Michael Lister - Soldier 02 - The Big Beyond (7 page)

Chapter 17

T
he morgue was dim, quiet, and cool.

Roy Nelson, a shy, socially awkward kid with pale skin and a boyish haircut with bangs that fell just below his eyebrows, snuck us in the back while his boss was at lunch. He was tall with black hair and eyes—the latter with enormous dark circles beneath them.

It was obvious he was smitten with Ruth Ann. It was equally and painfully obvious that though she didn’t share his affection, she didn’t mind exploiting it.

“Thanks again for helping us like this, Roy,” she said. “It’s awfully good of you.”

He hesitated a moment before getting out, “Happy … to … help you, Ruth Ann.”

He was leading us down a narrow corridor beneath the occasional bare bulb on a recently polished floor that squeaked intermittently under our feet as our shoes inadvertently scuffed it.

Roy walked very slowly, and I couldn’t tell if it was his natural speed or if he did it out of consideration for Ruth Ann, who even with the good prosthetic leg was incapable of moving fast.

At one point he stopped and said, “I … like the new way you’re doin’ your hair, Ruth Ann. It’s real … pretty.”

“Thank you, Roy. Just trying something new.”

He then led us into a room lined on both sides with a bank of corpse cold storage cabinets, a massive stainless steel monstrosity as cold and as impersonal as the lifeless shells it held.

My knees buckled a bit as I thought of Lauren’s lifeless body lying in one of these while I was in a coma in a warm bed in another part of the sanatorium in Tallahassee, but I caught myself and didn’t fall.

This is what it comes to, isn’t it? Loss. And not just. Nothingness. Cold, inhuman nothingness. But is this all? Was Lauren waiting for me somewhere?

“Ruth Ann … there’s a room you can wait in right over here,” Roy said. “There’s a—”

“I’m not going anywhere, Roy.”

“But … you don’t want to see this. No one … who doesn’t have to … should ever see something like this.”

“I’m sure it’s bad, but I’m a war nurse. I’ll be just fine.”

“I’m not sure I will be,” I said.

“This is after the violence,” she said. “After the death and dismemberment. I saw it actually happen. Hell, it happened to me.”

“Okay … then. We’ll do one at a time. And we can stop anytime. I … I just … want you to … I’m just lookin’ out … for you.”

“I know. Thank you, Roy. You’re okay.”

With that, he unlatched and swung open the first door and yanked on the tray, the body of a once beautiful young woman rolling out between us.

“This is the first victim,” he said. “Janet Stewart.”

Her ghostly skin was waxy white and bloodless, bisected at the waist, her two halves separated by six inches or so. The dark hair on her head and pubis provided a stark contrast to the unearthly paleness of her skin.

“Poor thing,” Ruth Ann said.

“The way you see her here is about the way the body was discovered,” Roy said. “No clothes. No blood. No marks. He cleans them up but good when he’s finished cuttin’ on them.”

“Do you have copies of the crime scene photos?” I asked.

He looked at Ruth Ann.

She nodded.

“I can get ’em for you.”

“Would you, Roy?” she said. “That would be so swell of you. I’d be so grateful.”

I looked at her, gaining a new appreciation for this stranger who used to be my drinking pal not so very long ago. She was good. And a little scary.

“Probably take me a day or so.”

“Just as soon as you can will be fine,” she said. “Just fine.”

He nodded. “Seen enough?” he asked.

I studied the body a bit longer, trying to take in everything I could, then indicated to him I had indeed seen enough.

As he rolled in the tray and closed the door, I asked Ruth Ann if she was okay.

She looked at me, our eyes locking, and I knew she was.

Roy said, “Can you believe Panama City has a sex killer?”

“It
is
hard to believe,” Ruth Ann said.

As he opened the next door and pulled on the tray, he said, “He cuts a little more each time.”

The second body looked nearly identical to the first—in body type, hair color, everything, even the method and manner of the murder and caring for the body afterward. The only difference was the right arm of this one had been cut off at the shoulder and it lay a few inches apart the same way the two halves above and below the waist did.

“They could be sisters,” Ruth Ann said.

It was true, but I wondered how much of it had to do with their pale, washed-out, bloodless condition and what had been done to them. Had they looked this similar in life when what we were looking at now had been whole, with a heartbeat and blood and an embodied soul?

The final two were the same as the first—nearly exact in every way but with more and more cutting. The third victim was not only bisected but both arms had also been cut off. The fourth was bisected, had both arms and legs cut off.

Apart from being of Japanese descent, Miki Matsumoto bore a strong resemblance to the four girls killed so far, but she was not among them.

“Wonder how long before there’s another?” I said.

Chapter 18

H
eaven Can Wait
and
Shadow of a Doubt
were playing at the Ritz theater downtown, and though I paid my thirty cents to get in, I wasn’t here to see either feature.

The Ritz stood next to the Tennessee House, not far from our old offices, and across the street from the police precinct. I was betting my freedom that I could blend into the wild nighttime crowd, but it was only a matter of time until I got spotted by the wrong person and the boys in blue threw the big net over me.

These were the chances I was taking. What other options did I have?

I was here to see a woman—a woman I was certain would not want to see me.

When Jan Christie wasn’t working at the Ritz, she was one of nearly ninety volunteers coordinated by Warren Middlemas known as spotters, who took turns watching the sky for enemy aircraft from a station on top of the Dixie Sherman. Like the other volunteers, she had been trained to identify aircraft—both ours and theirs—by sight and sound.

The last time I saw her, what I thought would be the final time, I had seen her there on the roof of the Sherman.

When she had opened the door of the small wooden lookout shack and saw me standing there agitated and holding a brown paper bag, she shook her head.

“Not tonight, soldier,” she said.

“But I brought your favorite,” I said, holding up the whiskey.

“Every time she’s close enough to get her poison in you,” she said, “you show up here wantin’ me to cut the wound open and suck out the venom.”

She had been talking about Lauren and she had been right.

Although not nearly as beautiful or regal as Lauren, there was something about Jan that made me think of her. It was in her attitude, her posture, the hunger beneath her plaid skirt and white blouse. She was right. I only used her for temporary relief. Very temporary. And not just because I was so limited in what I could do. The next morning I would always feel far worse, my self-inflicted sickness and inexcusable cruelty toward a girl whose only sin was letting me, making me hate myself all the more.

She had closed the door and gone back to work. I had spread out my overcoat on the step, sat down, and started drinking.

I took a few pulls on the bottle and thought about what I was doing. I couldn’t blame Lauren’s power over me or Jan’s weakness against me. I alone was responsible for the damage I was doing. I had become a carrier and was infecting her. I had to stop.

Standing up slowly, I had placed the bottle down on the step I had been sitting on and walked away. When I reached the exit door, I told her I was sorry and that I wouldn’t be back, but I wasn’t sure she heard it. And here I was back to see her, though for a very different reason.

The night I had called Pete with all the info on Frank Howell and the rest, I had gotten the impression that he was not alone. If I was right, then Jan was the most likely person whose presence I had detected. I hadn’t been the only one who used Jan.

The Ritz theater was all right. There were always plenty of people around—both inside and out—enjoying the pictures, sure, but enjoying each other more.

The manager, Bud Davis, was always finding ways to support the war effort, including hosting several war bond drives in front of the theater, which included special shows, demonstrations of amphibious vehicles, parades, and celebrities. He was even the one who came up with the slogan, “Your war bond may be his ticket home.” He also hosted a free scrap metal movie and invited fourteen hundred boys and girls below the age of fourteen to donate a piece of scrap metal and see a free movie.

As I moved around the lobby looking for Jan, I avoided Bud and anyone else who might recognize me. It wasn’t difficult to do. The crowd was active and talkative and easy to blend in to.

Unable to find Jan in the concession stand or lobby, I stepped inside the theater to look for her.

On the screen, Hitchcock’s small-town malevolent masterpiece was playing, the bright, innocent, but brilliant Charlie played by Teresa Wright telling her namesake uncle Charlie played by Joseph Cotten, “I have a feeling that inside you there’s something nobody knows about … something secret and wonderful. I’ll find it out.”

She’s right about the secret part, but not the wonderful. I knew because I had read the story by Gordon McDonell, “Uncle Charlie,” that the movie was based on.

I thought about how much I used to read, how little I had lately, and how much I missed it. I recalled using certain words I’d picked up from all my time between the covers, and July, Lauren, and Ruth Ann all having the same reaction—”You gotta get out more, fella, and stop reading so much. Have you heard yourself lately?”

Jan was walking up the aisle just a few feet away when she spotted me. She started shaking her head immediately and actually stopped and took a step back.

I stepped toward her.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Stay away from me.”

“It’ll only take a minute. I swear.”

“I’ll scream.”

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I just—”

“I mean it.”

“Jan. Please. I’m trying to find Pete.”

That stopped her.

“I just need a minute. Please.”

Someone said, “Sit down, mister. I can’t see the movie.”

“Sorry, pal. I’m leaving.”

“Meet me out front,” she said.

“I can’t be seen.”

“I can’t be alone with you.”

“Back corner of the lobby?” I asked. “Or by the bathroom.”

“Okay.”

I walked out of the theater and back into the lobby and found the quietest, least conspicuous corner and waited.

I didn’t have to wait long.

“Whatta you want, Jimmy?” she said as she walked up. “Aren’t you wanted by the police?”

“Look,” I said, “I haven’t done anything. I’ll get it all straightened out—or I won’t. Doesn’t matter. First thing I want to say to you is I’m sorry. I know I didn’t treat you so good and I’m sorry. Real sorry. I was so messed up over Lauren … That’s not an excuse. I’m just saying … I’m sorry.”

“Is she really dead?”

“She really is.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry, but …”

“No need to.”

“So … whatta you need from me, fella? I gotta get back to work.”

“Pete’s missing and I’m trying to find him.”

“I don’t know where he is. Haven’t seen him in a while.”

“How long a while? Were you with him the night I called and told him about Howell and the rest?”

She hesitated.

I could feel her wanting to say something, sense something coming up from within, so I waited.

“I … Yes. I was there.”

“What happened?”

“Whatta you mean?”

“Why didn’t he go arrest them?”

“I thought he did,” she said. “I mean, he was going to. When he left that’s where he was headed.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. He never came back. I’ve never seen him again. It scared me but good too, soldier. He’s a cop. I mean … if something bad can happen to a cop … And I know something bad happened, but there was nothing in the paper and no one seemed to know anything.”

“No one knew anything at all? No theories? Ideas? Whispers?”

“Nothing.”

“Any idea what he was working on before that night?”

“Two things. All those people beaten to death that you were suspected of …”

“Did he really suspect me?”

“Yeah. He did. Some of the time, anyway. I think. Did you do it?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head wearily. “I let him know who did when I called that night.”

“So you didn’t have anything to do with him going missing?” “No. I didn’t. I left town that night. I was in a coma and then a prisoner. I haven’t been back long. Had no idea he was missing until just a few days ago.”

She fell silent and seemed to think about it.

“What’s the other thing?”

“Huh?”

“That he was working on?”

“Oh. Those girls that got cut up and killed.”

“You sure? I thought those happened since he’s been missing.”

“I guess the others have, but I know he was at least working on the first one. Just thought it was the one at the time. It bothered him but good. I could tell.”

“Anything else you can think of that might help me find him?”

She thought about it a moment then shook her head.

“Do you know if he went by himself? Did he take anyone? Call for backup? Talk to anyone at all?”

“He called his partner and asked for his help.”

“Butch?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. When he left he was on his way to meet Butch.”

Chapter 19

P
eople were hustling down Harrison—in cars on the street, by foot on the sidewalks—hanging out of the Tennessee House, in and out of shops, standing, smoking, walking, moving, talking.

Leaving the Ritz, I disappeared into the din, following the flow downstream, heading to Ruth Ann’s car.

Rounding the corner at Fourth, I continued on toward Grace.

As I neared the car, I glanced down Fourth and saw a man angling onto Oak who I could’ve sworn was Cliff Walton.

He was a good distance away so I couldn’t be certain, but his build and the way he walked were a perfect match for the man, except now he walked with a limp—a limp I had given him when I shot him in the leg the night I left town with Lauren.

Walt, as he was most often called, had been Harry Lewis’s head of security, both for the bank and the campaign. He was a large man with a thick neck who wore suits a size or two too small for him. He was the type of man who entered a room a few minutes after his chest did.

On the night I shot him, I had not only discovered that he was actually working for Frank Howell as a plant pretending to work for Harry all the while blackmailing Lauren, but that he had killed a few people in the process.

He, Howell, Ann Everett, and Payton Rainer had been working together to use Lauren to get Harry to drop out of the race.

I hurried down Fourth then turned onto Oak hoping it was him and that he’d lead me to them, but Oak was empty and there was no sign of the figure I had seen limping down Fourth.

I stood there a moment trying to decide what to do.

About two blocks down, lights from a car parked on the side of the street came on and it pulled out onto Oak heading my direction.

I stepped back a bit and waited, and was glad I did.

As the car whisked past me, I could see that it was in fact who I thought it was. Cliff Walton, who helped killed Lauren, was not only still drawing breath, he was doing so right here in my little town.

So as the vehicle passed by, I stepped out into the street and carefully studied the tag so I could do something about it.

I
walked back up Fourth toward Ruth Ann’s car, salivating at the thought of seeing Walt again soon, savoring the unmitigated misery I was going to unleash onto his life.

Out in the bay, the Liberty ship still burned. Adrift. Aflame. Abandoned. Soon it would sink to the bottom and become a ghost ship—like me, a casualty of a war it never got to fight in.

As I turned from Fourth onto Grace and started to cross the street, the pristine Presidential Studebaker pulled up beside me.

Bunko Matsumoto’s brother was in the backseat again, the same little driver in the front behind the wheel.

The door opened, I got in, and the driver pulled up and parked near the curb.

“Sister say ah you were ah interrupteda.”

I nodded.

“How ah many boys you and my nephews save?”

“A few.”

He nodded.

We were silent a moment, then he said, “Boat still ah burn out there ah right nowa. Beautiful in moonright.”

“I went to the morgue this morning,” I said. “Your niece is not one of the four girls cut up by the killer.”

The release of stress and the relief that replaced it were palpable. His shoulders relaxed beneath his black suit coat and his breathing became more peaceful, less labored.

He rolled down his window a few inches, withdrew a red pack of Pall Mall that said WHEREVER PARTICULAR PEOPLE CONGREGATE, shook one out, and lit up without offering me one.

“So,” he said, returning the pack to his pocket, “where is my niece then?”

“The only thing I know for sure is that she’s not one of the madman’s four victims in the morgue.”

The smoke filling the car was strong and I decided to roll down my window—an awkward task accomplished by reaching over my body with my left hand and turning the knob at an odd angle the wrong way at first.

“You find her now.”

“Right now?” I asked.

“Yes. Ah righta nowa.”

“I don’t know enough to even start. You want me to look for the girl, I’ll look for her. And you don’t have to threaten me to get me to do it. But you
do
have to give me some information. I gotta pick up her trail somewhere.”

“Whata do you ah need ah to knowa?”

“The standard stuff,” I said. “When she was last seen. With whom? By whom? Where was she? What was she doing? What was she supposed to be doing? What was she into?
Who
was she into? Did her behavior change in any way before she went missing? Stuff like that. Stuff you can’t tell me. I want to talk to her best friend. And her boyfriend if she had one. And the sooner the better. The scent on that trail is growing fainter by the second.”