by Layton Green
Preach grabbed Mac’s thick wrist, bristly with dark hair. “I didn’t say we were finished.” He put his business card on the table, the one they had found in Wade’s pocket. “I believe you left this behind.”
Mac tried to jerk his arm away. Preach held him fast. “Leave Wade alone,” he said, then let Mac go with a long, stony look. “I mean it.”
The café owner lowered his chin, face quivering in fury. “Boy, don’t you ever lay a hand on me again. You mentioned an attempt at murder, but you should know that I don’t attempt anything. I either do or I don’t.”
He backed away with Mina by his side. A number of men pushed off the wall nearest their booth. For a moment, Preach thought they were crazy enough to assault two cops in public, but the men backed off when he flashed his badge.
As Preach and Kirby passed through the front room, one of the older men at the lone booth spit loudly into an empty glass. “Coon-ass cop,” he muttered.
Preach whirled, picked up a beer bottle, and smashed it on the table. Beer sloshed over the man’s beard and vest. He spluttered and tried to rise, but Preach put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him down. “Why don’t you sit.”
“Ain’t you ever heard of free speech? I ain’t committed no crime.”
“It’s a crime to be a racist, xenophobic, militia-joining asshole,” Preach said, recognizing a few of the tattoos on his arms.
The man started to speak, then looked in Preach’s eyes and thought twice about it. Outside, the two officers found that someone had slashed the tires on their car. Preach called a tow.
Kirby paced back and forth as they waited for another car to arrive, clenching his fists. “Thanks for what you did in there, at the end. I know it wasn’t your style. But you don’t have to fight my battles for me.”
Preach’s arms were folded, and he was watching the bar for signs of trouble. “Who said I did it for you?”
Back at the station, after they wrote up the slashed tires, Kirby stopped Preach as he was leaving.
“You think Mac knows about the connection to the books?”
“Definitely,” Preach said. He had caught the look of recognition in the crime boss’s eyes.
“So he’s our guy?”
“It doesn’t all fit, but he’s in the middle of something.”
Kirby finished his carton of coconut water and tossed it in the trash. “If Mac’s behind the murders, wouldn’t it have been better to lay low and go after the evidence? Catch him off-guard?”
Preach opened the rear door of the station, letting in a rush of cool night air. “You might be right if we knew what was going on. But we don’t, and I want him to feel like he’s being watched.” He shrugged into his overcoat. “At the moment, I’m more worried about future victims than past ones.”
24
A phalanx of white vans and grasping reporters greeted Preach outside the station the next morning.
“Detective Everson, can you give me a statement on the Literary Killer? Are there any suspects?”
“Can you confirm there have only been two victims?”
“Is this the work of a serial killer?”
Preach lowered his head and barreled through, repeating “No comment” a dozen times before he entered the station. He swept past reception to find a group of officers clustered in the briefing room, all of them eyeing the chief’s closed door with nervous eyes. Through the glass window, Preach could see a tall, sandy-haired woman in her fifties, dressed in a sharp gray business suit, pointing her finger at Chief Higgins.
Kirby was standing by the coffee machine. The other officers were hunched over their desks, fielding calls. His face grim, Preach shrugged out of his jacket as he approached his partner. “The Literary Killer?”
Kirby took a sip of coffee. “Some blond chick broke the story this morning.”
“How’d she get it? How much does she know?”
“No idea, and pretty much everything.”
Preach took in the news with compressed lips. “Who’s giving it to the chief?”
“The mayor.” Kirby’s eyes met Preach’s for a brief instant, then slid away.
“You okay?” Preach asked.
“Just thinking about the spotlight, like you said.”
Before Preach could respond, the door to Chief Higgins’s office burst open, and a tall, stylish woman with elegant bone structure stormed out, followed by two aides. The mayor leaned forward when she walked, as if fighting against the wind. Her thin lips looked stitched together.
Chief Higgins appeared in the doorway, hooked a finger at Preach and then Kirby. They hurried over.
The chief shut the door behind them. Elbows planted on the desk, she interlocked her fingers and tapped them against the backs of her hands, like the flapping of a butterfly’s wings.
“Anger gets us nowhere, and I’m not a person who believes in jumping to conclusions,” she said in a tone of careful neutrality that spoke far louder than a shout. “So I will say this only once. If either of you was the source of the leak and you come forward now, I’ll only suspend you.”
Preach didn’t respond. He had nothing to say.
Kirby beamed a smile at Chief Higgins. “Hey, if it was me, I’d be on TV already.”
“There’s nothing funny about this. You saw the mayor’s face. Not to mention this might drive the killer underground, or move him to destroy evidence.”
Preach waved a hand. “When you leave crime scenes like these, you have to know there’ll be press.”
With her palms flat on the desk, Chief Higgins took a deep yoga breath that started in her stomach and fluttered through her chest. “We got a match for a set of prints in Damian’s parlor, off the drinks cabinet.”
Preach leaned forward. “Someone we know?”
“Elliott Fenton.”
“So it’s probably nothing. Still, he might have been the last person to see Damian alive. We’ll talk to him.”
“Politely,” Chief Higgins said. “I’ve already had a call from him this morning, too. It’s been a peach of a day, lemme tell you.” Her expression hardened. “I assume you two went off-duty to a bar owned by Mac Dobbins in retaliation for the other night?”
“Not retaliation,” Preach said. “Just a message of our own.”
She looked back and forth between the two. “The second we find something concrete, we’ll haul his ass in. I don’t care if Johnny Cochrane rises from the grave to defend him. Until that time, if you want to avoid a civil suit and an internal investigation, keep your messages and lessons more discreet.”
“Duly noted,” Preach said.
“Kirby?” the chief said sharply.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. Preach knew the wound from the attack on his partner’s family had gone deep, deeper even than Preach had realized.
“Listen,” the chief said with a sigh. “We fielded a call from some weirdo this morning—we can’t keep up with the calls—in response to the news story. But this guy sounds legit in a can’t make this up kind of way. He lives behind Farley Robertson’s place and says he saw someone walking through the woods before Farley’s murder. Apparently the hiker stopped to admire his condo.” She took a sip of tea. “He did it every day for a week.”
Preach crossed his arms. “Does he have a description? Why call it in now?”
“You’ll have to ask him—our caller’s demanding to see someone in person.” She smirked. “Says he doesn’t trust cell phones, or any technology invented in the last five hundred years, besides the telescope. His words, not mine.”
“You should get your family somewhere safe, at least for a while,” Preach said to Kirby as they drove through one of the scruffy neighborhoods near downtown. Instead of Bermuda grass and trimmed hedges—bourgeoisie affectations—the residents of Creekville seemed to be having a contest as to who could accumulate the most pine cones, rocks, sticks, and sweet gum pods.
No answer. Preach glanced at the passenger seat and saw a
mixture of pride and frustration on his partner’s face.
“What about a relative?” Preach asked. “Uncle, grandparent?”
“Nope.”
They passed a series of modernist homes with boulders randomly dotting the front yards, like the remains of some prehistoric creek bed. Preach tapped an index finger on the wheel and then rang the station and asked for Chief Higgins.
“You got something?” she asked.
“I’d like an officer posted to Kirby’s sister’s house whenever he’s not there. At least for a few days.”
“We don’t have that kind of manpower—”
“She has two kids, Chief. Pull someone off patrol.”
Chief Higgins hung up.
“She’ll do it,” Preach said. “She knows you won’t have your head in the game otherwise. Plus she’s a softie.”
“Thanks,” Kirby mumbled. “Pretty sad, huh? Living paycheck to paycheck, can’t even afford a hotel?”
“There’s nothing sad about doing your best.”
“Sometimes your best doesn’t cut it. The world sure doesn’t give a damn about it.” Kirby turned to look out the window. “Did you know they say all cops want to write a book, Preach? You know why solving crimes isn’t enough for us? Same reason all men want to be Hugh Hefner or Derek Jeter. So they can get paid, laid, front the parade. That’s the only way to take care of you and yours in this world for sure. The law of the jungle.”
“Is that where you want to live? A jungle?”
“It’s where I was born.”
“So leave.”
“Like I said. Nowhere to go.”
“You can take your mind wherever you want, Kirby. That’s what sets us apart. Oh, and you’re right.”
“About what?”
“I want to write a book, too. Doesn’t everyone? We just don’t all have the desire to publish.” Preach kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t think you were the leak. But if you were, you should tell the chief before she finds out on her own.”
“Good advice. I’ll pass it on.”
A few miles from downtown, Preach turned onto a gravel drive that serviced a cluster of homes in the forest. Following directions provided by the witness, his hand on his firearm in case it was a setup, Preach parked in a grassy cul-de-sac at the end of the gravel drive.
Twenty yards down a dirt footpath, shoes crunching on leaves and dead locusts, they spotted a geodesic dome in a clearing. It looked like a gigantic white thimble with solar panels, a telescope, and an anarchist flag planted on top.
An older man in green camouflage emerged from the trees, brandishing a bow and arrow pointed at the ground. “What the hell you doing on my property?”
“Whoa,” Kirby said. “We’re police officers, pal. Ease up.”
Instead of raising his gun, Preach merely tightened his grip on his weapon. He could already tell that cooperation, rather than a show of force, would win this battle. “Will Bradford? You called in a witness report this morning?”
“Your hand’s still on your gun,” the old man said.
“Your hand’s still on your crossbow,” Kirby shot back.
“It’s a longbow, and I’ve got a right to protect my property. Now let’s see some ID.”
Preach held out his badge, and the old man moved to meet him. He had a ponytail of white hair underneath a brown military cap, and his droopy facial features were squished together, like a bulldog’s.
“I’m Detective Joe Everson. That’s my partner, Officer Kirby.”
The old man peered at Preach’s badge, then turned it over and held it up to the light. After handing it back, he said, “Name’s Willard Bradford. Friends call me Will.” He started walking toward the dome. “C’mon, then.”
He led them to the rear, or Preach supposed it could have been the front, of the dome. In a clearing strewn with pine needles, there was a large stack of firewood, a hammock, and a fire pit. Off to the right, a wire cage enclosed a henhouse and a vegetable garden.
Will pushed on the smooth surface of the dome, causing it to hinge open.
“Where do you keep your car?” Kirby asked.
“Don’t have one.”
“Um, groceries?”
“Look around, son. The land has all you need.”
They stepped into a small kitchen containing a wood stove, a wall of door-less cabinets filled with homemade jars and cans, and an oval breakfast table. A box of Pop-Tarts and a glass bottle of Mountain Dew sat atop the table.
Will shot the Mountain Dew an embarrassed glance. “My niece brings me a few things from time to time,” he mumbled. “Lemme get another stool.”
When he left the room, Kirby said in a low voice, “You think we can trust him?”
“He’s just a little weird. He probably has two PhDs. Let’s hear him out.”
Will walked back in with a third stool, as well as a cell phone with a row of antennas attached to a bolt running lengthwise across the top.
“Y’all believe in aliens, right?” He set the strange contraption on the table. “I mean, Creekville being an energy vortex and all. More human beings believe in aliens than in God these days, if you trust the polls—which I don’t. But that’s a different conversation. Alone in a universe this big? Don’t think so. Maybe they all died in the old universe, before the Big Bang. Ever think about that?”
Preach gave Kirby a chagrined glance. “About that call to the station,” Preach said. “I hate to be rude, but we’ve got a murder investigation to conduct.”
Will slurped on his Mountain Dew and offered them each a Pop-Tart, which they declined. “He came through on the trail. The first day he stopped, I thought it was no big deal. Could have been a deer. Some people like to stare at those nasty things. But then he did the same thing the day after that, and the next, and the next. Thought no one could see him.”
“So how did you?”
“I was in my tree stand.”
“How long did he stop?” Preach asked.
“Usually about fifteen minutes. Staring through the forest right at that condo across the way. The one where the murder took place.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“He walked right up to it, to the edge of the woods. Ten feet from the back door.”
“Did he do anything else?” Preach asked. “Make a phone call, write something down?”
Will wagged a finger. “He did take notes a few times, when he was done staring. In a journal.”
“You could see him that closely?”
“High-powered binoculars.”
“Anything else?”
Will took another drink and smacked his lips. “He always walked back faster than he came in. Like he was excited about something.”
Kirby leaned forward. “Can you describe him? Man, woman, old, young?”
“Oh, it was a man. Middle-aged, I suppose. It all looks the same before sixty. Balding, glasses, kind of squirrely. Walked through the woods like he was stepping on tacks.”
“Why didn’t you call it in earlier?” Kirby asked.
“I didn’t think much about it until my niece stopped by and told me about the murders. I don’t watch TV or get out much. When I realized he’d been staring at the home of a victim, I thought someone should know.”
“You did the right thing,” Preach said. Stomach twisting with anticipation, he took a small stack of suspect photos from his inside jacket pocket, all of which he had printed off the Internet. They were all random except the author photo of J. T. Belker.
Will squinted as he flipped through the stack, then stopped and jabbed a gnarled finger at the photo of Belker. “That’s him all right.”
25
Belker opened the door in a pair of sweatpants and another grubby T-shirt. A few graying chest hairs poked out of the V-neck. He appeared to be in some kind of hypnagogic state, barely aware of his surroundings.
Was he a writer caught in the vortex of his imagination, Preach wondered, or was it the sort of detached behavi
or he had seen in suspects with guilty consciences? Someone who knew the game was up?
Preach had berated himself the entire morning, during his efforts to procure a warrant to search J. T. Belker’s residence. Mac Dobbins was the more conspicuous suspect, but Preach’s job was not to be distracted by the obvious. He had let himself be swayed by Belker’s gimpy appearance, his pathetic living conditions, and the faded scar on his wrist.
What if he had kept a closer on eye on Belker? Might Damian Black still be alive?
“Can we come in?” Preach asked.
The writer blinked, then pushed his glasses further up his nose. “I, um, yes, of course.”
Preach caught a whiff of stale sweat and discarded pizza boxes as Belker sank into one of the sagging armchairs. Preach took the other armchair, leaving Kirby with a green rocker.
On a folding table beside Belker’s chair was his laptop, a thermos, and a copy of City of Glass by Paul Auster. Preach scanned the stacks of books on the floor and noticed a pile of Edgar Allan Poe’s work.
Preach crossed his legs. “How’s the writing going?”
Belker snapped back to full consciousness, offering a bitter smile. “How do you think? I’m a writer without a contract.”
“Damian Black said you had true talent, you know. In fact, he said he’d give anything to write like you.”
“Then he should have published me. Have you considered the fact that he might be lying?”
“Have you considered the fact that he’s dead?”
Belker gave a start. “Still playing with straw men, are we?” He swept a hand down his pudgy body. “Am I the best you can do?”
Kirby leaned forward. “Murderers come in all shapes and sizes.”
“Maybe I’d sell a few books if I murdered someone,” Belker muttered.
“Maybe you would,” Preach said.
The writer looked back and forth between the two officers. “You’re serious. I’m actually a suspect.”
