Beyond the Mask Page 7

  “No witnesses?” Bentley asked. He was leaning forward on the couch. His eyes were bright with interest.

  “No,” Frank said.

  “Are we going to talk about it?”

  “In a minute. Just let me sit here will ya?”

  Frank closed his eyes, but he could feel Bentley staring at him. When he opened them again the kid was still sitting forward, regarding him.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll tell you what we know.”

  Frank outlined the basic situation. More cards, more crystals. The call to the tip line, the fact that the girl had still been alive when he called.

  Bentley smiled almost the entire time that Frank was talking. It made it difficult for Frank to look him in the eye. As a consequence his eyes were pointed down at the carpet most of the time. The kid was enjoying it. All the carnage, all the gore, he was really enjoying it.

  When he had finished outlining the basics of the case, Frank looked up at Bentley. “You said before that you thought time was important to this guy.”

  “Absolutely,” Bentley said. His grin was so wide it looked as if it might split his head in two pieces. But it wasn’t the same sardonic smile that Frank had grown accustomed to. This one was different somehow.

  “He’s leaving you clues.”

  “They aren’t clues,” Frank said. “The only print we’ve been able to get off of any of those index cards was Collins. I mean maybe the killer knew him, but Collins is dead what good does that do?”

  “I assume you’re looking into his family and associates,” Bentley said.

  “Sure,” Frank said. “And maybe we’ll even get lucky and get a hit, but I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “If this guy is as careful as you think, then he would have made sure there were no fingerprints on the index card. The finger print was just a way to help us find the body. He wants us to find them for some fucked up reason.”

  “Very good, detective,” Bentley said. There was a spasm in his face and then the smile came back. “I’m sorry, Sheriff, force of habit.”

  “Who cares the title,” Frank said.

  “Your reasoning is exactly correct. He wants you to find the bodies. He wants credit for it, but you’re wrong, those index cards are clues.”

  “What do you mean?” Frank walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There were a few bottles of Miller left, but that’s not what he wanted. What he wanted was tucked back in the fridge behind the milk. A half-full fifth of Glenfiddich.

  Frank pulled the bottle out and headed back to the living room, forgoing the glasses. He unscrewed the cap and took a sip, savoring the burn as it traveled down his throat. The liquid seemed to have a weight and substance that no other alcohol could match. He offered the bottle to Bentley who took it and had his own sip before handing it back.

  “He’s trying to tell you something with the index cards.”

  “That time’s important to him,” Frank said. It was almost to himself, the old way that he used to work through cases, only this time the answer didn’t come from within.

  “Exactly. Those pieces of crystal are from a watch, some watch that was probably important to him, and he broke it. Maybe time has stopped for him.”

  “Maybe his work has something to do with time?”

  “No,” Bentley said and frowned. “Now you’re thinking like a person again. You need to think like a monster.”

  “Like you?” Frank asked, but smiled as he asked it.

  Bentley returned the smile and bent at the waist offering a half-bow. “If you want to catch him you need to get into his head. That’s the only way you’ll find out what he’s going to do next.”

  “So why is his job out?”

  “Because that’s what’s important to regular people. We monsters don’t care about our jobs. If he has a job at all it’s only for appearances and for maybe a little money to get by on. His real job is killing people. That’s all he cares about.”

  “So what other reason could time be important to him? Does he ride the bus, the trains?”

  Bentley laughed. “There are only two reasons that time could be important.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Either time is running out for him or, if he’s of the religious bent, time is running out for everyone.”

  II.

  Frank got even less sleep on the second night of Bentley’s stay. He turned the conversation over in his head. He hated it, but the more he thought about it, the more the kid’s theory made sense.

  There had been no overt religious imagery and nothing religious about the crimes themselves, so Frank decided it had to be personal. The world wasn’t ending, but the killer's life was.

  He was in his room, drifting in and out of a ragged kind of sleep when his cell phone buzzed. “Sheriff Miles,” he said in a sleep furry voice.

  “How’s the slumber party?” Rick asked.

  Frank looked at the clock, ready to rail at Rick that it had better be good, calling so late, and saw that it was half past ten o’clock. Not really a rage inducing time.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve got a witness.”

  “For the Collins murder?” Frank sat up, fully awake now.

  “No, for the Stevens’ murder. That was the name of the family. They were all playing hooky because they were going to Dodger game.”

  “You got it?” Frank asked. “Not Michaels?”

  “You think I’m trying to steal credit. Make him Lieutenant, get rid of that idiot Adams, what do I care?”

  “I’d get rid of him if I could. What I mean, though, is that Michaels was running that scene.”

  “This witness wasn’t in our first canvas. He came in on his own.”

  “He a crack pot?” Frank was thinking of the old man. Sheila’s next door neighbor.

  “I don’t think so. Maybe you want to come down and see for yourself?”

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  III.

  The night crew was on the scene when Frank came in the door. Normally, Lieutenant Adams would have been in charge, but Rick had apparently decided to stay for one reason or another and thank God he had.

  Rick was leaning against the door to interview 2 when Frank came in. His arms were folded over his chest and he had a self-satisfied smile on his face.

  “He’s in there. Want to do it together?”

  “He’s a witness, why did you put him in interview 2?”

  “I don’t like him,” Rick said. “Timid little bastard. Thought I’d give him a scare, make him wonder if there was anyone on the other side of the two-way glass in there.”

  “That’s why you’ll never be sheriff,” Frank said. “You think with your emotions too much.”

  Rick put on a comic frown. “I won’t be sheriff because I’m not the politician you are buddy. Wouldn’t get the votes.”

  “Yeah, I’m Mr. Warmth,” Frank said.

  “Don’t have to be when you’re the hero of Yucca.”

  Frank paused with his hand on the door handle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s supposed to mean that your little houseguest is a violent murderer. You stopped him once and now you think you can save his soul too.”

  “It’s not about saving his soul. People can change.”

  “Maybe people can, but not monsters.”

  Frank snorted and opened the door.

  The guy was almost comically short. He couldn’t have crested much farther than five feet and he looked like the he might have gained a few pounds since birth.

  His twig arms were resting on the metal table in the center of the room. They were long and gave his body an almost simian appearance. His black hair was cut short and wasn’t nearly long enough to cover the deep wrinkles that carved his forehead. Yet the lower half of his face was smooth and pink. He could have been thirty or fifty. It was hard to tell.

  Frank took the seat directly across from the human scarecrow. Rick sat off to the side an
d hit play on the old-style tape recorder on the table.

  “Uh…hello,” the man said. He leaned over towards the tape recorder, treating it like it was a microphone.

  “The recorder works very well,” Frank said. “You don’t have to be especially loud or close it to; it will pick up what you say.

  The man leaned back with a sheepish look on his face. “Oh, okay, sir.”

  “My name is Sheriff Miles. “You’ve already met Undersheriff Pappas.”

  The man gave a half smile and nodded. “Yes, I told him that I saw the guy who killed that fambly.”

  “Let’s start with your name,” Frank said.

  “Sure. I’m Harvey Ellison.”

  “Mr. Ellison how did you happen to see the killer?”

  Ellison leaned forward propping his body up on one bony elbow. “Here’s the thing. I’m a meter reader.” He paused and looked at Rick and Frank. “You know what that is?”

  Frank glanced at Rick, who smiled back at him and gestured towards Ellison.

  “Yes,” Frank said. “You read the meters for PG&E I’m guessing.”

  Ellison smiled a little broader this time, but Frank noticed that it didn’t reach the eyes. Not a real smile then.

  “Pacific gas and electric, that’s where I work, you bet. So, I go around with this little computer in my hand and I punch in the numbers on the meters. If’n I can’t see the meter or it’s inside or something, then I can code it to estimate.”

  “Okay,” Frank said.

  “So I was working over on Willow Bough today. Just walking my normal route, you know, and I notice this guy coming out of the house with the mini-van.”

  “What did he look like?” Rick asked.

  “Now wait, let me get to that part,” Ellison said.

  He frowned and the lines on his forehead deepened even further.

  “The reason I’se noticed the house is because of the car. Not many cars in the driveways during my morning route, you know. People at work and such.”

  “Sure,” Frank said.

  “So anyway, I noticed they were home. Then I sees this guy come out of the house. Don’t really think anything about it at the time. Although I thought it was weird that he didn’t take the car.”

  “He didn’t?” Frank asked.

  Ellison shook his head. “Nope, he walked down to the sidewalk and started going in the opposite direction that I was going in.”

  “What did he look like?” Frank asked.

  “Tall guy, probably six feet or so. Blonde hair. It was the kind that came down to his shoulder, you know, but kinda bald at the front. Big guy too, not fat, I don’t mean that, but this guy had arms on him.”

  “Why didn’t you come forward sooner?” Rick asked.

  “I didn’t even know anything was wrong,” Ellison said. “Then I turned on the news when I sat down to eat my dinner and what do I see? A house and a mini-van that I remember. The pretty little news girl from channel four, you know the blonde one?”

  “I’m familiar with her,” Frank said. He could feel himself smiling.

  “Yeah, well she was saying that the whole fambly was found dead. So I think to myself, that guy you saw, he probably done that. Cause the dad, you know, probably wasn’t him walking out of the house. He was probably dead.”

  “Anything else that you can remember?” Frank asked.

  Ellison started to shake his head and then stopped. “There was one more thing. The guy was carrying a duffel bag. I remember that I thought it was weird. A big black duffel bag.”

  “If I showed you some pictures and you saw the guy, would you be able to point him out?” Frank asked.

  Ellison looked towards the ceiling and stroked his chin with his hand. “Yeah, I guess I could probably do that.”

  Frank turned to Rick. “Get the book, please.”

  “Right away sir,” Rick said in mock stiffness. Frank let it pass. He sat watching Ellison as Rick walked out of the room.

  “Sure hope I can help you find the guy who done this,” Ellison said. “I can’t believe anyone would kill a fambly like that.”

  “Well any information you could give us would be great.”

  Rick walked back in carrying a large photo album. Of course the only family that this album depicted were the sons of San Quentin.

  Rick slammed the book on the table and Ellison jumped back. “Sorry,” Rick said with a smile. “It’s a heavy one.”

  Ellison was still cringing back, looking at Rick with wild eyes, when Frank took hold of the book and opened it. He spun it around so the pictures were facing Ellison.

  “I need you to look through this book and tell me if you see the man you saw earlier today.”

  “Sure,” Ellison said. He let his hand drop from by his face and he leaned forward to look at the pictures.

  Frank and Rick sat there watching him for what seemed like hours, but couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes or so.

  Ellison reached the last page and closed the book. He looked up and real regret shone on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Sheriff. I don’t see the guy in this here book.”

  “That’s okay,” Frank said. He stood up. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  They were making their way through the bull-pen area and Frank was giving his final instructions to Ellison.

  “We’ll call you back in tomorrow so that you can talk to one of our artists. You can give a description to him and we’ll make a sketch.”

  “Sure,” Ellison said. It looked like he wanted to say more, but that was when he stopped. Frank and Rick had continued to walk and were a few paces ahead of Ellison before they realized that he was no longer with them.

  “What’s wrong?” Rick asked.

  Ellison pointed with a shaking hand to one of the desks in the bull pen area. “That’s the guy, that’s him.

  Frank followed his gaze. He knew the desk well, the owner of it was in the building, in fact, just not at his desk at that moment. Ellison was pointing at a framed photograph on the desk.

  The silver frame showed a blonde woman and two blonde children. The man in the picture, dressed in his civilian clothes at the time of the photo, was Lieutenant Adams.

  IV.

  Ellison was gone. They had made one more trip back to interview 2, basically just to ask him if he was sure and if he would testify to the fact. He had responded that he was and he would. Then Frank had made the decision to let him go.

  “Keep him here,” Rick had argued.

  It was tempting, probably even the better of the two options, but Frank didn’t want the guy near the building when they confronted Adams.

  They sat in Frank’s office. Rick was in the hard-backed chair in front of the desk, Frank behind it.

  “We’re just going to talk to him,” Frank said.

  Rick wasn’t looking at him; his head was craned around to look out through the open blinds and into the bullpen area.

  Adams was back at his desk, sitting down and looking over some papers. Frank noted how the light from the fluorescents overhead shone on his scalp.

  “Didn’t you tell me once that he looked like that guy from Coach?” Rick asked. “You know the dumb one, what’s his name?”

  “Dauber,” Frank replied. “Yeah, about four or five days after we started.”

  Rick turned around; he was smiling. When he met Frank’s eyes and saw the grim look, the smile disappeared.

  “Well you’re right,” Rick said. “He does look like him.”

  “He also looks like the guy that Ellison described.”

  “Okay, I know you want Adams gone…”

  “Not like this,” Frank said.

  “I know. But what I’m saying is that we know Adams. He’s not exactly an inspiring cop, but he’s not a killer is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Frank said.

  Rick leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs and his hands dangling between his knees. “Who we don’t know is this Ellison guy. How do w
e even know that he works for PG&E? You shuffled him out of here so fast…”

  “Your objection has already been noted,” Frank said. “We can check on Ellison tomorrow. You got a copy of his license; we’ve got his address and phone number.”

  “Okay. So we talk to Adams, then what?”

  Frank rubbed his hand across his forehead. There was a little moisture there. Never in his time as a police officer had he been so fooled. But it was silly to think that when nothing was proven.

  “We’re going to feel him out. We’ll frame it in terms of the case to begin with. Just getting his thoughts on the matter.”

  “So after we take ten seconds to get all his thoughts, then what are we going to do?”

  Frank smiled. “We’ll see where the conversation takes us. If we get anywhere then we can take it to the next level. You remember how this works don’t you?”

  Rick laughed. “You’ve had me driving a desk for so long, I don’t know, but maybe it’s like riding a bike.”

  “Few things are,” Frank said. He stood up and opened the door to his office; Rick followed him.

  “Hey, Adams,” Rick said. He had been trailing behind Frank, but as they reached the desk he had brushed past him and clapped a hand on Adams. “How you liking nights?”

  Adams looked up from his paperwork. The combination of muddled confusion and the brown hue of his eyes made him look like a puppy.

  “Always something to do,” Adams said. “I keep the boys pretty busy, sir. It’s kind of a surprise to see you here so late.”

  “Just wanted to catch up with you,” Rick said. He slung a leg over Adams desk and half-sat half-stood there.

  Frank shook his head. It appeared Rick had staked his position as the friend. That meant Frank would have to be the foe.

  “We were working on the crystal killings,” Frank said.

  Adams nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard people talking about that. Of course I don’t know much about it; I’ve got my own cases that I’m working.” He indicated the stack of papers on his desk.

  Frank noticed how organized they were. Neatly stacked, neatly piled. The things he was going over, the things he had already gone over. It was a character trait that he had never really noticed in Adams before and it made him think about the conversation he’d had with Bentley.