The Magician's Tale

by William Bayer

  The kid's eyes were glazed. He was done puking, but his pulse was still racing hard. The kid stared up at him, then gulped and nodded, and Jack felt the rush of having psyched a problem out, the kind of surge he figured a detective probably got every day but which was sweet and rare to him.

  Just then the paramedics burst in. They took over the way they always do like everything is life-and-death, gave the kid oxygen, placed him on a gurney, covered him with a blanket and wheeled him out.

  When they were gone Billy looked straight at Jack, fire in his squinty little eyes, then configured the forefingers of both hands so they formed a T.

  Jack nodded, Billy smiled, and next thing Wainy and Ricky arrived, trailed shortly afterward by Luis Vasquez.

  Wainy was half drunk and so was Ricky; they'd been hitting bars around lower Fillmore when they got the call. But soused as they were, they got real quiet when they walked in, smelled the smell, felt the vibes, sensed the solemnity between Billy and Jack.

  No one touched the evidence or handed it around. . . though that was the story they would later tell. They were too smart, too experienced to do a damn fool thing like that. Rather they circled in, discussed it, then Wainy pulled out his leather-covered flask, took a snort, passed it around, and everyone, except Vasquez, took a snort as well.

  They knew what they had: the first break in the biggest case of the decade, hard evidence, stuff the T killer had actually touched. And they knew soon as they called it in they'd be pushed straight out. Their names wouldn't appear in the papers. Though there might be some mention of patrolmen who'd stumbled into a scene, then dutifully turned it over to detectives, it would be Hale and his people who would be named and quoted and praised. There was nothing they could do about that and it rankled them hard, for to stumble into a crime scene like this, a scene so alive, filled with still-hot-from-the-perp's-hands evidence—this was what a good cop lived for, a chance to be a great cop, solve a great and gruesome case. And they knew soon as they called it in they'd be back to being plain patrol cops just like before.

  They stood around awhile bemoaning their lot. Griping about the injustice of it, they took more snorts from Wainy's flask. When they finished it off, Wainy went out to his car to retrieve the full bottle of Jack Daniel's he had stashed beneath his seat. When he came back his face was pink—he'd been hit by an inspiration. They didn't have to call the task force, he said, least not right away. If they wanted they had a few hours' cushion time to pursue the T case on their own. They were five smart cops, experienced cops who knew their way around the city, right? So here they were, standing in this Aladdin's cave of evidence. Was there any reason they couldn't solve this thing, track down the T killer, emerge as heroes and at the same time drive Hale and his crew of strut-around detectives nuts?

  The bottle went around again, and by the time it made three circuits they were raring to go.

  "So now let's take a little look-see here at what we got," Wainy said.

  First there was the hood. Billy slipped on a pair of latex gloves and picked it up. They looked at the clasps. Solid stainless steel, not the cheap chrome stuff you usually see. The hood, butter-soft, had that smoky leathery smell. The sewing and riveting had been done by hand. No store tag inside. Made to order, had to be.

  But if you knew a little about made-to-order SM gear, you knew the guys who fit and cut and riveted the stuff were proud of their work. Most of them had a private mark they put inside, their initials or some kind of signature. Since there was nothing in this hood, that could mean it had been made by the T killer himself.

  The tattoo gear didn't tell them much. Old and most likely untraceable. But the ink could be traced. There was the manufacturer's name and a batch number right on the jar. A good phone detective could track that down in an hour.

  The syringe was a job for the crime lab boys. They could tell what kind of juice was in it and lift the prints.

  So how the hell were the five of them going to track this friggin' killer? Things were bleak; the bottle made another pass. When it reached Wainy again, he took a deep draft and, when he lowered his head, showed a canny smile.

  "Hey," he said, "let's face it, we're not detectives, we don't work phones, lift prints, do lab analysis, we can't compete. But I say we got our own area of expertise—we know what real people do. We're patrolmen, so I say forget the detective crap and take a look at this from our angle, the real life street side we know better 'n anyone else."

  That got them going. Even Vasquez got caught up in it. Wainy had set them on the track, they all had things to say, but finally it was Jack who laid it out.

  It wasn't all that complicated when you looked at it, he said. Here was all this evidence left behind by a guy in a big hurry to get away. This guy, call him the T killer, had to be scared shitless, because now, for the first time after five perfect homicides, he was in a real predicament. All kinds of stuff that could be traced back to him was sitting here in this cellar. He had to know that if the right cops got hold of it, he might as well as turn himself in. Whether that happened would depend on a number of circumstances such as whether Robbie Sipple survived. But whatever the outcome, he owed it to himself to do his damnedest to get his stuff back. If he was lucky and the cops who'd gone in were as stupid as they looked ... then, maybe, there was a small chance he could retrieve it and get away clean. In which case, even though he'd goofed, his chances of escape would be astronomically enhanced. So, figuring it was that or the gas chamber, he just had to take the shot.

  "Sure," Billy said, "that's what I'd do. I'd wait around till after we all leave, then break in and hope to hell that stuff is still here to take back."

  Wainy and Ricky went along. Then, for the first time, Vasquez spoke up.

  "If he's smart," Vasquez said, "he's s still in the neighborhood, walking around, keeping an eye on the house. If a bunch of squad cars show up, he knows he's fucked. But if he sees us who came in go out again, he might just figure he's got a chance."

  So where he's watching from? they asked one another.

  "Could be he's got a car parked up the street," Ricky said. "Or just out pacing, walking the sidewalk, circling the block, maybe with a dog to give him cover."

  The rest of them didn't think the dog idea made sense—a killer doesn't usually bring along a dog when he's going to snuff a guy. Still, they agreed, he could be out there walking, or circling in his car, or just parked like Ricky said. Problem was how to bait him, make him think all of them had left. Would he know how many of them had originally gone in? Not likely—the five of them arrived at four different times, then the paramedics showed, so even if he'd been watching, he probably couldn't have kept track.

  "What we gotta do," Wainy said, "is four of us exit together like we're all done here for the night. One of us stays behind, in the closet or lav, radio on, ready to call if anyone comes in. Meantime the four of us hover a block or so away, say down on Waller or up on Carl Street. Then, when our buddy here gives the word, we all rush the hell back, grab the guy and shake the shit outta him till he spills.''

  Of course every one of them said he was best qualified to stay. Wainy and Billy meant it, Ricky and Jack played along, Vasquez didn't mean it at all. The way it ended up, they drew straws and Billy won.

  He'd be fine, he said, when Wainy asked if he didn't want company. He had his billy club, gun, deadly-weapon fists and, best of all, the element of surprise. If the T killer returned, it would be because he was sure he had a chance, not because he suspected a trap. All Billy had to do was pounce the guy, cuff him, kick him couple times in the gut to subdue him, then wait for his pals to show up, which shouldn't take them more than half a minute.

  Wainy and Ricky were the actors. They made the best show out on the street, upending the bottle, wiping their mouths on their sleeves, saying, "Goodnight, sleep tight, see you in the morning," that kind of crap. Vasquez and Jack played it straight, mumbling stuff like, "Drive careful now, give my love to Sue, thanks for another cr
uddy night on the job." Lots of glad-handing, arm-across-the-shoulder man-to-man cop garbage, then Wainy and Ricky stumbled into Wainy's car, while Vasquez and Jack casually wove their way down the street, and then up a block, where they took up positions inside an all-night grocery, radios on, waiting for Billy's call.

  Was an hour and a half before it came. When it did it was quick and shrill, interrupted by static and firecracker sounds:

  "Son of a . . . he's here! Fuckin' dipshit! Hurry, guys! Shit! Take this, asshole!"

  Jack was rounding the corner of Frederick and Clayton when he saw Wainy's car pull in front of the house. Vasquez, he thought, was trailing, the way he had all evening, like he was calculating just how far he wanted to go in this thing. But Jack wasn't thinking about Vasquez just then. Seeing Wainy and Ricky rush down the outside steps to the flat, he ran fast as he could so he wouldn't be last one in to help.

  Billy, as it turned out, didn't need any help. It was dim in there, no lights, just the barest amount of illumination coming through the high cellar window from the street, but it was light enough for them to see Billy had the guy down on the floor, was kicking the shit out of him, right foot, left foot, right! Left! Like he was dancing, skipping rope, doing him in the belly, kidneys, ribs, spine. And the guy—he was good-sized, a lot bigger than Billy, who had always been a lean welterweight—was moaning and writhing there the way Robbie Sipple had done just a couple hours before.

  That, anyhow, was how it struck Jack: poetic justice, he thought, lungs still aching from the run. One guy nearly kills another, and now he's down there on the same floor nearly getting killed himself.

  It was Wainy finally pulled Billy off, which wasn't so easy, Billy being in auto kick-him mode. Then Jack got down with the guy, turned him over as Ricky switched on the lights, so they could all get a good look at him for the first time.

  What hit him first was the sweet-acrid licorice smell of the soap. But the guy was no sweet beauty anymore. He was a mess, nose cracked, one eye hanging out, teeth splintered, struggling to breathe, with some kind of awful stinkin' ooze trickling out of his mouth.

  Jack looked up at Billy. "Jesus, what the hell did you do to him?"

  "I dunno. Cracked him couple times with the stick, then smacked him around."

  "Shit! The guy's losing it. He'll die on us we don't get him help quick."

  Silence. Then Ricky spoke, almost in a whisper: "We can't get him help—you know that, Jack."

  Which was true. No need to discuss it. They all knew it perfectly well. Whoever this guy was, T killer or not, if he died on them they'd all go down too. Not just Billy but all five of them; they knew the law, knew they were all accessories. They'd been parties to a conspiracy, the kind of cop conspiracy gets prosecuted hard: five rogue cops going against the rules, getting drunk, taking the law into their own hands. Moreover they'd held back material evidence in a capital case. They could get ten years for that, maybe twenty . . . unless, of course, they could come up with a story that would float.

  A lot of booze had been consumed that night, but not one of them felt intoxicated then. The guy on the floor, whoever he was, was gasping out his life, and they all knew they'd better think up something fast or forget about having futures.

  It was then that Vasquez emerged. The earlier portion of the evening he'd been the reluctant one, the outsider, nondrinker, the one none of them knew very well. He'd only walked in because he'd heard the call for officers and happened to be close at the time. He'd gone along with everything quietly, but now that they had trouble he took charge.

  First thing, he instructed, they had to get the guy out of there fast, dead or alive, along with all the evidence. They needed to restore things to the way they'd been an hour and a half before, when they'd all pretended to leave. In the new version Billy didn't stay behind, he left with them, then they split up on the street and each went his separate way. No hanging around, no ruckus, no beating up the suspect. They all just went home, their only crime forgetting to bag, seal and log in the evidence.

  The landlady had told Jack she was going to take sleeping pills, so it was doubtful she'd heard a thing. The street had been deserted, no one out there watching them come and go. At worst, Vasquez said, there might be some dispute about what time they left, and, of course, complaints that they'd bungled the crime scene. But everything would turn out when Robbie Sipple described the guy and Hale and his people searched him out. When they couldn't find him they'd assume he ran away after retrieving the incriminating evidence.

  Not bad, Wainy said, when Vasquez finished. But what do we do with the guy?

  Jack, who'd been kneeling beside him, checked his pulse, looked up at them and shook his head.

  Deep-six him, Vasquez said. Dump him in the Bay and get rid of the evidence somewhere else. It'll work, he said, it'll be like the guy knew he was doomed, so he went and jumped off the fuckin' G.G. Bridge. So now let's get to it, he said, get him the hell out of here before someone happens along.

  No need to discuss it. It was a decent plan, and their futures were at stake. But when they stripped the guy preparatory to wrapping him in one of Sipple's blankets, they couldn't believe what they found.

  His body was covered with bizarre tattoos of a type none of them had ever seen: arm bones tattooed on his arms, leg bones on his legs, rib bones over his ribs, all in a brilliant raucous red. Just like a skeleton, Billy said, and then Jack remembered what Robbie had mumbled when he'd asked who tied him up. "Skelton," he'd thought he heard, but the word surely must have been "skeleton." It was a man with tattooed red bones all over his body, Skeleton-man, who'd done this awful thing. Which meant this dead man before them really was the T killer and that made Jack feel good. They hadn't killed some innocent guy, one of Sipple's friends who happened to wander in. No, thank God! They'd gotten the killer. Against all odds they'd planned and sprung a perfect trap.

  The fog: Jack remembered how thick and cold it was by the time they reached the Presidio gate. There'd been no mist on the Haight, but when they got over to the Bay they found themselves in a swirl of it, so cold and damp it chilled him to the bone. Here they were, five cops, stinking of booze, cramped into Wainy's crummy car, driving wildly through the fog-bound forests of the Presidio, with a naked serial killer's body wrapped up inside the trunk.

  It was crazy, Jack knew, but he couldn't think of an alternative. One thing to lose important evidence, another to beat a suspect to death. And it wouldn't matter that Skeleton-man actually was the T killer; in fact that probably made things worse. A suspect in a high-profile murder case, Hale in charge, then five rogue cops catch him and act as judge, jury and executioner—they'd never be forgiven. So he just breathed in the cold wet air, so close and thick he could chew it almost, and prayed they'd be able to get safely rid of Skeleton-man, and then all get home safe without being caught.

  They were headed for Fort Point just below the bridge, the spot where in Hitchcock's Vertigo Kim Novak leaps into the Bay. The fort itself, that time of night, wasn't visible till they reached its base, and even there the bridge girders above were mostly lost in the fog that surged through the Golden Gate like billows of black smoke.

  Wainy backed his car up to the seawall; he and Billy got out, opened the trunk and with Ricky's help carried Skeleton-man to the chain fence, each rusty link bigger than a man's hand. They carried him over, then onto the black boulders of the breakwater. Here they unwrapped him, then lowered him into the waves lapping and roiling like thick black oil. They watched as he floated off into the fog. The tide would carry him beneath the bridge, either into the shipping lanes or against the south tower barrier. Eventually he'd be washed ashore, probably somewhere on the Marin side. Naked, strangely tattooed, with no accompanying ID—the Coast Guard would figure him for a jumper. There was some talk then about whether they ought to leave his clothes up in a neat pile the way jumpers sometimes do as a final farewell to the world. Vasquez agreed that might make for a nice touch, but said they couldn't ta
ke the risk.

  On the way back through the fog, they worked out their story. The point, Vasquez kept reminding them, was to keep it simple and as close as possible to actual events. Everything straight up till ten-thirty P.M. Minimum amount of fabrication after that. It'd be okay, he said, if their stories differed slightly since cops' stories often do. But the essential points must be the same. If just one of them stumbled, he could bring the rest of them down.

  It was then that Jack offered to take the greater share of the blame for forgetting to remove and preserve the evidence. He'd been first on the scene, he should have closed it down. He told them he'd long wanted out of S.F.P.D. and so was willing to take the fall.

  Back at Park Station, in the parking lot, Jack, realizing they'd yet to go through Skeleton-man's clothes, asked the others whether they didn't wonder who he was.

  "Not me," Wainy said.

  "Me neither." Ricky shook his head.

  Vasquez turned away. Billy shrugged. It was Billy, they'd agreed, who would get rid of the clothing and evidence.

  "And don't tell us what you did with them neither," Wainy instructed just before they all split up.

  Jack intended to go straight home, but was too tightly wound. He needed some kind of transition and knew where he could find it, an ear into which he could confess his sins, a mouth from which absolution would flow.

  He and Rusty had worked Chinatown five years, bunko most of that time, narcotics too for a while. Best beat in the city, people said, if you were smart and knew how to work it.

  So maybe he and Rusty weren't so smart, or simply lacked desire. Corruption didn't suit them; they were interested in other things. For Rusty that meant getting laid, for Jack understanding how Chinatown worked. So even as they patrolled together, each pursued his interest in his own way.

  Rusty befriended a string of gorgeous Asian prostitutes who took good care of him at the special Chinatown price-for-friends. Who could blame them? Wasn't Rusty's fault those beauties were turned on by a hairy Caucasian cop.