Red Dragon (7 page)

Three pages later the lump was a small benign cyst, easily removed.

 

 

Graham heard the telephone ring in the bedroom. A click and the hum of an answering machine. “Hello, this is Valerie Leeds. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number after the tone, we’ll get back to you. Thank you.”

Graham half-expected to hear Crawford’s voice after the beep, but there was only the dial tone. The caller had hung up.

He had heard her voice; now he wanted to see her. He went down to the den.

 

 

 

He had in his pocket a reel of Super Eight movie film belonging to Charles Leeds. Three weeks before his death, Leeds had left the film with a druggist who sent it away for processing. He never picked it up. Police found the receipt in Leeds’s wallet and got the film from the druggist. Detectives viewed the home movie along with family snapshots developed at the same time and found nothing of interest.

Graham wanted to see the Leedses alive. At the police station, the detectives had offered Graham their projector. He wanted to watch the movie at the house. Reluctantly they let him check it out of the property room.

Graham found the screen and projector in the den closet, set them up, and sat down in Charles Leeds’s big leather armchair to watch. He felt something tacky on the chair arm under his palm—a child’s sticky fingerprints fuzzed with lint. Graham’s hand smelled like candy.

It was a pleasant little silent home movie, more imaginative than most. It opened with a dog, a gray Scottie, asleep on the den rug. The dog was disturbed momentarily by the moviemaking and raised his head to look at the camera. Then he went to sleep again. A jumpy cut to the dog still asleep. Then the Scottie’s ears perked up. He rose and barked, and the camera followed him into the kitchen as he ran to the door and stood expectantly, shivering and wagging his stumpy tail.

Graham bit his lower lip and waited too. On the screen, the door opened and Mrs. Leeds came in carrying groceries. She blinked and laughed in surprise and touched her tousled hair with her free hand. Her lips moved as she walked out of the picture, and the children came in behind her carrying smaller sacks. The girl was six, the boys eight and ten.

The younger boy, apparently a veteran of home movies, pointed to his ears and wiggled them. The camera was positioned fairly high. Leeds was seventy-five inches tall, according to the coroner’s report.

Graham believed that this part of the movie must have been made in the early spring. The children wore Windbreakers and Mrs. Leeds appeared pale. At the morgue she had a good tan and bathing-suit marks.

Brief scenes followed of the boys playing Ping-Pong in the basement and the girl, Susan, wrapping a present in her room, tongue curled over her upper lip in concentration and a wisp of hair down over her forehead. She brushed her hair back with her plump hand, as her mother had done in the kitchen.

A subsequent scene showed Susan in a bubble bath, crouched like a small frog. She wore a large shower cap. The camera angle was lower and the focus uncertain, clearly the work of a brother. The scene ended with her shouting soundlessly at the camera and covering her six-year-old chest as her shower cap slipped down over her eyes.

Not to be outdone, Leeds had surprised Mrs. Leeds in the shower. The shower curtain bumped and bulged as the curtain does before a grade-school theatrical. Mrs. Leeds’s arm appeared around the curtain. In her hand was a large bath sponge. The scene closed with the lens obscured in soapsuds.

The film ended with a shot of Norman Vincent Peale speaking on television and a pan to Charles Leeds snoring in the chair where Graham now sat.

Graham stared at the blank square of light on the screen. He liked the Leedses. He was sorry that he had been to the morgue. He thought the madman who visited them might have liked them too. But the madman would like them better the way they were now.

 

 

 

Graham’s head felt stuffed and stupid. He swam in the pool at his hotel until he was rubber-legged, and came out of the water thinking of two things at once—a Tanqueray martini and the taste of Molly’s mouth.

He made the martini himself in a plastic glass and telephoned Molly.

“Hello, hotshot.”

“Hey, baby! Where are you?”

“In this damned hotel in Atlanta.”

“Doing some good?”

“None you’d notice. I’m lonesome.”

“Me too.”

“Horny.”

“Me too.”

“Tell me about yourself.”

“Well, I had a run-in with Mrs. Holper today. She wanted to return a dress with a huge big whiskey stain on the seat. I mean, obviously she had worn it to the Jaycee thing.”

“And what did
you
say?”

“I told her I didn’t sell it to her like that.”

“And what did
she
say?”

“She said she never had any trouble returning dresses before, which was one reason she shopped at my place rather than some others that she knew about.”

“And then what did
you
say?”

“Oh, I said I was upset because Will talks like a jack-ass on the phone.”

“I see.”

“Willy’s fine. He’s covering some turtle eggs the dogs dug up. Tell me what you’re doing.”

“Reading reports. Eating junk food.”

“Thinking a good bit, I expect.”

“Yep.”

“Can I help you?”

“I just don’t have a lock on anything, Molly. There’s not enough information. Well, there’s a lot of information, but I haven’t done enough with it.”

“Will you be in Atlanta for a while? I’m not bugging you about coming home, I just wonder.”

“I don’t know. I’ll be here a few more days at least. I miss you.”

“Want to talk about fucking?”

“I don’t think I could stand it. I think maybe we better not do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk about fucking.”

“Okay. You don’t mind if I think about it, though?”

“Absolutely not.”

“We’ve got a new dog.”

“Oh hell.”

“Looks like a cross between a basset hound and a Pekingese.”

“Lovely.”

“He’s got big balls.”

“Never mind about his balls.”

“They almost drag the ground. He has to retract them when he runs.”

“He can’t do that.”

“Yes he can.
You
don’t know.”

“Yes I do know.”

“Can you retract yours?”

“I thought we were coming to that.”

“Well?”

“If you must know, I retracted them once.”

“When was that?”

“In my youth. I had to clear a barbed-wire fence in a hurry.”

“Why?”

“I was carrying this watermelon that I had not cultivated.”

“You were fleeing? From whom?”

“A swineherd of my acquaintance. Alerted by his dogs, he burst from his dwelling in his BVD’s, waving a fowling piece. Fortunately, he tripped over a butter-bean trellis and gave me a running start.”

“Did he shoot at you?”

“I thought so at the time, yes. But the reports I heard might have issued from my behind. I’ve never been entirely clear on that.”

“Did you clear the fence?”

“Handily.”

“A criminal mind, even at that age.”

“I don’t have a criminal mind.”

“Of course you don’t. I’m thinking about painting the kitchen. What color do you like? Will? What color do you like? Are you there?”

“Yeah, uh, yellow. Let’s paint it yellow.”

“Yellow is a bad color for me. I’ll look green at breakfast.”

“Blue, then.”

“Blue is cold.”

“Well goddammit, paint it baby-shit tan for all I care. . . . No, look, I’ll probably be home before long and we’ll go to the paint store and get some chips and stuff, okay? And maybe some new handles and that.”

“Let’s do, let’s get some handles. I don’t know why I’m talking about this stuff. Look, I love you and I miss you and you’re doing the right thing. It’s costing you too, I know that. I’m here and I’ll be here whenever you come home, or I’ll meet you anywhere, anytime. That’s what.”

“Dear Molly. Dear Molly. Go to bed now.”

“All right.”

“Good night.”

Graham lay with his hands behind his head and conjured dinners with Molly. Stone crab and Sancerre, the salt breeze mixed with the wine.

But it was his curse to pick at conversations, and he began to do it now. He had snapped at her after a harmless remark about his “criminal mind.” Stupid.

Graham found Molly’s interest in him largely inexplicable.

He called police headquarters and left word for Springfield that he wanted to start helping with the leg-work in the morning. There was nothing else to do.

The gin helped him sleep.

Flimsy copies of the notes on all calls about the Leeds case were placed on Buddy Springfield’s desk. Tuesday morning at seven o’clock when Springfield arrived at his office, there were sixty-three of them. The top one was red-flagged.

It said Birmingham police had found a cat buried in a shoebox behind the Jacobis’ garage. The cat had a flower between its paws and was wrapped in a dish towel. The cat’s name was written on the lid in a childish hand. It wore no collar. A string tied in a granny knot held the lid on.

The Birmingham medical examiner said the cat was strangled. He had shaved it and found no puncture wound.

Springfield tapped the earpiece of his glasses against his teeth.

They had found soft ground and dug it up with a shovel. Didn’t need any damned methane probe. Still, Graham had been right.

The chief of detectives licked his thumb and started through the rest of the stack of flimsies. Most were reports of suspicious vehicles in the neighborhood during the past week, vague descriptions giving only vehicle type or color. Four anonymous telephone callers had told Atlanta residents: “I’m gonna do you like the Leedses.”

Hoyt Lewis’s report was in the middle of the pile.

Springfield called the overnight watch commander.

“What about the meter reader’s report on this Parsons? Number forty-eight.”

“We tried to check with the utilities last night, Chief, to see if they had anybody in that alley,” the watch commander said. “They’ll have to get back to us this morning.”

“You have somebody get back to
them
now,” Springfield said. “Check sanitation, the city engineer, check for construction permits along the alley and catch me in my car.”

He dialed Will Graham’s number. “Will? Meet me in front of your hotel in ten minutes and let’s take a little ride.”

At 7:45 A.M. Springfield parked near the end of the alley. He and Graham walked abreast in wheel tracks pressed in the gravel. Even this early the sun was hot.

“You need to get you a hat,” Springfield said. His own snappy straw was tilted down over his eyes.

The chain-link fence at the rear of the Leeds property was covered with vines. They paused by the light meter on the pole.

“If he came down this way, he could see the whole back end of the house,” Springfield said.

In only five days the Leeds property had begun to look neglected. The lawn was uneven, and wild onions sprouted above the grass. Small branches had fallen in the yard. Graham wanted to pick them up. The house seemed asleep, the latticed porch striped and dappled with the long morning shadows of the trees. Standing with Springfield in the alley, Graham could see himself looking in the back window, opening the porch door. Oddly, his reconstruction of the entry by the killer seemed to elude him now, in the sunlight. He watched a child’s swing move gently in the breeze.

“That looks like Parsons,” Springfield said.

H. G. Parsons was out early, grubbing in a flowerbed in his backyard, two houses down. Springfield and Graham went to Parsons’s back gate and stood beside his garbage cans. The lids were chained to the fence.

Springfield measured the height of the light meter with a tape.

He had notes on all the Leedses’ neighbors. His notes said Parsons had taken early retirement from the post office at his supervisor’s request. The supervisor had reported Parsons to be “increasingly absentminded.”

Springfield’s notes contained gossip too. The neighbors said Parsons’s wife stayed with her sister in Macon as much as she could, and that his son never called him anymore.