by Rick Mofina
“Gloria?”
Her eyes rolled back into her head exposing the whites.
“Gloria!”
Sirens wailed. An engine growled. Brakes squeaked. Ambulance doors opened. The rattling aluminum sounds of a stretcher unfolding, wheels dollying on pavement.
“Miss, excuse us, please.”
The paramedics were battle-weary street veterans. Not cold. Just efficient as they worked on Gloria. They refused to let Lois ride with her to San Francisco General. They loaded her. Doors slammed and they drove off, leaving Lois standing alone on the street hugging Gloria’s purse and shoes to her stained shirt.
At the hospital, Lois showed Gloria’s California driver’s license picture to an emergency nurse, then detailed what happened.
“You’re a family member?”
“Her sister,” Lois lied.
“She was the overdose on Market they brought in a while ago.” The nurse consulted admissions information on her computer screen.
“Yes.”
“You know who her provider is?”
“No. We were estranged. Lost her to the street.”
“Have a seat and we’ll let you know when you can see her.”
Lois spent nearly two hours in the crowded, depressing waiting room, fingering Tom Reed’s card. She wondered if he could help her and Gloria. Or maybe Lois should call Gloria’s case worker. Did she still use her case worker? Lois snapped through the pages of year-old copies of People and Newsweek before a nurse wearing green scrubs led her to Gloria’s room.
“She’s groggy so keep it short. Doctor says it’s still touch-and-go.”
“What was it?”
“Either an overdose or a bad batch. How long has she been addicted?”
Lois shook her head.
Two other patients shared the room. A withered bearded old man, asleep with his mouth agape. A large woman sitting on the edge of her bed, staring forlornly at the floor. Gloria was near the window. A tube under her nose. IV running into her arms. Her orange hair against the white pillow livened up the room. Lois smiled as she sat next to her.
“Hi.”
Gloria raised her hand. Her head lolled. She was far away. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“You’d do the same for me, honey.” Lois put Gloria’s bag on her table, then fished something from it. “It’s time to get into detox and get clean.” She passed Gloria the little snapshot of her daughter, Sunny.
Gloria stared at it. An agonizing cry, originating in her aching gut, escaped before she could mute it with her IV hand. Tears spilled from her eyes.
“Listen to me.” Lois dropped her voice. “My friend might be able to help you get a job. Then you can get well. Pull it together. Get Sunny back. We’ll do it together, okay?”
Gloria nodded, then began coughing.
“I need help.”
“Good. We just got to tell him what he needs to know about that phone guy. The one who paid you to read something--want some water?”
Gloria fell into a violent fit of coughing. Water spilled, dampening her sheets as she sipped. She wiped her chin and sighed.
“I remember. It was around Garfield Square. I never saw him before. He sort of picked me out. I thought he wanted to date me.” She swallowed more water. “But he gives me a slip of paper with a number and a short message. Tells me to call, wait for an answer, read the message, then hang up. He gave me a hundred. Weird. So I did it. That was it. He said it was a practical joke on a friend. We had a laugh, then--”
The bed clanged as Gloria’s body spasmed. Her eyes rolled back and she puked, triggering a convulsion. Then silence as she passed out.
“Nurse! Somebody! Oh no! Gloria!”
Lois reached for the buttons above the bed and began pressing the pager. Then she headed for the door as two nurses rushed in, one uncollaring her stethoscope.
“Please leave!” she said to Lois.
The curtain whipped as the second nurse pulled it around Gloria’s bed. Lois heard a commotion, something about CPR, then a switch clicked.
“We need a crash cart in 415!”
Lois covered her face with her hands, stepped back into a far corner out of the way, and watched as a woman in a white smock rushed a wheeled cabinet into the room with a defibrillator.
Lois didn’t know how long they worked trying to save Gloria’s life. It could have been five minutes. It could have been an hour. She remembered hearing someone screaming, remembered the nurses attempting to console her, remembered her back slamming against the wall, her stained shirt bunching up behind her as she slid to the floor, remembered seeing Gloria’s arm drop over the side of her bed and her hand drop her snapshot of her daughter.
FIFTY-NINE
Sydowski enjoyed a tiny triumph as he crunched on a shortbread cookie and glanced at the Star’s front-page story about the unofficial suspect list.
Seemed that Cecil Lowe, an ATF agent, had been cleared of all duty that very morning and was waiting for Sydowski at the homicide detail. He had photocopies of a duty roster in a valise tucked under his arm.
“Here’s a list of names and numbers to verify the dates.” Lowe kept rubbing the back of his neck and apologizing for dragging his feet getting back to Sydowski.
On his way out, Lowe nearly bumped into Pete Marlin, a U.S. Marshal, who, it turned out, was not on any assignment when Sydowski had first requested to see him.
“I was booked off. Don’t know how the wires got crossed.” Marlin was in jeans and a T-shirt and had rushed down to the Hall after Tom Reed’s story hit his doorstep in San Bruno. “Whatever you need.” Marlin had been on a course in D.C. during the times of the murders. He had paper to prove it.
It didn’t take long to clear Marlin and Lowe.
That left Steve Murdoch, the pilot. He’d called from Berlin promising to verify his whereabouts. Sydowski grunted after listening to his message, then put in a formal request through Interpol for Scotland Yard to meet Murdoch when he landed at Heathrow, to remind him to keep his promise.
That left Frank Yarrow. While Murdoch would likely be tied up soon, Yarrow’s file would take time. Sydowski glanced at the phone and started into another cookie while waiting for callbacks.
The trace on Yarrow’s cell phone number came up to a phone rental company from Chicago. Yarrow had paid cash. The contact information he’d left was outdated.
Tom Reed had suggested that Yarrow bought flowers in San Francsico for Molly. A run of his credit card showed a few purchases over the phone, but did not confirm his location, or a current number.
Sydowski’s check with Illinois DMV gave him Yarrow’s address and he got a number. Again, it was outdated. Sydowski had rounded a corner a short time ago. After some further checking he’d learned that Yarrow was an officer with the Chicago Police Department.
How that fit with being a corporate security consultant, as he’d told Molly, was curious. Bearing in mind that Yarrow had been recently divorced, he may have been trying to impress her. Finishing off another cookie, Sydowski was hopeful he’d get some blanks filled in from Captain Tiggle of the Chicago PD, the guy tasked with handling Sydowski’s query.
On the phone, Tiggle sounded as though he was more of an officious prick than a cop. It left Sydowski with an ugly feeling about getting any effective help. He downed a glass of cold water when the homicide receptionist alerted him.
“Walt, Captain Tiggle in Chicago’s calling back. I’ll put him through.”
Before picking up, Sydowski started grinding on a Tums for good measure.
“Sydowski.”
“Tiggle here. Inspector, with regards to your query, I can confirm that Frank G. Yarrow was an officer with the department.”
“Was?”
“A few months ago, he lost his appeal of the superintendent’s decision to dismiss him from duty.”
“Yarrow was fired. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Correct.”
“Why?”
�
�The Chicago Police Board reviewed the appeal by Chicago Police Officer Yarrow and upheld the superintendent’s decision.”
What the hell was this? Tiggle sounded like he was reading from a prepared statement.
“What was his offense, Tiggle? What did he do to get fired?”
“I can’t reveal that.”
“What? You’re joking.”
“Inspector, Chicago police policy and Illinois state law keep such records sealed.”
“Tiggle, I’ve got two dead detectives. I’ve got your boy on a suspect list and I’ve got you jerking my chain.”
“You could seek a warrant, Inspector.”
“A warrant?”
Sydowski swallowed the remains of his Tums.
“Tiggle, I think you’d be wise to help me now. Because when the dust settles, I swear to God Almighty, you’re going to be asked by people higher up the food chain to explain why you didn’t.”
Tiggle said nothing.
“I’ll repeat: two dead homicide detectives. I helped carry their caskets. I’m staring at their empty desks now. I’m the primary. And unless you want me to write in my file ‘Tiggle of the Chicago PD obstructed investigation,’ I suggest you reconsider helping me.”
Sydowski heard Tiggle’s breathing quicken and thought the guy was likely a career desk jockey.
“Let me see what I can do, Inspector. And I’ll get back to you.”
Sydowski couldn’t believe this. He loosened his tie.
Christ, he wasn’t going to wait for Tiggle. He was going above him. And while he was at it, Sydowski would see to it that Tiggle got pissed on, too.
The officious prick.
SIXTY
Bleeder had been following Della Thompson’s blue Toyota Corolla ever since she and Molly left Glen Park earlier that day.
He needed to get Molly alone. Just one golden moment, but Thompson was in the way. Be patient, he told himself.
He followed them over the Bay Bridge east from San Francisco. The afternoon traffic on the Bay Area expressways was heavy, making it easy for him to keep up with them with little chance of being seen.
The risk of losing them kept him alert. Maintaining a distance of three or four vehicles, he analyzed the situation. Molly was with Thompson. They hadn’t made any stops. And from what he could determine they hadn’t made any cell phone calls along the way.
Why this sudden departure from the city?
Bleeder checked his mirrors, adjusted his grip on the wheel, and forced himself to relax.
Thompson stayed on 580 beyond Hayward, then exited later and went north into the San Joaquin Valley. Bleeder enjoyed the pleasant breezes, which grew fragrant as they rolled by the expanses of vineyards, the miles of walnut, almond, and cherry orchards. They were nearing Lodi.
Lodi.
Bleeder smashed his steering wheel with both hands.
Entering the city, Thompson stopped at a strip mall. Bleeder drove to a point out of sight from where he watched their car while weighing the wisdom of entering the mall to see what Thompson and Molly were up to. Too risky. They could spot him. In less than ten minutes, they’d emerged.
Molly was carrying flowers.
Thompson drove to Lodi’s outskirts to the country cemetery where Hooper was buried. Bleeder’s neck muscles tensed and he cursed under his breath. He remained out of sight, taking a dirt lane, bordered by tall grass. It threaded the perimeter of the burial ground, disappearing into the fringes of a vast cherry orchard where living trees stood among the dead and twisted ones.
The Toyota’s doors thudded. Thompson leaned against the car. Molly went to Hooper’s grave and lowered herself to her knees. She placed flowers upon the still fresh mound.
No, Bleeder thought.
Alone among the headstones, Molly was a portrait of sorrow. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue as birds sang.
No. No. No.
Bleeder looked off to the sun setting in the west, the Sierra Nevadas in the east. Anger broiled in his heart. This was wrong.
Dead wrong.
Bleeder could not allow her to mourn Hooper. She had to acknowledge what he’d done for her. This was wrong. Wrong. Wrong! He seethed, watching Molly out there, weeping. He wanted to take action now. Go to her, yank off his mask. Reveal everything. He was so close.
Why was she here?
She didn’t appear to be getting any closer to understanding why he had to remove Hooper and Beamon. That what he did, he did for her. He restrained himself from going to her and remained in the shadows.
The time for telling would come soon enough. Following them back toward San Francisco, he resolved to adhere to his plan. So much was at stake. He’d worked too hard to throw it all away. As the sun sank, Thompson drove them to Colma where Molly placed flowers on Beamon’s grave.
Bleeder maintained control. He risked nothing, following them into San Francisco and Glen Park.
Time was running out.
Molly was slipping from him. Her visits to Hooper’s and Beamon’s graves were an affront to all he’d achieved for her. The pain bored deep. Yet he never stood down from his secret vigil. Never gave up hoping beyond hope that she would break through the lies, the deceptions, the unspoken truths, to see him as he was.
To see his heart behind his mask.
He ran his hands through his hair.
Molly had become distracted, like Amy. But she was smarter than Amy. And he was wiser now. Much wiser. Yes, he’d made errors with Amy and Kyle. But the lessons he’d learned so long ago would serve him now, he thought as his mind returned to the aftermath of Hangman’s Lane.
You would have thought the world had ended by the way the local newspaper reported the “horrific tragedy.” From the outset with the big photos of the sheriff’s deputies watching the crane hoisting Kyle’s Camaro from its watery tomb. The “massive investigation and search for answers” while the community pulled together to confront such an “unexpected, terrible blow.”
Nearly everyone in town went to the memorial service at the high school, including Bleeder, who watched it all from his folding chair in the back of the gym, the very gym where Amy had kissed his cheek that first night. Because Kyle, the farm boy, could throw a football, they shoveled their praise. As if he truly were a wholesome warrior hero, instead of an asshole.
Few paid much attention to the investigation. Kyle’s father, and Kyle’s farm-boy friends, admitted sadly, but with a hint of pride, how he loved to “test himself in his car,” which meant he drove like a maniac with a beer between his legs. Amy’s father regretted how he wished he’d been firmer in cautioning Kyle to “ease up on that valley turn by the bridge.”
It seemed to Bleeder that no one suspected a damned thing.
No deputy or state investigator had asked him about his encounters with Kyle. No one asked him about his visits to the bridge at Hangman’s Lane. Or inspected the scrapes on the large rocks in the ditch nearby.
Kyle’s friends ignored him. During the weeks after the tragedy, no one at school talked much about it. Then finally, the paper published a story on the front page that said the tragedy had been classified as an accident attributed to excessive speed. Case closed.
Bleeder had committed the perfect murder.
Several weeks later as Bleeder began thinking hard about his mistakes with Amy, Bleeder’s father announced that he was being transferred immediately. They moved across the country, settled for ten months, then moved three more times over the next few years.
Then one night while checking out-of-town newspapers in the library, Bleeder came upon an anniversary piece, a historical look back at the haunting case of Lud Striker, the insane hermit who murdered a farm family. Striker, the article said, was the last person executed on Hangman’s Lane.
No, not the last, Bleeder thought.
Through it all, he never forgot Amy. She was the genesis of his terrifying power, a reminder of what he could do when circumstances compelled him to step forward and take charge.
Now, outside Della Thompson’s house, he reached for his files on the passenger seat for a photograph of him with Molly Wilson. Look at her. Her smile, her eyes. So dangerously, wildly attractive. How he ached to have her skin next to his. His jaw and gut clenched, trapping his rage. He’d given her chance after chance to understand.
In his mind, she belonged to him. He would clear the final obstacles. Then he would remove his mask.
Time was up.
SIXTY-ONE
The day after Gloria Carter died, Lois Hirt vowed to get clean despite her painful craving for heroin.
Fight it, she told herself. Let the clonazepam do its work. You can do this. You’ve got to do this. For Gloria. For Sunny. For yourself.
Stunned by Gloria’s death, Lois had gone to a clinic and taken steps toward getting healthy. It might have been the shock making her move so fast. People told her to slow down and grieve for her friend.
But Lois couldn’t be still.
She made an appointment with Gloria’s case worker. She wanted to adopt Sunny. She was convinced she could make it back to normal, while in her heart she feared she was destined to join Gloria in the ground.
Now, sitting alone in Hector’s Restaurant, Lois searched for hope in the job section of the San Francisco Star. She saw a few glimmers and circled them.
Out of sympathy, Hector said he would allow her to work a four-hour shift as a waitress for a few bucks, tips, and a hot meal. It gave her the courage to call one of her old college professors, a kind woman who knew Lois’s story. She’d promised to personally look into the possibility of Lois resuming her dentistry studies through night courses.
Lois intended to ask Hector to advance her enough money for her to move from her fleabag rooming house to a clean apartment nearby where there were no dealers or gangs. It had several shops and office buildings where she could try to land another job.
“Lois,” Hector repeated louder until she lifted her head from her newspaper. “I said, there’s a call for you.”
She accepted the phone at the counter.
