Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Maybe that’s where you got the idea,” Friedman murmured. “From him.”

  “Maybe so,” Canelli said amiably, oblivious to Friedman’s good-humored gibe. “Well, anyhow, taking it from the top, you might say, I spent the first hour or so just following him around, backstage at the Cow Palace—and out in front, too. He kept asking me where we thought the murderer stood, and how we thought he got away, and how many shots were fired, and everything. Which, of course, I didn’t tell him. I mean, even if I’d known, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t’ve told him. So anyhow—” He paused for breath.

  “So anyhow,” he continued, “after an hour of that, when he seemed to be kind of sniffing everything out, sort of, he finally said that he was ready to go back home. So, remembering that he’d said he really should’t’ve driven to the Cow Palace by himself, I asked him if he wanted me to drive him. He said okay. So we got in his car, which is a big old Cadillac that’s about ten years old, and all dented up, and sounds like a threshing machine, and we started out. By that time, it was almost two o’clock. He was exhausted, he said, and he kind of laid his head back on the seat beside me. And then he started to ramble. You know—just saying whatever came into his head, you might say.”

  Canelli paused, took out his notebook, thumbed the dogeared pages back and forth, read busily for a moment with his lips laboriously moving, then continued: “He said that his mother and Bernard Carlton—Rebecca’s father—were married when he was twelve years old, and Rebecca was sixteen. His mother, I gather, is just about as high-powered as Bernard Carlton was, which is pretty high-powered. I mean, it sounds like they were both pretty high livers, but also pretty mixed up, and pretty hard on each other. They were always breaking up, Justin says, and then getting back together, and like that. And also, there was a lot of drinking. Or, at least, Bernard Carlton did a lot of drinking—and, according to Justin, a lot of everything else, including screwing around.”

  “It sounds like he and Rebecca had a pretty tough life,” Friedman observed.

  Canelli nodded. “Right. It sounds like they were—you know—the typical poor little rich kids, with all the money, and cars, and servants, and everything that they wanted, but no love.”

  “How did Bernard Carlton die?” I asked. “Cirrhosis of the liver?”

  Canelli shook his head. “Nope. It was an airplane crash. His own airplane, for God’s sake.”

  Friedman sat up straighter. During the Second World War, he’d been a bomber pilot. “How’d it happen?” he asked.

  “He didn’t say,” Canelli answered. “It was about three weeks ago. At the time, Rebecca was going to give a concert, down in L.A. Which, of course, she canceled, when she heard her father had been killed. So, last night, she was giving a make-up concert, you might say. I mean, the promoters of the L.A. concert lost a bundle, when she canceled.”

  Remembering Behr’s comments, I said, “They were probably insured.”

  Canelli shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know about that.”

  “What about Justin?” Friedman asked. “What’s his story?”

  “Justin’s story,” Canelli said, “is that he’s the kooky head of one of those kooky religious cults. At least, that’s my opinion.”

  Wryly, Friedman shook his head, at the same time leaning laboriously forward to deposit his cigar butt in the ashtray. “Life in California,” Friedman grunted, settling back in his chair. “In the East, you know, they say that someone tilted the country, and all the nuts rolled out here, to California.”

  Canelli smiled. “Hey, Lieutenant, that’s a pretty good one. I never heard that before.” He nodded appreciatively, repeating, “That’s pretty good. I like that.”

  “What about this cult?” I said. “How’s it operate?”

  “Simple,” Canelli answered. “It operates around Justin. He’s the messiah, I guess you’d say. He’s got the faithful convinced that he sees visions. Which, of course, is what the hocus-pocus is all about. His visions. They apparently do a kind of a pagan thing, the way it looks to me. You know—primitive rites, and everything.”

  “What’s Aztecca?” I asked. “Is that their headquarters?”

  Canelli nodded. “That’s right, Lieutenant. It’s an old, tumbled-down mansion down near the Daly City line, out by the ocean. And, honest to God, it looks like a haunted house. I mean, you’d have to see it, to know what I’m talking about. It’s like—” Canelli frowned. “Who’s that guy that does those weird cartoons, and they made that Munsters TV series about them, once?” Canelli chewed at his lip, searching for the name.

  “Charles Addams,” Friedman said.

  Brightening, Canelli nodded. “Yeah. Right. Well, this house looks like one of those Charles Addams houses, and that’s no fooling.”

  “How many are in this cult?” I asked.

  “Justin said about forty.”

  “Do they all live in the house?” Friedman asked.

  Canelli shrugged. “I guess so. I mean, at that hour, I didn’t see any of them. But Justin said they were there. So I guess they were, all right.”

  “Were you able to get independent confirmation that Justin used ESP to learn about Rebecca’s death?” I asked.

  “Not last night I couldn’t. I mean, they were all asleep, naturally, when we got there. But, first thing this morning, I went back. And I talked to a good-looking black woman. Her name is Anya. That’s not her real name. It’s the name she took, when she joined up. They all have those kinds of names, I guess. So, anyhow, Anya said that, about midnight last night, when mostly they were all asleep, Justin suddenly came tearing out of his room, which is right next to hers. I gathered that she was kind of the manager, out there, sort of. So, anyhow, she said that Justin came busting out, carrying a kerosene lamp. Did I say that they don’t have electricity?”

  “No.”

  “Well, they don’t. But, anyhow, Justin suddenly starts wailing, she said, and carrying on, and saying that he’s got to get to his sister, who just died.”

  “Were those his exact words?” I asked.

  “That’s right, Lieutenant. Exact. At least, according to Anya.”

  “You didn’t happen to toss his room, did you?” Friedman asked, “to see whether he had a transistor radio?”

  “No,” Canelli admitted. “I thought about it, naturally. I mean, I was curious, you know? But I didn’t have a warrant, or anything. And I could tell, by the way those characters were acting, that they weren’t about to let me poke around. But, naturally, I asked Anya whether he had a radio, being as subtle about it as I could.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She said that there wasn’t a radio, or a record player, or anything electronic in the whole place. Except for flashlights, for emergencies. It’s part of their pagan, back-to-nature thing, the way I get it.”

  “Did you believe her?” I asked.

  Again, Canelli shrugged his beefy shoulders. “I didn’t see anything electronic. Nothing at all.”

  “Are you saying,” Friedman said, “that you think this so-called vision of Justin’s was the straight goods?”

  “Jeeze, Lieutenant—” Canelli turned his soft brown eyes plaintively on Friedman, at the same time spreading his hands. “Jeeze, I don’t know what to think, if you want to know the truth. I mean, I—”

  My phone rang.

  “It’s Culligan, Lieutenant. I just wanted to tell you that Sam Wright’s at home, and the place is staked out.”

  “Is it staked out tight?”

  “Tight. Guaranteed. I’m at the scene now.”

  “All right. Good. Canelli and I will be out in about a half hour. I want to pick up a warrant first.”

  “You want me to try and soften him up a little?”

  “No. Let me. Just make sure he stays put.”

  Seven

  “THAT’S THE ONE.” CULLIGAN pointed to a one-story house situated on the slope of a Mission district hill. It was a Victorian-style house, one of thousands built row upon row at the t
urn of the century. For decades, the Mission had been a workingman’s neighborhood, but in the fifties and sixties, San Francisco began evolving into the Manhattan of the Bay Area. It was a carefully calculated evolution. First, the city began exporting its slums across the bay, to Oakland. Second, places like Fisherman’s Wharf and the Barbary Coast were given a coat of gilt and handed over to the tourists. Corporations were offered tax incentives to build downtown skyscrapers. Convention centers were erected. And finally, a debt-plagued, disaster-prone rapid-transit system was built to connect San Francisco to the surrounding suburbs.

  In the process, neighborhoods like the Mission district changed from blue-collar to a kind of radical chic. Victorian houses that sold for twenty thousand dollars ten years ago had been repainted to accent the gingerbread trim, and sold for fifty thousand dollars five years later. In San Francisco’s current go-go real estate market, the same house, repainted again, with a remodeled kitchen and bath, could bring a hundred fifty thousand.

  Standing with Canelli and Culligan, I studied the house. With its three-color façade, its plate-glass picture window and its newly built used-brick wall and walkway, it was a textbook example of a restored-for-profit Victorian.

  But, on close examination, both the house and its grounds were beginning to show signs of neglect. A drape had come loose from its track on the window. One of the beveled glass panes in the elaborately carved turn-of-the-century door had been cracked and then repaired with aluminized tape. The small front garden was a thicket of weeds. The big Mercedes convertible parked in the driveway was dirty and dented, with one of its taillights broken out.

  Was it lack of money? Lack of interest? Something else?

  “Is there a back alley?” I asked Culligan.

  The tall, bony, stoop-shouldered detective shook his head. His expression was doleful, almost dejected—as if the absence of a rear alley might jeopardize the whole operation. If Canelli was the squad room innocent, Culligan was our crepe-hanger. Culligan had a peptic ulcer, a nagging wife and a son who grew organic marijuana in a Colorado commune. In all my twelve years in Homicide, I’d never seen Culligan smile. His expression always remained as I saw it now: face folded into long, morose lines, with sunken cheeks and a mouth drawn down at the corners, permanently discouraged. From everyone, Culligan expected the worst. He was never disappointed.

  “There’s no alley,” Culligan said. “But I got a man in an adjoining yard, back there.”

  “Is Wright inside, do you know?”

  “Yeah. When I got a man for the front, I went around the corner and called the house, pretending that I was selling aluminum siding. He’s in there, all right. Or, at least, someone’s in there—some guy.”

  “Where’s our man in front?”

  Culligan pointed to a battered van parked a few doors down the hill. I frowned. The percentage play was to park up the hill, in case a pursuit developed.

  “I’ve been up the hill in my car,” Culligan said, anticipating.

  “Oh. Good.” I realized that I’d never really doubted it. Culligan was thorough. Steady, and dependable, and thorough. And brave, too. I’d never seen him flinch.

  “You stay here,” I ordered. “Canelli and I will go in.”

  “There’s a shotgun in the van,” Culligan suggested. “If you want me to, I could park it in front, and cover you.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Thanks anyhow.” I looked at Canelli, who nodded in return. He was ready. Walking briskly, side by side, we crossed the street and mounted the three steps to Sam Wright’s small front porch. I hoped we looked like two salesmen, or city inspectors.

  A dirty curtain was hung across the three glass panes set into the door. Again I questioned Canelli with a glance, at the same time unbuttoning my jacket and loosening my revolver in its spring holster. With his hand on his own revolver, Canelli nodded, then moved to his right, out of line with the door’s three panes. I pressed the bell-button, then stepped to the left.

  For the first two rings of the doorbell, nothing stirred inside. I felt my stomach slowly, uncontrollably tightening. Entering suspect premises, an officer could count on a kind of grim predictability: the longer the suspect took to answer the door, the tougher it could get for the man ringing the doorbell.

  But on the third ring, I heard footsteps approaching down the hallway. A moment later, the door swung open. A tall, slim, sandy-haired man stood slouched in the doorway. He wore blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt that had been haphazardly cut off at the elbows. Both the jeans and the sweatshirt were slightly soiled. His sparse hair was uncombed, earlobe-long. His face was covered with a dark, two-day stubble of beard. His bloodshot eyes were dull, and looked defeated. His face was pale, puffed beneath the eyes, painfully drawn around the mouth. His feet were bare.

  Even from three feet away, I could smell liquor on his breath. As if to confirm it, he lurched slightly, touching the wall for support. His outstretched fingers trembled.

  “Mr. Wright? Sam Wright?” As I spoke, I took my shield case from my pocket, flipped it open, and showed him the badge.

  He looked down at the badge, frowned, then looked up at me, squinting into the Saturday morning sunlight.

  “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings,” I said. “This is Inspector Canelli. We’re here about your wife, Rebecca Carlton. Can we come in?” Asking the question, I stepped expectantly forward. Without protest, he gave way. A moment later, with the door closed behind us, we stood crowded awkwardly into the small entry hall. I stepped to my left, and glanced through an archway into a cluttered living room. “May we sit down?” I asked.

  He drew a deep, unsteady breath, pushed himself heavily away from the wall and lurched into the living room.

  “Whew,” Canelli breathed, wrinkling his nose as he whispered to me: “Smells like hundred proof, at least.”

  With Sam Wright sprawled on a leather sofa, Canelli and I found separate chairs that faced the sofa across a huge tile-topped coffee table. As I settled myself, I looked quickly around the room. Obviously, the furnishings had been chosen with no thought of expense. My chair was made of zebra skin stretched over oiled walnut. The sofa was glove leather. Across the room, one wall was covered with elaborate sound equipment. Original paintings hung everywhere. Oriental rugs were scattered on a floor already carpeted with beige wool. The lamp beside my chair had been made from a huge Oriental brass urn that looked like a museum piece.

  But, like the outside of the house, the interior showed signs of neglect. Polished wooden side tables were marked with rings. Not one of the paintings hung straight. Some of the Oriental rugs had been cigarette-burned, and the leather sofa was ripped across one arm. Although the furniture was dusted and the windows clean, the room smelled of dirt. Magazines, discarded newspapers, records and tapes were scattered everywhere. Dirty dishes and empty wine bottles covered the top of an ornately carved Spanish sideboard.

  Sam Wright was sitting motionless, with legs spread wide, arms slack at his sides. His chin was sunk on his chest. His breath was coming hard, rattling loose and wet in his throat.

  Now, suddenly, he raised his head. With his mouth slack, eyes blinking blearily, he looked first at Canelli, then at me. Then, with his washed-out eyes fixed on mine, he raised his right hand in a gesture of wan futility. He lifted his chin, cleared his throat and said, “She’s dead. Just like her father. Murdered, for God’s sake.”

  I nodded. “That’s why we’re here, Mr. Wright.”

  “Oh, Jesus—” The hand rotated, palm turned up, then fell heavily to the sofa beside him. “Call me Sam. Anybody calls me Mr. Wright, I automatically know they’re after something.”

  I watched him until I caught his wandering eye and held it. Then, softly, I said, “You’re right. I’m after something.”

  His lips twitched into a drunk’s slow, crafty leer. “You’re one of the clever ones, then. You admit it up front, so I’ll put my guard down. Is th—” He burped: a sudden explosive exhalation. “Is that it
?”

  Still holding his eyes with mine, I nodded slowly. “That’s it.”

  He braced his bare feet on the floor, pushed with his hands on both sides of his body and finally succeeded in levering himself to a more erect position on the leather sofa. He raised his chin and frowned, making an obvious effort to focus his bleary stare on me.

  “You’ve got kind eyes,” he said suddenly. “They can be cold, but they’re kind.” He continued to stare at me for a moment. Then, suddenly: “How do you feel, when you kill someone? How does it make you feel, afterwards?”

  “How do you know I’ve killed anyone?”

  “It’s in your eyes,” he said softly. “It’s all there, in your eyes.”

  Beside me, I heard Canelli sigh.

  “Are you interested in killing, Mr. Wright?” I asked.

  “I’m a singer,” he answered. “And a songwriter. And there was a time when people told me I was a poet, too. They saw poetry in my lyrics, they said. And poets, you know, are interested in everything. That’s what makes them poets.” As if the thought suddenly overwhelmed him, he stopped talking. His eyes wandered off toward the sound equipment. Following his gaze, I saw a gold record, framed and hung on the wall above the equipment.

  “They called me a balladeer,” he said softly, still staring at the gold record. “A poet of the people. Time did a piece on me once. It was a page and a half. And that was the headline.”

  “What was the headline?” Canelli asked.

  Wright frowned and looked at Canelli, puzzled. Finally he said, “Sam Wright, a Poet of the People.”

  “Oh.” Canelli nodded. “Sorry.”

  Indifferently, Wright shrugged, waving away the apology. I watched him sink into his previous slack, boneless posture. He’d lost interest in his story.

  “Were you at the concert last night, Mr. Wright?” I asked quietly.