Magician (10 page)

“To your knowledge, does he have any friends?”

“Like I told you earlier, he’s never had any friends. He simply doesn’t know how to make them. He’d been sheltered all of his early life. That was partly his mother’s fault, I suppose. His father could never get him to show the proper interest in sports . . . or young women his age.”

“Are there any more relatives? In another state, maybe?”

“I’m afraid not, Roland. We’re a small clan, and exclusively Southern. No distant kin. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Well, that’s okay. I’m getting used to having my hopes dashed of ever finding this guy.”

“I completely understand. I don’t know what he’s been doing with himself all these years, but it wouldn’t have surprised me one bit if he’d ended up in prison. No one was more shocked than me that he wasn’t arrested in the Champion affair.”

“So do you think that he was responsible?”
 

Anna looked past me, and shrugged lightly. “I don’t know for certain. I have no reason to say that . . . no rational reason. They say he wasn’t there, but I’ve always suspected.”

“Well, thank you for talking with me today, Anna.”

“Please, call or come by if there is any way I can be of further assistance.”

“I appreciate that. You’ve already helped plenty. It certainly was my pleasure to meet you.”

For some reason, I stopped and turned back to her. There was a strange intensity on her face.

“Do be careful, Roland Longville. I believe you just might find him.”

For some reason, we found ourselves embracing. When we drew apart, she smiled at me.
 

“I’ll be careful,” I whispered, and turned and walked back out into cold rain.

A small clan. A big boy. Standing over me. Touching me. With my gown completely off. In the beginning, he brought me flowers.

I thought of the look on the woman’s face when she had called her own nephew a monster. There was no doubt in my mind, anymore. Samson Fain was my man.
 

But how am I going to prove it?

Fain had been masterful in one thing at least. Besides a few disturbing recollections, he had left no leads for pursuers.
 

I looked down the empty street. So Samson Fain was gone, and he had taken his mysteries with him. And apparently, he had gone without a trace. I gazed out at the traffic piling up on the expressway.

Somewhere out there, beyond the falling rain, Samson Fain was free, going about his business. He held within him the answer to the little girl’s fate. What was he doing now? Was he repeating his master trick on some other poor child, destroying another family forever?

I had seen magicians as a child. I had never been able to figure out their tricks. Now I would have to learn.

Chapter 10

An hour later I sat in my office, thinking about the Fain mess as coffee got cold. Finally I lunged to my feet and walked to my office window and looked down at the street. The evening had cleared, and the rain and sleet had pulled back for a while, replaced by fickle winter sunshine. The people of Birmingham, used to the unpredictable climate, had cheerfully donned their summer clothes and headed out on to the still glistening sidewalks to make the most of the warmth.
 

What made Fain the way he was? What makes a man go after little girls? And what makes him want to hurt them as well?

At what point had he become a calculating predator? Had some buried mental anguish from his own childhood resulted in his twisted sexuality? Or was it some other influence, something that other people wouldn’t even notice, that had pushed some inner button, and changed him irrevocably?

I had seen cases of sexual abuse—more than I cared to remember. As a detective I’d photographed bite marks, burn marks, and other kind of marks I didn’t like to think about, on the bodies of young victims. Some were alive, others were dead, their bodies found in ditches and culverts. The victims who survived such attacks were rarely ever whole again.

Could a history of abuse be Samson’s story? Had he become just like someone who had preyed on
him
in the past? Or was he just one of those rare few who are born into the world evil?

The door to my office creaked open. Lester Broom was standing there, his enormous frame hunched slightly to get through the doorway.

“Les, how are you?” I extended my hand, which disappeared in his much larger mitt.

“Great. Just great.” He walked to the far wall and sat on the edge of my tattered old sofa, his customary seat in my plush office.

We had quite a bit of history between us. Broom, like me, was an ex-military cop, but he was a little older. He was already a detective by the time I joined the force. For a long time, I had known him only as Detective Broom, who worked the same precinct, but who was far above me in the police hierarchy.

Then, the summer of the Mountainbrook Slasher had come, and the city had been frozen with fear by the rapist who slashed his victim’s faces. I acted on a hunch and caught the man. But the arrest had been partially due to luck. This had gotten me three things; a promotion to detective; a scar on my face I would carry for the rest of my life; and my partner and best friend, Detective Lieutenant Lester Broom.

Since then the world had changed considerably for both of us. We had seen each other through dark days. Broom had stood by me through my long fight with the bottle, and I had later comforted him while his wife of twelve years lost her long fight with cancer.

“I was just going to call you, to thank you for the help earlier, Les,” I said.

I sat back down. Les Broom was Broom to his friends, Big Broom to those who respected and feared him. To me he was just Les.

“Well, instead, why don’t you just tell me you love me, and I’ll help you a little more,” Broom growled with a sly smile. I noticed he had a mischievous sparkle in his eye.

“Les, you didn’t, did you?”

“Of course not. But someone did, and they accidentally left it on my desk.”

Broom reached inside of his coat and pulled out a thick brown folder bound with string. On the outside was stamped very clearly in red:

Property of the Jefferson County

Department of Juvenile Justice.

In re: Fain, Samson.

“Les, you shouldn’t have done this.”

“Go ahead,” Broom said, a little mysteriously. “Take a look.”

Inside was a police report, bearing the header of the Homewood Police Department. The first page bore the obligatory black and white mug shots of Samson Fain; they could have been taken the same day as the picture Anelda Ames had given me. Fain had the same bowl-type haircut, the same horn-rimmed glasses,but the expression was very different. The thin smile was gone, and in its place was a hollow-eyed look of despair.

The arresting officer’s narrative was attached.

Witness states that her daughter, a seven-year old white female, was walking to the store near her home when the suspect enticed her to enter his automobile. A neighbor observed the girl entering the suspect’s car, and phoned police. This unit responded and was notified by the complainant that she had observed the suspect’s car pull to the end of the lane, to a wooded area, where a small lake is located. Officers arrived on the scene and discovered the suspect and the child in the suspect’s automobile. The suspect had partially removed the child’s clothing, and was engaged in a sexual battery of the child.

The officers immediately placed the suspect, who is a minor, under arrest. The suspect was then transported to the Jefferson County Jail, where he was remanded to the custody of Jefferson County Youth Facility. The victim was transported to Children’s Hospital for examination.

I looked up from the page and leaned back in my chair.

“My God. He was only sixteen when this happened.”

Broom had moved over to the window, and was staring out at the iron-gray sky.

“Don’t get the giggles yet. Take a look at the next one,” he growled to me without turning.

The second police report was remarkably similar to the first, but there were a few important differences. This report was from the North Precinct of the Birmingham Police Department—my old stomping ground, and Broom’s beat to this day.

The space for the mug shot had been stamped “On file.” I turned to the next page and read the report.

Perpetrator was apprehended by this officer at 12:30 a.m., in the vicinity of the Glen Addie public housing project. The complaint was called in by several tenants, who reported hearing screams from a third story apartment. Several officers arrived on scene, and proceeded to cover the exits, while two officers, including this officer, entered the apartments. In apartment 3-b the officers discovered the victim, a ten-year old black female, who stated that she been molested by the perpetrator.

A search was made of the premises. The perpetrator was discovered in a hallway leading off the main entrance. This is a disused hallway, and the door at the end was barred. In this officer’s opinion, the perpetrator attempted to escape via this route and was unable to open the door.

Perpetrator was subsequently identified as Samson Manley Fain, of 441 Reilly Drive, Homewood. Suspect is a white male, 20 years of age, 6’ 5” in., 275 lbs. Fain confessed to the rape of the girl at the scene in the presence of this officer, with another officer as witness.

At the bottom, the officer had added:

There have been several other unsolved incidents in the area in the past months regarding the molestation of children.

There was nothing attached to indicate that anyone had ever followed up on the officer’s suggestion of a connection. Inside, there were photos of the child, a young black girl, her body bruised by a pair of very strong hands. In her eyes were deep hurt, fear, and confusion.

I put the items back in the folder and placed it on my desk. Broom grunted and stretched in the sunlight that slanted in.

“That’s one sick bastard you’re after, Roland. Sort of a big boy, too. You need some help on this one?”

“Actually, Les, you’ve been a great help already. This is far more than I needed. Do you need this back?”

“Nah, I made sure that copies made it into the file . . . and that file hasn’t been cracked in fifteen years. Like most of them, it probably never will be again.”

“Well, I guess I better get moving with this information.”

Broom got to his feet and walked over and patted me on the shoulder. “Whatever you need, just give me a yell, partner.”

“I’ll do that. And thank you again, Les.”

“Remember, I’m here if you get too close to this creep. Hope to God you find him.” He tossed me a wave as he walked out.

I drew a heavy sigh and looked down at the folder on my desk. I reached into a pocket and took out the other picture, the one Anelda Ames had given me. There, looking up at me, was the portrait of young Samson Fain, staring innocently out at the world.

The telephone rang, jarring my attention from the picture.

I picked it up on the second ring.

“Longville.”

“Mister Longville!” It was Vivian Truss, and she sounded excited.

“Yes, Miss Truss, can I help you?”

“Well, I just wanted you to know. After I left, I remembered, Mr. Fain had sent me a postcard. I’d forgotten all about it. Mom reminded me. I’m sorry, but it totally slipped my mind.”

“You wouldn’t happen to still have it, would you?”

“Actually, I do. I threw it in a drawer here at work the day I got it. You can have it, if you like.”

“I would indeed.”

“Good, I enjoyed talking with you, earlier. Do you mind coming back over?”

“Why, no. I’d like to see that card.”

“I’ll close up in a few minutes, but I’ll let you in. Just knock.”

“I’ll be there in a bit. Thanks again, Miss Truss.”

“No problem. And, Mr. Longville? It’s Viv.”

“Well Viv, I guess we better make it Roland, then.”

“I guess we better . . . Roland.”

* * *

The weather held up well while I was driving over, but suffered a sudden relapse as I drew near Hoover. Rain began speckling the windshield as I drove up to Oran Real Estate’s Offices. Vivian opened the door for me; she was there alone. Her story about Samson Fain flashed across my mind, but my presence apparently didn’t inspire the same reaction in her. She met me at the door and held the post card out for me to see. It had a peculiar picture on the front, strange looking columns of natural stone, rising up out of beds of wild flowers. On the back, in a tight, careful hand, was written:

Dear Viv;

I have found a new place where there are lots of great people who support and believe in me. It’s not like Birmingham, where people jump to conclusions and can’t accept a person for who they really are. I guess you know what I mean. I just wanted to thank you for being a real friend.

Best Wishes,