It was something called PMBL, a barbiturate, kind of out of fashion according to the drug people. You heard of it?”
“No, but that’s not my line. What does it do?”
“It’s an anesthetic. Actually a combination hypnotic and anesthetic, what they told me. It puts you out and keeps you out.”
“You have a theory?”
“What kind of chief would I be without a theory?”
“A Clamden chief. Turn at the light for the hospital.”
“I know where to tum. What if this guy Dyce went to the ATM at the station and our snatcher is waiting there. The snatcher follows Dyce to his car, tries to stick him with the needle and drag him off, but Dyce resists, fights. The snatcher loses his cool, beats the shit out of Dyce, and drops his anesthetic in the struggle so he can’t cope with Dyce anyway.”
“Why the ATM? Why not getting off the train?”
“The tuning’s bad; too many witnesses if a train just came in. Besides, we think the snatcher was hanging around the money machine. Somebody pissed all over it.”
Becker laughed.
“It’s not funny, John. You forget, this isn’t the city. Commuters use the train here, not derelicts, not kids. People don’t just drop by to take a quick pee at the train station. It’s the kind of thing anybody who’s weird enough to snatch people would do.”
“Or any boy under the age of eighteen, or any half-drunk adult male, or any dog, for Christ’s sake.”
“If this was a dog, you’d better call Ripley’s. The guy hit the computer keys.”
“We’re not looking for a public pisser. Tee. More likely he pees sitting down and wipes his dick afterwards.”
“How do you figure?”
“This is not a man who calls attention to himself. If he did, he wouldn’t have lasted this long.”
Tee parked the cruiser in front of the hospital’s main entrance, sliding in front of a departing Volkswagen that had just let off a pregnant woman. The driver of the Volkswagen honked angrily. Tee stepped toward the Volkswagen, whose driver thought better of it and pulled around, shaking his fist.
“I read that people in New York have stopped doing that,” Becker said. “They don’t even yell at cab drivers for fear they’ll get shot.”
“We need a little more random violence around here,” said Tee. “Teach these people respect for the police.”
The woman at the information desk seemed annoyed that they wanted a patient’s room number. She made them wait until she finished her phone call.
“I asked this Helen if she knew Dyce’s mother’s maiden name. She didn’t, of course. Then I ran the usual checks on him myself, just to see if he had a record, and so forth.”
The woman at the desk finally checked her computer and told them the room number.
“They’re volunteers.” Tee led the way to the elevators. “You can’t fire them, so they act like that. Ever notice how many of them are fat? Why is that?”
“Got a theory for that, too?”
“A man’s got to speculate, John. That’s why you’ve got an imagination… The MVD came up with something interesting. Mr. Dyce is a safe driver-but he hasn’t always been Mr. Dyce. Four years ago he changed his name.”
Tee punched the floor button, suddenly silent.
“And I say, ‘From what?’ “ said Becker.
“Dysen. Scandinavian, wouldn’t you say? I may not know anything about the urinary habits of the perpetrator, but I do believe Mr. Dyce/Dysen was a very lucky man who just missed being victim number nine.”
Becker did not respond.
As they approached Dyce’s hospital room. Tee said, “I knew a kid in high school who wiped his dick. Weird. Shook, then wiped. Barely had any to mention in the first place.”
“Good thing you were there to notice,” said Becker.
“Guy became a golf pro, not a player, a teacher. How’s that for symbolism? Spend your life with this four- foot-long club swinging between your legs. A classic case of compensation.”
Becker said, “Unlike our good selves.”
“Well, exactly,” said Tee.
Dyce dreamed his father was alive again and looking for him. He could hear his angry voice calling “Roger,” with the snarl of an animal in the tone, and his footsteps, those dreaded, off-beat clumps of a cripple, were coming toward him. The young Dyce was hiding under the bed, whimpering with fear. He did not know what he had done to bring on the wrath this time, but then he seldom knew. Sometimes he thought his very existence enraged his father, as if his presence, perhaps even his very life, were a mistake that the man was trying to eradicate with his belt and his fists.
In the dream Dyce could see directly through the covers that hung to the floor and concealed him. His father entered the bedroom and Dyce could see him yanking the belt from his pants, see him breathing heavily through his mouth as he always did when he had been drinking. His eyes were red from the alcohol, the capillaries burst from within, and a crust of something had formed in the corners of his mouth. His hair fell diagonally across his forehead, limp and straight and dirty blond.
“Roger,” he said again, this time softer, cajoling. “Come on out, Roger. Come here son. Daddy’s not mad.”
Dyce was not fooled by the change in tone. He had been caught that way before. There was neither sweetness nor forgiveness in the man when he had been drinking, only malice and cunning. Much as Dyce wanted to believe it was the voice of love calling, he dared not move.
He looked straight up through the bed and saw the man’s eyes cloud and the lids quiver, then close. His father sat heavily on the bed above Dyce, then fell back, inert, dropped finally by the liquor. When his father’s rage was gone, he collapsed inward, as if the anger was the only thing to keep him going.
Hovering over his father while somehow still under the bed, Dyce saw the drool form and dribble from his mouth. He heard the breath making its tortured way through his nose, still miraculously straight and fine despite the brawls, the spills, and the accidents of a drunkard’s life.
With his heart racing in his chest, the young Dyce crawled out from under the bed and knelt with his face next to his father’s. Peace had come upon the man and he looked so young lying there. If only he could always be this way, Dyce thought. He leaned forward to kiss his father and the man’s eyes flew open and he bared his teeth as he said, “Roger.” His hand grasped Dyce’s shoulder and the young boy felt his bowels release in fear.
Dyce awoke with a start to find Helen at his side, shaking his shoulder and whispering his name. Two men stood behind her, watching him.
“These men are from the police, dear,” she said. Helen never called him dear.
“I’m not,” said Becker.
“Oh,” said Helen. “I thought you were.”
“I’m Chief Terhune of the Clamden Police,” said Tee. “Mr. Becker has some experience in these matters, and he’s here to help out.”
“What matters?” asked Dyce. He rolled his tongue to moisten his dry mouth.
“The mugging,” said Helen.
“I talked to the police,” said Dyce.
“That’s true,” said Helen, looking to Tee for explanation.
“That would be the Guileford Police. You were attacked in Guileford. I’m from Clamden.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They’re here to help,” said Helen. Dyce wished she would shut up and leave. He needed to concentrate and not worry about what stupid thing she might say next. There was something not right here, something to be careful of.
Dyce looked at the one who was so quick to point out that he wasn’t with the police.
