Shade of Pale (6 page)

During his second cup, Jukes Wahler started to talk. “Will, Loomis was suicidal, in my opinion.”

“The coroner didn't think that was possible.”

“Who knows what to think? This whole thing is disconcerting. There must be an explanation, and I, for one, want to get to the bottom of it. Loomis was capable of suicide, especially if he slipped into a state of clinical depression. That shouldn't be ruled out.”

“You saw his body. It would seem unlikely he could find a way to do that to himself.”

“I was going to send him to Sheppard-Pratt for some treatment.”

“Shocks?”

Jukes nodded. “They're doing wonderful things with electricity these days. They can be very selective.”

“What about all this Banshee talk?”

Jukes poured some half-and-half into his coffee and stared at the caramel clouds. He'd been thinking about having this conversation all morning, and still he didn't know how to begin.

“I don't know, Will. You must admit, it does seem strange. Loomis was completely convinced the Banshee was stalking him; I'll say that much. He was raving. The mind can do extraordinary things under the right circumstances.”

Will Howard frowned.

Jukes raised an eyebrow and said, “There must be some logical explanation.”

Will cleared his throat. “I've been practicing medicine in this town for thirty years, and I've never heard of anything like this. The man was violently split open like a sausage in a microwave. The cops are automatically thinking homicide.”

A stocky man with an iron gray flattop haircut, in his early fifties, approached the table, his suit unfashionably wrinkled. He walked confidently, back straight, belly forward, an unlit cigar between his fingers and his tie, one of those skinny black ties that looks as though it's been knotted with a pair of pliers, loosened at his brawny neck.

He was built the way NFL linebackers used to be in the 1950s, squat, bulldoggish.

“Detective George Jones, NYPD Homicide Department,” he said. He had a five o'clock shadow even though it was only eight o'clock in the morning. “The coroner said I'd find you here; mind if I join you? I'm investigating Loomis.”

Jukes stood and shook hands with George, two firm grips wrestled momentarily, then parted respectfully. Will Howard did the same.

“Please, have a seat,” Jukes said.

“I missed you at the morgue, Dr. Wahler. Mind if I ask a few questions?”

“Not at all. I'd be happy to help.”

George pushed back a chair and sat down casually, as if he was used to pushing his way into things. His head seemed disproportionately large for his body, padded by chipmunk cheeks and a double chin. He smelled of coffee and cheap cigars. There was also an aroma of exhaust.

A native New Yorker who knew the city well, George Jones had a reputation as a no-bullshit guy. That's why he'd become a cop: to keep the bullshit down, to keep the city safe for people—people like his parents, who hadn't been so lucky. They'd been shot during a robbery attempt when George was still a teenager. Now he took it personally when somebody got out of line and started killing people. George was in a position to do something about it. And the city needed him.

George was the bizarre-murder expert.

“This case has some distinctive features that I'd like to discuss with you, if you don't mind,” he said.

Jukes looked at his friend and back at Jones. “Sure.”

“OK.” The cop flipped open a tattered notebook that looked like it had been run over by a truck. The pages were greasy, dog-eared, fingerprinted, and covered with scrawl. He looked up, cleared his throat, and began. “When was the last time you saw Declan Loomis alive?”

“That would have been around five o'clock yesterday evening, when he left my office. He didn't say where he was going.”

“Was Declan Loomis under your care?”

Jukes nodded.

“Well, Dr. Wahler, the department definitely suspects foul play here. As of right now, this is a criminal investigation. Dr. Howard here says that he referred Mr. Loomis to you because Mr. Loomis thought he was being followed—stalked, I believe is how he put it—by a mysterious woman.”

Jukes looked directly into George's eyes and said, “I have every reason to believe that the mysterious woman was a figment of his imagination. Mr. Loomis was deeply disturbed.”

“Uh-huh. Did he describe the woman to you?”

“Yes.”

“Could you tell me that description?”

Jukes described the woman.

“Why did you believe she was a figment of his imagination?”

Jukes sat up straight. “That was my professional opinion, based on the limited exposure I had. Loomis was irrational; he thought the woman was some kind of monster. He insisted he saw her everywhere. He even tried to take her picture, but there was nothing on the film … and I think he would have realized eventually that there was nothing on the film because she only existed in his imagination. It's not uncommon for paranoid schizophrenics to have delusions like that.”

“Did you know if Loomis had any enemies? Someone who would want him dead?”

Jukes shook his head. “We're walking on a thin line here, Detective. The line between cooperating in a police investigation, which I am eager to do, and violating the sanctity of the doctor-patient relationship, which I am loath to do. I hope you understand.”

Jones closed his notebook. “Look, Doc. I don't mean any disrespect, but I've got a shitty job to do, OK? I'm skunked. That's the damnedest corpse I've seen in a long time. Any information that would lead to the arrest of the person or persons responsible for whatever the fuck happened to that guy”—he hooked his thumb in the vague direction of the morgue—“would be greatly appreciated. I'm not suggesting that you violate any ethics, but … I think we have a moral imperative here.”

Before Jukes could respond, Jones spoke again. “And what's all this about a Banshee? What the hell is that? Some kind of ghost?”

Jukes looked at Will. “Did you tell him that?”

Will nodded sheepishly. “I thought it might be important.”

Jones cleared his throat. “Every bit of information, no matter how trivial, or unbelievable, is important,” he said.

Jukes leveled his gaze at Jones. “It was just another delusion. Loomis was convinced that the woman stalking him was the Banshee. But there are no such things as Banshees; we all know that.”

Detective Jones rolled his eyes and smiled. “A homicide in New York City could be anything. I've seen copycat killers, fake vampires, satanic cults, crazed dopers, gang bangers, serial killers, secret agents, you name it. A Banshee, hell, that fits right in around here. Tell me, how does a Banshee kill its victims?”

Jukes looked away; a sour feeling blossomed in the pit of his stomach. He hated to be drawn into this conversation.

Will Howard spoke next, anxious to shed some light on the subject. “She sings, I think.”

“She?”

“Yeah. The Banshee is a woman. I thought you knew that.”

“The mysterious woman,” Jones said.

“The Banshee sings and brings death to her victims.”

“Just like some of those punk singers down in the Village,” Jones replied, deadpan.

Will flickered a smile; Jukes sighed. They drank coffee.

“This is very similar to another murder we've got on the books right now.”

“Like this? When?” Will asked.

Jones lit his cigar, the smell of burning garbage filled the air, and Jukes nearly gagged.

“Two weeks ago in the park,” the detective said, letting a great cloud of smoke escape. “We still don't have a clue. The guy was turned inside out, ruptured outward.”

Jukes made a disagreeable face. “Inside out? That's impossible!”

“Yeah, that's what we thought. But there it was, plain as day. The lab drew a blank. The victim's skin was split open in the front, and his internal organs were on the outside; portions of his skin were reversed like a coat that you pulled through the sleeves. Most disgusting thing you ever saw.”

“I don't see how that could happen,” Will Howard said.

“Me neither, but it did. Damnedest thing. The guy just exploded from the inside out. The punch line is, there wasn't a mark of violence on him. No knife wound, no gunshot, no incision of any kind, no trace of explosives or incendiary devices. Whoever did it must have been a magician. In many ways, it's just like our friend here, Mr. Loomis.”

“How could you explode someone without explosives?”

Jones shrugged. “I don't know. You're the doctor; I thought you could tell me.”

Jukes waved at the smoke coming off Jones's cigar. “Well, you can explode small animals inside a microwave oven.”

Jones wrote that down. “Microwaves, that's good. Might be some kind of new terrorist weapon.”

“How come I never heard about that other guy in the park?” Jukes asked.

Jones had the practiced cynicism of a career homicide detective. His voice never changed. “I don't know. The
Daily
News never returned my calls.”

Jukes gaped.

“I'm kidding.”

“Oh.…” Jukes looked at Will. Will snuffled.

“We kept it quiet,” Jones said, serious now. “It's not the kind of thing the commissioner wants to see on the front page. Besides, the body was in unbelievably bad condition. What happened to him, that's something you just wanted to forget about and hope to hell it never happens again. An aberration, a fluke, completely unexplainable.

“You guys are doctors; you know that every police department has a file of stuff like this, stuff nobody wants to admit ever happened. Unsolvable cases going back generations. In this city, you can imagine what our file looks like.”

Jones looked at his watch. “I gotta go. I'll be in touch, gentlemen.” He got up to leave and shook both their hands.

“Who was the other guy? Was he identified?” Will asked.

“Yeah, eventually. He was an Irish writer, a poet, Brendan Killian.”

Jukes said, “Loomis told me he grew up in Ireland.”

Jones flipped out his notebook again and scratched a note. “That's interesting; both these guys were Irish. The Banshee's Irish, too, right?”

Will nodded. “Wasn't Brendan Killian the guy who wrote about the IRA? I think I saw him written up in the Sunday
Times,
giving a reading somewhere.”

Jones laughed a short barklike laugh. “IRA, IRS, who knows? All I can tell you is he left a lot of people pissed off at him; seems he drank a lot.”

Jukes felt Jones's bad breath on his face. The toadish man leaned over and whispered, “Killian was a radical; he had ties to terrorist groups.”

Jones straightened and stepped away. “Dr. Wahler, Dr. Howard, it's been a pleasure. Here's my card. I'll be in touch.”

Jones left as abruptly as he had arrived.

“What a character,” Jukes said as soon as the cop was gone.

“They say he's a brilliant detective.” Will turned to Jukes and said softly, “This is disturbing, Jukes. What do you think?”

“I don't know what to think.”

They sat together in silence for a while. Then Will said, “I know this history professor over at Columbia; her name is Fiona Rice. Maybe you should go see her.”

“Why?”

“She's an expert on Irish mythology. The Banshee's right up her alley. I think it might be worth looking into, Jukes, just from a research viewpoint. I'm too busy to do it, and if I know you, your curiosity is already piqued.”

“And that's all?”

“Well, there is one other thing … now that you mention it. She's a knockout.”

A big man with a ruddy face entered the restaurant and approached Jukes's table. Neither Jukes nor Will noticed Padraic O'Connor until he was standing next to them.

“Dr. Wahler? I'm Charlie O'Malley. I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

Jukes looked up to see an oversize outstretched hand. He reached for it with his own and felt a powerful, yet controlled, squeeze.

“We were just finishing up. What can I do for you?”

“I'm a relative of Declan Loomis—first cousin, to be precise.”

Jukes noted O'Malley's accent. “You're Irish?”

“Yes, that's right. I happened to be here in New York on business when I heard about his tragic death.”

“Well, let me offer my condolences.” Jukes indicated for him to join them at the table. “This is my colleague Dr. Howard.”

O'Connor sat down. “Were you treating my cousin?”

“That's right.”

“And you're a psychiatrist, right?”

“That's correct.”

“Was Declan crazy?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. He just had some conflicts and we were on the verge of working them out when … this happened.”

O'Connor nodded. “They wouldn't let me see him. I don't understand. Do you know why that is?”

Will Howard cleared his throat. “Well, it's hard to explain, but his body … was in an unusual condition.”

O'Connor raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Will continued. “The police are looking into it.”

“Was Declan the victim of foul play?”

Will and Jukes exchanged glances. “I don't think we're in a position to answer that question. Maybe you should talk to Detective Jones.”

“Is he in charge of the investigation?”

Will Howard passed the business card Jones had given him to O'Connor. O'Connor read it, silently memorizing the number, then handed it back to Will.

“Thanks,” O'Connor said. “Let me be frank, gentlemen. My family is extremely upset about this unfortunate occurrence. If there was foul play, then we want it investigated.” He looked at Jukes. “But I'm confused about the way he died. No one at the morgue would say anything. Can you tell me?”