“Forgive you? Helen, what are you talking about?” Angela is still smiling.
“The other night when I went to your house to get my things, something happened. I don’t know how to say this…”
“Then just say it.” Angela’s face turns somber.
Helen moves her chair closer.
“You remember you told me someone was watching your house at nights. Well, it wasn’t the man who beat you.”
A questioning look comes over Angela’s face.
“And you remember once you told me how you gave the baby up and how you had…”
Angela starts shaking her head back and forth. “No…no…I don’t believe this. …This can’t be happening!”
Helen tries to take hold of Angela’s hand, but she snaps it away.
“After all these years…my God!”
“It was a boy,” Helen says, joyfully. “Actually, he’s no longer a boy. …He’s a young man now. And Angela, he’s so handsome! He has so many of your features! He was the one you saw from your window those nights. He’s been hanging around like a lost puppy for days. I couldn’t send him away, so I’ve let him stay at your place for the past two days. Please, don’t be angry with me.”
There are tears in her eyes. She looks at Helen. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just scared…no, I’m terrified. What can I say to him?”
“You’re a physiatrist; you won’t have any trouble.”
“That’s like saying, ‘If you’re a bartender you can never have a drinking problem.’ I bleed just like everyone else! I don’t have any magic phrases to get me through this. What can I tell him?”
“Tell him the truth; that’s all you can do.”
Angela raises one hand to her head and then the other to her face.
“My God, I look a fright! I’ll scare the poor boy away!”
“Don’t worry,” Helen says, “We’ll do your hair up real nice. Some makeup will cover up those burses.”
“I haven’t worn makeup since…since…” Angela begins to cry.
Since you were raped, Helen finishes the sentence gently in her own mind. “It’s all right,” smiles Helen, taking Angela’s hand once more. “It’ll all work out fine…you’ll see.”
***
Not surprisingly, Victor adjusts well to life behind bars. For the first time in a long time, he feels safe. Not having a drink is difficult for him. But at least he doesn’t have to sleep with one eye open.
Early morning in his cell, Victor sits on the edge of his bunk, eating his breakfast of cold coffee, powdered eggs, and toast. He looks up to see a guard standing in front of the cell.
“Russell, your lawyer’s here to see you,” the guard speaks in an official monotone voice.
“But I haven’t finished my breakfast.”
“It’s your breakfast and it’s your lawyer, buddy; you decide which is more important. But if I were you, I would lean more toward the lawyer.”
Victor scrapes up the powdered eggs and carefully places them on top of his slice of toast. He stands up, toast in hand, and grabs his paper cup of coffee. “I’ll see my lawyer, please.”
It is a stark room with two chairs and a plain wooden table in the middle. The guard sets Victor in the chair that’s bolted to the floor and handcuffs him to the chair’s arm. An overhead lamp with a protective wire grid hangs over the table, giving no more light than a full moon. It’s just barely enough to light up the tabletop; there are no windows.
“I’ll be just outside that door,” the guard tells Walter Lieberman, pointing to the door. He then leaves, closing and locking the door behind him.
Seated at the table, facing Victor, Walter is busy going over papers with pen in hand. Victor is still busy with his breakfast, cup of cold coffee in one hand and egg on toast in the other.
“So, Victor, I’ve asked for court approval to have you analyzed by a physiatrist. …How do you feel about that?” Walter asks, putting down his paper and pen and finally paying some attention to his client.
“Why? I’m not crazy,” Victor mumbles calmly, with a mouthful of toast and powdered eggs.
“Of course you’re not, Victor. It’s just a formality. Now, when you’re talking to the doctor, I want you to make sure you tell him what you did and how your dead father told you what to do…how he talks to you in your head.”
“He doesn’t talk to me in my head!”
“How’s that…?” Walter looks at his client, confused.
“He doesn’t talk to me in my head. He comes and visits me, and then he tells me what he wants me to do.”
“Whatever…” Walter whispers under his breath, taking his pen and making a note of the information.
“In fact, he came and visited me just yesterday.” Victor finishes his egg and toast, takes a gulp of coffee and swallows. “He told me I was a good boy and he was proud of me.”
“You mean, your father came into your cell and spoke to you?” Walter asks, putting his pen down.
“No, not in my cell, sir; you’re not allowed visitors in your cell. He came by and we visited in this here room.”
“Of course, what was I thinking?” Walter says. This is going to be easier than I thought, Walter thinks, smiling.
Victor puts down his coffee cup; Walter puts down his pen.
“You should be set up with an analysis in two days.”
“Yeah, sure,” Victor says. “Listen, I don’t want to appear rude or anything, but I’m allowed an hour of TV every day, and I wouldn’t want to miss it. You don’t mind if I go back now?”
“Of course not. We wouldn’t want you to miss your shows, now…would we?” Walter smiles, gets up from the table, and signals for the guard. “We’re through here, thank you.”
As they guide Victor back to his cell, Walter gives him one last word of advice, “You just hang in there, Victor, and I promise you everything is going to turn out just fine.”
Victor nods, more concerned with missing his TV time.
This is going to be so easy, Walter thinks.
He stops at the guard desk and smiles.
“Say…did Victor Russell have any visitors, yesterday?”
“I’m not sure, sir, but I could look it up,” the guard says, pointing to the computer.
“Nah, that’s all right…thanks though.” Walter walks away, smiling. “I must be getting soft in the head…believing what some loony tells me. Next thing you know, he’ll have me talking to his dead father, too.”
CHAPTER TEN
Too Many Chefs in the Kitchen
Dodson walks down the block toward Max’s tavern. He is regretting his promise to meet Goebel and Benson after hours. There are sure to be people in the bar – maybe too many people – and people only make him uncomfortable.
“Hey, Dodson, I didn’t know they allowed you out of the basement before dark,” Max jokes from behind the bar when he sees Dodson standing in the doorway. “If you’re looking for Goebel and Benson, they’re over there in the booth by the window.”
“Thanks, Maxie,” Dodson says, making his way across the barroom. He is thankful and relieved to see there are only a small handful of patrons in Max’s.
A waitress is putting two beers down on the table when Dodson takes a seat across from his two associates.
“What will it be?” asks the waitress, between snapping her chewing gum – which irritates Dodson to no end.
“A Pink Squirrel, please.”
Benson looks at him through squinted eyes and a pouting mouth.
“What?” Dodson says, shrugs his shoulders, “I like cream drinks.”
Benson shakes his head in disbelief. Goebel pulls his beer in close and waits until the waitress leaves.
“So what do you have for us?” Goebel asks.
“Some new pieces to the puzzle, only I don’t think these pieces are going to fit anywhere in the big picture,” Dodson says, opening a manila folder in front of him. “First off, the gun is the same gun registered to Mrs. Haywood’s father…
the one he lent her…the one her husband withheld from her. There are no fingerprints on it except for those of Mrs. Haywood, and they’re a bit smudged. Whoever had it last wiped it clean…real clean. The blanks that were in the gun cylinder were clean also. Blanks are not like live ammo; you don’t have to register to buy them, which make them hard to trace. They’re usually used as starting guns at sporting events. The company that makes them won’t ship out an order unless the request comes on a legitimate letterhead…you know, high schools, colleges, sports arenas. There might be a lead in there somewhere.
“The ski mask was a match to the gloves we found around the neck of the dead cat, made by the same Swiss/Italian company, the one that went out of business in the ‘60s.
“The human ear is from Carol Hastings; we’re sure of it. It matches the blood on the dress, as well. Also, tests show that the knife in Victor Russell’s possession when arrested is the same knife used to cut off her ear. There are no prints on the blade except his, and I found traces of her blood on all the sharp items in the shopping bag.”
The waitress places Dodson’s drink down. Benson looks on it with loathing and distain. The waitress walks away.
“And finally, the last piece of the puzzle. I did some tests on the bloody dress against medical records. …It was Carol Hastings’. Next, I did a blood test on Victor Russell and compared it to the semen stains on Carol Hastings’ undergarments. …It was a match. Then, I compared Victor’s blood with the sample taken from Mrs. Haywood’s stillborn, and the match was close…it looked like he could be the father.”
“Looks like? Very close? He could be the father? What the hell are you talking about?” Goebel demands.
“This isn’t an exact science! Nothing’s a hundred percent. You do a DNA test and you get ten positives out of a million. …That’s pretty good odds. His DNA showed there was a fair chance Victor might be the father. …That’s the best I can offer you.”
“Well, maybe you made a mistake. Maybe you need to do the test again?” Benson says.
“That’s exactly what I thought,” Dodson replies. “And that’s what I did. I ran another test on the semen stains on the undergarments, only this time I took a sample from another part of the garment, and what I found confused the hell out me.”
Dodson stops to sip on his drink.
“For Pete’s sake, put down that pink slosh and tell us what the hell you found,” Goebel hollers.
“Well, when I ran the new test, the DNA matched the dead baby’s samples but it didn’t match Victor’s blood sample.”
“I don’t get it,” Goebel says, “What the hell are you telling us?”
“I’m telling you there are two different semen samples on Carol Hastings’ underwear! One is Victor Russell’s; the other is somebody else. And whoever he is, he’s the father of the dead baby and the man who raped Mrs. Haywood.”
“You mean, two guys came on Carol Hastings’ panties…at the same time?” Benson says, sounding nauseated to his stomach.
“It would seem so,” Dodson says.
“That’s sick…” Goebel says.
Dodson takes another sip from his glass, places it back down, and then continues.
“I ran the entire test again…just to make sure, but I was right. Reason I wasn’t sure at first was because the DNA was so similar. I would say the two men…Victor and your mystery man are blood relatives…most likely brothers.”
“But the report on Victor shows his brother died years ago in a car accident,” Benson says.
“Maybe we should get in touch with the authorities in…what’s the name of that hick town?” Goebel asks.
“Tannersville,” Benson answers.
“Maybe we should get in touch with Tannersville and recheck the records?”
“Oh, and another thing,” Dodson adds, “The voice test on Richard Haywood doesn’t match the voice on the answering machine. And before you two ask me, I took the liberty of getting a court order to test Victor’s voice against the voice on the answering machine.”
“And…?” Benson asks.
“It’s not his voice either.”
***
Goebel and Benson dread a return visit to the Velvet Hammer, but the cruel and senseless shooting of Donald Johnson is a key part of their investigation. And now with a confessed prime suspect, it is time to go back.
They phone ahead to be sure Tink will be bartending. He bursts into greeting when they approach the bar.
“I knew you two would be back. Decided to try the gay life?”
“No! I’ll have you know, my partner and I are both happily married,” Goebel says.
“What…to each other?” Tink explodes into laughter.
“No, wise guy…to our wives!”
“Well, you know, you won’t be the first guys to hang out here with that same affliction. So how can I help you, detective?”
“Just a few questions,” Benson says, “if you don’t mind?”
“I don’t have enough mind left to mind!” laughs Tink. “Say, how’s your investigation going?”
“About as well as expected,” Goebel says, taking his place on a barstool. “We talked with Donald Johnson’s neighbors, friends and coworkers. …They all say the same: ‘He didn’t have an enemy in the world.’ Everything points to a stranger he must have picked up here.”
“That’s the trouble with one-night stands,” Tink says, “If they don’t break your heart, they shoot you in the head!” He goes into another fit of laughter. Not finding any humor in murder, both detectives remain aloof.
From his topcoat pocket, Benson produces a mugshot of Victor Russell. He hands it to Tink.
“Take a look at this. Tell us if he looks familiar to you.”
Tink looks at it for no more than a second.
“Hell, yeah, I remember this dude. I never forget a weirdo. …They haunt my dreams.
“He came in one night…never seen him before. …He plants himself up against the jukebox, and he stares at everybody. He doesn’t dance…just nursed one drink all night…hardly talked. …He just stared. Did that every night for about a week, and then he disappeared. …Never seen him again. The guy gave me the creeps!”
“This wouldn’t have all happened the week of the Donald Johnson killing?” Benson asks.
Tink thinks for a minute.
“Now that you mention it, I think it was the same week. I guess I never connected the two, but I believe you’re right.”
“Do you think Donald might have been involved with this guy?” Goebel asks.
“I told you I don’t think the guy said more than two words the entire week he was here. And as for Donald, I told you I saw him here that night, but I never saw who he was with or when he left.”
Tink hands the photo back to Benson.
“So who’s the guy in the picture?” Tink asks.
“Just a guy…” Benson says.
“That must be an old Army picture or something like that, huh?” Tink asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that must be an old picture of the dude.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, because that picture must be at least twenty years old. That’s the same guy, all right, but he’s not so young anymore. I mean…his hair is gray now, and he’s got himself a good-sized gut. Nothing’s so big a turn off as a big old gut on a man, don’t you think?”
Goebel and Benson look at each other, confused.
“Well, thank you again. You’ve been a big help,” Benson says.
The two detectives start toward the door.
“So long, you two,” Tink calls out. “Come back anytime you like. Don’t forget…every Friday and Saturday night is all you can eat.”
“You have a buffet?” asks Goebel.
“A buffet? Who said anything about food?”
Outside, they hear Tink’s laughter.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Getting Reacquainted
“Tannersville Police
Department, Officer Wilson speaking. How may I help you?”
Sheriff Gibson is on his way back to his office when he hears the call come in. He hovers over Officer Wilson’s desk, listening.
“Yes, sir…I understand,” says Officer Wilson, “I think it would be best if you spoke with Sheriff Gibson. …One moment. I’ll see if he’s in.” Officer Wilson covers the phone receiver with his hand. “It’s a Detective Benson. …He wants to get some info on Victor Russell. …You want to talk to him?”
“I’ll take it in my office.”
Officer Wilson removes his hand from the receiver. “The Sheriff will be right with you, sir. Please hold.” He presses the transfer button and hangs up.
Sheriff Gibson places his hat on the hat rack by the door, sits down behind his desk, takes up the phone to his ear, leans back in his chair, and places his feet up on the desk.
“Sheriff Gibson here. Can I help you?”
“Sheriff, this is Detective Benson, one of the officers working on the Victor Russell case. I was hoping to get some more information.”
“Didn’t we send you a full report when we sent Victor to you?”
“Yes, sir, you did…thank you. …It was very helpful, but we were wondering if we could get some information on the suspect’s family sent over, please?”
“Well, heck, ain’t any reason for somebody to mail something and waste a stamp. I’ve lived in this town all my life, and I’ve been Sheriff here since Victor was a little boy. I could probably answer your questions. …Ask away.”
Well, sir,” Benson says, “we’ve been having some concerns about his father and his brother.”
“Concerns…what’s all the concern about? They’re both dead…been dead for years,” says Sheriff Gibson. “Jerry…Victor’s father died about the time his two boys were going into high school. Nicholas, his brother, died in a car crash. …Real nasty business.”
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