Everybody Pays (17 page)
Hank’s head fills the scope. I rest the crosshairs on the bridge of his nose, tracking him as he walks forward. He has a pistol held down at his side, right against the thigh of his camo-pants.
I wait for my breathing to be perfect. Between heartbeats, I do it.
Then I go back to the real World.
for Walter Anderson
PERP WALK
1
“It’s all set up, Tracy.” It was the Chief’s bulldog voice, thick from the pressure of all the media attention. “Bring him on down,” he said.
I keyed the microphone in the cruiser. “ETA under fifteen minutes, sir,” I promised.
“I’ll meet you out front. And, Tracy . . .”
“Yes, Chief?”
“This case is a career-maker, son. I won’t forget who cracked it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I replaced the mike, glanced over my shoulder to the cage in the back of the prowl car. Wallace John Loomis sat back there, hands cuffed behind his broad back, a three-day stubble on his pockmarked face, dull eyes staring straight ahead like he was watching one of those TV cartoons he loved so much.
“You think he’ll beat it? Take an NGI and go to the state hospital?” the fresh-faced young trooper behind the wheel asked me. He’d only been on the job for a year or so—he still loved the cop slang.
“Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity? Not a chance, kid. Old Wallace ain’t crazy, he’s just slow in the head, that’s all. Real slow.”
“But isn’t that the same as—?”
“Nah. Remember Homer Sistrunk? He had the IQ of a potted plant. But he was smart enough to rape and kill that old woman, right? They fry retards in this state, kid. And in a case like this . . .”
2
They were all waiting for us in the parking lot. Four in the afternoon, timed just perfect for the evening news. Better to let the TV people lead off, the Chief always said. It’s more dramatic. Besides, people don’t read the way they used to years ago—let the newspapers hold until the morning editions.
I could see the bright-yellow Channel 29 van right in front of the steps to the station house, the blonde-woman half of the evening anchor team already set up in the floodlights, a wireless microphone in her hand. The working press was there too—I recognized the red-haired guy with the gray trench coat from the
Herald Dispatch
. A phalanx of uniformed troopers kept the crowd behind wooden sawhorse barriers.
The kid pulled the cruiser as close as he could. I got out and opened the back door, motioning for Loomis to get out, holding my hand gently over his head so he wouldn’t bump it as he exited.
Then we did the Perp Walk. Loomis first, me next to him, right hand tight on his left biceps. The reporters shouted questions at him:
“Did you kill Mary Jo?”
“Do you have a statement to make?”
“Was anyone else involved?”
But Loomis didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead, putting one foot ahead of the other, moving slow like he always did.
3
Once we got him locked up in one of the isolation cells, I came back outside. The chief was talking to the press, telling them how I had found the little girl’s gym shorts in a shed at the back of the falling-down dump Loomis lived in all by himself. The little girl had disappeared the night of March 31.
“Good old-fashioned police work,” the chief said. “That’s how these cases are solved. Not with computers, not with those FBI profiles—with classic investigative techniques. And I’m proud to say that, when it comes to investigators, we’ve got one of the best in the business.”
He gestured with his hand and I moved in next to him on top of the steps. “I can’t stop and answer any of your questions now,” I told them all. “The defendant has indicated he wants to make a statement and—”
“So the Blue Moon Murderer hasn’t demanded a lawyer?” one wise guy in the press corps asked me.
“No, he hasn’t,” I said calmly. “In fact, we’ve already had quite a long conversation right after I placed him under arrest. I think his conscience . . . I better not say any more at this time,” I cut myself off. “Talk to the chief. He’s in charge. I’ve still got work to do.”
4
I spent the whole night with Loomis, just him and me in the interrogation cell. Loomis doesn’t talk much. Hell, he
can’t
talk much. Mostly just mumbles and grunts. He liked fried chicken, though—I found that out.
I got him a whole bucket of that fried chicken, all for himself. With a double order of cole slaw and mashed potatoes. A six-pack of beer, too. And a portable TV set with a VCR, so he could watch cartoons.
We smoked three packs of cigarettes between us by four in the morning. Nobody came near us, letting me do my job. When Loomis finally fell asleep, I covered him with a blanket.
Then I called the chief.
5
It was almost noon before we were ready to go. This time, the national media were there. The word had gotten out—the Blue Moon Murderer was going to walk us right to the scene of the crime.
Loomis looked pretty good. I made him take a shower and shave, and one of the guys brought him in some old clothes that were a pretty good fit.
I led the way in the Ford Explorer we used for the back country. You need four-wheel drive in some of those gullies, even in the dry season. I let Loomis ride next to me in the front bucket seat. He was handcuffed, and I controlled the lock to the passenger door, so there wasn’t any risk.
We gave the media a half-hour to set up, then we started the walk. Me and Loomis, so close together I could hear his breathing. The rest of the guys stepped back, gave us plenty of room—they didn’t want to do anything that might spook him. Every once in a while, I’d lean in real close and he’d say something to me.
The ground was so hard and dry it hadn’t even picked up the tracks of the Explorer—you couldn’t tell the last time somebody had been in that area.
I kept talking to Loomis. The cameras watched from a distance. Even the most rabid members of the press didn’t want to spoil this one chance of finding Mary Jo if she was still alive.
We walked for a long time. Finally, we came on an old shack. It was so decrepit only three walls were standing. I whispered to Loomis. He pointed toward the shack.
I bowed my head. The forensic squad moved in. Loomis just stared stupidly into space. It had taken me a long time to get him to understand he should point like I told him.
Right to where I’d buried Mary Jo’s body.
for Greg Posner-Weber
GOOD FOR THE SOUL
“
I
t ain’t like I’m her father, you understand?”
“Sure. You want another smoke?”
“Thanks, man. I mean, how many guys would marry a woman with a kid, right? Her real father, it’s like the guy don’t exist. Never sends a dime of child support, never writes to the kid, nothing.”
“She even know who he is?”
“Not a clue. You ask me, I’m not even sure the little tramp’s
mother
knows, you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah. Happens all the time. They want to party, but they don’t want to pay the freight.”
“That’s the truth. I mean, I work
hard
. I could be spending all my money in strip clubs, you know what I mean? But, no, I bring it home.”
“The mother don’t work?”
“Cheryl? You gotta be kidding, pal. I’m the breadwinner in that house. Just me. That little part-time job of hers doesn’t hardly pay enough to cover her car and insurance.”
“Must be rough sometimes . . .”
“Hey, I can deal with it. But . . . it just got to be too much, you know what I’m saying? I work all day, okay? Then I come home and Cheryl throws some TV-dinner crap in front of me, tells me she’s gotta get to work, leaves me to watch the kid.”
“She’s . . . how old?”
“Nine, last birthday. Sounds like a
little
kid, right? Let me tell you something. I don’t know if she gets it from her mother or what, but that is one
wise
kid, believe me when I tell you. She knows exactly how to get over.”
“So when the mother . . . Cheryl?”
“Yeah, Cheryl.”
“So when Cheryl would leave you alone . . .”
“No, it wasn’t nothing like that. I mean, I may have . . . played with her a little before, but this . . . thing, it was only that one time.”
“Why do you think—?”
“I was drunk. Simple as that. I mean, I usually have a beer or two after work. Just to unwind, okay? But that night, Cheryl said she was gonna be late, trading off with another girl on a split, and I was just watching TV and I guess the booze just got away on me. I mean, I was
drunk
. The next thing I know, it’s like I just woke up. And she was . . .”
“The mother?”
“Yeah, she caught us. I mean, the kid was in bed with me. And I was still drunk. And I guess she just . . .”
“The mother?”
“No, the kid. She just—I mean, look: I was drunk. I never did nothing like that before.”
“Sure, I understand. Let me ask you something: was that the first time you ever got drunk?”
“In my life? Come
on
.”
“Yeah. So, when you got drunk before, you rape any little girls?”
“Huh? What’re you—?”
“Me? I’m just trying to figure this out. Trying to help you help yourself. You want it to work, it’s gotta
sound
right. Now, you did it because you were drunk. The booze made you do it. But you got drunk before. And you didn’t do it then, right? So
something
had to be different. . . .”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Sure. I’m telling you what was different. That little slut, that’s what was different. If I’d been sober, she never would’ve gotten over on me like that.”
“Yeah. I hope you didn’t say any of this to the cops?”
“Hey, man, I said I was drunk, not stupid. I ain’t saying
nothing
until I see a lawyer.”
“Good. No way they’re gonna take that kid’s word over yours, right?”
“Well, there was some . . . blood and stuff, I guess. But there’s other ways it could’ve . . . I mean, I done some reading about it and—”
“You read about it
before
it happened?”
“Well, not about
it
. Just about—you know what I’m talking about. Hell, the guards told me you’ve already been in a long time—”
“Eight years, seven months, and eleven days.”
“Jesus. For what?”
“Murder.”
“Oh. Then what’re you doing here in the County? They told me this is the pre-trial tank.”
“I got another charge.”
“From when you was—”
“Yeah. Downstate.”
“Damn! You got nothing
but
bad luck, huh, partner? Anyway, like I was saying, you got fuck-books in prison too, right? That’s what I heard. This book I was telling you about? It was called
Daddy’s Doll
. I got it at the video store. And it said how these little bitches sometimes get you so—”
“Yeah. You didn’t leave the book lying around, did you?”
“Oh shit! I never thought of—”
“Calm down. Just call your wife. They have to let you use the pay phone here. Tell her where the stuff is—
any
stuff, you hear what I’m saying?—and tell her to get rid of it.”
“I dunno, man. She was really mad. Like I
killed
the kid or something.”
“It’s worth a try. What you got to lose? Look, promise her anything. Tell her about the booze. Tell her you’re going to get therapy. Just make sure she gets rid of all the stuff. And if
she
won’t do it, tell your lawyer to get you a power-of-attorney form. That gives
him
the right to act like he was you, understand? So
he
can get everything—go right into your house with your key. You got videos too, right?”
“Yeah. Damn, I’m sure glad I talked to you.”
“No problem. Look, the important thing is, you never confess, understand? They say confession is good for the soul. That’s cute. Confession, it’s good for the cops, that’s all. Now, your wife, she
can’t
testify against you, so you’re covered there. But don’t say another word to anyone, all right?”
“Absolutely.”
“All right. Then just chill until your lawyer shows. We got this whole place to ourselves.”
“Why do you think that is? I mean, there’s room enough in here for twenty guys.”
“The man wants it
quiet
in here. Same as in the joint. So they keep us separated.”
“I don’t get—”
“They don’t lock whites with niggers, man. What’s so hard to understand?”
“Nothing. I mean—I just thought they didn’t . . .”
“It ain’t like the movies, pal.”
“I . . . figured. That’s what those tattoos are for, right? Like, white power?”
“Yeah.
Exactly
like that. You want another smoke?”
“Thanks. I’ll pay you back as soon as Cheryl gets down here with the bail. That is,
if
she . . .”
“Don’t sweat it. Like you said, you’re the breadwinner, right?”
“Right. Hey, what did they bring you back down for?”
“I told you.”
“No, I mean, what’d they say you did?”
“Oh. Another one.”
“A . . . murder?”
“Yeah. Four, actually. They say I’m the enforcer for this prison gang. Real science fiction.”
“You don’t seem too worried about it.”
“Me? Nah. How many life sentences can you do?”
“I guess that’s right. Christ, I hope the judge cuts me a play on bail. I don’t see how you did so much time already—it would drive me nuts.”
“You won’t be doing any time.”
“You really don’t think so?”
“I’d bet on it.”
“Well, you’ve been around a lot; I guess you should know.”
“Sure. The truth, it always comes out. They’re going to try me for killing four men behind the walls. But they got it wrong.”
“You didn’t do it?”
“Sure I did it, pal. They just got the number wrong.”
“Huh?”
“Those pay phones, they’re really something. You can just reach out and talk to anyone. Even someone you haven’t heard from in years.”
“I don’t—”
for Sergeant Mike McNamara