Bleeding Hearts

by Teri White

  They had never talked about it.

  Jody stayed quiet for a long time. “Well,” he said slowly, “I remember some of what happened. But I don’t like to think about it. I don’t remember any of the cops, especially. They put handcuffs on you, I think. And they took me over to juvie hall in the squad car.”

  “What about the trial?”

  “Maybe. Yeah, I remember some of that.” He opened his eyes and stared at Tom. “Hey, you know, I’ve spent years trying to forget all that. Everybody said the past doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s better that way. Don’t you think we should just let it go, Tom?”

  “‘Let it go?’ ‘Everybody said the past doesn’t matter?’ Who the hell said that?”

  Jody bit his lip, as if trying to recall the words. Then he shrugged. “Just friends.”

  “Friends?” Tom felt a surge of anger. He grabbed Jody’s wrist and squeezed hard. “These friends mean more to you than I do, is that it?”

  “No. No, of course not, Tommy.”

  “You want to forget everything that happened back then? Is that what you want?”

  Jody shook his head. “No, I don’t. And you know it. Would I be here if that was what I wanted?” His voice was low. “I just want to forget the bad. I want to remember all the good things, Tommy. Really. Would you let go before you break my goddamned wrist?”

  Tom released his grip. “Okay. Maybe that works for you. But not me. I have to remember it all. Like the pig who dragged me away. He’s the one who split us up.”

  “I know. But if we try to get back at him, there might be trouble.” Jody’s hands roamed across the tabletop, finally closing around the mug. “Shit, man, they’ll send you right back.”

  “They have to catch me first, and that won’t happen, not this time.”

  Jody sighed and shook his head. “So who’s the cop?”

  “Kowalski.” He spit it out like a dirty word. “His name is Kowalski.”

  Just saying it aloud brought the past flooding back, washing over Tom like a tidal wave.

  That summer had been hot, too, just like now. Day after steaming day of unrelenting heat. The four of them seemed trapped in the damned little house. No air conditioning. Not enough money to get away even for a few days to someplace that might be cooler. Nothing. Just the four of them rubbing against the edges of one another in the simmering days and nights.

  Tom was not quite twenty then. He worked part time pumping gas, but that didn’t pay enough for him to be able to get out and find a place of his own. Besides, there was another reason why he couldn’t go.

  Their father was always out of work. He claimed that it was because of his bad back, an old war injury. But Tom knew that was just a crock of shit. The old man was nothing but a lazy son of a bitch. The only things he was good for were boozing, screwing, and beating on his sons. He was a huge bear of a man, towering over the rest of the family.

  Life with him had been the same for as long as Tom could remember.

  Their mother wasn’t any help. She always made Tom think of a limp grey dishrag. She’d spend hours bitching about life to anyone who’d listen, but she wouldn’t lift a finger to help herself or her kids. She liked the booze, too, and she liked fucking. The two of them went at it a lot, and they made a lot of noise about it.

  When they were very young, Tom and Jody would crawl under the blankets and try to cover their ears against the grunts and groans coming from the other side of the thin walls. Later, as they got older, the whole thing became a dirty joke, able to disgust and excite them at the same time.

  Tom hated his parents, hated the pigsty of a house where they were all trapped, hated his whole damned life.

  Except for one thing. The only thing that kept him there and made it all bearable. Jody. His little brother was thirteen that summer, a boy who somehow managed to stay bright and happy even there. Jody was the one he loved, the one who loved him. That made the rest unimportant. In their bedroom was a secret and wonderful world all their own. A world that no one else knew about.

  Until that terrible day in July.

  It was pretty dumb, of course, to fool around like that in the middle of the afternoon. Usually they played the games only at night, when their parents were sleeping, or as was most often the case, passed out. The dark hours belonged to Tom and Jody.

  But it was so hot. And the damned little fan he’d spent a whole week’s pay on did nothing except move the sluggish air from one corner of their room to another. They just started goofing around a little to help them forget how hot it was and how boring.

  The problem was, once they got started, it was hard to stop. A little teasing got serious too fast. Pretty soon, it was too late to stop.

  Then the bitch opened the door.

  Tom took a gulp of beer quickly.

  Jody was watching him.

  He pressed the cold wet glass to his forehead and smiled weakly. “Shit, it’s just waiting to ambush me.”

  “What?”

  “The past, little brother. The goddamned fucking past.”

  “That’s what I mean. Maybe it’s better to forget.”

  “No. I told that dumb porker that I’d get back at him someday. That was a solemn oath, Jody. I can’t get on with my life until it’s taken care of.”

  “I understand. I just don’t want them to send you back.”

  “Everything will be okay. Promise.” He reached across the table, this time covering his brother’s hand gently. “It’s just you and me. The two musketeers.”

  “Just like before?”

  “You got it.”

  After another moment, Jody took a deep breath. “So,” he said. “What next?”

  Tom smiled and pulled his hand back. He’d known that Jody wouldn’t let him down. Never. “What next. Good question. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I’ve had a lot of ideas. Maybe blow up his house. Maybe shoot him. I just haven’t made up my mind yet what’s best.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Right now, I say one more round. Then we’ll split from here and pick up some wheels.”

  Jody frowned, still thinking about the damned truck. They had dumped it earlier, after taking off the plates and wiping it as free of prints as possible, just in case. Then he just nodded and got to his feet. “I’ll get the beer this time,” he said.

  Chapter 12

  It turned into the worst kind of L.A. day. October in July. The Santa Ana blew relentlessly, spilling acrid smoke over the Pacific. The smell of the fires hung above the city, serving as one more irritant to a population already chafing. Something would have to give, sooner or later.

  Spaceman’s mood was no better than anybody else’s.

  It was already fifteen minutes into the next duty shift when he slammed down the phone after one more unsuccessful attempt to find out anything at all about Peter Lowe. Vice had no file on him, nor did the local juvenile authorities. The only fact they had so far came not from anything they had done, but from the pathologist’s report.

  Most of what was contained in the report had been expected. One thing was not: Two men had killed Peter Lowe.

  That information immediately gave the case a slightly weird aspect. Sex crimes, which this certainly seemed to be, were usually one on one. But according to Engels, the varied angles of the knife wounds indicated two distinct sets of injuries, one inflicted by a right-handed person, the other by a leftie. Further, specimens of semen found on the body confirmed the two-killer theory.

  Finding that out did absolutely nothing to improve Spaceman’s mood. Neither did something he found tossed on top of his in-basket. The terse memo was from up north, near Lompoc. A teenaged boy had been found dead by the highway. He’d been stabbed to death and the Lompoc cops were trying to get an ID on him. There was no picture, although one was supposed to be on its way. There was only a description that might have fit any number of boys. Peter Lowe, for example. Or even Robbie Kowalski.

  But Spaceman pushed that thought aside;
what the hell would Robbie have been doing in Lompoc? He folded the memo and put it into his pocket. Chances were it didn’t have a damned thing to do with their case, but he’d check it out. Tomorrow.

  “Time to quit,” he said.

  Maguire settled into the desk opposite his, looked up. “What?”

  “I said, shift’s up. Time to go home.”

  The blond frowned. “I hate to leave with nothing done on this.”

  “Take my word for it, we can leave. Nobody’s going to pick up our ball and run with it during the night.”

  Blue acknowledged that with a shrug and reluctantly closed the file.

  Spaceman’s phone rang. He looked at it balefully. “I’m off duty,” he said. But the damned thing rang again.

  “Might be important,” Maguire said.

  “Did it ever occur to you that the fucking telephone runs our lives? That it runs all of Western civilization?”

  “It never even occured to me that this city was a part of Western civilization,” Maguire replied. “Answer the damned phone.”

  “Shit.” But he answered it. “Homicide.”

  “Officer Kowalski?” It was a woman’s voice, very soft and timid.

  “Detective Kowalski,” he corrected. “Can I do something for you, ma’am?”

  “My name is Mary Lowe.”

  It was hard to hear above the racket of the squad room, but the name came through loud and clear. “Yes?”

  “Peter is … was my son.”

  “I see.” He stuck a fingertip in his free ear so he could hear her better.

  “You’re the policeman who spoke to my husband earlier, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. You must be calling about the body.”

  “Yes, about that.”

  “Good. I didn’t think you’d just want him dumped in a hole out here and forgotten.”

  She made a sound that might have been a sob, but which was muffled so quickly that he couldn’t be sure. “My husband is a stubborn man. He won’t change his mind about that.”

  Spaceman swore at the ceiling. “You don’t need his permission to bring your son’s body home.”

  Maguire was watching him, listening to the one-sided conversation with interest.

  “I can’t go against him. Maybe that seems wrong to you, but it’s the way my life is.” She sounded resigned.

  “Then I don’t understand why the hell you’re calling me.”

  There was a pause before she went on. “I have some money saved. Money of my own. It’s not much, just fifty dollars. If I send it out there, will you see that Petey has a decent burial? Maybe some flowers?”

  “You want to send me fifty dollars to bury your son?” he said, primarily for Maguire’s benefit.

  “It’s the best I can do.” Her voice seemed higher. “God knows, it’s the best I can do.”

  “Okay,” Spaceman said shortly. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you.” Another moment passed. Then: “I know what you must think of me. A woman who would treat her own child this way. But that’s how life is sometimes. He’s the head of the family, and I can’t go against him.”

  “That’s your business, Mrs. Lowe. My only concern is finding out who killed Peter.”

  “You don’t know that yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Can you tell me how it happened?”

  “He was stabbed to death.”

  “My poor baby. I hope he didn’t suffer much.”

  Although it wasn’t asked as such, there was a question plainly audible in the words. Spaceman thought about the body. For one bitter moment, he wanted to tell this stupid and pathetic woman the truth. Maybe she should know about the pain and fear Peter must have gone through before dying. Maybe she should know that he must surely have greeted death with relief when it finally came. At sixteen, he was glad to die.

  But he didn’t say any of that. Without even knowing why he should spare the feelings of this woman, Spaceman lied. “He didn’t suffer much,” he said flatly. “Peter died quickly, without much pain.”

  She sighed. “We can thank the good Lord for that anyway.”

  Spaceman had a bad taste in his mouth, and he knew that unless this conversation ended quickly, he’d let her have the truth right between the eyes. “Anything else, Mrs. Lowe?”

  “No. Just … I’ll send the money right away.”

  “You do that. And I hope it helps you to sleep nights.” With that, he hung up.

  Maguire was still looking at him.

  “That dumb bitch doesn’t have the backbone of a rabbit,” he said, maybe to justify his parting shot.

  Maguire just shook his head, then said, “How about going across the street? I’m buying.”

  Spaceman knew that he had to get out there and find Robbie, but he also knew that a drink was just what he needed at the moment. “Why not?” he said. “As long as you’re buying.”

  The Lock-up was always busiest at shift change. They picked up a couple of beers and worked their way through the crowd gathered around the television, watching a ballgame. A hand-lettered sign over the bar proclaimed the desire to outlaw liberals and not guns.

  Spaceman hated that sign. He wasn’t crazy about liberals or guns, but at least liberals didn’t kill people. No more than the right-wingers did, anyway. Most killers seemed pretty apolitical, in his experience. He lit a cigarette. “I know a couple places downtown where boys like Peter crash,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll make a run past them. Of course, it’ll be a damned waste of time.”

  “Will it?”

  “Sure. But we have to make the effort. We have to justify ourselves.”

  “To whom?”

  “To whom?” Spaceman smiled faintly, then shrugged. “Mostly to us, I guess.”

  Maguire was looking at the sign. “I wonder what drives kids like that.”

  “What drives anybody?” He was thinking about Robbie. Where the hell could he have gotten to?

  “I feel bad about the kid.”

  “We all feel bad. So what?”

  “Maybe I could ante up for a funeral. Would that be okay?”

  Spaceman studied him over the top of his beer bottle. “Why should you?”

  “No reason. I’d just like to. I can afford it.”

  “That’s right. I forgot you’re loaded.” He shrugged. “Fine. Bury him if you want to.”

  “Somebody should care.” Maguire sounded defensive.

  People seemed to keep telling him that he didn’t care. Didn’t they know how tired he was? What the hell did they expect out of him? “Maybe. If anybody has room to care.” Spaceman was still looking at the other man. “How long have you been in Homicide?” he asked.

  Maguire smiled. “What time is it now?” He shrugged. “I’ve been in Robbery. And the department PR office.”

  “Public fucking relations?”

  He shrugged. “Not my choice. Can I ask a question now?”

  Spaceman knew what was coming. “What?” he said anyway.

  “Why ‘Spaceman’?”

  Everytime he got a new partner, it was the same thing. Sometimes he made up elaborate stories to explain away the nickname. One dumb shit now working for Internal Affairs still thought that Kowalski had been one of the original seven astronauts. But tonight he was too tired for games. “About a million years ago,” he said, “I was in Nam. Somebody over there tagged me with it. We spent a lot of time flying pretty high in those days. If you catch my drift.”

  “I remember.”

  Spaceman was surprised. “What was a rich bastard like you doing in that sewer? I thought your type knew all about how to avoid dangerous drafts.”

  “I enlisted.”

  “Shit.” He shook his head. “You really are a major fuck-up, aren’t you?”

  “Some people have said so.” Maguire shifted gears again. “You have some kind of problem?”

  “What?”

  “All day I’ve had the feeling that something besides the case is both
ering you.”

  Spaceman was mad at himself for letting it show. “It’s personal,” he said flatly. “As in, my business.”

  “Sure. Okay. Didn’t mean to trespass.”

  Maybe he’d sounded like a bastard, but the last thing he needed right now was to have this guy feeling sorry for him. Anyway, Robbie was his son and his business. “Gotta go. See you in the morning,” he said more quietly.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Probably right on time, too. Spaceman finished his beer in one gulp and left.

  Chapter 13

  Night promised to be no cooler than the day had been. Already sweating, Spaceman sat behind the wheel of his car and studied the list Karen had given him earlier. Not one of the names on the neatly typed sheet seemed even vaguely familiar, and it dawned on him that he didn’t really know anything at all about his son’s friends or his son’s life. Pretty pathetic, that. But what the hell could he do about it? The boy wouldn’t talk to him.

  Things would change. When he found Robbie, they’d sit down and have a good long talk.

  Finally, he just picked a name and address at random. A start had to be made someplace and it might as well be with Roger Fellows, whoever the hell he was. Or should that be whomever?

  As he angled the car in the direction of the San Diego freeway, Spaceman peered toward the hills. Although the radio was saying that half a dozen fires were still burning, he couldn’t see anything but the slight haze. It was early for such an outbreak, but the hot, dry spring had made the whole area prime fire territory.

  Hell, it was always something around here. Fires, mudslides, earthquakes. Or else all the television actors went on strike. There was no middle ground in Los Angeles.

  Long Beach was changing. Six city blocks had been torn down to make way for a shopping mall costing, rumor said, in the neighborhood of a hundred million. Spaceman would have sold the whole damned city for half that price.

  The Fellowses lived just a few blocks from the house Spaceman used to own, until the divorce took it away. Karen and Robbie still lived there. The Fellows’ place, like his former residence, was a small tidy box covered with aluminum siding. The lawn was neatly trimmed, but beginning to turn brown because of the water shortage. That was one advantage of living in a fifth floor apartment in the big city. No damned lawn to worry about. Just muggers and dogshit.