2 in the Hat (31 page)

Alves let out an awkward chuckle, then felt Connie’s hands on his neck again. Connie slipped his left arm around Alves’s arm and pulled it back. Alves struggled to get loose. Connie reached under his chin with his other hand and pulled his head back to the right. The Chin and Chicken. Alves could feel Connie tighten his grip and start to crank with both hands. He tried to elbow Connie with his right arm, but he couldn’t put any force behind it. Connie lifted him in the air.

Alves was immobilized.

A
lves tried to move and a pain shot up from his shoulder into his
neck. His head was throbbing. The cold metal bench he was lying on didn’t help. He opened his eyes and a gun was pointed at his head: his own Glock. Alves sat up. He tried to speak, but his throat hurt. Connie handed him a beer and told him to drink it. His drinking gloves were sticking out of Connie’s pocket. Connie was wearing latex gloves.

It hurt to swallow. When he finished the beer, Connie gave him another.

“Jesus, Connie, give me a break. I can’t chug beer like I used to.”

“Just drink the beer, detective,” Connie said coldly.

Alves took a swallow and set the bottle down on the bench. He’d better savor the beer. The beers were his hourglass. When they were gone, so was he.

“Detective, I didn’t tell you to enjoy the beer. I told you to drink it. Pretend you are eighteen and trying to win a drinking contest at a frat party.”

Alves took another swallow. The mac and cheese rose in his throat. He finished the bottle and Connie made him drink two more. Alves was feeling the effects of the beer. He usually only drank one or two to get a good buzz. After five beers he was drunk.

When the last beer was gone, Connie took a step away from him. “So you want to know about Mitch Beaulieu?”

Alves didn’t want to know the truth. Not now. Not like this. He needed to be sober. He wanted it to be in an interrogation room with Mooney. He wanted it to be on tape. Video, if possible. He knew that if Connie told him everything now, then he would not live to tell it to anyone else. “I think I already know everything,” Alves said.

“You don’t know shit,” Connie said.

“I know you killed innocent people for no reason.”

“That’s how you see it? Not me. I always kill for a reason. I kill out of necessity. I kill for the good of all men.”

A wave of nausea swept over Alves. He tried to shake it off.

“Who have you killed?”

“Don’t pull that shit on me. You know who I killed. That’s why we’re out here tonight, isn’t it? You thought you could get me to slip up and say something I shouldn’t. Maybe get a confession. Guess what, pal? You hit the jackpot.”

“Who have you killed, Connie?”

“Oh, I get it. You want that full confession you came looking for. I know you’re not wearing a wire and you’re never going to leave this place, so I’ll give you that.”

“That’s good of you,” Alves said.

Just that morning he’d made pancakes for Marcy and the twins. When he was getting ready to leave for work, Marcy had told him to wait a second, then she’d kissed him, told him to be careful, to “drive nice,” like she always used to. Alves needed to find a way out of this. He needed to lure Connie close enough to catch him with a sucker punch, get his gun back.

“Don’t be a wiseass or I’ll just kill you right now. Then you would have died for nothing, without any of the answers you came looking for.” Connie paused. “Detective, I know you’re upset about Robyn Stokes. I never would have killed her if I had known she was your friend.”

The randomness of victims, the crazy logic of killers, the way everything had to fall just right for the right detective to put everything together at just the right moment. It sickened and frightened Alves. “Why, Connie?”

“I showed you why. You’ve been to my house. You still haven’t figured this out, have you? I had to practice.”

An image of Connie’s basement flashed into his mind. The mock courtroom. The judge’s bench. The prosecutor’s table. The witness stand. And the jury box. Seats for eight jurors. There were only six confirmed victims of the Blood Bath Killer. Six bathtubs filled with blood. But if you added Emily Knight, the woman who disappeared walking home from work, and Nick Costa, Connie’s fellow prosecutor, that made eight. But he’d gone over every square inch of Connie’s house. How had he preserved eight human bodies in his basement courtroom?

Then he knew. That’s what that massive laundry table was. An antique embalming table. Alves had seen them at older funeral homes. It was a gruesome thought. If the victims had been preserved, embalmed, they could have sat in that basement courtroom. They could have listened as the great prosecutor delivered his opening and closing statements.

But the bodies were gone. If only he could, he’d get a search warrant, dig up the yard and take the entire house apart, plank by plank, until he found them.

The idea of those bodies in the basement courtroom, the pain in his shoulders, the meal and the beer—all of it was too much. The gorge rose in his throat, and he couldn’t hold it back.

W
hen Alves could focus again, Connie started talking. “You can’t
understand why I do what I do. You’re too caught up in the little details to see the big picture.”

“Try me,” Alves said. Not caring about an answer, but stalling for time, for something.

“Detective. Think about all the gangbangers that have been killed with the community .40 that was floating around. The one Greene and Ahearn found under the front seat of Stutter Simpson’s Toyota Tercel the night they arrested him. The very piece of evidence that I’m going to launch him with, in spite of Ray Figgs. Your problem, and Figgs’s problem, Detective, is that you both get caught up in the crying mothers and grandmothers, the friends who set up sidewalk shrines for their fallen brothers, the value of each human life. I can look beyond that and see that the neighborhood is safer without those gangbangers.”

Alves felt his stomach lurch again. This time he knew it wasn’t the beer and the heavy meal. He couldn’t begin to get his mind around what Connie was telling him. “You killed kids on the street, too? How many people have you murdered?”

“I wouldn’t call it murder, detective. Murder is the
unlawful
killing of a human being.”

“You think it’s lawful to kill innocent people?”

“Don’t be so surprised, Detective. You gave me the idea. You’re the one who talked about how we could reduce the murder rate if we could catch the serial killer targeting the gangbangers who had just ‘turned their lives around.’ You know, like every good defense attorney argues, ‘But judge, my client was just about to turn his life around, he’s thinking of going back to get his GED, his girlfriend has a baby on the way, he’s good to his mother.’”

“Connie, for God’s sake, I was joking.”

“Okay, Detective. If that makes you feel better. I was trying to give you credit for a brilliant idea. Sure, the homicide rate was up a little over the past year with everyone that was taken out by that one gun, but it should be way down next year. And not with long, drawn-out prosecutions, but with quick hits. How much time and money was wasted trying to put Jesse Wilcox in jail? How many people died in the meantime? Problem solved. And it didn’t cost anything. No one else has been hurt.”

“You killed Jesse Wilcox?” It was almost incomprehensible. How could one horror build on another? Where was the end of this twisted and tangled, knotted rope of a confession?

“He was killed with the .40, wasn’t he? He would have been the first, but I thought it would be safer to bury him somewhere in the middle. No pun intended,” Connie smiled. “The best part is that, despite Ray Figgs, I’m going to convict Stutter Simpson for Jesse’s murder. Wrap things up nice and neat.”

“You’re sick. You’re going to send an innocent man to jail for the rest of his life?”

“He might be innocent of Wilcox’s murder, but we both know that he’s committed others. I knew you didn’t have the balls to do it. You just come up with the ideas and get me to do your dirty work. I can see this is upsetting you, Detective, but I wanted you to have the answers you came looking for.”

“Connie, please. Think about Marcy and the kids.”

“I have, and it really is a shame. All the stress of investigating homicides finally got to you, Detective. It became a burden for you. Sadly, tonight, after discussing this stress with your good friend Connie over dinner, you bought yourself a six pack and came out to the stadium you hung out in as a kid. You got drunk and decided to put an end to everything.

“Don’t worry. All your buddies in the department will have a fundraiser for Marcy and the twins. I’ll be there. Maybe they’ll have an
annual golf tournament and raise money for a couple of years before a new cause comes along and everyone moves on with their lives. Marcy will move on, too. She’ll find herself a new husband, maybe one of your cop buddies. I’m still single, you know,” he winked at Alves. “And Marcy is a fine looking woman. The kids are young. Their memory of you will fade. In time they will learn to love their new father. Everything will work out just fine. It always does.”

“You’re not going to get away with this, Connie. I’ve got a call into a Detective Mike Decandia in Tucson, Arizona.”

“Sorry, detective. Won’t work. I’ve beaten him before. He’s not that good. And think about it. Mitch is still the Blood Bath Killer. Richard Zardino is the Prom Night Killer. And those gang kids just keep killing each other with that ‘stash gun.’ You need to be a man about this. It will be over in a second. In fact, as the saying goes, I think this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”

Connie laughed. He moved in closer, the gun pointed at Alves’s head.

This was it. He had one crack at Connie. Should he aim low? Maybe hit him with an elbow in the nuts? Or the jaw? A square shot to the jaw could stun him, maybe knock him out. Alves waited until Connie stood close to him on his right side. Connie was much taller than he. He sized Connie up and made his decision. He swung his right elbow at Connie’s midsection. Caught him in the ribs. Heard a crack. At the same time he grabbed the barrel of the gun with his left hand, turning it away from his body. He tried to stand up as he hit Connie with a few more elbows, but the alcohol was having its effects. Alves lost his footing and Connie pulled the gun out of his grasp. He felt Connie’s powerful arm wrap around his neck, choking him.

“Any last words?” Connie asked, loosening his grip slightly.

Alves began to pray. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest.” He raised his voice. “All my sins, because I dread.” He was almost yelling. “The loss of Heaven and the pains of hell…”

Connie placed the gun against Alves’s right temple. Alves closed his eyes.

The quiet of the stadium was interrupted by the sound of a single gunshot.

A
lves kept his eyes closed for a moment
.

He felt no pain.

“Motherfucker,” Connie shouted.

Alves was not dead. He felt more alive than he had felt since Connie first choked him out. Had Connie missed with the shot? No. Alves’s ears weren’t ringing. He opened his eyes. Connie had backed away from him.

Connie was bent over, holding his side. “You are going to die for this.” He raised the blood-soaked Glock toward Alves.

A second shot.

This time Connie dropped the gun and stumbled backward, falling onto the hard turf.

Nearly thirty yards away, Sergeant Ray Figgs stepped out of the shadows and moved toward Connie, his gun pointed at Connie. Alves could see that Connie was barely breathing. A pool of blood was glistening in the moonlight. Figgs kicked the Glock away from Connie’s reach.

“How did you find us?” Alves shouted at Figgs.

“I’ve been watching him,” Figgs said. “I never bought that thing with Stutter Simpson and the .40. And ADA Conrad Darget is the only one who could have planted that gun.”

“Well, you could have got out here sooner.”

“I lost you when you came in close to the stands. I had to move slowly.
I never had a very good angle. But I had no choice when he put the gun to your head. You okay?”

“Yeah.” Alves could feel his head spinning. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was how close he had come to dying. Maybe it was the knowledge of what Connie had done.

Figgs put his gun down on the bench and helped Alves to his feet. It felt good to have the blood flowing again.

Another shot went off.

Alves had never been shot before. The bullet hit his left arm, near his shoulder. It burned as if a red hot poker and been driven through him. Figgs pushed him down. Both of them managed to roll behind a steel trash can. Alves held his shoulder, trying not to make any noise. God, it hurt. He could see Connie up on one knee. He had a small gun in his hand. The two-shot derringer. Alves reached for his ankle, praying that his lifesaver was still there. He got a firm grip on his snubby. He handed the gun to Figgs.

Figgs stayed close to the ground. “Don’t move,” Figgs said.

“It isn’t supposed to end like this,” Connie called. “I have been chosen to do this work.”

“Drop the gun or I’ll shoot.”

“I can’t let you do this,” Connie said, struggling to stand and aim.

Figgs fired a shot into Connie’s chest and Connie fell onto his back. He didn’t move. Figgs walked over and kicked the derringer away.

A
lves stopped to adjust the sling. No matter what he tried, he
couldn’t get his arm into a comfortable position. But he felt guilty thinking about his discomfort, considering what Mooney was going through. Alves continued down the corridor until he reached the cul-de-sac of recovery rooms in the ICU. He paused outside and watched Mooney lying with his eyes closed. Should he bother him? Would a visit agitate him?

Mooney opened his eyes. “What’re you, a Peeping Tom, skulking around outside people’s rooms?”

“Yeah. Actually, I got bored checking out the hot babe in the room down the hall who was getting a sponge bath from two sexy nurses. I thought it’d be more fun to watch a cranky, old-fart cop taking his afternoon nap.”