Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  I snorted.

  “So,” Friedman said, grunting as he hoisted his bulk out of my visitor’s chair, “I’ll leave you with Justin, while I have a talk with Sam Wright.”

  “What about the other ones—Cornelison, and Gee? And, especially, Ron Massey. One of us should talk to them, as long as they’re here.”

  “You’re right. Why don’t I take the beautiful Pam, and the talented Richard. Then, on my way home—if I should be so lucky, tonight—I’ll interrogate Sam Wright.”

  “Fair enough.” I nodded goodbye to Friedman, at the same time lifting my phone. I told the officer on duty to ask Ron Massey to wait for another fifteen minutes. Then I ordered Justin Wade sent in—without his disciples.

  Standing behind my desk, I gestured Justin to my visitor’s chair. But he shook his head, and instead stood midway between my desk and the door. I hesitated, then decided to resume my seat. It was the wrong decision. Looking up at him, I felt as if my authority were shriveling. With his arms calmly folded, chin lifted, dressed in his early-Christian robe, he was obviously at ease—in control. Last night, distraught and disheveled, he’d seemed a farcical figure. Today, he was convincing.

  He spoke in a thin, clear, concise voice: “I’ve been waiting for you, Lieutenant. It’s been more than an hour.”

  “I’ve been in the field,” I answered. “I’ve been interrogating suspects.” And, immediately, I regretted saying it. To myself, I sounded like someone trying unsuccessfully to explain away some unspecified shortcoming.

  He seemed not to have heard. Instead, with his eyes fixed just above my head, he said, “This morning, during meditation, I was able to see how it happened, last night. And, of course, I wanted to tell you about it. Immediately.” He spoke in the same precisely measured voice. But now, as if he were speaking from a trance, the cadence had fallen into a slightly singsong monotone.

  “Good,” I said. And—again—I felt faintly foolish, having said it.

  “It came to me during my morning meditation,” he repeated. “All night, you see, while I slept, I’d willed my unconscious self to return to the murder scene. I realized, of course, that the pain would be acute. But, nevertheless, I understood that, before I could find peace, I must return, with Rebecca. I must know.”

  This time, when he paused, I decided to say nothing. Instead, I watched his face. Still fixed above my head, his pale, nondescript eyes had become strangely luminous, focused on some distant unearthly void. Whatever vision he’d seen this morning, it was returning now. Following where it led, he was wandering off into another world.

  “And—suddenly—it all came clear,” he said. “It happened without conscious warning—as it often does. First I was with her, on stage, singing her last song. And then, while she was still singing, I was leaving her. I could still hear her, but I’d gone. I was backstage, behind the curtain. My vision had become remote—as impersonal as a camera’s eye, seeing everything, feeling nothing, judging nothing. I saw faces, all of them turned toward her. Some of the faces were familiar, others were strange to me. And then—” His voice trailed off. His empty eyes narrowed, as if he were straining to see his vision more clearly. “And then, I saw the man’s figure. I saw it go behind her van, and disappear. Even though I tried to exert my will, I couldn’t follow him behind the van. So I had to wait until he emerged. By that time she’d finished her song and was approaching the van. She was surrounded by people—friends, and enemies, too. As she came toward the van, he began moving away from her. And, now, I could see the gun he carried. Or, rather, I could feel the gun, because he was concealing it.

  “It was as if I was focused on both of them,” he went on. “It was as if I’d moved back, so I could see everything. I saw her walk up the stairs to her van. Then I saw him step behind the scaffolding, to the left of the stage. And then, for the first time, I saw the gun quite clearly. And then—” Suddenly he shuddered. As if he were a marionette with its strings cut, his knees buckled, his body sagged. He braced his hand against my desk, then slumped into the visitor’s chair. His face was pale. His eyes were hollow, haunted by what he’d seen.

  “Then came the shot,” he whispered. “Just one shot. I saw flame exploding from the gun’s barrel, like a huge flower of fire. For a moment it was suspended in the darkness, as if time and motion had frozen around it.”

  In spite of myself, I was excited by the story. Leaning toward him, I asked, “Did you see his face?”

  Slowly, infinitely weary now, he shook his head. “No. The light was too dim. But I could see that it was a man. A rather tall man, with hair about like mine.” He gestured to the hair hanging almost to his shoulders.

  “Was he thin? Stocky?”

  Once more, he wearily shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you, Lieutenant.”

  “Let’s go back. You say that when you first saw him, before the shooting, he disappeared behind her motor home.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it possible that he went inside, through a small door in the rear of the van—a door you couldn’t see?”

  Once more, he dully shook his head. “I don’t know. He was out of my sight, as I said. I couldn’t follow him. I had to remain fixed. Like a camera, you see.” As if he were puzzled, he frowned. “I couldn’t follow him,” he repeated tonelessly. “I was helpless. Totally helpless.” Uncertainly, he raised his hand to stroke his scraggly beard.

  “You say you were aware of him having the gun when he reappeared. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “But you weren’t aware that he had the gun when he first approached the trailer.”

  “I—I—” Helplessly, he raised one hand. “I don’t know. I can’t be sure. All I know is that, when he reappeared, I realized that he had the gun, even though I didn’t actually see it.”

  “But you did see the gun when he fired it?”

  “Yes.”

  I opened my desk drawer, found a Stoeger’s gun catalog and rifled through the pages until I found a Smith and Wesson .357 magnum with a four-inch barrel, identical to the murder weapon. Next I found a picture of a Colt .45 automatic, and finally a Walther PPK. Holding the catalog so he could see it, I said, “I’m going to show you three handguns, Mr. Wade. Tell me which one is similar to the one he held.”

  With great effort, as if he were totally exhausted, he sat up straighter in the chair and looked at the three illustrations. Then, without hesitation, he said, “It’s the first one.”

  I turned to the .357. “This one?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re sure? You’re absolutely positive?”

  “I saw it,” he answered simply. “I couldn’t be mistaken.”

  “What did he do after the shot was fired?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. When the shot came, everything disappeared. It was like a—a mirror that shattered.”

  As he spoke, my phone rang. It was Farwell, in the reception room, apologetically saying that Ron Massey must leave soon.

  “All right,” I answered sharply, impatient at the interruption. “Tell him I’ll be with him shortly.” And to Justin Wade, I said: “Is there anything more you can tell me, Mr. Wade? Anything that could help us?”

  Fingering his massive sun symbol, he shook his head. His eyes were clearer now, his expression more composed. For a moment I sat silently, watching him. Was he telling the truth? Was his vision genuine—something I should take seriously? Other police departments, both in the United States and Europe, routinely used clairvoyants to help solve crimes. And his mother, whose appraisal of her son was totally realistic, had volunteered that his visions were real—to Justin, at least.

  But were they true?

  He’d “seen” the murderer disappear behind the van, and “seen” him appear with the murder weapon, concealed.

  If the vision was true, it could mean that the murderer first stole the .357 and then concealed himself behind the light standard, waiting fo
r Rebecca. Therefore, the vision could confirm Sam Wright’s contention that the murder weapon was in Rebecca’s van.

  But, on the other hand, Justin’s description of the murderer fitted Sam Wright.

  Deciding to shift ground, and test his responses to something other than the murder, I said, “I talked to your mother this morning.”

  He looked at me for a long, inscrutable moment before he said, “I haven’t seen my mother for over a year.” He let another moment pass before he added: “She’s—alien to the life I’ve chosen. She probably told you that.” As he spoke, his voice dropped to a harsh, uncompromising note. His eyes hardened. His fingers tightened around the medallion.

  “No,” I answered, “she didn’t say anything like that. But I got the feeling that there was—” I hesitated. Then: “There was considerable tension in your family.”

  His pale, thin lips stretched in a mirthless smile. “You’re a diplomat, Lieutenant.”

  I answered his smile. “In my business, it goes with the territory.” I paused, then probed deeper: “Your stepsister was acutely unhappy, I gather. She was even a runaway, your mother said.”

  “I ran away, too. Did my mother tell you that?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  Grimly, he nodded. “I ran away from home three times between age fifteen and age twenty-two. Then I left for good.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “How old was Rebecca?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Were you fond of each other?”

  “For most of my life, I thought I hated her,” he answered. “And I suppose I did. She was—” He grimaced. “She was always selfish. And sometimes she could be frightening, too—unpredictable and vicious. And so was my stepfather. He could be a tyrant, especially when he was drinking—which was all the time. And—” He shook his head sharply, as if he were flinching at the memory. “And my mother was frightening to live with, too. She’s ice-cold, completely self-controlled, utterly self-centered. But, underneath, she’s a hedonist. She’s seething with—” He broke off, searching for the phrase: “She’s seething with depravity,” he finished.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand this,” I said. “You tell me that you hated Rebecca—that she was terrible to live with. And, from everything I hear about her, I believe you. Yet, last night, you, were totally distraught. When I called her your ‘stepsister,’ you corrected me, and called her your ‘sister.’ And today—now—you’re trying to help us find her murderer. But apparently you didn’t really feel close to her.”

  He looked at me silently for a moment. Then, speaking in a slow, measured voice, he said solemnly: “I respond to my feelings, Lieutenant. I never analyze why I do anything. I simply do it. Because that’s the only truth—and the only real freedom. Descartes said, ‘I think; therefore I am.’ I say that I feel; therefore I am.”

  “You haven’t answered the question.” I paused to get his attention. Then: “What was the nature of your relationship with Rebecca during the last year?”

  “During the last year,” he answered slowly, “we saw each other frequently. Rebecca was—” He hesitated. “She was interested in my work.”

  “How do you mean, ‘interested’?”

  “I mean,” he answered, “that she contributed to my work.”

  “Money, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Much money?”

  He waved away the question. “I don’t recall the numbers. I never remember the amounts—only that people give and help. That’s all that matters.”

  I decided to shift ground: “In your family,” I said, “it sounds like you were the odd man out.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that the three of them sound like they were pretty self-indulgent. Sensualists, I guess you’d call them. But you’re—different.”

  “Sensualists—” He nodded. “Yes, they were that. And more. Both of them—my mother and Rebecca—they were corrupted by Bernard. He was—” He let it go eloquently unfinished.

  “You said he could be a tyrant. Yet he left you a third of his estate.”

  Contemptuously, he shrugged. “I don’t care about money, Lieutenant. I’ve already told you that. It’s one of the things I’ve forsworn. Money—the urge of the flesh—drink—they all corrupt.”

  “Will you take your inheritance, though?” I pressed.

  “Probably. But I’ll take it for Aztecca.”

  “That’s your—your sect.”

  “That’s the community I live in. At Aztecca, everyone is equal.” He made the correction gently. Whenever he spoke of his “calling,” his voice was quiet and serene. But whenever he spoke of his family, a harsh, uncompromising note edged his voice. His manner changed, too, and his whole body stiffened.

  “You’re the leader at Aztecca, though?”

  He didn’t reply, but made a sign of impatient denial.

  Thinking of Friedman’s question, I asked, “Do you know what will happen to Rebecca’s share of Bernard Carlton’s estate?”

  “It will be divided between me and my mother. If either Rebecca or I died before age thirty, the share would be divided between the two survivors. The same holds true for my mother’s share, if she dies before we do.”

  “So you and your mother will split Rebecca’s share of the estate.”

  “Yes,” he answered readily. “We’ll both be rich.” He was obviously indifferent to the prospect.

  My phone buzzed. It was Farwell again.

  “I’m really sorry, Lieutenant,” he said earnestly. “But Mr. Massey says that, if you can’t see him immediately, he’ll have to leave. I need instructions.”

  I sighed. “Tell him to come in.”

  Ten

  “I’M SORRY, MR. MASSEY,” I said, gesturing him to a chair. “This has been one of those days, I’m afraid.”

  “For me, too, Lieutenant,” he said. Then, peevishly, he added: “I’d think that would be obvious.”

  I decided not to respond. Instead, I watched as he adjusted his trouser creases, touched his tie and hunched his shoulders, settling his jacket. Finally, he smoothed down his small, silky mustache before he said, “I don’t quite understand why it was necessary for Inspector Canelli to put me to the trouble of coming down here. As I understand it, he wanted to know whether Rebecca kept a gun in her van. For that, he could have phoned me.” He looked at me accusingly for a moment before he added, “I don’t know whether you’re aware of it, Lieutenant, but Rebecca Carlton was practically an institution, not only in this country, but in Europe, too. Alive or dead, she’s significant. And it’s my responsibility to see that her memory is preserved and protected.”

  He spoke as if it were a speech that had been carefully prepared and rehearsed. I decided that my job would be easier if I could shake some of his bland self-confidence.

  “The gun is only part of it, Mr. Massey.” I spoke in a flat, official voice. “There’s more.” I decided to let him guess what I meant. As I sat silently, watching him frown as he thought about it, I tried to imagine how this humorless, pompously dressed man could have risen to the top in the free-wheeling, free-loving, far-out world of rock music. Everything about him suggested a fast-rising young executive yes man, destined to find his niche somewhere in the executive suite of a large corporation.

  “You say there’s more,” he said, looking at his watch. “What is it?”

  “We’re interrogating everyone who profited by her death.” I spoke in the same flat, hard voice, locking my gaze with his. “That, I believe includes you.”

  “Me?” His handsomely arched eyebrows rose over eyes round with surprise. “Christ, how do you figure I profited?” As he returned my stare his eyes narrowed angrily. His mouth tightened; a muscle alongside his jaw bunched theatrically as he said, “Do you have any idea how much I make—made—as her manager?”

  I dropped my eyes to my desk, pretending to consult some notes
. “According to my information,” I said quietly, “your contract with Rebecca was about to be terminated.”

  I saw him start. “How—?” He caught himself. “Where did you hear that, for Christ’s sake?”

  I’d learned long ago never to answer a suspect’s question. Instead, I said, “I also understand that you were insured against her death. Is that right?”

  “Well—Christ—yes. But that’s a part of the standard contract. It certainly doesn’t mean that—”

  “How much will the policy pay you, Mr. Massey?” I tried to make my voice sound slightly bored, as if I already knew the answer.

  “Well, it—” He stroked his small, foppish mustache again. But this time, the gesture lacked assurance. “Well, it’s about two hundred fifty thousand, I think. But—”

  “So, assuming that you were about to be fired,” I said quietly, “then the fact is that since she died while your contract was still in effect, you—”

  “Wait a minute, goddamnit.” He jumped to his feet, breathing hard. “Do I understand that you—” Momentarily his mouth worked impotently. “Wait a minute.” He was breathing hard now, staring at me with outraged eyes. “Do I understand that you—you’re accusing me of murdering her? Is that what you’re doing?”

  “In my business, Mr. Massey, we deal in facts. And the facts are that—”

  “The facts are, Lieutenant, that—” His voice broke on a high, half-hysterical note. Eyes hot and accusing, both fists clenched hard at his sides, he struggled for self-control. Finally, managing an unconvincing bluster, he said, “The facts are that I was standing five feet from her when she was killed. I was the first one to reach her, after she fell. I—I got her blood on my hands. And on my jacket, too.” As he said it, I had the fleeting impression that, to Massey, a bloodstained jacket was unthinkable. “And now you—Christ—you have the goddamn unmitigated gall to accuse me of—of—” For a last long, baleful moment he stood staring at me, unable to speak. Then he wheeled, blindly knocking over a chair as he lurched toward the door.