“You’re fuckin’ nuts, you know that? Do you realize the kind of trouble you’re putting yourself in? I thought you said you were going to call Morris.”
“The guy’s scared to death and I promised him. I told him you’re cool and that I’d bring you.”
Kelley didn’t say anything. He just stared at me. His eyes almost bore laser holes through my skin. I took a pull off the Schlitz longneck.
“I’m meeting him at sundown at the bridge in the park-you in?”
“Uh geez,” was all Kelley said. He turned away and watched Havlicek sink the runner against Phoenix in ’77.
12
Jefferson Park is across town from AJ’s, and with the lights it’s a ten- or fifteen-minute drive. I threw in Elvis’s Promised Land eight-track and clicked through to the fourth program to listen to “If You Talk In Your Sleep.” It’s a haunting song about a couple slinking away to have an affair. It was dark and a little sleazy, which was how I felt going to see a man who had murdered four people and whom most folks believed was responsible for murdering four more.
I parked by the tennis courts and walked through the rolling knolls of the park, past the statue of Moses, the modern-art sculptures, and the empty tulip beds. I had hit the cobblestone walkway that led toward the bridge when I heard a voice call me from behind.
“Wait up, nutcase.” It was Kelley.
“Hey, what’re you doing here?” I said.
“The Foursome started talking about John Wayne’s colon again, and I figured meeting Howard had to be more pleasant than that.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said.
We walked the final fifty yards to the bridge and the twilight had given way to the night. The corner of the bridge was dimly lit with one of those retro streetlamps that throw a soft amber hue to everything, which gave the bridge area an even creepier feel. There was no one there yet.
“I hope we didn’t miss him,” I said.
“Yeah, that would be a shame,” Kelley said.
We walked the fifty-foot span of the bridge to check the other side, and there was no sign of Howard or anyone else. The silence Kelley and I stood in made me a tad more nervous, though with Kelley, silence didn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, the nervousness gave me a knot in the left side of my chest and my breathing wasn’t as smooth as I liked.
After a moment passed, Kelley started to walk around the entrance to the bridge in a way that most people would consider mindless strolling. I knew better. He stopped and suddenly squatted.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Blood,” he said.
Kelley was squatting over a pool of blood the size of a Frisbee.
“I should call and get a crime-scene team out here, Duff. You okay with that?”
“Of course.”
We hung around and waited for the circus to begin. Morris and his gang came along with the special crime- scene guys who looked remarkably less glamorous and, for that matter, less intelligent, than the people on those CSI shows. There were three of them and they scooped up the blood, set up crime-scene tape, and poked around the bushes and the grass. I sort of expected them to wear asbestos suits and have electron microscopes fixed to their heads, but they did most of their work with tweezers and Ziploc bags you could get at CVS. Morris and his guys had their badges clipped to their jackets just like the cops on Law amp; Order do, though it looked more natural and less forced on Jerry Orbach. My best friend Mullings walked by me and shook his head like he disapproved of my existence, which probably wasn’t going to keep me from sleeping. I had plenty of things running around my head that kept me from sleeping, but whether or not detective Mullings approved of me wasn’t one of them.
Morris, who so far had seemed like a decent guy, was markedly less polite when he finally got around to talking to me this time. He had his hands inside his trench coat when he walked up the bridge to talk to me. He had a look on his face like he just ate something that had spoiled.
“We could arrest you for about eleven different things, you know, Dombrowski,” Morris said.
“Look, I was going to call you, I swear. I was here to meet Howard to bring him to you. I knew it was the only way he’d go,” I said.
Morris turned toward Kelley.
“Can you vouch for this nutcase?”
“Yeah, Detective Morris, what he said is the truth. He’s all right. A little misguided in his energy sometimes, but he’s all right,” Kelley said.
Morris turned back to me. I took note that both Kelley and Morris had referred to me as a “nutcase.”
“This time, out of respect for Kelley, I’m not going to make a deal out of you not notifying us before this little rendezvous of yours, but from here on out-no more bullshit, you understand?”
“Gotcha,” I said.
There was another twenty minutes or so of more putzing around by the lab guys and intense posturing by the other cops who had honed their whole intense furrowed-brow, tormented-by-the-criminal-world look. There was just something about people who tried so hard to create an image that I found so contrived-like they didn’t have enough inside them to just be who they are. Instead of being themselves, they take on roles and personas to do the work of developing a personality for them.
Kelley and I walked back to our cars through the park in silence. When we got to our cars, I broke the silence.
“That’s his blood, you know,” I said.
“I know,” Kelley said.
Kelley went to get in his car.
“Does it change how you’re looking at this whole thing?”
“Yeah.”
Kelley didn’t say anything, he just went to unlock his door.
“Hey, Kell?” I said.
“What?”
“Misguided?”
13
By midafternoon Monday, Kelley had called me at the office and confirmed that it was Howard’s blood in the park. You didn’t have to be a brain surgeon to deduce that something went extremely wrong with Howard, but a certain psychiatrist didn’t see that kind of obvious reasoning at all.
“It could be consistent with Howard’s personality disorder for him to self-mutilate, especially if it could get him sympathy and attention,” Abadon said. We were all at an afternoon meeting to discuss his situation.
“Doesn’t it make more sense that he was trying to do the right thing but was scared? Then he was assaulted in the park or something?” I said.
“That’s what he wants you to believe, Duffy. I think you’re being manipulated,” Claudia said.
“You don’t think there’s even a small chance that Howard is frightened about the situation and that he believes there’s no way he could be treated fairly?” I said.
“It’s likely that Rheinhart is getting off on all the media exposure and the misguided attention Duffy is showing him.” Claudia didn’t answer me directly but instead talked to everyone.
