Switch

by William Bayer

  A cold day, below freezing with a harsh northwest wind that amplified the chill.

  Aaron handled the car well, his bulky detective's body awkward in the seat, his hands resting lightly on the wheel. They didn't talk much, a few words in the staccato shorthand they'd been using with each other for months. Janek stared out the window at flat fields crusted lightly with snow and drifts caught in fences that showed the power of the winds that buffeted the hibernating farms. There were deserted barracks built of rotting planks set in clusters by the road, homes to the migrant workers who lived here through the picking season, moving northward with the harvest, ending up in the potato fields of Long Island, sustained by high-starch meals.

  It was a bleak terrain.

  At Millville they crossed the Maurice River, which they'd been following on and off, then took a secondary road that led them to Port Norris, a town set on a cove of Delaware Bay. Half a mile down a back street to a place called Bivalve on the map. Aaron said the locals called it "Shell Pile" on account of its huge piles of oyster shells, twenty and thirty feet high, encrusted now with snow.

  A vision then, behind the piles, of a shantytown out of a nineteen-thirties photograph.

  "How did you find this hole?" The first words Janek had uttered in ten miles.

  "Asked around," Aaron said. He wasn't going to tell. Already known as a superb telephone detective, now he would become a legend—he had tracked a man who'd been missing for eighteen years to this hellhole in the Jersey mosquito country, this dead end of dead ends, this frostbitten waste-yard for human junk.

  Across a landfill, then down a rutted road that hadn't been shoveled, the ice cracking beneath the tires. Aaron stopped the Toyota. They'd reached a dead end. There was a path leading off into a stand of pines. Aaron pointed. Janek nodded, got out of the car and walked forward alone.

  A cabin in a clearing: it was not what he'd been expecting. He thought he'd find another wretched shack, the sort that dotted the landfill behind the shell piles. But this cabin was idyllic—built out of logs, well kept up, the firewood stacked neatly along one side, a curl of smoke rising from the chimney perfuming the frigid air.

  Jesse was waiting for him. Aaron had told him another detective was coming from New York, and so evidently the old man had spent the day in his easy chair beside his wood stove, thinking, wondering, expecting...he did not know what.

  Janek searched his face for Peter's features, discovering them slowly in an unexpected form. The same hard gray eyes, same lips and ears, but the skin different, like leather stretched over his cheekbones and warmed by something powerful within. It was a beautiful face, he thought—great sadness in it, marks of past misery, but beatific too, as if it glowed with some special brand of knowledge.

  Later Janek would understand that he had mistaken the nature of that glowing—that Jesse's face was enlivened by a long slow-burning pain.

  He felt at home there and didn't know why: the cabin was different from anyplace he'd ever been. The man was special, too; he reminded Janek of drunks he'd seen on the Bowery when he'd been a boy, or the old man who'd tried to clean his windshield in the rain the night Sal had showed him the back shop behind Sweeney's garage. It was a face Caroline would want to photograph—something in it broken but also strong.

  There was a chair waiting on the other side of the stove; Jesse, he knew, had put it there for him. And then when they began to talk, in the strange, slow, intuitive way that came spontaneously to them both, he found himself riveted by Jesse's voice, the deep throaty hoarseness of it and a metallic quality too, an iron sound that gave every utterance an edge.

  "Aaron told you why I've come?" The old man nodded. "Then you understand."

  When Jesse shook his head his throat quivered like a turkey's gullet.

  "What don't you understand?"

  "None of it," the old man said.

  Janek kept having to remind himself he was a detective interviewing an informant with special knowledge of a suspect in a murder case, because that role kept seeming wrong. He wondered how Jesse viewed their meeting: a detective from the city on a hunt, face to face with a ruined former cop.

  As they talked it became evident they both thought Peter was evil.

  "...Spent years trying to get my goat. Tried everything. Wickedness after wickedness. Wanted a lickin', I always thought, though it was guidance he needed—see that now. He didn't get it. Wouldn't give it to him. So he floundered, that boy, had to flounder. On the rocks, you know. The rocks we put there so he would break himself."

  It was a kind of poetry he was speaking, an amalgam of simple words, clichés, and penetrating insights too. Janek listened, his eyes locked into Jesse's, his mind seeking to fathom the strange poetry. He began to view Peter's childhood then as an enormous struggle—the harder he pushed, the more Jesse withdrew into ineffectuality. Except it was not his son from whom he was withdrawing; it was his rage, his enormous rage at the woman, the boy's mother, Laurie, his wife.

  ‘'...She whored. Goddamn she did. And he knew it. Had to. We both knew and couldn't say nothing. Because it was there, between us, always. Always there. Always between us. He looked to me for what to do and I told him. Showed him she was ruining me. By my face. My look. My silence too. He saw and knew. I told him. Though we never talked."

  In the end something had to give. Jesse knew that, realized now he had conveyed that to Peter, that the strains had grown too great for the boy, the pressure built too high. Peter could not sustain the mediator role—rage at his mother for what she was doing to Jesse, and contempt for Jesse for permitting her to ridicule him, cuckold him, play him for the sucker, for the fool.

  "...Wanted to kill me. Sure of it. Saw it in him lots of times. So okay, I told him, kill me, go ahead. Won't make no difference. I'm dead inside anyway. But soon as I told him that, with my eyes, mind you, never out loud, he'd turn away and then he'd think of killing her. Which was what I wanted deep in me. Always. Use him, see, to get rid of her. Those were the rocks we put there for him. Couldn't swim his way out. Not from what we put between us and him. And what we didn't put there, either. The channels we left open, I mean. Had to drown, that boy."

  The afternoon wore on, it grew dark, until Janek could barely make Jesse out. The old man left his seat to fetch a Coleman lantern. He pumped it up, lit it, then set it down beside the stove.

  He moved gracefully, a strong lean old man, very thin as Aaron had said, the blubber accumulated as a failed cop burned away by years of wandering. Now, at last, he was back working at his first love, security work. He was a night watchman who guarded a worthless place. He laughed when he told Janek that. A perfect ending for a broken cop, his laughter seemed to say.

  That Jesse understood the family conspiracy so well seemed to Janek a kind of miracle. Except that he had had eighteen years to brood upon Peter's matricide.

  "...Wanted punishment. Know that. And my way of punishing him was always to ignore—which was, mind you, what he wanted, too. Pushed him further, see, to worse and worse. And when he finally did the worst of all—then nothing. No punishment. I messed things up so he'd be safe. My fault, I thought. Pushed him to it. Knew she did, too, but blamed myself. Because that's what I'd wished, see. Wished. Drove him by that, by what I wished...."

  There was magic here, belief in the power of wishes, killer thoughts, telepathy, unspoken conveyance of desires and all the guilt that accrues from such beliefs. Janek recognized the guilt, smelled it in that cabin with the Coleman lighting one side of Jesse's troubled face, leaving the other side lost in darkness.

  He described Switched Heads then, one cop to another. It didn't take him long; the story was much simpler than he'd thought. Which surprised him. He'd always believed it was fiendishly complicated, that the case was nearly intractable on account of its web of complications.

  "'Stop me,'" Janek said. "That's the message of everything, the cat, the birds, the killing of your wife and Baxter and my two girls in New York. He wants to be stoppe
d. He needs to be. And the only way I can do that is to come at him in a way you never did."

  "Yeah," the old man said, "all those girls he carves up in his pictures—thinks he can get to me with them."

  Janek saw a glimmer then in Jesse's eyes, saw it burn there a moment, then die away. The old man shrugged, a great and final shrug of impotency. Aaron was right—he was too far gone to care.

  It was dark when Janek returned to the car. Aaron had kept the engine running so he wouldn't freeze. They started driving back in silence, the snow a black crust upon the fields, an occasional truck roaring toward them out of the night, headlights shimmering off the ice upon the road.

  "Well?" asked Aaron finally.

  "Didn't work out," Janek said.

  "What was supposed to happen?"

  "My crazy idea that he might want to tell his father, that the movies were somehow addressed to him. That they said, 'Come on. Wring it out of me. Here's what I did. Now do something. Capture me. Don't let me get away.' And that if I could enlist the old man I might be able to break through. Look, the hell with it! He's useless. You were right—there's nothing there."

  They drove a while longer. "He's shrewd, though." He glanced at Aaron, "I thought you told me he never saw any of Peter's movies."

  "That's right," Aaron said.

  "You're sure?"

  "He told me he didn't."

  "Then how—?" Janek paused. "Aaron, please stop the car."

  "What?"

  "Stop a minute. I need to think."

  Aaron pulled over to the shoulder. A truck rushed by. Janek thought, If he saw the movies he would have said so. If he didn't see them, then what did he mean when he said, "...those girls he carves up in his pictures—thinks he can get to me with them"?

  "Listen, we got to go back. I think I missed something back there."

  Aaron nodded, turned the car around. They sped back through the night.

  Though it had been an hour since he'd left, it seemed to Janek that Jesse had scarcely moved. He was still sitting in his chair beside the stove, and his expression, that look of fright and gloom, was still the same. The old man didn't even seem surprised that his visitor had returned. When Janek came in he motioned him again toward the second chair.

  "What do you know about Peter's movies?"

  "Don't know nothing. Never saw one."

  "But you spoke of the girls he carves up." Jesse shook his head. "You said—"

  "The girls in the pictures. Yes."

  "What pictures?"

  "The ones he sent."

  "Pictures?" Was Caroline right? "You mean photographs? He sent you photographs?"

  Jesse nodded.

  "Where are they?" Jesse looked at him curiously. "You have them?" Janek held his breath.

  It took more than an hour to extract the story, how over the years Jesse had received envelopes containing still photographs of murdered girls. Awful grotesque pictures but prettied up too, as if an effort had been made to make them look beautiful in death. Jesse could see that they were faked and knew they came from Peter, but he'd no idea how Peter had found out where he lived. Which was why he'd moved so many times, covering his tracks—to escape those envelopes which were reproaches, to escape the reproaches of his son.

  He thought, finally, he'd succeeded; it had been two years since he'd come to Jersey, two years since he'd received a set of stills. But then a couple of months ago he'd received an envelope with four pictures inside—two of dead girls and two more in which each girl bore the other's head. Crazy, sickening, crazier and more sickening than anything he'd received before. They looked real too, though Jesse knew they couldn't be—that Peter had faked them up, that they were trick shots done with models just like the others. He didn't even examine them. Just threw the damn things away.

  On the way back to Philadelphia for the second time that night Aaron tried to give Janek consolation.

  "Well, one thing anyway, at least now we understand why he prettied up the crime scenes. But, I tell you, Frank, the deeper we get into this the less I understand the case."

  They stopped at a gas station. While the tank was being filled Janek called the precinct from a pay telephone. Howell answered and he had something to report:

  "Peter's found a whore, Lieutenant. Looks kind of like the one in those pictures he was showing around. Sal talked to her. She told him Peter's been back three times and that he likes to do it on a rubber mat. Now we're thinking maybe he's going to try and switch her with the girl in the photo. But we got a problem. We don't know who that other girl is."

  When he put down the phone his head was reeling. Was Peter bluffing, taunting, or was he really setting up to go after Caroline? He worked to calm himself, then phoned the loft. Three rings before she answered. "Listen," he said, "this isn't meant to alarm you but you know me—I like to play things safe. I've got an extra revolver and a box of bullets in the closet, upper shelf on the right. Make sure all the windows are locked and stay inside till I get back. Whatever you do don't open the door for anyone. Anyone tries to break in you shoot. No, I don't expect anything to happen, but still I want you aware. I'm on my way now. Should be there in a couple hours. Don't worry. It's going to be all right."

  Back in the car he couldn't contain himself; he spilled the whole story to Aaron—of Caroline, the intrusion, the razor blade and the stalking photographs.

  "I suppose if I were a real hard-ass I'd think of some way to use her for bait," he said.

  "No way, Frank. Not you. Look—we'll get more guys and put them on her. Meanwhile we'll crowd Lane. We got to stop this guy." Suddenly enraged, Aaron banged his fist against the steering wheel. "Real evidence. In a cop's hands, too. So the old fart does just what he did before. Throws the fucking stuff away. Jesus!"

  It was five minutes before Janek answered, for it took him five minutes to understand his idea. He caught a glimpse of it, wasn't sure he liked it, set it aside to germinate awhile. When he brought it out again for another look it sprang forth fully made, a flower emerging instantly from a seed. And the flower was beautiful, perfect, symmetrical and so frightening too that Janek shrank back from it, afraid. But its beauty enticed him to look again and when he did the petals beckoned. And when he touched them he knew he must have seen that perfect flower before, perhaps one night in a dream.

  "Peter doesn't know he did."

  "What?" Aaron glanced at him.

  Janek nodded slowly. "Peter doesn't know Jesse threw the evidence away."

  Dumbshow

  He announced himself from downstairs; he knew she wasn't trigger happy but he'd seen too many mishaps to want to come charging through her door. As it turned out she was lying in bed calmly watching TV.

  She looked up at him. "Hi. I'm fine," she said. She turned back to the screen. "Now that you're here I can get all feminine and nervous again.”

  He leaned down to kiss her. Bogart and Bacall were exchanging heated sexual innuendoes; the movie was The Big Sleep and Caroline was totally engrossed. He noticed his extra revolver next to her camera on the bedside table. He sat down beside her. "Going to try to bluff Lane out."

  Several seconds passed before she turned and looked him in the eye. "God, that's a terrific line." She shook her head, got up and switched the TV off. "Bogart's fine, but you're better, Frank." She reached for him. "He's a good detective but you're the best."

  In the morning he explained it to her, how the bluff would work, the role Jesse would play and the chances of success. "A gamble," he said. "Except if I lose I'm no worse off than I am right now. Which is loser-city. Because without a confession I'm never going to make the case."

  "What makes you think it'll work?"

  "I feel something explosive in the father-son relationship," he said, "that's maybe strong enough to blow Peter apart. He's too controlled to be really stable. That's his weakness—all that control. Switched Heads was perfectly done, but then he went ahead and took those pictures. Why? You said maybe he needed proof, for himsel
f, to show himself he'd really done it. I read it differently. To me it's like he needed to create evidence. Something confessional there, something to exploit. Suppose I could freak Peter out, put him in a deranged frame of mind. Then things could get really interesting. Under the right conditions maybe he'd break and spill...."

  An icy day a week before Christmas, a perfect day, Janek thought. Too cold and windy for Peter to want to go out, but the air so clear he'd see everything—if he looked.

  The first step was to attract his attention. They'd planned that part carefully. A burst of activity, squad cars parked in front of the building, detectives coming and going, assuming energetic poses, conferring urgently in Amanda's studio, behaving as men do when a change is imminent.

  "I don't know, Frank. It's a cute idea. But I'd say the odds are one in four."

  "Well, you know me, Aaron—I never play the odds."

  They were standing around Amanda's bed while Janek conspicuously framed it with his hands, as if he were taking photographs or trying to match up imaginary shots with real ones. He tried not to overplay; Peter knew acting, could read a false performance. But even if Peter thought it was performance, Janek felt certain he'd be tantalized, if only out of curiosity and for the pleasure of watching them bungle their show.

  The only important thing was that Peter watch.

  They spent the early evening standing around, waiting for the night. When darkness came they were well illuminated—all the lights in the studio were on.

  Finally Sal went to the window and peered out. "He's there," he said. "I know it. Sitting in the dark, watching from darkness the way he likes."

  "You sure?"

  "Positive. He's an owl, Frank."

  Janek nodded, then looked at his watch.