The Company of Demons

by Michael Jordan

  “Lookin’ back on it, I made a mistake, all right?”

  Jack raised his eyebrows, then picked up the menu, but dropped it back on the bar after a couple of seconds. “He said you’re representing the daughter, a hot blonde. You workin’ some angle to get into her panties?”

  His question threw me off. “Hell no, I’m only trying to look out for this girl. Bernie tell you about the Andar Feo?”

  “You know how many families of victims I worked with, fathers who wanted to take things into their own hands? If Blondie’s in trouble, you can’t save her, Johnny.” Jack finished his shot. “You gonna eat?”

  We ordered cheeseburgers, and Karen didn’t ask how we wanted them cooked, because the Tam wasn’t that kind of place. She did offer us grilled onions; we both accepted and ordered more beers.

  Karen put in our order and leaned against the bar back. “Your cop buddies tell you anything that’s not in the papers?”

  “Talk to Jack. He worked all the old cases, Torso and the Butcher.”

  Her eyes lit up like she was a high school girl about to play spin the bottle with the star quarterback. “I didn’t know that.”

  Jack waved a hand dismissively. “Ancient history. I don’t know anything about what’s goin’ on that ain’t already in the news.”

  “Well, do you think they have some suspects by now, who the Butcher might be? I mean, three murders …” Karen sounded anxious, and I couldn’t blame her. She had just planned to empty a waste-basket when she’d stumbled across Oyster stuffed in her Dumpster.

  “Don’t know,” Jack said. “And if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”

  Karen was undeterred. “Look, I’m not criticizing the cops; I’m really not. But the Torso Murderer and the Butcher got away with it. And now he’s back …”

  Jack answered her patiently. “Most murders are between people who know each other, and there’s a reason, like sex or money. But serial killers murder strangers. Look at any of ’em—Boston Strangler, Ted Bundy, that Sowell guy right here in Cleveland a couple years back. Tough cases to solve.”

  “But they caught those guys.”

  Karen was throwing down a gauntlet, and I wondered how Jack would react. But he took a sip of Pabst and remained calm. “They got a lucky break in every one of those, plain and simple. Christ, we thought we had that with Torso too, but … hell, you don’t wanna hear this shit.”

  “Actually, I do.” Karen’s eyes were bright, intense.

  “We called him the chicken guy.” Jack was the classic old-timer who delighted in regaling a pretty woman half his age. “Now, the whole thing seems kinda funny.”

  I’d read all of this on the web, but Karen didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. “The chicken guy?”

  “Investigation was going full-bore, the city was damn near on lockdown, and a hooker comes to us. I’ll never forget—her name was Sheila. She says some truck driver, a regular customer, would pay her to strip to her panties and bra, but he never wanted to touch her or anything. Looking at Sheila, I understood that—no mistakin’ her for one of those Victoria Secret numbers.”

  Karen chuckled, and I joined in. Jack was on a roll. She said, “Why do you call him the chicken guy?”

  “Guy would have a chicken with him, a live one, and tie it to the leg of a table or chair.” Jack hesitated. “Not sure this part is … somethin’ I should be saying in front of a lady.”

  “Don’t worry. Workin’ in a bar, I’ve heard it all.”

  “Well, he’d … touch himself, you see, and when he was about … done, would have her cut off the head of the chicken. Told her he liked the blood, the way it squirted.”

  Karen pushed herself up from the bar. “No way.”

  “There,” I said. “Something you haven’t heard before.”

  “We called the trucker in, and he showed up like it was nothing. Good-lookin’ Joe, too. Usually, pervs will make all sorts of excuses, but this guy comes right out and says he likes watching chickens bleed out. No law’s bein’ broke, he says, so what’s the problem? We check his logbook, and he’s got a perfect alibi—wasn’t in town during any of the killings.”

  “What about for animal cruelty?” Karen asked, her blue eyes flashing at Jack.

  “Right, for a fuckin’ chicken. Then along came another guy, one we all liked for it, a big son of a bitch named Frank Sweeney, a doc.”

  I’d read about him. “There was a mayor or something back then with that name, right?”

  “A congressman, and the doctor was his cousin.”

  “That’s right, but you couldn’t make it stick.”

  “Are you tellin’ her the story, or me?” Jack gestured for another shot, which Karen promptly poured. She left the bottle on the bar, like she wasn’t going anywhere. “There was a lot that pointed to the guy. He’d know, of course, how to dissect a body, and he looked strong enough to lug around a vic, dead or alive. Plus, he was a drunk and a switch-hitter.”

  “Sounds like some slasher flick character.” Karen leaned on the bar, hanging on Jack’s every word.

  “The perfect suspect, but the lie box was shaky, and he was in hospitals gettin’ treated for the booze at the same time some of the vics were killed. Fucker eventually committed himself.”

  A young Mexican kid emerged from the kitchen and slid two hamburgers in front of us. The smell of grease and meat wafted into my nostrils, and I was suddenly ravenous.

  Jack swallowed a quick bite and continued. “Remember the old Third District, the Roaring Third? Hookers, blind pigs, gambling, whatever. Old-timers told me that Ness once had them search the entire district, house by house. Got zip.”

  “Ness had them pretend they were conducting fire safety inspections,” I said to Karen. “Believe it’s the largest warrantless search in history.”

  “Well, Mr. Attorney, you have to understand how desperate Ness and Merylo were. Every lead was tracked down. Merylo even went to some shitburg near Pittsburgh, after they found three headless bodies in a boxcar at the rail yard. And one odd thing I never forgot, the imprint of a woman’s high heel shoe in the blood.”

  “Creepy.” Karen straightened up. “Burgers okay?”

  Jack gave her a thumbs-up sign. “There was other shit too, but none of it panned out.”

  “So what about the Butcher?” Karen asked.

  “Nothing—despite the damn fine job Johnny’s father did runnin’ the show. Only thing we got was the usual wackos coming in to confess. That happens all the time in these kinda cases.”

  “You’re not exactly filling me with confidence that they’ll catch the guy this time.” Karen nodded at my beer mug, and I gave her a high sign. I declined the offer of a shot.

  Jack quietly sipped his drink. “All I can tell you is everyone with a badge is doin’ the best he—they—can.”

  Karen leaned on the bar. “But why would the Butcher stop for so long, then come back?”

  “Jack told me that’s not uncommon with serial killers.” I looked at him for validation.

  He swallowed the last bite of burger and shoved his plate across the bar. “Ask me, anybody who thinks they can figure out killers like these is wasting time.”

  A comment I believe he aimed in my direction.

  “Not very reassuring,” Karen said.

  “Gun sales are off the charts.” Jack jabbed a thick finger at Karen. “You should think about getting a permit.”

  “I am. You guys all set? I’ve gotta work on inventory.” Gently, she patted the back of Jack’s hand. “If I offended you in any way, I apologize. I know the cops are out there …”

  He looked surprised that she’d touched him, but smiled. “Honey, I’m too old and too mean to offend.”

  She walked away, and I caught Jack checking out the sway of her jeans. Not bad, having some steam left in his eighties. “Thanks for having lunch. You could have just called me.”

  “Don’t go all mushy. I’ve been wipin’ your ass for too many years, and it’s a har
d habit to break.” Jack picked up the tab from the bar. “This is on me. Go on home, tell the wife and kid I said hello.”

  I was reminded of the days when he would treat me to a hot dog or a pop at a Cavs game or the county fair. “Thanks, Jack. But watch yourself. I think Karen’s interested.”

  He chortled. “Get the fuck outta here.”

  Smiling, I brushed past him, but he spun the stool around and grabbed my arm. His grip was firm and strong. He scrutinized my face, as though he were appraising me. Then he said, his tone measured, “Don’t take on your father’s problems, Johnny.”

  I nodded and, when he finally relaxed his hold and looked away, headed for the door.

  15

  “So you enjoyed the park yesterday, with your dad?” Cathy swallowed a bite of her toast and cast a glance in my direction.

  “I was burning it. Did I tell you about the Ollie I pulled? My kickflips?” Molly gulped some orange juice.

  Cathy shook her head. “You’ll have to remind me someday what that all means.”

  “I’m not sure that Mom really wants to know.” All weekend, Cathy and I had put up a façade for our daughter, but were otherwise observing a mutual silent treatment. Getting out of the house with Molly had been the highlight of my Sunday.

  Molly raised her hands. “One fall, Dad, the whole time. One.”

  Cathy grimaced, and I said, “I wasn’t going to mention that.”

  “C’mon, knowing how to fall is half the fun.” Molly drained the last of her juice.

  Cathy arched an eyebrow. “Well, fun yourself upstairs, and don’t forget to brush—”

  “I know the drill, Mom.” As Molly bounded out of the kitchen and toward the stairs, Cathy looked at me and said to her, “You can tell me all about your tricks tonight, when Dad’s home for dinner.”

  “Okay, I’ll explain them, againnnnn …”

  As soon as Molly’s footsteps faded, I said, “‘When Dad’s home for dinner’?”

  “Why? Is that a problem?” Cathy picked up her dishes and headed for the sink.

  “You don’t need to talk like that in front of Molly.”

  She turned and shrugged, then leaned back on the countertop. “Talk like what? All I said was—”

  “I told you I’d knock off the late nights. You don’t need to remind me.” I shoved my mug, splashing some coffee on the table.

  Cathy marched past me. “Fine. See you tonight.”

  I waited a beat. “Maybe I’ll be late.”

  I didn’t turn around but sensed her stop at the base of the stairs. Before storming up the steps, she hissed, “Don’t be an ass.”

  I grabbed my worn briefcase and bolted for the garage. An accident on the Shoreway slowed traffic to a crawl, which did nothing to lighten my mood. Largely for Molly, I had committed to certain changes, but I’d be damned if I would wear a leash.

  When I entered the office, my mood lightened at the sight of Marilyn. From each of her earlobes sprang a cascade of black and red braided wire, with a sliver of turquoise and bold golden feathers at each end. I shifted my briefcase from one hand to the other. “The Pocahontas look?”

  “You should see my headdress and tomahawk.” She arched both eyebrows.

  “Ever think you might be scaring guys away?”

  “Let the cowards run. I’m waiting for a warrior, John.”

  I chuckled and strolled past her, toward my office, but turned in the doorway. “You’ll let me know when you find him?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll fax in my resignation from his private jet on our way to Paris.” She shook a finger at me and winked.

  Marilyn’s moment of levity warmed me, and I settled in at my desk to plow through what should have been a day like any other. And then, just when I’d begun to shuffle through the weekend mail, my cell buzzed, and Jennifer’s name flashed on the caller ID.

  She purred hello, then asked, “You feeling okay?”

  There was genuine concern in her voice, and I could not block the memory of the parking lot at Ed’s Eggs, when all I’d wanted to do was kiss her. “Pretty much back to normal, except for a nose that’s still a couple of sizes too big.”

  “A good look, I’m sure!” She laughed, but then her serious tone surfaced. “I spent the weekend organizing all of Dad’s paperwork. Took me hours.”

  “Find any accounts we don’t know about?”

  “I don’t think so, but some of this stuff I just don’t understand. Could you take a look?”

  Oyster was probably the sort who would squirrel away every form and slip of paperwork, not knowing when it might be needed. “Sure. Can you drop it by the office?”

  She exhaled. “There’s a lot, John. Boxes. I don’t know what your schedule is like, but I can leave work early if you could swing by …”

  I lowered the phone and pressed it against my neck, ran my free hand through my hair. My eyes rested on the framed photo of Cathy and Molly. I heard Cathy’s words, about being home for dinner. Just before she’d chided me not to be an ass.

  She must have sensed my hesitation, because she cleared her throat and said, “Everything’s organized, best I could, on my dining room table. C’mon, John; I’m not going to bite.”

  A bite wasn’t exactly my worry. I considered asking Marilyn to come along, but was a chaperone really necessary? Christ, I was being too guarded. It wouldn’t be the first time that I’d visited someone’s home to help sort through a raft of confusing documents. My meeting with Jennifer was simple, mundane business.

  I just had to forget a certain whiff of perfume, a suggestive embrace, and the stubborn recollection of a parking lot kiss.

  “John, you still there?”

  I raised the phone to my lips. “No, I understand. I just can’t stay late.”

  “Of course. Your family.” She clucked her tongue. “Can you make it by five? Need directions?”

  “Trusty GPS. See you then.” Five o’clock would give me time to sift through the paperwork for an hour or so and still be home in time for dinner. I could leave a message on Cathy’s cell that I’d be running a little late—or maybe I wouldn’t leave a message. Showing up later than she expected might set the proper boundary, even if she called me an ass all night.

  There was nothing unusual about leaving the office early, so Marilyn didn’t bat an eye when I prepared for a late afternoon exit. As the elevator descended, I focused on my promise to Bernie, that my relationship with Jennifer would remain strictly professional. By the time I reached the garage and headed toward my Buick, my nerves were tingling. I slid onto the driver’s seat and cradled the keychain in my hand, reminding myself that I wasn’t going on a date. The afternoon would be spent doing nothing more than reviewing a box full of a dead man’s papers. I slid the key into the ignition, and the engine purred to life.

  Jennifer lived in Parma, a bedroom community that had taken baby steps toward becoming more cosmopolitan. Her apartment complex was off the main road and partially concealed behind an unattractive strip mall. I pulled into a guest slot in the parking lot at the rear of her building. There was a directory near the door, sheltered beneath a beige awning. Jennifer soon buzzed me in. She was waiting at her doorway when I got there, and she greeted me with a sly smile. I followed her inside, conscious of her tight jeans and bright yellow blouse.

  A couple of abstract paintings popped against sleek white walls, and a contemporary white leather couch and matching chairs bordered a sinuous glass coffee table. Colorful pillows added some sizzle to the plain furniture, all artfully positioned over wall-to-wall beige carpeting. A large plasma screen and sleek sound system faced the couch. The room opened onto a pleasant, compact patio, lined with greenery.

  “Great job decorating, Jennifer. The place looks fantastic.”

  “Thank you.” She reached for my nose but didn’t touch it. “Not that bad. Still sore?”

  “I’ll tough it out, somehow.”

  “Okay, Mr. Hero.” She laughed and gestured expansively tow
ard her dining alcove. Neatly arranged stacks of paper covered the wooden table. “Let’s see how your special powers handle all of this.”

  Relieved that we had so quickly progressed to business, I followed her into the dining room.

  She quickly explained how the documents were organized, then said, “So that’s about it. I’ll let you get to it.” She switched on a stereo, housed in a glass and aluminum unit mounted on the wall behind us. “Let me get you a glass of wine. I picked up some Chianti.”

  “Sure.” Chianti—the wine we had enjoyed during our dinner at Dino’s. Her choice of music was calm and mellow. Under other circumstances, I might have interpreted it as romantic, but I wasn’t going to allow my thoughts to run in that direction.

  As Jennifer headed for the kitchen, I noticed several photos, framed in black lacquered wood, arranged on a small desk near the dining table. One was of Martha and Jennifer, the resemblance striking, and another was of a good-looking guy with light brown hair and intense, dark eyes. The late husband, Robert, I assumed. He’d probably thought he had life by the ass, until his unfortunate encounter with a truck. There was a small framed photo of a younger Frank, taken on a sunshiny day in San Diego, with its distinctive skyline and the graceful Coronado Bridge spanning the bay. Jennifer’s arm was draped over his shoulder. Apparently they’d been friendly at some point in their adult lives.

  Jennifer appeared at my side and handed me a glass of wine. “Thanks for coming over and taking a look at this.”

  “That’s okay; it shouldn’t take long.” Very aware that she didn’t move away from me, I pulled out a chair, set my glass on the table, and began with the row of documents to my right. Jennifer hovered, offering the occasional comment between sips of wine.

  All of ten minutes had elapsed before it was clear that the paperwork, although voluminous, was inconsequential. There were a few old title insurance policies and copies of deeds, but the bulk of the documents were mutual fund statements and routine insurance company forms. Years of meticulously maintained, and substantially worthless, sheaves of paper. Had she seriously been unable to come to that conclusion on her own?