Rough Cut

by Ed Gorman

  He let me precede him to the car. I opened the door and put my hand inside for Cindy to take. There was nothing to say. I held my hand there, feeling cold and tired and scared.

  Finally she took my hand.

  "We should go home," I said.

  "Home?" she said.

  "My place."

  She leaned over and kissed me. "Home. That sounds good."

  TWENTY-FIVE

  My place looked as dark as Denny's had the night I'd found him dead. I almost didn't want to leave the car. Cindy had fallen asleep with her head on my shoulder.

  I raised her face gently and kissed her and then we started out into the night, her sleepy as a wakened child.

  "I love you," I said, and kissed her.

  I got the apartment door open and pushed it in and stood back to let her precede me. It was then that I caught my first glimpse of Merle Wickes and the gun he was holding. It looked to be the same gun he was fondling the day before when he'd apparently been contemplating suicide.

  "Clay's dead," he said. Merle had been waiting in the dark. I found the switch and turned the overhead on.

  "You mind if I put her to bed?" I said.

  By this time, the sedative having taken effect, Cindy didn't seem even slightly aware of Merle's presence. I had plopped her down on the couch, where she sat now zombie-like, staring straight ahead.

  Merle smiled nastily. "You like fucking dead men's wives?"

  "You like walking around without any teeth?"

  Even with the gun, Merle was not a brave man in the face of real anger.

  In the bedroom, I pulled back the cover, then began stripping Cindy to her underwear. I clicked on the electric blanket and pushed her fondly beneath the sheets. I stood staring at her a long moment, loving her.

  Merle was pacing when I got back to the living room. He was so caught up in his thoughts he didn't hear me come up from behind him. He looked silly with his lounge-singer hairdo and the gun dangling from his slender fingers.

  "Thanks for ruining my company," I said.

  I pushed him hard and he went crashing into an end table, slamming his knee hard and crying out in a high voice.

  "You're on the hook for an embezzlement rap, Merle, and I'm going to make damned sure that charges are pressed." I glared down at him, still angry. "You can't do anything right, Merle. You can't even have a mistress. Clay was sleeping with her." I laughed. "You're a wimp, Merle, and I'm about to prove it."

  "What's that mean?" he said petulantly.

  I walked over to him. He raised the gun as if to hold me at bay, but he did absolutely nothing when I reached down and took it from him.

  "It means," I said, "that the police are looking for you right now. But before I call them I want to know where Kenneth Martin is."

  "Kenneth Martin? You're crazy."

  "The guard, Merle, the guard who helped Clay and Denny and Gettig steal Mrs. Amis's gems."

  Merle seemed to swell up momentarily. Cockiness shone in his eyes. He took himself out of his slouch and laughed. "You think you've got this all figured out, don't you?"

  "I've got it figured out enough that I know Kenneth Martin is killing people because they double-crossed him."

  "Kenneth Martin is dead, you moron. I saw him myself- where they buried him after they shot him."

  All I could do was stare at him. "Then who the hell is doing the killings?"

  "I don't know."

  "Bull," I said.

  "Look, if I knew, don't you think I'd tell you? There's a good chance whoever it is wants to kill me next. That's why I'm here. I'd hoped maybe you'd figured things out." Now he was the more familiar Merle. Pleading. Wimpy.

  "Get out of here, Merle," I said.

  "God," he said, "this is a good place to hide." He was desperate now. "Please. Please, Michael."

  "Get out, Merle."

  "Whoever it is, he'll kill me."

  "Maybe that'll be better than prison. That's where you're headed, Merle, and you're not tough enough to survive."

  "God, Michael, you were always a decent guy before."

  "Yeah," I snapped, "and look where it got me. I've been embezzled out of a business and I'm stuck in the middle of murders I had nothing to do with."

  "Please, Michael. Please let me stay."

  I raised the gun and aimed it dead center in the middle of his face. "I wouldn't push your luck, Merle."

  All he said was, "Maybe I'll turn myself over."

  I said nothing.

  "Well," he said, as if he were starting a sentence. But it was a sentence he never finished. He could see I didn't want to talk. He left.

  ***

  An hour later I was knocking back my third bourbon, hoping to kill the anxiety enough so that I could lie back on the couch and sleep.

  I turned the light out and closed my eyes and felt a sudden torpor rush through me. I felt old and used up and very, very unwise. I thought of Merle out there, running, terrified. He'd been our last best hope-the guy both Detective Bonnell and I thought could clear everything up. The guy who could lead us to Kenneth Martin.

  Only Kenneth Martin was dead, killed by the three men who were themselves dead now.

  The phone rang.

  I sat there and stared at it as if I were a bush native and had never seen such a newfangled instrument.

  Finally, maybe the tenth ring, I picked it up.

  Even over the phone her weariness came through oppressively. The widow Kubek.

  "Something is wrong," she said. "Somebody is in his room now. I'm scared."

  "Call the police," I said.

  "I can't, Mr. Ketchum. Maybe it's him. Maybe he's in trouble. I'd just be making the trouble worse if I called the police."

  I didn't want to tell her. Couldn't. That I'd leave to the good grace and long experience of the police. "I'll be right over," I said.

  Before leaving, I checked on Cindy, then looked up Bonnell's name in the phone directory.

  He hadn't been asleep, either. He sounded almost happy that I'd called him. I said I'd see him there.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I had no trouble breaking the speed limit. I didn't see a single patrol car in the entire eight-mile trip. Only the ghostly flash of yellow stoplights against the dawning sky.

  Bonnell's car was waiting when I arrived.

  He put out a surprisingly friendly hand when I walked up the stairs and met him in front of the room where Kenneth Martin had lived.

  Mrs. Kubek was there, too, wrapped inside a frayed and faded housecoat, looking frail and old. Only her rage animated her face. She glowered at me as I greeted Bonnell.

  "I didn't want the cops called," she snapped. "I didn't want any trouble."

  "Mrs. Kubek-" I said, about to explain that her lover was dead and was beyond the grasp of earthly trouble. But then I stopped myself. "You don't know who was here tonight?"

  "It wasn't Kenneth," she said.

  I looked at Bonnell. "You think we could speak alone?"

  "Sure," he said. He turned to Mrs. Kubek. "Maybe we'll talk in Mr. Martin's room, if you don't mind, Mrs. Kubek."

  "He didn't do nothing wrong, Kenneth. He didn't."

  "I'm sure he didn't," Bonnell said, soothing as a country priest.

  She had one more laser-like glower left for me. Then she left.

  We went inside. I closed the door and said, "Martin's dead."

  "What?" Bonnell said, surprised as I'd been. I told him about Merle Wickes's visit. "Damn," Bonnell said. "Then who's been doing all the killing?"

  I couldn't help myself. I found his question amusing. "I thought you were the cop, not me."

  He smiled. "Yeah, I see what you mean."

  I looked around the room, at its cleanliness and orderliness. It was a testament to Kenneth Martin's determination to lead a civilized life even if he had to do it in bad conditions.

  "Reminds me of my uncle's room," Bonnell said. "He was a railroad man, lifelong bachelor. I used to come up and visit him. Since he didn'
t have any kids of his own, he always had plenty of money to spend on me."

  I thought of Martin's little nephew in the photograph I'd seen the other day. Martin probably would have had his nephew visit him, too-if the nephew and his parents hadn't been killed in a car accident.

  Bonnell sat down in a straight-back chair. "You think it might have been Wickes here tonight?"

  "I don't think Merle could have driven from my place to here in time."

  Bonnell frowned, studied aspects of the room some more. "Not much here that's helpful."

  He stood up, started walking around. I watched him, then leaned back on the edge of the bed and looked at the photo of Martin in his Korean uniform.

  "This sure would have been an easy case if Martin had only had the courtesy to stay alive," Bonnell said ruefully.

  "Yeah, wouldn't it."

  Bonnell thumbed through Martin's pipe collection. "I wonder why somebody would have come here tonight."

  "Maybe the gems."

  He shook his head. "No. If it was the gems they were after, they would have been here a long time ago and tossed the room. Nobody's done that." He sounded very sure of himself. "The gems have been in the hands of the killer for a long time. Safe and sound." He got quizzical again. "So why would somebody be here tonight?"

  A knock came on the door.

  Bonnell went to open it.

  Mrs. Kubek stood there, shuddering from the cold. "Just wondered if you were about done. I gotta get up in a few hours. I need my sleep."

  Bonnell shrugged. "Just a few more minutes."

  She glowered at me just once then turned to walk back down the stairs.

  I raised my eyes to the photograph of Martin again and then to the Mitchell Junior College pennant next to it.

  I got fixated on the pennant without quite knowing why, just staring at its green and yellow colors until gradually the wrongness of it struck me.

  "Why would he have a junior-college pennant?"

  "What?" Bonnell said.

  "Why would a man in his fifties have a junior-college pennant?" Otherwise this was a somber room, nothing frivolous.

  "Maybe his niece or nephew went there."

  "He only had a nephew and he died in a car accident with his parents."

  Bonnell shrugged. "Maybe he followed the football team. Mitchell's got a good junior varsity squad."

  I shrugged, thinking maybe he was right but not quite believing him.

  "Well," he said, "no sense in making Mrs. Kubek any angrier. Might as well leave."

  "Yeah," I said.

  I stood up, looked around the room, followed Bonnell out.

  He closed the door and it clicked shut with a real finality.

  "I wish I knew what the hell was going on," he said. There was a genuine sadness in his voice.

  As we passed by the office on the way to our cars, I saw Mrs. Kubek standing in the shadows. Obviously she hoped we didn't see her.

  "Just a minute," I said.

  Bonnell nodded. "I need to tell Mrs. Kubek about Martin."

  "Can I ask her a question first?" I said. I walked up to the office door and turned the handle. It was locked.

  From the shadows Mrs. Kubek stared at me. She made no move to open the door.

  "Mrs. Kubek," I said, "I need to ask you a question."

  "Go away," she said.

  "Mrs. Kubek," I said. "Please." I wondered if I sounded as whiny as Merle Wickes had at my place. The door opened.

  "You stay there," she said. "What's your question?"

  "The Mitchell Junior College pennant in Kenneth's room. Why did he have it?"

  "That's your question?" she snapped. "It's a stupid one."

  "What's the answer, Mrs. Kubek?"

  "Because his nephew went there."

  "The little boy in the photograph?"

  "Yes."

  "You told me he was dead."

  "You don't hear too good, Mr. Ketchum. What I said was the mother and father died. The boy, he lived in an orphanage. He came up to see Kenneth all the time. They love each other like father and son."

  I looked at Bonnell, as a terrible idea came to mind.

  "Do you have a picture of this boy?" I asked.

  "Sure," she said.

  "I need to see it," I said.

  "Can't it wait till tomorrow?"

  "No, it can't, Mrs. Kubek. It really can't."

  "What's wrong?" Bonnell asked me when Mrs. Kubek shuffled away to get the photograph.

  "It's starting to make sense," I said.

  "What is?" Bonnell said.

  "Who the killer is?"

  "It is?" Bonnell asked.

  "The only person it could be. The only person young enough to go to a junior college."

  "What are you talking about?"

  I had to put it together in my mind before I could say it. Three months ago somebody had started work at my agency. This was just after Martin had disappeared. Those two facts could have been coincidence until you considered that the murders had started soon after. Then coincidence became hard to explain-especially when you began to realize that with his agency job my new employee knew a great deal about our comings and goings. He would know, with his special vantage point, when to strike out.

  "I wish I knew what the hell you were talking about," Bonnell said.

  Mrs. Kubek came back and handed me a Polaroid photo, which I angled into the light.

  "Meet Tommy Byrnes," I said to Bonnell, giving him the picture.

  Then Bonnell proceeded to tell her about Martin's death.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  One minute later I was using Mrs. Kubek's phone. But to no avail.

  Either Cindy was still unconscious from the sedative, or…

  I didn't like to think of "or." But it was obvious that Tommy Byrnes meant to get each of us in repayment for the death of his uncle.

  I slammed the phone and asked Bonnell if he had a siren on his car.

  I didn't even give him time to say yes. I just pushed him toward his Pontiac.

  I had left home so quickly I hadn't noticed the red Mazda at the far end of my parking lot.

  As Bonnell's headlights swept over the cars in the lot, I noticed the red vehicle and realized whose it was.

  Merle Wickes's.

  I was out of the Pontiac, running, before Bonnell had fully stopped.

  I slipped on the ice as I ran toward the car, banged my knee against the pavement, swore, but kept running.

  I skidded over to the Mazda, glanced inside, then quickly glanced away.

  I had never seen anything like it. In the average experience of the average man, seeing a person with his throat cut is not a common experience.

  Tommy had found Merle with no problem. I looked in once again, only to confirm the horrible image that had been pressed on my eyes moments before. Merle was still in there, his throat slashed-his hair, ironically, in perfect composure.

  Behind me, Bonnell was saying something, but I didn't hear the exact words.

  I was already on my way up the stairs. Terrified that I was too late.

  I reached for the banister to help my flight be faster. Something sticky clung to my palm. I knew what it was without looking. I moved two steps at a time now.

  My apartment door was slightly ajar when I reached it, the crack between door and frame dark.

  I stopped, not out of fear for myself but afraid that Tommy might not have hurt her-and that my sudden presence might panic him into doing so.

  My breathing crashed in my ears-I was dripping with sweat and freezing at the same time-as I eased up to the door and put my fingers on it.

  I could hear Bonnell thundering into the vestibule below.

  I pushed the door open and went in.

  In the moonlight through the large living-room window, I saw him.

  He stood silhouetted in the window, facing me, leaning against the ledge as if he were perfectly relaxed.

  He held a gun and it was aimed directly at me.

  "
You're too late," he said. "She's dead."

  His statement stopped me completely. Rage, disbelief, the first wave of shock-all moved through me at the same time.

  I would have lunged at him, unafraid of his weapon, but I had no strength.

  All I could do was stand and breathe and try to collect my thoughts into something coherent-but something that did not face what he'd just told me.

  "You killed him," he said.

  "I didn't," I said after a time. "I didn't have anything to do with it. Neither did Cindy."

  "Just by being who you are, you killed him," Tommy said. "Your kind of people…" There was a rage in his voice that matched the rage in my heart. "They blackmailed him into helping with the robbery. They'd found out about a drunk driving rap he'd had one time-they threatened to tell his bosses."

  Tommy had started crying.

  "I'm sorry, Tommy," I said, and I was.

  "He was the only thing that kept me going in the orphanage," Tommy said. "He would've taken me if he could've afforded it."

  "I'm sure he was a good man, Tommy," I said. Then I thought of Cindy and my pity for him waned.

  I wanted to kick him as I'd kicked Stokes earlier tonight. Only Tommy I wanted to kick to death.

  "It doesn't matter anymore," Tommy said, "who lives or who dies. It just doesn't matter."

  In silhouette I could see him raise the gun. I heard the safety come off.

  I gathered myself enough to stall him a little.

  "Another killing," I said.

  "Like I said, it doesn't matter. It didn't matter to them about my uncle. They killed him, anyway."

  "Tommy-" He raised the gun.

  It happened so quickly I scarcely realized what he'd done. Turn the weapon on himself. Directly to his forehead. Squeeze the trigger. Once.

  Which was more than enough.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I was in the bedroom by the time Tommy had fallen to the floor. There was nothing I could do for him, anyway. Cindy was sprawled on the bed.

  There was no sign of blood. But neither was there any sign of breathing.

  I got the table light on and saw immediately that he'd strangled her. Probably he hadn't wanted to waken the neighbors with gunshots.