The Laughterhouse (16 page)

“Many of you will remember Detective Inspector Theodore Tate,” Stevens says. “He’s been assigned to help on account of his track record, the good part of it anyway, which, as we know, lately has been outweighed by the rest of it.”

Detective Kent is giving me a sympathetic smile, and perhaps it’s part relief too—if I wasn’t here she’d be the newest team member and the one facing the question.

“Many of you have worked with Tate before so you know what he’s capable of, and now you all have the chance to work with him again. He’s asked repeatedly to be a part of this force because over the last few years he’s believed he can do a better job than us, isn’t that right, Detective?”

“I just want to help,” I tell them, “and work with the best there is.”

The answer doesn’t win anybody over.

“Well, how about you take this opportunity you’ve been given, and prove how clever you are by offering something we’d all like to hear?”

Now I feel even more like I’m back at school, being screwed over by the teacher. I look at Schroder. He’s expressionless. I hope he had no idea Stevens was going to pull this on me. “So, any theories?” Stevens asks.

I have lots of theories. One of them is that Superintendent Dominic Stevens is an asshole even though five minutes ago he said he didn’t want to sound like one. I can’t share that because it’s not really a theory, it’s a fact, and he wants theories. I could theorize that my life would be better off if somebody had beaten the shit out of him in the parking lot before work. I could theorize life might feel a little better if it happened after work too.

“The stab wounds,” I tell him, my hand in my pocket sliding the two pieces of Jonas’s card against each other. It’s magic time.

“What about them?”

If Jonas can figure it out, so can I.

“The first two victims—what if they were stabbed the same amount of times?”

Stevens looks at Schroder, then back at me. “What are you saying?”

“We need to find out from the medical examiner exactly how many times victims two and four were stabbed.”

“Because?”

Because a psychic knew the first two had nineteen stab wounds, and guessed the last one had the same.

“Because at least a dozen times could also mean nineteen times, which would give three of our victims an identical amount of wounds.”

“But not the fourth,” he says.

“Which goes to what you were saying about victim number three falling outside of the pattern. Same killer, but different reason for killing. He’s not part of the pattern.”

“Carry on.”

“Well,” I say, everybody still staring at me and my mind racing, “well, if three of the victims have been stabbed nineteen times, then it must mean something.”

Nobody says anything. I can tell I have everybody’s interest now.

“What kind of something?” Stevens asks. “Like a year for example? Or a person? Is that what you’re saying?” he asks, working with me.

“Exactly. Whatever annoyed our killer may have happened nineteen years ago. Or it happened to him when he was nineteen.”

“There may be nineteen people on his list,” Schroder offers.

Most of the people in the room take a collective gasp at that thought. Some of us probably think we might be lucky if he stops at nineteen.

“Yes, yes,” Stevens says, nodding now. “Or it could be they hurt somebody he loves who is nineteen, or even killed them.”

“Or cost him nineteen years of his life,” I say, “or nineteen could even mean a monetary thing since we’re dealing with dead accountants and lawyers,” I say, not wanting to follow that up by saying dead lawyers and accountants are normally the best kind. “Could be they cost him nineteen thousand dollars, or a hundred and ninety thousand dollars, or nineteen years in jail.”

“Okay, it could be nothing or it could be something,” Stevens says. “Detective Schroder,” he says, turning toward Carl, “I want you to get hold of the ME as soon as this meeting is over and find out if Tate’s theory has any merit.”

Then Stevens turns back toward us, nods once in a gesture I don’t quite get, then steps off to the side of the room and
hands the floor over to Schroder. Schroder coughs into his hand, focuses on me for a second, then on everybody else. The sun finally joins the rest of us in this early morning nightmare, it comes in through the window and hits Schroder just as he’s about to start talking. Another detective stands up and pulls one of the blinds.

Schroder breaks down what we’re doing. Patrol cars are out on the streets. They’re doing what they’ve been doing since the second body showed up, and that’s patrolling every neighborhood and looking for anything suspicious. It’s about all they can do until we can make a connection. So Schroder fills us in on these facts, and then he fills us in on what we know, which unfortunately isn’t much. He divides us up to work different crime scenes or different witnesses. Detectives are sent to work the lawyer angle, two of them looking through the case files of victim number one’s past, two of them through the case files of victim number four. It will involve getting warrants. Law firms don’t like to give up information. They’re also the hardest ones to present warrants to, because they argue everything. Details have to be exact. If the answers are in the files of clients these lawyers have dealt with, they’re going to be hard to get. Perhaps even impossible because of attorney-client privilege. It’s going to be a day full of interviews, of detectives digging into people’s pasts to find what connects them. Detectives are going to go through student files of Albert McFarlane and cross-reference them against criminal records. Everybody in the room is eager for a piece of the action. Schroder doesn’t give me an assignment. When it’s over, everybody stands up and heads for the door, but then pauses as Schroder starts back up.

“One more thing,” he says. “We’ve heard that tonight there’s going to be gatherings of boy-racers around town,” he says, and everybody groans. “It means the streets are going to be clogged. It means patrol responses may be slow, it means getting from A to B may end up taking longer. It’s estimated there are going to be over two thousand of them,” he says. “Two thousand vehicles
deliberately being a pain in the ass, making some kind of point only adolescents are likely to get. For the love of God, don’t shoot them,” he says, and nobody is sure if he’s joking. “Just keep it in mind,” he says, “and allow for it.”

Then everybody is on the move again. Some of them pat me on the shoulder and the rest nod toward me as they head for the door. I stand up and approach the wall of death and look at the photos.

Stevens stares at me for a few seconds, then comes over. I’m expecting the warning, the
don’t mess up
warning, followed by the
you shouldn’t be here
warning.

“How’s it going, Theo?” he asks, and puts out his hand. I reach for it a little hesitantly, as if he’s going to pull it away and all the offers that have been made. I shake it. “Listen, I appreciate your help yesterday.”

“Thanks,” I tell him.

“You were the only sane one out there, and I’ve heard if you hadn’t taken some control all of my detectives might have made the front-page news and be scouring the back pages for new jobs. That’s why you’re getting this chance. You earned it. But it’s a short leash. A very short one. Listen, I know I acted like a bastard ten minutes ago, but at least everybody is on your side now. If I’d stood up there and said what a privilege it was to have you back, they’d all have hated you because it’d have made it sound like they needed your help. This way they feel bad about how I treated you, and it’ll help them warm up to you.”

I’m not so sure it’s worked the way he thought it would, but I get his point.

“Plus what you came up with, if you’re right, it could be a good lead. Carl really thinks you can help,” he says, then nods at Carl who has come over to stand next to me. “People keep telling me you’re a loose cannon, but my way of thinking suggests maybe that’s exactly what we need, huh?” he says, and claps his hands together. “I mean, Jesus, this nutcase is a loose cannon, right? Time we fight fire with fire.”

“I appreciate the . . . compliment, I guess.”

“Well we’re not paying you to waste time doing that,” he says, still smiling, “we’re paying you to help catch this son of a bitch. Good luck,” he adds, leaving me confused about what he really thinks of me. Then he turns toward Schroder. “A word?” he says, and Schroder follows him out of the room. I walk over to the window and stare out at the view, shielding my eyes from the sun. Still blue skies in every direction, but the south can’t be seen from this angle. At ground level people are walking about, some with purpose, some aimlessly, some heading to the parks that make up the Garden City. They’re pushing strollers and throwing Frisbees in what are the dying sunny days before winter.

I move over to the wall when Schroder comes back in.

“Was it bad?”

“Was what bad?” he asks.

“The warning Stevens gave you about me.”

“Like he said, you’re on a short leash.”

“Yeah? What else did he say?”

“He said nobody would file a complaint if I had to shoot you.”

I’m not sure if he’s joking and don’t ask in case he’s not. “So what’s my assignment? You want me to follow up with the stab wounds?”

“I’m on it. I want you to run with this,” he says, and he hands me a folder.

I open it up. Inside is a rap sheet belonging to a woman named Ariel Chancellor—a photograph of a twenty-two-year-old woman—who is now twenty-five according to the date of birth—stares back at me. She looks like she hasn’t eaten anything thicker than a potato chip since her teens. Her face is hollow and pale, her blond hair straight and lifeless, the ends of it frayed. She’s frowning at the photographer, the sense that if you could see her hand maybe she’d be giving the finger too. There are pictures of her fingerprints and a brief bio. She’s
been arrested on drug possession and shoplifting. I look from the photo up to Schroder who, aside from the makeup and long hair, has a similar look on his face as the girl.

“Looks like a friendly girl,” I say. “She’s who was in Hayward’s car last night?”

“According to the fingerprints on his belt and in the car, yes. It’s your lead, Tate.”

There is no mention of prostitution in the file because the only crime in prostitution is the failure to declare your income. Whether you’re being shot in the line of duty or faking an orgasm for cash, Inland Revenue wants their share. There’s a last known address, which hopefully is still current.

“Jesus,” I say, “if she was in the car with him and she’s a prostitute, then Brad Hayward picking her up may have nothing to do with his death. It’s not like the other victims were picking up prostitutes.”

“It’s a lead,” Schroder reminds me, “likely a dead end, but it’s yours to follow.”

“And the stab wounds?” I ask.

“Look, I’m meeting the medical examiner down in the morgue in . . .” he glances at his watch, “just over an hour. You’re welcome to meet me down there if you’re done in time. Until then, go and talk to this woman. Get her statement. Every line of inquiry needs to be wrapped up, Tate. That part of the job hasn’t changed.”

We head downstairs together, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, either to save power like we’re all supposed to be doing all over the world to save on resources, or for the exercise. We get to the bottom. Schroder goes out a door to the parking lot and I head into the foyer and down the front steps to the street. There’s a crowd of reporters forming a semicircle, and in the center of it is Superintendent Stevens, shaved head gleaming in the sunlight. He has the attention of everybody there, except for Jonas Jones, who breaks away from the group. I don’t hang around for the speech and the questioning. Jones follows me. I figure I could try and lose him, but a man of his abilities will already know where I’m parked.

I reach my car half a block away and somebody has backed into it, the front left headlight is busted and there’s glass on the ground and no note left behind. I sweep the glass into the curb with my foot. Traffic is backed up from traffic light to traffic light, people flocking to start the workday.

“Let me guess,” I say, turning toward Jonas, “you woke up
this morning knowing somebody was going to damage my car?”

“That’s funny, Detective. Do I have that right? You’re a detective inspector again?”

“You tell me.”

“I can help you, Detective. We can help each other. I have a gift, and you’re wasting time by denying that.”

“You’re unbelievable,” I tell him. “Twice in a morning. You must be desperate.”

“Don’t dismiss me, Theodore. I can help. There is an opportunity here for us both to do some good.”

“And you’ll write a book about it?”

“You would get some credit. And paid, of course, and looking at your car I can tell getting paid isn’t something you’re used to.”

“No, thanks,” I tell him.

“I can help you, Theodore.”

“Yeah? Then why don’t you help me and tell me what the stab wounds mean?”

“Why don’t you help me, and tell me about the case? Whether you think I’m a fake or not, we can help each other. I know how people think. You must at least know that’s true.”

“Then you must know what I’m thinking right now,” I tell him, and I pull away, leaving him to stare at my car for a few seconds before he turns back the way we walked.

The day is still warming up. I take my jacket off at the first set of lights I stop at. My body clock is a little out of whack from daylight savings—for some reason every year daylight savings feels like we’re jumping forward or backward six hours instead of just the one. I stop off at a café and grab another coffee, figuring I can afford it now, figuring if I don’t take a few minutes to do this I’ll end up falling over in a gutter. I get the feeling I’m going to need two cups an hour just to stay alert through the day. I sit at a table and watch the city through the window, people passing by, cars doing the same thing, and
everything looks normal and now, right now in this moment, Christchurch is the city it used to be.