Kiss Them Goodbye Page 14

  By now the other students were all bent into the aisles, trying to see what he was doing. Ballard slowly craned his neck and looked up as Ms. Coates’s legs towered above him.

  A voice came thundering down. “It seems the assistant headmaster wants to see you.”

  Ballard’s mouth went dry. As he attempted to pull on the piece of paper, he twisted his neck up farther to where he could see beyond her slightly protruding belly, past her breasts, to where her small petulant mouth was flattened across the horizon.

  “You’re standing on the message,” he said finally.

  She lifted her toe. “Oh, was I?”

  Ballard pulled himself back to a sitting position. “Thank you, Ms. Coates.”

  “Get the assignment from one of your classmates,” she said, her eyes adamant.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ballard said as he stood up and backed into a desk next to his. “I will. I promise.” The students laughed.

  She smiled now as the boy moved sideways, awkwardly, out the door.

  27

  NICK FOWLER WAS deep in thought as he pulled his car up to the crime van and turned off the engine. He had recognized Marty’s squad car before parked outside the Tribune building, then had seen it pull away. He wondered why Marty was tailing him. This was a strange development, but he couldn’t think about it.

  He was more concerned about the killer. How had he or she known what Nick was feeling about his father? He knew he had to bear down. He was getting spooked. Was the killer observing him from a distance? If so, how could any person have known that right now he was feeling close to someone dead? Haunted was more like the word. A yearning. A cavity of pain he could never seem to fill.

  Unless the killer felt the same way—unless Nick could use that as a scent to track this ungodly thing that fed on young boys. He thought back to his school days, his friends, the girls he had gone out with in college, before he entered the police academy. All of them, like his ex, like Maureen, had accused him of being “distant.” He knew that was the way he had felt ever since he had arrived in Ravenstown. Even long before that, in fact. His whole life.

  That’s when he understood something that shocked him: He knew he felt more drawn now to the killer than to anyone living. As if he had entered an alien world inhabited by images of death, where his own intuition flooded down into an uncertain hell—his every waking moment touched by fear—preparing him for what would happen when he finally came face-to-face with the killer. That troubled him very deeply.

  Nick got out of the car. He stood there, outside the van, thinking. He had another few days at the most before Arthur Murray would kill again.

  If only he could find the key.

  How did Murray choose his or her victims? Had he or she decided to dress them up in formal clothing because of all the press coverage? Almost certainly. Tuxedos, romance, ballroom dances. Was the killer from another generation? Had to be. Unless he or she was acting out some drama with phantoms from another time. Parents? Maybe.

  He slammed the car door and walked toward the van.

  Bill Rodney looked up at Fowler as he stepped up into the van. He saw that the lieutenant was preoccupied. He smiled slightly and handed the lieutenant his messages. “Rough start today?”

  Fowler rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Anything going on?”

  Rodney laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Fowler realized it was a pretty dumb question. “I should say what isn’t going on, right?”

  “It hit the fan this morning.”

  “Weathers up here?”

  Again Detective Rodney could not suppress a smile. He lit a cigarette, raising his eyebrows. “It’s a good thing you overslept, Nick. He was here, chewing on everything but the trailer hitch.”

  “He must have an ulcer.”

  “After that article he does.”

  “Bill, were you able to run a background check on Dr. Clarence?”

  “We’re working on it.” Rodney dug into his file. “Found some very interesting facts about the doctor. The administrator I spoke to claimed the hospital let him go because of ‘staff friction.’ That’s the official word. We later talked to other staff members. A different story is taking shape. Have a feeling the incident was underreported to save his reputation.”

  “When do I get to read the report?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Good. Did you find out what kind of tranquilizers Marty was drugged with at the scene?”

  “We’re waiting on the lab.”

  “Anything on the spikes the victim was nailed with?”

  Rodney wearily picked up his report. “Maintenance thinks they were taken from a group of rusted bolts in the power plant. We questioned the old janitor down there, Stanley.” He handed him a sheet of paper. “Here’s the transcript of the interrogation. My feeling is he’s clean.”

  Fowler read the report. “How about the victim’s clothes?”

  Bill Rodney looked at Fowler like he was a child who had been misbehaving. “Shall I give you a dramatic reading from your messages, Nick?”

  Now Fowler felt a connection with Rodney. A live person, too. He stretched the pile of yellow Post-Its in the old-timer’s direction. “Why not?”

  Rodney smiled. “I think I have them memorized.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “One, the formal attire on the victim was used. We checked about fortysome thrift and antique clothing stores in three counties. The clothes traced out to a little place in Reliance, even the size eight and a half patent leather shoes.”

  Fowler seemed reflective. “Call them back. Find out if any other complete outfits have been purchased. Get the size.”

  “Okay.”

  “Were they able to reconstruct the knee impression?”

  “Yeah, but here’s the thing. It casts out as the knee of another adolescent boy.”

  “Not Finkelstein?”

  Bill Rodney put out his cigarette. “Now you’re going to love this, Nick. We questioned the Ballard kid this morning.”

  “Right.”

  Bill Rodney spoke slowly. “In his room we found corduroy pants with dirt encrusted on the knees.”

  Fowler was shaking his head as Rodney talked.

  “Then I caught him in the bathroom trying to wash out the stains. Anyway, I sent him off to breakfast. They check out as the same type of corduroy in the cast of the knee impression. In the cuff was some dirt with a similar composition as the soil at the scene.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You’d better bring him in, Nick.”

  Fowler studied Rodney’s old, lined face. “You think he did it, Bill?”

  “Well, you can’t rule him out—he’s almost big enough.”

  Nick Fowler’s eyes drifted out the small window of the van. His face went ash-gray. He stood up and put his hands in his pocket. “I want that in a separate report.”

  Rodney looked at him apprehensively. “You can’t withhold that.”

  “It’s just too pat, Bill. I have the feeling, the same feeling I’ve had all along: This kid is being set up. I know because I’m being set up. And the way our people are thinking about these crimes is so boneheaded they’re likely to charge Ballard just to get themselves off the hook. I don’t know how or why—I just have to find out more about this kid.”

  “Why are you risking your own neck for some kid you don’t even know?”

  Fowler looked at his associate. “I better get to know him, hadn’t I?”

  “They’re going to nail you.”

  “I’ll put it in a supplemental report. Call the school for me and find out the boy’s home address. I want to talk to his mother.”

  Bill Rodney was staring at him. “Whatever you say.”

  Fowler nodded. “You have a schedule of Ballard’s classes?”

  “Yeah, Marty is on him now.”

  Fowler looked down at his messages. On top was one from the coroner. Fowler thought for a moment, then dialed the funeral home. When he got the receptionist, he aske
d to speak to Dr. Koenig; he was put on hold. Fowler sighed, looked over at Bill Rodney.

  “Do you know why Marty was tailing me today?”

  “What?”

  “He was watching me when I came out of the newspaper building. Then he drove away.”

  Rodney smiled. “Weathers must be losing it.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Fowler heard a receiver pick up on the other end of the line. He then heard Dr. Koenig’s precise voice.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Yes,” Fowler said.

  “Some developments. Just a minute.” Fowler could hear him shuffle papers on the other end of the line. “Okay,” he said. “The plucked hair we found on the victim revealed a blood group: type A. It was a pubic hair. I can’t establish this conclusively, but I believe it came from a woman.”

  “How did you determine that?”

  “The fineness of the hair, and the root contained traces of progesterone, a hormone found in birth control pills.”

  “Wait a minute . . .”

  There was a pause on the other end. Koenig spoke again. “Lieutenant?”

  It was as if a light had switched on in Fowler’s brain. “Of course, ‘You miss me by a hair,’ that’s what he said in the postscript of his first letter.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Fowler waved his hand. “I just realized something. Go ahead, Doctor.”

  “Now, the bite mark. The cast was to be made by the forensic dentist you recommended from Albany; he drove down yesterday. But when he started to make the dental imprint, he discovered it was not a bite mark at all.”

  “No?”

  “The marks were caused by the impression of a necklace, perhaps a string of pearls, he thought. They may have been pressed against the victim’s body in a struggle.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. That helps a lot.”

  “Not at all.”

  Fowler hung up the phone. He looked over at Bill Rodney.

  “What is it?” Rodney said.

  Fowler’s wheels were turning. “Now it’s a woman’s hair, and the bite mark was a actually a necklace.”

  Rodney crushed another cigarette. “Change partners,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  28

  MARTY ORLOFF LIT his cigarette by the cement wall just outside the first-floor window of the math classroom. He took a few drags. He leaned his head back.

  He wanted to quit smoking. He stared down at the three butts on the concrete near his battered shoes. He frowned. He knew he had just been sitting out there about twenty minutes. Had to cut down. When he leaned his head back again, this time he saw Nick Fowler’s face upside down staring at him. He jumped up.

  Fowler was standing above him on top of the concrete wall.

  Marty sputtered. “Uh—Lieutenant—hey . . . what’s up?”

  “Thought I’d follow you.”

  Marty was off-balance. “I didn’t hear a sound. You a second-story man in Buffalo, sir, or what?”

  “Why are you following me, Orloff?”

  Marty looked down at his shoes. “You know, Lieutenant, remember I told you about the tunnels?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I heard that kid, Schwerin, today talking about being initiated by writing things about Ms. Coates on bathroom walls.”

  Fowler studied Marty. “Think there’s anything to it?”

  A little smile. “Maybe you should check it out, sir.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Marty, instead of tailing me the next few days, why don’t you make a report on all the bathroom humor we have at this fine institution, okay? By the end of tomorrow, complete documentation.”

  Marty Orloff’s forehead seemed flushed as he took a long drag off his cigarette. “Sure.”

  “And stay conscious, okay?”

  Fowler looked up and saw Ballard’s big sluggish frame coming out the front door of Madison Hall.

  “He must’ve got out early,” Marty said, staring back into the classroom window.

  Fowler ran around the grassy hill to intersect him. “Hang loose, Sergeant,” he yelled back.

  Ballard felt dizzy. He stood for a moment under the eave, at the entrance of the building, getting his bearings. Fowler came walking up the cement walk. “Cary?”

  Ballard looked up in surprise. Fowler smiled, reached his hand out. “You got out of class early?”

  Ballard pulled up his tie self-consciously. “Yeah. I have to go to Administration.”

  Fowler watched as the boy kept dropping his eyes. He knew he was either terribly shy or guilty as hell. “Look—have you got a minute?” Fowler said. “I have to talk to you. It’s important.”

  “Sure.”

  Fowler started walking out from under the eave. Ballard ambled along beside him down the walk, under the stone arch, around the back of Ardsley Hall. There Fowler stopped in his tracks, pausing for emphasis. “Exactly why do you think the knees of your pants had dirt stains on them?”

  Ballard felt little fists of air toiling in his throat. “I—didn’t do anything, I—”

  Fowler could see the boy turning colors, unable to get his breath. He took both his shoulders, shook him firmly. “Don’t panic!”

  Ballard looked back at him, his eyes welling up. “I didn’t do it!”

  Fowler still had the boy by the shoulders. “I’m not saying you did.” He shook him again, less hard. “But you’ve got to help me out, I mean—it doesn’t look good. Why were you trying to wash the stains out of your pants?

  Ballard was shaking his head, moaning, “I thought I would be blamed again for something—”

  “Look”—Fowler shook him again, this time violently—“look at me, Cary.” Fowler noticed the boy had snapped out of it; his green eyes were now looking clearly at him. “We found a knee impression in the dirt at the death scene—now, why do you think there were stains on your knees?”

  “I woke up on the roof that night with my knees—”

  “What night?”

  “The night Finkelstein disappeared.”

  “How did you know which night that was?”

  Ballard was trapped. He vamped again, trying to get air. Fowler tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulders.

  “I—I fell asleep before it happened—but it wasn’t me.” He started crying.

  “Before what happened?”

  “Before I saw that person in the window.”

  “What person?”

  Ballard looked into the man’s clear blue eyes. Fowler saw a whole world there. He saw his life when he was a child. He saw himself working with his father in the greenhouse. He saw his mother taking him to interview at schools after he had been expelled. It was as if the blue eyes were telescopes into his own life. Ballard disappeared into them. He kept disappearing into the eyes.

  “The stranger,” he said in a whisper.

  Fowler had felt the boy looking at him the way he imagined a son might. He saw trust and fear battling against each other in the boy’s face. “Tell me about the stranger,” he said quietly.

  “I see a figure of a person when I’m angry at people.”

  “Who were you angry at?”

  “Crawford . . . Finkelstein.”

  “And you saw a figure.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you describe this figure?”

  “Tall, wears a black cape, a hat—a scarf pulled over the face.”

  “You don’t remember what the face looks like?”

  “Only the eyes.”

  “Is it a man or a woman?”

  “I think it’s a man, but something about him is . . .”

  “What?”

  “Seductive.”

  “So, it could be a woman?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where did you see this stranger?”

  “Outside Finkelstein’s window.”

  “When was that?”

  “I always see him just . . . before people die.”

  Fowler released his grip on the boy’s sho
ulders. “What happens after you see this . . . stranger?”

  “I get sleepy.”

  “Then you wake up in a different place?”

  “Yeah.”

  Fowler took Cary’s hand and shook it slowly. “I’m glad you told me.”

  Ballard wiped his nose. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  Fowler got another whiff of the fear inside the boy. He put his hand on his shoulder. “We have to clear up the business with the dirt on your knees. Try and think about how you might have gotten those stains. Try to remember.”

  Ballard glanced down. “I’ll try.”

  The boy started to walk away. Nick held on to his shoulder. “Cary, when I was a few years older than you, my father was badly wounded and it changed him so completely that I was deeply affected, in fact, I’ve never been able to get over it, my whole life.”

  Ballard was looking at him.

  “When I read your file, Cary, I found out your father had died when you were very young. Do you remember what happened to your dad? That might be a place to look. A place where you started to block things.”

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  Fowler watched Ballard walk back under the arch on his way to the administration offices. He walked to the phone in the parking lot of Ardsley. He fished in his pocket for change and dialed the van. Rodney picked up the phone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you find out about Ballard’s old lady?”

  “She lives in Lumberton, Eighteen West Orleans Drive, 555-5302.”

  “Great. Bill, where is the killer getting the drugs? Could we run that down?”

  “If I had the cavalry at my disposal, sure.”

  “I’m going to take off. I’ll call in later this afternoon.”

  “Weathers called, Nick. He wants to talk at you.”

  “I’ll call him later.”

  Fowler hung up and swung his car down the hill, past the police station, toward the interstate.

  When Ballard reached the administrative offices, his fear was gone. He stood for a moment beside the outer chamber of the office.

  Through the window in the breezeway Ballard was struck again by the sight of the black wrought-iron fence surrounding Ardsley. The shafts hefted themselves out of the clipped grass beside the building. Ballard thought he could feel the points of the uprights shearing into his thoughts. He had become convinced that the fence, or one like it, was actually inside him, and that he would always be a prisoner to the kinds of thoughts that no one would believe.