Broken Prey (20 page)

“You’re really fuckin’ me up,” Taylor said, his voice flat, and with no change of expression. He ostentatiously looked at his fingernails, “I can hardly stand it.”

“All right,” Lucas said. He reached for the button that opened and closed the panel. “Enjoy the next few months, or however long it turns out to be . . .”

Now an expression flicked over Taylor’s face. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped. “Rules say we can’t be kept here for more than two weeks without relief.”

Hart shook his head. “That’s not quite right. Two weeks if you’ve shown recognition and contrition. Every day that you don’t is a new offense. You won’t be out of here until your boy is caught.”

“Or until you get transferred to the federal pen,” Lucas said. He pushed the button to close the glass panel, waited for an objection from Taylor, and got nothing but ten seconds of silence. Then, in a teasing baby voice, Taylor said, “I know you’re still standing there.”

O’Donnell sighed and pushed the microphone button, turning it off. “Next?”

THEY DID BIGGIE NEXT. Biggie was naked and masturbating. “Go away. I need my privacy to jerk off.” He twiddled his fingers at the surveillance camera.

“I need to tell you about the special offer,” Lucas said. Biggie never stopped while Lucas recited the death-penalty threat.

Biggie said, “Hey, you know what? Having you watch is gettin’ me harder. This is really good.”

“I’ll come and watch you take the needle,” Lucas said, turning away. To Hart: “Shut the window.”

“I’m gonna come. Don’t you wanna watch?” Biggie shouted as the window slid shut, “Maybe you can get our boy for not having a hunting license . . .”

O’Donnell punched the microphone button and said, “Hard to threaten a guy when he’s in isolation. Maybe we should have moved them back to their regular cells. Might as well be dead as down here.”

“Almost pointless to talk to Chase,” Hart said. “He’s going downhill fast. The catatonic and manic periods are getting longer, the transitions are getting shorter. He was down for almost thirty-six hours, ending last night, then he went through transition and now he’s going manic. When he’s manic, there’s nothing left but the instinct to kill.”

“Let’s try him,” Lucas said. “Might as well, since we’re here.”

THE GLASS SLID BACK, and Chase hurled himself at it, his fingers like claws, his mouth open, his eyes sparking with hate. Like Biggie, he was naked: he hit the glass like a bug hitting a windshield, bounced off, came back at it, scratching at the glass, prying at its corners, his fingernails breaking, blood slipping across the glass. He was wailing, like an injured big cat, like a jaguar. Hart was shouting, “Easy, easy, easy . . . You wanna get out, wanna get out . . .”

Chase seemed not to hear him. He hurled himself at the glass again, hitting it with his face, beating it with his fists; behind him, the cell was torn up as much as it could be, as most of it was concrete. He hadn’t simply taken off his clothing, he’d taken it off and shredded it; he’d done the same thing to the blanket, and the mattress, which was covered with nylon and bolted to the bed, was streaked with blood, where Chase had been tearing at it.

“Close it, close it,” Lucas shouted at O’Donnell, and the window slipped shut. The microphone was still on, and they could hear the continuing animal wail until Hart reached out and cut it off.

“Goddamnit,” Sloan said. “Maybe you ought to do something. Like sedate him.”

Hart nodded: “We try, but chemicals don’t have much effect on him anymore. If we give him enough to really calm him down, we might kill him.”

“Well, that’d calm him down,” Lucas said. “He’s like a fuckin’ werewolf, or something.” Then, to Sloan: “We’re wasting our time.”

“Listen, we can work on Taylor and Biggie for you, keep talking up the death-penalty thing,” O’Donnell said. “Is that for real?”

“It will be,” Lucas said.

“We sorta . . . oppose the death penalty around here,” O’Donnell said. “By and large.”

“So do we,” Sloan said. “By and large.”

THEY STOPPED FOR LUNCH on the way back, cheeseburgers at a McDonald’s.

“I don’t care what anybody says about the shit McDonald’s feeds you,” Sloan said. “They
do
know how to make a French fry. You gonna eat those?”

They were finishing the French fries when Del called: he was even more wired than he’d been in the morning.

“Man, you gotta find a place to lie down,” Lucas said. “You’re yelling at me.”

“We’re getting a little frazzled,” Del shouted. “Listen, where are you? How fast can you get up here?”

“Forty-five minutes, depending on where you are. You find West?”

“We know where he is. We talked to a chick who just saw him. He’s walking around with his bag along the riverbank. We’ve got some Minneapolis cops coming over to help. He might be in one of the caves.”

“All right. We’re coming. Be careful in those fuckin’ caves, man.”

17

A MINNEAPOLIS PATROLMAN spotted Mike West walking along the riverbank more than a mile downstream from where the woman had seen him—“When she said she saw him five minutes ago, what she meant was, she saw him half an hour ago,” Del told Lucas and Sloan.

Del was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and for some reason—odd on a hot day in the middle of the summer, though nobody mentioned it—a navy-blue watch cap. With his weathered face, he looked like the Ancient Mariner, except in a Metallica T-shirt. “We spent another half hour crawling all over the riverbank by the university, and he was already down by St. Thomas.”

“So where is he?” Lucas asked. They were parked with a half dozen cop cars on Mississippi River Boulevard, looking down into the river gorge that separated St. Paul from Minneapolis. The sides of the gorge were steep, but not sheer, and covered with trees and brush. Outcrops of sandstone were showing through the greenery; the Mississippi snaked through the bottom of it, in its usual summer dress, mud and beached carp.

Del shrugged: “He must’ve seen us coming, because he fuckin’ vanished. Dick Douglas spotted him, called it in, then went down after him. Never saw him again.”

“Caves,” Sloan said.

“Douglas was sure it was him?” Lucas asked.

“It’s the guy we were told about. We found Gary, the panhandler. He said this was our guy, this Mike West. Calls him Mikey. He pointed us at Sandy, this woman, who knows West pretty good. She’s a graduate student up at the U, she works in a cafeteria and gives him leftover food.”

“We ought to get Sandy down here,” Sloan said.

Del nodded: “She’s on the way. Jenkins and Shrake went to get her.”

“Jesus, I hope you told them to go easy,” Lucas said. Shrake bragged that when it came to pickups, they had a .740 slugging percentage. He wasn’t sure Shrake was joking.

“Ah, they’re all right,” Del said. “They get a little antsy sometimes.”

They found West before the woman arrived. A couple of cops halfway down the hill, and two hundred yards south, started yelling and humping around one spot on the hill. A group of college students, who had gathered on the sidewalk, cheered, then booed. Lucas could see the cops bending into the hillside and then yelling some more. “What the hell’s going on down there?” Del wondered. They all started down the hillside, holding on to tree limbs and brush, skidding along in their slick-soled city-cop shoes.

“What?” Lucas asked when they got to the cops. More cops were crossing the hillside to where they were standing.

“There he is,” said one of the cops. He was hot and pissed off. He pointed at the hillside, and Lucas took a moment to see what he was pointing at—the worn white soles of two gym shoes, six or eight inches into a hole so small that it seemed impossible that a man could be on the other side of them. The hole, worn by water out of the rotten rock, apparently extended straight back into the hillside.

Lucas stooped to look, and Sloan and Del scrambled around behind him “Come out of there,” Lucas said. He heard what might have been a muffled reply.

“He’s holding on to something, inside there,” one of the cops said. “We tried to pull him out, but we couldn’t budge him.”

“How about some shovels?” Del asked.

“It’s mostly rock; we’d need jackhammers.”

“We could try dynamite,” somebody suggested, with a snigger. Most of the cops were now enjoying themselves: watching the heavyweight detectives looking at those two fuckin’ feet. “Or maybe we oughta send for a proctologist,” somebody else said. “I bet
he
could hook him out.”

“He’s not going to smother in there, is he?” Lucas asked, looking at the shoe soles.

“Fuck if we know,” said the cop.

Del started to laugh, and Sloan shook his head and turned away.

“Stop laughing and give me a hand,” Lucas said, irritated. Del came over and they managed to wedge their hands into the hole and grab hold of the man’s ankles. There were more muffled comments from inside the hole. “Pull.”

They pulled, pulled some more, and nothing moved. “We’re gonna hurt him if we pull too hard,” Del said. “We’re gonna pop his knees.”

“Why can’t anything be easy?” Lucas asked, giving up, dusting his hands together.

Sloan said, “Anyway, here’re Shrake and the woman.”

THEY SAW SHRAKE coming down the hill, one hand on the woman’s arm. Jenkins, who had apparently stopped to light a cigarette, trailed unhappily behind.

The woman, Sandy, was young and round faced, and dishwater blond. She looked concerned in the way that nurses looked concerned when told of pain and illness—a kind of reflexive sympathy.

“Can you help us?” Lucas asked. “He’s wedged himself inside.”

“I can try,” she said, looking doubtfully at the soles of the gym shoes. “He gets scared sometimes.” She knelt: “Mike? This is Sandy,” she shouted. “This is Sandy from the cafeteria. The police don’t want to arrest you, they want you to help them. They need you to help them catch somebody else.”

Nothing.

“Mike, you’re going to hurt yourself if you stay in there. You’ll run out of air . . .”

SHE CONTINUED TO TALK, reassuring sometimes, pleading other times. There were muffled replies, but no movement, and nobody could decipher what West was saying. West twisted and retwisted his feet, but gave no sign of giving up. Lucas finally stepped away and asked Shrake, “How’re you guys doing?”

“Gettin’ tired. I’m too old for this all-night and all-day shit.”

Jenkins blew some smoke and nodded: “Me too.”

Shrake said, “Butt me,” and Jenkins held out a pack of Marlboros. Shrake took one and lit it with an antique brass Zippo; the smell of lighter fluid hung in the air for a moment.

“I really appreciate all this,” Lucas said, gesturing down the hillside. “Put in for every minute of overtime. I’ll sign anything reasonable. And you don’t have to stay here—you can take off if you want.”

“I’d like to see the little asshole’s face before we go,” Shrake said. “That’s all I’ve seen of him.” He nodded at the hole. “The bottom of his feet.”

Sandy shouted, “We’re having pumpkin pie tonight, that’s your favorite.”

“You want me to get him out of there?” Jenkins asked.

“With whipped cream,” Sandy yelled.

“He’s really wedged in,” Lucas said.

“Fuck a bunch of wedges. Let me talk to him for a minute. And get that broad out of there, she ain’t helping the situation.”

“I don’t want him gassed . . . ,” Lucas warned.

“I ain’t gonna gas him, for Christ’s sake,” Jenkins said. “Just let me talk to him.”

“Whatever,” Lucas said. “No saps.”

“Get the broad out of there.”

THEY TOLD SANDY that they might have to work on another concept and eased her away from the hole. She went up the hill white-faced, looking back, afraid the cops were going to do something weird, like shoot West in the feet.

Jenkins did do something weird. He leaned into the hillside, fumbled around West’s shoes for a moment, then started untying one. He took his time getting it loose: West twisted his feet around, trying to get away from the hands, but apparently couldn’t get any deeper into the hole.

“You know what I’m doing, Mikey?” Jenkins shouted into the hole. “I’ve been looking for you for two days. I’m really tired, and now you’re fuckin’ with me. So I’m gonna take your fuckin’ shoes off, and if you don’t come out of there, I’m gonna throw them in the fuckin’ river. ’Cause I’m pissed off.”

There was more muffled noise from inside the hole, more foot twisting, and then Jenkins, still taking his time, pulled the first shoe off. There was a sock under it, black and shriveled and wet with sweat or river water. The ankle above it was almost as black as the sock. Jenkins touched neither.

“That’s one shoe,” he yelled into the hole. “I’m gonna put it right here, until I get the second one. Then I’m going to throw them into the fuckin’ river, I swear to God.”

He started working on the second shoe, taking time to untie it, and suddenly one of West’s legs extended a few inches, and then the other, and then the first one a few more. Somebody said, “He’s coming,” and with some muffled shouting, Mike West squirmed out of the hole, tears in his eyes, dragging a plastic garbage bag behind him. “Don’t take my shoes, man,” he said to Jenkins. “Don’t take my shoes.”

“I ain’t gonna take your shoes,” Jenkins said. He sat back and took the Marlboros out of his pocket. “You want a smoke?”

WEST WAS A PHYSICAL WRECK. He was short, skinny to the point of emaciation. His face was grimed with dirt, both old and new, and his cheekbones stood out like axe edges in a field of blemishes. His hair, a uniform four inches long, looked as though it had been cut with hedge clippers and stuck out from his head in dirty brown clumps. His eyes were wide, blue, and frightened. He was wearing a open long-sleeved flannel shirt, North Face nylon drawstring pants, and a theme T-shirt. The theme was outer space—a small black circle on top, labeled
URANUS
, with a much larger black circle below it, with the caption,
URANUS IN PRISON
.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said to Jenkins.

“Tell this guy here,” Jenkins said, turning a thumb at Lucas.

“We don’t think you did anything,” Lucas said. “We just want to get you a shower, maybe get a McDonald’s or something, maybe get your clothes washed, and talk.”

West wrapped his arms around his garbage bag: “Talk about what?”

WEST WAS WILLING enough to talk, when he remembered to. He was one of the legion of the lost, a schizophrenic who could tolerate neither his condition nor the drugs that treated it. As Lucas and Sloan talked him along, he’d break off to stare, to mumble, to twitch. He had an uncle, he said, who pinched him. Hard. “I know he’s not really there,” he said to Lucas, “but I can feel him. He hurts. What an ass wipe he is.”

WEST HAD OCCASIONALLY stayed at the St. Paul Mission. They took him there in the back of a Minneapolis squad, got him a shower. Sandy, his friend, had voluntarily stopped at a Goodwill store and picked up clean clothes. She waited outside while West dressed, and he looked at himself in the mirror—jockey shorts, white T-shirt, plaid shirt, stone-washed jeans. “I look really square, dude,” he said, with an unhappy grimace.

“Ah, you look okay,” Lucas said. West went away for a minute, mumbled to an unseen presence, flinched, said, “
Ow
.” Lucas touched him on the shoulder: “You really look good.”

West came back. “What?”

“You sure as shit smell better,” Del added.

“I’m gonna miss my turn at the stoplight,” West said. “And I’m not gonna make a dime dressed like this.”

“I’ll give you a couple bucks,” Lucas said. “If you’re reasonable.”

“A couple bucks? Man, I need thirty bucks a day just to make my nut,” West said. He tended to slip into a whine when things weren’t going well.

Lucas: “You want to eat or what?”

THEY ATE IN A BAR, Coney Islands and sauerkraut and beer. Sandy wanted to come along, but they thanked her for her trouble and sent her on her way. “He’ll be okay?”

“He’ll be back on the job tomorrow,” Del said.

As they were walking over to the bar, Del chatted with West. When they got there, Del hooked Lucas by the arm before they went inside, and he said, “West didn’t kill anybody.”

“Seems pretty unlikely,” Lucas agreed.

“It’d be the most unlikely thing I’ve ever run into—he’s scared all the time, he’s got dead relatives plucking at his shirt and his hair, some days the sidewalks melt and get weird and his feet stick in the concrete.”

“Ah, man.”

“With some people I’d say it might be an act; but with him, it’s not.”

WHEN THEY TOLD WEST what they wanted—explained the situation—he said, “You shoulda come to me first.”

“Well, Mike, we tried,” Sloan said. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I’ve been workin’ the same spot every day, six days a week, for a month, dude. Really fuckin’ first-class police work, huh?”

“So . . . what do you think?” Lucas asked.

“I woulda told you that it wasn’t Charlie. Charlie might have killed one or two of them, but then he would have hid them and run,” West said, adding more raw onions to the Coney Island. “He would have got scared. He wouldn’t have done anything to them. I mean, except fuck ’em and kill ’em. He wouldn’t torture anybody.”

“That’s what we’re figuring out,” Lucas said. “We’ve talked to all those guys, you know, the shrinks and the security guards, and they can’t give us a name. I mean, we thought we had a name—Charlie. It turned out it wasn’t him. Then we got another name. Yours. Everybody said you were Charlie’s friend, and you worked down there around the Big Three. So, one way or another, we figured you might know who
else
was talking to the Big Three.”

West shuddered. “Those guys. Those guys are really
nuts.
I mean, all of us were nuts, except maybe Alison. But they were
really
nuts.”

Lucas bit: “Alison?”

West had a mouthful of Coney Island, chewed it, swallowed carefully, and for a moment went someplace else, his mouth half open, three inches from taking a new bite. After a long moment, he suddenly came back, his eyes shifting, and he said, “Yeah. Alison. She wasn’t nuts, she was just in there for the money. She didn’t make any secret of it.”

Del looked at Lucas, and Lucas rubbed his forehead with both hands: “I don’t want to know.”

Del said, “I gotta know.” To West. “Okay, what about Alison? What do you mean, she was in it for the money?”

West looked a little surprised: everybody knew about Alison. He put on a patient voice, as if talking to a village idiot, and said, “Where else are you going to meet rich guys that no other women want? I mean, there are always a bunch of guys in there for evaluation. Some got the big bucks. Especially the obsessive-compulsives; but the paranoids do pretty good, too.”

“She’s in there . . . to date?” Del asked. This was the kind of informational nugget he treasured.

“Yeah. What have I been telling you?” West finished the last of the Coney Island, held up a finger to the waitress, pointed at his plate, and mimed, “Another one.”