‘Well, I know who greased ‘em.’
‘Is that so, Hap?’ Bozeman asked. He was busy lighting his pipe. He rarely smoked the pipe, but neither the fan nor the open window was quite enough to overwhelm Hap’s smell. Soon, Bozeman thought, the paint would begin to blister and peel. He sighed.
‘You member I tole you Sonny was talking to a guy just a day before they found him all cut up in that pipe? You member me tellin’ you that, Lieutenant Bozeman?’
‘I remember.’ Several of the winos who hung around the Salvation Army and the soup kitchen a few blocks away had told a similar story about two of the murdered derelicts, Charles ‘Sonny’ Brackett and Peter ‘Poley’ Smith. They had seen a guy hanging around, a young guy, talking to Sonny and Poley. Nobody knew for sure if Sonny had gone off with the guy, but Hap and two others claimed to have seen Poley Smith walk off with him. They had the idea that the ‘guy’ was underage and willing to spring for a bottle of musky in exchange for some juice. Several other winos claimed to have seen a ‘guy’ like that around. The description of this ‘guy’ was superb, bound to stand up in court, coming as it did from such unimpeachable sources. Young, blond, and white. What else did you need to make a bust?
‘Well, last night I was in the park,’ Hap said, ‘and I just happened to have this old bunch of newspapers —’
‘There’s a law against vagrancy in this city, Hap.’
‘I was just collectin’ ‘em up,’ Hap said righteously. ‘It’s so awful the way people litter. I was doin’ a public surface, Lieutenant A friggin’ public surface. Some of those papers was a week old.’
‘Yes. Hap.’ Bozeman said. He remembered — vaguely being quite hungry and looking forward keenly to his lunch. That time seemed long ago now.
‘Well, when I woke up, one of those papers had blew onto my face and I was looking right at the guy. Gave me a hell of a jump, I can tell you. Look. This is the guy. This guy right here.’
Hap pulled a crumpled, yellowed, water-spotted sheet of newspaper from his warmup jacket and unfolded it Bozeman leaned forward, now moderately interested. Hap put the paper on his desk so he could read the headline: 4 BOYS NAMED TO SOUTHERN CAL ALL-STARS. Below the head were four photos.
‘Which one, Hap?
Hap put a grimy finger on the picture to the far right ‘Him. It says his name is Todd Bowden.’
Bozeman looked from the picture to Hap, wondering how many of Hap’s brain-cells were still unfried and in some kind of working order after twenty years of being sauteed in a bubbling sauce of cheap wine seasoned with an occasional shot of sterno.
‘How can you be sure, Hap? He’s wearing a baseball cap in the picture. I can’t tell if he’s got blond hair or not’
‘The grin,’ Hap said. ‘It’s the way he’s grinnin’. He was grinnin’ at Poley in just that same ain’t-life-grand way when they walked off together. I couldn’t mistake that grin in a million years. That’s him, that’s the guy.’
Bozeman barely heard this last; he was thinking, and thinking hard. Todd Bowden. There was something familiar about that name. Something that bothered him even worse than the thought that a local high school hero might be going around and offing winos. He thought he had heard that name just this morning in conversation. He frowned, trying to remember where.
Hap was gone and Dan Bozeman was still trying to figure it out when Richler and Weiskopf came in… and it was the sound of their voices as they got coffee in the squadroom that finally brought it home to him.
‘Holy God,’ said Lieutenant Bozeman, and got up in a hurry.
30
Both of his parents had offered to cancel their afternoon plans — Monica at the market and Dick golfing with some business people — and stay home with him, but Todd told them he would rather be alone. He thought he would clean his rifle and just sort of think the whole thing over. Try to get it straight in his mind.
‘Todd,’ Dick said, and suddenly found he had nothing much to say. He supposed if he had been his own father, he would have at this point advised prayer. But the generations had turned, and the Bowdens weren’t much into that these days. ‘Sometimes these things happen,’ he finished lamely, because Todd was still looking at him. ‘Try not to brood about it.’
‘I’ll be all right.’ Todd said.
After they were gone, he took some rags and a bottle of Alpaca gun oil out onto the bench beside the roses. He went back into the garage and got the .30-30. He took it to the bench and broke it down, the dusty-sweet smell of the flowers lingering pleasantly in his nose. He cleaned the gun thoroughly, humming a tune as he did it, sometimes whistling a snatch between his teeth. Then he put the gun together again. He could have done it just as easily in the dark. His mind wandered free. When it came back some five minutes later, he observed that he had loaded the gun. The idea of target shooting didn’t much appeal, not today, but he had still loaded it. He told himself he didn’t know why.
Sure you do, Todd-baby. The time, so to speak, has come.
And that was when the shiny yellow Saab turned into the driveway. The man who got out was vaguely familiar to Todd, but it wasn’t until he slammed the car door and started to walk towards him that Todd saw the sneakers — low-topped Keds, light blue. Talk about Blasts from the Past; here, walking up the Bowden driveway, was Rubber Ed French, the Ked Man.
‘Hi, Todd. Long time no see.’
Todd leaned the rifle against the side of the bench and offered his wide and winsome grin. ‘Hi, Mr French. What are you doing out here on the wild side of town?’
‘Are your folks home?’
‘Gee, no. Did you want them for something?’
‘No,’ Ed French said after a long, thoughtful pause. ‘No, I guess not I guess maybe it would be better if just you and I talked. For starters, anyway. You may be able to offer a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this. Although God knows I doubt it’
He reached into his hip pocket and brought out a newsclipping. Todd knew what it was even before Rubber Ed passed it to him, and for the second time that day he was looking at the side-by-side pictures of Dussander. The one the street-photographer had taken had been circled in black ink. The meaning was clear enough to Todd; French had recognized Todd’s ‘grandfather’. And now he wanted to tell everyone in the world all about it He wanted to midwife the good news. Good old Rubber Ed, with his jive talk and his motherfucking sneakers.
The police would be very interested — but, of course, they already were. He knew that now. The sinking feeling had begun about thirty minutes after Richler left. It was as if he had been riding high in a balloon filled with happy-gas. Then a cold steel arrow had ripped through the balloon’s fabric, and now it was sinking steadily.
The phone calls, that was the biggie. Fucking Richler had trotted that out just as slick as warm owlshit. Sure, he had said, practically breaking his neck to rush into the trap. He gets one or two calls a week. Let them go ranting all over southern California looking for geriatric ex-Nazis. Fine. Except maybe they had gotten a different story from Ma Bell. Todd didn’t know if the phone company could tell how much you used your phone for local calls… but there had been a look in Richler’s eyes…
Then there was the letter. He had inadvertently told Richler that the house hadn’t been burgled, and Richler had no doubt gone away thinking that the only way Todd could have known that was if he had been back… as he had been, not just once but three times, first to get the letter and twice more looking for anything incriminating. There had been nothing; even the Gestapo uniform was gone, disposed of by Dussander sometime during the last four years.
And then there were the bodies. Richler had never mentioned the bodies.
At first Todd had thought that was good. Let them hunt a little longer while he got his own head — not to mention his story — straight. No fear about the dirt that had gotten on his clothes burying the body; they had all been cleaned later that same night. He ran them through the washer-dryer himself, perfectly aware that Dussander might die and then everything might come out. You can’t be too careful, boy, as Dussander himself would have said.
