Night Terrors (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-six

“Ya know, I don't gotta say nothin' to nobody.”

“That's true, Wes. You don't.”

Wes Currim and I sat across from each other at a smooth pinewood table. Aside from our two chairs, it was the only stick of furniture in the small, featureless room.

In contrast to the wintry temperature outside, the air was warm to the point of stifling, thanks to a huge heating vent in a near corner.

There was also a single window, high and rectangular, through which I could see a guard standing in the adjoining room. His gaze narrow-eyed and suspicious.

Wes had been seated when I was ushered into the room, and hadn't risen to shake hands. Had barely raised his head in acknowledgement when I sat down.

He was less anxious and jangly than he'd been in the patrol car on our way to Meachem's body. But not by much. He hadn't shaved since then, so that his face seemed narrower, more wan, under the bristles. And his eyes were blinking rapidly, as though stung with something acidic. Trying to manufacture tears.

“If you don't want to talk,” I tried again, “then why am I sitting here?”

A cool smirk. “My lawyer, Mr. Hansen, forced me to let you come. Says it'll look good to a jury that I wanted to confide in someone like you.”

“Are you going to confide in someone like me?”

“Fuck, no. Hansen's an asshole. He don't give a shit what happens to me. But I'm supposed to be all grateful to my brothers for hirin' him. Well, I'm not, and I hope he ends up costin' 'em a fortune in lawyer's fees.”

“You don't like your brothers?”

“Goes both ways. They don't like
me
much, either. Think they're better n' me. Always have.”

I leaned across the table, staring hard at him until he had no choice but to look back.

“Listen, Wes. Truth is, I'm not sure
I
give a shit what happens to you. But your mother does. And she swears you're not guilty. That you were at her house, helping her clean out the attic, the night of Meachem's murder.”

“Well, she's lyin'. That's what I told Hansen, that's what I told the DA, and that's what I'm tellin' you.”

“Why would she lie?”

“What are you, a fuckin' moron? To protect me. I'm her son and she loves me.”

“So she'd lie to keep you out of prison?”

“My mother'd do
anything
for me. Just like I'd do anything for
her
. Anything!”

I watched the pulse jumping in his neck, his level of agitation rising.

It didn't help that the over-heated air was bringing beads of sweat to his brow. And to mine. I suddenly wished I'd asked the guard for some water before entering.

“It's been that way for a long time, hasn't it, Wes? You and your mother, taking care of each other.”

“That's right. Long time.”

“Since your father ran away with his girlfriend?”

“Even before that. All he ever cared about—” His jaw tightened. “He
never
treated her right. Never! Then he starts fuckin' his secretary, for Christ's sake, right behind my mother's back…”

He paused, rubbed the hairs on his cheeks. “I mean, after all she did for him…he goes and runs off with this little cunt. Broke my mother's heart.”

“And you never heard from him again?”

“Nope. Not a word. Not a goddam word.”

He fell silent for a long moment. Calming himself. Hands splayed flat on the table.

“Wes,” I said quietly. “Did you kill Ed Meachem?”

“Yes.”

“Did you assault him in that supermarket parking lot, knock him out, and take him to your uncle's house in the woods?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Like I told the cops. Like I told everybody. I was gonna hold him for ransom.”

“Why?”

“Another stupid question. For the goddam money.”

“What happened?”

“He came to and tried to escape, so I killed him and cut him into pieces.”

He swallowed hard, as though his throat hurt.

“And you got the idea to do this because of the Handyman's crimes? How he'd dismembered his victims?”

“Yeah. Everybody knows about that. He's famous. But only
I
thought o' puttin' Meachem's head on the snowman. That was
my
idea. All mine.”

“And you did all this—the kidnapping, the murder—just for the money? For drug money?”

“I didn't do it for
fun
, if that's what you think.”

A thin, wayward smile. “Except for the last part. The thing with the dude's head.
That
was fun.”

The pulse in his neck was nearly vibrating, it was pumping so fast. Excitement at the memory? Pleasure at the thought he was shocking me?

“So you're this stone killer,” I went on. “You need money and decide to get some. You methodically pick your victim out because he looks rich, drives an expensive car. You bring him to an isolated spot, planning to hold him for ransom, but things go wrong and he ends up dead. So you hack the body to pieces. Then, just for fun, you build a snowman and put the victim's severed head on top.”

“That's pretty much it, Doc. Ya got me.”

Palms rubbing the table now, as though cleaning it. Placid smile intact, belying his anxiety.

“Then I just have one question,” I said. “One thing that's bothered me from the start. Why the hell did you turn yourself in?”

His smile deserted him. Palms stopped moving.

“What?”

“Why did you confess? Meachem had been missing for a week, the police had no leads. Suddenly you show up and say you did it. You're even willing to show the cops where you left the remains. Why?”

He swallowed again.

“I—I felt guilty. I mean, I fuckin'
killed
a guy. I never planned on killin' nobody. I just wanted the money.”

“So why wait a week before going to the cops?”

“‘Cause I was scared. I knew that if I turned myself in, I was lookin' at life in the state pen. Hard time. Shit, man, I was just…I didn't wanna do it. But then…”

“Then what?”

He took a deep, slow breath. As though it was the first he'd taken in a long time.

“I kept seein' the story on the news. The guy's family cryin' on TV, askin' for help findin' him. Sayin' if anyone out there knew anything…ya know what I mean…”

I nodded.

“I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat…felt sick all the time, like I was gonna throw up. Plus I figgered, hell, they're gonna find the body sooner or later…”

“Maybe. But here's what I don't understand. Let's say the police
did
find the body at your uncle's house. In that case, you had to know they'd start questioning you, your whole family. Anyone who might have known about the house, or had access to it.”

“That's right.”

“So why did you leave the remains there? Why not put all the body parts in some trash bags and get rid of them?”

He hesitated for a moment. A long moment.

“Jesus, I don't know,” he said at last. “I wasn't thinkin' right. I guess I shoulda done that. I probably shoulda got rid o' everything, and…Like I said, I just wasn't thinkin' right…”

Then, as if flipping a switch, he grew animated. Flashed me that same dark, unnerving smile.

“Fuck it, maybe they're right about me, after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe I'm just crazy, like everybody says.” He sat back then, hands behind his head. “They don't put you in the big house if you're crazy, right?”

I didn't say anything. Just watched him watching me, a strained, empty silence settling between us. Filled only by the cotton-soft hiss of hot air rising from the wall vent.

When he finally spoke, his voice was clear. Defiant.

“Or maybe I'm just playin' ya, Doc. Playin'
all
o' you. Ever think o' that?”

“I've considered that possibility. Which means you're guilty. That you've been guilty all along.”

He gave a hoarse laugh. “Christ, Doc, that's what I've been tryin' to tell ya. Shit, how many times does a guy gotta confess around here?”

“Then I guess I'm wasting my time.”

“Guess so.”

Currim sat forward again, hands once more palms-down on the table between us. Then he quite deliberately began drumming his fingers.

“Any more questions, Doc?”

“Just one.” I slowly got to my feet. Looked down at him. “What do I tell your mother?”

The drumming stopped. Sudden sorrow veiled his eyes.

“Tell her…” A slow, measured breath. “Just tell her I'm sorry.”

 

Chapter Twenty-seven

I didn't make it to the new precinct gym until four thirty. On the way back to Pittsburgh, I realized that having to drive a rented sedan had one advantage over my Mustang. Given how banged up I was, it was nice not to be wedged into a bucket seat.

The lot behind the Old County Building was nearly deserted, so I had my pick of parking spots. I figured that every available vehicle, marked and otherwise, was in use. Part of the massive joint FBI-Pittsburgh PD investigation into the identity and whereabouts of the elusive shooter, who even now could be planning an attempt on the next victim on his list.

After locking the car, I stood in the freezing air of the open lot, picturing the killer in my mind. When I'd actually
seen
him, hidden under his bulky coat and hat, standing casually at the warehouse exit door. Staring frankly at me across the lengthy, shadowed floor.

There was something implacable, unswerving in his stance. His faceless, determined gaze. The way his gloved hand rested easily on the door handle.

He won't stop
, I realized suddenly. No matter how intense the manhunt for him, how many law enforcement personnel and resources were brought to bear. The killer would not stop until he'd crossed off every name on his list. Until, for whatever inexplicable reason, his need to avenge John Jessup's imprisonment and death had been satisfied.

I blinked up at the glare of sunlight threading gray, weary clouds. The temperature was dropping by the minute, though the latest forecast had promised no new snow.

Fine with me. Pulling my coat collar up against the icy chill, I hurried across the lot.

***

The departmental gym was housed in a two-storied structure adjacent to the Old County Building. Though I'd never been inside before, it was obvious that it had been recently renovated. The walls were freshly painted, and all the equipment boasted a still-new chrome gloss. Even the free weights looked like they'd just come out of their packing crates.

As I expected, the gym was as deserted as the parking lot. Maybe a half-dozen officers. Men and women in sweats, departmental t-shirts, and tank tops using the treadmills, Nautilus apparatus, and barbells. One guy—and there's always at least one in every gym in the world—looked totally ‘roided-out, veins popping on his forearms and neck as he pumped iron in front of a wall mirror.

I looked around. Maybe I'd beaten Eleanor here after all. Not that it mattered. No way I'd be working out today.

Then I saw her, sitting at a workout bench in a far corner, away from the others. She was in a sport bra and sweats, bent at the waist, elbow on knee, doing biceps curls with her right hand. Her concentration on her form was so intense, she didn't even register me until I was only a few feet away.

“Enjoying the view?” She didn't look up as she smoothly lifted the multistacked hand weight. Her breathing slow and steady.

“Looks heavy.”

“Nah. Just warming up.”

She smiled at me, then, with a quick motion, shifted the weight to her other hand. Then her left arm began the clean, rhythmic curls.

“Now you're just showing off.”

“Hmm. Somebody sounds intimidated.”

“Maybe. Though if this fancy-ass place has a speed bag, I'd be happy to return the favor sometime.”

She finished her set and placed the weight back in its rack against the wall. Then she sat up straight on the bench, rolling the kinks out of her shoulders.

“Good burn?” I said.

“The best. I'd ask you to go change and join me, but you don't look so hot. What happened?”

I told her, and she made the appropriate commiserating noises. “You oughtta see a doctor.”

“If I start feeling worse, I will. Promise.”

She leaned back on her elbows, a stray wisp of hair dangling. Face, arms, and belly sheened with sweat. All sweet curves and lean, defined muscle.

I was staring. I owned it.

“Still, the day isn't a total loss. The view and all.”

She shrugged. “Good genes. Plus varsity track and field in college. Guess I've always liked being strong. In shape. Even before I joined the force.”

“Too bad you've let yourself go.”

She smiled again. But it was her gaze that held me. Managing to be both frank and warm at the same time, with just the hint of wry amusement.

“How long are we going to keep doing this?” she said at last.

“Doing what?” I finally moved, as though freed from a spell, and found a seat next to her on the bench.

“This,” she said. “Flirting. Mating dance. Whatever. ‘Cause, man, the suspense is killing me.”

“Not doing me much good, either. But aren't you the one who's been busy? Unavailable. With work—”

Her smile faded. “And family stuff. I know.”

Eleanor sat up again, reached for a towel hanging next to the free weights rack. Dabbed the sweat from her face.

“The thing is, Danny, my life is complicated. As you know better than anyone. Besides, I don't know if I'm over what happened last summer yet…”

“I wondered about that myself.”

That damned bank robbery case had unearthed some old hurts for a number of people, myself included. But perhaps Eleanor most of all. Something neither one of us had mentioned much since.

Now, making an effort to brighten her voice, she looked at me through the folds of the towel.

“On the other hand, I can't seem to stop thinking about you. Crazy as it seems.”

“Or not. And I'm an expert on crazy.”

She chuckled ruefully, tilting her head until it gently touched mine. “Let's face it, Danny, our timing sucks. With the shooter out there, the joint task force scrambling, all the political pressure to make an arrest—hell, the only reason Biegler gave me the afternoon off is 'cause I haven't had a break in about thirty-six hours.”

“Which means you're back on duty by dinner, and probably looking at another double shift.”

“At least. See what I mean? Not exactly a good time to hook up.”

“Or else it's the
best
time.”

She grinned. “Christ, that's both lame
and
desperate. You need to get laid that bad, I'm sure Harry knows the names of some primo hookers. If you can afford them.”

“Speaking of which, how
is
my favorite sergeant?”

“Pretty well, thank God. I saw him this morning. They're keeping him in All Saints for another two days, then he can be transferred back home.”

“How's he taking it?”

“He probably hates being stuck in Steubenville, away from all the action. But he's too sore and doped up to make much of a fuss about it. The last time I saw Harry this docile, he was passed out drunk on my living room sofa. I remember, Luther took one good sniff and just—”

Suddenly my cell rang. It was Neal Alcott.

“Rinaldi?” Breathless, agitated. Like I'd never heard him before.

“What is it?”

“Claire Cobb. You gotta get over here.”

“What's happened?”

He told me.

“Keep her warm, comfortable. Get her to breathe in a paper bag,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Majestic Motel. On Third, in Wilkinsburg.”

I gave Eleanor a quick glance. In lieu of explanation.

“Be right there.”