Once Bitten, Twice Dead Page 13

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” The Crusaders. The gang that Larabella had said her son Roddy had belonged to. This was becoming very interesting.

  The kid sat across from me fidgeting. He kept brushing back his long back hair. Acne was using his face as a recreation center. His shoulders had a bad slope to them as if he had some kind of back problem. He defiantly spat the words at me: “I’m not telling you nothing.’”

  “But you told Mrs. Reeger plenty.”

  “Yeah a lotta good that did. I trusted her, and all she did was blab to the principal.” Sudden fear overtook his face. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Not if you cooperate.”

  Manny stood up and turned toward the closed door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m getting out of here.”

  “If you leave this room, you could be arrested before the day is over.” I had no basis for that statement, but those words stopped him. He sat back down.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Tell me what you told Mrs. Reeger about Ed Butcher.”

  “Roddy was always complaining about his old man. The guy was forever on Roddy’s case—always pressuring—and Roddy was tired of it. So we all—the Crusaders—planned to do something about it, to stop Roddy’s father from making his life miserable.”

  “Roddy? You mean, ‘Rock.’”

  “I use that name when I’m talking to him, but it’s stupid. His real name is Roddy. Don’t be afraid of your roots, I always say.”

  “Of course. So you all were going to kill Ed Butcher?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s what you told Mrs. Reeger.”

  “Oh, now I see why I’m here. That old bat got it all wrong.”

  “Didn’t you tell her that?”

  “I told her what I told you. We were going to stop Mr. Butcher. That biddy must have misunderstood me. We were going to scare Butcher, late at night when he was sleeping. Roddy would let us in. Later he’d say he forgot to lock the door for the night. We’d sneak into the bedroom and start slamming the old man. We weren’t supposed to touch the mom. We’d wear masks, give Butcher a couple of whacks and even hit Roddy as he tried to stop us. We’d steal a couple of things and take off. Roddy had told us where the jewelry was.”

  “When were you going to do this?”

  “Two weeks after Butcher died. His death spoiled our plan. We were all disappointed.”

  “I bet. That’s all, Manny.”

  “I can go?”

  “You can for now, but if I hear of the ‘Crusaders’ causing any more trouble, you all will be in jail in the blink of an eye.”

  Manny shuffled out, his underwear showing from above his loose pants. I asked Principal Bederston to send down Roddy Butcher.

  Roddy walked in with a quick stride. “Do you have good news for me—have you found my dad’s killer?” Apparently he had not seen his pal, Manny, in the hallway.

  “What I’ve ‘found’ was your plan to terrorize your dad.”

  Roddy’s eager look vanished. “How do you know about that?”

  “I just talked with Manny.”

  “Oh.”

  “What did you hope to gain by that, Rock?”

  Suddenly Roddy bolted up and slammed the table with his fist. I pushed my chair back, but Roddy didn’t advance toward me.

  “What did I hope to gain?? What did I hope to gain!! You all are fools—you don’t understand. I hoped to gain the sympathy my dad never gave me. He was hard on me since I was five. He was always pushing me. He never knew my feelings, my hopes, my disappointments. I thought if we both got beat up—if he suffered what I suffered—then he would finally understand. All I wanted was to be respected. Don’t you see?”

  “I do see, Rock. But you never did your plan?”

  “We were going to, but my dad got murdered. Wasn’t that a kicker? Someone killed my dad so I wouldn’t have to have him beat up. Life is sure funny.”

  “Yeah, funny. Are you sure you didn’t decide to go one step further and end your dad’s pressure for good.”

  “Weren’t you listening to me? I wanted something from him—I wanted him to come toward me. If he was dead, he couldn’t give me what I wanted. His death did cause me to grieve, but for myself not him. Now I would never get the love I deserved.”

  Roddy seemed sincere. He was still crushed by his dad’s death, not because he loved his father, but because his life now will always have an absent father in it.

  I thanked Mrs. Bederston and told her to notify me if any future problems developed with the Crusaders.

  “Maybe your talking to those two boys, Detective, might split up the group. There are three others, but Roddy and Manny are the leaders. I hope you scared them.”

  “I think I scared myself, Mrs. Bederston. It’s frightening how much lack of love there is in the world.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  The next day, at the station, a familiar face poked itself into my cubicle.

  “Henry?? Henry Gullick?”

  “That’s me.”

  I hardly recognized him. He looked like he had lost ten pounds, and he had a deep tan.

  “You look like a new person, Henry.”

  “It’s about time I became a new person. That old Henry wasn’t very nice. I was pretty crappy to you for the short time we were together.”

  “That’s O.K. I survived.”

  “You definitely did. How are things going?”

  “Not well. I’ve found a few threads, but they’re all still unraveled. I’ve progressed about as far by my self as we did together. I’m still at zero.”

  Henry sat down next to my desk. “I did feel bad about our time together, Raven, and so lately I’ve looked over my old notes. I saw how careless I was those last few months I worked. In each of the cases there were people I should have interviewed but never got to. I was just plain lazy. My thinking was mostly about the Bahamas and my soon-to-be lifelong vacation. I was very irresponsible, and the only way I could even half make it up to you is give you this information. I made notes on possible avenues of exploration for you.” He handed me a manila folder. “It’s all in here. I don’t know if any of these people will lead you to a solution in a particular case, but talk to them and see where it goes.”

  “Thanks, Henry. Maybe you’re not such a bad guy after all.”

  “Now all I have to do is pay the IRS all the back taxes I’ve cheated them out of the last five years.”

  “Henry!”

  “Just kidding. Have fun with my notes. I hope you can solve each of those cases.”

  “They’re all getting close to cold cases, but maybe your information will help.”

  The first page of Henry’s scribbling dealt with a vice that Randall Procopius had indulged in, a vice I hadn’t known about. He was a sports gambler.

  I had thought, as likewise much of the business community had thought, that Randall was firmly solvent in money matters. The truth was that this last year Procopius had made some bad business decisions, plus the worsening economy had cut deeply into his past profits. The short story was that at his death Randall Procopius was practically broke.

  And during that time his betting had increased. He had bet on good teams who had a chance to win him a lot of money. However, all of those teams didn’t meet expectations. He bet on past winners to win again, but they ultimately lost—and thus he lost. The Boston Celtics fell short against the L.A. Lakers; the Phillies got beat in the World Series by the Yankees; and the Indianapolis Colts got decked by the New Orleans Saints. All those teams had been predicted to win. Procopius’ losses in basketball, baseball, and football put him $70,000 in the hole he owed to a gambling cartel. This particular cartel was run by Cyclone Barratis.

  Barratis’ real first name was Cecil, but he was called Cyclone because he moved so slowly. However, his slowness was with the menace of a panther or a snake. This was a man whom the authorities knew had murdered peo
ple, but they had never been able to prove it.

  I was in Cy’s spacious office filled with pictures of celebrities who also liked to gamble: Pete Rose, Michael Jordan, and Charles Barkley, to name a few. Those three people probably had financed half of Cy’s material possessions. It was known that if you didn’t pay Cy, you were in big trouble.

  I had called on Cy, unannounced.

  “To what do I owe your beautiful countenance in front of me?”

  “I’m Detective Stolle, and I have just one beautiful question for you. Did you kill Randall Procopius?”

  “Why would I kill that silly hyena?? I’d never get my money if he was dead. His slick lawyer would cut me out.” (Which Headley had already done by his usual legal maneuvering) “So his death cost me close to $100,000.”

  “I heard it was closer to $70,000.”

  “There were side bets. The guy was into me for a hundred thou.”

  “And of course that didn’t bother you at all.”

  “Actually I wasn’t upset because I’m good at what you might call, ‘persuasion.’ People usually pay me, one way or another.”

  “May I ask where you were on the day Procopius was killed? I told him the date. The question was probably irrelevant because Cyclone could have easily hired someone else to do the job. However, the swarthy man surprised me. He tightened his bow tie and said, “I was a block away from his house. I was coming to collect. As I got closer, from my car I saw smoke pouring out of the second floor. I kept going.”

  “You didn’t cause that fire, did you?”

  Barratis smiled. “When I read about it in the paper, I knew my money had gone up in flames. Someone had gotten to Randall before I did.

  “Anything else, Detective Stolle? I’ve got a few bets to place. Stop back when you have something real to talk to me about.”

  I knew Barratis was not going to come right out and tell me anything, so as I left his domain I tried to read between the lines on his face. I think Cy would not have readily admitted being so close to the murder scene unless he had not done it, or he had covered it up well. Either way, I was going to have a difficult time proving anything against Cyclone. So now on to page two of Henry’s information.

  Here Henry was explaining that according to her friends, years earlier a fellow actor had been stalking Carla Strand. This guy showed up at her publicity office, the nightclubs she went to, and even her home. Carla eventually got a restraining order against Hiram Black, but this didn’t dissuade the man. He still harassed her and spent some time in jail because of it. He was out now and back at his old job as a radio disc jockey. His constant blather had included numerous references to bringing Carla Strand back into the movies. Only her death stopped his mouth.

  His producer told him I was here and the reason why, and Hiram gave me a wave through the glass. Then he held up five fingers, either to show me he had a palm, or that he’d see me in five minutes.

  The guy was wearing a vest with no shirt, and green striped shorts. His protruding chin and nose reminded me of a fox. Definitely I would not let him into any hen house.

  “Hey, dude, what’s going down?”

  “You don’t really talk like that, do you Hiram?”

  “Maybe not, but I’ve convinced the public that I have no brain, and that’s why they listen to me. Actually, I graduated with honors from Stanford.”

  “Majoring in stupidity?”

  “For your information, Detective, I majored in Psychology so watch out—I might trick your mind.”

  “Or your own.”

  “Ah, the clever detective gets one up on the poor slob.”

  “Yes, I did, and happy to do it, Hiram. But now let me ask you an important question.”

  “Hit me with it, mama!”

  “Why were you constantly stalking Carla Strand?”

  “Did you ever see any of her films?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, I’ve seen every one at least three times.”

  “I heard that she wasn’t that great an actress.”

  “She wasn’t. That was the point. It was a joke. The whole thing was a joke. Strand took it seriously and had me arrested, so of course then I kept it up to irritate her. My real hope was that she’d never make another movie.”

  “I guess she won’t, now that she’s dead. Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “Why should I? I had the perfect pleasure—no Carla in the movies. Sometimes she’d appear in business magazine lately, but I couldn’t help that. I wanted to drive her into obscurity or to drive her crazy, but not drive her into a grave. Then I could have no more fun with her.”

  So instead of interviewing a raving maniac, I was now talking with a quite clever fellow who had been having his own joke. Not exactly the killer type, unless he was doing what he had said and playing with my mind—possibly he had just invented the persona he had described so as to cover his tracks. However, the “dude” did seem to be chortling during our entire conversation. I think it was Hiram Black the prankster I had been talking to, not Hiram Black, the killer.

  Most killers, I felt, were very serious people. In fact, it was their over-seriousness that often turned them toward slaughter. Humorous people, in my experience, usually had a speck of perspective: they could see enough of the big picture to not distort their life.

  But, just in case with Hiram that the joke was on me, and say he had tricked me into believing he had no real hostility against Carla Strand—in case he had done that, I’d better not forget his sallow face just in case a murderer lurked behind those beady eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  My view shifted again. I felt like a ping-pong ball. On page three of Henry’s “report,” he described some of the employees talking about a young kid hanging around the meat market, every now and then talking to Ed Butcher.

  Henry said that he was pretty sure the kid didn’t have anything to do with such a vicious crime as murder, but this time the retiree reflected back on his days at the police academy where the instruction was that “everyone is a suspect, unless proven otherwise.” Henry’s note read, “I should have checked this out, Raven.”

  When I went back to the meat market myself, the employees did say that the young boy filled out an application form for work. “The kid was too young, underage, for a work permit, so Ed couldn’t give him a job,” one man said. The application form was still on file and gave the boy’s address. It was Saturday so I thought he’d be home and not at school.

  An older woman answered the door. “Yes, may I help you?” I explained my arrival at her doorstep

  “You’re not here about the robbery?”

  “No—it’s another matter.”

  “Three houses down there was a home invasion just last week. It’s a poor neighborhood, but still people steal from us. We have nothing. Why can’t they steal from the rich?”

  I had no comment.

  “Mrs. O’Rourke, can I talk with Timmy?”

  “Oh sure, he’s upstairs—he always sleeps late on Saturdays. He has a job besides all his schoolwork. I work, too, nights. His father has two jobs. We have no advanced education. The only jobs we can get pay hardly anything. We need all the work in order to just barely make it. Also, just last month, the owner of this building raised everyone’s rent.” Suddenly her face clouded up. “Why do you want to talk to Timmy?”

  “This is regarding a murder investigation.”

  “Surely, you don’t think. . .”

  “He’s really not under suspicion, but we have to check everyone even remotely connected to the case.”

  “I understand. I’ll go get Timmy. I still call him Timmy, but he wants everyone to call him Tim. He’s trying to be so grownup.”

  “I can relate to that. I wanted to be grownup from the time I was ten.”

  In a couple of minutes, Mrs. O’Rourke returned with a gangling red-haired freckled kid rubbing his eyes.

  “Sorry I disturbed your sleep, Tim. This won’t take lo
ng.”

  The kid sat across from me on a threadbare coach. The chair I was sitting on was rickety. The room had no pictures or paintings on its walls. The carpet seemed to have a couple layers of dirt, and an end table next to me was filled with watermarks. The entire atmosphere was of a sinking ship.

  “Tim, I know a few months back you were hanging around Ed Butcher’s meat market. Why was that?”

  The boy didn’t look bothered by my question. “I wanted to get a job. I liked talking with Mr. Butcher, but the main reason I was there was so he’d hire me. Sometimes he had me run errands and give me some money for it, but he said since I was underage he couldn’t legally hire me. He did tell me to fill out an application, and when I got to the legal age he’d see what he could do about a job.”

  “Tim, I know you might be tall for your age, but just as a guess I’d say you’re about sixteen now.”

  “Yes, that birthday was four months ago.”

  “Then why didn’t Mr. Butcher hire you?”

  “I. . .I went away. I took a job somewhere else.”

  “But why go away from employment at Butcher’s after all that time you spent there. The employees said you hung around for maybe six months.”

  “Uh. . .I. . .I just wanted to.”

  “Tim, that isn’t a very good answer.”

  Tim got up to leave.

  “Tim, what happened?”

  He stood by the stairs leading back up to his bedroom and safety. He kept standing for a half minute. He seemed to then make a decision. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Please sit down Tim, and tell me.”

  The boy looked like he might faint. He took a couple of steps back toward me and fell back onto the couch, raising a dust cloud. Suddenly it all poured out. “He did it to me—I couldn’t stop him—I felt so bad.”