The Hundredth Man

by J. A. Kerley

  Mr. Cutter glanced at his watch. Almost noon, almost time for her to step out for lunch, clockwork. He pulled the visor down and leaned back. Thinking of her, his heart began racing in his chest, pumping a delicious mix of fear and joy to every cell in his body. He needed to see her walk outside into the hard sunlight. It scrinched up her face in that crazed bitch-anger, one of her moods set to crash over her like a glass wave, hot shards slashing everywhere.

  The first time he’d seen her, since she’d come back, she was outside. Outside walking inside. Angry; not sun anger but her wild hidden fury, bitch-hot fury full of lies and promises.

  He’d seen it even through her pathetic lying disguise; a kiss is just a sheath over the biting.

  He recognized her as Mama.

  And knew the universe had granted him a second chance.

  “I used what’s called a Rapidograph technical pen,” I said, pointing to my thigh, my pants around my ankles, “and wrote the words found on Deschamps. The lab’s micro-photographs indicate the writing was done stroke by stroke to keep the ink from pooling due to skin porosity. I tried three times and the fastest inscription took over ten minutes.”

  “I barely see the writing,” Deputy Chief Belvidere said from across the table, squinting. “Almost like he didn’t want it seen.” Chief Hyrum seemed uncomfortable around burgundy briefs. “Very, um, thorough, Detective Ryder,” he said. “I think that’s all we need.”

  I retrieved my pants and sat down.

  Squill said, “I congratulate Detective Ryder for his independent research and hope he checks it against that of our experts. That’s the beauty of the combining PSIT with proven investigative technique: the theoretical and the practical can mix and merge; when fanciful flights are tempered by reality, they can sometimes be instructive.”

  Fanciful flights tempered by reality. Zing.

  Hyrum ahetned uncertainly and addressed the room at large. “We formed the PSIT to respond to the growing numbers of, well, freakish crimes. Detectives Nautilus and Ryder proved themselves in the Adrian case. That’s why Detective Ryder was promoted from the uniformed division, and why he and Detective Nautilus received extra training. Though this is the trial run of the PSIT, they deserve a modicum of latitude in investigating these murders.”

  “Yes,” Harry whispered. I held my breath. Were we about to be blessed?

  “I agree completely,” Squill said. “Both of the affected neighborhoods have citizens who are frightened. And vocal. Both are near downtown. We can’t have people afraid of those neighborhoods, not with the mayor’s urban revitalization plan under way.”

  Hyrum listened intently, his head bobbing to the cadences of politics. Politics had structure.

  Squill continued. “Which is why I welcome the PSIT’s involvement. By combining in task-force mode we’ll maximize our resources to the fullest.”

  Out of nowhere the words, “task force.” I knew task force in departmental lexicon defined a rigid vertical structure perhaps overarching the procedural revisions of the PSIT. Everyone’s eyes moved to Hyrum; investigational structure was his call. He reached for a legal pad. After a few halting marks he displayed the results: a single baseball-sized circle at the top of the page. He tapped its center with his pen.

  “Here’s how I want it organized: Detectives Nautilus and Ryder will lead field investigation of the cases, all information channeled their direction … “

  I glanced at Harry. He raised an eyebrow. Hyrum continued tapping the page, thinking, structuring.

  “Detectives Ryder and Nautilus will work with the” he put the pad on the table and drew another circle directly below the first one. He held the pad up and tapped the second circle “district detectives assigned to the case. Information freely shared, copies of the murder books to everyone involved…”

  We were top circle! Underneath us was the investigative team we’d assemble. I was thinking Larry Twilling from Four, Ben Dupree from Two, maybe finesse Sally Hargreaves on board.

  “We’re blessed,” I whispered to Harry.

  Hyrum started drawing again, a final circle at the bottom of the page to indicate Command’s position as recipient of data, hands off, but kept in the loop, of course. He worked slowly, making it compass perfect, the end seamlessly joining the beginning.

  “Now,” Hyrum said, nodding at his sheet, “by assigning this case task force designation, I’m putting “

  Hyrum flipped the pad upside down and tapped what was now the top circle.

  ” Captain Squill in overall command of the force and its configuration, plus continuing to act as liaison to myself and the deputy chiefs. He’ll also handle media inquiries, demonstrating the task force’s, uh….”

  Squill pretended to write in his own pad. “Preplanned proactive structure, Chief. I’m working up the deployment plan now.”

  Hyrum finished the meeting by scribbling arcs between circles, intending to convey cooperation and flow of information. It didn’t matter, everyone had carefully noted our true position as butt-bottom on the snowman.

  “Good luck gentlemen,” Hyrum said. “And keep me posted on results.”

  Tom shot me a sad smile, knowing Harry and I’d just been backed into the blades. Harry deflated with a growl.

  Chief Hyrum looked quizzically at Harry. “What’s that, Detective Nautilus? Did I hear you groan?”

  “Sorry, Chief,” Harry said, kneading his thigh. “Cramp in my leg.”

  CHAPTER 10

  After the meeting Harry went to check some financials on the victims. We hardly spoke; we’d been blindsided and there was not a damn thing to do about it. Having been present at Nelson’s autopsy, I was the de facto body man, and headed to the morgue for Deschamp’s procedure. I knew Dr. Davanelle was to be the pro sector I’d spoken to Vera Braden about the time of the procedure and offhandedly asked who was scheduled.

  I planned to ask Ava Davanelle out. I wasn’t sure why. And had no idea how to do it.

  Will Lindy was at the front door as I arrived, diddling with the lock, a screwdriver in his mouth, tiny parts scattered across the floor. I was always impressed by anyone with mechanical prowess; I relied on duct tape or super glue. If either failed, I was up the creek.

  “Can’t you hire people to do that, Will? A locksmith?”

  “Um er bubdit?” he replied. “Pap chat.”

  “Come again?”

  He took the screwdriver from his mouth. “On our budget? Fat chance. If I save a hundred bucks here, I’ll put it toward something we actually need.”

  “I thought you guys got wheelbarrows full of bucks when the place was redone. Put in the new gear, furniture, security cameras, and whatnot.”

  “Government dollars,” he said, smiling. “Spend ‘em or lose ‘em.”

  I went inside, waved to Vera, and ambled back to the autopsy suite. Be humble, be charming, be professional, I told myself. And be them all while keeping your mouth shut.

  The procedure was under way as I entered, Ava Davanelle bent low over Deschamps’s groin, speaking the inscription into the air for the recording system. She knew one of the things I needed to see and nodded at a table against the wall.

  I found a stack of photos taken by Chambliss, his usual excellent work. The words above Deschamps’s pubic hair were displayed beside a ruler, block lettering between three and four millimeters tall, lavender, precise. I waved the photos at Dr. Davanelle.

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling her direction. “Good seeing you again, Doctor. How’s it going with “

  I caught me before she could. I winced, mouthed, Sorry, and turned back to the photos, shuffling them through my palms. There was a variety, from shots of the full inscription down to individual letters. I couldn’t fathom why anyone making a statement would choose such a hard-to-read color and write in micro type but it would be as logical as subtraction to the mind behind these crimes.

  I sat and studied the photographs until seeing them with closed eyes. Now and then I’d shift my attention
to Dr. Davanelle. Her voice was monotonic, her eyes focused on her tasks. She was gowned in blue from crown to knees. I tried to discern the shape of her calves within her beige slacks, and concluded they were slender but not skinny.

  The task took three hours. It would soon determine Peter Deschamps had been murdered by some form of head trauma, the head removed by a blade similar to that used to behead Jerrold Nelson, if not the identical one. I walked over as Ava Davanelle stripped off her mask and head cover. I popped the question before she could escape.

  “Would you care to do something this evening, Dr. Davanelle? Something quiet and simple? Get a bite to eat, take in a “

  The door opened and Walter Huddleston appeared. He launched a pair of scarlet flares my way, then ignored me completely. In less than a minute Deschamps was carted and rolling away. I returned my attention to Ava Davanelle, now shutting off the table’s irrigation system. Without the gentle trickling of water through pipes and across the metal table, the room was blank with silence.

  “I was about to ask if …”

  My words trailed off when I realized she was staring at me. Not the glare I’d come to know, but something more akin to a gentle perplexity.

  She said, “You phoned my house the other night, didn’t you, Detective?”

  My heart seized up. Busted.

  “I, ah …”

  “This is a technical age. Even answering machines can have Caller ID. May I ask what you wanted at eleven thirty-seven in the evening?”

  I boiled my intentions down to essentials. “I wanted to apologize for the other day. I spoke out of turn. You’re the pro sector you call the shots. And my remark about you shoveling down was rude and uncalled for.”

  She pursed her lips and raised a slender eyebrow. It made her look almost pretty.

  “It took you two days to come to that conclusion?”

  I shook my head. “No. It took me a half-hour to come to the conclusion and two days to find the courage to call.”

  Was that a hint of a smile? The footprint of a hint? I wasn’t being hand-on-Bible honest, but wasn’t about to mention overhearing the scene in Clair’s office; it swerved a little too close to eavesdropping.

  I said, “My offer stands, Doctor. Would you care to have dinner? Nothing fancy, I’m thinking quiet and simple. We could grab a sandwich and watch the sun drop into the water.”

  She said, “.. . No.” But she said it a beat past a hard-and-fast no, the no of dead ends, slammed doors, and fallen bridges. I knew this no. It was the no people used when asked, You sure you don’t want more gravy on those taters? It was a yes in disguise. Or maybe a maybe.

  I said, “Please. It means a lot to me.”

  Her mouth started to say no again. The next no would have had time to set, and be irrevocable. I held up my palms to cut her off. “Just think about it,” I said. “I’ll drop by later this afternoon.”

  This time I was the one who spun and retreated.

  The man at the end of the bar sobbed into his hands and no one paid the slightest attention. A mirrored ball in the ceiling threw spinning diamonds of cut light over men slow-dancing to a torchy Bette Midler ballad. Though it wasn’t quite five, the dark bar was filling with the Friday crowd, adding to the others who’d skulked here since the door opened. A fat man with cow eyes gave me a once over and licked his lips. I sent him a wink and a glimpse of shoulder holster. He disappeared like smoke in a hurricane.

  Squill’s “deployment plan” meant putting Harry and me on the shoe-leather trail, aiming us at gay bars around town. Harry’d taken his own list and gone a-hunting.

  Though the bars had been checked once, we were retracing with Deschamps’s photo.

  Canvassing bars is easy on TV, where one bartender works around the clock and knows every client down to shoe size. In reality even a modest bar might have a half-dozen regular barkeeps, plus part-timers on call. Even if you sat all the employees in one room and showed them the photos, it’d still be a crap shoot My dictum for the experience in six words: memories are faulty and people lie.

  The bartender was a guy with cartoonishly huge muscles and a penchant for black leather: cap, vest, belt, chaps. His sideburns looked like black leather pasted in front of his ears. He wasn’t a tall guy, five ten or so, but nail a chrome grille to his chest and he’d have been a Kenworth. His skin looked oiled under the black vest, the better to define the pecs, I guessed. I flashed the shield and set the photos on the bar.

  “Seen either of these gentlemen?” I asked the Steroid King.

  “No,” he said.

  “You didn’t look at the pictures.”

  “True.” He pumped his fists to make the muscles in his forearms jump; they looked like steaks wrestling beneath his skin. He gave me bunker-slit eyes and said, “Good-bye.”

  I pointed to a corner booth where several men vamped and giggled. “Look over there, Meat. I’ll bet each one’s carrying something. Smoke, Ecstasy, acid … I’ll walk over and check them out. They’ll mask fear with belligerence. I’ll become frightened for my safety and call for backup. Cops will rush in, the place will clear out. What will that do to your tips?”

  The steaks went wild. “You think you’re a tough guy?”

  I sighed. “Worse. I am a busy guy.”

  Meat stared at me, pursed his lips, then shrugged and put his elbows on the bar. He studied the photos.

  “Oh,” he said, and inappropriate to his image tsk-tsked.

  “What?”

  He pushed Deschamps’s picture aside and tapped a sausage finger on Nelson’s face. “This one. He’s been around. And I mean that both ways.”

  “Enlighten me, Buddha.”

  “A charmer, knows how to talk and act above his station. He’ll come in occasionally, pick off some old queen who’ll keep him for a while.”

  “Know anyone who’d like to see him boxed and shipped?”

  It took a second to sink in. “He’s dead?”

  I nodded. The barkeep flipped the photo back. “Sad. I remember him as kind of goofy; a dreamer. He never really hurt anyone, maybe broke a few old men’s hearts.” He paused, thinking. “He was in here a couple-three weeks back. I remember because he usually drank well booze, but he’d switched to top shelf. Buying rounds instead of hustling them. Said he found himself a bottomless honey jar and life was going to get sweet.” The bartender shook his head, grunted a laugh. “Like I’ve never heard that one before.”

  “You didn’t believe him?”

  The barkeep was still laughing when I walked out the door.

  After two hours of dark bars, worn-out faces, and cigarette smoke as thick as jam, I was ready for a final run at the elusive Dr. Davanelle. She sat in her small office working up the preliminary report. Her face seemed washed of color. I wanted to say something charming, pithy, and witty. Instead, I stood in the doorway and settled on the truth.

  “Look, Dr. Davanelle, I can be a wiseass at times. If I’ve said things to offend you or make you think I’m a jerk, I apologize. When I asked you if you wanted to do something quiet and simple tonight, I meant only that. My intentions are so honorable I might have an ascension at any moment. That said, it’s Friday night. Before I ascend would you like to grab a sandwich and watch the sun go down?”

  Her head was shaking no before I finished the sentence. But this time her eyes weren’t looking at me like cold pork gravy with a hair in it.

  “I’ve got to finish the preliminary report on Deschamps, then drive over to Gulf Shores. My stereo receiver’s being repaired. If I don’t pick it up tonight, I won’t get to it for a week.”

  “Need company? I know the area,” I said, instant tour guide to Greater Mobile.

  “The store provided me with clear directions, but thank you.”

  Mobile Bay encompasses four hundred square miles, a vast, shallow pan of water extending approximately thirty miles from its wide Gulfside mouth to the Mobile and Tensaw rivers that feed freshwater into the northern delta. The city of Mobile
is on the northwest side of the Bay, in Mobile County, appropriately enough. Baldwin County is on the eastern shore of the Bay, and has no signature city. Tourists might disagree, tending to think in terms of two motel-and condo-laden beach locales, Gulf Shores and Orange Beach.

  Though Baldwin County has rural areas of charm and beauty, it’s not only temporary home to tourists, but permanent home to former Mobilians looking for the “country life.” Driving to Gulf Shores on one of the major thoroughfares is an exemplar of what inrushing money can do, especially teamed up with bulldozers development after development, billboard following billboard. Strip centers. Big-box stores. Fast food and service stations. I was once traveling through the city of Daphne when I heard an excitement-voiced tourist call back to the Winnebago: “Get in here and take a peek, Marge, southern BPs are just like the ones we have in Dayton!”

  I was seized by inspiration: suggesting Ava return to Mobile via the ferry between Fort Morgan on the tip of the eastern Bay, and Dauphin Island on the western side. I ran to my car, returned with a map, and traced the route with a highlighter. The ferry cost a few bucks and wasn’t much of a time saver, I explained, but the view beat the hell out of the alternative.

  She glanced at the map. “Uhm-hum,” she said, furrowing her brow.

  “It’s a date,” I said. “I live on Dauphin Island. Stop by on your way home and I’ll show you my collection of sand.”

  “Date? I don’t think I “

  “I didn’t mean date like in date, Doctor. I’d just like to get your input on the autopsy. Bring a copy of the prelim by. Ten minutes. Max. You’ll be home before dark.”

  “Home while it’s light?”

  What did it matter was she a vampire? I crossed my heart. “I promise.”

  “Give me your phone number,” she said. “I’ll call while I’m in Gulf Shores. If I’m able to stop by, that is.”

  It was a dodge worthy of a Gypsy with legal training. Requesting my number implied intent, thus mollifying me, but she left her escape hatch wide open, not having to phone at all. Still, I penned my number to the map, which she stuck in her purse without a glance. Leaving, I turned to wave and saw her walking away like she’d slipped into another dimension.