Sacred and Profane (28 page)

It was close to five by the time Decker finished all the paperwork. His back and shoulders ached and his head was exploding. Popping a couple of aspirins in his mouth, he swallowed them dry, stretched, and walked over to the coffee urn. Some kind soul had had the decency to brew up a fresh batch.

He poured himself a cup of black coffee and went back to his desk, troubled. Dustin Pode had burned his house down because he hated his mother. But he didn’t harbor overt animosity toward his father. So why would he blow up Cecil’s studio? And why the sudden switch from arson to detonators? Dustin insisted he hadn’t done it. Maybe he was telling the truth.

He walked over to Marge. She was catnapping at her desk and he shook her shoulders gently. She awoke abruptly and confused.

“What time is it?” She bolted upward.

“About five.”

“Why the hell did you wake me up?” she asked, irritatedly. “We’ve still got three hours before we have to be at the bank.”

“Take a ride with me,” Decker said.

“Where?”

“To the beach.”

“
What?
” she said, laughing. But she was already reaching for her coat.

“Let’s go visit another angry young man,” he said. “I’ll explain on the way over.”

Truscott opened the door, rubbed his eyes, and broke into a vacant grin.

“I was expecting you,” he giggled. “I was. I was. I was.”

The kid had changed, The depression was gone. He was dancing around in a tiny circle, clapping his hands and stomping his feet as if doing a hora.

Decker looked around. The place had changed, too. The black sheets had ben removed, and in their place were photos of Lindsey, hundreds of them, papering the walls. The floor was a garbage dump—heaps of empty styrofoam hamburger containers, empty Coke cups, cigarette butts, half-eaten doughnuts and cookies, quart containers with melted ice cream oozing out, cupcake wrappers.

Twinkie defense
, thought Decker.

“You shouldn’t have blown up the studio,” Decker said gently.

“We had to,” Chris said, looking at the walls. “Didn’t we, Lindsey? I told you we’d get the sucker, and we did, Babydoll.” He burst into applause and shouted. “Yea!”

“Chris, someone could have gotten hurt,” Marge said.

“Uh uh, no way. No way, José!” Truscott shook his
head vehemently. “I made sure. I saw you guys go in, I waited for you guys to go out. I waited till everyone was far away. I made sure. I don’t want to hurt anybody except the fucker who hurt us. Right, Babydoll?”

He was talking to the wall again.

Marge looked at Decker. He shrugged.

“We’re going to call Santa Monica police now, Chris,” Decker said. “You’re going to be arrested. Do you have a lawyer?”

“Nope.”

“They’ll give you one,” Decker said. “Don’t say anymore until you’ve talked with your lawyer. All right?”

Truscott smiled angelically. “May I use the bathroom?” he asked politely. “I’d like to wash up before I go.”

“No,” Marge said. “Stay right here.”

“I have to make pee-pee,” Truscott babbled out.

“Make in your pants,” she said softly.

He did and smiled as his pants leg became saturated with urine.

“Suicidal,” Marge whispered to Decker. “I don’t want him alone in there.”

They waited in silence until the police arrived. The detectives gave their statements as Chris was led out whistling “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Decker watched as they stuffed him in a blue and white cruiser. Involuntarily, he found himself planning the kid’s defense. A psych. eval.; the kid was obviously distressed—no,
distraught
. Much better word. Bring in a few of Lindsey’s friends as character witnesses. Mention that Lindsey’s father had been feeding Chris’s bottomless pit of guilt. The kid had no priors—Decker had checked that out when he’d suspected him in Lindsey’s death. No one had been injured in the blast. Even with a mediocre lawyer, Chris should get off with probation.

Decker rubbed his arms, remembering how he had held Chris, rocked him as he wept. A pitiful, broken kid, consumed with guilt. He made a mental note to call up Chris’s PD. The young man needed psychiatric counseling and his lawyer could request it. Decker hoped to God that the court would follow the recommendation. The last thing he needed was another body on his conscience.

“Think Cammy Boy
will show?” Decker asked Marge over the radio.

“Who knows?” she answered. “But we’ve got nothing else to lose. Daddy doesn’t know where he is; Mommy doesn’t know where he is; Pode doesn’t know where he is; and Cameron doesn’t have any other friends.”

“If he doesn’t turn up,” said Decker, “maybe the papers we seized last night will tell us something.”

“Hope springs eternal.”

The bank had opened fifteen minutes ago. Decker readjusted his stance and scanned the twenty-story building. He was situated behind a pillar with a view of the back exit. Marge was watching the front. Behind him, across a large, paved courtyard was Century City Shopping Center. The outdoor mall was a conglomeration of department stores, trendy boutiques, and alfresco sandwich shops. Around noon, the walkways were often filled with popcorn, cookie, and candy vendors, flower stands, and espresso machines on push-carts. Decker’s ex-wife often shopped there with Cindy. Decker found the place overly cute.

He looked in front of him, then over his shoulder. People were mulling around, skittering about like moths on a lightbulb. Then what was he, he thought. A hawk? Was there a purpose to all of this? He looked at the sky.
Damn
it
, he swore.
If You’re out there, why don’t You ever show Your face. Make it all so much easier
.

He was still angry at Rina. She had finally given herself over to him completely only to withdraw literally from his grasp. He ached inside and out and felt it was all her fault.

Aw, screw it! Maybe it wasn’t Rina at all. Just lack of sleep or a decent meal. Maybe it was age.

He saw Cameron and snapped himself out of his funk.

“Go in and take him, Pete,” said a voice on the radio.

Decker began his cautious approach, and when he was close enough, called out his name. Smithson turned around.

“He’s got a gun!” someone shouted into the wireless.

Decker hit the ground as Cameron let go with two shots and headed in the direction of the mall. Decker and a half dozen cops took off after him, dodging screaming shoppers.

Smithson stopped, took aim, fired again, and ducked into the Broadway, knocking down mannequins and upsetting racks of spring fashions. Bright-hued fabrics spilled onto the floor, dripping color like paint off an artist’s palette. Decker tripped over an anorexic dummy modeling a string bikini and red plastic sunglasses. The head split open, revealing a skull as empty as the expression frozen on its face. He regained his footing, heard the crack of a bullet whizzing past him, and fell back onto the floor. As soon as he saw Smithson take off, he got up and followed. His quarry sprinted up the escalator, pushing women behind him as he approached the second, then the third level.

Shrieks were accompanied by shattering glass. Smithson was in the China Department. The police approached slowly, avoiding the shards of broken crystal and china.
An eerie calm hung in the air, the sound of shallow breathing.

Then a lead crystal ship’s decanter shot out of nowhere and smashed into a cop. The heavy mass of solid glass bounced off his face and blood poured out of his nose. Gouges etched his cheeks and face. He clutched at his eyes.

“Call an ambulance,” Decker shouted.

Another officer ministered to the wounded man as Decker rushed after Cameron, who had sped back down the escalator to the first floor, into Men’s Wear.

“He’s at the tie counter!” Decker shouted. “Dammit it, clear everyone out of there!”

“Freeze, fucker!” a policeman yelled.

Smithson grabbed the first person he could reach—an elderly gray-haired woman with thick glasses that made her eyes look bulging—and placed a gun to her temple.

“Step back or she’s dead,” he said between gasps of air. “You understand?”

“No one make a move,” the commanding officer yelled. “Everyone back off!”

The woman began to hyperventilate, and her eyes rolled backward.

“Just do what he says,” the commander ordered. “Just do what he says.”

“All right!” Cameron screamed. “You dogs have
two
minutes to clear out before I do something desperate.” He fired into the air. “I mean it!”

The commander was a man named Pearson, tall and thin, with a hard mouth, penetrating dark eyes, and a leathery face full of creases. He crept along the floor over to Decker.

“No time for SWAT. I’ve heard you’re a crack shot.” He handed him an FAL-Paratrooper. “Take him out.”

Decker took the rifle.

The man deserved to die
.

It was up to him
.

Arlington would be lost
.

But the fucker deserved to die
.

Suddenly Decker felt the enormity of playing judge, jury, and executioner. With a steady hand and a clear eye, he brought Smithson’s skull into sight. His index finger gripped the trigger and began to exert pressure while his hand drifted a fraction of an inch.

The blast.

Cameron Smithson stared at the gushing stump that had once been his right hand. Within moments he was down on the floor being read his rights while cops tried frantically to staunch the flow of blood. Decker wondered if he’d bleed to death. He looked at the hostage. She was splattered with blood, screaming hysterically, limbs jerking spastically. Marge gripped her shoulders and the woman slumped into her arms.

Getting up from the floor, Decker brushed off his knees.

“Everything all right?” he yelled.

“She’s okay,” Marge shouted back.

Pearson walked over and Decker handed him back the rifle. The commander was rigid with fury.

“Did you miss or was that on purpose, Sergeant?”

Decker didn’t answer. Pearson repeated the question.

“I aimed for his head, Commander,” Decker said.

Pearson stared at him. “You aimed for his head, but managed to blow off his hand?”

“I aimed for his head,” Decker repeated.

“You have a rep as an ace with a gun. What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Pearson muttered. “You don’t know, huh?”

Decker was silent.

“Were you in ’Nam, Sergeant?”

“Yes.”

“How many gooks did you kill?”

“Point blank, three.”

“Three gooks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you blasted them, did you ask if they were good gooks or bad gooks?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you try to
incapacitate
them before you wasted them?”

“No, sir.”

“You just blew their fucking heads off, right?”

“Right.”

“And why was that?”

“Because if I didn’t kill them, they would have killed me.”

“Very good, Sergeant,” Pearson mocked. “Very good. You know, Decker, we fought a fucking war out there and we’re fighting a fucking war here. You didn’t incapacitate the enemy out there; you don’t do it here. If you don’t believe me, look up the procedure on how to handle a hostage situation.”

“I aimed for his head,” Decker reiterated.

“I
bet
you did.” Pearson poked Decker’s chest. “Your captain will hear about this. In the meantime, do some target practice.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pearson walked away and Decker exhaled out loud. Marge came over to him.

“How’s the old lady?” Decker asked her.

“So far, so good. Tough gal. No signs of shock or heart attack. Paramedics will take good care of her.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you in deep shit?” she asked.

“Nah, I don’t think so. Hell, I shot him. My aim was just a little off.”

“Pete, if you’d have aimed for his head, he would have been ready for the meat wagon.”

“If I missed, it was an unconscious thing.”

Marge chuckled.

“Just who do you think you’re shittin’, big buddy?”

Decker shrugged. “Let’s just say I passed the buck to a Higher Source. Besides, I want Arlington and all the other fuckers like him. Can’t get any names from a dead man.”

“Go out and get a breath of fresh air, Pete. You’re white.”

Suddenly feeling dizzy, he knew she was right.

He’d closed a
lot of cases, but this one had all the ingredients for sensationalism—pornography, murder, and big names.

From his hospital bed, Cameron Smithson accused Arlington, providing proof of his involvement in the snuff films. Arlington, surrounded by loving wife and children looking teary-eyed into the cameras, maintained his innocence and pointed his finger at others. Prominent people were brought in for questioning, prominent people were arrested.

With every new accusation, out swarmed a new flock of vultures pestering him at the station house or, worse, at his ranch. The ubiquitous microphones shoved in his face. It made him weary, he told Rina. They spoke daily, mostly in the late hours of the evening when both households were quiet.

The more attention he got, the more he retreated. He took to sneaking into the station through the back door. He avoided going home to the ranch at dinnertime, opting instead for long walks in the hills that surrounded the yeshiva. In the beginning Rabbi Schulman had joined him, but as the furor faded, Decker found himself hiking greater distances in solitude.

Sometimes he’d take a book with him as he walked, sometimes a camera, more often than not he’d explore
empty-handed and talk to himself. Maybe he was talking to Someone Else.

Mrs. Bates greeted Decker warmly. It was late afternoon and the day had been gorgeous—spring temperatures that had begun to climb into summer heat. He suggested they take a walk. She thought that was a fine idea.

They began their journey in silence, inhaling clean air, taking in sunshine. He heard her breathing, and it sounded a little winded. He slowed his pace, and she smiled at him and said thank you. Their trek took them past two rows of well-tended houses to La Canada Boulevard. Ten minutes later they were in front of a convenience store. She declined Decker’s offer of a drink, so he bought a pint of orange juice for himself. Another five minutes and they were at the edge of a municipal park. Mrs. Bates suggested they sit on a bench under an elm.

Decker drank half his juice and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He said: “County Hospital called me this morning. Smithson’s dead.”

She said nothing at first, then asked, “How’d he die?”

“Pneumonia.” He took another swallow of juice.

“I thought he had blood poisoning or something like hat,” she said without emotion.

“He did. Apparently the infection from the hand wound wasn’t responding to any of the safer antibiotics, so they gave him a real strong one. It killed the infection, but it also wiped out his immune system. He contracted pneumonia about a week ago and died late last evening.”

“Good. I hope he suffered.”

“I think he did.” Decker looked up at the sky, then down at his lap. “How’s your husband doing?”

“We’ve separated,” she answered.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged.

“We have little tolerance for each other’s faults now,” she said.

Decker nodded.

“Financially, it won’t be easy for either one of us.” She hesitated, then said, “He lost his job, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Decker said.

“Yes.” She shook her head sadly. “In a way, he has it much worse than I. A woman is allowed to grieve—although no one wants to be with her while she’s doing it. A man has to pull himself together. Snap himself out of it.” She sighed. “We’re both living on savings—exhausting them. It’s a good thing Erin is bright. She’s going to need scholarships.” She faced Decker. “I told her that, and you know what she said?”

“What?”

“‘Don’t worry about it, Mom.’ I do believe that’s the first time we talked civilly since she’s reached her teens.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yes, it is.” She took a deep breath. “I know I have to look for work eventually. But most employers don’t think a museum docent has marketable skills. I suppose they’re right.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something.”

“I feel a little tired, Sergeant. Perhaps it would be best if we headed back.”

When they reached her doorstep, Decker held out his hand. She took it and squeezed it tightly.

“Thank you for everything,” she said. “Thank Detective Dunn, also. She was out here the other week. It seems very strange that I should find comfort from the police.”

“Call me from time to time,” Decker said. “Let me know how you’re doing.”

“I will.”

He left the house and drove to his ranch. The sun was
beginning to set—striations of pinks and rusts cutting into a darkening expanse of teal sky. Standing on his back porch, he faced east, peering into the advancing dimness. Feeling at peace, he took out a siddur and said his evening prayers.