Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) (16 page)

The car in front of him pulled out, and Hallock eased his cruiser into place at the window. Debbie Van Tuyl was on duty.

"Morning, Chief," she said through her microphone.

"Afternoon, Debbie."

She looked startled, then giggled. "I'm just all discombobulated today."

He placed his check in the drawer she'd pushed open. "Must be in love." He'd known Debbie all her life, delivered her on the way to the hospital in the back seat of Henry Van Tuyl's Ford.

"How'd you know, Chief?"

"There's nothing goes on that Chief Hallock doesn't know," he said, then immediately was embarrassed seeing her smile fade. They were both aware that he didn't know a damn thing about three murders. Quickly he got back to the love subject. "Anybody I know, this fella you're in love with?"

"Well, you probably do," she answered, counting out his money. "Joe Carroll."

"Ted Carroll's son?"

She nodded, held up her left hand, and showed him an engagement ring with a small diamond.

Hallock admired it, thinking about Ted, wondering if he'd stopped boozing and if Debbie was going to like being married to an undertaker. She pushed out the drawer again and Hallock picked up the envelope with his money.

"'Course, Dad's having fits 'cause he doesn't care for Joe's profession. He says I'll be depressed all the time but I can't see it. I mean, I'm not going to be hanging around with dead bodies, after all." She pulled the drawer back in.

"Well, Debbie, you got to lead your own life. Henry'll come around, you'll see."

"I hope so."

He put the cruiser in gear. "He will. See you. And congratulations."

"Thanks, Chief. Have a good day."

He was past her window by then, so she couldn't see the irritation that settled on his craggy face. If there was one thing Hallock hated it was people telling him to have a good day. He would or he wouldn't, and so far it had been mixed. Waiting for the light to change, he figured the rest wasn't going to be too bright since he had to spend it with Schufeldt and the sex offenders.

As the light turned to green Hallock waved to Tug Wilson and his cronies standing in front of Wilson's stationery store. OTB coming in hadn't changed anything in Seaville. The boys still made their bets with Tug and all of them, including himself, pretended innocence to the offense. What the hell, nobody was getting hurt. It was just easier than driving the twenty-five miles down to Riverhead and besides, if they were going to lose, they'd rather lose to Tug than to OTB. Keeping it in the family, so to speak.

Hallock pulled up in front of the station. Inside he was confronted with six men standing around the small front room. Al Wiggins was with them.

"This everybody?" Hallock asked.

"Two've already been in," he motioned to the rear door with his head, "one's in there now, and I couldn't locate two."

"Hey, Chief, what this all about, huh?"

"Don't worry about it, Willie, it's just routine."

Willie Smith didn't look relieved. "This guy pull me outta work. I gonna get dock now 'cause you peoples got you routine."

Hallock said, "If you didn't have a routine of your own you wouldn't be here now."

The other men laughed.

"Ah, shit, Chief. I knowed that what it was. I'm clean, ain't touched nobody. You peoples like elephants, never forget nothin'."

"That's right, we forget nothing."

"But I been good, jus' ax my old lady, she tell you I been good."

"So if you've been good, Willie, then you've got nothing to worry about. Just relax."

Willie's brown face tightened. The other men began mumbling among themselves, and Hallock told them all to shut up.

Schufeldt was sitting at Hallock's desk, feet up on the edge. In front of him was Fred "Barbecue" Riley. He got his nickname because he'd been in a fire and had third-degree burns on his back and legs. Barbecue was a flasher, last offense two months before.

"Have a good long lunch, Chief?" Schufeldt asked.

"Good, long, and delicious. How about yours?"

"Short and lousy. You got taste up the ass."

Hallock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from responding. It wouldn't do to let Barbecue see any animosity between himself and Schufeldt. Word would spread like butter on toast. But it was damn hard not to say anything about Schufeldt sitting at his desk, dirty shoes on his papers.

Barbecue said, "I ain't done nothin', Chief."

"Anybody say you have?"

"Well, no." He was a small man, but muscular. His ginger hair was lank, looking like it hadn't been washed in a long time. He had grubby hands, too, the nails black.

Schufeldt said, "Let's get on with this, okay?" He glared at Hallock who sat on a chair facing the back, arms akimbo on top. "Okay. Where were we before we were interrupted?" he asked Barbecue.

"Beats me, Officer."

Schufeldt's face tensed. "Special Agent. How many times I got to tell ya? Special Agent."

"You want me to say, 'beats me, Special Agent'?" Barbecue shook his head. "That sounds dumb. Don't it sound dumb, Chief? Beats me, Special Agent. Don't it just make you wanna laugh, Chief?"

Hallock couldn't agree more. "Just do what the special agent asks, Barbecue."

Schufeldt cleared his throat. "Let's get on with it. So where were you the night of May twenty-ninth?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you, who the hell you think I'm askin', Donald Duck?"

"Huh?"

"Just answer the question, Fred."

"Could you repeat the question?"

"You cocksucker, did you burn your brains in that fuckin' fire?"

"No, sir, Special Agent." He looked over at Hallock. "Now that sounds dumb, don't it, Chief?"

Schufeldt spoke before Hallock could respond. "Just shut up, Riley. Okay? Just shut up."

"Okay."

"Now. Where were you the night of May twenty-ninth?"

Barbecue stared at Schufeldt, his eyes dead-looking, as if he were on drugs.

"You hear me, Riley?" Schufeldt yelled. "You deaf or what?"

Barbecue shook his head.

"What? You're not deaf or you didn't hear me?"

"Neither."

"So why don't you answer the question?"

"You tol' me to shut up."

Schufeldt dropped his feet to the floor, came forward, and slammed his fist on the desk, papers flying. "Goddamn you, you turd, you knew what I meant."

Barbecue didn't flinch. "Huh?"

Schufeldt whirled around, facing Hallock. "This man was doing fine till you came in."

"What's that supposed to mean, Special Agent?" Hallock needled.

Schufeldt snapped to his feet. "Okay, that's it. Go on, get out of here, Riley."

"I can go?"

"That's what I just said, didn't I?" His face was turning the color of June strawberries, a vein throbbing in his temple.

"Yeah, that's what you said, Special Agent."

"Get out!"

"I'm goin'." Saluting Schufeldt and Hallock, he made his exit.

Schufeldt, his hands hanging at his sides like two ham hunks, towered over the chief, who remained sitting. "You're supposed to cooperate with me, Hallock, not thwart me."

"Thwart you? I wasn't thwarting you, Special Agent."

"That's just what I mean, you fuckin' asshole," he screamed.

"I don't understand. I did what I could to get the suspect to answer you," he said innocently, pressing his nails into his palms to keep from laughing.

Schufeldt stuck a finger in Hallock's face. "You better cut it out, Hallock. I'll get you for interfering in an investigation. Now I'm goin' out for a walk, give you time to think this over, get yourself together. And when I come back we're gonna question those men out there, understand?"

"Perfectly."

Schufeldt slammed out.

And then Hallock started to laugh and kept on laughing until there were pains in his sides and tears running down his cheeks. He was having a good day, after all.

LOOKING BACK—50 YEARS AGO

The Seaville Fire Department is to be modernized in keeping with other departments on the Island. A delegation representing the Fire Department requested that the Trustees replace the present chemical and hose apparatus with a modern piece of motor fire apparatus. Also, that they be equipped with new wheels and pneumatic tires, replacing the present solid rubber tires, and that a suitable piece of racing apparatus be purchased for the use of the Department.

EIGHTEEN

The Higbees were Catholics, and the funeral was held on Wednesday morning at the church on Colin's corner, the Blessed Sacrament. It had been delayed because of the holiday and the mandatory autopsy.

News of a small child's murder could not be contained within the district. Reporters from
Newsline
,
The New York Times
,
The New York Post
, and
The Daily News
were all present, as were reporters from the major television networks.

Colin watched as Connie Collins from NBC taped her lead-in. Again he was hurtled back in time, to Chicago and the murders of his family. He inhaled deeply.

"You okay?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah. I guess I really hate the whole circus atmosphere."

"Just doing their jobs, pal," Mark said.

Babe was covering the funeral, so Colin wondered if the remark had been pointed.

"Let's go in," Sarah said.

For Colin it was the first time he'd been in a Catholic church in years. There was a period, home from college on vacation, when he would go to Mass with his mother. But when he graduated, he considered himself an adult with ideas of his own and stopped attending.

Then, the past year, when he'd been living with his mother, she'd gotten on his back about going. They'd had a blowup over it and said things to each other they were sorry for later.

He said, "I haven't gone in years, why should I go now?"

She said, "To pray for the souls of your dead family."

He said, "You expect me to believe in a God that allowed two innocent children and an innocent woman to be slaughtered?"

She said, "Maybe if you'd been going to church in the first place it wouldn't have happened."

He said, "Go to hell, you goddamn bitch."

Later he'd apologized to her, and she'd mumbled something which he'd taken for an apology. She never asked him to go to church again.

The Higbees hadn't come in yet. Colin knew they would enter by a side door after everyone else had been seated. He thought it was a strange practice, the family entering last as if they were the stars of a show. But the star of the show was already there. Her small, beautifully appointed casket rested on a gurney just below the altar. Colin felt a surge of grief, like the swelling of a wave. Two small caskets and one large were suddenly as real to him now as they'd been three years before. For a moment he felt dizzy, sure he was going to have an attack. Then it passed and he was left with the feeling of sorrow he'd known intimately since that terrible morning in Chicago.

Maybe he shouldn't have come. But he'd felt it was important to support the Higbees, especially Chuck. All through the weekend he'd thought of calling the man, stopping by his house. But Higbee didn't even know him. And what would he say, unless he told the truth about his own family? So in the end he'd done nothing. This was his only way of showing he cared, understood. It didn't matter that Higbee wouldn't note his presence.

Sarah gently tucked her hand in his. Tears sprang to his eyes. He didn't want to cry, fearful that once started he wouldn't be able to stop. For diversion he concentrated on the church, the other people. The Blessed Sacrament was small but pretty: the usual stained glass windows and mahogany pews. Wood carvings and brass ornaments decorated the altar.

The pews were almost filled. Chief Hallock and Charlie Copin sat near the back, one on each side of the aisle. Down a few pews was Fran Hallock with both daughters and one son. In front of them was Burton Kelly. Colin imagined Kelly as a teenager—awkward and painfully thin, keeping close to the wall when he walked through the school halls, his books held as a shield against attacks from bullies. The only difference now was Kelly knew how to hide it better. Colin had learned he worked for Seaville Water & Light as a clerk, and had lived with his mother until she died, two years before. He and Mark had speculated on whether Kelly could be the killer. They decided he wouldn't have the nerve or imagination. Still, Colin couldn't dismiss the idea altogether, and he wondered if his reason for that had anything to do with Annie.

Gazing around at the rest of the crowd he spied a lot of familiar faces—Carl and Grace Gildersleeve; his mailman; Babe, her red hair neat in its French braid. He watched her arm make short, palsied movements, then realized she was taking notes. Disgusted by what his profession forced people to do, he looked away from her, across the aisle to Steve Cornwell. Even sitting, he towered over the man beside him. In the next pew were Tug Wilson, Raymond Chute, Debbie Van Tuyl from the bank, the Klipps who lived across from him, the—he stopped, thinking this was exactly what he was doing when Mary Beth Higbee was being murdered. Identifying people. It made him feel sick. A spate of coughing and rustling drew his attention.

The Higbees were filing in. The mother first, then the daughter, and behind her the father. Colin's throat tightened. The immediate family was followed by others; grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. Father Dominick and three altar boys appeared from a door at the back and the Mass began.

When it was over the pallbearers carrying the casket filed out first, the family next, and then the others. On the sidewalk Colin watched as the reporter from
Newsline
and the man from ABC jostled each other trying to get a statement from Chuck Higbee. For a moment Higbee looked at the reporters blankly, his chest swelling as he gasped for air. Colin thought Higbee might lash out, but his wife put a hand on his arm and helped him into the waiting limousine.

People formed small groups, talking softly. Joe Carroll slammed the back door of the hearse, the sound recalling memories Colin had tried to forget.