ELLERY QUEEN MYSTERY MAGAZINE

by Penny Publication

  "Sounds reasonable," I said.

  "Apparently one of the blades that cut him had two sharp edges, whereas the other had only one. That's what he says. He also says that he can't be completely certain without doing an autopsy."

  I leaned forward.

  "But he doesn't think it'll come to that," she said. "Oh. And they found another cut. On his back. Not as deep. He didn't say if he thinks it was done by one of the original two knives." She left.

  "She says there were three wounds, not two?" the smaller of the two cops asked.

  I nodded. Poor ol' Wolfgang.

  The smaller cop crossed something out in his notebook and wrote a correction.

  The larger cop just said, "What's he expect?" He was a big guy who looked the age and size of a high-school lineman.

  "What do you mean?" his colleague asked.

  "He said it was terrorists," the lineman said. "If he's going to mess with terrorists . . ." He looked from his colleague to me, for support.

  I said, "If someone is attacked by terrorists, they're responsible?" I shook my head. "You're saying the nine-eleven people were messing with terrorists?"

  "I just said . . ." the lineman began. But he stopped.

  His colleague smiled and shook his head slowly.

  I said nothing more. And at least they had treated me as a witness rather than a suspect, probably because Nurse Matty had stressed that I stayed around after Wolfgang came in.

  But with the patient in surgery and the uniforms unable to think of more questions for me not to know the answers to, I began to consider leaving. It was then that a southside detective, Imberlain, showed up. So I got to do it all again.

  By which time Matty had a further update. The surgeons had found a fourth cut. They were now putting Wolfgang's spleen and liver back together. I decided to leave, at least for the time being.

  I'd followed the ambulance in my car, so I had wheels. But instead of using them to go back home, I went to Wolfgang's house.

  Wolfgang had showed up at my office about eleven-thirty. Now it was nearly four, and still raining. I didn't know when he'd been attacked by the "terrorists" but he'd been away from home for many hours.

  When I got there, though, it didn't seem like the house was empty. Through the rain I could see some lights on inside. But not behind curtained windows. I could see them through the wide-open door.

  I parked and went to the porch. It was then that I discovered the door wasn't wide open after all. It had been pulled off its hinges.

  5.

  I had no idea what Wolfgang had been doing in the two months since I'd last seen him. Then, he was hale and hearty—not a single stab wound. He had talked optimistically about the future, wanting to create a project to help the people he described as society's "invisibles."

  And when I'd last visited his house, the interior was immaculate. Wolfgang—though then he was LeBron—had converted the conventional interior into a large space. He'd done all the work himself, having trained as a carpenter. As well, he'd painted pictures and designs on the walls. There wasn't much furniture when I'd been there, just what a half-alien gentleman would use when living on his own.

  But now, coming through the open doorway, I saw pieces of furniture everywhere. Most seemed once to have come from beds, and there were also mattresses ripped open.

  This was clearly a matter for the police, though none were on the scene.

  Which left me with a decision to make. I ought to call Imberlain, who'd given me his card. But my impulse was to call my daughter. She was a cop just off her probationary year. Sam didn't work Southeast but Wolfgang's house wasn't far from the southwest sector where she did work. And she, at least, was used to me. She wouldn't ask me endless questions about why I'd gone to Wolfgang's house instead of going home.

  "Why did you call me, Daddy?"

  "You're a cop. This is a police matter."

  "Call nine-one-one."

  "It isn't an emergency. The house isn't on fire. The front door's been ripped off its hinges. The owner's in hospital with four stab wounds. There are a few lights on, but I don't know if anyone's inside. I didn't want to go in without somebody knowing where I am and what I'm doing."

  "So naturally you called me."

  "My daughter, the cop. Naturally." I said, "I'm not asking you to drop whatever you're doing and rush out here, but would you stay on the phone while I go in?"

  "You shouldn't go in. It's a crime scene. You should call the police."

  "I did call the police. And what if someone's in there, and injured?"

  "Call three-two-seven-three-eight-one-one. That's the number for non-emergencies."

  "I'm going in." I was already inside the front door, but dwelling on details would be pedantic.

  "Call the number, Daddy."

  "Just hang on while I look around."

  "Daddy!"

  Slowly I walked into the middle of the open room. The room was chaos. A large television set had been tipped off its mounting. DVDs were scattered over a whole corner. In the kitchen area, large pans were on the floor. More and larger pans than I would have thought a man living alone would have. Mind you, there were pieces from a lot of beds—I counted what looked like half a dozen without trying. How many people were sleeping here? Had Wolfgang set up an open-plan B&B?

  "Daddy?"

  "I'm here, honey. Just hang on."

  "I'm hanging up."

  "Please don't do that."

  Given the beds, I was interested in what I didn't see. Which was evidence of people—their bags, their clothes . . . Such things might be underneath the wreckage, but I saw nothing on top.

  I made my way to the back door. That was still on its hinges but it swung loose in the bits of breeze that passed through the house.

  I didn't get it.

  "Daddy, I'm hanging up."

  I was about to say okay and that she should get back to whatever or whomever she was doing when I heard a whimper.

  "Hang on. I hear something. Or someone."

  "Who?"

  "I'm looking."

  I followed the sound. I found its source in the bathroom. It was a child. "It's a little boy."

  The kid looked up sharply. He had tear-stained eyes. "I'm a girl," he said.

  "I mean a little girl."

  "How old?" Sam asked.

  "About . . . seven."

  "I'm ten."

  "I mean ten. She's about ten. And her name is Jane."

  "Nicole," the girl said.

  "I mean Nicole. And she's resting in the bathroom because she just broke all the furniture here and destroyed the place."

  "I'm hiding," Nicole said. "I was scared."

  6.

  Sam arrived about half an hour later. She wasn't wearing her uniform.

  "Thanks for coming," I said. "I didn't know what to do."

  "I hope you didn't disturb anything."

  "I had to think of Nicole." Nicole looked up from a chair she was using as a table in the kitchen area. "She was hungry."

  "Thirsty," Nicole said.

  "And thirsty. I made her a glass of water."

  "You don't make water," Nicole said.

  "And I made her cinnamon toast." I stuck my tongue out at the child. She laughed. I turned to Sam. "Like I used to make for you."

  "Is that your wife?"

  "My daughter."

  "Is that really your daughter?" Nicole asked.

  "My lovely daughter, of whom I am double-proud."

  "Why double?"

  "Proud of her as an outstanding police person and proud of her as a wonderful human being who has come through a lot of difficulties in her life."

  Nicole frowned. "She's police?"

  "Sure as shootin'."

  Sam drew me aside. "What do you know about her?" I shook my head. "Or about what happened?" I shrugged.

  "I waited for you before asking questions," I said.

  Sam looked at her watch.

  "Do you have to be somewhere?"
/>
  "I called this in on my way. Some uniforms should be here soon." She knelt beside Nicole's "table." "I'm Sam," she said.

  "That's a boy's name."

  "My father wanted a boy. He didn't realize that girls are better."

  That pleased the child, who acknowledged it by taking a giant mouthful of the toast, as if no mere boy could eat so much at one time. She choked a little but got it down.

  Sam said, "I need you to tell me what happened here, Nicole."

  "Men came and wanted money. Wolfgang wouldn't give it to them, so they looked everywhere for it. Then they took him away."

  "Wolfgang?" Sam asked.

  "He owns the house," I said.

  "The men broke everything," Nicole said. "It wasn't me."

  "Who else was here?"

  "Two of the mothers." Nicole thought. "Tara and . . . I can't remember her name."

  "They were staying here?" Sam asked.

  "We all stay here."

  "Why is that?"

  "Our husbands and boyfriends aren't good ones. They hit us." Her face wrinkled. "Not me. But Mom. Harvey does that."

  "Is Harvey your dad?"

  "No." Her frown suggested that the less she had to do with Harvey the happier she'd be.

  "How many women are staying here?" Sam asked.

  Nicole counted on her fingers. "Seven."

  "And children?"

  "Only me and a couple of babies."

  "Where are they all now?" Sam asked.

  "Tara and the other one ran away when the men came. Two others . . . Janine and Stephanie . . . They came back later but they left. I think it was because their kids were about to get out of school." She thought. "That's Harry after the prince of England cause he's got red hair, and Chloe."

  "They go to school?" Sam said. "I thought you said only babies stayed here."

  "Harry's six and Chloe is seven. They're such babies."

  "And," Sam said, "where is your mother, Nicole?"

  After toughing it out for a moment, Nicole's face puckered up. She began to cry. "I don't know. She left this morning and said I should wait here."

  "And you haven't seen her or heard from her?"

  "I told her I should have my own phone."

  "Why aren't you at school?"

  "The one I go to is too far away. Mom said we'd get a new one soon."

  "She wasn't here when the men came?"

  "No."

  "Do you know where she went? To work, maybe?"

  "She used to work at Denny's but then Harvey found her. I don't know if she found another job yet." Another pucker. "But she always comes back at night. I wait here for her." She looked up at Sam. "Do you think Harvey found her again?"

  "I don't know," Sam said quietly, "but I'll try to find out. So Harvey wasn't one of the men who took Wolfgang away?"

  "I don't know. They had masks on."

  "What kind of masks?"

  "All over their faces, with holes for the eyes."

  "Did you recognize any of the men?"

  She shook her head.

  I said, "Do you know Harvey's last name?"

  "Peterson, I think."

  "Does Harvey know you and your mother live here now?"

  "I don't think so. But we've only been here . . ." She thought. "Three nights. But even if Harvey comes, Wolfgang promised he won't get in."

  "How does he make sure of that?"

  "He locks the door and he's the only one who answers it." The face puckered again. "But when the men came, they just pushed him out of the way. Wolfgang shouted for everyone to run and he jumped on one of the men, on his back."

  "You must have been scared, Nicole," I said.

  She nodded.

  "But you didn't leave with the other women?"

  "Mom said to wait here."

  There was noise at the front of the house. We turned to look and saw two cops coming in through the aforementioned—but absent—door.

  Sam put her arm around Nicole and took control.

  I took flight.

  7.

  I headed back to the hospital. The answers to most of my questions were knocking around somewhere in Wolfgang's head. Wolfgang, the half-alien formerly known as LeBron James. Wolfgang, the half-alien born in Santa Claus, Indiana, under the name of Curtis Nelson.

  I did know some things.

  As I drove I thought about what Nicole had told us and I wondered what kind of place Wolfgang was running. The Wolfgang I'd known didn't seem a first-choice candidate for defender against angry terrorists, or boyfriends. He wasn't big—just an average kind of guy. And when I knew him, he didn't even have secure locks on his doors.

  However, at that time he'd lived alone. Now he lived with seven women and three children. Maybe other things had changed too.

  Once inside the hospital I was waylaid in the crowded waiting room. The rain hadn't stopped and people continued to flood into Emergency. But I said magic words. I asked for Nurse Matty by name. Moments later she appeared before me.

  "You're back," she said.

  "Your powers of observation continue to dazzle."

  "I thought this Wolfgang guy wasn't a friend."

  "He's not. However I've just been to his house, where the cops are sifting through the wreckage of all the furniture."

  She leaned forward with her eyes wide open. "Wreckage?"

  "There was also a ten-year-old girl hiding there who doesn't know where her mother is."

  "This is Wolfgang's . . . girlfriend?"

  "Unlikely, but he's the only person I can think of who might have an idea what's up with Mom. And if he's anywhere close to conversation-enabled, I need to see him."

  Nurse Matty tilted her head. "So, does that make you a cop?"

  "No. But my daughter is."

  She blinked a couple of times. "Does anything you say make sense?"

  "I've been asked that before."

  "I'm going to take you to see him anyway."

  "Thank you."

  "But you've got to promise not to stab him. We've sewn him up enough for one day. We found a fourth cut—in his shoulder from the back. Did I tell you that before?"

  "Not where it was."

  She turned and we walked. "He's in a recovery room."

  "Not intensive care, then?"

  "He should be fine. Only one of the abdominal wounds was deep. There were perforations in his liver and pancreas, but not big ones. The shoulder will give him trouble for a long time, but your Wolfgang is a very lucky boy."

  "I wonder if he sees it that way yet." After a couple of turns, I said, "Were the four wounds all with different knives? Could they tell?"

  "I don't know."

  "They didn't find he has two hearts, by any chance, did they?"

  She stopped abruptly and looked at me. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "Don't mind me."

  "That he loves you but he loves somebody else too?"

  "I know nothing whatever about his love life, if any."

  "I don't know if he's going to make much sense yet," she said, "so you should be a perfect pair."

  "This whole situation doesn't make any sense," I said.

  "No?"

  "Like, why did he come to me?"

  Outside some drawn curtains, Matty said, "Remember, people take different lengths of time to come around after a general anesthetic." She opened a gap in the curtains and I went in.

  8.

  Wolfgang was not looking his best. The side of his head was bandaged—though I hadn't heard about a head injury—and there were enough drips and tubes and machines to make Baron Münchhausen envious.

  But he responded to the noise of my arrival and he moved to sit up while I pulled a chair close. "Mr. Albert Samson," he said. "Greetings."

  "Mr. Wolfgang . . . would that be Mozart?"

  "It would." Not too spaced-out to smile.

  "How's it going?"

  "I've felt better. But we heal quickly."

  "You told me that before. Do you remem
ber?"

  He thought. He didn't remember.

  "Have you healed enough to answer some questions?"

  "I'll try."

  "Your house is a wreck."

  "That's not a question."

  "Why are seven women and three children living with you?"

  "Not living."

  "They have—had—beds. They come home to your place after they finish work. What do you call it?"

  "Visiting."

  "Silly me."

  "It wasn't my plan."

  "Women, some with children, just started appearing at your door?"

  "It began with one. I was walking around and I found this woman leaning against a fence. She'd been beaten up."

  "You found her?"

  "About two miles from my house—in fact a little closer to yours than mine."

  "So you dialed nine-one-one?"

  "She didn't want me to do that."

  "Why not?"

  "Do you know anything about the psychology of battered women?"

  "Do you?"

  "I've been reading up on it. Anyhow, I brought her home. I got her a bed. The idea was that she could stay for a few days, until she felt better."

  "When was this?"

  "Second week in October."

  "And is she still visiting you?"

  "Well, yes."

  "And she happened to have some buddies who also got beaten up?"

  "I guess. Or some kind of word started spreading around. Women, and children . . ."

  "But there are shelters in the city, Wolfgang. Organized places with much better facilities than just having beds scattered around an open space, all sharing one bathroom."

  "And one kitchen . . . I know. Dayspring, the Julian Center . . . I have a list and I tell them. And some have gone to them. But a lot don't want to."

  "They all stayed on?"

  "A lot have gone back to where they came from." He shook his head sadly.

  I said, "Back in September you talked about doing something for ‘invisible' people."

  "This wasn't what I meant. I want to do something to help people with problems. But now all I do is squeeze more beds in and try to keep them all from squabbling. I hate raised voices."

  He paused. I just waited. Any group of people crowded in together isn't going to last as happy families. The Big Brother television shows made fortunes on that principle.