A half hour later he was finished packing. As he trudged down the stairs with a large suitcase Cathy studied him carefully. It was the way she examined aphids when she spritzed them with bug spray and watched them curl into tiny dead balls.
“I—”
“Good bye, Charles.”
Monroe was halfway to the front hall when the doorbell rang.
He set the suitcase down and opened the door. He found two large sheriff’s deputies standing in front of him. There were two squad cars in the driveway and two more deputies on the lawn. Their hands were very close to their pistols.
Oh, no. Foxworth was pressing charges! Jesus. What a nightmare.
“Mr. Monroe?” the largest of the deputies asked, eyeing his suitcase. “Charles Monroe?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“I wonder if we could talk to you for a moment.”
“Sure. I — What’s the matter?”
“Can we come in?”
“I, well, sure.”
“Where you going, sir?”
He suddenly realized that he didn’t have a clue.
“I… I don’t know.”
“You’re leaving but you don’t know where?”
“Little domestic problem…. You know how it is.”
They stared at him, stone-faced.
Monroe continued. “I guess I’m going to the city. Manhattan.”
Why not? It was as good a place as any.
“I see,” the smaller deputy said and then glanced at his towering partner. “Out of state,” he said significantly.
What did he mean by that?
The second deputy asked, “Is this your MasterCard number, Mr. Monroe?”
He looked at the slip the officer was holding out. “Uhm, yes it is. What’s this all about?”
“Did you place a mail order yesterday with Great Northern Outdoor Supplies in Vermont?”
Great Northern? Monroe had never heard of them. He told the officers this.
“I see,” said the large cop, not believing him.
“You do own a house on Harguson Lake outside of Hartford, don’t you?”
Again he felt the sizzling chill in his spine. Cathy was looking at him — with a look that said nothing would surprise her any longer.
“I—”
“It’s easy enough to check, sir. You may as well be honest.”
“Yes, I do.”
“When did you get it, Charles?” Cathy asked in a weary voice.
“Three years ago,” he said.
The shorter of the deputies persisted, “And you didn’t have an order sent by Great Northern via overnight delivery to the house on that property?”
“An order? No. What order?”
“A hunting knife.”
“A knife? No, of course not.”
“Mr. Monroe, the knife you ordered—”
“I didn’t order any knives.”
“—the knife ordered by someone
The South Shore Killer…
“Charlie!” Cathy gasped.
“I don’t know anything about any knives!” he cried. “I
“The state police got an anonymous tip about some bloody clothes on the shore of Harguson Lake. Turned out to be your property. A T-shirt from the victim two days ago. We also found another knife hidden near the T- shirt. Blood on it matches blood from the victim killed two months ago near Route fifteen.”
God, what was going on?
“No! This is a mistake! I’ve never killed anyone.”
“Oh, Charlie, how could you?”
“Mr. Monroe, you have the right to remain silent.” The large deputy continued with the rest of the Miranda warning, while the other slipped the cuffs on him.
They took his wallet from his pocket. His cell phone too.
“No, no, let me have the phone! I get to make a call. I know I do.”
“Yeah, but you have to use our phone, sir. Not yours.”
They led him outside, fierce grips on his biceps. Struggling, panicky. As they approached the squad car Monroe happened to look up. Across the street was a slightly built man with sandy hair. A pleasant smile on his face, he leaned against a tree as he watched the excitement.
He seemed very familiar…
“Wait,” Monroe cried. “Wait.”
But the sheriff’s deputies didn’t wait. They firmly shepherded Monroe into the back of their car and drove out of the driveway.
It was as they passed the man and Monroe glanced at him from a different angle that he recognized him. It was the commuter — the one who’d sat next to him on the train yesterday morning. The rude one who’d asked him to be quiet.
Wait… Oh, no. No!
Monroe began to understand. The man had heard all of his conversations — with Shapiro, with Carmen, the jewelry store. He’d taken down the names of everyone Monroe’d been talking to, taken down his MasterCard number, the name and address of his mistress and the details of his meeting with Hank Shapiro… and the location of his house in the country! He’d called Foxworth, he’d called Cathy, he’d ordered the hunting knife….
And he’d called the police too.
Because he was the South Shore Killer…
The man who murders because of the least affront — a fender bender, a barking dog.
With a wrenching gesture, Monroe twisted around and saw the man gazing at the receding squad car.
“We have to go back!” Monroe shouted. “We have to! He’s back there! The killer’s back there!”
“Yessir, now if you’ll just shut up, we’d appreciate it. We’ll be at the station house in no time.”
“No!” he wailed. “No, no, no!”
As he looked back one last time he saw the man lift his hand to his head. What was he doing? Waving? Monroe squinted. No, he was… He was mimicking the gesture of holding a telephone to his ear.
“Stop! He’s there! He’s back there!”
“Sir, that’ll be enough outta you,” the large deputy said.
A block behind them, the commuter finally lowered his hand, turned away from the street and started down the sidewalk, walking briskly in a contented lope.
THE WESTPHALIAN RING
