Savages: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) (7 page)

“Where do you suppose the assailant was all this time?”

“Hiding. Probably behind the stack of lumber. It was a board he hit me with, wasn’t it?”

“Two-by-two. You didn’t have any idea he was still there?”

“I should’ve figured he might be, but I didn’t. Window in the tack room was open and I made the wrong assumption.”

“You didn’t manage to catch a glimpse of him before he hit you?”

“Happened too quick.”

“Anything that might help identify him?”

“No. Too dark in the barn.” Runyon’s mouth was dry again. He drank from the half-full glass on the bedside table. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“The motive. Why string a man up like that, a hired hand? Why lure the family away to do it?”

“No ideas that make any sense. Silvera was a family man himself, quiet, steady, no trouble to anybody that we can find—least likely candidate for premeditated homicide you can imagine.”

“There isn’t any motive,” Kelso said. “Psycho firebugs don’t need reasons for what they do.”

Runyon said, “Firebug?”

“Three fires of suspicious origin in and around Gray’s Landing this summer,” Rinniak told him. “Junior high school, old Odd Fellows lodge building, abandoned barn. No fatalities or injuries, fortunately—all empty the nights they were torched. We’ve ruled out arson for gain in each case. And three’s too many in too short a time to be coincidence.”

“Firebugs don’t usually change their M.O. and start hanging people.”

“They do if they’re crazy enough,” Kelso said. “It’s none of your concern anyhow, Runyon.”

The throbbing ache in Runyon’s head said differently. But there was no gain in arguing with a man like Kelso; it would only make him more belligerent. He said to Rinniak, “If it’s all right with you, I’d like my license and my weapon back as soon as possible.”

“No problem. You can pick them up at the Gray’s Landing substation.”

“How about my car?”

“Still at the Belsize farm. When did the doctor say you could be released?”

“As soon as I talked to you.”

“Well, if it doesn’t take too long, I’ll wait and give you a ride down. You feel up to driving to your motel?”

“I can manage.”

“Better plan to spend the weekend. Rest up, keep available in case we need to talk to you again.”

“I was planning on it anyway. I still haven’t done the job I came here to do.”

Kelso laughed, a surprisingly effeminate sound from such a cowboy. “Deliver a subpoena to Jerry Belsize? I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.”

“No?”

“No. Belsize won’t be testifying at any trial in San Francisco. He’ll be in jail awaiting trial himself once we find him.
He’s
the psycho who set those fires and strung up Manny Silvera.”

JAKE RUNYON

Jerry Belsize had been missing for more than twenty-four hours. Last seen at around 9:00
A.M
. yesterday, in the company of the murdered hired man, Manuel Silvera. He’d left the farm shortly afterward, supposedly for his job at a feed mill in Orford, but he hadn’t shown up there or called in with an excuse. His parents had no idea why he’d skipped work or where he’d gone. He was supposed to have been back at the farm in time for supper; that was why the Belsizes had panicked when they got the anonymous phone call. Sandra Parnell claimed she hadn’t heard from him and had no idea where he might be. According to the victim’s wife, Silvera told her by phone that he’d be home late because he had “extra work and something else to do” at the Belsize farm. He hadn’t said what the something else was.

A search of the big barn had turned up two empty one-gallon kerosene cans hidden in the hayloft. And a search of Jerry Belsize’s room yielded all the components for the kind of simple timing device used in each of the three fires. Circumstantial evidence, but fairly damning just the same.

Runyon learned all of this on the drive down to Gray’s Landing. Unlike the deputy, Kelso, Joe Rinniak was an evenhanded man—forthcoming, and respectful of an ex–Seattle cop with Runyon’s credentials. He seemed to need to unload to an understanding ear.

The operating theory, the one Kelso subscribed to, was that Silvera had seen the kid setting one of the blazes and kept quiet about it because he didn’t want to get involved, or maybe for blackmail purposes. That was the alleged motive for the hanging—to make sure Silvera stayed silent. Why make his kill on his own home ground? He was a psychotic, not thinking rationally. Why disappear? Runyon showing up, almost catching him in the act, had panicked him and sent him on the run.

“We’ve got a BOLO out on him right now,” Rinniak said. “Kelso wanted a fugitive warrant, but I don’t think we have enough for that yet. Belsize doesn’t have any money to speak of and he’s not overly bright—where’s he going to go that he won’t be caught? Once we have him in custody and question him in detail, then we’ll see.”

“Sounds like you have your doubts about his guilt.”

“Doubts, yes.” He glanced sideways at Runyon. “You know much about pyromania?”

“Some. I handled a couple of firebug cases when I was
on the Seattle PD. You’re convinced that’s the kind of case it is?”

“Where the fires are concerned, what else?”

“Could be a grudge thing. Somebody with a mad-on for the community.”

“That’s possible, I suppose,” Rinniak said, “but it doesn’t fit Jerry Belsize. No cause to torch the school or the Odd Fellows hall or the Adamson barn. Looks to me like they were random targets. That argues for the firebug explanation, only he doesn’t seem to fit there, either. You investigated him. What’s your opinion?”

That was the main reason Rinniak was being so candid; he wanted Runyon’s input. “On paper he doesn’t seem to fit the profile.”

“Except for the fact that he’s young. Most firebugs come from poor environments, broken or dysfunctional homes—adore their mothers, hate their fathers. Repressed loners with low intelligence, low self-esteem, emotional retardation, deep-seated sexual hang-ups. Setting fires is a substitute for the sex act, the shrinks say. Gets them excited, temporarily relieves the sexual tension. But it doesn’t last, so they keep on doing it.”

Runyon started to nod. The steady throb in his head changed his mind.

“Belsize had a normal upbringing, and seems to be anything but sexually repressed. He’s had a string of girlfriends ranging back to when he was about fourteen.”

Runyon said, “Not every bug is a textbook case. Some have other problems, other motives.”

“But you’d think that if Belsize was one of those, there’d be something in his background to hint at it. Sure, he’s had some brushes with authority, but it’s all been pretty minor stuff—two speeding tickets, a public scuffle, driving with an open beer in the car. He’s got a decent job; his employer likes him; he seems to fit into the community at large. So why would he all of a sudden go off on a crazy spree this summer—setting fires, committing homicide?”

“Simmering under the surface all along.”

“That’s possible, sure. All firebugs are potential murderers, so the experts claim, whether they fit the profile or not. But here’s another thing. Belsize comes from a solid home and has always gotten along with his folks. Seems to’ve gotten along with Manuel Silvera, too. Doesn’t make sense to me that he’d beat and hang a man in his own backyard. Psychos don’t do it that way, unless they’re the kind that take out their entire families and then themselves. They set their fires and make their kills somewhere else.”

“If Belsize is innocent, those kerosene cans and the timer material were plants. Who’d want to do him that much harm?”

“Good question. On the surface, he’s an unlikely target. Everybody I’ve talked to likes the kid.”

“Except Kelso,” Runyon said.

“Yes. Except Kelso.”

“Sounded to me as if he’s got it in for Belsize.”

“I think maybe he has. There’s a personal angle—he’s a
single father with a daughter not too long out of high school. Ashley’s the rebellious type. She went against his wishes and dated Belsize on the sly for a while last year. Kelso caught them in some heavy breathing one afternoon and literally kicked the kid out of his house. Slapped him around in front of Ashley and two of their neighbors. If Belsize is guilty, why didn’t he torch Kelso’s house or the substation instead of a couple of public buildings and a barn?”

“Afraid of the man, maybe. Vented himself on others’ property instead.”

“That’s a stretch, seems to me.”

“Is Kelso as hard-nosed as he seems?”

“And then some. Runs his office with an iron fist. He wouldn’t give his own mother a break if he caught her jaywalking.”

“Maybe he was hassling Belsize. Or the real perp, if the kid’s innocent. Hound somebody enough, he might just go off the deep end.”

“I’d hate it if that’s what’s behind these crimes. Don’s hard and stubborn, but he has a good record. If he overstepped himself, the entire sheriff’s department will suffer for it.”

They’d reached the Gray’s Landing exit. As they rolled along the road into town, Rinniak said, “Might as well stop at the station and pick up your belongings now. Be quicker if I’m along.”

The substation was in an old Spanish-style building across from an oak-shaded park. There were no security
barriers when you walked in, just an open office with a countertop bisecting it a few paces from the door. Runyon wondered if Kelso knew how good he had it up here in the country. Probably didn’t care, if he did. This was his town, his world. He wouldn’t worry about anybody breaching it; if anything, he’d dare it to happen.

He was seated now behind a desk that had a polished top and everything on it neatly arranged, talking to a stringy middle-aged man dressed in a suit and tie. The older man was bareheaded, but from the way he stood, his entire demeanor, he might have had a hat in his hands. Oozing deference, as if he was there to beg a favor.

There was a hinged flap in the countertop; Rinniak lifted it and Runyon followed him through. “Hello, Mayor,” Rinniak said to the stringy man.

“Joe. I just came to see if there was any word yet.”

“We’ll get him,” Kelso said flatly. “Don’t you worry about that.”

“It can’t be any too soon. The media is already sniffing around . . . there’s a reporter and camera crew from Redding in town. . . .”

“I know. They were waiting for me when I got back a little while ago.”

“Negative publicity. My God, it’s just what we don’t need.”

Rinniak saw to introductions. The stringy man was Carl Battle, owner of a local hardware store and mayor of Gray’s Landing. His handshake was damp and so brief his palm barely touched Runyon’s. Battle oozed sweat as well
as deference; his scalp, visible beneath sparse caramel-colored hair that had a dyed look in the overhead fluorescents, glistened with it. If ever a man didn’t fit his name, it was this one.

He said to Runyon, “I’m sorry about what happened to you last night.” As if he felt compelled to take personal responsibility. “Gray’s Landing is normally a quiet, peaceful town. No crime or violence to speak of until . . . well, I guess you know about the fires. And now a murder, and the assault on you . . .”

Runyon said nothing.

“I understand your concussion isn’t serious. You’re feeling all right now?”

“Passable.”

“We’ll pay your hospital costs, of course. The county, I mean. We can authorize that, can’t we, Joe?”

“I doubt it,” Rinniak said.

Runyon’s Magnum, license case, car keys, and flashlight were in a tagged plastic evidence bag; Kelso produced them from a file cabinet drawer, demanded that Runyon sign a release form before he turned over the bag. The deputy wore a tight, fixed expression the entire time. He wanted Runyon gone—Rinniak, too, for that matter—as much as Battle did. The difference between Kelso’s reasons and the mayor’s was that the deputy didn’t care about negative publicity. He didn’t like outside investigators, county or private, invading his territory or questioning his conclusions or taking the spotlight off him. Runyon had known cops like him before. Minor tyrants and
righteous glory hounds. What Kelso wanted more than anything else was to arrest Jerry Belsize himself—be the hero, cement his authority, bring in a promotion.

Outside and moving again, Rinniak said, “You wouldn’t know it from that display in there, but Carl’s a good man. Civic-minded and honest. It’s just that he doesn’t know how to deal with a situation like this.”

“He seemed afraid of Kelso.”

“I don’t know about afraid, but Don makes him nervous, that’s for sure. Part of it’s the iron fist and Carl being mild mannered. Part of it is that his son, Zach, is dating Don’s daughter.”

“Kelso doesn’t like Zach any more than Jerry Belsize, is that it?”

“He doesn’t think any man’s good enough for Ashley, but he tolerates Zach. I think what worries Carl is that his son will get Ashley in trouble. There’s no telling what Don would do then, given his temper and his moral and religious stance.”

As they bounced along the uneven access lane to the Belsize farm, Runyon had flashback images of last night’s ambulance ride. He held himself rigid on the seat to keep the ache in his head to a minimum. The place looked the same as it had yesterday, everything wilted and shimmery from the heat; the only signs of what had happened there were tire tracks on the dry ground stretching to the large barn. He felt nothing, seeing it all again. In Seattle he’d known police officers who were place sensitive—refused to revisit scenes where they’d been subjected to violence,
suffered in one way or another if they did—but he’d never been afflicted with the syndrome. Places were just places to him. Now more than ever, with Colleen gone.

His Ford was parked where he’d left it, next to the dust-streaked pickup. Rinniak pulled up alongside. The farmhouse door had opened as they approached, and a slat of a man in his fifties, gray haired and gray bearded, had come out to stand on the porch, waiting. John Belsize, probably. He’d been just a voice behind the white flashlight glare last night.

Belsize stayed on the porch as they got out of the car. Rinniak said, “I want to talk to Mr. Belsize. You sure you’re okay to drive?”