Jack of Spades

by James Hankins

  “Let me lay it out for you, see what you think.”

  Dunbar nodded. He spit on a napkin and began rubbing furiously at the coffee stain on his shirt.

  “Okay,” Spader said. “First, Galaxo. At the moment, we’re working under the theory that the guy is pretty intelligent, went to college but did so for a couple of years at most, he works with his hands, he’s an only child who he has issues with his father, who’s probably still alive, and he recently experienced something that set him off on his crime spree. And we all know that one of the most common such triggering events is loss of a job. You with me so far?”

  “Yeah, I’m with you. Shit, this isn’t coming out, is it?”

  “Not until you wash it. And you’ll be lucky even then. So forget about it and pay attention.”

  “I’m paying attention.” He tossed the soggy, shredded napkin in a trash can they passed. His shirt was now not only stained with coffee, but covered with countless tiny pieces of wet napkin, pieces that clung to his shirt despite his attempts to brush them away. “Shit.”

  Spader ignored him, trusting that he was paying attention like he said. “Now, Wagner. He’s just above the upper end of the age range the FBI profile predicts, and Special Agent Daniels said he could be off by a few years either way.”

  “Dwight W. Daniels.”

  “Right. Also, Wagner’s fairly intelligent.”

  “I guess.”

  A couple of detectives were walking toward them, presumably toward the Starbucks they’d left moments before. One of the cops was young Detective Miller, who’d made the photocopy for Spader. The other was Suarez, who’d been in the unit for a couple of years but was still one of the more junior members. Spader figured Miller deserved another bone.

  “Detective Miller,” he said as they neared, “that was good work last week. You saved my ass. I owe you one.”

  Miller looked surprised for a moment, then tried to cover it up. “No problem,” he said as they passed.

  “What that kid do for you?” Dunbar asked when they were gone.

  “Made me a copy.”

  “Why didn’t you just thank him for the copy?”

  “I do that, Suarez knows that’s all he did. This way, I leave it to Miller to spin it however he wants. He wants to say he made me a copy, he can do that. He wants to say I asked his advice on a case and he was helpful, doesn’t cost me a thing, but it might give the new kid on the block a boost.”

  “You’re a sweet fucking guy, John. Give me a kiss.”

  Spader checked to make sure no one else was within earshot, especially other cops, and continued. “Anyway, like I said, Wagner’s intelligent. And he went to UMass for two years. He was a detective in the field, which I’d say is more like working with his hands than, say, sitting behind some desk. And he told me last week that he’d just lost his job. He kept talking about choices, about how guys behind desks made decisions about his life, screwing things up for him. He was rambling, but he kept coming back to that, that other people were making choices that were affecting him negatively. Thinks those people, those choices cost him his job both on the force and the private security gig he just lost.”

  Dunbar picked up the thread. “And Galaxo is all about choices.”

  “Exactly. And think about it. If Wagner was going to get back at the state police…get back at me…what better way to do it than to make everyone remember Eddie Rivers, one of our biggest failures. One of my biggest failures. And, by the way, it also happens to be the case that Wagner—probably justifiably—believes ended his career.”

  Dunbar was nodding.

  “And there’s more,” Spader said. “Going back to the FBI profile, Wagner never had brothers or sisters and he doesn’t get along with his father, who’s still alive, by the way.”

  “You remember that from when you worked with him?”

  “I asked him last night.”

  “You talked to him last night?”

  Spader told him how Wagner just happened to come into the Green Hills, which Ian Carmichael said he hadn’t done in a long, long time, and happened to run into Spader. How he made it clear that he didn’t get along with his father. Spader chose not to say anything about how Wagner looked like Galaxo for a brief moment, all yellow and smiling, or how he gave off a creepy vibe. But there was still more.

  “He doesn’t have an alibi for Monday night.”

  “The night Golding had to…”

  “Right.”

  “You asked him if he had an alibi for that?”

  “What am I, stupid? I pretended I’d tried to call him. Asked where he was. He said he was home alone, drinking, and must not have heard the phone.”

  “So no alibi.”

  “Nope.”

  “You ask him about the other three nights Galaxo was active?”

  “Too risky. We can do that later.”

  “But Wagner isn’t gay. Or is he?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Anyway, we don’t know for sure Galaxo is gay. Even the FBI profile doesn’t say one way or the other. What he did to Golding could have been about something else.”

  Dunbar nodded. “I suppose so. Hey, there’s our killer right now.”

  Spader looked over to see a young boy, maybe five years old, walk out of a store holding his father’s hand. On his shirt was Galaxo’s yellow smiling face.

  “Christ,” Dunbar said, “look at all that shit, will you?”

  Spader followed Dunbar’s gaze to the store window, where toys and novelty items were displayed for window shoppers passing by. Front and center was a shelf packed full of Galaxo paraphernalia for sale—stuffed dolls, toy figures, puzzles, and, of course, the Galaxo voice-changing mask.

  “Bad taste,” Dunbar said, “with someone running around Massachusetts in that mask killing people, cutting them up.”

  “Bad taste or good timing? My guess is, the store owner put that stuff there to capitalize on the Galaxo crimes.”

  “You think? No way.”

  Spader shrugged and they began walking again. “There’s one more thing,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Forget for now the theory that Galaxo is Eddie Rivers, because that’s bullshit.”

  “Okay.”

  “So that leaves us thinking that either Galaxo left me the message because he wants us to think he’s Eddie Rivers to throw us off the track, or he has something personal against me for some reason and he’s fucking with me because of it. Wants to screw with my head, or embarrass me, or something. Whatever. So let’s say Galaxo has something against me personally. Maybe something like being bounced off the force because, in his mind, he was made the scapegoat for a mistake he thinks was mine or, at worst, both of ours.”

  “And Oscar Wagner blames you for the Rivers thing, which he feels he unfairly took the fall for.”

  “Hinted last week that I might owe him for what happened.” Dunbar was nodding again. “Look,” Spader added, “I’ll say it again. I’m not saying he’s our guy, but it all fits so far, doesn’t it? What do you think?”

  Dunbar thought for a moment. “I have trouble believing Oscar could do what Galaxo does, but I think he’s worth a closer look, at least. But quietly, you know?”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Wagner probably still had friends on the force, like he’d said. If he was, in fact, the lunatic Spader feared he could possibly be, the last thing Spader wanted to do was tip him off that they suspected him. Spader recalled the look in his eyes the night before. It wasn’t a stretch for him to imagine those eyes behind the Galaxo mask. It wasn’t hard for his mind to conjure an image of Wagner with a knife or a handsaw and a person taped to a chair before him. And he realized with a jolt that it was unfortunately easy for him to picture his ex-wife in that chair, or his son. Wagner knew where he used to live. He knew about Olivia and David. If he truly blamed Spader for the course his life had taken, who knew what he might do? Maybe first publicly embarrass Spader by his failure to ca
pture the infamous Galaxo. Then make it even more personal. Make Spader suffer loss, as Wagner had suffered loss.

  Nothing Spader had was proof. Far from it. Everything he had was circumstantial, possibly no more than coincidence. And sometimes coincidence was just that—coincidence. He honestly didn’t know what to believe. He noticed, though, how easy it was for him to suspect Wagner, and for Dunbar to get on board, and that alone said something about the man. At the very least, it said they should look at him a little harder.

  Later that day, Spader called together a few members of the Galaxo task force, just those members who were detectives in their unit. He didn’t want to bring anyone from outside into this, at least right away. Personnel from local police departments didn’t need to know exactly what they were discussing. So Spader stood at the head of the conference table, with Dunbar to his left. Leon Fratello, Reggie Wilkins, and Amanda Cassel sat staring at him, waiting for him to begin. He told them all the same things he’d told Dunbar about Oscar Wagner. He wanted their reactions, wanted to see whether Spader’s suspicions shocked any of them. Cassel hadn’t known Wagner, but the other two did. Interestingly, neither of them found it too difficult to picture him as Galaxo, especially Fratello, who had run into him a few times since he’d turned in his shield and gun. Spader found their reactions telling. He closed the meeting by saying that he would discreetly look into Wagner, and reminding them that this was, of course, of the utmost secrecy.

  On his way to his car an hour later, Spader wasn’t sure what he was hoping for. An end to the case would be nice. It would ensure no more victims lost their lives or body parts to a twisted psychopath. On the other hand, he didn’t really want an ex-cop and old friend—well, former friend, he realized—to be guilty of the heinous crimes Galaxo was responsible for. But it didn’t matter what he wanted, he realized. What was, was. If Wagner was their guy, they’d stop him and it would be over. If he wasn’t, they’d keep looking.

  FOURTEEN

  Spader looked into Galaxo’s merry, sparkling green eyes and wanted to put his fist between them. The stupid grin wasn’t helping things, either. The mask stared up at him from where it lay on the passenger seat of his car. Spader grabbed it and tossed it into the backseat.

  At Spader’s request, and his expense, Dunbar had picked up the mask at a toy store. Spader wanted to have it. He figured it might help to have it around for some reason. He thought his request might have a superstitious underpinning, something akin to tribal warriors who believed they gained power from certain items that had belonged to their enemies. On a more practical level, Spader wanted to play around with the mask a little, learn how much its technology was truly able to disguise the voice of the person wearing it. Dunbar had given it to him earlier today. He hadn’t tried it on yet. He would eventually, but for some reason he found himself uneasy about the idea.

  Other than the mask, the past two days had brought nothing new. The task force was still looking into the victims’ lives, checking out the highest-priority names on the college dropout list, and engaging in similar mundane but necessary tasks. Meanwhile, Spader was quietly looking into Oscar Wagner. Earlier, Dunbar was supposed to visit the Target where Wagner had worked and speak very discreetly with the manager who’d fired him for drinking on the job. He’d also interview coworkers who knew Wagner. If Wagner remained a suspect, Spader might have to risk speaking with his neighbors, but he wanted to save that one to reduce the risk of Wagner learning of Spader’s sudden interest in him.

  So far, Galaxo had tended to strike late at night, so last night Spader had felt comfortable having a late dinner before driving to Wagner’s apartment in Waltham, a blue-collar town maybe a dozen miles from downtown Boston. Spader didn’t think Waltham had much to recommend it, though a few of the neighborhoods were nice enough, but he knew apartments in the town could be found on the cheap, which was probably why Wagner ended up there after being squeezed off the force.

  He’d pulled over to the curb a little after nine thirty the night before and watched Wagner’s building and the old Chevy Malibu parked out front until two thirty in the morning, at which time he figured Wagner was in for the night.

  Spader arrived at Wagner’s building around nine thirty again this time. He finally tried on the Galaxo mask and spoke a few sentences to check out the voice-changing technology. After a few minutes he tossed the mask on the seat beside him. He thought for a moment how suspicious he’d look if anyone saw him sitting in his car wearing the mask, but it was late enough and dark enough that no one had seen him. He was more tired than he’d been the night before. It was getting near eleven and he was considering knocking off early—watching Wagner’s place had been little more than a hunch anyway; he wasn’t sure he really expected Wagner to waltz out of his house in full Galaxo regalia and lead Spader to his next victim—when Wagner did, in fact, walk out the front door of his building, wearing dark clothes and carrying a small gym bag. Spader watched him head in the other direction from Spader’s car, down the block to his own car, and slip inside. A few seconds after he pulled away from the curb, Spader did the same. As he followed Wagner, he was careful to stay far enough back so as not to look suspicious. Once he even pulled into a Wendy’s, as if he were heading to the drive-thru window, before speeding around the building and back onto the road, a little farther back than before.

  At first, Spader figured Wagner might simply be heading to a bar. Soon, though, he’d driven through Waltham and ended up on Route 95, heading toward Boston. Once on the highway, Spader could follow him more easily without worrying about drawing suspicion. When Wagner took the exit for Route 93 South, Spader stayed with him. They drove for another twenty minutes, through surface streets and around a roundabout, and ended up in Hull, a seaside town south of Boston. Many of the people who lived there took a ferry across Boston Harbor for their commutes to and from their offices in the city.

  Wagner wended through several streets, slowing occasionally, as if unsure where he was going. Twice he pulled over and turned on an interior light and appeared to be consulting a map or maybe written notes. This, of course, made it trickier for Spader to follow him unnoticed, but he seemed to be pulling it off without arousing Wagner’s suspicion. He wondered if the Oscar of several years ago would have been so easy to tail.

  Wagner finally slowed in front of a modest cape-style house with a tidy little lawn on the corner of two streets. He stopped in front of the house for half a minute or so, forcing Spader to pass him and hope Wagner didn’t look over at him. Just in case, he kept his face angled slightly away as he passed. He hoped his Crown Vic was common enough.

  He executed a couple of turns through the neighborhood, relying on his sense of direction to bring him back to the house again, but from a different direction in case Wagner saw him. But he didn’t intend to get too close this time. Instead, he pulled over in front of a house on the street perpendicular to the one on which Wagner was parked, and inched forward until he could just see the front half of Wagner’s car through a gap between two houses. He killed the engine. The neighborhood was quiet. Wagner probably had his window open, given the heat of the night, so he might have heard Spader’s car. Just in case he had, Spader reached up and turned off the dome light, then opened his car door, paused a moment, then closed it again without moving from his seat. Finally, he hit the alarm button on his car remote, making the alarm chirp as if he was a resident of the neighborhood coming home late.

  Spader called in to the office and ran the address of the house Wagner appeared to be watching. He learned that it was owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Robert Halpert, who were both in their late thirties. That was about all Spader could learn worth knowing at that moment. He could have found out what kind of cars they drove, their driving records, whether there were any outstanding warrants on either of them, but he wasn’t interested in any of that. What he needed to know was why Oscar Wagner was interested in them, and that probably wasn’t going to show up in the Registry of Motor Vehicles
database.

  But Wagner surely had a reason to be watching their house. Could it be one of them was Galaxo’s next intended victim? Perhaps both of them? Was Wagner studying the house so he could come back soon, wearing a mask and carrying a hacksaw? Or was tonight perhaps the night? Did he have his Galaxo mask and equipment with him in his little gym bag right now?

  Spader sat listening for the sound of a car door opening, and when Wagner drove away fifteen minutes later without getting out of his car, Spader breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t bother to follow. Wagner was probably heading home. He’d probably seen whatever he wanted to see, learned whatever he wanted to learn. Now Spader had to figure out what that was and what it meant to Wagner. He made a note to request a surveillance of the Halpert house until this was resolved. If his request was denied, he’d at least ask Hull police to do frequent drive-bys over the next several nights.

  A few minutes after Wagner left, Spader started his car, dropped it into gear, and pulled away from the curb. He tossed a final, curious glance at the little house on the corner, then headed toward home.

  FIFTEEN

  “Do you understand the rules?” the freak asked in that weird, squeaky, cartoon voice.

  Matt Finneran nodded, not because he really understood what was happening to him, but because the psycho in the yellow alien mask seemed to expect him to respond, and the duct tape across his mouth prevented verbal communication. There was more duct tape, of course, preventing him from doing other things—like standing up out of this chair and beating the holy hell out of the motherfucker.

  Finneran knew who the lunatic in the kid’s mask was. He’d read about him in the papers, seen stories on him in the news. This guy had killed a couple of people, assaulted others. Maybe maimed one or two. Finneran wasn’t sure. He just knew that the guy was batshit-crazy and he had a bag full of sharp tools that, according to everything Finneran had heard and read, he wasn’t squeamish about using.