by Jon Talton
They drove and talked. She learned that he had gone to college, a rarity among Cincinnati cops of his generation and one that didn’t exactly endear him to the old guard. He talked about that stereotype: the fat blond boys who grew up in Price Hill and went to Elder High School. There was always some truth to stereotypes. And what about her? She recited the thumbnail bio she reserved for first dates—thinking about it that way seemed strange. She had grown up in little Corbin, in the hills of southern Kentucky, where her father had worked for the L&N Railroad. She had been a fish out of water, couldn’t wait to get out. Even so, she had married her high school sweetheart and he came with her when she took the scholarship to nursing school. But he had never liked Cincinnati, never felt accepted. They had divorced and he went back to Corbin.
“Any kids?”
“No.” She was conscious of how her voice changed. “What about you?”
“A grown son.”
“Really? Does he live here?”
“No.”
The way he said the word told her she had scratched something raw. Family was usually a safe topic for conversation. But not always—she of all people should know that.
Will stayed quiet for several blocks. When he spoke, he was looking away. “He’s not really part of my life now. He was a baby when I met Cindy, and I adopted him. We decided…well, she decided that she didn’t want more children. But he had a rough time as a teenager. Drugs. The wrong crowd. And I was the bad guy, just from the job I do every day. Anyway, he was in Portland, the last I heard. I just wish he would call his mother once in a while.”
“I’m sorry.”
They turned from Clifton Avenue onto Ludlow, past the Esquire Theater, the restaurants and bars and chili parlors. Then Cheryl Beth turned north into the neighborhood, with its old trees and substantial houses, where the tenured professors and old families lived decade after decade. The rolling ground was golden and copper with the fallen leaves.
“Where is your wife?”
“She left me. I don’t blame her.” He said it so simply she almost asked him to repeat it.
“Well, I sure as hell do. That’s horrible!” She blurted it out and was instantly sorry. This was none of her business. She was already getting closer to this patient than she should. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “God, this is a beautiful city. You almost forget it, just being in it every day.”
“Especially doing the job you do.”
“You learn to cope, or you go nuts and hurt yourself or other people,” Will said.
Cheryl Beth thought that sounded a lot like nursing.
She had intended to stop at his apartment to get a coat. Will had other ideas and was very insistent about them. Knowing the way most of Cincinnati was built—old buildings erected long before there was an Americans with Disabilities Act—she thought it would be impossible. But Will had a loft downtown, on Fourth Avenue, and it had an elevator. They repeated the routine with the transfer board, traveled down the cold sidewalk and into the warm lobby of his building. It had been built in 1889 and rehabbed in the 1990s. They rode the elevator to the fourth floor and stepped into an airy, light-filled room. The wheelchair fit through the door with no problem. Will silently looked over his home.
It had potential, especially thanks to the tall, wide windows, but the loft wasn’t much more than a large room filled with some boxes. The main room had two chairs and a desk. The upper level had a bed. The white walls were blank. Cheryl Beth smiled at the bachelor image. He probably had six-month-old takeout in the refrigerator. She didn’t know how long Will had been separated from his wife, but this was obviously just a place to sleep and change clothes.
The problem was that the closet and bed were located on a platform two steps above the rest of the loft. He wanted to change clothes, put on a suit—“it’ll help us get what we want.” So he stayed down on the main level and called out to her what he needed: the charcoal suit, white dress shirt, blue striped tie, black leather dress belt, and black wingtips. “The collar stays are in the shot glass on the closet shelf,” he said. Will had nice clothes and his shoes were highly polished. She brought them down, along with a shoehorn. He might need that.
“I’ll sit up here on the bed,” she said.
“I’m sure you’ve seen half-naked men before.”
Even out of sight, she could tell it was an ordeal. He made breath sounds like a weightlifter and slightly moaned a couple of times. She tried to make conversation, but realized it would be better if she just talked. So she told him about her career, about pain management. He would respond as he could. She never saw patients after they left the hospital. Ones like Will would have lengthy recoveries and burdens to carry long after they were discharged. She knew this, of course. And working in the hospice was different—those patients had only one destination. Will still had a life ahead, but it would be totally different from what he had left behind when he walked in the doors of Memorial. Being here made it especially tactile. She looked around at the remnants of his old life and tears started to fill her eyes. She shook her head and they went away. Dressing took thirty minutes, but when she walked back down he looked quite sharp. He looked dashing.
“You clean up good,” she said. He gathered up a pile of file folders and slipped them into a battered briefcase, then asked her to drape a dark topcoat over his shoulders.
He reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a bulky black object. Cheryl Beth was suddenly afraid.
“Will, I don’t think…”
“Somebody’s trying to kill you,” he said quietly. He unholstered the pistol, hit a button, and a long object dropped from the handle of the gun into his hand. Was that the clip? Her father had only taught her to shoot a .22 rifle; she didn’t know more about guns than that. Satisfied that it was loaded, Will slid the magazine back into the grip of the gun with a sharp metal snap. It was a sound that gave her a shiver of dread, but she said nothing. Then he slipped the gun and holster over his belt. He covered it with his suit coat flap and raised himself higher in the wheelchair. He read the concern in her eyes.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “So what are we going to do?”
“The first thing I want to do is find a photo of Gary Nagle,” he said. “Then I want to go visit our friend Lennie.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Will bluffed his way into the Queensgate Correctional Facility of the Hamilton County Sheriff’s Office. Cop-bitching always worked, especially with a deputy he had known for years. The round, hard face of Sheriff Simon Leis looked down on them from a framed photo. It seemed as if he had been in office forever, as a prosecutor, judge, and then sheriff, and, knowing Cincinnati, Will suspected he would remain in office forever. Si Leis would definitely not approve. The deputy looked over the wheelchair and dubbed him “Chief Ironside.”
“You won’t believe how far the DA is up my ass on this one. I had to leave the hospital early to prepare for this case.”
“Fuckin’ lawyers,” the deputy said and signed him in. “I’d file a grievance over it, Chief.” He looked at Cheryl Beth. “Who’s this?”
“Cheryl Beth Wilson,” Will said. “She’s a criminal justice professor. Why she wants to study this stuff beats the hell out of me.”
“You and me both.” The deputy searched her purse. Then Will locked away his Smith & Wesson semiautomatic in one of the gun lockers, as he had done so many times before. The firearm felt heavier now. Everything felt different. The world outside was enchantingly vast, with every sight, smell, and sensation arousing him as it never had before. His apartment seemed surprisingly tiny. He had been confined to large spaces for so long. He was grateful he couldn’t climb the two steps to the bedroom, because then he would see the bed and think of her. The blank institutional hardness of the jail corridors made forgetting easier.
They entered an empty interrogation room and waited.
“You lie well.” Cheryl Beth smi
led at him, but he could see she didn’t completely approve. He offered her a chair but she stayed standing, showing a civilian’s natural discomfort at being inside. He indicated she could pull a chair over to the far wall, closest to the doorway out. She did.
“So have you always been Cheryl Beth?”
“There were four girls named Cheryl in first grade,” she said. “So I used my middle name and just kept using it. I like it.”
“So do I,” Will said.
Then there was a loud thud as the door in front of them was unlocked, momentarily emitting the unsettling noises from inside the jail. A pot-bellied deputy led in Leonard Leroy Corley, charged with assault. Will was momentarily bothered that the charge didn’t specify “on a police officer.” Lennie looked like a different man than Will had wrestled on the hospital floor. Besides the orange jail jumpsuit and shackles, he was clean. The jumpsuit looked amazingly like hospital scrubs.
“Want him cuffed to the table?” the deputy asked.
“No.” Will looked Lennie over and went back to laying out his files. He took his time as the deputy sat Lennie down, and then stood two feet behind him, folding his massive arms.
Cleaned and calm, Lennie looked like he might have been a junior high teacher if the deck of life had been dealt differently, if his face didn’t have a used-up and sorrowful expression. He sat in silence, his handcuffed hands in his lap, his eyes downcast in the prisoner’s survival code: don’t make direct eye contact.
“You can uncuff his hands,” Will said.
“Hoo-kay,” the deputy said, in a world-weary voice. He took the prisoner’s hands and unlocked the manacles, sliding them into his belt. Lennie looked at Will for the first time. Cuffs-off was often the first transaction of goodwill in a prisoner interview. Lennie looked as his wrists, as if checking that they were still there. Will realized he was vulnerable, stuck in the wheelchair, as he had never been before in front of an inmate. It was a chance worth taking.
“Remember me?” Will asked.
“You hurt Lennie.” His voice was high and childlike.
“You remember why?”
“No.” He seemed genuinely puzzled. He looked over Will’s shoulder. “Hi, Cheryl Beth.”
“Hi, Lennie,” she said in a shy, awkward voice. She added, “Are you taking your meds now?”
“Yes, ma’am. I feel better.”
“That’s good,” Will said. He paused. “Lennie, you’re in a lot of trouble. I’m a police officer and you attacked me. You might not have meant to do it. But it’s a big deal.”
“Didn’t mean to…” He stared at his hands, folded passively on the table.
“You can help yourself by talking to me.”
“I’ll talk to you.”
“That’s good.” Will opened one folder and began laying photographs out on the scarred tabletop. He set each one down individually, as if it were a card in a high-stakes game. They were shots of Theresa Chambers, Jill Kelly, and Lisa Schultz—all as they looked when they were alive. In a steady, calming voice, Will said, “I just want you to tell me if you’ve ever seen any of these women before.”
He looked at each photo. “Pretty,” he said. The man probably had the mind of a twelve-year-old, if that, like Craig Factor.
“Ever seen them?”
“Nope.”
“Take your time. Take another look. We’re not in any hurry.”
Lennie bent over the pictures. Will tried to keep his mind from wandering. He had been in one of these rooms in October, talking to a prisoner who claimed the arresting officer had beaten him. It was a routine Internal Investigations case. Will had been standing that day, and he just fell over. One moment he was standing, and the next he had toppled to the left. The deputy probably thought he had been drinking. But it was the most dramatic sign of the tumor.
His feet were losing their ability to feel the floor and help balance him. He fell several more times, for no seeming reason. Looking back, the danger signs had started long before: a mysterious pain in his right side. Ultrasound gave him a clean bill and the pain went away. Or, it moved into his knees. That pain kept him up at night and the doc told him to lose weight. By the fall, he was having trouble walking easily, and still the doctor had no answer besides physical therapy. Two weeks after the fall in the jail, a neurologist had run a safety pin down his chest and belly, and he couldn’t feel the pricks below his abdomen. They had sent him for an MRI the next day.
And yet, with his Scots-Irish fatalism, Will had known something was after him for years. He couldn’t articulate it, and by the time it became a persistent foreboding he and Cindy had long since stopped talking about anything but the business of a marriage and the latest trouble of their son. What would it be: a heart attack, a bullet on a dark street? He knew time was against him and the knowledge had changed him.
Lennie spoke finally. “They’re pretty. They wouldn’t like me.”
“Ever hurt a woman, Lennie?” Will said it in the same calm tone of voice and watched the man carefully. His mouth quivered and his eyes widened.
“No! Lennie wouldn’t…” He held his hands up defensively and the deputy took a step, but Will waved him back.
Will slapped down an eight-and-a-half by eleven color photograph.
“Ahhhh!” Lennie gasped. Will could also hear Cheryl Beth take a sharp intake of breath. The photo showed Jill Kelly slashed to death in her kitchen.
“No, no…that’s awful.” Lennie shook his head and turned away. His shock seemed genuine. Will replaced the photos in a folder.
“Lennie, the bad picture’s gone.” The man still avoided looking at the tabletop. “Do you remember when you had the knife, when you were in the hospital?”
“The hospital’s a good place. They help Lennie. Cheryl Beth helps Lennie.”
She said, “But you had a knife, Lennie.”
“I was afraid.”
“Were you afraid of me?” Will asked. Lennie didn’t answer. “That day we fought, you said something about the devil. Do you remember that?”
“No.”
Now Will thought he was lying. Too many years of too many lies. He had perfect pitch for it. He leaned in close. A finger’s length separated them. From that distance, the man still stank.
“Lennie, you talked about seeing the devil.” Will lowered his voice. “It’s okay, he can’t hear us. These walls are too thick.”
“No, I don’t remember.” He fidgeted, pulling on one finger, then another.
“You do, Lennie.” He was whispering now. “Don’t you want to help those pretty women? I know you do.” He paused, made the distance half a finger’s length. “Did you see the devil at the hospital, Lennie?”
The man slowly nodded.
“Where did you see him?”
“In the basement. I’m not supposed to go down there. But it’s quiet and it’s warm…”
“And you know all the hiding places, right?” Will said it as one kid admiring another’s skill. Lennie nodded enthusiastically. He had specks of yellow in his eyes.
“You saw the devil in the basement?”
“Yes.” His voice was a soft, serious whisper.
“How did you know it was the devil?”
“Blood.”
“That’s very brave, Lennie. That will help us.” Will slowly opened another file folder and began arranging photos of ten different men. Some were suspects from old crimes. One was Judd Mason. Another was Gary Nagle—this had necessitated a trip to Cheryl Beth’s house to retrieve the old lover’s shot. She had been so embarrassed that she had actually turned bright red to admit she still had it. He had told her to leave the door open and come out immediately if anything seemed wrong. He hadn’t known what he would do if he couldn’t immediately shoot someone. Fortunately, the trip to her house had been uneventful, the new locks unmolested. And she had returned with a photo of Dr. Gary Nagle. Will couldn’t see her with him. He looked like a weasel. Will set Nagle’s photo alongside the other nine.
&nb
sp; Then he turned over the photo of Bud Chambers.
Lennie made a sound like an animal that had been shot, a half whimper and a half last breath.
Will said, “Just point if you saw any of these men down in the basement.”
Lennie’s finger shook violently, but it rested on Bud Chambers’ nose.
“You saw him in the basement, with the blood?”
“Yes.” A whisper.
“Did you think he was the devil?”
Lennie nodded emphatically.
“What did you see?”
“Blood….everywhere. It was a sacrifice.” He enunciated the word very clearly. “The devil needed blood. But I hid so he couldn’t see me. Lennie knows how to hide.”
The old homicide cop inside Will said, fuck me runnin’. Lennie had witnessed the murder. Getting a jury to believe Lennie was another matter, but for the moment Will had done as Bull had taught him so many years ago: had a theory, played a hunch.
“You’re going to be fine,” Will clapped him on the forearm, and let the deputy take him away.
***
Outside, Cheryl Beth finally spoke.
“That was pretty amazing, the way you did that. But as I recall that day, Lennie kept yelling that you were the devil.”
It was only when he looked at her that he saw the broad, playful smile on her face. She was beautiful.
Chapter Twenty-six
They argued briefly at the car. Will said he wanted to try to stand by the wheelchair and let himself down in the car, instead of using the transfer board. Cheryl Beth was afraid—afraid he might fall, and that she was responsible. The sharp, cold wind was whipping around the buildings and there wasn’t time to argue long. She let him try it. Before she let him stand, she cinched the gait belt tightly around his waist, locked the wheelchair in place, and grabbed the belt tightly. Her stomach tightened in anticipation as she looked down at the big man, confined to the chair. He took a breath and stood, one fluid motion. Then he pivoted slowly to the left and dropped himself down in the car seat. She pulled the wheelchair back to the trunk and stowed it.
