The Headsman (7 page)

“Yeah,” Jud said. “Understood.”

“Good. And speaking of your men, I may need to borrow a few of them, preferably the brighter ones.”

“I don’t know that I can spare many people,” Jud said. “Like I told you, I want to run a sweep for vagrants or any strange characters who might be around, starting right away. But I’ll do what I can. How do you want to use them?”

“Legwork, mostly. Also some interviews with the girl’s contacts.”

“I thought you said—”

“I know what I said, Chief. But I’ll handle it, okay? The essential thing is to get this investigation organized fast. As far as I’m concerned, your rounding up a bunch of bums is a waste of time. You know why? Because in about eighty percent of homicide cases, the perpetrator turns out to be somebody the victim knew well. In the end, all you’re dealing with is just another asshole. Which is why I want to talk to the boyfriend. You follow me?”

“Yeah,” Jud said. “I do.”

“Good. What do you know about him, by the way?”

“He was in her class at the high school. Comes from a good family. Father owns a drugstore here in Braddock.”

“Uh-huh. You need a warrant?”

“No. I’m sure he’ll be cooperative.”

“Okay, good. Now let’s go downstairs so I can get the media squared away.”

“Yeah,” Jud said. “Let’s do that.”

4

The news people were on the porch, crowding around the front entrance. When Pearson and Jud stepped out the door, the first thing Jud noticed was that the reporters seemed to have their own pecking order, with the TV crews at the top. Two guys with video camcorders on their shoulders were in the front row, and standing with them were two TV commentators, one male, the other female, holding microphones. The crews were from Syracuse and Albany. Braddock had no TV station of its own.

The second thing Jud noticed was that his girlfriend, Sally Benson, was among the other reporters. Which surprised him, because what Sally usually covered for the
Braddock Express
was more in the line of weddings and meetings of the 4–H Club. She smiled when she caught sight of him and he nodded to her, feeling a little self-conscious about being the center of attention. Most of the other newspeople were strangers. He assumed that like the TV crews, they were also from out of town.

As soon as Jud and the inspector appeared, the red lights on the camcorders went on, and the reporters all started asking questions at once.

Pearson raised both hands and made a quiet-down motion, and when the noise abated he said, “I’m Inspector Chester Pearson of the New York State Police. I’m in charge of this investigation. We’ve just started our work, but I’ll answer any questions I can.”

The male TV reporter shoved a mike toward Pearson. “Inspector, what can you tell us about the victim?”

The detective cleared his throat. “The deceased was a young woman named Marcy Dickens. Age seventeen. She was a student at Braddock High School.”

Jud glanced sideways at Pearson. He sounds like one of those dipshit characters in a TV cop show, he thought. He wondered if Pearson watched those programs too, and decided he probably did.

“Is it true,” the reporter asked, “her head was chopped off?”

Pearson’s face was somber, his tone grave. “The victim was decapitated, yes.”

“What with?”

“The preliminary examination indicates it was a sharp object.”

Jesus Christ, Jud thought, could it have been done with a dull one?

“What kind of object?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Was it an ax?”

“We don’t know,” Pearson said.

As soon as he got the words out, the reporters all started yammering again. The guy who had been doing the questioning put one hand behind him and signalled frantically for them to shut up. When they quieted down a little, he said, “We understand Braddock once had a public executioner who used an ax to carry out his—ah—duties.”

“Is that so? I wasn’t aware of that.”

Jud glanced sideways again. Pearson seemed to be enjoying this. Probably getting his rocks off over occupying the limelight.

The reporter pressed on. “A lot of people in Braddock believe the executioner—the headsman—is still around, and that he may have been responsible for this killing. What’s your reaction?”

“I think it would take a lot of imagination to come up with an idea like that.”

The others were rumbling once more, and the TV reporter tried again to draw Pearson into making a controversial statement. “But if this girl’s head was chopped off, don’t you think that’s a possibility, and wouldn’t you want to investigate it?”

“We’re investigating all possibilities,” Pearson said.

One of the reporters yelled, “If the headsman didn’t do it, who did?”

Before Pearson could respond, more questions erupted, and the crowd pressed in on him. The TV reporter gave up in disgust, while the detective went on fielding inquiries.

Watching this, Jud decided he’d had enough. As he turned away, he saw Sam Melcher striding up the walk, approaching the house.

Melcher was the mayor of Braddock, and the owner of a successful insurance and real estate business. His daughter was also a senior at the high school. He was almost totally bald, but despite the cold he wore no hat on his shining pate. He was staring at the commotion on the porch, and as he caught sight of Jud he frowned. He ascended the steps and took MacElroy’s arm, drawing him aside.

The mayor made an effort to keep his voice down, but its tone was a rasp. “Chief, what the hell has gone on here? Who did this, for God’s sake? What have you found out?”

“At this point we have no idea,” Jud said. “The state police are running the investigation. That’s Inspector Pearson over there, talking to the media.”

Melcher glanced again at the swarm of reporters around Pearson, and then his gaze swung back to fix on Jud. “That’s fine, and I’m glad you’ve got their help. But I want to tell you something. This is the most shocking thing that could happen. Marcy Dickens wasn’t just a nobody. Her family are some of the best people in this town. To have her murdered like this, in cold blood, is just, just—
unthinkable
.”

Jud was well aware that people often have strange reactions in times of crisis, but Melcher’s attitude was hard to fathom. He was angry, which was certainly understandable, but his manner made it seem as if he were holding Jud responsible not merely for solving the crime, but for not having prevented it.

“Now goddamn it,” Melcher grated, “what are you
doing
about it?”

Jud wished the man would calm down. “We’ll do everything we can, Sam. But as I told you, Inspector Pearson is in charge. You know we don’t have detectives in our department.”

Melcher looked at Jud as if he were some strange species of animal. He thrust out his lower jaw. “Let me remind you that the reason we appointed you chief of police was because we wanted a go-getter. Somebody who’d bring young blood and energy to the job. Leadership, do you understand? I personally went all out pushing for you to get it. And what I expect now is for you to do your job the way you’re supposed to do it, and not try to shove responsibility off onto somebody else. Do I make myself clear?”

Jud felt his gorge rise, but he kept his face from showing it. “Sure, Sam. Very clear.”

“I hope so,” Melcher said. “My advice to you is to get this terrible thing cleared up
fast
.” He stopped and looked at the door. “Are Ed and Helen in there?”

Jud nodded.

“Anybody with them?”

“Just one of our police officers.”

Melcher shook his head. “Poor, poor people.” He shot one more black look at Jud and went into the house.

The chief glanced over at Pearson, who still seemed pleased by the attention the media people were giving him. Damned if I do, Jud thought, and damned if I don’t. He left the porch and strode down the walk toward his car.

There were more rubberneckers pressing against the rope than there had been earlier, and a number of cars were driving slowly past the house. The sky had become overcast, and there was almost no wind. It was a sign of snow coming, and Jud hoped fervently they wouldn’t be hit by another storm. Sitting in the middle of the snow belt, Braddock usually caught anything that blew up east of Buffalo, and late winter was the worst time. But maybe they’d have some luck for a change. Then again, squinting up at the leaden clouds, he doubted it.

“Jud!”

He turned to see Sally hurrying toward him. Her face was flushed from a combination of the cold air and the excitement, and her dark hair tumbled to her shoulders in loose waves. Her polo coat was open and he could see her breasts bobbing under her white blouse as she half-walked, half-ran to where he was standing. She was, he thought, a very good-looking young woman.

She put her hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

He felt self-conscious again, aware that some of the onlookers were staring at them, and he gently removed her hand. “Yeah, I’m all right. How come you’re on this?”

“Maxwell told me to cover it.” Ray Maxwell was the owner and publisher as well as the editor of the
Braddock Express
.

Jud nodded. “That’s a break for you.”

“I suppose so. But I feel more like crying than anything else. What a horrible thing to have happen. It’s just ghastly.”

He thought of what he’d seen on the floor of the bedroom and on top of the dresser. “It is that.”

She bit her lip. “I’d like to ask you some questions, but I wouldn’t want anyone to think you were favoring me because we’re friends.”

“No, neither would I.” He suddenly realized this was the first time they’d mixed business into their personal relationship.

“Maybe I should go to your office when you get back there.”

“Same problem.”

“Okay, then—see you tonight?”

“Yeah,” he said. “That would be better. It’ll have to be late, though.”

“Fine. I’ll come over.” She turned and hurried back toward the other reporters, who were still gathered around Pearson. Watching her go, it occurred to Jud that she looked just as good from this angle as she did from the front.

He waved to the cop who was holding the crowd back and got into his cruiser. As he started the engine and pulled away, he thought back to how the morning had begun. A quiet Saturday, and now he had a feeling he was in for more problems than he ever could have imagined.

Three

FEARFUL IMPACT

1

K
AREN
W
ILSON AWAKENED
at dawn with a blinding headache. The images she’d seen during the night had been burned into her mind, and her sleep had been a jumble of nightmares, giving her no rest. She got out of bed and stumbled into the shower, feeling as if she’d been hit over the head with a hammer. Getting dressed took great effort, and when she left the house the cold outside air only made her feel worse.

By the time she’d driven to Boggs Ford, the car dealership where she worked as a secretary, she could hardly see. Carrying a paper bag containing coffee and a bran muffin she’d bought at the luncheonette down the street, she picked up the newspaper lying in front of the showroom and unlocked the door. Once inside she turned off the alarm and put her breakfast and the paper on her desk, then took off her coat and hung it in a closet. She returned to her desk and sat down, wishing she could turn around and go home.

But she couldn’t. She needed this job, and as it was she often had trouble concentrating on her work when she was having one of her bad spells. When that happened she was apt to be forgetful and make mistakes. And when it got really bad, when she was afflicted by one of these migraines—or whatever they were—and she experienced a vision, she could hardly function.

That was when she fully expected Charley Boggs, who owned the dealership, to fire her. But he’d always looked the other way when she had her problems. Which wasn’t so hard to understand, as she thought about it. She was an attractive young woman with an exceptional body, and although Boggs had never come right out and made a direct pass, Karen had caught him staring at her often enough, when he hadn’t thought anyone would notice. She had no illusions about him; he was undoubtedly just biding his time.

She opened the bag and took out the container of coffee and the muffin. After removing the cap from the Styrofoam cup she sipped the black liquid, finding it still steaming hot. She closed her eyes, and despite her resolve not to let the images return to her consciousness, she suddenly recalled them once more: the black hood, the glittering ax, the woman’s face contorted by fear. And finally the dripping head held high in a black-gloved hand.

She shuddered, and opening a drawer got out a bottle of aspirin. She shook two tablets out of the bottle and stepped over to the water cooler, where she swallowed the aspirin and chased the tablets with a cup of water.

Back at her desk she seemed to feel a little better. It was just after eight o’clock, her usual arrival time, and she always enjoyed these few minutes of peace before the day’s activities began. This was Saturday, the busiest day of the week. But she’d have enough time to eat her breakfast and glance through the morning edition of the
Express
.

As it had been recently, the news was mostly bad. The front page carried a story about a running battle between Moslems and Christians in Lebanon, and another about a train wreck in China that had killed more than a hundred people. Still another reported that the U.S. economy was in decline. That one took the view that the president was to blame, which irritated her. The problems went back years. Was the president supposed to just wave a magic wand and make everything wonderful again?

There was also a story about another B–1 bomber crashing in Nevada with the loss of five crew members. This was the second fatal crash of an air force jet in the past month.

She turned the page. A semitrailer had overturned on the interstate. The truck had been carrying crates of oranges from Florida, and the cargo had scattered all over the highway, causing cars to slip and slide as they ran over the fruit. Some of the vehicles had collided as drivers lost control. But the damage was relatively minor, and the truck driver was only slightly bruised. ORANGE CRUSH, the headline said. Karen smiled and turned to an article about the town’s plans for issuing municipal bonds to finance an overhaul of the water system. She finished her muffin as she glanced through the story.