Wireman

CHAPTER 21

AT FIVE-THIRTY on the afternoon of Helen McCombie’s death, Sam received a call from Garbo.

“I just wrapped up the on-the-scene investigation of the fourth one, Sam. I knew you’d want to know.”

Sam pressed the phone close to his ear and turned away from the window. “Tell me about it.”

“Middle-aged woman, wife of a doctor, resident of River Oaks…” Sam let out a gasp. Garbo swallowed and continued the rundown on the fourth victim.

“She was found in a rose bed, but it’s pretty obvious she died on the back patio near a gate and was transported—and laid out carefully—in the roses. Sam, this one’s different. She wasn’t taken by total surprise. She fought for her life. As far as we can make out, the struggle started in the backyard and moved into the house. She was alone, the telephone lines were cut, and there was a trail of blood. She fled from room to room and finally upstairs.”

“How did she get past him down to the patio?” Sam asked.

“She dropped from a balcony.”

“Christ.” Sam shuddered at what the woman had gone through.

“It broke both her legs and her right ankle. From there she dragged herself to the gate, but she never got it open.”

“Any evidence left behind?”

“A footprint in the garden,” Garbo continued. “Blood samples are being tested now to see if he left any behind, and I think from the physical evidence of the battle that took place he didn’t get away from this woman without some scars. We’ve got hair samples too. Have to check it against the husband and the victim. The autopsy’s underway so I’ll know more later.”

“Fingerprints?” Sam asked hopefully.

“It doesn’t look good. We’re still working on it. I doubt we’ll get that kind of break.”

“Witnesses? Neighbors?”

“We’re canvassing. Dr. McCombie found her and called us at four. River Oaks’ security didn’t see a thing although they went past the house twice during the estimated time of the murder.”

Sam closed his eyes and asked the question he was almost afraid to ask. “Did he take her head?”

“Yeah.”

Sam slumped to the bed. He ran one hand over his bald pate, then knuckled the stubble of his cheek.

Garbo cleared his throat and said, “Any luck with your list of Vietnam vets?”

“No. What about the others?”

“Couple of possibles. One’s a mental, in and out of Austin State. The other went into gory detail about a girl in a village over there like he was offering us a fairytale. The rest seem to be okay so far.”

“Maybe you’ll get a witness,” Sam said. “We’ve got to get something.”

“I know we do, Sam, it’s my ass in a sling here. He’s just so goddamn slippery. He’s not giving us any constants. No special time of day or month or interval between killings. No special victim. We can’t connect anything. By this time next month we may be locking up my own mother and I’ll be relieved—you know that? I’d settle for almost anything about now.”

“I want to go over there and check it out. Can you clear it for me?”

“Sure, Sam, you can have the run of the goddamned place. The doc moved in with a sister across town. When do you want to go?”

Sam stared through the window to the gathering twilight outside. “Tomorrow, sometime tomorrow.”

“Right. And Sam?”

“What?”

“I want you to know that I don’t care about getting the honor on this one,” Garbo said. “If you crack it, if you come up with something, you get the credit. I don’t want any more stripes anyway. I’d just like to keep what I’ve got.”

“There won’t be any honor.” Sam felt his old friend despair settle over his shoulders. “He’s slipped four over on us. He’s been playing us all the way down the line. I don’t want glory, Garbo. I only want satisfaction.”

After cradling the receiver, Sam stood and crossed to the window. Satisfaction, he repeated to himself.

Was that it? He knew it was not as sweet as revenge. Revenge was done with passion, and Sam was too methodical and painstaking to waste his time on mindless passion. Satisfaction meant meeting the blind lady of justice and righting the scales.

Let Jack DeShane wish for revenge and Garbo Kranz collect the kudos for apprehending the killer. All Sam Bartholomew wanted was one last victory over the jungle.

Sam watched Maggie park her car in front of the house. She looked to his window, waved, came up the walk with a smile on her face. Sam dropped the curtain into place and opened the drawer of his bedside table. Before Maggie opened his bedroom door, he swigged three fierce gulps of Old Kentucky. He did not bother to hide the bottle. He saw her smile turn to a frown of disappointment.

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately, shrugging out of her tan gabardine coat and coming to him.

He put the bottle to his lips and downed another swallow. He held out the quart and, looking at it, shook his head sadly.

“I’ve got to make a trip to the liquor store. I’m about out.”

“Is it the killer?” Maggie reached for the bottle but failed to be quick enough for Sam.

“Number four,” he admitted bitterly. “A woman in River Oaks.”

Maggie whistled softly. She moved closer and leaned her head on his chest. “Sam, drinking won’t help.”

“I never noticed sobriety doing a hell of a lot for me.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry about me, Maggie. Let me do this.”

She melted. Hard lines vanished from her face. She could not manage a smile, but the judgment left her eyes as she sat down on Sam’s bed to watch him grab a jacket and put on shoes. “Then I’ll get drunk with you,” she said. “I’ll accompany you into misery.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to get drunk.”

He had the jacket zipped, his shoes tied, and was feeling in his back pocket for his wallet.

“Yes, you are,” Maggie said softly.

“All right, so I am. That doesn’t mean you have to. It’s not a good habit to get into, and it doesn’t solve a damn thing, you’re right about that. But I want it tonight, and I’m going to get it.” He started for the door. “And I’m going to get pissant drunk—all on my own. ”

“No, you’re not.”

Sam hesitated at the door, looking at her, amazed at the determination in her voice.

“You’ll get sick,” he warned.

“I don’t care.”

“You’ll miss work tomorrow,” Sam pointed out.

“It doesn’t matter.” Maggie looked deep into his eyes.

“You’ll turn into a bum like me.”

She smiled and lay back on the bed.

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” he said. “Get two jelly glasses and take off your shoes. It’s going to be one helluva long night.”

Maggie rested until she heard the front door click shut, then she rose from Sam’s bed and went to the kitchen for the glasses.

Sam walked the five blocks to the National Liquor Store. The day had been unusually warm, and the evening was fresh with a hint of rain on the way. Sam unzipped his jacket and sucked in the air as deeply as he could.

Inside the liquor store he carried four quarts of Old Kentucky bourbon to the counter.

“Gonna throw a party, Sam?” the owner asked. He and Sam were on friendly terms since Sam’s official retirement. Once a week Sam bought a quart from the store owner. Four quarts was a break in the routine.

“In a manner of speaking,” Sam replied, taking the money from his wallet.

On the way home Sam contemplated telling Jack DeShane about the fourth victim. It did not take him long to decide against it. Jack would find out about it soon enough. Besides, he was losing weight and looking haggard from his nightly forays into the streets. So far he had questioned half of the street population in the impoverished Heights area and every prostitute he could catch along Main Street and Telephone Road. It took outstanding stamina and more than a little courage to venture into those places alone and without the security of a squad car. Sam did not try to dissuade his young friend. He recognized Jack’s obsession as an attempt to deal with his terrible loss. Besides, he might get lucky—find someone who knew or suspected something and was willing to talk. The department did not have the manpower to cover what Jack had taken upon himself.

In the upstairs’ bedroom Sam found Maggie waiting for him. She stood over a TV tray arranging two glasses, a bucket of ice, and two plates of cheese, summer sausage, and bacon crackers. She wore a filmy pink negligee that left nothing to the imagination and soft pink nylon slippers that Sam had given her for Christmas. She looked like bubble-gum ice cream, cool and tasty.

“It took you longer than fifteen minutes,” she said, raising one eyebrow in a way that Sam found incredibly seductive. “You like?” She swirled around so that the gossamer material billowed away from her body.

Sam did not move, entranced by a montage of breasts, voluptuous hips, and firm, long legs.

“You’re the best-looking woman in Houston, Maggie, I swear to God.”

A triumphant sparkle lit up Maggie’s eyes. Despite her age and the unnatural blue wash on her hair, there was still one man in the world she could bewitch totally. “Well, don’t just stand there with your tongue hanging out, Sam Bartholomew! Break open a bottle and let’s get on with the misery.”

Sam set the liquor on the floor, removed his jacket, untied his shoes, and turned to Maggie with a devilish grin. “I don’t think we’re going to need the booze for a while,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her near.

Maggie nibbled at his ear and stroked the back of his neck. She gave him a lingering kiss. “Honey, we may never need it.”