Dead Famous

by Carol O'Connell

  “Don’t let him kiss you on the mouth,” she said. “We don’t know where he’s been, and he hasn’t been checked for TB yet.” This was the flasher’s cue to cough.

  She smiled as the old man slid into shock. Ah, germs. She had found his soft spot, and she could read the lawyer’s thoughts, No, this can’t be happening to me.

  “This is just a holding cage,” said Mallory. “I can move you downtown to a bigger lockup if you like. You’ll have more room, more people to talk to, maybe twenty or so—all a lot like him.” She shot a warning glance at the coughing pervert, a reprimand for overacting.

  Riker pushed the vacuum cleaner across his bedroom rug, drowning out the sound of Johanna’s worried voice. She leaned down to the wall socket and pulled out the machine’s plug.

  “If that psychotic was still alive,” said Johanna, “you’d be under police protection right now.”

  “I am.” He dropped the vacuum hose and turned on her. “There’s always cops following me around. What’s the problem, Jo? Does that sound a little crazy? What about that dead FBI agent? Did Timothy Kidd sound crazy, too? He was paranoid, wasn’t he? Did he think he was being followed?”

  “But there was somebody following him.”

  “Yeah, and I know that feeling. Poor bastard—always looking over his shoulder. So now I have to wonder, how does the Reaper get so close to a paranoid fed—close enough to slash his throat?”

  “Well, maybe I am a miracle worker. You’re all cop now, aren’t you? Isn’t this how you talk to suspects? You’re just trying to evade the subject. This idea of yours that the shooter—”

  “How did Agent Kidd lose his edge, Jo? He knew he was being followed—followed by his own people, for Christ’s sake. Here’s a guy armed with a gun, and his nerves are so shot, he hears pins dropping in other rooms. How did his killer get close enough? According to your own notes, he knew that bastard on sight. So how does a thing like that happen, Jo?”

  “The same way it happened to you—twice.”

  The little flasher was more sympathetic than Mallory. He was listening with rapt attention as the elderly attorney rambled on about the death of his wife and the long bout of depression that had followed her funeral.

  Mallory’s fingernails rapped on the table, just a hint that he should speed up his story and get to the good part, the identity of the young man who owned the red wig and white cane.

  A uniformed officer opened the door and leaned in. “Detective? You’ve got company, the chief medical examiner.”

  Mallory was immediately suspicious, for she had done nothing to merit this kind of service. Dr. Slope preferred to have cops come to his shop.

  Johanna sat on the edge of the bed, tired and feeling the need of support. Though she had not done any of the physical work, this day was wearing on her.

  Riker, however, was showing no signs of all the chemicals she had used to fine-tune his body and his mind. He loomed over her, arms folded, waiting for her to say something—to defend herself. Yes, that was the sentiment, and she could not understand the change in him.

  “I’ve already told this story so many times,” she said. “It was all in my statement for the Chicago police and the—”

  “And now you can tell it to me.”

  How did this turnaround come about? Riker was growing more remote in every passing minute. She stared at the floor as she spoke to him. “It had to do with comfort zones. Timothy had one place where he felt safe. My waiting room was very private and secure. Patients were buzzed into that room. When the sessions were over, they left by the back door of my office. Coming or going, they never encountered one another. It was Timothy’s habit to come twenty minutes early for appointments. He said my waiting room was like a decompression chamber—his safety zone. I never buzzed anybody into that room after he arrived. I’m guessing the Reaper came up behind Timothy when he opened the door. His throat must’ve been slit instantly. So that’s how it happened—in the one place where he wouldn’t expect to be assaulted. And you, Riker—you never expected anyone to shoot you in your own apartment. Not the first time, not the second time.”

  Riker would not allow the subject to come back to him, not yet. He stepped to one side, exposing the small surprise he had prepared for her on the bureau. It was the packet of letters she had carried in the torn lining of her jacket. He must have found them when he had returned the gun and the clip to the pockets. And while she had been on the telephone with Charles Butler, Riker had been sitting in this room, reading all of them.

  He picked up the packet and held it high as a tangible accusation. “Agent Kidd was working full-time on the Reaper case.”

  “Eventually, yes. But not when we met. I didn’t lie to you.”

  “And you didn’t tell the whole truth either. He was looking into the jury murders while the first one still belonged to the Chicago police.”

  “I know it looks that way.”

  “And you were lovers,” he said. “You lied about that.”

  “I suppose the police might’ve thought so—if they’d found those letters the day they searched my rooms.”

  “He touched you.”

  “Timothy? He never did.”

  “He touched you.”

  “Oh, I see.” She had not expected Riker to use that sense of the word. “I suppose he did, but Bunny touched me, too, and he wasn’t so talented—only a schizophrenic.”

  “Timothy Kidd loved you.” He tossed the letters onto the bed beside her. “And he died because of you. No defense wounds. That’s what you told Lieutenant Coffey. The guy just sat down in a chair and bled out—quietly. He wouldn’t put up a fight because you were in the next room. So he was bleeding, dying in your reception room. And you—a damn doctor—help was just on the other side of a door.”

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “He never made a sound.”

  “You said his trachea wasn’t cut. He could’ve yelled for help, but he never did, and you know why. If you’d walked into that room, the Reaper would’ve killed you, too. That’s how you knew the freak stuck around to watch his victims die. Because Timothy loved you so much, he never made a sound. He died for you.”

  “That’s not why I kept his letters.” She gathered them up from the bedspread and held them in both hands, suddenly realizing that she had betrayed their precious value to her. “He was my friend. This is all that’s left of him, his personality.” And she should have burned them long ago, for she knew every line by heart. “I didn’t encourage Timothy’s feelings for me. I thought he was too vulnerable and—”

  “Too crazy? He thought his own people were following him—and the Reaper. And even though it was all true, he knew you didn’t believe him. And why should you? He was a freaking paranoid. But what about me, Jo? Do you believe me? Cops do follow me around, Jo. And why? Because the psycho who shot me is still out there—still alive. And sometimes it’s not cops. I know that boy’s watching me, Jo. Do you believe that?”

  Paranoia would also go with Riker’s job, the half-turned stance to see over his shoulder, the bit of business caught in the corner of his eye as he paused to listen for odd noises, singling out one from the rest. He thought a teenage psychopath was coming to steal his life, and this was his fear every day since he had been shot.

  Yes, she believed him—and she cried.

  He sat on the bed, close beside her and a different man when at last he spoke again. “You feel everything, don’t you, Jo? Everybody’s pain.”

  Johanna dropped the letters to the floor and placed one hand on his chest over the worst of his scars, the one perilously close to his heart. She had seen all the wounds while dressing him. It was miraculous that he had survived, and she knew what it had cost him to live with his memories of that event and the crushing weight of stress in every moment of his day.

  He gently moved her hand away so his scars could not hurt her anymore.

  When Mallory entered the private office, Jack Coffey rose from his desk and quit the
room, most likely sensing the tension between the two men who remained and guessing that he was best left out of this conversation.

  Chief Medical Examiner Edward Slope was seated with his back turned on Charles Butler, who slumped against one wall in abject misery. Mallory only glanced at him, posing a question with her eyes, no doubt wondering what he had given away. Charles shook his head to tell her that he had made no admissions, but she was not reassured, for his unhappy face said so much. He could not hide a thought and never attempted to lie, which explained why Edward Slope took all of his money in a weekly poker game.

  Mallory folded her arms against the medical examiner, demanding, “What’s going on?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” said the doctor, “but Charles won’t confess. Tell me, Kathy, how is Riker these days?”

  “Mallory,” she said, correcting his forbidden use of her first name. “I haven’t seen Riker lately. Why are you here?”

  “Charles wants to know if I botched the autopsy on the boy who shot Riker.”

  “I never said anything of the kind.” Charles turned toward Mallory, helpless now, because he was not adept at misleading people. That was her forte.

  “I bet Dr. Apollo put that idea in your head,” said Mallory. “Am I right? She’s the one who thinks the autopsy was rigged?”

  “Right,” said Charles. “Not my idea.”

  “That fits.” She circled around to the back of the medical examiner’s chair and leaned down to speak to him. Her voice dropped into that low range for telling secrets. “Nothing I say goes beyond this room. Deal?”

  “Knowing you as long as I have, I’m hardly going to promise that.”

  “You asked about Riker.” She moved behind the desk and sat down. “He’s in a bad way.” This unpredictable truth telling was truly disarming, and she engaged the surprised man in a staring contest. “If Riker had to take the psych evaluation today, he’d fail it. So don’t help me. Rat him out. See to it that he never gets his badge back.” And now, assured of the medical examiner’s allegiance, she faced Charles. “Dr. Apollo got this idea from Riker, didn’t she?”

  “Johanna wouldn’t say. She only asked if there was anything odd about the autopsy report. Something withheld.”

  Mallory nodded. “Every time Riker walks into a room, he’s checking every stranger for concealed weapons. That’s been going on for a long time. Now I’m guessing he thinks the shooter is still alive. His concentration is split. He’s looking for the wrong suspect, and that’s going to get him killed. I told him the perp who shot him was dead. I told him that six months ago. But I guess he didn’t believe me.”

  “Hard to imagine why,” said Edward Slope, perhaps leaning a bit too hard on the sarcasm.

  “I don’t understand,” said Charles. “How could Riker believe a thing like that? Didn’t the police shoot this boy quite a few times? Thirty times?”

  “Well, we shot somebody,” she said.

  Charles’s lips parted to speak, but mere words would not suffice, not just this minute, nor could he get them out, for his mouth had gone suddenly dry.

  Edward Slope leaned back in his chair, then graced Mallory with a rare smile. “And people say you have no sense of humor.”

  18

  “THE PARENTS IDENTIFIED THE WRONG BODY.” Riker paced the bedroom floor, working off his anger. “And they knew it wasn’t their kid. That’s why they never filed a wrongful-death suit against the city. Happens every time a suspect gets shot by the police. The relatives always do that. But not this time.”

  “There must’ve been blood tests on the body,” said Johanna.

  Riker shook his head. “What for? Thirty bullet wounds made the cause of death pretty damn clear. And the next of kin identified the corpse. That satisfied all the requirements for the state. So why run the blood tests? Why fool with a good thing?” Weary now, he sat down beside her at the edge of the mattress. “It all worked out so nicely for everybody. NYPD looks good for closing a major case in record time. The city avoids a megabucks lawsuit for shooting the wrong suspect. And that psycho kid goes free. I’m sure the parents loved that part.”

  “Then this is just theory. You don’t actually—”

  “There’s more. I got all the proof I need. The parents went to Europe after the shooting. Probably got their kid settled in with a new identity. Maybe four weeks later, they came back to town. So I go by their place and talk to the doorman. This is around the time I started picking up on the shadows, people following me everywhere I went. Sometimes it was Mallory. She’s easy to spot. Thinks she can do surveillance. She can’t. But one of them wasn’t a cop. It was a little freak in a bad wig, not your basic undercover outfit. He was young, and his size was right.” He turned to Jo. “So—still think I’m sane? Or am I as crazy as Timothy Kidd?”

  And now it was Johanna who needed a change of subject. She took his hand, interlaced her fingers with his and said, “Tell me your damn first name. Tell me . . . or I’ll make you clean the toilet.”

  Janos found Mallory alone in Jack Coffey’s office. “The old guy wants out.”

  “He knows the conditions,” said Mallory. “Did the pervert kiss him yet?”

  “No, the lawyer bought the little guy off with a gold watch.” Janos held up a slip of paper. “But the old guy gave up the name and address for your phony blind man.”

  Great! Just great!

  Riker was on his knees, wearing a damn apron, and his head was deep in the toilet, though not on some philosophical mission to see where his life had lately gone; he was brushing stains that required close-up squinting. Oh, and this was the best part of his big dream: into the bathroom walks Edward Slope, the chief medical examiner himself, all decked out in a three-piece suit.

  “A house call? From a body snatcher?” Riker sat back on his heels, then slumped against the tiled wall. “Can’t you wait till I’m dead?”

  “I want you to see something.” Slope opened an envelope and pulled out a batch of photographs. One of them wafted to the floor. It was the picture of a body on the doctor’s dissection table. “That’s the well-bred young man who tried to kill you six months ago. I did the autopsy myself. As you can see, he’s quite dead. It only took the police a few hours to track him down. He was shot to pieces before you got out of surgery.”

  Another photograph joined the one on the floor. The corpse was full of holes, the face was gone. Riker remembered this particular picture as the one Mallory had liked best. She had brought it to his hospital room and held it up like a trophy. At the time, he had been surprised that she had not brought in the actual body, bronzed and nailed to a plaque for her wall. He looked up at the medical examiner and smiled with only half his face to let the man know that he was not buying any of this. Never had, never would.

  Edward Slope hunkered down and papered the floor with the rest of his evidence. “This psychotic little geek is as dead as roadkill. It was a very thorough job, nine cops and precisely thirty bullets. You were told about this. Did you think your own people would lie to you?” And now, perhaps recalling that one of these people was Mallory, he amended this query. “All of them liars? Every cop in Special Crimes Unit?”

  “Well, that’s what cops do,” said Riker. “Every day, we lie to suspects. Goes with the job. Yeah, they’d all lie to me, especially after pumping thirty rounds into this poor bastard—whoever he is.” He picked up one of the photographs and tore it in half. “He’s not the kid who shot me.”

  Dr. Slope produced papers from his coat pocket. “These are the lab results. I ran all the tests, Riker. You know me. I never leave anything to chance. You have to believe in fingerprints, in blood and DNA. And there’s the gunpowder residue on the boy’s hand. And there’s more.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Riker removed his hausfrau’s rubber gloves. “Well, here’s the kicker, Doc. The proof. There were guards posted in my room the whole time I was in the hospital. They only do that to protect crime victims from live suspects. Nobody, and I m
ean nobody else gets twenty-four-hour bodyguards, not ever. But every time I opened my eyes, there was a cop watching me, and I could always hear more of ’em out in the hall.”

  Riker saw a painful surprise in the doctor’s eyes.

  Edward Slope was now the saddest man in New York City. “Not all of your guards were cops. The first few days, your doctors only allowed medical personnel to see you.” He reached out to retrieve some of his pictures from the floor. “Sometimes it was me sitting in the intensive care unit. That was right after your surgery. You weren’t expected to survive. So—if you went sour—well, I thought someone should be there, someone you knew.” On hands and knees, he gathered up the rest of the photographs, then made a show of neatly stacking them and avoiding Riker’s eyes.

  “Later on,” said Slope, “there were so many drugs pumped into you. I’m not surprised that you can’t recall this—one of those guards was your father. That old man put in a lot of hours taking turns with Kathy Mallory. They were there through all the days when you were swacked on painkillers that only worked half the time. And the others—patrolmen, detectives, they came out of the woodwork to sit in your hospital room—on their own time, willing you to recover. After you were on the mend, they still came, so many of them. My fault. I got the hospital to rescind visiting hours. I wanted someone in your room round the clock. The distraction would keep you from reliving the event when you were most vulnerable. And—Dr. Apollo will back me up on this—most trauma victims have an irrational fear of being alone. So those cops all turned out for you—so you’d always know that you weren’t on your own—that you were at the head of a damn parade, the whole police force, thirty thousand strong. Those cops, your guards, they all thought it was important for you to know that. But . . . obviously, you . . . got the wrong message.” He stood up, preparing to leave, then leaned down to place one hand on Riker’s shoulder. “Believe me now. I’m sorry. I never realized . . .” Rising slowly, stiff and awkward—add on shamefaced—the pathologist turned sharply on his heel and quit the bathroom.