Halsey said nothing.
O’Leary studied the lawyer through the rearview mirror. There was fear in the attorney’s gaze, and O’Leary smiled. “I want that girl, Everette.”
“Jimmy, you got no idea what you’ve done.”
“That I do, bucko. I got all the accounting files, complete with names, addresses, and amounts. Ariana missed her calling; she’d have been one hell of a CPA.”
“These people will crush you.”
“That’s been tried before. I’m still here—those that tried ain’t.” O’Leary stopped the SUV, turned around, and slapped Halsey on the side of his head. “Now are you going to take us to the girl or do I have to let Gordon take over this little interview? I got to warn you, his methods are a shitload more direct than mine.”
Halsey was afraid to look at Winter directly, but from the corner of his eye, he tried to read his face. Winter was stoic, as emotional as an eighty-year-old nun.
“Where we going, boss?” Winter asked.
“To the warehouse in Chelsea . . . it’s private there—and quiet. You could set off a bomb in there, and nobody would hear a thing.”
“Jimmy,” Halsey said, “I’ll level with you. I don’t have her.”
“Oh? That ain’t what Ariana said. I doubt that a dying woman would lie. Ain’t that right, Gordon?”
“Yup, no reason I can think of for someone with a slug in her chest to lie.”
“I did hear her right, didn’t I, Gordon? Did she not say that she gave the girl to ol’ Everette here?”
“That’s the way I heard it, boss.” Winter turned to Halsey. “If I was you, Ev ol’ boy, I’d start telling the truth. The boss has been known to become unstable when he gets lied to.”
“Alright,” Halsey said, “I did have her.”
O’Leary stared at the lawyer through the rearview mirror.
“It’s not what you think, Jimmy. Jesus, I’m no pedophile.”
“That remains to be seen,” O’Leary said. “If you don’t have her now, where is she?”
“I sold her—”
“You sold her?” Halsey flinched when O’Leary shouted in the confined space.
Halsey’s shoulders slumped, and he bent his head forward. “Yes, I sold her.”
O’Leary ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and hissed. “Before this is all over, Everette, I may sell your ass to a tribe of fudge-packing U-Bangies. You’re lower than whale shit, you know that? Running around in your fucking thousand-dollar suits acting like a big shot. I’ve always wondered how cocksuckers like you last as long as you do. Killing you is going to be a public service.”
Halsey began to sob softly.
42
Fuchs and Houston arrived at Fischer’s house before dawn. They spent two hours sitting on the porch of the dilapidated house. It took all of their willpower to keep from barging inside the house, but discipline learned over the years made them wait until the search warrant arrived. A car pulled into the drive, and a uniformed state police officer got out.
“You get the warrant?” Fuchs asked.
The cop nodded and held up a folded piece of paper. “Judge gave us everything we asked for. We can tear this place down if we have to.”
“Okay,” Fuchs took the proffered paper, “let’s get to it.”
They entered the dark house, and the first thing they noticed was the stench. The place smelled like a landfill on a tropical day. They stepped into the kitchen, and Houston curled his face. “Jesus Christ. This guy hasn’t washed a dish in ten years.”
Filthy dishes, pots, and pans covered the sink and sideboards. Foodstuff had caked dry on the plates, and when Fuchs snapped on the lights, the surface of the counters seemed to move as thousands of roaches stampeded. Empty cans and paper wrappers littered the floor; newspapers and old magazines covered the table and were stacked everywhere. When they walked across the floor, the detectives’ shoes stuck to the linoleum surface.
“How can anyone live like this?” Houston asked, more to himself than to Fuchs.
Fuchs chuckled. “You should spend some time patrolling the backwoods. There are places that make this look heavenly. At least this place has floors. I’ve been in places where the floors are packed dirt.”
Houston shook his head. “I’ve been in some of Boston’s worst slums, and I’ve never seen anything this bad.” He kicked an empty can. “I’m going to look around upstairs.”
Houston climbed the stairs and walked into the first room he came to. He took care not to touch anything as he slowly circumvented the bed, stepping over the ruins of several torn photographs. On the floor, by the bed, he saw the remnants of a broken lamp. He crouched down beside it, saw what appeared to be blood, and wondered if it had been the weapon Anne had used to subdue him. He turned and spied an open closet. He stuck his head through the door and saw that it contained women’s clothes hanging above a cedar chest pushed against the wall. He used a handkerchief to keep from leaving fingerprints and looked at the clothes; it was obvious to him what the owners’ profession had been; he squatted down and opened the chest. It was filled with women’s purses. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “There has to more than fifty in here . . .” Knowing that he had better leave the room for the crime scene technicians, Houston walked into the hall.
Houston spied three other doors and opened the one closest to him. Before entering the room, he stopped and clamped his hand over his mouth. The stink was horrible. He reached inside and felt along the wall until he found a light switch and flipped it, turning on the overhead light. The source of the smell was immediately apparent. An emaciated old woman lay on the bed. Waste covered the sheets under her, and her nightclothes were soiled. She stared at the ceiling through unseeing eyes. “Aw shit,” he muttered. He walked to the old canopy bed and paused, unwilling to touch the filthy woman. Finally, he overcame his distaste and placed two fingers on her carotid artery. There was a pulse.
He backed out of the room, stood at the top of the stairs, and called out, “Sam.”
Fuchs came out of the kitchen and looked up the stairs. “Yeah?”
“I found the woman Anne told us about. You’d better get up here . . . call the EMTs.”
_________________
Banned from the house while the CSU team went through it, Houston walked toward the square cinderblock building that he and Fuchs assumed to be some sort of factory. He saw a side door open and turned in that direction. A state cop walked out of the door and bent over. He had a handkerchief over his face and was breathing deep. His face, in spite of his five o’clock shadow, was pallid. The trooper stood in the threshold of the door, blocking entry. He noticed Houston’s shadow and straightened up. He inhaled and said, “You can’t go in there. It’s a crime scene.”
A screen door slammed, and Houston saw Sam Fuchs walk out of the house. He glanced up and turned to the building. When he was beside Houston, Fuchs said, “What’s up, Elton?”
“It ain’t good, Sam. There are bodies in there.”
“Bodies . . . plural?”
“There are three hanging in a reefer unit. It looks like this guy was disposing of them. He’s got enough machinery in there to open his own meat packing plant.”
Fuchs shook his head and turned to Houston. “Well, I guess we know why we haven’t found any bodies.”
He turned to the uniformed officer and motioned to Houston. “I’ll take him in with me.”
The cop stood aside. “I warn you, it isn’t pretty.”
The interior was dark, and Houston had to be wary so he did not bump into anything as he waited for his eyes to adjust. The room looked like the butcher shop in a slaughterhouse: machinery and stainless steel tables lined the walls. Most of it appeared unused, and dust coated it. He wondered how long it had been since anyone used it. They saw two officers standing beside an industrial-strength band saw and walked to them. A cursory look told Houston that this machine had been worked and often. The saw blade glistened in the harsh artificial
light; what appeared to be dried blood and bits of meat and flesh stuck to the blade’s teeth. Immediately to the saw’s left were grinders—big ones with their outlets poised over plastic pails. “Jesus,” Houston said. “He was cutting them up and grinding them into who knows what.”
Fuchs turned and said, “I think we’d better leave this for the crime scene technicians.” He took Houston by the arm and led him toward the back, where a walk-in reefer stood. When they opened the reefer’s door, cold air rolled out creating an eerie fog that covered the floor to just below their knees. Houston thought it was like entering the scene of a 1930s horror movie. They walked into the fog and stopped immediately. The bodies of three women hung from meat hooks.
Houston shook his head in horror and disgust. “What the hell was he doing?”
“Based upon what we found in the bait wells of his boat,” Fuchs said, “if I was a gambler, I’d bet he was making chum.”
43
Fischer stood back in the trees and watched the activity at his home. There were six police cars in the yard, and people were scurrying around like ants after their mound was kicked and destroyed. Movement caught his eye, and he saw an ambulance drive into the yard. His heart jumped. Was Mum alright? A cold rage immediately replaced his concern. If anyone had hurt her, he would make them all pay for it.
He kept his vigil until he saw the EMTs wheel a gurney from the house, slide it into the back of an ambulance, and drive off. He spun on his heel and raced through the woods to his truck. He had to find out where they were taking her. Once he knew she was safe, there would be time for any reckoning that was in store.
Back in the van, he reached behind the passenger seat and raised one edge of the canvas that covered his cargo. Cheryl stared at him, her mouth sealed shut with duct tape. He checked her bonds to ensure she was secure. He slammed the side door, circled the truck, and got in. When the motor started, he put it in gear and drove down the tree-lined lane to the main road. He sighed with relief when he saw the ambulance disappear over a rise. He followed.
_________________
Fischer studied the hospital grounds, paying particular attention to the area near the emergency entrance. Vehicles from the local police, Sheriff’s Department, and the Maine State Police were scattered around the parking lot. Several other cars were unmarked but bore government plates. “Shit.” He wondered if the unmarked cars belonged to the FBI. Most likely they did not have to ask the Feds to interfere; he had crossed the borders of three states with his women, and that was all the Feds needed to stick their noses into the investigation.
He was sure that his identity was now common knowledge to the cops. If they had not figured out who he was, the damned woman would have told them. He should have killed that last bitch when he found her in the house; Cheryl was another issue—one he would deal with in time.
He turned his attention back to the building. There was no way he was going to get in using the door. He pounded the steering wheel in frustration.
If you don’t calm down, you’ll never get inside.
Fischer stared at the entrance to the building. “Shut up, old man.”
That attitude is what’s going to be your downfall, dummy. Get under control and scout the area.
Willard took several deep breaths, calming himself. Eventually, his heartbeat slowed.
Willard took the keys from the ignition, got out of the car, and tried to appear nonchalant as he walked toward the hospital. Fortunately, it was not a major facility; it was a single-story building intended for emergency and minor afflictions—major cases they sent to bigger hospitals, such as Southern Maine Medical Center in Portland. A row of mature fully bloomed rhododendron bushes created a dense hedge surrounding the building like castle walls. A closer inspection showed a two- or three-foot gap between the plants and the building—an ideal place for him to get close enough to search the rooms through the windows. Even though his thought processes were impaired from lack of sleep, he realized how big a risk he was taking. It was daylight, albeit early morning, and until he reached the cover afforded by the blooming rhododendrons, he would be exposed. Nevertheless, Mum was in there somewhere, and he was going to do his best to find her. He strolled up the walk that led to the emergency entrance and stopped beside the shrubbery. Fischer pulled the visor of his cap down to hide his face, looked around to ensure that he was unobserved, and then slipped inside the bushes.
He crouched as he scampered between the hedge and the brick wall and took care to remain unobserved as he stopped at each window and peered inside the rooms. The first seven windows had shades drawn, making it impossible to discern what was inside. He continued checking every window until he finally found her. He used a pocketknife to pry the window open and studied her for a few seconds. Lying in the uncomfortable-looking hospital bed, hooked up to several different machines and bottles, made her seem smaller and frailer than when he took care of her. Her eyes seemed to have sunken into her head, and her prominent hook nose pointed toward the ceiling. He surveyed the room. It was semi-private, and the second bed was unoccupied, although from the state of the bedding, it appeared to have been recently occupied. “Mum?” he kept his voice low so he would not be overheard.
So you finally got here? His mother admonished him.
“I got here as soon as I could. Cops were crawling all over the house.”
Excuses always sound good to the person makin’ them. Did you find the women?
“I got one of them.”
Who got away?
He stared at his feet. “The new one. I got Cheryl.”
His mother’s voice was filled with resignation when she said, Well, I guess all that we can do now is run. Get me out of here.
“I can’t, Mum. Where can I put you that’s safe?”
You’re useless, just like your father. What are you going to do, leave me here with a bunch of heathens? Look at me! Her voice changed, as if she had realized that he was right. It would be impossible for him to care for her while living out of his truck. I guess you are right, son. Nevertheless, you need to find that woman before the police find you.
“But, Mum, it won’t matter because the cops already know who I am and where the house is.”
Witnesses, you friggin’ moron, those women are the only witnesses. Kill them, and they got nothing on you. His father reproached him.
His words stung. He turned to his mother for support. “Mum . . .”
Don’t “Mum” me. As much as I hate to admit it, your father is right. Now get on out of here—you got work to do.
“What good will it do to kill Cheryl? I’m sure that they already found the ones in the reefer. Besides, they can’t make a wife testify against her husband.”
When did you marry that slut? As for them bodies, they got no proof you put them there. They got to prove you took them harlots, and if the other two are gone, there ain’t no one to link you to them. Now go on, do what needs doing. I’ll be fine. You can come for me once the chore is done.
Fischer said, “Bye, Mum. I’ll be back for you. I promise.”
Get some rest, and then go find that woman.
He walked to the window, and as he exited, he heard his father’s angry voice, Useless! Woman, I oughta beat you silly . . .
_________________
Fischer tossed and turned. With every movement, the puncture in his shoulder and the gash across his back sent stabbing pain racing through him. He rolled over, taking his weight off the wounds, and cursed. He reached for the aspirin on the nightstand, shook five from the plastic container, and washed them down with a glass of water. Then he went into the bathroom, where he bent over the bathtub and checked Cheryl’s bindings. He sat on the toilet and looked into her eyes. “I trusted you,” he said, “and you were disloyal. Now we got to start at the beginning.”
She muttered into the duct tape that covered her mouth, it sounded like a mumble. He ripped the tape from her mouth. “What?”
“I’ll be good, I
promise.”
“You got to pay for going against your husband.” He realigned her position in the tub and turned the shower on just enough for water to drip, hitting her on the forehead. “Your first punishment. You lay still until I say otherwise. Not a single movement!”
A slow flow of water dripped from the showerhead, hitting her forehead. Cheryl’s eyes closed, and she flinched with each drop.
He replaced the tape over her swollen lips and left the bathroom door open when he exited. He paced back and forth, spanning the cheap hotel room in three strides. Wistfully, he thought of his own room. He sighed. Thinking of home made him think of Mum—and the horrible thing he had done. He was certain Mum had taught him that the Bible spoke against a son deserting his mother. He couldn’t remember where it was; maybe it was in Revelations. Yes, he was sure—it had to be; that was her favorite book. He felt lost, alone, and adrift. For the first time in his life, he had no place to go and nobody to help him. He cursed the cops and Anne Bouchard for putting him in a position where he had to leave Mum in that hospital. Now, he was certainly doomed to spend eternity in Hell. Anger built. Anne Bouchard had made it so he would never feel the Lord’s love.
44
O’Leary sat behind his desk, sucking on one of his endless stream of cigarettes, and finished off the coffee he had been nursing for the past ten minutes. “You take care of Halsey?”
Winter took a sip of soda and leaned back in his chair. “Yup, you want to know how?”
“Nope, that’s one less thing a prosecutor can try to get out of me.”
“You won’t have to worry about that.”
O’Leary glanced at the television set that sat in the corner of his office. The scene on the twenty-four hour news channel was of the manse. “Well,” he said, “the heat is about to be turned up.”
“We can handle it.”
“We always have, haven’t we? You know, Gordon, there are days when I feel like maybe I should scrap it all—drop everything except this place. Today is one of those days.”
The Fisherman Page 20
