Act of Deceit

Chapter 8

“R etarded, my ass.”

Katrisha Brown sneered as she gripped the paper coffee cup in one hand and an unfiltered Camel cigarette in the other.

“He’s no more retarded than I am.”

Katrisha and Donnally stood side-by-side in front of the blue metal railing facing Fisherman’s Terminal marina along Salmon Bay, just east of Seattle’s Puget Sound. Donnally had found something engaging in the athletic stride that had brought her toward him from the parking lot and in her alert eyes and the braids tied back from her mahogany skin.

Donnally turned away from watching the commercial fishing boats rocking in their slips and flashed Katrisha a playful grin.

She shrugged her shoulders. “So SF State ain’t Harvard, but it’s not Podunk Community College either.”

“Is that where you met Charles?”

“Freshman year, 1981. We got married in ’82.” She took a long drag on her cigarette. “It was the lisp, wasn’t it? That’s what made them think he was retarded.”

“What lisp?”

“He does this lisp thing. It’s brilliant. He started using the gimmick after he got busted for groping a girl on a trolley car.” She tapped the ash off her cigarette; it fragmented, then swirled in the wind. “You know San Francisco?”

Donnally nodded. “Used to live there.”

“It was on the J-Church Metro Line, right along Market Street. That’s where he did it. A couple of months after he dropped out of school. The cops arrested him, but cited him out and gave him a court date. By the time he showed up for his arraignment he almost had the lisp perfected.”

“Are you telling me the whole thing is an act?”

“No, he’s bonkers all right. He had a psychotic break when he was twenty-one, but that never kept him from working the system.”

“What about violence?”

Katrisha glanced around, unzipped her windbreaker, then unbuttoned her blouse. She pulled down the top edge of her bra. Donnally could see a three-inch keloid scar across the top of her left breast.

“Why’d he do that?”

“Fuck if I know.” She rebuttoned her blouse and zipped up her jacket. “I’m not sure he even realized he had a steak knife in his hand when he lost control. He was way out there that night. Way out. Usually he just punched the walls until his hands bled.” She shuddered. “That night he started flailing.”

“He get jail time?”

“He lisped his way through a two-day competency hearing and they sent him to Napa. A couple of years later he showed up on my doorstep. I hardly recognized him. He looked like some homeless veteran begging for spare change. A complete fruitcake and scary as hell. I wasn’t going to risk my neck trying to help him again. I put him in my car, drove him to that old Dead Head tent city on the Berkeley waterfront, then went home and packed up everything I owned and moved up here.”

“But you kept his name.”

“That’s not it. I kept my name. I was born with the name Brown. Coincidence. I think there’s a lesson there. It’s like marrying your first cousin. Nothing good can come of it.”

“Does he have family left?”

She shrugged. “No idea. His mother took off when he was six. I think she had some kind of breakdown, too. I never found out what happened to her. He was raised by his grandmother in San Jose, but she’s long dead. I heard his father died of AIDS about ten years ago.”

Donnally stared out at the afternoon rush hour traffic creeping along the bridge crossing Salmon Bay, each driver heading toward a known destination. Finding Charles Brown would be just the opposite. He’d only know he’d arrived after he’d gotten there.

He looked back at Katrisha. “How did you hear about the murder in Berkeley?”

“The DA. He left a message at my mother’s asking me to come testify that Charles was competent to stand trial.” She took a sip of coffee. “How was I supposed to know? I hadn’t seen him for years. And there was no way I was gonna let Charles find out where I moved. I knew the DA would have to give my address to Charles’s public defender if I even let him interview me.”

“Has Charles contacted you since then?”

“I didn’t think they let the patients make long-distance calls.”

“He’s not a patient.”

Katrisha’s body spun toward Donnally. Coffee exploded from the top of her cup, splashing her Levi’s and Nikes.

“What?” She tossed her cigarette into the bay, then shook the hot liquid from her hand. “How the fuck did he get out?”

“Some judge in Fresno decided he wasn’t dangerous anymore.”

“He beat the system. That nut beat the system.” Katrisha shook her head in disgust, her mouth tight. “He did better than that. Putting him in with mentally ill and retarded women. Talk about the briar patch. Then, when everybody forgot why he was locked up in the first place, they showed him the door.”

“I want to find him and bring him back.”

Katrisha turned away and scanned the horizon, as if hoping an image of where he was hiding would appear. “He could be anywhere.”

“But he isn’t. He’s somewhere.”

Donnally glanced down at Katrisha’s coffee-splattered jeans, then pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward the terminal.

“Let’s go inside and wash that off.”

She shrugged. “Wet is wet.”

She pulled another cigarette from the pack in her jacket pocket, then lit it with a worn stainless steel Zippo.

Donnally pointed at the lighter. “Your father in the service?”

“No. Me. I joined the navy after college. I wanted the Pacific Ocean between me and Charles. I did twenty-plus years and got out last May.”

“What are you doing now?”

“You mean besides looking over my shoulder?”

Donnally nodded.

“I teach industrial diving, training technicians to do underwater repairs on ships and oil rigs. Mostly welding.”

“You get married again?”

“No point. I spent a lot of time at sea. After a while I realized I didn’t need the baggage.” She winked at Donnally. “I could get laid anytime I wanted.”

“And now that you’re on land?”

Katrisha’s eyebrows went up, exposing twinkling eyes. “You interested?”

“I’ve kinda got a girlfriend.”

“Kinda? How kinda?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out.”

She leaned over the railing and stared down toward the water lapping against the pilings.

“I’ve been a kinda girlfriend a few times myself. Spent a lot of time sitting by a phone that rarely rang.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

She looked over. “That’s what they all said, meanwhile they were screwing everything that moved.” She caught herself. “Sorry. That’s was out of line. I don’t know you.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been prying into your life. It’s only fair.”

She smiled. “Keep my number, just in case kinda turns into used to be.”

Donnally patted his jacket pocket where he stored his cell phone. “Got it.”

Katrisha took a drag on her cigarette. “And make sure I’m the first one you call if he turns up.”

“Any idea where he’d go?”

“You sure he’s not in jail?”

“Not that we know of.”

“Maybe he’s six feet under.”

“No evidence of that either.”

She tapped her cigarette on the edge of the railing and stared down at the water.

“I’m thinking he’d be in some kind of homeless encampment. His lisp made other people want to adopt him.” She thought for a moment. “Does People’s Park still exist in Berkeley?”

“From what I hear nobody sleeps there anymore.”

“Anybody camp out in Golden Gate Park?”

Donnally nodded.

“Lots of bushes. That’s where I’d start.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him?”

She stared at him for a moment, then said, “There’s no way I’m going to help you find him.”

Donnally offered a half smile. “I had to try.”

“But I’ll tell you something that may help. He liked to be called Rover, like a dog. You might have better luck asking for him by that name instead of Charles. At first I thought it was kind of cute, but then one evening he started humping my leg at the dinner table, and the charm wore off.”