(1995) Chain of Evidence

by Ridley Pearson

  “And what do you think?” Abby asked.

  “I think Zeller knows about these gene therapy tests. I think he doesn’t want anybody offering a ‘cure’ to sex offenders—another excuse to parole them. Nesbit was on parole at the time he killed Lucky and the three others.”

  “It’s difficult, isn’t it?”

  “How’s that?” Dart asked.

  “No tears for guys like Gerald Lawrence. There’s a part of me—a big part—that wishes them dead. I work with their victims—but week in and week out—and what’s been done to them makes me sick. Oh yes,” she reassured him, “me too. Don’t think I get used to this. You never get used to it.”

  This came as a relief to Dart, who had worried that she had become hardened—that something had been stolen from her as well. He explained, “That was a major part of my reasoning for not going forward with the Ice Man: Who cares? Making them dead is somehow more satisfying than locking them up. But what if there is treatment?”

  “And what about so many sex offenders expressing pressing remorse and genuinely wanting to stop?” she asked. “I know. It’s not an easy issue.”

  “I know what has to be done,” Dart said, dreading this thought.

  “Well, I know what has to be done too,” she said seductively. She wore a pair of tight blue jeans and a loose-fitting gray sweater that Dart found provocative, because when she leaned over it fell open at the neck. Drinking a beer from the bottle, she was sitting in Dart’s one remaining captain’s chair, her left leg kicked up over the arm.

  He was prepping a radicchio and shrimp risotto and trying to concentrate on the recipe. Mac was snoring at Abby’s feet.

  “Before you start that,” she said, “take a break. Once you get going on a risotto, you can’t stop.” She motioned him into a chair. “Tell me about Kowalski.”

  Dart opened a beer. “It’s possible that he’s telling the truth. He told us the same story three times in a row. And he remembered details well. The trouble with interviewing a cop—he knows what you’re looking for. He could be full of shit. It’s hard to say.”

  “But you believe him,” she stated.

  “I do. Haite doesn’t. And I can’t tell Haite because it involves Zeller, and I’m not ready to lay all that on him.”

  “Personally, I’ve never believed anything Kowalski says. He’s a bullshitter from way back.” She asked, “What’s his status?”

  “It’ll be reviewed. Meanwhile, he’s still active.”

  “I don’t imagine he’s too keen on you.”

  “He never has been.”

  She took a pull on the beer and set down the bottle. There was something brewing in her.

  “What about these tests?” he asked.

  “You mean, have I heard anything? Have they discovered some abnormal gene in sex offenders? To my knowledge: no. But listen, there have been rumors for years about a crime gene. You’ve heard that stuff. The Times reported last February that the gene—a combination of genes—had been identified. Nothing’s impossible.” She asked rhetorically, “Is there a Prozac for sex offense? Not that I’ve heard of. Not yet. But as Teddy Bragg says, ‘Stay tuned.’”

  “Would you have heard if there is such a thing being tested?”

  “Doubtful. No. Something that controversial would be cloaked in secrecy. I wouldn’t know about it until it hit the mainstream. And there’s nothing close to mainstream. I do keep up.”

  It felt right to have her here. Comfortable. Easy. She drew down the beer, got up, and found her way through the kitchen drawers until she had what she needed to set the table. Dart enjoyed his moment off his feet.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked him, placing down a fork for his place.

  “Kowalski,” he lied. He coughed.

  “That cough sounds bad,” she said. “You live with that thing, don’t you?”

  He didn’t feel like telling her about it. He had never told anyone and didn’t see why he should start now. He said, “It’s not the best story” and wondered how it was that his mouth had so purposely disobeyed his brain. “It’s a bad story, actually,” he added, wondering where that too had come from.

  “You don’t have to tell me, you know.”

  No, I don’t want to, his brain answered. “I had what you might call a reckless mother. A drinker. She was a drinker. And my father was nobody. I never knew him. At least I don’t think I did. But my mother was … her brother was a dealer. Big time. Lots of money. She was, I don’t know, confused. He took care of her. She was eighty miles of bad road is what she was. And I was on that road, at least at the beginning I was. The beginning for me. As a kid, you know. I ran errands. Cooked. Booze mostly, the errands. Bought her booze for her. I think about it now—this kid buying brown bags in the back alley. Jesus, what a time in my life that was.”

  “Bad road?” she asked.

  “An angry drunk,” he answered. He tried the beer. He didn’t want to talk about this, and he thought if he kept his mouth busy then maybe she would get the hint. Change the subject. It didn’t seem to work: She stared at him, waiting.

  “She got confused about things. Money. The booze. Sometimes she would drink an entire bottle while I was at school, and by the time I got home she would think that I had never bought the bottle, that I had spent her money—as if it were hers anyway, the money. She got a check once a month. From the brother. Drug money, I later found out. Bad money.”

  He felt a little more relaxed. It wasn’t as hard to talk about as he had imagined. She seemed interested, but not terribly upset. He had always thought that if he talked about it, the person would get upset—the way he felt about it. Mad. Real mad.

  “So you got sick?” she asked. “The cough,” she reminded.

  “No, no,” he said. “Not sick. I … she … when she got mad, when she mixed things up, she … she took it out on me. I was handy, I guess.”

  “Hit you?” she asked, but in a way that sought to clarify, not accuse.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “I guess so.” He thought about starting to eat the risotto. He was feeling nervous, not comfortable at all. “Yeah, she hit me,” he admitted. How many times had he lied to the school nurse about this? How many years had he covered for her? And on this particular night he suddenly unloads. What the hell is going on? he wondered. “Hit me all the time. And you can only take so much of that—I could only take so much of that—before you learn to run. It kind of trains you to be a coward,” he said. This came the hardest for him—that he had run. All these years later, and it still felt cheap to run from her. As if he didn’t measure up. He had always wanted to hit her back. He had never lifted a hand. Her face all bloated, her eyes unfocused. Who could hit that? he wondered.

  “You don’t have to talk about this,” she repeated. A few minutes had passed. He realized he hadn’t touched his food. “But I want to hear, if you do want to talk about it.”

  “I ran,” he said. He felt the stinging in his eyes, and he wondered if he should leave the table. “I ran,” he said again. He swallowed. It felt as if a chicken bone were stuck in there. “And I learned to hide until she settled down. Passed out is more like it. Used to find her on the floor. Like a beached whale. Lying there. I couldn’t move her. Thought she was dead. Wishful thinking, I suppose.” He felt tears running, and powerless to do anything about it. Abby didn’t seem fazed. She was still staring at him intensely, but he felt no judgment coming from her. She’s trained for this shit, he thought, suddenly understanding why he had picked this particular woman to unload on. She’s the one who could handle it.

  He continued, “So I hid. The broom closet. The basement. There was a piece of furniture in the dining room that I could fit into. But she found me. Almost always. Until I discovered the dryer. The clothes dryer.”

  Her face remained impassive, revealing no opinion, no sympathy, no pity, and yet he knew that she had heard him. He wondered if she could be so objective, so internally calm, or was this some kind of act that s
he had learned as a professional?

  “She never thought to look in the clothes dryer,” he explained. “It became my first choice. And more than once I had been doing a load of laundry, and I would yank that laundry out of there as fast as I could and climb inside and pull the door closed.”

  “The heat,” she said. “Your lungs.”

  He nodded. His throat felt scratchy, but he didn’t want to cough in front of her, for it suddenly felt as if it would seem he had forced it. So he swallowed it away and said roughly, “Yeah. I figure I fried them hiding in there.”

  He drank. Something to do. Keep his hands busy. Stop them from shaking. Somewhere to avert his eyes. He thought that maybe five minutes passed in complete silence. It felt more like an hour.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He felt embarrassed all of a sudden. He had lowered his mask, and felt incredibly vulnerable.

  “Is she still alive?”

  “No, but she lasted a long time. I was eighteen. And I was still living with her. Don’t ask me why.” He hesitated. “She had control. I suppose that’s why.”

  Abby came out of her chair and approached him. She bumped his chair and slipped a leg over him and sat down in his lap, facing him. She stroked his hair back at his temples and repeated, “Thank you.” She rubbed away the snail tracks left by his tears.

  He experienced a kind of giddy high, flooded by the relief of having told someone. The kiss that followed was gentle but by no means innocent. He kissed his way across her chin and down her neck, and as he did she whispered, “Harder,” and he sucked the soft skin of her neck into his lips, and she shuddered and purred, “Umm.”

  He leaned her back and kissed down into the loose neck of the sweater, as her hands slipped behind him and pulled his shirt free, and warm fingers scrambled over his back, sending flashes up his spine and gooseflesh head to toe.

  Abby knew his secret, and knew his pleasure as well. Her back was hot to touch, and the more he kissed her neck the more excited she grew until she muffled a knowing laugh of pleasure signaling that they had crossed a line. In an explosion of energy, she got out of the chair and led him down the hall and into the bedroom, undressing herself as she went.

  At that moment, the building’s hallway fire alarm sounded loudly. Dart smelled smoke. A curling fear ran down his spine. He had a great fear of fire, stemming from his drunken mother being a smoker.

  Perhaps it was the clothes dryer as a child, or the memory of a range fire he had witnessed out west as a teenager—great sheets of bright orange sweeping the plains and spewing a thick charcoal gray into the blue, boundless sky—or perhaps, he thought, it was simply an intuitive response to something that could kill so quickly, but Dart felt a surge of panic, and though he saw Abby’s horrified expression and her mouth moving, he heard no words. She pulled on her clothes. She searched the apartment door for heat, dropped to her knees, and sniffed between the carpet and door.

  “It’s okay,” he heard her say.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “We’re going,” she announced over the abrasive fire alarm. Far in the distance, the first wail of a siren was heard. “Ready?”

  He nodded, his attention riveted on all that he was leaving behind, on memories and artifacts of his time here with Ginny. She took hold of the doorknob.

  “Slowly,” he cautioned, stepping aside.

  She nodded and eased the door open. There was no flash of flame, no billow of smoke, only the increased volume of the alarm and the sounds of harried shouting and racing footsteps. Mac took off down the stairs. A general sense of chaos surrounded them as they hurried to the central stairs and began their descent. The smell of oil smoke was overpowering. It smelled of fear and old paint and dust, of all those, years Dart had used these stairs, forsaking the tired elevator. It smelled final.

  The smoke grew thicker as they descended, enveloping them like a fog. They checked for each other at each turn of the metal handrail. Her wide eyes glanced over at him. From below came sounds of panic. Two floors down, Dart caught sight of several familiar faces and wondered how he could live in the same place for so many years and know so few of his neighbors. They knew him, most knew he was a policeman, and though he knew some by name, not nearly enough.

  “Mrs. Amory,” he said to Abby as he stopped at the fire door to the ground floor. Eleanor Amory went about in a motorized wheelchair and had picked this apartment building because of its location on a city bus route. She was in her late seventies and fiercely independent. Abby apparently understood just by the way he spoke, and she stopped and helped him check the door for heat before they passed through and into the downstairs hallway. The smoke was heavier here, and Dart believed that it was coming from the parking garage, that a car was on fire, and this lessened his panic because fire could be contained well in the concrete garage. They ran down the long hallway, and only then was Dart aware that the only light came from the emergency lights, a fact that had escaped him. All the training, he thought, wondering how panic had so easily engulfed him, feeling it behind him now, and glad to have it gone.

  “Which apartment?” he heard Abby call from behind him.

  He kicked the door in, signaled her inside, and motioned for Abby to take the rooms to the left. Dart took those to the right.

  Eleanor Amory was not in the kitchen, or the small sitting room or in any of the three closets that Dart searched quickly.

  “Joe!” Abby called out.

  Eleanor Amory was in her bedroom coiled into a ball in the far corner, a nightgown bunched at her knees, a collapsible wheelchair propped against the wall alongside her. She was in shock, her dull blue eyes glassy and open wide in a fixed stare.

  Abby stooped, tried to communicate with the woman, but it was of no use. She tentatively eased her arms into the fold of the woman’s bent knees, and behind her head, and together with Dart, they hoisted her, and Dart took her fully into his arms as Abby helped the woman to take hold around his neck.

  A moment later they were outside, in the alley behind the building, and Eleanor Amory was in the care of emergency personnel. Abby stood holding the woman’s hand. The alley was dark, awash in the scattering, fractured light of emergency vehicles, and from the building’s garage a thick coiling plume of black smoke rushed into the night sky. The area was crowded with onlookers as well as with residents of the building, in pajamas, raincoats, and whatever else they had grabbed. Several held pets tightly in their arms. One woman was crying as she stared up at her windows. Mac was sitting away from the chaos like an old person watching a parade.

  Dart felt the cold. He felt awkward and out of place, accustomed to being the one responding to an emergency rather than experiencing it firsthand. There were so many things he wished he’d taken. Photographs. Gifts. Letters. His first uniform as a patrolman. He ran down an inventory as he watched four fully clad firemen become swallowed by the smoke as they charged the garage. He hoped for a quick resolution. The night air was filled with the sound of communication radios spitting static, of children crying and adults sobbing, and an endless roar of orders being shouted about. To the lay person, the bystander, the efforts of the emergency crews seemed chaotic and disorganized. But Dart knew better.

  He crossed his arms tightly to fend off the cold.

  A harsh and unforgiving voice whispered, “Don’t turn around, Ivy. Nod if you can hear me.” Dart nodded. He smelled the stale aroma of cigar smoke despite the petroleum in the air, and he recognized the deep slow voice and the way that voice spoke his nickname. “I can’t afford the attention,” Walter Zeller said. Dart, stunned, could feel the man’s presence as he stepped closer and continued in a hushed whisper. “Your Volvo has had a slight problem, is all—an electrical short under the dash; if there had been less plastic in it, it might have never burned at all.”

  Dart had so many things to say that nothing came out, his thoughts bottle-necked somewhere near his tongue. What with the fire and the chaos, and the surprise that Zeller
had orchestrated all of this to make contact with him.

  “You’ll figure this out. At least if you have any sense left in you, you will.” He added, “I can’t do your fucking work for you, kid. I told you that. Wish I could. But then you wouldn’t hold up on the stand, would you? You gotta do this yourself. You gotta get your mind off your pecker and back onto your desk.

  “What I want you to think about, Ivy, is—and I want you to remember this: You’re looking at what you know, what you’re familiar with, rather than digging in and finding what’s really the cause here.” He added, “That they’re all connected.”

  “The gene therapy,” Dart said.

  “Maybe you are listening.” He added, “Maybe I should have just called you again. You know how I like to do things in person.”

  “So you torched my car?” Dart said, exasperated. He made a move to turn around, but Zeller stopped him with a stern “Don’t!” He added, “It’s not safe for me.”

  “For you?”

  “They’re murders, Ivy, but it’s not what you think. I know what you think. Do your fucking homework. Do us both a favor.”

  An old beat-up car pulled into the far end of the alley. Not a police car, not fire. In the flashing lights Dart couldn’t make out the color or the face of the man who opened the car door and peered out quickly before climbing back in and driving off as a patrolman approached him to tell him to move.

  “You see that?” Zeller asked. “They’re after me, Ivy. Why? Because I know the truth—because I found out the truth! Find it, damn it all. Do your fucking homework.”

  Dart said softly, “The hormones.” He waited a second and turned his head slightly and said: “A treatment of some sort.”

  Zeller didn’t answer.

  Dart attempted to turn around for a second time, expecting his effort to be blocked, but instead faced the dark shadows immediately behind him broken only by the rhythmic, hypnotic pulse of vehicle emergency lights.

  Zeller was gone—vanished, though Dart could still hear the man’s whispers over his shoulder.

  His teacher. His mentor.