Fury (14 page)

Thursday, September 20
2:35
P.M.
Day 4 of 6

“You stink,” she said sullenly.

“You’re not exactly springtime fresh yourself,” Corso countered.

Densmore’s drenching had left the fire escape slick and slimy. Despite their daintiest efforts, Corso and Dougherty had picked up a hint of eau de Garfield as they’d climbed down into the waiting arms of the law.

“Why haven’t they put us in the regular jail yet?”

Good question. They’d been locked in a windowless underground office in the King County jail for what Corso figured was the better part of two hours. No prints taken. No mugs shot. Just a wooden bench to share and a pair of his and hers jailers stationed outside the door in case either of them needed to take a leak.

“I don’t think they want us in with the regular jail population,” Corso said. “They’re probably worried we’ll start running our mouths about what we saw today.”

Corso checked his watch, and, for the umpteenth time, found it gone. Along with his wallet, his cell phone, the camera, the film, and everything else that was loose on either of them. Strip-searched. Just short of the rubber-glove routine. Corso hadn’t asked. He assumed Dougherty’d gotten the same treatment. Probably why she’d been so quiet. He looked at his wrist again. Still gone. Hadda be about two in the afternoon, he figured.

He heard voices in the hall. The door opened. Lieutenant Donald and another cop entered the room. The second man’s gold shield hung from his suit-jacket pocket. He had pale blue eyes, wiry red hair, and a humongous cold sore decorating his lower lip. Donald started to close the door behind them, until his nose twitched a couple of times, like a bunny, and he decided to leave it open. He looked at Corso.

“You got some knack for making enemies, man,” Donald said.

“It’s a calling,” Corso said.

“You two better stay the hell away from Densmore,” the other guy said, shaking his head. “On good days, he’s a pain in the ass. After this…” He let it hang.

“This is Sergeant Wald.” Nods were exchanged all around.

Donald leaned against the doorjamb. “They took Densmore up to Harborview.”

“They’re afraid he might have swallowed some of it,” Wald said.

Corso held up both hands. “We had nothing to do with it. He’s the one brought the shit down upon himself.”

“To coin a phrase,” Wald said with a wink.

Donald shook his head sadly. “It’s all over the precincts. They’re calling him Felix. You know, like the cartoon cat.”

“Never gonna live it down,” Wald said.

“How many new killings have you got?” Corso asked.

The cops lobbed a look back and forth. Corso pushed.

“If you’ll forgive me the phrase, fellas, the cat’s already out of the bag.”

Donald cocked his head, as if to say, What the hell. “This was the second.”

“Started about two weeks ago,” Wald added.

“Both of them ear-tagged?”

Another look passed between the cops. “Come on,” Donald said, gesturing toward the open door. “You’re wanted upstairs.”

“The gods have assembled,” Wald added.

Dougherty got to her feet and followed Donald out the door. Wald stopped, blocking the doorway, and turned back toward Corso. The cold sore glistened with some sort of yellow salve.

“How come on a homicide team with two sergeants and a lieutenant, the lieutenant’s not the three?” Corso asked.

“Densmore’s a desk jockey from Central. He’s our political correctness officer. He’s here to make sure SPD gets the glory when we catch the guy. And Chucky…” Wald snorted. “Chucky’s got no major-crimes experience at all. You don’t count the Samples girl throwing herself on the hood of his patrol car, I’m not even sure he owns a felony collar.”

“Then why have him on the team?”

“Chief says it’s as a liaison. Between the old murders and the new cases.”

“What’s everybody else say?”

Wald checked the hall. “Everybody else says Chucky is the chief’s boy. Say Kesey can’t make him captain without he has some high-profile major-crimes time. So, we get him on the team.”

“What’s that leave you to do?”

“Catch the perp,” Wald said with a grimace.

Before Corso could reply, Wald asked, “It true what the matrons say?”

“What’s that?”

“That Big Mamma there is tattooed all over?”

Corso felt blood moving to his cheeks. He kept his voice level.

“Why don’t you ask her for a little peek?”

He nodded at Dougherty and Donald disappearing down the hallway. “Can’t nobody compete with Chucky for the ladies,” he said with a smirk. “Say she’s got some pretty weird stuff all over her.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Corso said.

“Stuff most people wouldn’t want on them.”

“Sounds to me like one of your bull dykes is dreaming.”

“Hmmm,” was his only reply.

Corso stepped past him in the doorway and headed down the hall. Donald was showing Dougherty his teeth and holding the elevator door open. Going up. Third floor. Office of the chief of police. At the far end of the hall, Chief Kesey, the mayor, Marvin Hale the district attorney, and Dorothy Sheridan were huddled together like refugees.

Through the wavy glass, Corso could make out Mrs. V.’s profile. Donald opened the door without knocking, stepped aside, and ushered them in. Mrs. V. sat at the far end with Dan Beardsley close at her right hand. Bennett Hawes paced the narrow space behind them.

Corso and Dougherty headed for the friendly end of the table as Wald closed the door. “Are we under arrest?” Corso demanded.

“No,” Beardsley said.

“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

“There have been developments,” Mrs V. said. She looked to the attorney.

“Miss Samples faltered rather badly, I’m afraid,” he said.

Corso marinated the idea. “You mean she changed her story again?”

“And again and again and again,” Beardsley recited. “Miss Samples’s story depended entirely on who was asking the questions and in what tone of voice.”

“What am I missing here? Isn’t that what you were onboard for—to keep the cops from badgering her?”

Beardsley raised his porcine snout, as if sniffing the air. “I assure you, Mr. Corso,” he said with great deliberation, “the young lady did not require coercion. She has, how shall I say…a terrific urge to please, which, when combined with difficulty recalling what she said last, makes for quite an interesting witness. Short of invoking her Fifth Amendment rights, I was completely helpless.”

The door swung open and Hizhonor marched in. Followed by the chief, the DA, and the Sheridan woman. Beardsley waited for the scuffing of chairs to subside and said, “Mr. Corso has inquired as to whether or not he and Miss Dougherty are under arrest.”

“No,” said the DA.

“That could damn well change,” Chief Kesey said quickly.

“Now, Ben,” the mayor chided.

Beardsley made a disgusted face. “Don’t be ridiculous. You have neither a complainant for trespassing nor a weapon for assault.” The lawyer made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Unless, of course, it is your intention to issue an assault indictment listing ‘feline bowel effluent’ as the weapon.” Mrs. V. winced at the words.

“Neither of them is under arrest,” the district attorney said emphatically. Marvin Hale was an athletic forty-five. Billiard-ball bald. Prone to pipes and sport jackets with elbow patches. “We’re here in the spirit of cooperation,” he said soothingly.

The chief looked like he was going to puke.

“Well, then…in the spirit of cooperation,” Corso said, “Miss Dougherty and I want to leave. We’ve got a story to put together.”

A ripple moved through the crowd, like “the wave” at the Kingdome.

Natalie Van Der Hoven sat forward in her chair. “These gentlemen feel strongly that it is our civic duty not to go to print with the story at this time.”

“Time?” Corso sneered. “Time is exactly what Walter Leroy doesn’t have.” He checked his watch. “According to my watch, he’s two days from the great beyond.”

“You let us worry about Himes,” Kesey snapped.

Corso laughed. “Oh yeah, if I were old Walter, you’d be just the bunch I’d want looking out for my well-being.”

“After her performance today, the Samples woman can hardly be considered a credible witness,” Kesey said.

“As I recall, she was considered credible enough when she was
your
witness,” Corso said.

Suddenly the air was filled with threats and denials. Hawes was yelling at the chief, who’d come up out of his chair and was stabbing the air with a finger. Dan Beardsley and Marvin Hale were trading snappy repartee in angry voices. Hizhonor was playing the peacemaker. The Sheridan woman rubbed her temples and stared disconsolately off into space. Meg Dougherty stood in the corner, her hands under her arms, her head swiveling back and forth as if she were watching a tennis match.

“Why in hell didn’t you release Himes two weeks ago when the first new body turned up?”

“Because, Mr. Corso, we don’t, for a second, believe the killings are related,” Kesey said.

Corso was incredulous. “The body I just saw had a tag on her ear.”

A knowing look passed among the powers-that-be.

“Different tags,” the DA said. “Not from the same batch. The tags found in the latest victims are twenty years newer than those used in ninety-eight.”

“MO’s not the same either,” the chief added. “The new murders have a significantly higher level of violence than the old.”

Corso was taken aback. “So you guys are assuming what?”

The chief took over. “We’re investigating three angles. I personally think we’ve got a copycat killer. Somebody who got all excited by the sensational crap he’s read in the papers over the past couple of weeks and has decided he wants a little attention too.”

“What else?” Corso prodded.

“The possibility that Himes has an accomplice. Somebody who’s trying to muddy the waters. Trying to force at least a stay of execution.”

“And?”

“We’re also looking into some of the more radical members of the anti-capital punishment movement.”

“Anti-capital punishment types are killing people?” Mrs. V. scoffed. “Sounds all rather self-defeating to me.”

“Unlike newspapers,” the chief said, “we have to do our homework before opening our mouths.”

The DA leaned across the table. “Now, now. Let’s see if we can’t fix the problem rather than the blame.” His green eyes took in the crowd at the other end of the table. He stopped and let it sink in. “Other than that unfortunate young woman who can’t make up her mind whether or not she was raped or by whom…do you have anything?”

The room went silent. “Because”—the DA continued—“until and unless somebody shows us one scrap of hard evidence that the original eight murders were not the work of Walter Leroy Himes, we are going to continue to assume his guilt.”

“Himes was convicted by a jury of his peers,” the mayor added. “He’s had three and a half years and several million dollars’ worth of appeals.”

“You don’t think any of this constitutes reasonable doubt?” Corso asked. He could feel himself grasping for straws. “How would an activist or a copycat know about the ear tags?”

“
You
knew,” Kesey said in a tone that suggested that if Corso could find out, anybody could find out. “In any organization the size of the SPD, leaks are to be expected. Considering how many people from the original task force knew about the tags…I’m amazed it hasn’t hit the papers before.”

“We’ll be the first to admit that these new developments certainly cast something of a shadow,” the DA said. “We are in constant communication with the governor, but as of this moment”—he spread his hands—“we have absolutely nothing that would warrant a request for a stay of execution.”

“Not to mention that it’s an election year,” Hawes growled. “Governor Locke would rather be set on fire than have to stop the execution. He’ll take less heat for juicing Himes by mistake than he would for letting him go, even if Himes really
was
innocent.”

“And you want us to hold the story of the new murders?” Corso asked.

The chief was suddenly red in the face. “You have to. We’ll be inundated. A hundred nuts will confess. We’ll get thousands of phoned-in leads. The story will bring our current investigation to a standstill.”

“What’s in it for us?” Hawes asked.

“What do you want?” Kesey asked.

“We want access to information on all ten murders,” Corso said. “We want copies of the field notes from the original detectives. We want copies of the autopsy results and the accompanying photographs, and we want a look at all forensic evidence.”

Again the room erupted. Corso shouted them down. “And we want all of it between now and four o’clock this afternoon. If we don’t have everything we’ve asked for by then, we go public.”

The district attorney got to his feet and walked over two places. Put his arms around the chief and the mayor and pulled the three of them into a tight, muttering knot.

Dorothy Sheridan sat openmouthed. Hale straightened up. The chief was the color of an eggplant. The mayor’s pallor was more like old custard. They exchanged disgusted looks.

“We keep the holdbacks,” the chief said. “We have an ongoing investigation to consider here.”

Corso agreed. Kesey worked his lips in and out a couple of times and then looked over at Donald and Wald.

“Donald…you and Wald see to it these people get what they need,” he said.

Both cops opened their mouths to protest. “We can’t let civilians—” Donald began. Kesey raised his voice. “Did you hear what I said, Lieutenant Donald?”

“But—” the cop started.

“Did you?” Louder this time.

“Yessir,” Donald snapped.

“What about you, Sergeant Wald?” the chief asked. “Any questions?”

“No, sir,” Wald said.

Without another word, the chief and the mayor joined Hale in the full upright position and marched out like Huey, Dewey, and Louie.

“You do have a way about you, Mr. Corso,” Mrs. V. said the moment the door closed behind Dorothy Sheridan.

Corso turned to the cops. “How do you want to do this?” he asked.

Donald ran a hand through his hair, which, of course, fell perfectly back into place. He scratched the side of his neck. “Somebody is going to have to go to the medical examiner’s office with one of us,” he said, “and somebody is going to have to go across the street with the other, I guess.”