Powers of Arrest

by Jon Talton

  ***

  Will heard the women’s laughter before he saw the boat, a sleek new model with several young women wearing bikinis and acting as if everything they heard or saw was the funniest thing they had ever experienced. The boat slowed and came to a halt three slips down from where Kristen’s craft would have been docked.

  Then he saw the man.

  He was standing at the water’s edge and looked to be somewhere north of sixty with the mien of a Civil War general: bushy beard and moustache and long, white hair combed back from his forehead. The image was broken by his clothes: an old T-shirt and shorts. He was filming the girls on the boat with a video camera.

  Will left Cheryl Beth to her calls and walked in his direction, which, as usual, took quite a bit of time. But the man was so distracted that he didn’t notice until Will was right behind him.

  “Hi.”

  “Oh, howdy.” The man put down the camera and faced him. He had skin the color of Spam.

  “Nice view.”

  “You better believe it, and I’m not talking about the boats.” He chuckled.

  Will used his left hand to show his badge and identification. “I’m Detective Borders, Cincinnati Police.”

  “Whoa.” The scraggly face tensed. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here, officer.”

  “Relax,” Will said. “Do you come out here to take pictures often?”

  The general hesitated, then nodded. “It’s only harmless fun,” he said sheepishly. “My boat’s over there on that trailer. It’s not like I’m trespassing. There’s so many pretty girls, and, hell, it’s not like I’m going to get any now, but at least a man can dream, can’t he?”

  “I said relax,” Will said, sounding a little less relaxed now. He felt time working against him. The detectives Fassbinder had sent out earlier last week interviewed everyone who was at the marina, a small group during a weekday, and then called each slip owner at home. This man might have fallen through the cracks.

  Will asked him if he had been here the previous Saturday afternoon.

  He had.

  “Did you see a young woman who owned the boat that would have been tied up over there?” He pointed fifty feet to the empty slip where Gruber’s craft would have been.

  “The lady cop.” He nodded slowly. “Kristen. That was a damned shame, a tragedy.” Then he stepped back and held out a hand. “God, man, you don’t think I killed her, do you?”

  Will stepped in closer. “No, I don’t. But did you see her? Did you film her?”

  He stared at the ground and kicked it, the camcorder held limp at his side.

  “I taped her several times. I knew who she was. I liked her show. She was real friendly, spoke to me and all, knew my name. So, yeah, last Saturday, I saw her. She was such a beautiful girl.”

  “Do you have that footage on your memory?” Will pointed to the device in the man’s hand. “It would really help us.”

  “Well, let me see. Walk over to my truck where there’s a little shade.” The older man moved quickly ahead, Will following as fast as he could, watching every curve and break in the pavement that could bring him down.

  The general leaned inside the cab of an old Ford pickup and ran through his files. It took at least fifteen minutes. Will leaned on the wall of the truck bed.

  “This is it,” he said, standing up again. “You can see the date and the time displayed digitally.” He showed Will how to work the camcorder.

  In the shade of the cab, Will looked into the little screen. Kristen Gruber was alive and smiling, walking down the fingerfloat, and hopping aboard her boat. Buchanan’s boat was clearly visible nearby. She wore shorts and a white shirt tied to expose her waist. She waved at the cameraman and disappeared below. In a moment, she came back up and her head turned, as if someone had called her name. A man appeared on the fingerfloat beside her boat. He was tall, muscular, and wearing a ball cap. He looked familiar, even though his back was to the camera. At first she seemed to be only listening while he talked. It was too far away and the quality of the recording was too grainy to make out her expression. Then she shook her head.

  The man gesticulated—oh, for some sound. His gestures were adamant, and her body language returned the favor. Again, she shook her head and spoke. This went on for a minute.

  The man pointed at her. His face was turned enough that he seemed to be shouting. Then he pulled off his cap and walked away. Kristen shrugged and waved again at the general.

  “Did you hear that exchange?” Will said. “Between Officer Gruber and the guy in the cap?”

  “I couldn’t hear the words, but he sounded mad as hell.”

  Will rewound the segment, replayed it. He replayed it a third time, slowing and freezing the screen.

  And he knew.

  He said, “What happened next?”

  “Oh, she shoved off in a few minutes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “She did that sometimes. Other times, she had male company, if you know what I mean. But she told me she liked to go out on the river by herself to relax. I’m really sorry about what happened to her.”

  “What about this man? What did he do after he talked to Officer Gruber?”

  “He stomped away, real mad. After that, I don’t know. My fishing buddies showed up and I launched my boat.”

  Will took a deep breath. “Have you seen that man around here before?

  The old general squinted into the sun. “I don’t pay much attention to the guys. But, yeah, I’ve seen him.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Will climbed back into the car, a curious expression on his face. Cheryl Beth had completed the calls to her bosses.

  “Now I’m about to start calling students and ruin their semesters,” she said glumly.

  “Hold off,” Will said. He pulled over the computer that was mounted on his dashboard and started typing rapidly. “Now, if only the computer-aided dispatch system is working.” Lines appeared and he scrolled through. He typed in keywords and a blank screen appeared.

  “What?” she said.

  He laid it out for her. Then he went through it a second time, more slowly. She felt a coldness creeping up her legs, no matter the warm air coming in the windows. Will had his cell at his ear.

  “I want you to meet me somewhere.” He gave the address. He mouthed to her: Dodds. “I don’t care if you’re going to the ballgame, they’ll probably lose anyway.” She heard Dodds’ deep and angry voice floating out of the phone. “Well, get there when you can.”

  He put the phone down and turned to her. “What if I let you off?”

  “No way,” she said. “I’m a witness under your protection. I’m coming with you.”

  “Good.”

  He sped out of the marina parking lot and regained Kellogg Avenue, turning west. At the first intersection, he flipped on the siren and the emergency lights. They drove that way across town. Sometimes the speedometer hit eighty.

  The forlorn brick building in Lower Price Hill looked abandoned. Its front windows were covered in old plywood and the second story curtains looked ancient. But Will parked in front and got out. She picked her purse off the floor and followed him.

  After several minutes of banging on the door, it opened and a wisp of a girl with red hair stood there. She wore shorts and a NASCAR T-shirt.

  Will said, “Can we come in, Jill?”

  “Why?”

  “Because we need to talk.”

  She reluctantly stepped aside and they walked in. The interior smelled of mold and cabbage. It was dark, which was to be expected from the boards over the front windows. A couple of old lamps provided illumination. The living room was painted a faded burgundy and filled with too much furniture, all of it shabby. Family photos were scattered atop the mantle above a fireplace that probably hadn’t been used in decades.

  Still, Cheryl Beth was struck by the young woman’s beauty: the flame-colored hair falling to her shoulders pin-straight, a face with perf
ect features, and flawless fair skin. She seemed out of place here.

  Will sat in a wooden rocking chair, while Cheryl Beth sank down to the boards of an old sofa, fearful of what the fabric might transmit to her clothes. Her Coach purse was wildly out of place. The girl settled next to her, clutching small hands in her lap.

  Will waited a long time before he spoke. Then: “Jill, you told me that you were raped near the church down the street. Do you remember that?”

  She gave a slight nod. “Yes.” Her voice was faint.

  “You said the suspect was black.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that we never caught him.”

  She stared into her lap and repeatedly fluffed out her hair.

  “Isn’t that right, Jill?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cheryl Beth heard the soft Appalachian twang in Jill’s voice, looked around at the raggedy surroundings, and thought, There but for the Grace of God… The only thing missing was a second-hand crib and crying baby. She thought of all the girls in her high school that had gotten pregnant and never gotten out of Corbin.

  Will was plainly uncomfortable in the rocker. He rearranged himself and leaned forward.

  “But that never happened, did it?”

  “These niggers yell at me all the time, ‘hey, baby,’ they yell. They follow me. They try to break in here…”

  Cheryl Beth winced at the slur but sat there watching.

  “But a black man didn’t rape you, did he?” Will’s voice was soft and soothing, inviting confession.

  She sighed. “No, sir.”

  He asked why she told him that.

  She faced him and flushed. “Because I was afraid.” Her voice sounded grown up and battle-scarred.

  After another long pause, Will said, “You don’t have to be afraid, Jill. Why don’t you tell me what really happened?”

  The silence lasted minutes, with the girl staring at a large mirror on the far wall. Cheryl Beth could hear the old building breathing and settling, as if every brick and piece of wainscoting wanted to tell a story, every one tragic or worse. When Jill began to speak, her voice breaking the quiet startled Cheryl Beth.

  “It was last fall. October. I like to ride my bike, and when I can do the hill, I like to go to Mount Echo Park. It’s got the best views of the river and the city, even if all the loaded people over in Hyde Park have never been there. I like it that way. It’s peaceful. I always thought of it as my park…”

  She looked at Cheryl Beth, who gave her best reassuring smile.

  “It was Saturday afternoon and starting to get dark. The days were getting shorter, and I was in the park later than I thought. Nobody else was around. I’d stopped for one last look at the skyline, when somebody tackled me. Knocked me off my bike, knocked the air out of me. I was mostly surprised at first, and then scared. He started dragging me by my hair. I screamed but no one was around. He picked me up and held me by the throat, and he had a knife in his other hand. I’d never been so scared in my life.

  “He said he’d kill me if I made another sound. He was going to rape me, he said, and if I went along, I’d live…”

  The room was warm, but she wrapped her arms around herself.

  “So I went along. He pulled me into the trees and made me take off my clothes. He was really picky. Wanted me to fold them. Then he made me turn away from him, and he pulled my hands back behind…” Her voice faltered.

  “Take your time,” Will said.

  “He handcuffed me. And I started to panic, but he held the knife to my throat and said if I wanted to live, I’d better settle down. He said the handcuffs turned him on, and he wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “What happened next?”

  “He raped me. He pushed my face into the dirt, pulled my legs apart, and did it from behind. It went on a long time…God, forever. He was calling me every awful name: cunt, whore, little bitch. Said that I was asking for it, riding out there by myself. When he stopped, he made me stay that way, bent over, on my knees. I couldn’t hold out my hands. It hurt. It all hurt. Then he was back for more. ‘You got lube?’ he asked. I didn’t even know what he meant at first. Of course, I didn’t have any. ‘Too bad for you,’ he said and laughed.”

  She shuddered. “Then he raped me that way.”

  Cheryl Beth resisted the urge to gather the young woman in her arms. She stopped herself from clawing at the worn fabric of the sofa arm. She rearranged her purse to the middle of her lap, anything for something to occupy her hands.

  “When he was done,” Jill said, “he made me get dressed. My knees were scraped. The side of my face was bruised from being shoved down on the ground, and I felt blood from my behind. Then he handcuffed me again. He said he was going to drop me off, away from the park.”

  She took deep breaths, her complexion ghostlike. “So he pushes and pulls me to his truck. It’s a brand new black Dodge Ram. He opens the driver’s door and shoves me in ahead of him. I’m really hurting and scared shitless, and then he tells me that he’s changed his mind. That he’s going to kill me. He starts talking crazy. I remember he said the word ‘deathscape.’ That I was going to model for him. I don’t understand…”

  Her voice trailed off into exhaustion. Cheryl Beth put a hand on her arm and Jill didn’t push it away. Her face looked as if tears were coming out of her capillaries.

  Will said, “But he didn’t kill you.”

  “No.”

  “And you’re not pregnant, are you, Jill?”

  “No, sir. I lied to you about that. I can’t have babies. I had cysts on my ovaries.”

  “What about the ten thousand dollars from Kenneth Buchanan? Was that a lie, too?”

  “No.” The word was said neither adamantly nor softly; one dead syllable. “He promised to pay me ten thousand a month cash for a year if I didn’t go to the police. He was real nice at first, but then he started that lawyer shit and said if I claimed rape nobody would believe me, that he’d make me out as a whore in court and take everything I owned. At that moment, I was so glad to be alive and so scattered in my head. I really needed money, too. They sent my job to China and I was getting by waiting tables. I went along with it. He’s a rich, powerful man and I’m nobody in Lower Price Hill. I know how this city works.”

  Waves of horror and rage washed over Cheryl Beth. She had heard many dreadful stories, but she was usually going Mach Five in the hospital, doing something to make it better. Here she could do nothing.

  Jill continued “He found out where I lived, said he had a private detective watching me. And every month he’d drive over and give me an envelope of cash and ask how I was doing. What I was doing was saving every cent so I could get away from this! Honestly, I didn’t even know his real name until you said it to me the first time, detective.”

  “How did you know his son’s real name?” Will asked.

  “He called it out when he ran over and pulled me out of that pickup truck. He saved my life.”

  Will took a long pause, idly turning the shaft of his cane. “Why would he do that?”

  The girl bit her lip. “He said Mike was mentally ill and off his meds that day. They had a terrible fight at home and Mike said he was going to find someone to kill. So Mister Buchanan followed him. Not close enough I guess. Thank God he found me when he did.”

  “And you never thought about going to the police?”

  “I thought about it, but you heard what I said. I wouldn’t have stood a chance with those fancy lawyers downtown. Mister Buchanan said Mike was his only son, and he promised to get him treatment, get him in a hospital so he wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again. He told me his wife was very sick, and if she knew this had happened, it might kill her. Anyway, Mister Buchanan was real good with words, real good. But there was always something behind them that didn’t take a college degree to understand.”

  “And what was that?” Will asked.

  “That if I didn’t do things his way, he’d tell Mike where I lived and he’d come finish me
off.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Jill jumped when she had heard the knock. Then she walked hesitantly to the door.

  Will assumed it was Dodds, but something inside tightened. “Wait!”

  But it was too late. She flew back into the room so violently it was as if an explosion had happened. It was the sound Will had heard many times when a door was kicked down. A man came right behind her. He kicked her in the stomach and turned toward Will and Cheryl Beth.

  He was tall, bald, and had a face that almost looked like a mask. But it was no mask: it was a younger man with an older face, one sculpted and creased by God-knew-what. Except for the dark eyebrows, he looked like Mister Clean. His clothes were Indian Hill preppy: expensive chinos and a light-blue shirt with a Polo logo.

  Mister Clean was carrying a sawed-off shotgun and pointing it their way.

  “Ah-ah-ah,” he said.

  But it was too late. Will had his Smith & Wesson out and leveled at the man’s chest.

  “Get the fuck in there, little whore.” He grabbed Jill by the hair and shoved her to the sofa, all the while keeping the shotgun pointed in Will’s direction.

  “You weren’t easy to follow, Detective Borders, using your siren and all, but I did it, all the way from the marina. I sat outside waiting for you, and when I realized you didn’t have any of your cop buddies nearby, I decided to come on in. And what do I find: my little red-haired sex slave.”

  Jill was crying and shivering, bent over with pain, her face hidden by her hair.

  “And this must be the famous Cherry Beth I’ve heard so much about.” He stepped closer. For the first time, Will noticed the black backpack he was wearing. “This is going to be even better than I fantasized, and I fantasize a lot.”

  Will kept the gun steady. It wasn’t the first time he had been on the wrong end of a shotgun. Thanks to years of training and experience, his insides were calm. Suddenly the dread of the next MRI, the possibility of another spinal-cord tumor, didn’t matter. The notion that he would join his father on the wall of police officers killed in the line of duty was over in a second. He had civilians to protect. Not only that, he had Cheryl Beth.