Rough Cut (18 page)

    He stood up, started walking around. I watched him, then leaned back on the edge of the bed and looked at the photo of Martin in his Korean uniform.

    "This sure would have been an easy case if Martin had only had the courtesy to stay alive," Bonnell said ruefully.

    "Yeah, wouldn't it."

    Bonnell thumbed through Martin's pipe collection. "I wonder why somebody would have come here tonight."

    "Maybe the gems."

    He shook his head. "No. If it was the gems they were after, they would have been here a long time ago and tossed the room. Nobody's done that." He sounded very sure of himself. "The gems have been in the hands of the killer for a long time. Safe and sound." He got quizzical again. "So why would somebody be here tonight?"

    A knock came on the door.

    Bonnell went to open it.

    Mrs. Kubek stood there, shuddering from the cold. "Just wondered if you were about done. I gotta get up in a few hours. I need my sleep."

    Bonnell shrugged. "Just a few more minutes."

    She glowered at me just once then turned to walk back down the stairs.

    I raised my eyes to the photograph of Martin again and then to the Mitchell Junior College pennant next to it.

    I got fixated on the pennant without quite knowing why, just staring at its green and yellow colors until gradually the wrongness of it struck me.

    "Why would he have a junior-college pennant?"

    "What?" Bonnell said.

    "Why would a man in his fifties have a junior-college pennant?" Otherwise this was a somber room, nothing frivolous.

    "Maybe his niece or nephew went there."

    "He only had a nephew and he died in a car accident with his parents."

    Bonnell shrugged. "Maybe he followed the football team. Mitchell's got a good junior varsity squad."

    I shrugged, thinking maybe he was right but not quite believing him.

    "Well," he said, "no sense in making Mrs. Kubek any angrier. Might as well leave."

    "Yeah," I said.

    I stood up, looked around the room, followed Bonnell out.

    He closed the door and it clicked shut with a real finality.

    "I wish I knew what the hell was going on," he said. There was a genuine sadness in his voice.

    As we passed by the office on the way to our cars, I saw Mrs. Kubek standing in the shadows. Obviously she hoped we didn't see her.

    "Just a minute," I said.

    Bonnell nodded. "I need to tell Mrs. Kubek about Martin."

    "Can I ask her a question first?" I said. I walked up to the office door and turned the handle. It was locked.

    From the shadows Mrs. Kubek stared at me. She made no move to open the door.

    "Mrs. Kubek," I said, "I need to ask you a question."

    "Go away," she said.

    "Mrs. Kubek," I said. "Please." I wondered if I sounded as whiny as Merle Wickes had at my place. The door opened.

    "You stay there," she said. "What's your question?"

    "The Mitchell Junior College pennant in Kenneth's room. Why did he have it?"

    "That's your question?" she snapped. "It's a stupid one."

    "What's the answer, Mrs. Kubek?"

    "Because his nephew went there."

    "The little boy in the photograph?"

    "Yes."

    "You told me he was dead."

    "You don't hear too good, Mr. Ketchum. What I said was the mother and father died. The boy, he lived in an orphanage. He came up to see Kenneth all the time. They love each other like father and son."

    I looked at Bonnell, as a terrible idea came to mind.

    "Do you have a picture of this boy?" I asked.

    "Sure," she said.

    "I need to see it," I said.

    "Can't it wait till tomorrow?"

    "No, it can't, Mrs. Kubek. It really can't."

    "What's wrong?" Bonnell asked me when Mrs. Kubek shuffled away to get the photograph.

    "It's starting to make sense," I said.

    "What is?" Bonnell said.

    "Who the killer is?"

    "It is?" Bonnell asked.

    "The only person it could be. The only person young enough to go to a junior college."

    "What are you talking about?"

    I had to put it together in my mind before I could say it. Three months ago somebody had started work at my agency. This was just after Martin had disappeared. Those two facts could have been coincidence until you considered that the murders had started soon after. Then coincidence became hard to explain-especially when you began to realize that with his agency job my new employee knew a great deal about our comings and goings. He would know, with his special vantage point, when to strike out.

    "I wish I knew what the hell you were talking about," Bonnell said.

    Mrs. Kubek came back and handed me a Polaroid photo, which I angled into the light.

    "Meet Tommy Byrnes," I said to Bonnell, giving him the picture.

    Then Bonnell proceeded to tell her about Martin's death.

    

    

    One minute later I was using Mrs. Kubek's phone. But to no avail.

    Either Cindy was still unconscious from the sedative, or…

    I didn't like to think of "or." But it was obvious that Tommy Byrnes meant to get each of us in repayment for the death of his uncle.

    I slammed the phone and asked Bonnell if he had a siren on his car.

    I didn't even give him time to say yes. I just pushed him toward his Pontiac.

    I had left home so quickly I hadn't noticed the red Mazda at the far end of my parking lot.

    As Bonnell's headlights swept over the cars in the lot, I noticed the red vehicle and realized whose it was.

    Merle Wickes's.

    I was out of the Pontiac, running, before Bonnell had fully stopped.

    I slipped on the ice as I ran toward the car, banged my knee against the pavement, swore, but kept running.

    I skidded over to the Mazda, glanced inside, then quickly glanced away.

    I had never seen anything like it. In the average experience of the average man, seeing a person with his throat cut is not a common experience.

    Tommy had found Merle with no problem. I looked in once again, only to confirm the horrible image that had been pressed on my eyes moments before. Merle was still in there, his throat slashed-his hair, ironically, in perfect composure.

    Behind me, Bonnell was saying something, but I didn't hear the exact words.

    I was already on my way up the stairs. Terrified that I was too late.

    I reached for the banister to help my flight be faster. Something sticky clung to my palm. I knew what it was without looking. I moved two steps at a time now.

    My apartment door was slightly ajar when I reached it, the crack between door and frame dark.

    I stopped, not out of fear for myself but afraid that Tommy might not have hurt her-and that my sudden presence might panic him into doing so.

    My breathing crashed in my ears-I was dripping with sweat and freezing at the same time-as I eased up to the door and put my fingers on it.

    I could hear Bonnell thundering into the vestibule below.

    I pushed the door open and went in.

    In the moonlight through the large living-room window, I saw him.

    He stood silhouetted in the window, facing me, leaning against the ledge as if he were perfectly relaxed.

    He held a gun and it was aimed directly at me.

    "You're too late," he said. "She's dead."

    His statement stopped me completely. Rage, disbelief, the first wave of shock-all moved through me at the same time.

    I would have lunged at him, unafraid of his weapon, but I had no strength.

    All I could do was stand and breathe and try to collect my thoughts into something coherent-but something that did not face what he'd just told me.

    "You killed him," he said.

    "I didn't," I said after a time. "I didn't have anything to do with it. Neither did Cindy."

    "Just by being who you are, you killed him," Tommy said. "Your kind of people…" There was a rage in his voice that matched the rage in my heart. "They blackmailed him into helping with the robbery. They'd found out about a drunk driving rap he'd had one time-they threatened to tell his bosses."

    Tommy had started crying.

    "I'm sorry, Tommy," I said, and I was.

    "He was the only thing that kept me going in the orphanage," Tommy said. "He would've taken me if he could've afforded it."

    "I'm sure he was a good man, Tommy," I said. Then I thought of Cindy and my pity for him waned.

    I wanted to kick him as I'd kicked Stokes earlier tonight. Only Tommy I wanted to kick to death.

    "It doesn't matter anymore," Tommy said, "who lives or who dies. It just doesn't matter."

    In silhouette I could see him raise the gun. I heard the safety come off.

    I gathered myself enough to stall him a little.

    "Another killing," I said.

    "Like I said, it doesn't matter. It didn't matter to them about my uncle. They killed him, anyway."

    "Tommy-" He raised the gun.

    It happened so quickly I scarcely realized what he'd done. Turn the weapon on himself. Directly to his forehead. Squeeze the trigger. Once.

    Which was more than enough.

    

    

    I was in the bedroom by the time Tommy had fallen to the floor. There was nothing I could do for him, anyway. Cindy was sprawled on the bed.

    There was no sign of blood. But neither was there any sign of breathing.

    I got the table light on and saw immediately that he'd strangled her. Probably he hadn't wanted to waken the neighbors with gunshots.

    Bonnell pounded into the room.

    "Let me," he said, rushing over.

    But I couldn't let go of her. I held on to her as if we would be embracing that way for eternity.

    Bonnell wasn't impressed.

    He wanted to help her, if that was still possible.

    I can't ever recall being hit so hard in my life. He knocked me unconscious in a single punch.

    

    

    Four hours later the young intern in the white smock signaled that I could go into the room. He held up three fingers-the three minutes I'd agreed to.

    The window was smudged with overcast morning light. In her hospital bed she looked very white and very frail. I went over to her side and started to lean down and kiss her when her eyes came open.

    "Hi," she said, after bringing me into focus.

    I sighed. It was great to hear her talk. She could have read the phone book and I would have been delighted.

    "Hi," I said back.

    "I guess it all got resolved, didn't it?"

    "Yeah."

    "Poor Tommy. Before he started choking me, he told me about himself. I can't help it, I feel sorry for him."

    I thought of Tommy the last way I'd seen him-virtually without a head. "Yeah," I said, "poor Tommy."

    She smiled up at me. "You still thinking about giving up your bachelor status?"

    I smiled back. "Thinking about it, yes." Then I said, "Last night, when I was helping you up the steps to my apartment, I told you that I loved you."

    "I hope I had the grace to be appreciative." She reached out her hand. "I love you too, Michael."

    An intern came in looking very serious.

    "I'll be back tonight," I said to Cindy.

    "You'd better be," she said.

    I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek and left. She was dozing off before I got out the door.

    Bonnell was in the lobby.

    "I figured I'd find you here," he said.

    "I have to fill out evidence forms or something?" I said.

    "Not that I know of. It's wrapped up. We found the gems in Denny Harris's basement." He smiled. "Just thought I'd buy us both a little breakfast. My wife hates cooking, so I thought I'd do her a favor and eat out."

    "Sounds great," I said.

    I paused, looking back at the room.

    "Nothing's ever easy, is it?" I said, thinking of the last few days, then thinking of Cindy.

    "Nothing worth having," he said, leading the way down the hall to the elevators.

    

    

    EDWARD GORMAN has been in the advertising business for twenty years, and has written and directed for the filmed media-from documentaries to television commercials. He has published short fiction and criticism in magazines from coast to coast. He lives and works in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where he now runs his own advertising agency, and is working on a new series of mystery novels.
Rough Cut
is his first novel.