The Company of Demons

by Michael Jordan

  “Under the circumstances, great.” I didn’t tell her that the prospect that my wife wouldn’t take me back was worse than the vision of bolt cutters and red lips. Maybe a meeting with Father McGraw would help. Then, I could solemnly relate the promises made while hanging from that fucking rafter, every word. Let Cathy see me, hear me, touch my hand when I swore on everything that was holy never to hurt her again.

  “There’s some other folks who want to talk to you.” Her white blouse swirled as she turned toward the door.

  “But I’m with my wife.” I pictured a cadre of reporters streaming in, led by Vanessa Edwards, peppering me with questions about my father’s suicide and which parts of me the Butcher had lopped off in her medieval cellar. “I’m not giving any interviews.”

  “It’s the police,” she said over her shoulder.

  She walked out, swinging the door wide for Bernie Salvatore and Wendy Coufalik. I wasn’t sure how to react when they marched in. He seemed glum, but she looked oddly perky. Whatever. I owed them my life and was grateful—even to the tough broad from Slavic Village.

  Cathy walked over and wrapped her arms around Bernie. “They told me what happened. Is this …?”

  “Detective Coufalik, Cathy Coleman.” Bernie introduced them, and they shook hands while Cathy murmured her thanks.

  “What you did … what to say …” My mouth suddenly felt very dry, and I sipped water from a Styrofoam cup on the table.

  Coufalik shrugged. “Doing our job.”

  “How the hell did you find me?” I thought back to the workbench, the knives and the saws and the bolt cutter, and I trembled.

  Bernie shrugged. “Some kids called in a 911 and said they’d seen a guy dragged into a van. It was dark, so none of them could be sure of the make or color.”

  I recalled the rowdy kids who had been outside of Great Lakes, just before I’d been lured into that dark alley.

  “The van was parked out of the light, and they gave us a shit description of you and the guy doin’ the dragging. Big and bald was the best they could do. Sound familiar?” Bernie shifted his weight, turning his head in Cathy’s direction. “Nothing on the driver, but it must have been the Butcher.”

  “This gives me the chills,” Cathy said. She went back to the hospital chair and sat, her fingers gripping a reddish earlobe.

  Bernie refocused on me. “The kids froze at first, but one of them had the presence of mind to grab his cell and snap a picture of the plate when the van pulled away. The angle was bad, so we only got a blurry partial, but it was something to work with.”

  “They said that technology is better these days, that it would trip the Butcher up this time,” Cathy said, reminding me of our conversation in the kitchen when the nightmare had just begun. “I bet they weren’t thinking of a cell phone.”

  “Your car was one of the few in the nearby lot. They called Cathy, and she was already worried that you hadn’t come home.” Bernie stared up, as though to examine the white tile ceiling. I knew that he was thinking of another night when I hadn’t come home, despite his admonition.

  “I was waiting for you, John, in the living room. Then they called …” Cathy began sobbing, her shoulders shaking, and I reached for her and took her hand.

  “If only … God, I nearly lost everything.” Tears welled, even though I was embarrassed to cry in front of Coufalik again. “Sorry …”

  “Forget it,” Bernie said, the same way he had back when I’d screwed up a play for the Green Wave. Gotta move forward. “When I heard that it might be you, I put us on the case. Took awhile, ’cause we only had the partial plate.”

  “But how’d you figure it was the Butcher?” I slipped my hand from Cathy’s and wiped my eyes.

  “We didn’t. If we’d known that, we would have shown up with a SWAT team. Other vans matched the partial, too. Captain put three cars on this, but a lady her age wasn’t high on the list of possibles. Her’s was the third we checked.” Bernie shrugged. “When she answers the door, all prim and proper, I figure it’s a dead end. She says she rarely drives and wasn’t out at all yesterday. I was ready to pack it in.”

  “But her being all dressed up, at home, before noon, struck me as weird,” Coufalik said. “I’m checking out her shoes, and there’s this streak of fresh blood. She’s not bleeding, so I ask her what happened, and she got shifty.”

  Bernie nodded. “Something wasn’t right. With the partial, the blood, you missing, we weren’t waiting for a warrant.”

  “You’re damn lucky she was wearing light-colored shoes. If she’d had on black ones, we probably wouldn’t be talking now.”

  “So who is she?” Cathy said.

  “Mary Smith. The brother was William.” Coufalik raised her eyebrows.

  “We’ll comb the records,” Bernie said. “But if that’s their real identities, I’ll eat dirt.”

  “What about the Torso Murderer … their father?” I would never forget the pride that shone in her eyes when she made that claim.

  “We’ll tear that house apart to see if we can find anything on him.” Bernie didn’t sound at all convinced that they would.

  “She said that my dad … he nearly figured them out.” My eyes were teary again, at the memory of my unshaven father with a bottle of Four Roses.

  “No surprise, huh? We all know he was a solid cop.” He glanced out the window, and I followed his gaze but didn’t see what caught his attention. “Cathy, can you give us a moment with John?”

  Cathy hesitated, seemingly confused by his request. So was I. “You can talk in front of her, Bernie.”

  He shifted his feet. “We’d like to talk to you, alone.”

  “It’s okay,” Cathy said. She stood, picked up her purse, and gave me a weak smile. “I’ll be right outside.”

  The door latched shut, and Bernie shoved his hands in his pockets. “Ahh, fuck … you’re a shit, but I’m still sorry about this, John.” Coufalik nodded, like that was her cue. “There’s a warrant for you, Mr. Coleman. You’re under arrest for the murder of Frank Frederickson. You have the right to remain …”

  “What?” My voice echoed from the floor, the ceiling, and the white block walls. “Bernie …?”

  Coufalik ignored me and kept icily reciting my rights. She finished and smirked. “So, how’d it go down?”

  I was never the smartest goddamn lawyer in the world but knew enough to shut the hell up when reminded of the right to remain silent. “I’m calling an attorney.”

  “You sure?” Now Coufalik sounded sympathetic, like she’d suddenly become my friend. “The prosecutor might go lighter if you work with us, save us all a lot of trouble.”

  “I said I want a lawyer.”

  “Have it your way.” With a nod to Bernie, she turned toward the door. “There’ll be a guard outside until the docs clear you, then a police escort to jail.”

  “This is bullshit, Bernie. You know me. What the hell am I going to tell Cathy?”

  “I can’t help you with that, John.” He locked eyes with me for a moment, and I thought that he was going to say something else, but he turned and followed Coufalik.

  I was sure he was tempted to ladle out guilt like shit porridge about Jennifer Browning and was grateful that he didn’t. If only I’d followed his admonition to go home to Cathy, I might not have wound up in a hospital bed, missing toes and under arrest. I turned my face to the window and listened to the footsteps of Coufalik and my old high school buddy until the door closed behind them.

  How the hell would Cathy react when she learned of my arrest, for murder no less? All the prayers and promises made while hanging naked from a chain might have been for nothing. And Jennifer? I’d contemplated a gentle, mature parting of the ways. Oh, by the way, that unpleasantness involving your brother? Don’t let that come between us.

  The blinds were wide open; I gazed at the concrete bridges that soared over the nearby zoo in the valley below. We’d taken Molly there several times and traipsed through the rain forest e
xhibit, where she’d made faces at the baby orangutans. Even though the sky was bright and blue, my world was saturated with red, all that blood. Mine, Oyster’s, Frank’s. The clouds were the wrong shapes—knives and axes and cleavers.

  My thoughts were suddenly flooded by visions of clanging doors and steel cages, and I wanted to believe that there was no way Jennifer had anything to do with my predicament.

  26

  “I knew you were in trouble when I saw the cop in the hallway.” Cathy’s voice was emotionless. She had turned the chair away from the bedside and sat facing me. “But murder … what the hell happened, John?” Telling her about the warrant had been difficult enough, but the fact that I had no answers left me unbalanced. “For the life of me, I don’t know. They don’t have to explain the grounds for an arrest.”

  “I can call Bernie.”

  “No. You’ll put him in a box. The prosecutor’s office is running the show. I’ll get a lawyer, a copy of the police report.” A public record, which the media would have their grimy hands on soon enough. “You’d better get to Molly. This will be all over the news.”

  “Jesus.” She stood and crossed her arms. “You’ll let me know when you find out?”

  “I will, absolutely.” I knew that she had to be told about the photos sent to Jennifer. The timing and place were all wrong, but she had to know. “Cathy, someone mailed Jennifer Browning, Oyster’s daughter, some photos. Of her, of me. And you and Molly, in the driveway.”

  “What … why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Her arms fell to her sides and she took a step toward me. “Why would somebody do that?”

  “Bernie knows about this, and Jack Corrigan does too. Nobody can figure it out. I was going to tell you, but …”

  She moved her head slowly, from side to side. “Why, John, why?”

  I shut my eyes, opened them, and stared at the white ceiling. “Just keep an eye out, okay?”

  “What did you get us into? There’s Molly to think of, for the love of God.”

  “Tell her I love her and that I didn’t do this.” I took a deep breath. “I’ll call you after I’ve talked to the lawyer.”

  “I don’t know how to explain this to her.” She snatched her purse from the roll-a-way table near the foot of the bed. She was shaking and her lips trembled.

  “And I love you too, Cathy.”

  The words were barely out of my mouth, and she was gone. I felt worse than if the Butcher had dissected every joint with her wicked fillet knife. I rubbed clammy hands over my face and forced myself to concentrate on the one issue within my control: finding a lawyer. And that ball had to start rolling immediately. My cell was certainly logged into an evidence bag somewhere, so I picked up the tan phone by the bed and called the office. As expected, Marilyn answered on the second ring.

  “It’s me.”

  “John! Where are you?”

  “The fricking hospital.” I didn’t know where to begin, how to answer the questions she’d have.

  “Are you okay? The news said—”

  “I won’t be jogging for a while, let’s put it that way. But … I don’t even know what to say … I’ve been arrested for murder, Frank Frederickson.”

  “What … you?”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “I never thought that.”

  Her loyalty meant more than anything did at that moment. I wiped a tear from my cheek. “Can you get me the number for Arlene Johnson?”

  “I’ve seen her in the papers. The black woman, right?”

  “Remember that electrician I wrote a will for? The guy who later got caught up in the school bid rigging mess?”

  “The PD had a field day.”

  “He wanted a top criminal defense lawyer, and Johnson was one name I gave him. She got the guy off, the only one of all those contractors to walk. Impressed me, since the son of a bitch was guilty as hell.”

  “Will she know—”

  “She should remember me. We talked at least once, so I could give her background on the client.”

  Marilyn promised to arrange a time for a conference. She was probably surprised by my choice of counsel. I didn’t know many minorities of any kind, and there certainly weren’t any in my circle of friends. But the color of someone’s skin doesn’t matter—especially if you think the person can save your ass.

  Arlene Johnson’s assistant called me about twenty minutes later to arrange for a late afternoon meeting. Someone brought me a tray of food, and I shoved carrots and spaghetti around with my fork, all the while praying that Arlene could resolve my problems.

  Precisely on time, she made her entrance, wearing a yellow-and-black plaid knee-length skirt, matching jacket, and a white blouse with a collar. A substantial gold necklace, matched by a pair of earrings, gleamed. Her face was strong, with high cheekbones and intense, dark eyes.

  “You get the charges dropped yet?” I said.

  Arlene didn’t return my grin but pursed her lips and sat in the plastic chair wedged between the bed and the wall. She lowered her black leather briefcase to the floor; her measured demeanor made me squirm.

  “It’s been awhile, Johnny.” Her tone was crisp and confident, her diction precise. She glanced at the foot of the bed. “Sounds like you had a rough time.”

  “Cut two toes clean off. Bolt cutter.”

  “I squirm just thinking about it. Are you sure about talking now?”

  “Yeah. I need some good news.”

  “Wish that I had some.”

  “C’mon, what can they have?”

  “Plenty.” She pulled a yellow legal pad and a copy of the police report from her briefcase. “The complainant is your former client, Jennifer Browning.”

  I had spent the morning trying to convince myself that Jennifer wasn’t the one, couldn’t be. I remembered being with her, touching, laughing, coming.

  Arlene looked at me and hesitated. “You okay? We can do this tomorrow.”

  I shook my head and motioned for her to continue. Another day, another week, another life wasn’t going to help.

  “She says you were searching for her brother and found him, dead. Next thing she knows, you show up at her apartment to comfort her.” She tossed her shoulder-length hair and looked at me expectantly.

  “Well, she called me.”

  “And you went?”

  “If I could take that back …” I imagined Cathy, waiting for me to come home, her gaze wandering over the crucifix above the mantle and the arrangement of the ceramic figurines.

  “It gets better. She claims you’d already seduced her. Says she trusted you completely and that you promised to leave your wife. Before I go any further, answer a simple question: Did you sleep with her?”

  There wasn’t anything simple about it. A yellow streak rose from my spine and told me to deny the tryst, but Jennifer could probably prove it. My fingerprints would be all over her apartment. Maybe she’d saved her bedding, à la Monica Lewinsky and her blue dress, and they’d find my DNA. If Arlene found out that I’d lied about the sex, my credibility would be as absent as my little toes, and she’d dump me in a minute. “Look, my wife and I were having some issues—”

  “I’ll decide how to spin it. It’s a yes-or-no question. Give me the answer.”

  I raised my eyes to meet hers. “Yes.”

  “Just in case you weren’t thinking about it at the time, a lot of jurors don’t like cheats—hope you’re not offended by the term—especially guys who’ve been cheating on their wives. What’s her name, and did she know?”

  “Cathy, and—oh, fuck, no.”

  “Sorry. It’s all in the report and all over the news. They didn’t skimp on the juicy details, either.”

  “Cathy and me, I was going to try to work this out.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. The best you can do is to call her later. You’ve got a Go-Directly-to-Jail card. When you leave today, it’ll be with the police, and you won’t be going home.”

  “What about bail?”
I wanted to see Cathy, in our home, and confess face-to-face. Let her slap me, pull out a fucking bolt cutter of her own and have at it, I didn’t care.

  “It’s standard procedure to spend one night in the can before you can see a judge and set bond. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

  I lay back and worked my head into the pillow, shut my eyes. The prospect of a shift in a cell block with guys who could eat me for lunch was frightening. I hadn’t even been able to defend myself against an asshole bouncer.

  “There won’t be anything easy about what you’ll be going through.” I heard Arlene flip back to her notes. “Browning says she started to think about the timing of everything, how you’d discouraged her from going to the meeting with Frank. She got suspicious and called Bernie Salvatore, whom she’s already met, and told him what was going on between you.”

  I fixed my eyes on the drop ceiling. Bernie had probably slammed his fist into a desk when Jennifer had confirmed his suspicions that we were fooling around, despite my denial. No wonder he’d told me I was a shit when they’d arrested me.

  “Because he knows you, Salvatore had a Detective Coufalik take over. She obtains a warrant to search the vehicle, tells the judge they’re worried about foul play.”

  “But a murder rap? Gimme a break. Jennifer’s brother turns up dead, money’s gone, they find my car in a parking lot—they’ve got nothing.” I could only imagine Coufalik’s zeal as she tore apart my car.

  “Sorry, but there’s more.” She leaned forward and studied my face. “They found money in your trunk. Thirty-five grand, give or take. And her father’s retirement watch, which Jennifer says he’d given to his son.” Seconds passed while I processed what she’d told me. “Somebody put that stuff there, Arlene, I’m telling you. This is bullshit, no way. And what happened to the rest of the money Frank had?”

  Arlene shrugged. “They figure you stashed it somewhere.”

  “Yeah, right. Check my fucking mattress. And why the hell pop a murder charge because they found some money in my trunk? Hell, even if they claim I took the cash, they got nothing—”

  “That’s not all, Johnny. They found something else with the money and the watch, down in the wheel well.”