“It’s not your fault, Ruth,” I said, purposely using her first name. “How’s Saul taking this?”
Sinkovich snuck past me, carrying a bundle of clothes and a fresh towel toward the bathroom.
“Terribly. It’s just one more blow in a series of them. We found out this morning that the surgery didn’t take. He’s losing the eye.”
That would be as devastating to him as the loss of Elaine. “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Weisman sighed. “He says he doesn’t want to see anyone right now. Maybe that’ll change when I get him home this afternoon.”
“They’re letting him out?”
“They can’t do anything else. They tell me he has to heal before they even consider other options. They want to talk about glass eyes. I won’t let them near him with that idea. Not yet.”
“Probably wise,” I said, not sure what to say.
“I think you should come visit him,” Mrs. Weisman said, and I had a hunch this was the real reason behind her call.
“I thought you said he doesn’t want to see anyone right now.”
“He may change his mind if someone shows up,” Mrs. Weisman said.
I knew she was manipulating me, but I had grown fond of her. Besides, I had another reason to stop by.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll use the photographs as an excuse.”
“Photographs?”
“The reason I was coming to the house last Sunday.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m not sure he can find photographs.”
“Maybe you can help, then. I need them for a case I’m working on.”
“I’ll ask,” Mrs. Weisman said. “If he wants you to have them, I’ll make sure you get them.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll come by tomorrow. If he’s ready to see me, fine. If not, I’ll still pick up the pictures.”
“That sounds good,” she said. “I’ll do my best to get him to talk with you.”
She thanked me again for listening, and then she hung up. I stared at the receiver for a moment before slowly putting it back. Elaine was already buried. Put away, hidden, deemed so unimportant by her family that she didn’t even get a memorial.
She was done, her life over and gone.
Only I would remember her. And so would Mrs. Weisman. And Saul.
I took a deep breath and stood. I had to focus on other things, just like Mrs. Weisman did.
Sinkovich had folded his sheet, blanket and pillow and placed them on the edge of the couch. I carried them to Jimmy’s room. Then I put on a fresh pot of coffee, took out the donuts Sinkovich had brought the night before, and grabbed the morning paper.
The news was charming, as usual. Statistics covered the front page. Since 1961, over thirty thousand U.S. soldiers had died in combat in our undeclared war against Vietnam. Chicago teachers still planned to strike, even though agreement had been reached on three of the union’s two hundred and fifty contract demands.
The sports page didn’t bring any relief either. The main article was about Muhammad Ali starting his jail term for draft evasion.
Sinkovich came out of the bathroom, drying his hair. He grabbed a yellow legal pad from his duffel and came to the table. “I found five more possibles,” he said, handing the legal pad to me.
The dates came from 1967 and early 1968. Sinkovich had found them in obituaries, which I hadn’t bothered to look through.
At that moment, someone knocked on the door.
“It’s open!” I shouted, hoping it was Johnson.
He came in, also carrying a box of donuts. I didn’t want to tell him or Sinkovich how clichéd their fondness for donuts was.
“You know,” Johnson said, “this isn’t the best neighborhood to keep your door unlocked.”
“I usually don’t,” I said. “I was just expecting you.”
He set the donuts on the table, then went back outside. After a moment, he returned carrying a large box.
As he shut the door with his elbow, he said, “This meeting never happened. None of you saw this stuff and if you did, you don’t remember how or why. Got that?”
“I’m a little confused by it,” Sinkovich said with a grin. “If I never saw it, how could I not remember it?”
“Don’t go there.” I took a twist out of Johnson’s box. The donut was still warm.
“These are the files.” Johnson set the box down between us. “It took me a while to find them. These cases are supposed to be open, but guess where the files were.”
“Records,” Sinkovich said.
Johnson nodded. “No one’s following up on these things, so I don’t think anyone’s going to notice they’re missing.”
“Have you had a chance to look through them?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said. “Mind if I have some coffee?”
“Help yourself.” I folded the newspaper together, then put it on the floor.
“They got anything in common?” Sinkovich asked.
“Nothing besides the obvious,” Johnson said. “We’re going to have to dig.”
* * *
And dig we did. We each went through three files, and after some consideration, we threw out one of the old ones because it didn’t seem to conform to the pattern. Johnson kept it on the table, though, just in case.
He said, “Sometimes these guys don’t develop a routine until the second or third killing.”
“These guys?” Sinkovich asked. “What’ve you been studying?”
“People who kill strangers,” Johnson said. “Usually it’s pretty random, tied to another crime. But we’re getting a whole new group, like the Strangler, people who kill for the thrill of it. We got some study through the department—I don’t know if you got it or not in Vice—saying that these types of random stranger killings with multiple victims are becoming more and more common.”
“Why?” I asked.
“They think all the publicity around the In Cold Blood killings, not to mention the Strangler and Speck, are inspiring copycats.” Johnson reached for his third glazed donut.
“You don’t believe that, though,” I said.
“I think these sick bastards have always been with us,” Johnson said. “They just usually pick targets that no one notices.”
“So why are we noticing now?” Sinkovich said.
Johnson looked at him as if he had just remembered that Sinkovich was in the conversation. “We aren’t just noticing now. You are.”
Sinkovich frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means that in the past twenty years, the victims have changed,” Johnson said. “Now everyone’s noticing because a lot of them are white.”
TWENTY-ONE
THE FILES WERE less revealing than I had hoped. The victims did not live in the same neighborhood. The two nearest lived blocks apart in areas where blocks were the same as miles. They did not work in the same parts of the city, and they seemed to have no friends in common.
In most of the cases, the investigating detectives did an admirable job of interviewing friends and family. Johnson suggested that perhaps the black community had lied to the white detectives, but even if that had happened, we could redo the interviews We still had the names of the interviewees.
None of the interviewees crossed from one case to the other either. The only way we’d find connections—if there were any obvious ones—between these victims would be to interview every name on the list. That would take a lot of time, and a lot of footwork. We all knew it, and we weren’t looking forward to it.
Something had brought all of these very different victims to the attention of the killer. That something just wasn’t obvious, like we had hoped it would be.
By the time I went to pick up Jimmy, we knew a lot more than we had when we started, but not much of it seemed relevant. My frustration had grown. I would have to prepare Mrs. Foster for a long investigation. I would try to keep my expenses down—she didn’t need to bear the burden of the related investigations—but I would still have to
make a living and this case would take time from others.
I didn’t really favor telling her I suspected that her husband was a random victim of some sick creep, but I would have to. Otherwise, she might wonder whether I was being up front with her.
We packed up everything and stored it in my office. Sinkovich wanted to go home to see if his wife had reconsidered, and Johnson had some family business to take care of as well. We agreed we’d start through our lists and get together again on Wednesday afternoon before Jimmy got home.
I could tell we were all settling in for a long investigation. We had to be methodical so that we didn’t miss an important detail. But we all felt time pressure. We had to catch this guy before he killed again.
By the time I got to the Grimshaw house, it was twilight and someone had turned on the Christmas lights. The place glowed, including the tree up front that Malcolm had decorated. I had never seen so many lights. They surrounded the windows, the porch, the doors, and the edge of the roof, as well as several shrubs in the front yard. I hoped Franklin had thought about the added electric bill, then realized he probably didn’t care.
I didn’t even have to get out of the car. Jimmy bounded off the porch and got in, slamming the door behind him. He was angry that I hadn’t joined them for dinner for the second week in a row, even though we had already fought about that on the drive to the Grimshaws’ that morning.
“Hello to you, too,” I said, trying to sound more cheerful than I felt.
He made a snorting sound and didn’t speak to me for the rest of the drive home.
Once we got inside, Jimmy turned on the television and settled on the couch. I couldn’t even yell at him about it. He didn’t have any homework. He was free to waste his time all he wanted.
I made myself a sandwich, since all I’d eaten were donuts. I still had a number of things to do that evening. I wanted to make some calls, and I wanted to get my notes organized for the week ahead. I sat at the table, determined to eat and work. As I bit into my ham-on-rye, the phone rang.
“Got it!” Jimmy leaned across the couch and grabbed the receiver before I could set my sandwich down. He said hello and then grinned.
He chatted for a moment, mostly about pinball, and I frowned. I had no idea who he was talking to. Then he extended the receiver toward me.
“It’s Laura,” he said.
I wiped my mouth, got up and took the phone. “Everything all right?”
“Yes and no,” she said. “You got me thinking, so I talked to Drew. He wants us to meet with you tonight. Can you come here in an hour?”
I looked at Jimmy, spread out on the couch. I’d already shoved him at the Grimshaws several times this week, and I’d imposed on Marvella once as well. I almost wished Sinkovich was still here, even though I was relieved to have his snoring out of the apartment. At least he would have been able to babysit for a few hours.
“If I absolutely have to,” I said. “But to be honest with you, it’s a school night, and I’d like to get Jim in bed on time.”
He looked up at me, a frown on his face. He didn’t like to be talked about as if he were a child.
“Can we meet early tomorrow morning?” I asked.
“Let me see.” Laura put her hand over the phone. I heard her voice, muffled, and the squeak of her skin against plastic. Finally she pulled her hand away. “No. It needs to be tonight.”
I didn’t answer her right away. I felt a deep annoyance and I wasn’t sure what it was at: either the fact she had to consult with McMillan—who was clearly in her apartment on a Sunday evening—or the fact that I felt like I was constantly at someone else’s beck and call, when all I wanted to do was have a normal night with a boy who’d become my child.
“He could stay the night here,” Laura said. “I haven’t changed his room at all.”
He’d spent part of August with her, and she’d kept his room the same, apparently hoping he’d come back.
I looked down at him. He had his arms wrapped around a pillow and was staring at a stopwatch that dominated the screen, ticking away its sixty minutes—the logo for the new “news magazine” that had started in the fall. He hated that show, so I knew he was listening, not paying attention to the TV.
“Why don’t you come here,” I said. “That would be easiest for all of us.”
“Oh, good idea,” Laura said.
I gave her directions, and then we hung up. Jimmy was staring at me over the back of the couch.
“Here?” he said. “You seen her place and you’re asking her here?”
I was having the same reaction myself. At least when she’d seen my home in Memphis, it had been mine, not a dumpy rental with furniture so old that the upholstery was frayed. Still, she was bound to see it at some point, and the fact that she hadn’t was a tribute to my ability to find ways around any visits.
“Yes, I invited her here,” I said, “and you’re still going to go to bed on time so that we can have a chance to talk.”
He grinned. “Yeah, talk.”
“Her lawyer will be along,” I said. “This is business.”
“Oh.” He got up and shut off the television. “I got the dishes.”
He usually didn’t volunteer for anything, so I knew this meant that her visit was important to him, too.
We cleaned the apartment until it glistened, then I put on some coffee. I still had some of Sinkovich’s beer left, but I doubted Laura and McMillan were the Old Style type. Jimmy was going to change clothes, but I discouraged that, even though it was another sign that he wanted to impress Laura Hathaway.
Then I heard voices in the hallway. One rose. A woman’s. Marvella’s.
“We don’t cotton to no white folks here,” she was saying, affecting an accent I’d never heard her use before.
I pulled open my door. Marvella was blocking the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other pushed against the wall, her magnificent legs bare beneath the shortest skirt I’d ever seen. The blouse she wore over it revealed the strength in her arms.
Laura was standing just inside the door, McMillan beside her. She was wrapped in a brown cloth coat I’d never seen, and she wore her flower-appliqued blue jeans beneath. McMillan’s heavy black coat, black pants, and shiny black shoes made him look as if he were dressed for court.
They looked up when I opened my door, but Marvella didn’t move.
“It’s all right, Marvella,” I said. “They’re coming to see me.”
“On business, Bill?” Her voice had an edge I didn’t like.
Laura’s cheeks stained pink.
“Tonight,” I said.
Marvella glanced over her shoulder at me. There was fury in her face. “Awfully fancy piece, Mr. Grimshaw.”
“Awfully crude mouth, Miss Walker,” I said.
She let one arm drop. The movement was obvious and theatrical. Then she stepped toward the banister, not relinquishing her place on the stairs.
“Come on,” I said to Laura. “Sorry about my neighbor’s hostile reception.”
Laura took a deep breath and started up the stairs. Marvella blocked her way again.
“So this is the one,” she said, loud enough for me to hear. “Somehow, I thought you had better taste than that.”
“Marvella,” I said, “stay out of my business.”
McMillan was a half step behind Laura. Marvella placed one foot on his stair and touched his sleeve.
“Although this one’s pretty, too. You sure they’re not a couple? We’re fun to fuck, but that’s about as far as this whities—”
“Marvella,” I snapped. “Shut up.”
She turned her magnificent face toward me. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time, Bill. She’s clearly made her choice. She—”
“Come on, Laura,” I said. “Drew. Ignore her. I usually do.”
Marvella’s eyes narrowed. Laura hurried up the stairs. I extended my hand to her and pulled her to my side. McMillan followed, throwing Marvella a look that implied she wa
s crazy.
“Go inside,” I said to them.
Laura squeezed my hand and walked into the apartment. McMillan followed. I pulled the door closed and went down the stairs, stopping one step above Marvella.
“I don’t care how many favors you’ve done me,” I said, my voice low. “I don’t care who your cousin is. I don’t even care about the friendship I thought we had. You stepped over a line, Marvella.”
“You don’t need her, Bill. White woman are not status symbols. They’re just trouble. You—”
I raised my hand and pressed it against her lips, silencing her. I pushed hard, letting all the anger I felt express itself in my rigid fingertips.
“You don’t know who I am,” I said softly, “or what I need.”
Her eyes grew wide. For the first time, I saw fear in them.
“Because of the work I do,” I said, “a lot of people you do not know or like will come into this building. You will not interfere with any of them again. Are we clear on that?”
She stared at me, then she nodded.
“Good.” I let my fingers drop. They left white impressions against her lips.
I turned around and walked up the stairs without sparing her another glance. Then I entered the apartment, closing the door behind me.
McMillan was standing near the coatrack, his hands in his pockets. Laura held Jimmy’s hand. They were looking at the Christmas tree, and he was pointing out the construction paper chains he’d made.
“What was that all about?” McMillan asked.
Laura leaned forward, her free hand brushing the popcorn string. She looked engrossed in Jimmy’s recital of our Saturday, but I knew she was listening.
“For the past six months, Marvella’s been trying to find a way into my bed. Apparently she thought this would work.”
McMillan studied me for a moment, assessing me. Then his eyes crinkled. “It wouldn’t be my first tactic.”
“Believe me,” I said. “It’s not hers either.”
He smiled, and I thought I saw some sympathy in the look.
Thin Walls: A Smokey Dalton Novel Page 27
