al Leighton out front with the chaplain, two empty cruisers in the drive. I figured the uniforms were checking the area.
“He’s not in there,” Tim Burgess said. “Must have slipped out the back.”
We looked up, saw O’Herlihy walking our way, a woman in her fifties at his side, her face lined with concern. “This is Mrs Calloway,” O’Herlihy explained. “A neighbor. She says Pendel’s behind her house. In a tree.”
Mrs Calloway’s home was three doors down. The backyard was centered by a thick live oak with wide-spread branches. There was a small platform in the branches, a tree fort. Whenever my family followed my civil-engineer father to a new jobsite he rented a house as far from others as possible, usually in the country. The first thing my brother and I did was build a tree fort as a place to escape our father’s consuming and irrational anger.
This fort was a dozen feet up, an eight-by-four flat of plywood forming the floor. Three-foot slatted deck rails made the perimeter, a small opening on one side to allow entry.
Pendel was crouching inside, dressed in a police uniform. There were any number of places he could have gotten it using his recruit ID. He peered warily through the railing slats. He had a gun in his hand, a large-frame revolver of some sort. I waved everyone away except Harry. We inched closer until Pendel started spitting toward us, about ten paces out with enough angle to see inside.
“Where’d you get the gun, Will?” I asked.
As if all was forgiven, the spitting turned to a Jack-o’-lantern grin. “Bought it last week, Detective Ryder. I needed me a throw-down.”
A throw-down was an untraceable weapon cops supposedly planted as false evidence. They existed more in the realm of stories than in real life. Pendel had probably soaked up the term from cop shows.
“How about I go call for a beaner?” Harry whispered, meaning a riot gun loaded with beanbag ammo.
I nodded, seeing where he was heading. He slowly backpedaled away.
“That’s not an official gun, Will,” I said, surreptitiously thumbing the magazine from my nine. “How about you take mine? I’ll climb up and we’ll trade.”
“I like mine. I carved my name into the grip.”
He showed me the scrawled grip. He frowned at something in his head, then slid the weapon’s muzzle into his mouth.
“WILL!” I yelled. He didn’t seem to hear, sliding the muzzle across his tongue as if fascinated by the feeling. After a few seconds he removed it.
“Your father’s coming, Will. He needs you to be with him. He needs your help.”
Pendel looked at me as if I were speaking Mandarin. “I’m an orphan,” he said. “My mother and father threw me away.”
The gun barrel found its way back into his mouth. I had no idea of Pendel’s history or his relationship to his parents. The only person I’d ever seen him interact with was Wendy Holliday, and that held semi-veiled lust and a clumsy arrogance born of insecurity. I called her, spoke thirty seconds in a whisper, and returned my attention to Pendel.
“You hungry, Wilbert?” I said. “I could order up a pizza. Burgers. Whatever.”
“No thanks, Detective Ryder. I think I’ll just stay up here and eat my gun.” He laughed, an eerie, quivering sound. Eating your gun was cop speak for committing suicide with a pistol in your mouth. Pendel would have heard it at the academy, probably as a dark joke. “If I don’t get at least a B on that exam tomorrow I’m gonna have to eat my gun.”
Pendel looked like he had no idea what life meant any more, the last look I’d seen on every suicide I’d not prevented. He moved the gun close to his eyes, studied it, spun the chamber. He ran the snout over his cheek and put the muzzle back in his mouth. One touch of the trigger and he’d be gone.
I clapped my hands together hard. “Hey!” I yelled. “I got an idea. How about a few brews, Wilbert? Something cold to go with that gun.”
This was at-the-edge stuff, but the barrel slid from between his teeth and his eyes brightened. “Fuck yeah, Detective. Some brews and some Jägermeister.”
“I dun
no about the Jägermeister, Will,” I said. I wanted camaraderie, not a boozefest in the searing summer heat.
He frowned and got interested in the gun again.
“Jägermeister for everyone!” I yelled, doing a dance in the grass, anything to get his attention.
“Rock on, Detective,” he laughed. I delivered our drink order to Tom Mason, watching through binoculars from the street.
“You think that’s a good idea?” he asked. “Alcohol?”
“It’s all I got, Tom. But Harry and I are working on something.”
“I’ll send a cruiser for the drinks.”
“Hurry,” I said. “He’s slipping fast. Anything on the father?”
“In the air, but at least two hours away.”
I diddled around under the tree, playing the fool and trying to keep Pendel engaged enough to forget about the gun in his hand. I was soaked in sweat from nerves and ninety-five-degree heat. At least Pendel was in the blue shade of the wide oak. Four minutes later I heard the air-sucking swoosh of big engines and watched two cruisers pull onto the lawn, probably the first time a bottle of Jäg and two sixes of Bud ever had a police escort.
“Here comes the party, Will,” I said, motioning the uniformed cop to advance slowly with the bag. I held high a six-pack and the bottle of Jägermeister.
“How about I climb up and we’ll pop a few?”
“Ain’t room enough for two up here,” he said through the bars. “Throw me up a six and the Jäg.”
He stood to grab the bottle and cans, crouched again. I watched him suck down a third of the herbal liqueur, wondering if this had been a good idea. I saw the headline: Killer-inciting Cop Gets Suicidal Recruit Drunk.
Pendel chased the Jäg with a whole can of beer. He picked up the bottle again.
“Easy there, bud,” I said. “Save some for me.”
His face became a snarl. “Get your own fuckin’ bottle, asshole.”
Mood swings. Bad going to worse. The gun went to his cheek again. He closed his eyes and rubbed it over his forehead.
A voice behind me called out a cheery, “Will!”
I spun to see Wendy walking my way, carefree, wearing white shorts and a cobalt blouse, running shoes. Crouched beside the house Al Leighton was holding a bullhorn and the Kevlar vest Wendy was supposed to be wearing.
Pendel moved the gun aside and stared at Holliday. “Why are you here?” he snarled. “You hate me. You think I’m gross and stupid.”
I was watching Pendel’s gun hand. So was the police sharpshooter in a window in the second floor of the house next door. My worst horror was Pendel going into shooting mode. At this distance the sniper, Cal Mallory, could pretty much take the kid apart. But I’d been in this land before, and was eighty per cent certain the kid was only a threat to himself.
I stepped to the side, figuring Pendel couldn’t handle more than one person at a time. A dark stain appeared on Pendel’s pants. He had urinated without knowing it, another bad sign. He seemed to disappear inside himself again, came back with an angry face.
“You’re fucking Ryder, aren’t you, Wendy?”
“Why do you say that, Will?”
“You know the answers. You get all the best grades.” He moved his face to the slats and showed a leering face. “I fuck you every night, bitch.” He pumped his hand above his crotch. “Like this.”
Wendy cocked her head, concern on her face. “What’s wrong, Will? What’s bothering you?”
The angry face turned pensive. Pendel thought for a long time.
“I don’t want to be here any more, Wendy.”
“Why, Will?”
“Because I’m different. I got thrown away and lived in the dark. There were babies everywhere but they never cried. They forgot how.”
Wendy shot me a glance, Do you know what he’s talking about? I shrugged, No idea. She took a step forward.
“I don’t understand, Will. Help me understand.”
“Did you know I wore a diaper until I was eight years old? No one taught me how to make doo-doo on a potty.”
Another What is this? glance from Wendy. Pendel took a swig of the liqueur and scratched his temple with the barrel of the weapon. “You want to know my real name, Wendy? It’s stupid and ugly.”
“Will, I’m sure it’s not—”
“Haralamb Bumbescu. Can you believe that’s a name?”
“It’s a great name, Will,” Wendy said. “You’re lucky to have two whole names. Most people only have one.”
Pendel scowled. “It’s a stupid name, but it’s the right name.” His eyes floated to the sky, the ground, the treetops. Then, out of nowhere, “I DON’T WANT TO GO BACK TO GROUP!”
“You don’t have to, Wilbert,” Wendy said. I watched him reverse the gun in his hand, thumb in the trigger guard, moving it to his face, mouth open. My heart climbed into my throat. My head screamed NO!
But Pendel stopped, frozen, staring to my left. Wendy was slowly unbuttoning her blouse. Pendel lowered the gun, staring.
“What are you doing, Wendy?”
“I can’t let this day go to waste, Will. I’m going to work on my suntan.”
“Your tan?”
She undid another button. “I need sun on my body.”
Pendel leaned forward, eyes wide. “Are you gonna show your titties?”
Wendy tossed the shirt aside, standing there in a burgundy bra. She pulled it down an inch to show the tan line. “I have to if I’m gonna get a full tan, Will. That’s the way it should be done, right?”
“You’re s’posed to take all your clothes off, Wendy,” Pendel said. “That’s the right way.”
She reached behind her and snapped her bra loose and turned her face to the sky. “Oh, Will, the sun is soooo warm.”
“You have to take that off so you can get a tan.”
The bra hanging loose, Wendy popped the top button on her shorts and undid the zipper. The shorts fell a couple inches, exposing a strip of white panties. She stepped closer to the fort.
“Where are you going?” Pendel said. “Are you going to suntan?”
“Right now, Will. Here under the tree.”
He frowned. “It’s shady down there.”
“There’s a little patch of sun just the size of my body.” She stepped three paces nearer, now almost under the fort. Pendel’s face pressed the slats as he looked down.
“I can’t see you, Wendy.”
“I’m right here, Will. Almost under you.”
She slipped off the bra and tossed it out where Pendel could see. He moaned and stood, the gun wavering in his hand, a line of saliva dripping from the wet hole of his mouth.
A heavy whump. A dark blur caught Pendel on his shoulder and sent him tumbling over the railing. I jumped beneath him with my arms locked over my head, hoping to keep him from breaking his neck. It was like having a cow dropped on me and we slammed the ground together, Pendel landing on his side with his head against my ribs.
The paramedics were there in four seconds, Harry in five, the riot gun still drizzling smoke from the fat charge of the beanbag round.
“You all right, Cars? Jesus.”
A moaning, babbling Wilbert Pendel was rushed away, looking as though he had nothing worse than a busted ulna and collarbone. They found nothing wrong on my end, but I knew getting out of bed would be tough for a couple days.
“Where’s Wendy?” I asked.
“Here.”
I craned my head around. She was standing above me, backlit by sunlight. “You were supposed to wear a bulletproof vest,” I mumbled. “And use the bullhorn to talk to Pendel from the house.”
“I hate bullhorns,” she said. “And I guess I just plain forgot about the vest.” She paused and thought for a moment, tapping her lips with a pink finger. “You still plan to teach tonight, Detective Ryder? If so, I gotta run home and finish my paper.”
Gloria Estridge’s doorbell rang. She muted the court TV show and tiptoed to the door, frowning through the peepho
le. She stepped back and pushed a smile to her lips as she opened the door. The man Gloria knew only as Bill crossed the threshold wearing unbuttoned white painter’s overalls with a skin-tight shirt under it, like a bodystocking. Billy was weird – all that shit about special soap and mouthwash – but he paid good and didn’t argue when his time was up.
“Billy, baby. It’s so early. Why didn’t you call?”
“I was in the neighborhood. Something wrong with that?”
“Nothing, sweets,” Estridge took Bill’s hand. “But you shoulda called.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Want I should take a special shower, Billy? We can have an early party.”
Billy cupped his hand over his crotch, as if making an assessment, shook his head no. He strode to the bureau and opened the top drawer, looking inside.
“You got any more of those special bags?”
“I’m out, baby. But I got a friend can swing by with some in mebbe ten minutes. How much you want?”
“Remember that bag that I got the other day?”
“You want another bag like that?” Gloria asked.
“I want five of them.”
“That’s a lot of money, baby.”
“Not really,” Billy said, his eyes glittering like dark jewels. “Not to a guy about to become a sextillionaire.”
44
Harry and I drove to the hospital to see how Pendel was faring. Given his erratic behavior and suicidal actions, he was under protective custody. We walked toward his room recalling how our last trip here had been to see Tommy Brink, the poor little kid whose mother treated him like a bag of rocks she’d been forced to carry.
We started into the room, almost bumping into a petite woman who was exiting. “If you’re here to see Willy, I’d wait,” she said in a voice tinged with Slavic vowels.
I looked past the small woman in the cream pantsuit and saw Pendel prone on the bed with his arms, legs and torso restrained, his eyes less staring at the ceiling than boring holes through the tiles. “Probably a form of psychotic catatonia,” the woman sighed. “His mind became overwhelmed and he’s hiding deep inside it.” She studied us. “Do you know Willy?”
