Wireman

CHAPTER 16

SAM BARTHOLOMEW sat on a bar stool in Danny’s Bar drinking Seven and Seven with Jack DeShane, who was putting him under the table with Scotch on the rocks.

“Number three,” Jack said. His tongue was not working too well, but Sam understood every word he said and some he did not say.

“Yes, but a change in the pattern of the killing,” Sam pointed out.

“What do you goddamn make of it—putting her head on her chest that way?” Sam knew that as the night and the drinking progressed, Jack’s use of the word “goddamn” would increase to the point of idiocy.

“Could be any number of reasons. Maybe he’s running scared, ready to retire his act. Could be something else though—pity, grief at what he’d done—”

“Goddamned monster got no pity,” Jack interrupted. “Had no pity for Willie. For that woman in her bed, her goddamn bed with the pillow.”

Sam rapped loudly on the bar for refills. He did not want to think too much about the specifics of the murders when he was in public. He might lose control and do something. Smash the frosted mirrors behind the bar. Wreck the tables and chairs.

“In a dirty ditch,” Jack mumbled into his Scotch. “Grabbed her in her own home and drove her there. Goddamned shame I’ve not found him yet, the lowdown evil bastard.”

“I know.” Sam studied his young friend. He desperately wanted to pat Jack’s shoulder, but he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. Things like that between men didn’t do much good. You just suffered stoically. Goddamned shame.

Jack continued to stare into his Scotch. “When I came out of the service, I shoulda gone to Merkel, Texas, and stayed on my dad’s place. He wanted me to. He goddamned begged me. But I had to join the force, be on a big goddamn city police force.” He turned to Sam and gazed at him forlornly. “Why’d I do that, Sam?

We’d be all right now if I’d got outta here.”

“Yeah, maybe.” But Sam knew Willie might have died wherever the DeShanes had lived. Or would he?

But that was past. The boy was dead, buried. So were the two women. The Wireman had to be stopped before he killed someone else. But how?

There had been a bit of skin beneath Willie’s fingernails but no blood. He had scratched his killer, fought him, struggled to the last to survive. Oh God. There was not enough evidence. No eye-witnesses. The victims appeared to be picked randomly, the motive could be anything from a vast feeling of inferiority to mother-hate. All they had was the weapon. A wire. Probably a garrote. Could be home-made. And tremendous strength. The Wireman had fearsome power. A wrestler? Boxer? Karate? Athlete? Probably young to go with his strength. Height, six foot or more. And that is all the police had. A wire, muscles, youth. Goddamn.

“I wish they’d let me work,” Jack said, motioning for another round. It was last call, almost two in the morning. Mrs. Lawrence would be waiting for him. Maggie waited too, her dreams light, her arms ready to wrap Sam close and warm. “They won’t let me goddamn work!”

“It’s best, Jack,” Sam explained yet again. “For a while. They’re afraid…”

“I know what they’re goddamn afraid of. Me turning vigilante. Well, by God, they’re right. I’m patrolling every day on my own. I’m asking ’round. If I catch the bastard, he’s goddamn dead. Dead, Sam!”

Sam sighed and took his drink. He knew he would do the same if it were his child who had been mutilated and murdered. And he was not sure he could trust himself to handcuff the killer if he caught him either.

Without witnesses it would be so easy to rid the world… But the law was law. However ineffective it was becoming, however unbalanced the scales of justice, it was the law.

“That’s why you’re on leave of absence, Jack. They’re doing all they can. The trail’s cold. It’s been cold for weeks. We’re going to have to luck into this one.”

Jack sobered a little. “And he’s changing his pattern, which means…?”

“We’re nearer. He knows it. He’s weakening. He may want to quit.”

“Lets get the goddamn outta here.” Jack stumbled from the stool and caught Sam’s arm for balance. “Mrs. Lawrence said next time I did this she’d move back in her own house. Then I’d be alone.”

“She won’t leave,” Sam assured his friend as he helped him to the door. On the street he saw nothing but a drunk puking into a sewer. He aimed Jack at the passenger side of the Monte Carlo.

“I can drive, doan worry. Lemme do it,” Jack protested.

“I’ll drive. You ride. Go to sleep, Jack. Try to go to sleep.”

It was only three blocks to the house, but by the time they arrived Jack was snoring. Sam lifted him to his feet and managed to get him up the walk. Mrs. Lawrence opened the door, clucking her tongue and swishing her faded blue house robe behind her. Sam settled the younger man on the bed, took his shoes off, and covered him with a light blanket before letting himself out.

Maggie was waiting for him. To enfold him. To keep his face from staring into the dark for the rest of the night.

Sam woke near daybreak and left Maggie’s side. He sluffed around the bedroom in his loose boxer shorts until he found his old suit pants. After dressing haphazardly, zipper half undone, shirt hanging out, one of his socks inside out, he went to the kitchen and found two Danish that were none too fresh. In his own bedroom on the second floor he brewed coffee to drink with the rolls. He left the bed-table drawer closed, the bourbon bottle lying on its side. No more drinking during the day. If he had been in a state of deterioration, all that was past.

“All I needed was a case to work,” he said to himself.

He realized that he had been a fool to retire early. He should have bucked it out, found a way to ride the changing waves. The beat cop with rank was a thing of the past. He should have tried to change. It would have been hard to take orders from a shave-tail brass with book learning and to overlook the growing number of cases thrown out of court. Maybe he could not have changed many things, but he hadn’t stayed to try either, and that was was his own stubborn fault.

He wiped one hand over his bald head and frowned into his coffee. Had he been on the force, could he have prevented Willie’s murder? Very doubtful. But if he were still on the force, he might be head of the investigation rather than being reduced to bullying his way into the middle of this case. He wouldn’t have to be using a cop like Garbo to feed him information.

“Dammit! ” Sam knew he had to find the killer, the most mentally warped killer Houston had ever seen.

Somehow he had to find the man.

Standing at the window, Sam drew back the curtain and let his mind wander over what the department had so far. Strength, muscles, youth, a garrote. His thoughts rolling along the same groove, he thought of men who would be muscular: wrestler, boxer, athlete, karate expert…

Part of his mind clicked suddenly. Karate expert. Wire. Karate?

Sam could hardly wait for nine o’clock so that he could telephone karate schools. He finished off the whole pot of coffee, his stomach beginning to burn with the acid.

Maggie came to his room before leaving for work. “You don’t eat right,” she said. “You consume anything that’s lying around and think that’s all right. I’ll cook you a steak for dinner tonight. Count on it.”

Sam’s thoughts were far away from dinner. He tucked in his shirt, noticed the half-undone zipper, tightened his black leather belt a notch, and sucked in his gut.

He made a list of the victims and tried to find a common denominator. Child, young woman, old woman.

Nothing, Male, two females. Nothing. Hair color, height, weight, nothing matched. Killed near old empty houses, inside an apartment, in a ditch. Nothing in common. He looked at his watch again. Forty minutes until any karate schools would he open. Forty minutes to see if his hunch meant a damned thing.

“The garrote had its origins in the Spanish Inquisition,” explained a young-sounding man at the first school Sam called. “It was a method of strangling with an iron collar tightened by a screw.”

“How does one not only strangle but decapitate with a garrote?”

There was a slight intake of breath, a hesitation on the other end of the telephone. “Does this have to do with the recent murders in Houston? ”

“Yes.” Sam waited.

“I read where they were calling him the Wireman.”

“Yes, but how is he doing more than strangling the victims?”

The voice became thoughtful. “He’s strong, extremely strong. A garrote can snap a two-by-four in half with sufficient force. That must be what he’s doing—giving the handles one hell of a yank. If the wire can cut through thick wood, it can slice through—”

“I got the idea,” Sam interrupted.

“Sorry.” The young man seemed to hesitate.

“What is it? Have you thought of something else?” Sam asked.

“Uh, yeah, sort of . This might have nothing to do with your man.”

Tell me and I’ll decide that.”

“Vietnam. Sometimes garrotes were used in Nam. The Viet Cong used them. Quick, silent death. Used in guerrilla warfare—which as you know they were masters at.”

“The Cong used them? ”

“Maybe some of our guys. Maybe some of them took them off the Cong. I guess it’s possible.”

Another clink fell into place in Sam’s mind. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, but tell me something else.”

“Anything I can,” the instructor said quickly.

“Do any of your students or any of the black belts use a garrote?”

“Oh no, the garrote isn’t something we teach, karate doesn’t have anything to do with it. I don’t know anyone who’s ever mentioned having one.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Will any of this help nail the guy?” the young man asked.

“If he’s a Vietnam veteran, it will. It surely will.”

Sam put down the phone thoughtfully. He knew his hunch was paying off. It sounded right. It made sense.

As much sense as any clue did on this type of case. At least they could check it out.

He dialed the precinct and waited patiently while being put through to Garbo Kranz, official head of the investigation on the case. “I’ve got something,” Sam said.

“I hope to hell you do. This place is crazy. We’re chasing our asses.” Kranz sounded beyond frustrated. He sounded like a man gritting his teeth.

“Start checking out the returned Vietnam veterans in Houston.”

There was a long silence. “You gotta be kidding. You’re talking thousands of names. That’s many man hours, Sam.”

“Listen Garbo, the Cong used garrotes. The killer might have taken one. It’s not a weapon you can purchase very easily at a pawn shop, you know. Start with the branches of service that had special training of some kind—Green Berets, Navy Seals, the Special Reconnaissance. Look up local servicemen with mental records or guys given Section Eights. It’s the only lead you have, Garbo.”

“Jesus, the paperwork involved—”

“Do you want to stop him?” Sam snapped.

“What kind of question is that, Sam?” Garbo was offended and put that into his question.

“If you want him, you’ll start checking the records. Today.”

“Yeah, I know you’re right and it is the only lead, but this whole damn city’s overflowing with veterans.” The younger cop was tired just thinking about all the paperwork involved.

“Then you best get started. Unless you want murder number four in your lap and the mayor down your throat.” Sam was getting impatient with Garbo.

“God…”

“Ask for His help too. You may need it. Keep me posted, and if you need an extra man for legwork I’m free.”

Sam hung up and sat looking at the telephone. Garbo knew it was a long shot. A garrote could be made with piano or guitar wire and two wooden handles. A kid could make one, an idiot could make one. It did not have to come from Nam. It was only a long shot. But that is what they were usually reduced to following, because that is all they had.

To the mental list of a muscular, young, strong, careful killer, Sam added Vietnam. It was not enough, but it was better than nothing.