The Hundredth Man (7 page)

Until the sound started up in his head.

Not again, please not again …

He sat back and pushed his palms against his ears. She’d started singing in the next room. He knew she wasn’t physically there, but the woman sang across time and between dimensions if she wanted. He hummed loudly to blunt her song, but it made her sing louder. The only way to stop her singing was push his pants past his knees and do that thing, his buttocks squeaking against the cupped plastic chair until down there made nasty business across the underside of the table and the floor.

It took two minutes to make her shut up. He refastened his pants in blessed silence, then spent five minutes at the sink attending to his hands: hot water, soap up to the elbows, scrub with the brush, rinse, repeat. Dry his hands with a fresh towel, toss it in the hamper.

He returned to the table and picked up a photo from the Absolutes. The pictured man stood grinning and naked against a cream-colored wall, hips cocked forward, the male-fruit displayed shamelessly for the camera. The man had a smile like actors grow, white as snow and lacking only a glint of light flashing from an incisor. He’d flashed the bright smile in the park when they met.

The man at the table picked up the scissors. Carefully aligning blades and photo, he snipped, and the head tumbled to the floor. He retrieved the scrap, tore it into dime-sized pieces, and brushed it from his hands into the toilet. The last piece sucked down the whirlpool was the white smile.

The man cocked his head and listened for her song, but she seemed to be resting. Gathering strength, probably; time was growing short. He’d been exceptionally careful, but she surely sensed he was closing in. He returned to the table, picked up the magnifying glass, and studied the men in the remaining photos knee to chin, chin to knee over and over, until he knew his choice was right.

“Quart of whores,” Harry said, “Rats back Rats back Rats back Rats back Rats Rats Rats Rats.” He scribbled aimlessly on his pad, then tore off the top sheet, crumpled it, and flicked it to the growing pile of paper balls in the center of the round table. The tables in Flanagan’s were too small for brainstorming, I thought. The lights too low. The noise level too high. The floor too wooden. Everything irritated me when the thoughts wouldn’t come.

“Eight rats,” I said, exasperated. “Four with backs.”

Harry doodled on his fresh page. “Ate rats? A-T-E?”

I thought about it. Shrugged. Nothing clicked.

“Rats anagrams to ‘star,”” Harry continued, drawing stars. “Eight stars, four stars times two, four-star restaurant, four-star meal, twice as good?”

I dry-washed my face. “Who in the hell warped the whores?”

The third round arrived. Eloise Simpkins picked up the dead soldiers, glanced at my pad, winced. I’d sketched a large rat.

“Yuck,” she said, wrinkling her nose, ratlike.

I craned my neck, stretching. Medium crowd at Flanagan’s, twenty-five or so, about half cops. Most were at the bar or tables near it. Harry and I’d sat up front where we could pull the curtain and look outside for inspiration. I opened the curtain. Rain in such solid vertical lines it could have been falling up. Four lanes of canal with a street beneath it, an occasional car splashing by. Across the way a chiropractor’s office, pawn shop, and boarded-up dollar store. A styrofoam fast-food carton rafted down the gutter. I closed the curtain.

“Zodiac,” Harry said. “Eight stars. Isn’t there a constellation or something “

“The Pleiedes,” I said. “Seven stars, seven sisters.”

“Why couldn’t they have been the eight rats?” Harry produced another ball of paper and rolled it to the center. I saw gator boots moving to the table and looked up to see Bill Cantwell, a ranking detective in second district. Cantwell was a lanky forty-fiveish former Texan who expressed his birthright through stovepipe jeans, ornate shirts, and tipped-forward Stetsons. Cantwell noticed my rat sketch, made a frame with his fingers, and pretended to study Harry. “That’s good, Carson,” he deadpanned. “A touch more mustache and you’d have him dead-on.”

“Another Steinberg,” Harry moaned.

“Seinfeld,” I corrected. Harry had one TV, a ten-inch black and white. He was a music man.

“I hear y’all might be handling this Nelson thing under Piss-it rules,” Cantwell said, propping a silver-pointed boot on a chair beside Harry. “Tell me again what Piss-it stands for, Harry. I ain’t looking through that damn manual, thing weighs ten pounds.”

“Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team, Bill,” Harry said. “Piss-it’s a lot easier to remember.”

Tomorrow Harry and I were meeting second district’s homicide dicks about canvassing Nelson’s neighborhood and checking the haunts he favored. They were, in fact, already doing it, since the killing had occurred in their territory. But under PSIT procedures information had to be routed past Harry and me, since we were the sole members of the team.

Cantwell nodded slowly. “I guess it makes sense Piss-it handles things. The case’s got crazy writ all over it, a chopped-off head and writing by the peter. They’ll be some grumbling from the guys, it’ll mean extra paperwork. But we’ll be fine with it, even if Squill ain’t.”

“What you mean, Bill?” Harry said. “Squill ain’t?”

“He was in this afternoon making noises, y’know. Like we didn’t have to be real cooperative if we didn’t want.” Cantwell scratched at an incisor and flicked something unwanted to the floor. “I got the notion ol’ Captain Squill ain’t real fond of Piss-it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry, Harry; we’ll be going by Piss-it procedures. We’re in till we hear otherwise.”

Cantwell rapped the table with his knuckles and drifted back to his group. I looked at Harry. “Why is Squill sticking his finger in our eyes?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s Squill. We have eyes and he has fingers.”

When there was more crumpled paper than room to work, we called it a night, heading outside as Burlew was coming in, his gray raincoat a sodden tent. Harry was already on the street and Burlew and I passed in the narrow vestibule between outside and inside doors. I nodded and gave him room, but he took a sidestep stumble and shouldered me into the wall. I turned to see if he was drunk, but he’d already passed into Flanagan’s, chewing his wad of paper, a tight smile at the edges of his doll-baby mouth.

The next morning we were summoned to Squill’s office. He was on the phone and ignored us. We sat in hard chairs before his uncluttered desk and studied his ego wall. If any political or law-enforcement celebrity had passed within three states, Squill’d been there with hand out and teeth shining. After five minutes of listening and grunting, Squill hung up his phone and spun his chair to look out the window, his back to our faces.

“Tell me about the Nelson case,” he commanded the sky.

“Indeterminate,” I said. “Yesterday we talked with his aunt, Billie Messer “

“I’m talking to the ranking detective, Ryder. In this office you wait your turn.”

I felt my face flush with anger and my fists ball involuntarily. Squill said, “I’ll try again. What’s happening on the Nelson case?”

Harry looked at me, rolled his eyes, and addressed the back of Squill’s head.

“We talked with his aunt, Billie Messer, plus some other folks. They confirm the lowlife lifestyle indicated on Nelson’s rap sheet. He used people. We interviewed a former girlfriend, the one who filed the charges. She’s a confused woman who still has tender feelings for Nelson, but basically said the same. Today we’re meeting with the D-Two homicide dicks to set up a mechanism to review the “

Squill spun to face us. “No,” he said, “you’re not.”

Harry said, “Pardon me, Captain?”

“You’re not doing anything. I’ve spoken with the chief and he agrees this isn’t a psycho case. It stinks of fag revenge killing. We’re dumping the file back to Second District. Your involvement in the Nelson case is officially over.”

I braced my hands on my knees and leaned forward. “What if it’s not vengeance, but the start of a killing spree?”

“I’m not talking to listen to myself. Dismissed.”

“It doesn’t fit a vengeance pattern. Here’s what I’m “

“Did you hear me?”

“Let me finish, Captain. We don’t yet have enough information to decide whether or not this is “

Squill spun back to the window. He said, “Get him out of here, Nautilus, I’ve got work to do.”

I was shaking my head before we hit the hall. “That didn’t make sense. Why pull us before we’ve done an overview? We don’t have the info to decide either way if this is PSIT status. What’s buzzing in his shorts?”

Harry said, “I got some fresh milk this morning.”

“Spill it.”

“Remember the rumor Chief Hyrum is retiring next year?”

“Thumping and bumping, you said.”

Harry sighed. “I’d never have said that, it doesn’t fit. I said rolling and strolling. Only it’s not next summer, it’s this September.”

I said, “Two months away. The hatchet jobs have to be done in double time?”

Harry nodded. “Pop an umbrella; the blood’s gonna fly.”

“That doesn’t concern us, remember? You told me that.”

“The only constant is change, bro, you told me that. There’s two deputy chiefs tussling for the job of Big Chief: Belvidere and Plackett. Squill’s hitched his wagon to Plackett’s star, been buttering his biscuits for years. If the commission recommends Plackett for chief, guess who he’ll slip in as a deputy chief?”

My stomach churned. “Squill?”

Harry slapped my back. “Now you’re seeing the big picture, Carson. Like Squill, Plackett’s more politico than cop. Guy couldn’t find his ass with a mirror and tongs, but he knows how to work the newsies; Squill gave him pointers about sound bites, eye contact, spinning a story. On the other hand, Belvidere’s a cop. Knows his shit, but has a personality like instant potatoes. A lot of little things add up in the police commission’s selection process, but remember who floated the idea of the PSIT … ” “Belvidere,” I said. “Plackett opposed it.” “Probably at Squill’s advice,” Harry said. “Push it.” “If we do good, it makes Belvidere look good, which steals thunder from Plackett, which works to Squill’s disfavor?” “Hocused and pocused,” Harry said. “Now try and focus.” I rolled my eyes. “C’mon, Harry, try it in English.” “Look hard. Take it one more step.” I focused. “In the best of all possible worlds to Squill, the entire concept of PSIT would be floating facedown in the Mobile River?”

We passed Linette Bowling, Squill’s charm less donkey-faced administrative assistant. Harry snatched a fistful of droopy flowers from a vase on her desk and handed them to me.

“You’re beautiful when you finally get the picture, Carson.” “Nautilus, you asshole,” Linette brayed from behind us, “gimme back my fuckin’ flowers.”

CHAPTER 7

I
t was eighty-eight degrees at 11:00 p.m. A wet haze smothered the stars and gauzed the moon. Two days had passed since Nelson’s murder, and the team Squill had assigned to the case hadn’t made any progress. I stood at water’s edge and cast the spinning rig, retrieved the lure slowly, cast again. I usually fish with a fly rod and know what I’m fishing for: specs, reds, pompano, Spanish mac. But now and then I use a spinning rig to dredge the night waters. Sometimes my line ties me to a shark. Or a big ray. Familiar species. But on rare occasions I’ve reeled in bizarre life-forms not mentioned in my books on Gulf fishing. I never know what trick of tide or current directs them to my line, but there they are, wriggling species from unknown depths, daring my touch. It’s strange, but without them I doubt I’d enjoy fishing as much.

It’s the soothing aspect of angling that often compels me to fish when troubled, and I had been upset since hearing Clair’s buzz sawing of Dr. Davanelle. I hadn’t meant to overhear, nor spy on Dr. Davanelle’s private horror, but it was acid-etched in my mind.

Of Dr. Davanelle’s choice for the pathologist position, I knew only the edges of the story: she was the second choice for the job, hired only after the horror of Dr. Caulfield’s injury. It took a tragedy for her to gain the position in Mobile, her first professional assignment. As Harry had reminded me during our session at Cake’s bar, I, too, had stumbled into my position through the misfortunes of others. I knew such a thing could feel like a form of dishonesty. It didn’t help that Dr. Davanelle worked with Clair brilliant, renowned, sought at forensics symposia worldwide a total perfectionist who demanded nothing less than the best from every staff member, every second.

I reeled in my line and set the rod in the spike. I sat in the sand with my arms wrapping my knees and stared across the rippling plain of water, liquid obsidian burnished by moonlight. After several minutes of reflection I scrabbled through the cooler bag where I’d tossed my cell phone at the last minute. Phone on ice; Freud would have enjoyed that.

Information provided Ava Davanelle’s number and I dialed. Her recorded voice was as cold as the device in my hand. She provided her number, referred to the beep, and was gone. I heard the tone, listened to the emptiness, clicked the call dead. Only then did it hit me had she answered the phone, what would I have said?

“Hello, Dr. Davanelle, it’s Detective Ryder. I’m sorry for being a pain in the ass at the Nelson autopsy, I didn’t mean to add to your problems. What problems? I was, uh, skulking in Willet Lindy’s office yesterday when you came down the hall and watched as you …”

I sighed and unzipped the cooler bag, preparing to refrost the phone, when it started chirping.

It was Harry. “Got a call from the ME’s man on the scene,” he said. “We got us another headless horseman at Eight thirty-seven Caleria. Saddle up and ride, Ichabod. I’ll meet you in Sleepy Hollow.”

The scene was a large Italian ate-style home near the southern outskirts of downtown, a neighborhood of stately historic homes intermingled with apartments. Insects burred from the hovering pines and wide-spread oaks. Several patrol cars fronted the scene, as did the crime-scene van and an ambulance. A news van did a U and pulled to the curb. Neighbors with somber faces milled on the sidewalk. Traffic thickened, drivers drawn like moths to the flashing lights and activity. A patrolman in the street waved his arms and bawled, “Move on, folks, move on.” I saw Harry and pulled up on the curb behind him.