Half a Mind (The Kate Teague Mysteries)

by Wendy Hornsby

  “It’s late. Axel won’t like it.”

  “See if he needs something we can trade for.”

  “That we have,” Hymie said, glaring at a box of microscope slides. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  Hymie went to a phone in the corner and tried to coerce Arty’s defense attorney into leaving his Thanksgiving guests to go baby-sit with his star client. Tejeda understood from the tone of the conversation he overheard that Axel bore no real love for Arty. Tejeda sympathized with Axel; it would be next to impossible to defend a man who thought he was infallible.

  Tejeda straightened a row of slides left beside the microscope. Arty’s soft underbelly, the character flaw that Tejeda had used to trip him up, was his need to be in control: of the press, the police, the emotions of the community. If Arty hadn’t learned by now when to shut up, it would get him the death penalty. Tejeda looked at the slides of fresh blood taken from the shack and hoped Wally Morrow’s killer was as flawed.

  “Vic,” Tejeda said, “did you talk to Don Kelley when you were in Oceanside?”

  “Couldn’t. Landlady said he’d gone out of town.”

  Tejeda nodded. “Figures.”

  “All set,” Hymie said, tearing off a sheet of notes as he came back from the telephone. “Axel wants time to finish his dessert, then he’ll meet you. Jailer got the okay from Arty, and passed along a shopping list for you, Roger.”

  Tejeda looked the list over quickly, then folded it into his pocket. He had rearranged the rows of slides on Vic’s desk twice, looking over the labels: Fong type O-, Martinez type A +, Frost type O +. Something rang a bell, something he felt he should be able to hear more clearly. He looked at the names on the slides again, then turned to Hymie.

  “You wouldn’t just happen to have a copy of the indictment against Arty, would you?”

  “Never leave home without it.” Hymie opened his bulging briefcase and handed Tejeda a manila folder.

  Tejeda scanned through the indictment, skipping the first paragraphs of legal mumbo jumbo before he came to the charges, sixteen in all. He read the first:

  Arthur Radley Silver is hereby accused by the district attorney of this county to whit: of violation of section 187 of the Penal Code of the State of California, murder, that on or about February 14, 1983, in this county in the State of California, that the said Arthur Radley Silver did willfully, unlawfully, feloniously, and with malice aforethought kill Erich Michael Fong, a human being.

  Another thirteen charges were identical except for the dates and names of the victims. There were two charges under Section 286, forcible sodomy, tossed in, he suspected, as a reminder during jury deliberations that these were sex killings. Not that anyone who sat through the projected year of trial was likely to forget.

  Tejeda took a pen from Vic’s pocket and made a list from the indictment:

  Frost

  Martinez

  Fong

  Ricks

  Kemmer

  Le Nguyen

  Ferraro

  Pappas

  Meyer

  Kowolsky

  Adams

  Louis

  Reynolds

  Nightengale

  Fourteen young men. Sixteen counts. He remembered the details of each case as he read the names and dates. And he knew something was missing.

  He looked down at Hymie. “How many charges are you sitting on?”

  “Eighteen. We’ll bring them up during the penalty phase, but we brought them up too late for the trial.”

  “Have the names?”

  Hymie took the pen and added to Tejeda’s list. After Hymie had added the eighteenth, Tejeda still hadn’t found what he was looking for.

  Vic picked up the list. “What’s wrong, Roger?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Call me when you do.” Hymie slid the manila folder back into his briefcase and took out a thick turkey sandwich. “Anybody else miss dinner?”

  17

  Arty Silver rattled his chains at Tejeda like Jacob Marley as he hobbled down the hall toward the interview room where Tejeda waited. “Did you bring it?”

  “Yes,” Tejeda said. “They’re checking it out downstairs.”

  “You get all of it?”

  “I got what I could. Not much is open this late on Thanksgiving night.” Tejeda went over the list Hymie Osawa had given him. “I brought you three tacos, no lettuce, a pepperoni mushroom pizza, three Big Macs and fries, a chocolate shake, and a Diet Pepsi. You know what shape this shit will be in by the time it comes upstairs?”

  “You know what I got for Thanksgiving?” Arty shuffled into the room, legs shackled at the ankles, hands attached to chains around his waist. “A Swanson’s frozen turkey dinner and a Hershey bar from the Salvation Army. Even if the shit rots, it won’t be any worse than that.”

  The two guards handling him were a little rougher than was maybe necessary, but Arty didn’t seem to help them much. They maneuvered him into a chair that was bolted to the floor and locked down his leg chains.

  Arty fussed with them to hurry, but his complaints only seemed to make them move more slowly. Tejeda had time to take a good look at him, curious to see what five years in the county jail had done for Arty.

  Arty’s arrogance was certainly intact. He had lost some weight and gained some muscle. He seemed not older, but cannier, sleek in an animal way. For the most part, though, Tejeda thought, the remarkable thing about Arty Silver’s appearance was how ordinary he seemed. If he were to walk out on the street this very minute, without his chains, people would see an unremarkable and not-very-tall forty-year-old man with a fresh eight-dollar haircut. Unless they could peer into Arty’s soul, they wouldn’t suspect that this was one of the most brutal mass murderers in California history.

  When Arty’s legs were secure, the guards released his arms and went out. Tejeda could see them hovering by the door, keeping a close eye on their prisoner. With his trial starting Monday, Arty was likely to try something desperate.

  Arty rubbed his wrists, pink from the chains, and leered at Tejeda. “You look okay, Sergeant. I mean, Lieutenant. I keep forgetting you got a promotion off me.”

  “All I got from you, Arty, was a pain in the ass.”

  Arty threw back his head and laughed. “I’d like to show you a pain in the ass.”

  “Where’s your attorney? I thought he’d be here.”

  “I told Axel you’d be a little late. I want to talk to you alone a minute.”

  “He’s not going to like it,” Tejeda warned.

  “Axel? That asshole, who needs him? But the judge won’t let me defend myself.”

  “Nice of you to see me on short notice. What’s it going to cost me?”

  “Depends.” Arty glanced at the guards, then leaned as close to Tejeda as the chains would allow. “They fried Ted Bundy. They shaved his head, plugged him in, and set the dial for well-done.”

  “You comparing yourself to Ted Bundy?”

  “No way, man.” He smirked. “I’m still alive.”

  “For now. You know, there’s a book in Las Vegas saying your friend William Tyler will be the first man executed in California since the new law.”

  “So?” Arty shrugged. “The world will have one less asshole.”

  “So, the same book says you’ll be number two.”

  Arty laughed. “Get me five bucks on that book, will you?”

  “What do you want, Arty?”

  “I need a personal favor.”

  “Ask your lawyer.”

  Arty shook his head, his posture suddenly all business. “Axel won’t do it for me.”

  “What is it?”

  “My mom. I don’t want her at the trial.”

  “Tell her.”

  “Axel wants her to sit right behind me, to show the jury what a cute kid I am. Even told her what she should wear.” He started to reach for Tejeda, but pulled back when a guard cleared his throat. “You tell her, from me, not to come.”

  “We’ll
see.”

  “Man, if I ever hear her say, ‘You’ll always be my precious boy,’ I’ll puke.” Arty sucked in a deep breath. “What can I do for you?”

  “Give me some information. But I think your attorney should be here.”

  “Fuck ’im.” Arty grinned. “Shoot.”

  “I want to run some names by you, see what you know.” Tejeda turned over the shopping list and looked at the names he’d written down, just in case he forgot them. “Corporal Wallace Morrow Jr.?”

  “Only what I saw on the news.”

  “Sean O’Shay?”

  “Rings no bells.”

  “Watch the news tonight?”

  “You mean about my Uncle Lou’s shop? I bet he had a fit.” Arty laughed. “You know, Lou wouldn’t talk to me for three years after I was arrested.”

  “Do you blame him?”

  Arty smiled, a foxy gleam on his face. “Remember, I pleaded not guilty. What makes you think I left those boys in Uncle Lou’s lockers?”

  “Right. What do you know about Don Kelley?”

  Arty started to shake his head, then stopped and furrowed his brow.

  “Age thirty-two,” Tejeda encouraged. “From Carlsbad. He’s a regular down at Clyde’s.”

  “Big guy?”

  “Very.”

  “I sort of remember him. Not from Clyde’s, though. What about him?”

  “He sent us to a shack on the Marine base.”

  Arty waved him away. “Can’t talk about that.”

  “How close were you and Kelley?”

  “Not at all. We might have banged around a little, that’s all. We knew some people in common.”

  “What people?”

  “I don’t remember. Just people.”

  “Did he know William Tyler?”

  “Ask Will.”

  “I’m asking you. Tyler said at his trial that you directed him how to pull off a duplicate killing.”

  “I can’t talk about that.”

  “Yes you can. You got immunity to testify against him. Now I want to know if you’re directing someone else.”

  Arty rolled his eyes. “I’m sure if I said no, you’d believe me.”

  “I might,” Tejeda said. “Do you think Tyler knows enough about your methods to tell someone else how to copy you?”

  “A. He doesn’t have the guts. B. I didn’t kill anybody, remember?”

  “Yeah,” Tejeda said. “So you told me. Look, Silver, did you ever confide in someone, tell him how you liked to have fun on Saturday night? Give me some help and I’ll go talk to your mother.”

  There was a terrific clatter along the concrete floor somewhere outside the room, and a deep voice boomed down the corridor: “What the hell is going on?”

  “It’s Axel,” Arty said.

  Tejeda glanced up long enough to see Arty’s attorney, dressed casually under his rain gear, puffing toward them.

  “Silver,” Axel bellowed, “don’t you say one word.”

  Tejeda gestured for Arty to come closer. “I figure you have twenty seconds—max—before Axel gets in here. Give me something to work with or the deal’s off.”

  For the first time he could remember, Tejeda saw real desperation in Arty’s face. His voice broke when he spoke: “Talk to Will. Because I just don’t know.”

  “You wangling for another trial postponement?”

  The guards got Axel through the double-locked doors a whole lot faster than they had Arty.

  “No. Honest.” Arty’s eyes shifted quickly from the door back to Tejeda. “I’m tired of this delay shit. I want to get under way. I want to get out of here.”

  “Lieutenant Tejeda!” Even when he was inside, Axel screamed at top volume. “You know better than this.”

  “So sue me.” Tejeda stood up.

  “Wait.” Arty tried to stand up with him, but his waist chains caught. “Do we have a deal?”

  “You didn’t tell me a goddamn thing, Arty.”

  Arty’s eyes made a last feral plea. “I did.”

  “See you on Monday, Arty.” Tejeda walked to the door and waited for the guards. “Say hi to your mom.”

  Tejeda didn’t stay to listen to Axel bawl out his star client, though it might have been fun. Word was that Axel was having a helluva time keeping a tight lid on Arty. His first problem was that Arty acted like a loose flywheel. Early on in the case he had granted a pair of very damaging interviews to the press and left poor Axel to put his finger in the dike. Axel’s second problem was more venal; rumor was that, though it was unethical and highly illegal, he was negotiating both book and movie rights to Arty’s story to pay the bills. And he didn’t want his best material floating out in public domain.

  Tejeda chuckled to himself as he made his way back down to the sally port. Poor Axel, he thought. After five years of working with Arty, trying to maneuver him through the court system and keep him away from a death sentence, Axel had probably earned every nickel he got. And more.

  He checked the wall clock. If Hymie drove him straight home now, he’d be able to get about three hours’ sleep before it was time to leave for the airport. With a tail wind and a head start on rush-hour traffic in San Francisco, he might have time to grab breakfast before his nine o’clock appointment at San Quentin.

  18

  The house was unnaturally quiet, like the pause before the roller coaster starts downhill. Only the slap of gin-rummy cards and Eddie Green’s snores broke the silence of the cavernous foyer.

  The taller of a pair of uniformed officers discarded the ten of hearts and glanced up at Tejeda. “All’s quiet, Lieutenant.”

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Asleep, finally. Got pretty rough there for a while. But it toned down after the eleven o’clock news.”

  “How long are you on?”

  “Till four.” The officer looked at his watch and shrugged. “Ralph here has to get home, but I can stay on if you need me.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Eddie Green’s head lolled over the back of his chair at such an awkward angle that Tejeda shook him awake; they had a long day ahead and he didn’t want to spend it listening to Eddie bitch about a crick in his neck.

  “Mmmm?” Eddie growled, opening one eye.

  “Go find a bed.”

  “What’s the point?”

  Tejeda shrugged. “Did you get Justin squared away?”

  “Yeah. Kate took him home to Libby.”

  Libby throw a fit?”

  Eddie started to shake his head, but grimaced and grabbed his neck. “Damn.”

  “I’m going up,” Tejeda said. “Get yourself some aspirin.”

  Eddie massaged his neck. “Don’t get too comfortable. Plane leaves at five.”

  “I know.”

  Tejeda walked up the stairs in the dark. His eyes hurt and his head throbbed and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. But he didn’t think it was possible, the way his mind was racing.

  He had telephoned Kate earlier, and heard in her voice the effort it took her to sound composed. Though Wally Morrow’s death had upset her, he was a transient corpse, as it were, a boy from the outside who had enough history of personal problems that she could assign to him some guilt for his own end. But Sean’s death was something else entirely, a direct, personal attack on Tejeda and the people he loved.

  Tejeda had some business to take care of in San Quentin first thing in the morning, but as soon as he got back, he would discuss with Richie and Theresa the possibility of going away as a precaution. Especially Theresa; some genius at a local television station had made her the focus of a news story, a sort of Juliet, the daughter of a famous detective working on a murder case, whose boyfriend had been killed by the murderer. The first time in his life Tejeda could remember seriously contemplating murder himself was while watching the local newscaster relate Theresa’s “tragic” story; a thirty-second spot before the weather.

  In the dark, he barked his shin on a roll-away bed Reece had pulled in front of
Kate’s bedroom door, guarding her like Cerberus, wrapped only in a down quilt and with a black satin mask over his eyes. Tejeda managed to open the door and climb over the bed without noticeably disturbing Reece. Some guard, he groused, rubbing his shin.

  When he shut the door behind him, the bedroom was dim, streaked with long shadows from the lights outside along the bluffs. After counting the number of recumbent shapes in the room, he abandoned the hope of a little sleep and resigned himself to a hot shower and a pot of coffee.

  He tried to discern who was where. The ball on the window seat under an afghan was Trinh. Kate slept at the edge of the bed with Theresa in her arms. On the far side of them, Tejeda recognized his mother, shoes off but otherwise fully dressed, softly purring in her sleep.

  “Dad?” Richie reached out from the rocking chair beside the bed. “What time is it?”

  “About three.” He took Richie’s hand and led him into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the light; no sense waking everyone.

  “How’s your sister?” Tejeda asked.

  “Shook-up.” Richie rubbed his eyes. “She’s afraid to stay, but she won’t leave.”

  Tejeda recounted the shapes in his head. “Where’s Jena? You didn’t let her go home alone, did you?”

  “No. She’s up in Carmel with her parents.” Richie squinted up at his father. “I think I could get used to being rich. Kate called someone and got Jena on a private jet an hour after we decided she should leave town.”

  “Why didn’t you go with her?”

  “Theresa.”

  “Thanks.” He wrapped an arm around Richie. “Where are the others?”

  “Grandpa and Lance are sleeping in my room. Mom sort of freaked and went home.”

  “Home to New Mexico?”

  “No. Our house. Lydia said she’d stay with her.”

  He could see Cassie with the doors bolted and the lights out, pots and pans all over the floor so she could hear anyone who got in. She’d freaked before, and he’d had the feeling that in a perverse way she enjoyed it.

  His stomach growled. “Anyone get around to dinner?”

  “Not really.”