by A. J. Flynn
“We’ve got another confession. You want to see him?”
She sighed. It had been a tough, unrewarding day and the prospect of having to listen to another psycho bleat on about how he’d committed murder sounded like torture. She would have preferred to tell them to lock him up and forget about him, but she could still remember the time a skinny little man had shown up with a wild tale about how he had taken a hatchet to his family, and it turned out the little creep had been telling the truth. The police had to listen to hundreds of confessions on the off chance that one might be legitimate.
“Yeah,” she said, with an air of resignation, “bring him over.”
She went back to her desk and waited, and within a few minutes they brought in a well-dressed man who looked to be about fifty. He looked perfectly sane, if not a little irritated. They were usually upset when they learned that the police’s reaction to their confession didn’t come with honor and sympathy.
McPherson nodded to the officer. “I’ll call for you if I need you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied crisply then left.
“Take a seat,” McPherson said to the man glaring at her.
“Well, it’s about time somebody listened to me,” he snapped. “I came here on my own free will to turn myself in, and not only have I not been arrested, but I can’t even find anyone courteous enough to listen to me.”
“Just take a seat,” McPherson ordered calmly, “and tell me your name and address.”
“My name is Wilson Brandt, and I’ve already provided this information to the gentleman out there.”
“Sure, but I need it for my own records, so if you won’t mind repeating it—“
“That’s the trouble with this world. Everyone goes on repeating what everyone’s already done. It saps up time that might be used for things that are truly necessary. Besides, you should be trying to save paper. Every sheet of paper you use is bought and paid for by the local taxpayers, but you don’t care. One record of a name and address should be sufficient.”
After expressing his point of view, Mr. Brandt seemed to settle down a little, and took his seat.
“I’ll keep in mind what you said. Now if you’ll provide me with your name and address.”
“Wilson Brandt. Actually, it’s Wilson K. Brandt, but the K stands for Kincaid and I hardly ever use it. I could never understand why my parents decided to name me Kincaid. It sounds like a steel plant.”
“Yes, Mr. Brandt. Now where do you live?”
“Down at the Bateman Motel, Room 313. I’ve been living there for almost ten years. They all know me down there.”
“Say, haven’t we met before, Mr. Brandt?”
McPherson was well aware that the man had previously confessed to a wide assortment of crimes over a period of several years. He had been in and out of the local hospital several times, but apparently all that was wrong with him was that he was lonely, and every once in a while he would stop by to confess to something just to get some attention.
He was fixed comfortably, financially, and had two sons, both of whom had families of their own, but it seemed that the only time they ever remembered that they had a father was when they needed money.
Brandt studied McPherson’s face before answering. “I don’t remember having ever seen you before.”
He either truly didn’t remember, or he was a good liar.
“If I recall correctly, I think it was last March that you came in and confessed to setting the Briggs Packing Plant on fire. Do you remember that?”
“I believe you’re quite mistaken,” the man assured her. “I’m not an arsonist. I’m a murderer.” There was little mistaking the sincerity in his voice.
McPherson settled back into her chair. It would be a waste of time to keep talking to him, but for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to be unkind to the lonely old man.
“All right. So you say you killed the boy. Why?”
“I couldn’t help it. This feeling came over me, and I just had to kill him.”
Now that he finally had an audience, Brandt seemed to be enjoying himself. Judging by the look of him, he might have been the honored house guest at a party.
“What were you doing out in South Pines?”
“It gets old sitting in a hotel room all day every day, so I went out for a bus ride.”
“The bus line is at least five blocks away from where Charlie was killed. What was your purpose for being in those woods?”
Brandt hesitated for a moment, then said, “I decided to go for a walk. It was a lovely evening, so I went for a walk.”
“All right, so you took a bus ride, went for a walk, then something came over you and you decided to shoot a boy you’d never seen before. Is that right?”
He smiled slyly. “I know you’re trying to trick me. I strangled him, and you know it. I was walking along, then there he was. I don’t know what got into me, or why I did it, but I wrapped my hands around his neck and squeezed.”
It was an old tactic and McPherson hadn’t expected it to work.
“Did you know Charlie?”
“Of course not. Why would I kill someone I knew?”
“Do you want me to lock you up?”
“Sure. I fully expect you, an officer of the law, to do your duty. I murdered the boy, so now you have to lock me up. The public must be protected.”
He would have spoken the same way had he been insisting on proper water treatment.
“All right. Come on,” McPherson said, and they walked over to the officer who had brought him in.
“Mr. Brandt says he’s committed another crime. See to it that he’s locked up.”
The officer assented then led Brandt away. From past experience, McPherson knew that tomorrow morning Brandt would be yelling to get out and making accusations of police brutality, but one thing was for sure, he would walk away with something to talk about until his next confession.
McPherson started back to her desk, when the desk officer called her again. She walked over and took a sheet of paper the man had just written.
“The State Police just called. They found Harry Valentine—or at least what was left of him.”
McPherson shot an inquisitive glance towards the desk man and asked, “What happened? I didn’t even know Valentine had left.”
“He tried to pass by another car up on the Sagan Pass. I guess it was a blind curve, because he met a tanker head on. They’re still trying to put out the fire. One of the state patrolmen recognized the car he was driving, so they were eventually able to identify him. The car belonged to an old guy who owns a garage up that way.”
“What in the hell was Valentine doing all the way up there in a car that wasn’t his?”
“Nobody knows. The wreck started one hell of a fire and they’re still busy with it. They said they’d call down as soon as there’s something to tell.”
“All right. Keep me posted. I’m going to talk to the captain.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Captain Ford was preparing to leave, but when he saw that it was McPherson, he made his way back to his desk.
“You should be an authority on where to get your shoes repaired,” he smiled mildly, referring to the fact that she spent all day on her feet. “Did you find anything valuable?”
“I think so. One man is fairly certain the repair job on the heel was his work, but he doesn’t remember who he did it for. Garrett and Fichte are trying to let him get a look at anyone that might fit Dr. Hemlock’s description.”
“That sort of work is tedious but valuable. Was there something else?”
McPherson studied Ford’s placid veneer and wondered if anything ever affected him. She knew and respected the man’s brilliance, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he ever thought about or considered the people with whom he dealt with in anything but a cynical way.
“Valentine is dead,” she said in a flat tone, and was surprised when the captain showed some surprise.
“How did it ha
ppen?”
“It was a car accident. We still don’t have all the details, but it appears as though he had a head-on collision with a gasoline tanker and it struck up a fire. The State Police have been too busy to give us any information.”
“State Police? Why are they involved?”
“The accident occurred on the eastern slope of Sagan Pass.”
“I see. Was he fleeing?”
“Hard to say. It looks funny. He was ordered not to leave town, but he did. He didn’t have any reason to run, though; his alibi checked out.”
“You told me he seemed frightened when you spoke to him,” the captain reminded her.
“Yes. I know McGill is running a check on him, but we haven’t gotten an answer yet.”
McPherson ran her hands through her hair. “Maybe it’s just an everyday accident.”
“In Sagan Pass?”
“Yeah, I know,” she answered, but was saved from saying anything else by a knock at the door.
It was the desk officer with more information on the accident. He passed his notes to McPherson and left.
McPherson read the new information, and began to feel sick.
Ford sat up in his chair. “Was he running, Lieutenant?”
“He was running, Captain. He lied to the guy who loaned him the car. Said something was wrong with his and that he had to make a service call to go fix a freezer down in Santana that was full of food. There wasn’t anything wrong with his car and the Santana grocer says there isn’t anything wrong with his freezer. McGill got his answer, too. Looks like Valentine took the fall for a robbery four years ago, down in Jacobson.”
“He had something to hide,” the captain said. “Or rather, he had something he thought he had to hide.”
“Still,” McPherson said bitterly, “he didn’t kill the kid, so why flee?”
“You’ve forgotten one of the first lessons of police work, Lieutenant. You can’t always account for people’s actions. They just go ahead and do things, and that’s that. Don’t even bother trying to figure out why. Leave that stuff to the psychiatrists.”
McPherson stood to her feet. “I’ll try to remember that. I suppose I’ll be the one to go tell Mrs. Valentine?”
“It would be best for it to be an officer who understands a little of what she might be going through, and I can’t think of anybody more qualified than you.”
“Yeah, I guess I’m the expert at giving bad news. I’ll pick her up a cup of coffee, then in my kindest, gentlest way, I’ll inform her that her husband just got splattered all over the road, and then, just to make sure the job was done, got himself barbecued.”
“You’ll manage.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I always do.”
XVIII
The dress shop where Hayley Valentine worked was only a few blocks down from the station, but the lieutenant took the car anyway. No matter how careful McPherson was in wording the news, there was no stopping it hitting Hayley like a ten-ton semi, and she wouldn’t be in any condition to drive home alone.
She picked out a parking place around a half block from the shop and, once parked, walked slowly towards the entrance. Deep down, she wished she were a thousand miles away in any direction.
The shop itself was one of those fancy boutiques without a dress in sight. Most of the front window that looked out over the street was covered, and in the small space left there was a hanging mobile. You wouldn’t even know what kind of shop it was, if you were to miss the small sign to the right that read, “Vanity—Couturiére.”
She pushed open the door and stepped into the perfumed interior. The floor was carpeted in a low-ply grey and there were small groups of low chairs, upholstered in pink velvet. There were large mirrors leaning against the walls, and they had a pinkish patina to them.
Once she grew used to the indirect lighting, McPherson examined the room in more detail, but she couldn’t find a single dress. She was so busy searching that she didn’t notice the woman sneak up behind her.
“Hello,” a female voice said courteously,” may I help you?”
In spite of herself, she spun around, wide-eyed. She felt like a little kid who’s been caught behind a barn with a cigarette still burning.
The woman looked like a dowager duchess. Silvery hair, softly waved, above an unlined forehead that could only be described as queenly. She was simply dressed, but every line and seam of her dress looked as if it had been set with calipers. The woman’s bright blue eyes watched her steadily, and McPherson began to feel like she was guessing the price of everything she was wearing.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Valentine,” McPherson said politely.
The woman’s eyes went cold. Evidently, so long as she wasn’t there to buy anything, she wasn’t particularly welcome.
“Our ladies aren’t permitted to see visitors during working hours.”
The initial stun of the woman’s appearance was beginning to wear off, and McPherson found herself wondering what a solid kick in the backside would do to her rock-bound dignity. But she restrained herself and flashed her badge.
“This is regarding an investigation. Mrs. Valentine’s husband has been involved in an accident.”
The woman’s expression indicated that her presence was distasteful, but she didn’t wish to tangle with a police officer. Neither did she show any concern for Valentine’s condition.
“You can use my office, over there. Go inside and I’ll send in Mrs. Valentine for you.”
Her words were cordial but what she meant was get the hell out of my sight before you stink up the joint.
McPherson followed her into the small office, which was rather more utilitarian than the showroom floor. The fancy adornments seemed to be for customers only.
She was standing by the window, looking out at the brick wall of the next door building, when Hayley entered.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” she said quietly. “You wished to speak to me?”
If Vanity had mentioned anything about an accident, she was taking it easily.
“Yes, Mrs. Valentine. Please sit down.”
Hayley set a chair closer to the desk and sat down with a sort of awkward grace. She was far too thin, but there was no denying her high-fashion charm. Her sharp and angular face was pale and drawn, but the skillful application of make-up seemed to have hidden most of the strain. In passing McPherson wondered how long it must take her to do her hair.
“I suppose it’s about Harry. Did he run away?”
“Why would you think that?”
Obtaining all the information you could, before delivering the bad news, was rotten, but smart.
“He told me you would check over everyone’s record. I figured what with your being here…” Her voice trailed off.
“Why would he feel like he had to run? We looked into his whereabouts, along with everyone else. We knew it wasn’t possible for him to have killed the boy.”
She sucked in a deep breath. “Harry had been to prison. He was convicted of robbery. He was worried that once you knew he was an ex-con you wouldn’t bother looking for anyone else.” She paused for a brief moment, then asked, “Did you catch him?”
McPherson watched her wringing her hands, and hated the thought of telling her.
“Yeah. We found him.”
Her face lit up. “Oh, I’m so happy he didn’t get away. Before he ran I told him staying in town isn’t so bad, not so long as you guys knew that he didn’t kill the boy.”
“We weren’t going after him, Mrs. Valentine. We didn’t even know he’d tried running, not until we got report of the accident.”
“Accident,” she whispered. “What accident?”
Vanity hadn’t seen fit to pass the news after all.
“He was trying to pass another car, out on Sagan Pass, and collided head on with a truck. I’m sorry, Mrs. Valentine, but your husband is dead.”
The sharp intake of her breath was loud in the quiet room. For a moment McPherson feared the woman might
faint, but she seemed to find strength, and began to pull herself together.
“I know it came out blunt,” she apologized, “but there just isn't any good way to tell someone something like that.”
She swallowed hard twice before answering. “I know. It must be very difficult for you. Telling people, I mean.”
“Not nearly as hard as you having to hear it. I’m heading out to your neighborhood. If you want, I can give you a ride home.”
Hayley stayed sitting still, like the decision was difficult, then said, “That’s very kind of you. I’ll go tell Miss Vanity. I won’t be much use to her anyway. I’ll be right back.”
It had struck her hard, but somehow McPherson felt that she had almost expected it. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, but she was also happy she hadn’t had to sit through a bout of hysterics.
Death must have been a good enough reason even for Miss Vanity, because Hayley was back with her coat within five minutes.
“Thank you for waiting for me. I’m ready to go now.”
They walked a short distance to the car, and after holding the door open for Hayley, McPherson got in herself and started toward the South Pines Homes development. Just a few days ago it had been a place where a family would love to bring up their children, but now it was a nest of tragedy and fear and, what was hardest to understand, a sort of opportunism.
There’s not much to be said to the newly bereaved, but McPherson made an effort. “Is there anybody you would like to have come and stay with you?” she asked. “We can stop and pick them up along the way.”
Hayley stirred from the inaction that had settled over her just long enough to say, “No, thank you. I would prefer to be alone. There are a lot of things I have to think about.”
“Alright,” she said, and they both maintained a silence that lasted until they pulled up in front of her house.
“Thank you for driving me, Lieutenant,” she said, as she hurried out of the car. “I’ll never forget it.”
“Let me walk you to your door.”
Her smile was intended to be grateful, but came off as pitiable. “No. I meant what I said about wanting to be alone, but you’ll let me know as soon as I can make arrangements for Harry, won’t you?”
