Open season

23

Kunkle and I were uncoupled a full hour and a half later by two very sheepish plainclothes patrolmen who had been cooling their heels at the entrance of the trailer park, watching for a man who had apparently come and gone at his leisure. Kunkle’s fury was such that it rendered him speechless, a fact for which I, and certainly the other two, were extremely grateful.

All personnel-every patrolman and detective-were sent out to find Hill before Ski Mask did, and I later felt that if there was a God, he displayed his mercy by allowing Kunkle to come up the winner. Hill was located two hours later in the back room of Login’s Cafe, bracing himself for the day ahead with a half bottle of scotch. As it turned out, he needed all the numbing he could get-he was already the worse for wear by the time Kunkle dragged him through our doors.

I raised my eyebrows at the spreading blue and red bruise on the dazed man’s cheekbone.

“He resisted,” Kunkle muttered and shook Hill by the collar as if to show the fight was still undecided.

It seemed to me Kunkle’s grip was the only thing keeping Hill on his feet. He rolled his eyes and whined, “Resisted, hell. I didn’t even know who the son of a bitch was. I ought to sue somebody.”

I walked with both of them downstairs to the holding cells. “Consider yourself lucky to be alive. The reason you’re here is because somebody is out to kill you.”

Hill twisted around to stare at me. “Who?”

“You remember Ted Haffner?”

“Haffner? Give me a break. He can’t even get out of bed.”

“I won’t argue with that. He died two hours ago, right after he put the finger on you.”

“What the hell did I do?”

Kunkle shoved him into a cell and slammed the door shut. The metallic crash reverberated off the concrete walls. Kunkle hit the switch ght tthe collarof a flood lamp for the closed-circuit surveillance camera aimed at the cell. Hill shrank under the effect. His voice was little more than a murmur. “What are you guys talking about?”

“We’ll be back.”

We returned upstairs. I asked Kunkle to start filling out the report on this morning, and then I called Dunn’s office to request the immediate presence of one of his people. I finally went into Brandt’s office.

He was on the phone, listening. He motioned to me to sit. After a couple of minutes, he said, “Thanks. I’ll get back to you,” and hung up. He tilted back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

“We’ve got Hill downstairs.”

“Has he said anything?”

“I haven’t asked. I thought you and someone from Dunn’s office might like to listen in. Kunkle smacked him around a little-claimed resistance.”

Brandt shook his head slightly. “What was your assessment of Ski Mask this morning?”

“Mid-forties, athletic, very precise and under control, cold as ice. He’s a fast-moving son of a bitch, I’ll give him that, and I would guess he has a military background, or at least that kind of training. And,” I added, “he doesn’t have an accent.”

Brandt gave me an odd look. “Did he kill that man?”

“No. He didn’t help him along any. He certainly abused him-tortured him might be better-but Haffner died just a tad before his natural time, maybe a full half hour, the way he looked when we found him.”

There was a knock on the door and an assistant state’s attorney named Powers stuck his head in. “You rang, Sahib?”

Brandt stood up. “Let’s find out what Mr. Hill has to say.”

On the way down, I told Maxine to get Kunkle. I didn’t want his nose any further out of joint. It took him thirty seconds to join us in the basement.

Hill was leaning with his forearms through the bars of his cell full of renewed self-confidence. “What’s this bullshit about some guy trying to ice me?”

“He hasn’t tried yet. When he does, he’ll probably succeed. He seems very good in that department.”

“Who is he?”

“We don’t know. We’re calling him Ski Mask for now.”

“Hey, I’ve been reading about him. What would he want with me?”

“Three years ago you sold some smack in a one-shot deal that ended up in the apartment of the black guy we nailed for Kimberly Harris’s murder. Do you remember that?”

Hill’s eyes rested warily on me. “I remember the murder.”

I pointed to Powers. “He represents the state’s attorney and is here to assure you total immunity for anything that might be said today, right?” Powers dutifully nos dointdded.

“So, you’re not under arrest, and we don’t want you for the deal or for anything else. We’re only after information. If you want a lawyer for some reason, be my guest, but understand that the only reason you’re in here is for your health. If you want to leave, you may leave.”

He smiled and looked at the bars before him. I gestured to Kunkle to turn the lock.

“Satisfied?”

He pushed the door open but then settled on the cell bunk with his legs crossed and his hands behind his head, feeling cocky. “What makes you think I had anything to do with that deal? It’s not like you can trace a serial number.”

“You were Haffner’s dying words. And you people have your trademarks-word gets around.”

He thought for a minute. “What’s this Ski Mask after?”

“We don’t know for sure,” I said. “We thought he might be a buddy of Davis’s-the black guy in jail-but he’s obviously connected to the girl who was killed, possibly the father of her unborn child. Whatever he is, he’s a nasty son of a bitch. He tortured Haffner.”

“To death?”

“He’s dead all right.” I saw no reason to belittle the impression.

Hill dropped his feet to the floor and rose to a sitting position. “It was a long time ago.”

Brandt smiled. “Haffner remembered-with a little help. You tell us what we want to know, and we’ll be able to spare you the same kind of help. If not, you’re on your own.”

“I’m on my own anyway. You guys obviously weren’t too useful to Ted. I’ll take my own chances.”

I turned off the floodlight. “It’s a free country, as they say. What about the deal?”

Hill rose and walked out of the cell. “I sold the stuff. I don’t know who to, though. He kept his face covered and whispered a lot-pretty corny.”

“Was there anything else about him? Young, old, tall, short-stuff like that?”

“Hard to tell, you know? It was at night, just for a couple of minutes, and he was wearing a shitload of clothes. He must have been sweating like a pig.” There was something in his eyes-a great sense of enjoyment. He knew what we were after.

I tried to indulge him. “Do we have to ask for your theory on why he was wearing so many clothes?”

His pleasure burst forth. He grinned broadly. “Could have been the hunchback.”

Kunkle muttered, “You asshole.”

I held up my hand. “You sure it was a hump? It might have been a disguise.”

“No, no. I’m sure. I mean, this guy freaked me out. He was so weird, you know? I couldn’t resist it. After we did the deal and he started to leave, I slapped him on the back, real frienck, ht="0em"›

He started for the stairs.

“You leaving?”

“Yup.”

“You may not live through the day.”

He smiled again, but this time I sensed little pleasure. “Yeah, well, the story of my life. Stay out of trouble, guys.”

We listened to his footsteps. When he reached the top, I turned to Kunkle. “Follow him. As soon as he settles down, call in and we’ll send reinforcements. If we’re lucky, we’ll keep him alive and grab Ski Mask at the same time.”

Kunkle left. Powers took the hint and followed suit after I thanked him for coming over. Brandt pulled out his pipe and began filling it. “You think Ski Mask’ll bite?”

“I’m hoping for anything; he’s under more pressure now. Maybe the best we can shoot for is just to keep them apart. The longer Ski Mask doesn’t know about the hump, the better.”

“You think this guy is still running around looking like Quasimodo?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Why don’t you call Danvers back and tell him to contact his DEA connection. It looks like we can rule out the short-term, low-dosage prednisone prescriptions-maybe that’ll speed things up a bit.” I hesitated before resuming. What I was about to say represented a major hurdle I wasn’t sure Brandt would be willing to take.

“I also think it’s time to bring in the state police.”

He busied himself lighting the pipe and setting up a smoke screen that totally obliterated his face. I’d never thought of pipes being that strategically handy.

When the smog cleared, I saw him nod his head impassively. “How do you want to use them?”

“Mostly to back up Kunkle. We could use them other places too, though.”

“Like where?”

“Like putting more pressure on Ski Mask. So far, we’ve been combing the motels and increasing patrols and talking to damn near everybody over the age of six, but he’s still been able to sit and watch, and to pop up at will. Kunkle suggested putting tails on some of us, trying to either catch him or dissuade him. It didn’t work this morning, but it was a good idea. Also, if the DEA comes through with a huge list, we’ll have that paper trail to track. The backlog of our normal work is starting to strain every desk in the department. We just need more help, period-for everything.”

Brandt nodded again. “All right, I’ll see what I can do. I might start with the sheriff ’s department, though.”

“All right. Sheriff ’s men for the noncombat stuff and state troopers to help cover Lew Hill.”

He took the pipe from his mouth and looked at me. “He really has you worked up, doesn’t he?”

“You didn’t see him with Haffner. This bastard’s a real number-a man who loves his work.”

Brandt nodded a third time. “I’ll make some phone calls.”

He led the way upstairs. At the top, looking his usual bird-dog best, was Stan Katz.

“Conspiring in the basement?”

“Be nice, Stanley. We might be nice back.”

Brandt shot me a questioning look.

“Oh?” said Katz.

“Yeah. Give me a few minutes and I’ll let you know.”

“What about the dope dealer being killed in his trailer this morning? Is is true you and Kunkle were witnesses?”

“It was a heart attack, Stan, and just hold your horses. I’ll be right back.”

I escorted Brandt to his office and shut the door behind me. He parked on the edge of his desk. “As the man said: ‘Oh?’”

“I was thinking we could do worse than invite him to the stakeout. We’ve really got nothing to lose-or at least not much. If we pull it off, we’ve given him a scoop and made a few points; if we totally screw up, he’ll find out about it anyhow and only make it tougher on us for having been excluded. He might even show us doing our job instead of standing around with our thumbs up our asses.”

Brandt shifted to sit properly at his desk and reached for the phone. “I somehow doubt that, but feel free.”

I crossed over to Maxine’s cubicle to see if Kunkle had called in yet. He hadn’t. I then told Katz to hold on for a couple of more minutes and gathered DeFlorio and Tyler into my office and told them about the tail on Lew Hill.

“Ski Mask is like nothing we’ve ever seen. We’ve got to think of him as a terrorist or something-a cold and careful killer. Don’t underestimate him and don’t make assumptions based on what you’ve learned over the years. This is a new ball game, all right? And keep in constant touch with each other, visually if possible.”

“What about additional backup in case we need it?” DeFlorio asked.

“I’m arranging for undercover state police, but I want you two ready to move as soon as Kunkle calls in. And I want Katz to go with you.”

They both looked at me slack-jawed. I held up my hand. “He’ll write about this anyway, so let’s humor him for once. But keep him out of harm’s way, okay? And don’t get too chatty-just let him know what’s up.”

Katz was waiting patiently by Maxine’s cubicle. “So, were you and Kunkle caught with your pants down or what?”

“Don’t be rude, Stanley, we’re giving you a break. You can go on a stakeout for Ski Mask as long as you keep out of the way, capish?”

“In return for what?”

“Don’t be such a cynic.”

· · ·

At nine o’clock that night, Brandt dug under the paperwork we’d spread all over his desk and answered the phone. For hours we’d been sorting through the accumulated shreds of the case, uncertain whether we were looking for something new or just nervously killing time. He listened for a moment and silently handed the receiver to me. It was Kunkle. “You better get down here. We got problems.” He sounded even more dismal than usual.

The Misery Hilton was actually a large, five-story, bunker-like apartment building on Birge Street. Butternut-colored by day, in the freezing dark it looked more like a cubic black hole, blotting out the stars with its mass. The only sign that it wasn’t as inert as the ground beneath it was a perpetual foul odor of human decay. Whenever calls for the police came from here, the men responding made sure they wore boots-preferably washable ones.

There was an ambulance parked outside when I got there, along with a group of unemployed-looking plainclothes state police. I knew before entering that Ski Mask had somehow found his man.

Kunkle was waiting for me on the third-floor landing. He was leaning against the wall, so turned in on himself he barely noticed I was there. I stepped past him into the room beyond.

The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling made the whole scene look like an Edward Hopper nightmare. There were no soft angles, no single place where the eye could rest without offense. The walls were stained, peeling, cracked, and punctured. The toilet in the adjoining cubicle had overflowed so many times that concentric stains spread across the floor like geologic footprints. The single window had long since ceased to hold glass and was badly boarded up with splintered plywood. There was a three-legged armchair oozing stuffing in one corner, a scarred and mangled chest of drawers next to it, and a bare mattress on the floor along the opposite wall. On the mattress-tied down like a specimen on a lab table-lay Lew Hill. His dry eyes were wide open and his teeth bared against a pain long gone.

There wasn’t much blood, just a few small holes where Ski Mask’s thin stiletto had done its work. I went back outside to the landing. Kunkle hadn’t moved.

“Any theories?”

“I fucked up.”

“How do you figure that?”

He looked at me incredulously.

“No, I mean it. So far, one way or the other, he’s whacked Phillips and now Hill-and he sure as hell helped Haffner along. He’s run circles around us from the start, and the only times any of us have even set eyes on the guy was when I was gassed and when you and I were cuffed together. You might as well take the blame for all of it. It would sure as hell make the rest of us feel better, knowing it was all your fault.”

“Fuck off.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. You’re a member of the club. Go home to bed; I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

He didn’t move. I went back downstairs and found the head of ththeight=e state police detail. Stan Katz was standing slightly behind him. “So how did he get in?”

“The question should be: ‘How did he get out?’ He was in all along, as near as we can figure. Of course, we were brought in late. It wasn’t our setup.”

“Are you complaining?” He looked at me quietly for a moment. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Me neither. Kunkle laid it out okay. We were watching for comers, not goers. From what I can figure, your guy went straight from this morning’s killing to Hill’s apartment and camped out all day there. I still don’t know how he got out, but this place has a lot of traffic.”

I asked him to send me a copy of his report the next day and returned to my car. I started the engine and kicked on the heater, but I didn’t drive off. Instead I sat there, much like Kunkle leaning against his wall, and gave in to a feeling of total hopelessness.

Katz opened the passenger door and slid in. “Some mess, huh?” His voice was pleasantly muted and unaggressive. I looked over at him. He was just staring out the window at the “Hilton.” His face changed from white to red and back again in the flashing lights from the ambulance and patrol cars.

“Did you go up?”

He nodded. “What the hell is going on? What does Lew Hill have to do with Ski Mask or Kimberly Harris or Murphy’s death?” The question was almost philosophical in tone.

I shook my head. “Don’t know, Stan. Sometimes I think we’ve almost got it, other times I’m afraid we’ll miss the boat entirely on this one. It’s a bitch. And,” I added, “none of that’s a quote.”

“That’s okay.”

He was silent a while more, and then he opened the door and swung his legs out. “I hope you get him. Good night.”

I did too, but I wasn’t sure how realistic that was. All our progress had been toward finding Pam Stark’s killer, and in that area I felt pretty good. Things were falling into place; there was a momentum building that usually boded well. We might well succeed, maybe even soon, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter. In the end, I was convinced Ski Mask would do what he had set out to do-whatever that was-just as he had from the start. Maybe Bill Davis would end up free as a result, but I couldn’t stop thinking that if Ski Mask had a hand in it, that process would be perverted and corrupted, a variation on the one that had jailed him in the first place.