Wireman

CHAPTER 11

JACK HAD TO BE SEDATED while he still crouched, grief-stricken, on his knees, his forehead pressed to gravelly earth. Although he was a trained peace officer, psychologically sound and emotionally strong, it was no surprise to anyone at the scene of the murder that DeShane broke. Who loses a child and goes blithely about his business? What man was so strong he would not give into the blinding, bludgeoning grief?

Sam drove him home and helped his friend into the house. He put Jack to bed, removed his shoes and his belt, opened the neck of his shirt, and pulled a chair near to watch over his friend until he was no longer needed. At two in the morning Sam himself fell into an exhausted sleep.

Jack woke, the sedative worn off and the death of his son dragging him up from unconsciousness into the full reality of his loss. Tears tried to form in his eyes, and a sob tried to come from his throat. He ached so badly. Desperately he tried not to think about Willie.

He saw Sam slumped in the chair beside him. The older man’s face was slack and his lips parted. Jack studied every age line on Sam’ s face as if they might impart some secret wisdom to help him survive.

Finally he looked at the ceiling overhead and the circle of light reflected from the bedside lamp. He had to get out of the house. He hardly remembered being led inside and placed on the bed. His mind had been a jumble of contradictions. Dimly he remembered babbling on and on about Willie while Sam shushed him and loosened his clothes and held him fast to keep him from going to Willie’s room. What had he wanted in Willie’s room? Oh, yes. A baseball glove. A polo T-shirt. A postcard Willie had bought in New Orleans of the courtyard of the Seven Sisters Restaurant.

Without further thought, Jack slipped his feet over the side of the bed and bent to lace up his shoes. A sickening wave of dizziness hit him, and he had to let it pass before standing up. A thin golfer’s jacket lay over the dresser. Jack put it on and felt in the pockets for some cigarettes. Finding them, he zipped up the jacket and left the room. The early morning air was bracing and smelled faintly of the sea. Jack inhaled great drafts of it and wondered at how far the Gulf breezes could carry inland. It was not at all cold to him, though he knew the temperature must be in the low forties.

He got in his car and drove downtown near Hermann Square. Unlike Hermann Park, which housed the zoo and acres of wooded lawn, the square was small and overlooked by glass and steel office buildings. Mostly it was inhabited by the unemployed, the winos, men who were the flotsam of society. In the square they were safe for a while. The police were instructed not to bother them. It was said the land developer George Hermann had marked the square for his hired men, who, after a weekend of revelry in town could sleep it off and be close to the wagons that would take them back to the job of cutting timber each Monday morning. Something in the will Hermann left behind told the city of Houston they could not harass anyone desiring to lounge in Hermann Square. And so no one did.

Jack walked and wrestled with his despair. He had come to the right place to do it. Despair slept on park benches covered with newspaper, and it leaned against tree trunks swigging from paper bags. No one accosted the newcomer or questioned his right to be there. The square was for anyone who needed to face pain, anyone who had no place else to go.

Jack circled the park a dozen times, smoking cigarettes, trying to get even a tiny grip on his life.

Grinding his last cigarette beneath his shoe, Jack got back in the Monte Carlo. He had come to the conclusion that neither Sam nor the isolation of the square was a sufficient buffer against the war that raged out of control inside him. But there was someone who might rake away the pain that was killing his soul.

Yet as he drove to the luxury condominium where she lived, he heard a tiny voice rejecting his plea for sympathy. You’ll have to do it alone, it taunted. You must accept what’s been done. Willie’s gone. Willie’s never coming back home from playing in the dark…

Eileen McKenna, the most exclusive call girl in Houston, luxuriated in an enormous black marble bathtub playing with heaps of bubbles. She was tired, but not overly so. The bath was to prepare her for sleep. The most strenuous part of her workday was over, and the councilman snored softly just beyond the bathroom door. She had been instructed to wake him after her bath was completed. He could not be seen slipping out of the building in the morning wearing the same suit he had worn the day before. His wife did not give a tinker’s damn, but his reputation demanded he not be caught in even vaguely compromising circumstances.

While Eileen soaked, Tobias, her Angora cat, sat atop the black marble vanity licking the fur beneath a hind leg. As Eileen raised the drain lever and started to lift herself from the tub, the doorbell rang. Once, twice, three times. Tobias spat and ruffled his hair. Eileen grabbed a terry cloth robe and shrugged into it. As she passed the bed, she saw the councilman sitting up in surprise, his lips working idiotically.

“It’s all right,” she soothed, her voice honeyed and calm. “I’ll close the door.”

Shooing the cat before her, she pulled the door to firmly and crossed the living area. The doorbell was much too loud. She needed to do something about that.

She opened the door with the safety chain still in place. In the hall stood a wild-eyed Jack DeShane.

“My god, Jack, what’s happened?” Eileen closed the door before he could answer and unfastened the chain.

She opened the door wide.

Jack walked into her arms and smothered his face in her hair. “Eileen, I need help.”

Eileen was stunned. “Come and sit down.” She closed the door and led him to the sofa. Only then did she remember the councilman in her bedroom.

“Jack, I have someone here.” Her voice trailed away.

Jack turned his head and covered his eyes with one hand in a gesture of great weariness.

Never before had he come to her unannounced and in such a state. It had to be important. Had he been dismissed from the force?

“Wait. I’ll get him out and we can talk.”

When Eileen entered the bedroom, the councilman was already dressed and patting his pockets to be sure he had everything. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is an unusual occurrence. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Scared the hell out of me, that’s all. Who is he? Anyone I know?”

“No, and I doubt he knows you either,” she lied.

“Then I’m going.” Moved by a gentle impulse, he touched her cheek in passing, and his eyes said she was forgiven. He walked past the sofa without looking over and let himself out.

Eileen sighed and locked the door after him. “Jack, you look awful. What can I do?”

She sank onto the sofa beside him and took his hand. For an interminable time they sat that way without speaking. Eileen watched him as he fought with whatever it was he had to say. Finally, after he attempted to speak twice, Eileen wrapped her arms around his trembling body. She kissed each eyelid in turn, his cheeks, his forehead, his lips and chin and neck. She felt his pain and wished she could take it from him. Jake was not a customer. Jack was someone who made her heart sing, though she wasn’t sure he knew it.

She tasted his tears and pressed him close to her breasts, hoping somehow to impart all the love she felt for him, hoping to ease his suffering.

Finally Jack spoke. “Willie was murdered last night,” he said. “My son has been killed.”

“Willie was killed,” Sam said.

Maggie Richler brushed back a thatch of hair from her face. She was not fully awake and the pleasant dream she had been having still lingered in her mind. Sam’s words had not sunk in.

“Sam, have you been drinking over there with Jack?”

“For once I’m sober, Maggie. Jack and I waited all evening for Willie to come home, and when he didn’t we went cruising the neighborhood tying to find him. There were sirens and we followed them to Pearce Street. It was Willie.”

Maggie’s eyes grew wide as she listened to Sam. He was speaking distinctly and he did not sway on his feet. “Oh, Sam, no. Not Willie.”

Sam sat down beside her on the bed. “It gets worse.”

“It couldn’t be any worse. That poor man. Willie’s all he had. They were devoted to one another.”

“I can’t tell you how bad it is, Maggie, because the investigation was still continuing when I brought Jack back to the house. And besides, I don’t want to worry you. But when I’m out of the house from now on, I want you to keep the doors and windows locked. I also want you to keep this on your night table.”

Sam reached into the waist of his pants and withdrew a .38 caliber pistol. “I loaded it so be careful.”

“A gun, Sam?” Maggie gave a short laugh. “What’s gotten into you? I don’t want any of your guns around me.”

He placed it on her table, and when he looked into her eyes, Maggie felt suddenly chilled. She crossed her bare arms and stroked them.

“You’re serious, aren’t you? Do you think the killer is around here somewhere? Is he another crazy or what?”

“He’s definitely a crazy. You’ll know that when you hear the news. The son of a bitch is out of his mind.”

“Well, anyone who would kill a child… Poor Jack, this is terrible. Willie was such a cute little boy.”

The image of Willie’s headless corpse filled Sam’s mind. “I have to go find Jack,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave you without some form of protection. Nobody can guess how a killer like this works. He might be on a rampage. He might do all his killing in one night. I wanted you to be warned.”

Maggie glanced over at the ugly weapon lying on her night table and a small shudder ran through her.

“Have you been with Jack all night? Where is he now?”

“An ambulance attendant had to sedate him at the scene. I brought him home and put him to bed, but when I dozed off myself, he left the house.”

“Do you know where he went?” Maggie’s concern made her frown fiercely.

“I have a good idea. I just want to make sure for my own peace of mind. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

Maggie unfolded her arms and hugged Sam close. He smelled of the fresh night air, but he also smelled of bourbon.

He stood and went to the bedroom door. “I’ll lock the front on my way out. You should get up and check the windows, Maggie.”

“I will, honey. You go find Jack. He shouldn’t be alone and grieving after this.” And under her breath she added, “The poor man.”

Sam took Maggie’s car keys from his pocket and strode to her Plymouth. He turned in the direction of downtown and headed for the on ramp of I-10. He had sounded confident of Jack’s whereabouts to Maggie, but he was not at all sure that he would find him. Sam knew all about Eileen McKenna. You could not be a cop in Houston without knowing her name. Eileen went unmolested for several reasons. She was not on the street peddling, handing out diseases to her customers. She was cautious, closemouthed, and classy. She did not gossip and brag about her clientele, she did not work under a madam, and she kept her business strictly to herself. If she had been less beautiful she might have had more trouble. But even lawmen kneeled before beauty.

Of course, it had been another thing to find out Jack DeShane was in love with her. It was always a bad situation when a cop got involved with a hooker, but then Eileen McKenna was not your regular prostitute and Jack was not exactly a by-the-book police officer. That’s what made him good. Still, if it got out a rookie was involved with Eileen, it could mean trouble from his superiors, maybe even get him kicked off the force.

Sam had tried to explain that to the young man when Jack had confided he was seeing Eileen. But there was no changing Jack’s mind—or his heart. But that was something Jack and Sam had in common. Hell, if he had fallen hard for a woman, be it the governor’s wife or the scroungiest piece of ass this side of the Pecos, there would be no talking him out of it. So what if life was full of complications? All you could do was handle them the best you could.

At the Main Street exit, Sam got off the freeway. He wondered how long after he had fallen asleep Jack had left the house. If he had gone to Eileen, that was fine. But if he was not there, then Sam was worried. He could not have Jack wandering around on the streets grieving or down at the station floundering in hysteria.

Jack would have to go to the morgue and make a positive ID. He had to be ready for that. After having seen Willie’s body, Sam cringed at the thought of any father being forced to go through such an ordeal.

Identifying victims of violent crime had been the least pleasurable part—hell, it was the most horrible part—of police work for Sam. Cops learned all about heartbreak in the morgue. It turned some of them sour.

Sam parked on the street outside Eileen’s high-rise condo. He did not plan on a lengthy visit. He simply needed to know if Jack was all right.

The wind blew gum wrappers and shreds of newspapers along the street as Sam stepped from the Plymouth. From lifetime habit Sam scrutinized the street and sidewalks before leaving the car. A dog sniffed at a water drain opening. A clatter of high heels brought Sam’s attention to a couple coming in late from a night of celebration. The woman wore a silver fox cape over a black dress. The tops of her breasts were exposed. Her hair was windblown and she walked unsteadily, leaning against her date. The man was nondescript, fortyish, tired. They passed Sam without a glance and entered the condo’s lobby. Sam shook his head. They had not even been suspicious of him. He might have been a mugger. People could be too indifferent for their own good.

He followed them inside and took the elevator to Eileen’s floor where he rang her doorbell. He could hear it echoing in the rooms beyond. Be here, Jack, he silently pleaded.

It was Jack himself who came to the door. He held the door wide and stood quietly staring at the old detective.

“I thought you’d come here,” Sam said. “I don’t want to interrupt. I just had to find but if you were okay.”

Jack dropped his gaze and Sam could see the scar on his cheek standing out like a thin scarlet ribbon.

Eileen pulled Jack aside and held him around the waist. “Sergeant Bartholomew!” she exclaimed, genuinely pleased to see him. “Jack didn’t tell me he knew you.”

“No reason why he should. We’re neighbors now.” He spoke to the still-silent Jack. “Do you want me to pick you up around ten?” He had to say this delicately, and there were damn few ways to do that. “They’ll want you downtown for…” Jesus, he could not say it.

Jack raised his eyes and they were filled with compassion. “I know, Sam, you don’t have to say it. I have to identify Willie. Make it official. I’d like it if you could pick me up and go with me.”

“I’ll be here.” Sam almost added son and chided himself for the near slip. As far as he knew he had never fathered a child. But he could not go around trying to make up for it by adopting Jack DeShane. Yet still the feeling was there. He was as linked to the younger man as he would have been to his own offspring. He felt Jack’s hurt as powerfully as one man could feel for another.

“Thanks, Sam,” Jack said, then added, “thanks for coming to see about me.”

“You’re in good hands.” Sam smiled at Eileen.

“Try to get some sleep, Sergeant. Jack will be fine,” Eileen called after him.

“Call me Sam,” he replied, hitting the elevator button.

In the privacy of the elevator, Sam let the relief flood over him. He sagged a little against the upholstered wall, but his mind buzzed with questions. Jack did not know yet how mutilated his boy was. No one knew what the killer had used. The forensic pathologist or the coroner could help them on that. But Jack needed to be prepared for the shock of having to identify Willie’s remains. The grotesqueness of it made the veteran detective queasy. How do you ask a man, a father, to look on the mutilation of his child?

There were other questions too. What was the motive? They needed a psychological work-up on the killer.

And the weapon. It was no simple feat to behead someone, even a child. Where was the killer? Would he strike again or was this a one-shot? And if he did kill again, what kind of task force would it take to track him down?

Damnit, he was too old for this. He was retired. He must remember that. He should not be asking himself questions that might take months of diligent investigation to answer.

And yet Sam Bartholomew knew, from the uneasy stirring inside him, that he could not let it go. He was a bulldog with a rag in its teeth. He would worry it until it fell apart.