Devil's Playground (18 page)

Thelma quietly slipped in the office and placed a cup of coffee on the corner of the desk in front of Sam.

“Thanks, Thelma.”

Thelma retreated to her desk.

“It gets worse,” Charlie said.

“It does?” Sam blew on the steaming coffee, then took a careful sip.

“Remember when Walter had that break in at his store a couple of years ago?”

“Sure.”

“He applied for and got a gun permit.”

“Yeah?”

“To get a permit, you have to be finger printed. This morning, I couldn’t get fresh prints from Walter because of his injuries and the need to get him to the hospital as soon as possible, so I pulled his old ones. To compare them with the prints we lifted at Roberto’s.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “So we could exclude known prints and concentrate on those we couldn’t ID.”

“Walter’s prints were all over Roberto’s place. Front door, kitchen counter and drawer handles, and, of course, the knife. Other than Roberto’s and Walter’s, I didn’t find any other prints.”

“So?” Sam said.

“The prints we lifted at Roger and Miriam’s? The ones we couldn’t ID?”

Sam shook her head. “Don’t tell me.”

“They’re Walter’s.”

Sam was speechless. She stared at Charlie as if he were a space alien. Her mind spewed in a thousand directions like an out of control fire hose. Finally, she said, “So, Walter did these murders?”

“That’s what the prints say.” Charlie leaned back in his chair and propped a boot on the corner of his desk.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Sam said. “Could he have a connection with Garrett? A follower? A previous friendship?”

“Damned if I see one.” Charlie tossed a frayed toothpick in the trashcan beside his desk and stuck a fresh one in his mouth. “Hopefully, Cat Roberts can pull Walter through and we can ask him. How’s he doing?”

“Still in surgery. The word is that everything’s going well.”

“Keep your fingers crossed.”

Sam stood and picked up her still full coffee cup from Charlie’s desk. “I think I’ll have a little chat with our guest.”

Charlie nodded. “Catch you later.”

*

Before Sam confronted Garrett, she retreated to her office and flopped into the chair behind her desk. She spun toward the window, sipped her coffee, and looked out on downtown Mercer’s Corner, where people went about their business. The town looked the way it did any other day. Demons didn’t run through the streets. Monsters didn’t hide in the shadows waiting for unsuspecting victims. Slobbering ghouls and goblins didn’t feed on the people who walked by.

None of this made sense. Walter Limpke. He was one of them. Not an outsider or stranger or beast from hell like Garrett. He was simple, soft-spoken, religious.

Weren’t ugly crimes, grisly murders committed by monsters with evil eyes and malevolent looks? Not normal, average people. People you couldn’t recognize as defective or deviant. People like your neighbors, friends, loved ones.

The shock was more than the act itself. More than the brutal mutilations. It was the culprit. If you can’t see the monster, discern him from normal people, how can you protect yourself? What clues would help reveal the danger? Life, unlike the movies, didn’t have background music to forewarn evil. Hell, Darth Vader had his own theme song.

Sam entered the jail area, snagged a folding chair, spun it around, and sat down, resting her forearms on the back. She eyed Garrett through the bars. He sat on his bunk, returning her gaze.

“What can you tell me about the murder of Roberto Sanchez?”

“Nothing.”

“And Walter Limpke? What’s your connection with him?”

“None. I don’t really know Mr. Limpke.” His expression was flat, emotionless.

“And you had nothing to do with these killings?”

“I told you. Lucifer commands all.”

“Lucifer made you kill those kids and he made Walter kill Roberto and the Hargroves?”

“Of course. But, I can see you don’t believe that.”

“That would stretch reality to say the least.”

“Which reality? The one that says God made the Heavens and the Earth and all the animals, then scraped some dirt off his boot, made a Gumby doll, blew life into it, and called it Adam?”

“I’m not sure I buy that one either.”

“Sounds like a good Catholic upbringing.”

“Maybe.” How did this arrogant prick know so much? “OK, Slick...”

“Beelzebub.”

“That’s right. I forgot. OK, Beetle Juice...”

“When you mock me, you mock my master. He is not as forgiving as I.”

“I’m terrified.”

“You will be.”

A cold chill rippled through her, depositing ice crystals in her blood. It wasn’t the words that spooked her. It was...was what? His black eyes? His calm self-assuredness? She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about him that was so unsettling.

“Enlighten me,” she said. “Tell me how you think this shit went down.”

“Are you versed in the principle of determinism?

No, you jerk. I’m not VERSED in anything.

“I don’t believe so,” she said calmly.

“Too bad. Your understanding would be so much deeper.”

“Don’t patronize me. If you have something to say, say it.”

“It was you who asked.”

Go ahead. Pull your gun and shoot him.

She took a deep calming breath. “By all means. Share your wisdom with me.”

“Determinism simply states that everything is predestined, scripted. Everything and everyone.”

“Then, these murders were inevitable?”

“Yes.”

“Unalterable? Not preventable?”

“Precisely.”

She leaned forward, capturing his gaze. “Why, then, do I have the feeling that if I put a bullet through your black fucking heart, all this would stop?”

“It wouldn’t.”

His calm arrogance was infuriating. “I see.”

“Lucifer controls all. Me. You. Mr. Limpke. Everything that has or will happen is as it should be. As it must be.”

“Like your ‘the devil made me do it’ defense?”

“Or allowed me to fulfill my destiny.”

“And Walter Limpke?” she asked. “Was it his destiny to murder and mutilate three people?”

“Apparently.”

“I don’t buy it. I don’t know how, but you’re involved in these murders. You know it and I know it.”

“But, Samantha. I’ve been here. Detained as it were.”

“Don’t call me Samantha. Only my mother called me Samantha.”

He smiled. “I know.”

After leaving Garrett, Sam walked to the gym and released her frustration in a furious workout. A five-mile run on the rooftop track and an aggressive circuit training session were followed by a half hour of pounding the heavy bag. Now, she was into the fourth round of sparing with Jimmy Ryker.

Sam bounced two left jabs off Jimmy’s chin, followed by a solid right hook to the body. She slipped a jab, moving her head to the right as Jimmy’s left hand flicked by her ear, then deflected an overhand right. Bending her knees and sliding her left foot forward, she slammed a left hook into his ribs and a right and left to his head.

Jimmy backpedaled, circling to her right. He flicked two left jabs, both missing, as Sam bobbed right and then left. He landed a right hook on her shoulder and a short left to her head.

Sam ignored both punches and released a left-right-left combination, which backed Jimmy into the ropes. He wrapped his left arm around her head, clinching her against him, but she dropped out of his grasp and, from her crouch, unloaded another three-punch combination.

The bell rang.

Sam shook fatigue from her arms.

“You did a lot of good things in that round,” Jimmy said.

“Such as?” She walked to the towel, which hung over the ropes, trapped it between her gloves, and mopped sweat from her face.

“You’re slipping those left jabs better and your combinations are crisper, sharper.”

“Thanks.”

“There at the end, when you slipped out of the clinch and landed the three punch combo. That was beautiful. Few boxers I know can maneuver on the inside like that.”

“I didn’t think about it. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“That’s what I mean. Good instincts. If you have to think, it’s gone. Act and react.”

“I do feel more comfortable in the ring.”

“If you fight like this in Vegas, you’ll have no problem.”

“Let’s hope.” She clamped her left glove beneath her right arm and pulled her hand free, then yanked the right glove off. She stepped through the ropes. “I’d better get back to the office. See you tomorrow.”

After showering and dressing in jeans and a black pullover shirt, she strapped on her gun belt, nestling the weapon into the small of her back, and grabbed her jacket from her locker.

The sun had just kissed the horizon and the afternoon wind had begun to calm by the time she walked the block to her office. Before she could open the door, Betty McCumber and Marjorie Bleekman stopped her.

“Sam?” Betty said. “We heard about Roberto.”

“Yes. It’s sad,” Sam said.

“We’re scared,” Marjorie said while fiddling with the clasp on her purse.

“Of what?”

“Three jurors have died,” Marjorie continued. “Connie. Miriam. And now Roberto. We sat on that jury. What if he comes after us next?” Betty nodded in agreement.

“Who?”

“Garrett,” they said in unison.

Sam shook her head. “Relax. Garrett’s in jail. He didn’t do it.”

Betty jerked her chin up. “Then, somebody did it for him.”

“Maybe,” Sam conceded.

“I bet it was those kids,” Betty said, pointing toward the groupies a half block away.

“No, it wasn’t them, either.”

“Lanny Mills thinks so,” Marjorie said.

Sam couldn’t completely suppress the irritation that surged inside her. “He’s wrong. And he should keep his opinions to himself. Don’t let his wild ideas upset you.”

“Well, then, if it wasn’t those hippies, who was it?” Marjorie glared at her defiantly.

“We don’t know.”

“So, what do we do? Just wait to killed?” Betty said, her eyes collapsing in an angry squint.

Sam softened, sensing their fear. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise. Why don’t you go home and keep your doors locked. If you hear or see anything, call us.”

“If it’s not too late,” Betty snapped. “Why don’t you just ship Garrett off somewhere?”

“As soon as his sentencing is complete, he’ll be sent to San Quentin.”

“I hope we’re still around to see it,” Betty said. She grabbed Marjorie’s arm and they walked away.

Goddamn Lanny Mills.

Sam watched the two women cross the street, then pushed open the door to the Sheriff’s Department. When she entered, Thelma looked up from her desk.

“Oh, Sam. Someone called for you. About ten minutes ago.”

“Who?”

“Wouldn’t say. Said he had some information and would wait for you at Red’s.”

“He?”

“Yeah. He had a sexy voice.” Thelma gave her that you-should-meet-a-nice-guy-and-settle-down look.

Sam frowned. “I’ll call the hospital and check on Walter first.” She headed toward her office.

“Don’t keep him waiting too long,” Thelma yelled after her.

Jesus, Sam thought. Thelma and Millie. It was like having two mothers.

*

After Nathan called the Sheriff’s office from his car phone and left a message for Sam, he walked toward Red’s, an oasis of sin in an otherwise boring town. “RED'S”, spelled out in buzzing red neon, hung above a wooden door in dire need of painting. When he pushed the heavy door open, loud music and laughter reached out and pulled him inside. It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Red’s was large and smelled of beer and testosterone. Even though it was still short of five o’clock, the patrons, a collection of truckers, bikers, and cowboys, hugged long-neck beers and from their faces they had hugged quite a few already. Well past tipsy, they were rushing headlong toward bulletproof drunk.

The dim lighting and smoky haze added to the sinister feel of the place. Obviously, they hadn’t heard of California’s “No Smoking” law. Or more likely, didn’t care.

A single light over the bar to his right, two low-slung pool table lamps in the far left corner, and a dozen neon beer signs, which decorated the walls in no discernible pattern, provided the meager light. A three-piece band, ground out country music, while half a dozen couples did some form of the Texas Two-step on a small dance floor in front of the band.

Several cowboy-types sat at the bar, sucking down longnecks and talking with Red. Or at least who he assumed was Red--a huge black man with caramel skin and closely cropped sandy red hair who had somehow managed to stuff his bulk into a black Harley Davidson tee shirt. Three scruffy, scarred, and tattooed men, clutching cues, argued heatedly beside one of the pool tables.

“That’s a scratch, man. You lose.”

“Fuck if that’s so.”

“You owe me, asshole.”

“I’ll give it to your mother the next time I screw her.”

The argument ceased as soon as they saw Nathan. Their eyes said it all. Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?

Nathan quickly weaved his way through the dozen or so tables that dotted the floor and slipped into a vacant red vinyl booth along the far wall. Suspicious eyes followed his every move. He decided getting the shit kicked out of you, or worse, could happen most any night at Red’s.

A well-nourished waitress, crammed into under-sized jeans and a red and white bowling shirt with “Lucy” embroidered on the front, sidled up to the booth.

“I’m Shirley. What can I get you?”

“Bud Lite.”

“Sissy beer, huh? Anything else?”

He thought about asking her why she was wearing Lucy’s shirt but thought better of it. “No. That’s all.”

She waddled to the bar and said something to Red who glanced past her at him and smiled, shaking his head. He popped the top off a Bud Light and handed it to her.

The Pabst Blue Ribbon sign above his head hissed and sputtered, it’s light dimming and brightening erratically. He scooted a foot or two along the red vinyl, putting a little more distance between himself and the sizzling neon, just in case.