The Traveller (6 page)

‘You got it.’

The city washed past the windshield as they drove to the suspect’s house. The lieutenant drove swiftly, not speaking. Detective Barren tried to fix a picture of the suspect in her head and was unable. She chided herself; good police work required one to draw suspicions and conclusions on the basis of fact. She knew nothing about this man, she thought. Wait. Absorb. Collect. That was how she would come to know him. The lieutenant slowed the car and took an exit for the airport. A few blocks shy of the airport, he turned onto a nondescript street. It was a place of small cinderblock houses, with mostly Latin and black families. Many homes had chainlink fences surrounding them and large dogs patrolling within. This was an urban normality; the largest of dogs lived in the fringe areas, the working-class neighborhoods that were so vulnerable to robbery, where both husband and wife went off to work each day. The houses were set back slightly from the street, but without foliage. The street was devoid of trees, even the palms that seemed everywhere in the city. Detective Barren thought it was a singularly uninviting place; in the summer the heat probably turned the entire street into a single hot, insistently dusty place where tensions and angers bred with the same intensity that bacteria did.

At the end of the street she saw police cars lined up

around the last of the small brown houses. There was a

truck from the dog pound. The lieutenant motioned at it.

‘Seems the guy had one loyal Doberman. One of the SWAT guys had to blow it away.’ An airplane, wheels and flaps down, passed frighteningly close overhead, drowning out in a huge flood of noise anything else the lieutenant was going to add. Detective Barren thought that if she had to listen to that sound with any frequency, she would have become a killer as well.

They parked the car and pushed through a small crowd

of curious people who were watching the proceedings

silently. Detective Barren saw a pair of homicide men she

knew working the neighbors, making certain that they

obtained any workable leads before the press was all over

them. She nodded at the head of the team that was

processing the house. He was a former street cop, not unlike

herself, who had worked undercover a few too many times.

In one of his last cases there had been a rather singular

question about some drug money seized in a raid. A

hundred thousand dollars in twenties and hundreds had

been turned in to the property office, along with a kilo of

cocaine. The defendants were two college students from the

Northeast; they had told internal affairs that they had had

more than a quarter million in cash when the raid went

down, leaving some one hundred fifty thousand unac—

counted for. A sticky situation that had resulted in the

policeman being transferred and the two students receiving

greatly diminished charges. The money was never recovered. Like many cops, Detective Barren had steadfastly

refused to draw the obvious conclusion, preferring to

believe that someone had lied and hoping that it wasn’t

the policeman. Still, she thought as she approached him,

he was an extremely competent detective, and she was in

an odd way relieved. ‘How ya doing, Fred?’ she said. “Good, Merce. And you?’ “Okay, I guess.’

“I’m real sorry for the reason you’re here.’ “Thanks. Fred. I appreciate your saying so.’ ‘This is the creep, Merce. Stone cold solid. Just walk inside and you can feel it.’

“I hope so.’

He held the door open for her. It was cool inside the small house. She could hear the air conditioner blasting. Probably the detectives turned it up, she thought. Still, for an instant she shivered, wondering whether it was the sudden change in the temperature.

At first glance the house seemed typical for a student. The bookcases were made from gray cinderblocks and pine boards, and rows of paperbacks vied for space. The furniture seemed threadbare and modest, a couch with a faded Indian print covering it thrown over it to conceal a rend in the fabric, a pair of sitting chairs covered in plastic, a worn brown wood table scarred with cigarette burns. On the walls there were travel posters for Switzerland, Ireland, and Canada, all showing bucolic lush green settings. Detective Barren swept it all into her head, thinking so far it added up to nothing.

‘Pretty ordinary, huh?’

She turned to the voice.

‘Fred, show me something interesting.’

‘You just got to look a little closer. Check out the typewriter.’

There was a typewriter on the brown table with a sheet of paper in the platen. She stood over it and read what had been written:

unclean unclean unclean unclean unclean unclean unclean

unclean unclean unclean unclean unclean unclean unclean

God God God God God God God God God God God God God

I must wash the earth

‘We also found his trophy box.’

‘His what?’

‘Trophy box.’

‘I don’t…’

‘Forgive me, Merce, I forgot your connection.’ The detective paused. ‘Apparently he kept something from his victims. Or at least something from some of them. In the

closet was a shoebox with a bunch of clippings about the killings, right up through the murder of your niece. There were some earrings and a ring or two also. Let’s see, a woman’s shoe and a pair of panties with a bloodstain on

them ‘

He hesistated.

‘It was the kind of box that guys like us always pray for on one of these. I don’t know if there’s something there that will link him positively to every one of the killings, but thecre’s enough there to link him to some. And that means the sucker’s nailed, solid.’

She looked at him. ‘I hope so.’

‘Believe it. No doubt about it. The damn thing is, I’ll bet there’s a couple of crimes this creep’s done we didn’t even know about.’

He put his arm around her and started to lead her out. “Don’t worry. The search is legal. The evidence is there. The guy’s probably copping out now. All there is to worry about is that weird note. He’s probably whacko. Why don’t you go see for yourself.’ Thanks, Fred.’

‘Think nothing of it. Don’t hesitate to call, anytime, if you need to know something.’

‘I appreciate that. I feel better already.’ ‘Great.’

But she didn’t.

She turned to Lieutenant Burns, who was waiting for her outside. ‘I want to see this guy. In the flesh.’ She did not look back at the house as they pulled away. At the county homicide office, she and Lieutenant Burns were escorted into a darkened room which had a two-way mirror which overlooked a second room. She shook hands with several other policemen who were assembled watching the questioning in the adjacent area. One man was operating a tape recorder in a corner. No one spoke. For an instant she was reminded of hundreds of movies and television shows she had seen. Someone offered her a chair and whispered, ‘He’s still denying everything, and he seems

strong. They’ve been at him for two hours. I give him maybe another five minutes, maybe another five hours. Hard to tell.’

‘Did he ask for an attorney?’ she wondered. ‘Not yet. So far, so good.’ She thought of the typewritten note. ‘Is he straight?’ she asked the voice while looking at the suspect for the first time. He was a short, wiry-muscled man, powerfully built, like a lightweight wrestler or boxer, with wavy black hair and bright blue eyes, a combination that was oddly unsettling to Detective Barren. He wore jeans and an orange tee-shirt that celebrated the University of Miami’s national football championship. To the detective, he seemd coiled; she watched the muscles on his arm flex. She thought how powerful that small arm was, and suddenly envisioned the short, chopping stroke of the hammer, an instant white flash of pain exploding into darkened nothingness.

‘He’s weird. Quoted the Koran a minute ago. Listen.’

She concentrated on the three men in the interview room. Detective Moore was doing the questioning while Detective Pern.’ sat, taking a few notes, but mostly fixing the suspect with an unwavering harsh glance, his eyes following each motion the suspect made, narrowing as the subject pontificated, equivocated, or evaded, narrowing evilly and threateningly as if angered to the point of violence by the lack of truth. Each time the detective shifted in his chair, the suspect moved uneasily. Detective Barren thought it a masterful performance.

‘Tell me why you bought the pantyhose.’

‘It was a present.’

‘For whom?’

‘Someone at home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘Lebanon.’

‘What about the hammer?’

‘It was to fix my car.’

‘Where were you the night of September eighth?’

‘I was at home.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘I live alone.’

‘Why did you kill all those girls?’

‘I have killed nobody.’

‘So how come we found an earring belonging to.a young lady named Lisa Williams at your house? And what about a pair of bloody pink panties just like the pair Andrea Thomas was wearing when some creep snatched her off the Miami-Dade campus? I suppose those were a present, too? And you’ve been a busy boy with the clippings, huh? Like to clip stories out of the newspaper, huh?’

‘Those are my things! My special things! You had no right to my things! I demand their return!’

“Whoa, motherfucker. You ain’t demanding nothing.’

‘You are a devil.’

‘Yeah, maybe, ‘cause then I’ll see your ass in hell.’

‘Never! I am a true believer.’

‘What? A believer in murder?’

‘There are unclean people in the world.’

“Young women?’

“Young women especially.’

‘Why are young women unclean?’

“Hah! You know.’ Tell me anyway.’ ‘No. You too are unclean. Infidel!’ ‘Just me or all cops?’ ‘Policemen, all policemen.’ “You’d like to take a shot at me, huh?’ ‘You are an infidel. The Book tells me that it is holy to kill an infidel. The Prophet says it is a passageway to “Yeah, well, where you’re going, fella, ain’t much like ‘It means nothing. It is only flesh.’ Tell me about the flesh.’ The flesh is evil. Purity comes from thoughts.’ ‘What must you do with evil flesh?’ ‘Destroy it.’ “How many times did you do that?:

‘In my heart, many times.’

‘How about with your hands?’

‘This is between me and my master.’

‘Who is that?’

‘We have but one master who resides in the garden.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He speaks with me.’

‘Frequently?’

‘When he commands, I listen.’

‘What does he say?’

‘Educate yourself in the ways of the infidel. Learn her customs. Prepare for the holy war.’

‘When does the holy war begin?’

The suspect laughed greatly, pitching back in his chair, opening his mouth wide, letting the snorts and whines of his voice flood the small room. Tears started to roll down his cheeks. He continued laughing for several minutes, uninterrupted by the detectives. Detective Barren listened to the sound and felt it rend her heart. Finally the suspect calmed, until only an occasional giggle slipped from his lips. He stared directly at Detective Perry, then spoke in an even, dreadful voice:

‘It has begun already.’

Perry suddenly pushed himself out of his chair and smashed both of his fists down hard on the table separating him and the suspect. The sound was like a shot and Detective Barren saw the men in the room with her stiffen.

‘War on little girls, huh? Was fucking them part of the battle plan?’

The suspect stared frozen at the detective.

There was a silence.

When he spoke it was deliberate, awful.

‘I know nothing about your unclean women.’

He pointed a finger at the detective.

‘I will not speak more to you.’

The finger suddenly slapped down on a piece of paper in front of the suspect. Detective Barren knew it was a constitutional rights form. The suspect started to drum his

fingers on the page.

I do not have to speak to you …’

The finger drumming sounded like small-caliber pistol fire.

‘I would like an attorney present…’ The rapping sound increased in intensity. “Appoint one for me …’

The fingers curled into a fist and slammed on the table. ‘I know my rights. I know my rights. I know my rights. I know my rights. I know my rights.’

The two detectives stood, staring malevolently at the prisoner.

‘You do not scare me,’ he said. ‘God is with me, and I

fear none of your infidel justice. Bring me my attorney so

that I may enjoy my rights! So I may delight in my rights!

Do you hear? Sadegh Rhotzbadegh requires counsel, hah!’

The two detectives exited the room.

‘I am a true believer!’ he shouted. ‘A true believer!’

The suspect watched them go. Then he turned to the

mirror and raised his middle finger. The tape recorder

rolling silently in the corner captured another long, raucous

burst of laughter before being switched off by a policeman

who swore under his voice. Detective Barren stood up and

sighed. At least, she noted, the man who killed Susan is

easy to hate! And she took some comfort from that thought.

Time slid around Detective Barren’s emotions.

She resumed her day-to-day routine, forcing the arrest

of the Lebanese student into a location of diminished

prominence. There was a difficult day when she went to

Susan’s dormitory room and packed all the books and

clothes and papers away to send to her sister. She had

come across a half-finished love letter to a boy named

Jimmy, whom she had never met, that was filled with the

mixed gushings of a young woman leaving her childhood

behind so rapidly. She had read the words and connected

them to a tall, gawky boy who’d stood self-consciouslv to

the rear of the church during the service, and just to the

side at the gravesite, unsure what his position was in the

midst of the grief; embarassed, the detective thought, as