The Menace: A Thriller

Chapter 10

Considering everything that had been going on these past few days, Blake Cutter was not surprised to be called at home and summoned back to the station. But he could hardly have anticipated Detective Janet Hodges’s voice on the phone saying, “We’ve got him, Chief. I think we’ve got him!”

Cutter pulled his Challenger into his designated space alongside the old two-story building on Main and found Janet milling out front, waiting eagerly for him. She’d apparently got the call at home, too, as she was in a casual blouse and jeans and no make-up, her normally perfect curly brunette hair mussed. But her eyes were on fire.

As she led him past the civilian counter through the bullpen where only a couple desks were attended, she glanced back, throwing him pieces of information like breadcrumbs.

“Caught the guy at the roadblock,” she said. “Fits the description to a T... Blood on his shirt, cut himself shaving, he says... Right age, features in tune with the Ryan woman’s sketch... Enough so to get the officer’s attention at the stop, anyway... Powerful upper torso, long arms, and no legs... Double amputee.”

“He cooperating?”

They were in the hallway now, off of which were the station’s two interview rooms.

“At first, a bit,” Janet said, as they stopped to face each other. “He has no ID on him. Temporary plates, which we’re tracing. Says his name is Bob Davis, and there’s a bunch of those in the system, of course, but not amputees. He was belligerent when he was asked to get out of the car — a car especially equipped to drive from the steering column.”

“Does he use prosthetic limbs?”

“He has ‘em, but he moves around on his hands at home, he says, and he wasn’t wearing the artificial legs when stopped. They were in the backseat.”

“You say he was belligerent?”

Her eyes flared. “Anybody tried to help him, he took a swing at. He’s indignant. Kept saying, ‘This is the thanks I get!’ Well, this is the f-word thanks I get...”

They went into the viewing booth behind the two-way glass onto the interview room where Sgt. Jackson was questioning the suspect, not getting anywhere.

Janet said, “He clammed up when we got specific about the doctor murders and the incidents at the Ryans.”

Cutter nodded. “More cooperative, huh, when he thought he’d just been brought in for driving without his license.”

Her eyebrows shrugged. “If you call taking swings at police officers cooperation.”

The suspect was wearing a black t-shirt that revealed a massive musculature. His features recalled Helen Ryan’s sketch, all right — round face, deep lines for someone in his early twenties, dark eyes, the kind of flat nose a boxer earns from taking numerous bone-shattering punches, crooked teeth, bushy black hair.

Seated there, at the interview table, the man’s lacking legs from above the knees down was not apparent at all. You would never guess this was the individual who Dr. Roy Ryan had described as half a man. Nor was it the little person they’d expected. But otherwise he fit. He really fit.

Sgt. Jackson was saying, “You’re not going to answer any more questions?”

“Not till my wife and lawyer get here,” he said. His voice was a gravel-edged baritone.

In the observation booth, Cutter said to Janet, “I take it he’s had his phone call.”

“Yeah. We’re not getting anywhere with him.”

“He hasn’t had anything to say for himself since he got a whiff of murder in the air?”

She shook her head. “Just that we’re persecuting him. And when we’re done embarrassing him, he says, this station’s going to be a parking lot... and he’s going to own it.”

They strolled back into the bullpen, where Cutter said, “Well, that’s our man. Obviously.”

Janet nodded. “I haven’t called the Ryans yet. Thought it might be premature. And, anyway, I figured you’d want to do it — you’re the one who’s bonded with the family.”

“I’ll call ‘em,” Cutter said, returning the nod. “I’ll make it clear our guy is at least technically just a suspect. But they have a right to get themselves a good night’s sleep for a change.”

Janet was frowning. “Uh, Chief — before you make that call?”

“Yeah?”

She gave him a steely look. “There’s something else you may wish to share with them.”

“Oh?” Cutter said.

Roy was on one side of Richie’s bed and Helen on the other, the father in pajamas, the mother in a modest dressing gown. Famous faces from TV and comic books stared down approvingly at the little family as the mother tucked the boy in. A cowboy lamp on the bedside stand was on, but the overhead light was off. The child still had the stethoscope around his neck, draped outside his covers.

The boy looked from one parent to the other. “Where are you gonna sleep tonight, Mom?”

“In the bedroom next door, just like last night.”

“Dad, is that where you’ll be?”

Roy repressed a smile and said, “Mind your own business, pal. Better give me that thing.”

“The stethoscope, you mean? I’m not done with it yet.” He started listening to his mother’s heartbeat and she looked at him with a you-little-scamp expression.

“The stethoscope,” Roy said, wiggling a finger. “Come on now. You might roll over on it and hurt yourself.”

Richie didn’t seem to hear that. “Mom, are you gonna sleep with Dad tonight, like you used to?”

She was trying not to smile. “Your father’s right, Richard. That’s none of your concern.”

Listening through the stethoscope again, the boy grinned. “Jeez, your heart’s beating fast, Mom!”

She flushed and gave Roy a look. “I wish you’d quit letting him play with that damn thing.”

“Language,” Richie said.

“Give me that thing!” Roy stripped the device off his son’s head and set it on the bedside stand.

“You say ‘thing’ a lot,” Richie said.

“I suppose so,” his father said. “What about it?”

“Sometimes you say ‘thing’ and I don’t know what you mean. Lately I hear you and Mom talking about some ‘thing’ outside and you get real serious. Like it’s a scary thing. What scary thing are you talking about?”

“The flu,” his mother said, almost snapping.

“Oh. You call my friend upstairs a ‘thing,’ too.”

“That’s different,” Roy said.

The boy sat up. “Dad, when your heart beats? That means you’re alive. Right?”

“Of course.”

Richie pointed to the ceiling. “Well, my friend’s heart beats. So it means he must be alive.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“It does so! And it’s beating louder and faster, too.”

Roy sat on the edge of the bed and Richie leaned back into his pillow, his mother tucking him back in better.

“Son,” Roy said, “I’m glad you have a good imagination. But I’m afraid I haven’t done you any favors, not getting your uncle’s gift out of here sooner. That’s a mummy, an Aztec mummy who lived hundreds of years ago. I want you to stay away from it until I can get it out of here, which I intend to do tomorrow.”

“But, Dad...”

“He belongs in a museum, where people can look at him and learn something about life a long time ago.”

“So he’s not a ‘thing’ — he’s a ‘he.’”

“He was a he — now he’s a dead person. D — E — A — D, son. He’s not a plaything, and not something to play pretend with. It’s really disrespectful, Richie, though I know you don’t mean to be. It’s our fault, really.”

“But he’s my friend, Dad. And his heart is beating!”

“That’s enough of that,” Roy said, stern but not scolding. “Now, get to sleep.”

“Dad...”

Helen was at the doorway now. “Let it drop, Richard. We’ll see you in the morning.”

In the hall, Helen rolled her eyes and said, “You’re right — that boy does have quite the imagination.”

“Most so-called ‘normal’ kids,” Roy said, “don’t have imaginations that creative.”

“No, and that’s a good sign where Richard’s concerned. But an inability to tell the difference between fantasy and reality? That isn’t.”

The phone rang downstairs.

“I’ll get it,” Roy said.

“Come back,” she said, “and we’ll pick this up here.” She slipped into the guest room.

Not a romantic send-off, but at least an invitation of sorts...

In the library, Roy answered the phone and it was Chief Cutter.

“We got him,” Cutter said. “We’ve got his ass in custody.”

Relief flooded through Roy. “You sound positive.”

“Well, he hasn’t been charged yet, but he’s being interrogated right now. I’m going to join in.”

Cutter brought Roy up to speed on the events of the evening.

“He’s technically still just a suspect,” the chief wrapped up, “but it’s hard to imagine any two people fitting our killer’s bizarre characteristics.”

Roy’s whole body seemed to relax. “Well, that’s great. Wonderful. But I’d prefer it if, for the time being, you’d keep your people on hand here.”

“Absolutely. Roy, they’ll maintain their patrol until I pull them off, which I won’t do without your blessing. We won’t let our guard down, I promise you... but you can rest assured that we have him.”

“Fantastic.”

“And,” Cutter said, the tone of his voice shifting into a different gear, “we’ve found the final piece of our puzzle, I think... or at least Detective Hodges has. She’s been going over your father’s files as medical examiner. Seems ten years and a few months ago, he presided over the inquest into the death of one Julia Miller, a death he ruled accidental. The woman died after a fall down the stairs.”

Roy frowned at the phone. “Who the hell is Julia Miller? And how does that relate to our ‘puzzle,’ Blake?”

“She worked for the Lees in Timber Lake. Live-in help. A domestic, supposedly, but really she was a registered nurse, and you don’t pay that kind of money for dusting and dishes. Janet called Chief Sturgis and asked if he knew anything about it. He apologized for not mentioning any of this earlier. But everything he had about it came strictly from rumors — there was never a police investigation of any kind.”

“Investigation into what?”

“The Miller woman’s death. Gossip was there’d been an affair with Efram and some said wife Rosemary may have given her competition a push. Another rumor was that Julia Miller was blackmailing the Lees. Still other talk said the Miller girl had threatened to go to the papers or the police about something.”

Roy settled into a chair by the phone, trying to absorb all this. “And nothing was ever done about any of it?”

“No. Just small-town rumor mill stuff, and at that point the Lees were still very respectable pillars of the community. But it’s not hard to imagine a scenario or two, based upon what little we know.”

Roy grunted a wry laugh. “You mean, like social butterfly Rosemary did shove her husband’s lover down the stairs?”

“A real possibility. But what about Julia being a more compassionate nurse than her successor, Loretta Dornan? Someone who treated Dennis better than his grandparents, and who threatened... whether for blackmail or humanitarian purposes... to expose not only the existence of their grandson but the escalating cruelty of his captivity.”

Roy’s mind went into high gear. “If Julia had been a kind presence in the boy’s life, and Efram killed her for threatening an unmasking... or if an affair had led Rosemary to kill her competition, as you put it... either one would explain our menace’s grudge against my father.”

“Yes. Your father rubber-stamped the Lee family version of the death as strictly an accidental fall. That he almost certainly did so honestly, if mistakenly, would not dissuade a deranged Dennis from adding him... and then you and your boy... to his vengeance list.”

Roy shook his head. “My God.”

“My God indeed.”

“You’ll... you’ll look into this further?”

“Oh yes. And Chief Sturgis is eager to cooperate. For now, however... like so much in this case... we have to live with informed speculation. Somewhat informed, anyway.” A sigh came over the phone. “Okay, I guess that’s all I have for you.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“I’d say so,” Cutter said with his own wry laugh. Then, dead serious: “Don’t let the sad story of Julia Miller cost you your first good night’s sleep in a while.”

“Do my best.”

In the guest room, Helen was stretched out in the dressing gown on top of the covers under the framed Hawaiian landscape she’d begun on their honeymoon. She’d been reading The Thorn Birds and set it aside on her nightstand. The reading lamp was the only light in the room and it gave off a nice warm golden glow.

“Was that anything?” she asked him.

Roy shut the door behind him. “It was everything.”

He sat on edge of the bed near her and shared with her all Blake Cutter had told him.

“Is it over?” she asked him breathlessly. “Really over?”

He nodded. “It’s over.”

“Truly?”

“I think so. Blake Cutter knows what he’s doing. And he’s put a damn fine team together.”

She smiled. “Language.”

He leaned over and kissed her. Sweet, not lingering, but very, very sweet. She touched his face.

“These things Blake said about your father,” she said, “and how you and Richie may have got onto the grudge list... are you all right? Does it upset you?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. My dad was as straight a shooter as they come. If he ruled that nurse’s death as accidental, he was either right, or just honestly wrong. Everybody makes mistakes.”

A half smile appeared. “You’re telling me.”

He had half a smile for her, too. “I hope I’m not the mistake you made.”

“No. You... us? That’s something I got right and then... screwed up. We never really did have it rough before, did we?”

“Not like this. But who the hell ever did? Of course, your dad made it a little rough, when we moved in together. Pulled the financial rug out from under you.”

“That little apartment off-campus was fun. That’s where I learned to cook.”

“And where I learned to eat your cooking.”

She slapped him gently on the shoulder. “I got to be pretty darn good at it.”

“You did. You still are.”

She stared past him into their mutual past. “We hardly had any furniture. Remember? We couldn’t even afford a bed.”

“All we needed was that mattress.”

They embraced. Kissed.

“Richie was right,” he told her, holding her.

“About what?”

“Your heart is beating fast.”

“Yours, too.”

Then he was kissing her neck, slipping the dressing gown off her shoulders, and kissing them. She slipped out of the outer garment and revealed the baby-blue baby doll beneath.

“Who did you pack that for?” he asked her, eyes big.

“I thought I might have to bribe you,” she said sultrily, “to get my way.”

Then she pulled the baby doll over her head and revealed all that lovely creamy flesh, the flaring hips, the narrow waist, the high ribcage, those full breasts, so high and proud with their puffy settings for prominent tips — all of her just as his eyes and hands and mouth remembered. She tugged herself out of the baby-doll panties, gave them a toss, and he clambered out of his pajamas. Then they kissed and caressed and he eased on top her of and the mattress sang.

“What’s going on in there?” came their son’s voice through the wall.

They fell into each other’s naked arms, laughing, and Roy called out, “We’re just talking!”

Giggling, she climbed on top and rode him gently at first and then picked up speed till he rolled her over and finished her fast and hard till they had both shuddered to a stop, though the mattress kept on squeaking for a while.

“I hear something,” the voice on the other side of the wall said, “and it’s not talking!”

Roy looked at Helen and Helen looked at Roy.

She said, “You’ve just got to take that stethoscope away from him.”

Other than the usual symphony of insect song and bird chirps, the night was cool and clear and quiet, not even any traffic sounds with the roadblock still in place.

Officer Fred Dickson and his partner, Officer Lou Rawley, were catching a smoke on the side of the Ryan house opposite where all the action had been the previous two nights. Fred had just commented that he couldn’t see why the roadblock hadn’t been shut down yet.

“I mean,” the skinny officer said, “they caught the guy, didn’t they?”

The report had come in on their prowl car radio.

“Don’t bitch,” his pudgy partner said. “It means we get some time off and these long hours will finally friggin’ end.”

Fred shivered though it wasn’t really all that cold. “I’m just glad we got this weirdo off our hands.”

“Personally,” Lou said, “I wanna get a look at this character. See if those crazy sketches do him justice.”

Fred sighed smoke. “You think there’s any chance Cutter’ll pull us off tonight?”

Lou shrugged. “Might. I mean, what’s the point? What are we doin’ hangin’ around this mausoleum if they got the killer in custody?”

“Ah, it’s not so bad here.” Fred gestured toward the attic window, no air conditioner on this side. “That kid’s a hoot. Little live wire. And his mom is a looker and a half.”

The pudgy cop tossed his spent cigarette sparking into the night. “Yeah, that Doc Ryan’s a dope if he lets a piece of tail like that slip away.”

“Be respectful. She’s nice.”

“She’s nice, all right,” Lou said, leering. Then he huffed his own sigh. “I better call in and see where things stand. Maybe we’ll get lucky and Cutter’ll call it.”

“Don’t count on it. He’s a book man.”

“Ain’t he at that.”

With a wave, Lou disappeared into the dark. A minute or so later, Fred dropped his smoke, heeled it out, and the menace called Dennis came down from where he’d been perching atop the wall and grabbed Fred by the head and twisted, taking him down onto the grass, riding him all the way. Fred was whimpering and flailing, but the flailing stopped when Dennis, sitting on the back of the fallen cop, twisted that neck further, in a sharp manner that the mechanics of the human spine did not allow.

The officer lay silent now.

Little noise had been made by either attacker or victim, just a crack like the snap of a celery stalk. Anyway, the dead man’s partner was already sitting behind the wheel of their patrol car, unaware, with the door open and the radio tuned to the correct frequency with nothing coming over right now but static.

Time to take matters into his own hands.

Lou plucked the microphone from the dash, to call in and get the skinny, and somebody cleared his throat. The pudgy officer looked to his left and, for a moment, saw nothing. Then his eyes lowered to the small yet so terribly large figure, grinning up at him maniacally. When the gun butt of Fred’s revolver hit Lou between the eyes with incredible force, the officer froze before pitching out onto the ground, his murderer having to scurry backward not to be under the dead weight before it flopped onto the grass. Lou wasn’t quite dead, starting to rouse, and the little man with the big gun slammed its butt into the back of the officer’s head again and again until it cracked like an egg and bloody yolk ran everywhere.