THE FOURTH BULLET: A Novel of Suspense

by Patrick Dakin

  “Yeah. That and …”

  “Because you’re convinced you’re going to die.”

  “… Yes, I'm afraid so.”

  “We’re all going to die, Jake. Death is the one thing none of us gets to cheat.”

  “I don’t think I have a lot of time, Lil. If we're going to get this guy we have to speed up the process.”

  “There’s nothing I can say or do to convince you to change your mind?”

  He doesn’t need to answer. The look in his eyes tells her all she needs to know. “In that case,” she says, “we’d best get started.” She takes his hand and brings it to her face. She kisses his fingers, a look of poignant longing in her eyes. “What is it you want me to do - this tremendous favor you want to ask of me?”

  “I’d like you to look after Tristan for me after I’m gone.”

  “Jake, I don’t think I’m the best person to take on that task. She’s a wonderful young woman but … well, we haven’t exactly hit it off together.”

  “She’ll need somebody like you, Lil. Somebody to keep her on the straight and narrow. I’m afraid she’ll go completely to pieces once I’m gone. When she lost her mom she was devastated. She’s never gotten over it. Regardless of what you think of her, she respects you. I know that.”

  “Intuition?”

  “Call it that if you want.”

  “All right, Jake. I’ll certainly try with Tristan. I’ll do whatever I can. You’ve got my word.”

  “Thank you,” he says. “That’s a tremendous load off my mind.”

  “Don’t get too maudlin on me. I’m still hoping that, at least on the issue of your own demise, you’re wrong, that your intuition is off target.”

  He gives her a tight smile. “I hope so, too.”

  “Are you strong enough to do this, Jake?”

  “I think so. Apart from the pain attacks I’m really not feeling that bad. I’ve got back a lot of my strength now. I should be able to get by if I don’t overdo anything.”

  “Okay,” she says, reluctantly all business, “where do we go from here?”

  “First up, I think I should---”

  “We should,” she corrects him.

  “Right, we should … talk to this guy Dorval Williams like you suggested. More and more, I think whatever he might have heard the killer say could be important. Don’t ask me to explain why because I couldn’t.”

  “How do you want to handle it? Bobby says the Little Rock cops still haven’t been able to turn him up.”

  “Maybe they’re not trying hard enough. We’ll fly down there. I’m a little more motivated than those boys are.”

  “This isn’t going to be cheap, Jake. Can you afford all the running around this might take?”

  “I’m okay. I’ve got about eighty-five thousand in savings and I’m getting a good disability pension from the department. If I have to spend every cent of my savings to nail this bastard it’ll still be the most worthwhile thing I could have done with it.”

  “All right,” Lillian says flatly. “I’ll book the tickets.”

  Bobby Schultz stops by Jake’s house that night after work. “How’s it goin’, Jake?” he says after Lillian lets him in and leads him to the study.

  “It’s going okay, Bobby.” Jake is again slightly disturbed by the smell of alcohol on Schultz’s breath at this early hour. “Anything new?”

  Schultz grimaces like he’s having a tooth pulled. “Not a damn thing, I’m sad to say. It’s like … I dunno, like the guy just up and disappeared off the face of the earth. I can’t believe how he can be so invisible. It’s friggin’ eerie, is what it is.”

  “Lil and I are flying down to Little Rock,” Jake says. “See if we can scare up this Dorval Williams character. Maybe he’s the jolt this investigation needs to get it going.”

  Schultz looks embarrassed. “I wish I could’ve gone down there myself, Jake, but I couldn’t get the expense approved.”

  “I know. I played that game long enough to know how it works, Bobby.”

  “You’re gonna have to play it real cool down there, Jake. You got no official status anymore.”

  Jake acknowledges that obvious fact with a sigh. “Yeah, Bobby, I know that.”

  “You think this Williams might really be able to tell us something?”

  “Could be. It’s a possibility so it’s got to be checked out.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “We’ve got a flight out tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You sure you’re not pushing yourself too hard, Jake?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so. But I been gettin’ an earful from Keith about how worried Tristan is about you. She’s afraid you’re gonna kill yourself, pal.”

  “I said I’ll be fine, Bobby.”

  “Okay, okay. Anyway, I gotta run. Call me from Little Rock if you learn anything.”

  “We will.”

  The next morning Lillian is helping Jake throw a few things into an overnighter when he’s hit by another pain attack. He doubles over, trying to ride it out without letting on just how bad it is, but it’s too intense to fool anyone. The palms of his hands are pressed to his temples and his face is scrunched up in a tormented expression. Lillian guides him to the bed and sits him down. “Jesus, Jake … I don’t like this.”

  “I’ll be okay,” he moans. “Just bare with me.”

  Five minutes later he’s back to normal - or what passes for normal for him these days. They finish up their packing. After a light lunch Lillian drives them to the airport in Jake’s Taurus, and they board their flight.

  12

  Inspector Rene Fortier, with the Vancouver Police, Sex Crimes Unit, has barely gotten his bags unpacked before being saddled with the investigation into Darlene Belik’s murder. Fortier, who recently arrived in Vancouver from Montreal, is perfectly bilingual and has no trouble functioning in English-speaking Canada.

  In his mid-forties, Fortier is married to a woman from Vancouver he met while she was working at a Montreal hospital as a linguist, helping children with speech impediments. When she was offered a job with a private clinic in Vancouver, the opportunity to come back to her roots, with a big pay increase as a bonus, was too good to pass up. Fortier applied for an opening on the Vancouver City Police force and, with two decades of experience, was taken on immediately at the rank of inspector. He’s a savvy, no-nonsense cop.

  Two days after Darlene Belik’s body is found Fortier has met with the Vancouver coroner to get the official cause of death. No surprise there. Now he’s at the forensics lab in consultation with two lab analysts, Steve Crawchuck and Emily Chan, hoping to learn something he doesn’t already know.

  “So, what can you tell me?” Fortier says.

  Chan, a tiny Oriental woman, and the senior of the two lab rats, is the spokesperson. She’s wearing a long, white lab coat and her jet-black hair, worn in a long ponytail, reaches nearly to her waist. “We recovered hairs, sperm, saliva - you name it,” she says. “Lots of trace evidence.”

  “That’s strange,” Fortier says. “He’s that careless about d.n.a. but scrupulous about fingerprints.”

  “How so?” Chan asks.

  “The crime scene was wiped clean. Not one fingerprint, other than the victim’s, in the whole place. The waiter at the strip club still had the fifty dollar bill the killer had given him. Even that was wiped clean. ”

  “Very unusual,” Chan agrees. “What do you make of it?”

  “My guess is he’s never been arrested for anything requiring a d.n.a. swab. He knows it’s his fingerprints that are most likely to be his downfall. It could be he has a record - just not for a sex crime.”

  “You might be right.”

  “I hope not,” Fortier says. “Because I have a feeling this one’s going to be real hard to catch if I am.”

  * *

  The 747 containing Jake and Lillian touches down in Little Rock late at night. They take a cab to the Ramada Inn not far from the a
irport terminal. As he’s about to check in it occurs to Jake they’ve given no thought to their sleeping arrangements. He’s just about to tell the clerk they’ll need two rooms when Lillian puts her hand on his arm and whispers in his ear, “One room will be fine, Jake.”

  He doesn’t argue.

  Upstairs, Lillian heads immediately for the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says.

  Jake undresses down to his boxers and slips under the sheets. A lot of things are running through his mind. Except for a couple of dinners with a widow who lives down the street from him, this will be the first woman he’s been with - really been with - since Anna. He experiences feelings of guilt even though it’s been four years since her death. He knows this is ridiculous but the feelings remain nonetheless.

  There’s also the issue of his health. Will he be able to perform with Lillian? And if so, to what degree? While he’s thinking this through a sudden, blinding burst of pain radiates through his head. The image of a spike being driven into his skull flashes into his mind. It’s excruciating - very nearly unbearable.

  When Lillian comes out of the bathroom she sees him lying on his side with the ends of a pillow held to his head, rocking gently and moaning. His eyes are tightly clenched. She lays down, facing his back, and places her arms around his body, holding him.

  When the pain finally subsides, he’s spent. He falls asleep in Lillian’s embrace.

  Early the next morning Lillian is on the phone talking to Dorval Williams’ mother. “Mrs. Williams,” she says, “my name is Lillian Hudson. I’m working in conjunction with the Los Angles Police Department. We’re trying to locate your son, Dorval, to ask him some questions about the murder he witnessed in Los Angeles.” There’s a pause while she listens. “He’s not in any trouble, ma’am. All we want is to talk to him. It’s possible he could have some vital information that could aid the police in catching the man responsible for the killings.” Another pause. “Okay, Mrs. Williams. That’s fine. I’ll phone you back this afternoon. Thank you.”

  “Any luck?” Jake asks.

  “Maybe,” Lillian responds. “Dorval’s mother is going to contact him. We’re to call her back this afternoon. She’ll let us know if he’s agreeable to meeting with us.”

  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

  “We’ll do that while we have some breakfast. Come on.”

  So far this morning Jake feels pretty good. Good enough, in fact, to get a little frisky in bed. But when he had turned to Lillian and started mixing it up, she put a halt on the proceedings. “Not yet, buster,” she had said. “I don’t want you dying in the middle of the act.”

  “At least I’d die with a smile on my face,” he had retorted.

  “Humph,” was her reaction to that. She had patted him on the backside, kissed his forehead, and hopped out of bed.

  He had watched as she had walked away from him. Not as firm as a twenty year old maybe but still sexy as hell just the same. When she had gotten to the bathroom door she had glanced back, caught him eying her, and stuck her tongue out at him. “Eat your heart out,” she said before disappearing into the shower.

  He’s been having trouble getting his mind back on business ever since.

  Walking down the hall to the motel restaurant, Jake takes her hand. “Sorry about last night,” he says.

  “Don’t be,” she responds. “The truth is, I had no expectations. I meant what I said this morning. I don’t want you dying on me. Once we get this killer business behind us I want you to go back to the hospital - find out what can be done about the pain attacks you’ve been having. Then, if it’s still what you want … we’ll see about having some fun in the sack.”

  “Sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” he says.

  She glances at him with a serious look on her face. “Damn straight I have.”

  “Have you had any more flashes of intuition lately?” Lillian asks over a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon.

  Jake shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

  “Do you ever read what’s on my mind,” she asks.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Why do you say ‘of course not?’”

  “Because I wouldn’t invade your privacy like that - even if I could.”

  “Very noble,” she says, looking at him with a doubtful expression.

  “It’s not like that anyway.”

  “Oh? What is it like then?”

  “It’s … a vague feeling. Not specific.” This is a lie, told to make her feel more at ease around him. But the fact is, it is sometimes very specific. Like a voice is screaming right in his ear.

  She continues to eat her meal. I love you, Jake! she yells out in her mind. I love you! She looks directly at him as she does it.

  With a piece of bacon halfway to his mouth, Jake stops as if physically struck and raises his eyes to hers.

  “Caught ya,” she says.

  That afternoon Lillian is on the phone with Mrs. Williams again. “Did you talk to Dorval?” she asks.

  “Yes,” the woman says. “He says he don’t wanna meet with you, but he’ll talk to you on the phone.”

  “All right, if that’s the way he wants it. Is he there now?”

  “Yeah, he’s here.”

  “Put him on then, please, Mrs. Williams.”

  A moment later Dorval Williams comes on the line. “Yo,” he says.

  Lillian passes the phone to Jake. “Dorval, it’s Jake Foley. I’m the cop that was shot in your apartment.”

  “Jesus, man, I don’t know how you ever survived that bullet. That sumbitch plugged you point blank with your own gun.”

  “Yeah. It’s a long story, but I won’t bore you with it. The thing is we need to meet with you. Just to talk. It’s very important.”

  “I don’t want nothin’ more to do with all that,” he says. “That sumbitch is crazy, man. How do I know he won’t decide to come after me if he finds out I talked to you?”

  “Nobody ever needs to know you talked to us, Dorval. You’ve got my word on that.”

  There’s a long silence. “Okay, I’ll meet you downtown. You get ten minutes. No more.”

  “Okay, ten minutes is good. Where do we meet?”

  “There’s a park across the street from City Hall. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  Jake fills Lillian in on the end of the conversation she didn’t hear, and they leave the hotel.

  Five minutes after they get to the park, Dorval Williams arrives and joins Jake and Lillian on a park bench. He looks haunted. His bony physique, not unlike his cousin Elwood Smythie, is even more gaunt than it was in L.A.

  “Thanks for coming,” Jake says.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Williams says, looking around nervously, obviously anxious to bring this little gathering to a rapid end. “So whadaya wanna know?”

  “I want you to think back to the shooting. Take your time and try to remember after the killer shot me and my partner.”

  “It ain’t likely I’m gonna forget that too soon, man.”

  Jake concedes the point with a nod of his head. “At first he bent down and picked up my partner’s gun,” Jake says. “Then he went over to me. When he picked up my gun he said something. Can you remember what it was?”

  Williams is quiet for several moments. Then he shakes his head. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, ruminating. “He did say something. But I didn’t get it. It’s not like we were real concerned with what the dude was sayin’, ya know. We was a lot more worried about whether he was gonna turn that cannon of yours on us next."

  “I understand,” Jake says. “But try and remember. It could be very important.”

  Once again Williams is pensive. Several minutes go by. He’s looking off in the distance, his eyes are nearly shut in concentration. Then, suddenly, his eyes go wide and he looks at Jake. “It was somethin’ like …‘Kiss coo say.’”

  “Kiss coo say?”

 
“Yeah. And it was like he was askin’ a question. It don’t make sense that he would've said that. It was probably somethin’ different, but that’s what it sounded like.”

  Jake's disappointment is clear. He had hoped for something significant and tangible. His sixth sense had been telling him that whatever it was the killer had mumbled was important. But this appeared to have no value at all. “Is there anything else you can remember? Anything at all that might help us identify this guy?”

  Williams shakes his head. “Uh uh. The guy was wearin’ a phony wig and beard. I wouldn’t know him if he walked up to me and bit me on the nose.”

  Jake can’t hide his frustration. He hangs his head and scowls.

  “Okay, Mr. Williams,” Lillian says. “Thank you for talking with us.” She hands him a piece of paper with Jake’s name and Los Angeles phone number on it. “Please call this number if you remember anything at all that could help us.”

  Williams takes the paper but says nothing. He stands quickly, shoves his hands deep in his pockets, and hunches his shoulders. He looks down at Jake. “You know something, man? I haven’t touched drugs since that happened. Not even a joint. That asshole scared me straight.”

  Jake tips his head back to look up at Williams. “I’m happy for you.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you somethin’ that’d help you more,” Williams says.

  Jake nods. “Me, too.” He holds out his hand which Williams misinterprets as an offer to shake. When Williams reaches out his hand Jake puts two folded hundred dollar bills in it.

  Williams hesitates for a moment, then mumbles, “Thanks, man.” Then he turns and walks quickly away.

  13

  Marius Dupree relaxes at home watching the evening news. It is being anchored by an odd looking duo comprised of a smallish, semi-attractive woman - probably the recipient of numerous eye tucks judging by the stretched skin around her cheekbones and the unnatural slant to her eyes - and a burly looking fellow with an exceptionally thick, and somewhat suspect, hairline. The lead story, however, is what captures Dupree’s interest - the ongoing account of Darlene Belik, the beautiful but tragic young woman found several days earlier brutally murdered in her West End apartment. Dupree smiles at the artist’s impression of the killer that is shown next. An aging lothario with long, white hair and bags under his eyes. God forbid I should ever look like that, Dupree muses to himself with an arrogance born of total insensitivity to anything but his own welfare. He scoffs at the subsequent interview with Vancouver Police spokesperson, Constable Sean Quinn, a handsome, clean-cut young man who reveals that the police have uncovered significant pieces of evidence from the murder scene. He speaks confidently of the police department’s ability to apprehend the killer but makes a plea, nonetheless, for the public to come forward with any information that might aid in their investigation.