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by Brian Freemantle

  ‘We’re not inquiring about that,’ said Powell, quickly. ‘You talked business, made an arrangement. Then what happened?’

  Leroy Goodfellow again looked for guidance to Morrison, who was smiling at Powell’s intervention. At the younger man’s further nod Goodfellow said, ‘Jethro gave me a little stuff.’

  ‘Crack or cocaine?’

  ‘Cocaine.’

  ‘He have any crack?’ asked Powell, testing.

  ‘I asked him for a rock but he said he didn’t have any to spare.’

  ‘So he was going to see someone else?’

  ‘He was anxious to get away, sure.’

  ‘He say who?’

  ‘Just someone from the old days.’

  Powell came forward again, urgently. ‘Who!’

  ‘Didn’t say.’

  ‘What did you think he meant by it?’

  ‘I know what he meant.’

  ‘Leroy, you’re not making things clear!’

  ‘He said Florence,’ protested Goodfellow, indignantly. ‘Someone from the old days in the stockade.’

  ‘Someone you’d have known, being in there with him!’ seized Powell. ‘He must have said a name.’

  Leroy Goodfellow shook his head, still indignant. ‘Said he’d bring him along the next night as a surprise, when we discussed the jewellery and stuff. That we’d have a reunion.’

  Charles Andrews managed to contain himself until they got into the car, after a promise from Jethro Morrison Jnr to call if he discovered anyone else who had been with his father on the night of his death. Andrews didn’t fire the ignition. Instead he twisted in his seat and said, ‘Jesus fucking Christ! Have you got any idea what you’ve just done! Two weeks ago a quarter of a million’s worth of watches and jewellery was stolen from a bonded Customs warehouse in Mobile. And you’ve just given Jethro Morrison Jnr a fucking amnesty for the heist! And you know what I think? I think some of the fucking jewellery he was wearing was part of it. They’re laughing themselves silly back in there.’

  ‘We stopped a turf war in which innocent bystanders might have got hurt. Killed even,’ said Powell, mildly. ‘And we got a lead.’

  ‘A lead! You believe that bullshit? You just got conned, about the jewellery. That’s all. What if it’s even half true? The old man pulled five years and served every one of them. How many cons you think he met in that time?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Powell. ‘But we’re going to track down every one of them who’s still alive, even if it is a waste of time.’ If he’d made a mistake it had been a bad one.

  Michael Gaynor was a wisp-haired, quickly blinking, timid man who worked as an assistant in the bookshop and souvenir outlet at Arlington, the slave-built, pre-Civil War house that was Birmingham’s chief tourist attraction. He came nervously into the Bureau office, declined coffee or tea – anything to drink at all – and sat constantly moving one hand over the other as he talked, as if he had in some way become dirtied by finding the headless body. He unfailingly referred to Jethro Morrison as ‘that poor man’.

  ‘You told the police you saw someone else in the park, before you found the body?’ urged Powell.

  ‘A man,’ said Gaynor. ‘Not particularly tall. Slightly built.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘I’d say about thirty.’

  ‘Black man or white man?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘Dark.’

  ‘Long or short?’

  The man made a cupping gesture with both hands, around his head. ‘Long. Covered his ears. But very neat.’

  ‘What sort of face?’

  ‘Small features.’

  ‘Glasses?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What colour were the eyes?’

  ‘It was too dark to see.’

  ‘How was he dressed?’

  ‘Dark clothes. Dark trousers and a windbreaker. Sweater underneath.’

  ‘So you saw him quite clearly?’

  ‘Clear enough. There’s like a street lamp, where the paths intersect.’

  ‘Clear enough to see if he was bloodstained?’ asked Andrews.

  ‘I would have thought so. He wasn’t, though.’ Gaynor shuddered at the prospect.

  Hopefully Powell said, ‘It sounds like you really looked hard at him?’

  ‘It’s a park. I’m a careful person.’

  ‘What was a careful person doing in the park at night?’

  ‘My dog’s a Dobermann. People don’t mess with Dobermanns.’

  ‘This man, did he look at you?’ said Andrews.

  ‘Kind of. Half and half.’

  ‘Anything that made you feel he tried to avoid being seen? Did he turn away, anything like that?’ persisted the local Bureau man.

  ‘No.’

  With growing belief Powell said, ‘He speak to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You speak to him?’

  There was a barely perceptible pause. ‘No.’

  ‘People don’t mess with Dobermanns,’ echoed Powell. ‘He show any nervousness, like changing direction when he saw you had a dog?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think you could recognize him again?’ asked Andrews.

  The man shook his head, doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What about the way he walked? Fast, as if he was trying to get away from something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he carrying anything?’

  ‘Not actually carrying. He had a shoulder bag, like a satchel. The strap was on his shoulder.’

  ‘Did it seem heavy, like he had to hold himself to support it?’

  ‘No. But he had his hand inside it.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I could see his other hand, opposite the bag. But not the one on that side, although his arm was straight down by his side. I guessed he had his hand inside.’

  ‘You really did pay a lot of attention to this man, didn’t you?’ pressed Powell, surer now.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘A Dobermann’s an active dog, isn’t it?’

  The man smiled, fleetingly. ‘They’re great dogs. Loyal.’

  ‘You exercise him every night?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Always in the park?’

  ‘I clear up after him.’

  ‘Mr Gaynor, I’m really not interested whether you clear up after your dog or not,’ said Powell, patiently. ‘I want you very clearly to understand what I am saying: all I’m concerned with is the murder of Jethro Morrison and how you might be able to help me solve it. Nothing else. Not how or where you exercise your dog. People you might meet doing that.’

  There was a pause. ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘So you go to the park most nights?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have friends there? Other people who walk their dogs, like you do?’

  ‘I see people sometimes.’

  ‘As well as walking your dog, did you go to see anyone in the park that night?’ came in Andrews.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see anyone you knew?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you say anything to the man you passed, just before you found the body?’ asked Powell.

  ‘I may have done.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I may have said “Good evening.” Something like that.’

  ‘What did he say back?’ demanded Andrews.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But he looked at you, so you could see him quite clearly?’

  ‘Only for a moment.’

  ‘Do you see your friends – other people walking their dogs – anywhere in Lane Park?’

  ‘By the hothouses of the botanical gardens.’

  ‘I want you to do something for me, Mr Gaynor,’ said Powell. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to get a lot of photographs, which I want you to look through. Pick out any you think might be the man you saw. And I’d appreciate it if you could give me the names of some of your f
riends who are regularly in the park, who might have seen him as well as you. And I want you to work with an artist. See if you can get an impression of the man you saw that night. You think you can do all that for me?’

  ‘The papers say the poor man was a gangster.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘I don’t want to get involved with gangsters.’

  ‘They won’t hurt you. They want the murderer found as much as we do.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said the man.

  ‘Just come back tomorrow and look at the pictures,’ said Powell. It would be easy enough to persuade him to co-operate with a drawing: the mistake would be in crowding him.

  ‘He’s gay,’ declared Andrews, re-entering the office after arranging transport for the nervous man.

  ‘You’re going to make a great detective,’ said Powell. ‘Let’s get from Birmingham Vice all the mugshots of any male who’s been arrested or charged with lewd behaviour, anything whatsoever homosexual. Male hookers, too.’

  Following the rules of investigation, thought Powell, remembering his Texas doubts. And as he did so, as if on cue, Andrews said, ‘Routine doesn’t trap serial killers.’

  Powell said, ‘You got a better idea we’ll go with it.’

  ‘I’ll get the mugshots from Vice,’ said Andrews.

  In his Pittsburgh hotel room Harold Taylor felt the beginning of the sexual excitement that always came when he was close to a killing. He wouldn’t have a whore this time. Try not to, at least. But he’d make the murder last: string it out for as long as he could. That might even be better than sex. Try at least. See what it was like.

  Marcus Carr personally answered the telephone, which Taylor expected him to, having followed the old man into his apartment block thirty minutes earlier.

  ‘The Pentagon? What about?’ demanded the man, irritably.

  ‘Records, sir. We really are sorry to trouble you.’

  ‘It’s not convenient. My wife’s unwell. Hospitalized.’

  ‘It won’t take longer than half an hour. I was going to suggest around ten-thirty tomorrow morning?’

  There was a pause. ‘I can give you half an hour. No more.’

  ‘That will be fine, sir. We really are most grateful.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Taylor, sir. I called yesterday, from the Pentagon.’ He’d allowed the retired general ten minutes after following him back from the hotel coffee shop.

  ‘Third floor, 36.’ It was peremptory, dismissively curt, from a man who’d only ever known command.

  The door release buzzed. It was an expansive lobby, with a lot of glass and well tended, large-leafed plants in wood chip pots, a couch daring anyone to sit upon it. Almost as clean as he kept the rented house outside Washington, although it would be difficult for anywhere to be as clean as that. Hated dirt. Any disorder. He checked the elevator indicator, to ensure no-one was descending, before standing in front of the reflecting mirror. Ears first, smaller, flatter. Eyebrows heavier, then the eyes, more pouched, older, against the higher cheekbones, the skin lined, older too. Grey haired. Myron Nolan appeared. Magnificent. Terrifying. He wanted an audience! Had to have an audience. He reverted to his reborn identity, stretching his face like someone awakening from a deep sleep. He giggled, seeing the joke. That’s what he always did, woke up from a deep sleep.

  The elevator was as reflectively clean as the outside mirrors, more spotless glass, the metal rails burnished. He emerged at the third floor onto deep pile carpet, unmarked cream. It was a nice place to live in. There was another giggle. And to die in.

  Carr opened the door immediately, staring out imperiously, the attitude of expected respect ingrained. ‘What kept you?’

  ‘Elevator was slow, sir.’

  For a man well into his eighties the face was surprisingly unlined. It creased now, into a frown. ‘Not usually.’

  ‘It seemed to be today.’

  Carr at last stood aside. ‘Half an hour, that’s all.’

  ‘I hope Mrs Carr is recovering well.’ The apartment was immaculate, the carpet pure white. Not for much longer, he thought. Through the panoramic window, to the right, it was just possible to see the Point State Park, which still didn’t seem a good enough reason for living there. After a week he’d decided he didn’t like Pittsburgh.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Carr, curtly, the barest response. ‘What’s your rank?’

  ‘Civilian employee, sir. Records, like I said.’ Carr was much shorter than he remembered – hadn’t there been a height requirement in the Army? – a rather ordinary, tiny man without a uniform. He was wearing a white polo shirt, green check slacks and white loafers.

  ‘Sit there,’ ordered the man, isolating a chair. ‘What’s this about records?’ He spoke looking at the shoulder satchel, taking a seat that put him slightly higher.

  Little-man inferiority, Taylor recognized. ‘It goes back a long way, sir: 1949.’ He’d stretch it out, make it last as long as possible.

  ‘In Germany then. Control Commissioner.’

  ‘That’s the period I’m looking at. You were a colonel?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Carr shifted, impatiently. ‘What, precisely, is it you want to know?’

  ‘Do you remember a quartermaster sergeant named Myron Nolan?’

  The smooth face creased again. ‘I don’t think so. Should I?’

  ‘I’m sure you could if I reminded you.’ Not the face yet. Too soon.

  ‘That’s impertinent!’

  And it’s going to get worse. ‘There was a court-martial. You were the president. Involved death and injuries to some children.’

  The frown of forgetfulness went but Carr’s face remained stiff at what he considered insubordination. ‘I said your attitude is impertinent.’

  This was good! ‘Was he?’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Myron Nolan. Did you think he was impertinent?’

  ‘Who’s your commanding officer?’

  ‘Difficult to say. Don’t think I can help you there.’

  ‘Give me your direct line number. I want to speak to someone in authority there!’

  ‘Just hear me out about Myron Nolan?’ He let the pause last almost too long. ‘Please.’ When the man didn’t respond, Taylor said, ‘You do remember the man now – the name – don’t you?’

  ‘He killed those children. Sold contaminated drugs on the black market. A lot died. Others were maimed. A bastard.’

  ‘Penicillin and streptomycin. It was actually thirty who died. Fifteen were crippled.’

  ‘Jailed for life, for manslaughter,’ said Carr, in further recollection. ‘I wanted execution but the Judge Advocate said it was legally impossible on the charge.’

  ‘He did die. Murdered in military detention in 1951.’

  ‘Pity it took so long. Bastard.’ The irritation momentarily slipped, in his remembered outrage, quickly to return. ‘I’m waiting for your department number.’

  They were only a few feet apart, six, maybe eight, and the apartment lounge was very light in the bright morning sun. Taylor still leaned forward, narrowing the gap, not wanting the old man to miss anything. He did it as he had in the lobby downstairs, ears, eyes, sagged skin, instant ageing. Carr blinked, then squeezed his eyes closed longer, tighter, someone imagining an aberration, an optical spasm.

  ‘Recognize me? Look hard. Remember? It’s me. Myron Nolan. Back from the dead.’

  Carr’s expression was close to a smile, beginning as a snigger of disbelief but strangling into a whimper, terror clogging his throat. ‘I don’t … what …?’

  ‘I can come back. Always come back. Always punish.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m well … please … help …’

  ‘No help, Marcus, No respect, no mercy, no help.’

  ‘No, please … I’m not seeing … my eyes …’

  ‘You’re going to die, old man. Be cut up. Little dick. Little eyes. Little pieces.’ It was fantastic. Orgasmic. Better than a woman. Far better than a woman, no mat
ter how good she was. He let the previous face go, brought it back, Nolan, Taylor, Nolan, Taylor.

  Carr had recoiled into his chair and was trying to push himself even further away, scrambling feet churning the carpet. His eyes bulged and a fat tongue, bleeding where he’d bitten it, protruded. There were no words, just a sound, the mewing of a trapped animal, unable to escape.

  Too quick. It had all happened too quick. Carr hadn’t lost his reason yet: started gibbering. Taylor reached into the satchel, bringing out the ice pick, holding it up between them. ‘This is what I’m going to do it with. Direct into your heart: a moment of exquisite agony.’

  The whimpering old man tried to move, more instinctive than intentional, falling to one side to get out of his seat, but Taylor was ready, catching Carr easily with his right hand to twist him back, exposing his chest fully for the thrust from his left. Carr looked down, watching the point go into him. As quickly the head came up and he managed: ‘But—?’ and then the pain came and he screamed, just once, and died.

  Taylor stood back, letting the body fall to the floor. Some general: hadn’t even tried to fight. Wouldn’t have mattered – he was too old, too small – but he should have fought. Tried something. Coward. Desk jockey soldier. Known a lot of them during the war. Been one himself but at least got through the supplies he was responsible for: enough for the poor bastards at the front and enough for him, safely out of range, to make everything worthwhile.

  It was an afterthought – one that pleased him – to keep the Myron Nolan face. Poetic justice. Unhurriedly, almost casually, he undressed, stacking his clothes carefully a long way from where he intended to operate. It took him longer to strip the still warm body, neatly folding each article as he removed it. He was careful to put them clear, too, although there wouldn’t be any splashing. He knew what he was doing: had done it a lot.

  He took the scalpels and the specimen jar, laying everything out as neatly as he’d insisted his theatre should be in the last half of the previous century. He punctured the left eye first, with a single downward thrust, but took care with the extraction of the right, immersing it in the preserving fluid in the specimen jar. It was a little dick and there was hardly any blood when it was severed but a lot more, which there usually was, when the head was amputated. The last act was to incise the cross.