Prayer for the Dead (4 page)

“It’s your game, Tee. But I am curious to know what Hatcher found out.”

“You worked for the government, all over the place. At one time or another since leaving the FBI you’ve been listed on the payroll of at least half a dozen agencies, including the Defense Department and the National Security Council staff. This within five years. Right?”

“Right. So?”

“So in each of these capacities you were authorized to carry a weapon, which means, to me anyway, that you were probably performing essentially the same job for each of them. And doing it well since you weren’t dismissed from any of the agencies and obviously had no trouble finding a new place—in fact your GS rating went up each time you moved. You were making some pretty fair change at the end.”

“You working for the IRS, Tee?”

“To me, the pattern looks like you were a trouble-shooter.”

“Very good. Tee. No wonder you’re a cop.”

“Actually, I’m a cop because of you. Or partly because of you. I’m serious about this. When you joined up with the FBI, that made you a hero to some of us. Not only a hero, but glamorous, too. It was an inspiration—don’t grin, I’m serious about this—”

“This isn’t a grin.”

“—a kid from Clamden out doing battle with the bad guys, chasing Commies, whatever it was then. It made an impression.”

“I joined the FBI because I didn’t want to go to Vietnam.”

“Yeah, well, that wasn’t altogether stupid, either.”

“I didn’t want to kill anybody and I didn’t want anybody to kill me.”

“This was reasonable. Anyway, my point is, you were a factor in my applying for the FBI myself a couple years later. Did you know I applied?”

“No.”

“I didn’t pass the test.”

“Many are called but few are chosen. You’re better off.”

“Yeah, well, I made my peace with it a long time ago. The feds don’t get to wear these nifty belts, for one thing. My point is … I forgot my point.”

“You want me to do something.”

“Did I get to that part already?”

“I couldn’t stand the suspense.”

“I understand you’re retired. You put in the twenty, plus you got a disability of some kind. That much Hatcher could find out. There’s a whole lot of other stuff he couldn’t find out. Which is surprising since that’s his job and he’s authorized to do it. Find out stuff. It seems your personnel file is full of No Access signs. Even for someone with Hatcher’s clearance.”

“Hatcher is not very bright.”

“Well, neither am I, John. That’s probably why Hatcher and I get along so well … Look, I don’t know what kind of work you did and obviously you don’t want to tell me. I assume it’s either something very hush-hush or it’s something messy. Either way, it doesn’t matter. You obviously know things. You got access, you know how to do things … John, I need your help.”

Becker placed a napkin under his cup to soak up the coffee that was pooling there.

“I want you to help me find somebody.”

“A missing person?”

“Sort of, yeah. Yeah, a missing person.”

“Somebody from here?”

“Yeah.”

“Tee, you’re a cop. You’re the chief of police.”

“I’m a
Clamden
cop, John. I’m not even a Hartford cop. How big was Clamden when you left—what’s that, twenty-two years ago? Maybe twenty-seven thousand, twenty-eight? We’re now thirty-five thousand. That’s how much things have changed in two decades. I know how to work this town. I’m good at it, but that’s all I know.”

“Who’s missing?”

“My nephew. My wife’s nephew to be precise. Mick Seeger.”

“Little Mick?”

“Not so little anymore. Mick’s twenty-eight.”

“Christ, how old are we?”

“Whatever it is, I’m still two years younger than you.”

“The whole world is two years younger than I am. How long’s he been missing?”

“He’s been gone for a week.”

“That’s not missing; that’s just absent.”

“Well, I’d agree except he’s not the only one. Two months ago Timmy Heegan disappeared. Timmy’s twenty-six. Six months before that, Larry Sheehan, age thirty-two.”

“People do this sometimes… .”

“I know people do this, John. But none of these guys was young enough to run away, they weren’t thumbing their nose at mom and pop, they all had jobs, Mick has a baby.”

“Debts, marital problems…”

“John, I admitted I’m not a supercop, but give me some credit. In Clamden over the past four years, six men have disappeared. Statistically curious, but not phenomenal, I agree. But in Branford, six miles from here, five men in the last
three
years. In Guileford, eight miles away, three in the last eighteen months. In Essex, one, three months ago. That’s fifteen men in four years within a radius of twelve miles. None of them had been recently fired, divorced, involved in any great scandal or was in any particularly heavy debt. I’m not saying they hadn’t had fights with their women, those that had women, and I’m not saying they were all happy in their work, but fifteen in four years from an area with a total population of just over a hundred thousand—Hatcher tells me that’s statistically significant.”

“Hatcher would know. This is why you were palling around with him?”

“He doesn’t like you, either.”

“But the Bureau can’t help you, right? No federal crime involved, no apparent crime of any kind. Have you tried claiming this is a civil rights case? We’ve shoehorned a lot of things in that way.”

“First of all, I’ve got no reason to contend anybody’s been deprived of anything, but more to the point, all these men were white … John, one thing Hatcher said—he said it was just rumor, but he seemed to believe it—he said you were assigned to a case where you heard some raghead was sent over here to assassinate the President. He said you had practically nothing to work on but somehow you found this character in New York and took care of it.”

“Took care of it?”

“Well … killed the guy … That’s what Hatcher said.”

“Interesting.”

“I don’t know that he said killed. That was the implication. One guy. You had squat for information and you found this one guy in New York City. How’d you do that, John? Was the guy painted green or something?”

“Hatcher put this forth as rumor, is that it?”

“He was impressed. It’s true, John. He didn’t understand how you did it. He said you worked with a Ouija board or a crystal ball or something.”

“Or something. What else did Hatcher tell you?”

“Nothing. But I did get the impression that he thought you were damned good at what you do—and that he was scared shitless of you.”

“I’ll tell you about Hatcher some day.”

“Will you help me, John?”

“Have you noticed how you call me ‘Becker’ when you’re ragging me, and it’s ‘John’ when you want something?”

“Do I do that?”

“If those are the rules, I prefer ‘Becker.’”

“Just take a look at it, that’s all I’m asking. I’ll get you the sheets. I’ll bring them to your house; you don’t even have to come to the station. Just look at the sheets; maybe you’ll see a pattern, something I can start with.”

“Your computer will show you patterns.”

“My computer? This is Clamden. My computer shows payroll and traffic citations.”

“Tee, I’m retired. I retired for two reasons. One, I didn’t want to do it anymore. I didn’t want to do it full-time nationally, I didn’t want to do it part-time locally. I didn’t want to do it for pay and I don’t want to do it for a favor. Two, I retired for my health.”

“I didn’t know you were sick.”

“I’m sick of doing it. It’s not good for my health.”

“You got a condition, John?”

“Well, okay, if that’s your understanding of the term ‘health,’ then, yeah, I’ve got a condition. I didn’t quit and come back to my hometown just so I could start aggravating my condition.”

“Tell you what, Becker. Why don’t you not do it.”

“You think?”

“ ’Cause I wouldn’t want you to aggravate your condition. Putting in an hour of your time? That would be asking too much of a man in your delicate condition, I can see that. So why don’t you just say no and we’ll both feel a whole lot better about the whole thing. I’ll just tell Mick’s wife you’re unable to assist us in this matter due to failing health.”

“Thanks for the coffee. Tee.” Becker slid out of the booth.

“The rock climbing is for therapy, then, is that it?”

“As a matter of fact, it is … I just realized you don’t pay for the coffee anyway, do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Wouldn’t want anyone to think Janie was trying to exercise undue influence.”

“As I said, you’re a strange chief of police. Tee.”

Chapter 3

P
icking his way between the frozen-food
freezers, selecting the entrees he would need for the week, Dyce was struck with a sudden sense of self-disgust. He had promised himself he would stop this whole business, and here he was at it again. He didn’t feel that it was
wrong.
He never had conflicts of right and wrong, didn’t think in those terms, but he did think it was self-indulgent and worse, stupid. Dyce prided himself on being an intelligent man, more intelligent, in fact, than any of the half-wits at work including his boss and that snake charmer, Chaney. Dyce had based his life on an intelligent approach to things. It was important, after all, to give the appearance of conformity and rationality.

Not that I don’t have emotions, he thought. He had been accused of being emotionless more than once, and the charge rankled because, of course, he had more emotions than most people. I feel things more deeply than others, he thought. I have a greater range of emotions and they move me to a greater degree. I feel things with the same sensitivity as the great musicians. He felt a particular affinity to Schubert and could not listen to anything by that neurasthenic master without being stirred to the soul.

The problem, the reason for the charge, was that Dyce controlled his emotions; he did not spill them all over the sidewalk for the world to see like some people he knew. There was a proper place for their expression, but that place was internal. But now with this business, he was not controlling them well enough, and he was ashamed of himself. The men had become more frequent. After each one he vowed he would quit. It wasn’t sensible, it would only lead to trouble. But then, after six months, then four months, then two, he would do it again.

He selected frozen lasagna, a favorite of his, and, to balance the cholesterol indulgence, a package of frozen spinach. Dyce made it a point to eat spinach regularly: because it was good for him, and because he didn’t like it. He made a casserole of canned beans and spinach and garlic that he could practically feel scouring out his veins and arteries of any offending plaque.

He had to stop; it was going to be dangerous, there were too many and eventually he would make a mistake. Not from stupidity but from impatience. And from the odds. Dyce understood odds. He knew them backwards and forwards. He could calculate the chances of dying in a hurricane in a wood frame house as opposed to a brick house. He could figure the chances of having a heart attack while jogging—they were high—as opposed to dying within six months of having stopped—they were low. He could deduce the likelihood of dying of an aneurysm while conducting a symphony orchestra or buying it during sex. Dyce knew a great deal about dying, certainly more than anyone he knew.

He also knew that the statistical probability of dying in his living room if you were a young man within a four-town area was becoming dangerously high. Dangerous for Dyce, that is. He had already pushed things too far for the sake of convenience. If he continued this business, he was going to have to start seeking men farther afield. And for the fifth time in the past year, he promised himself he would now stop. Clean up the mess at home, and then call it quits.

He became so agitated while contemplating his shortcomings that he barely spoke to the blonde girl at the checkout. When he reached his car he realized that he had been thinking so much about himself that he had forgotten to buy bread. He returned to the store and selected a loaf of country oat after tantalizing himself with a box of glazed doughnuts that rested within arm’s reach of the bread. Sugar was a problem for Dyce. He tried to avoid it because he overindulged once he got started.

It was unlike him to be rude, so he made a point of getting on the blonde girl’s line again, but as he arrived, she was transferring her cash tray and handing the register over to an acned boy. Dyce watched her go. She did not look his way and seemed preoccupied with her own sorrows. Her eyes looked as if she had been crying again. Dyce wanted to tell her he was sorry for not having spoken to her earlier. It was not the kind of gesture he would make, although he often had the impulse.

When he reached his car, the girl was fumbling with her keys, trying to get into the car next to his. She dropped the keys and left them there, leaning her head on her arm atop the car, as if dropping them was the final straw.

Dyce picked them up but when he said, “Here, Miss …” she did not take them.

He read the name stitched into her uniform. Helen. What an old-fashioned name, he thought with approval. Dyce had no patience with the fashionable Michelles and Heathers, or the handrolled Lareenas and Berthines. She seemed a decent, old-fashioned friendly girl, and he was glad she had a name to match.

“You dropped your keys, Helen.”

She turned at the sound of her name and stared at him for a moment. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Dyce noted that there was no mascara. He didn’t like mascara on the living.

“Oh, Mr. Dyce,” she cried and suddenly lowered her head to his shoulder.

She told him through her sobs that she hadn’t realized it was him. Dyce patted her back gently and looked around the parking lot to see if he was being observed. He rather wished that someone was watching. Clearly here was a girl, a woman really, who didn’t think he couldn’t understand emotion. Here was somebody who didn’t regard Dyce as a robot or number-chasing nerd. He hoped someone would be a witness.

She pulled away, wiping at her face with her hand, then the back of her arm. “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffing loudly.