“The senator’s hoods were at the scene almost immediately. Been monitoring our radio. We’d been told over the air to cooperate with them one hundred percent. A real community effort finding these two kids. I’m surprised we spotted them first. Mob goons are usually better at this stuff than we are, you know?”
Myron knew. The mob had all the advantages over the police. They were closer to the city’s underbelly. They could pay top dollar. They didn’t have to worry about rules or laws or constitutional rights. They could inspire genuine fear.
“So what happened?” Myron asked.
“We started combing the area with flashlights, checking garbage Dumpsters, the whole bit. Cops and goons hand in hand. We found nothing for a while. Then we heard some gunshots. Henry and I ran to some dumpy apartment adjacent to where I’d shot Yeller. But Senator Cross’s men were already there.”
Blaine stopped. He leaned and gave Fred a good ear scratch. Fred still didn’t move except for the thumping tail. Still scratching his dog, Blaine said, “Well, you know what we found.” His voice was low and dead. “Yeller was dead. His mother was cradling him in her arms. She went through all these stages. First she just kept calling out his name over and over. Sweetly sometimes. Like she was trying to wake him up for school. Then she stroked the back of his head and rocked him and told him to go back to sleep. We all stood around and watched. Even the goons didn’t bother her.”
“What about the other gunshots?” Myron asked.
“What about them?”
“Didn’t you wonder where they had come from?”
“I guess I did,” he replied. “But I figured the security guys had shot after Swade. I didn’t think they’d be dumb enough to admit it, but that’s what I thought.”
“It never crossed your mind they might have shot Yeller?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I told you the mother went through stages.”
“Right.”
“Once she realized her boy wasn’t waking up again, she started pointing fingers and screaming. She wanted to know who had shot her boy. She wanted to look the killer in the eyes, the murderer who had shot her son on the street in cold blood. She said that Swade had dragged her boy in like that. Already shot up and dead.”
“She said all that? That Swade dragged him in and that he was already shot?”
“Yes.”
Silence. No water rippling. No birds chirping. Not even whittling. Several minutes passed before Blaine looked up and squinted. Then he said, “Cold.”
“What?” Myron asked.
“That mother. If she was lying about who killed her boy. I always wondered why there were no repercussions. The mother never made a fuss. She didn’t go to the newspapers. She didn’t press charges. She didn’t demand an explanation.” He shook his head. “But what could have made her do that to her own flesh and blood? How could they have gotten to her so fast? With money? With threats? What?”
“I don’t know,” Myron said.
Jimmy Blaine finished whittling. It was a rabbit. Pretty good one too. A bird finally chirped, but it wasn’t a pretty sound. More like a caw than a melody. Blaine spun his wheelchair around. “You want something to eat?” he asked. “I’m about to make lunch.”
Myron looked at his watch. It was getting late. He had to get back to the office for his meeting with Ned Tunwell. “Thanks, but I really have to get going.”
“Some other time then. When you’re all done with this.”
“Yes,” Myron said.
Blaine blew the wood dust off the rabbit. “Still don’t get it,” he said.
“What?”
He stared at his finished handiwork, turning the rabbit over in his hand, studying it from every angle. “Could the mother have really been that frosty?” he asked. “How much money did they offer her? How much fright did they put into her? Hell, is there enough money or frights in the world for a mother to do that to her son?” He shook his head, dropped the wooden rabbit into his lap. “I just don’t get it.”
Myron didn’t get it either.
41
Myron got back into his Ford Taurus and headed east. He drove several miles without seeing a car. Mostly he saw trees. Lots of trees. Yes, the great outdoors. Myron was not an outdoors kind of guy. He didn’t hunt or fish or do any of that. The appeal seemed clear, but it just wasn’t for him. Something about being alone in the woods always reminded him of Ned Beatty in Deliverance. He needed people. He needed movement. He needed noise. City noise—as opposed to squeal-like-a-pig noise.
He now knew a lot more about the deaths of both Alexander Cross and Curtis Yeller than he’d known twenty-four hours ago, but he still didn’t know if any of it was relevant to what happened to Valerie Simpson. And that was what he was after. Digging into a sensational six-year-old murder might be fun, but it was beside the point. He wanted Valerie Simpson’s murderer. He wanted to find the person who had decided to snuff out that young, tortured life. Call it righting a wrong. Call it having a rescue or hero complex. Call it chivalry. Didn’t matter. It was far simpler to Myron: Valerie deserved better.
The roads were still abandoned. The foliage on both sides of the road blurred into green walls. He started putting together what he knew. Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller had been spotted by Jimmy Blaine and his partner. A chase had ensued. Leaving aside the question of whether it was a legitimate shooting or not, Jimmy Blaine fired at Curtis Yeller. One of Blaine’s bullets probably hit Curtis Yeller in the ribs, but the key fact is that somebody else shot Yeller in the head at close range. Somebody who was using a different caliber gun. Somebody who was not a cop.
So who shot Curtis Yeller?
The answer now seemed fairly obvious. Senator Cross’s men—thugs or security forces or whatever they were—had been carrying firearms. Both Amanda West and Jimmy Blaine had confirmed that. They certainly had the opportunity. They certainly had the motive. It didn’t matter if Cross had lied to Myron or not. Either way it would be in the senator’s best interest for Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade to end up dead. Live suspects could talk. Live suspects could tell tales of drug use. Live suspects could counter the claim that Alexander Cross had died a hero. Dead men tell no tales. More important, dead men do not dispute spin doctors.
As for Errol Swade—the mysterious “escapee”—he’d almost assuredly been killed, probably in that gunfire Jimmy Blaine heard. The senator’s men could have hid the body and dumped it later. Not definite, but again most likely. Errol Swade had a lot working against him. He was no genius. He was six-four. Myron knew from personal experience it was difficult to hide when you were that big. The odds of Swade eluding the police dragnet for so long—not to mention the mob’s underworld army—were, as they say, statistically insignificant.
Myron knew. The mob had all the advantages over the police. They were closer to the city’s underbelly. They could pay top dollar. They didn’t have to worry about rules or laws or constitutional rights. They could inspire genuine fear.
“So what happened?” Myron asked.
“We started combing the area with flashlights, checking garbage Dumpsters, the whole bit. Cops and goons hand in hand. We found nothing for a while. Then we heard some gunshots. Henry and I ran to some dumpy apartment adjacent to where I’d shot Yeller. But Senator Cross’s men were already there.”
Blaine stopped. He leaned and gave Fred a good ear scratch. Fred still didn’t move except for the thumping tail. Still scratching his dog, Blaine said, “Well, you know what we found.” His voice was low and dead. “Yeller was dead. His mother was cradling him in her arms. She went through all these stages. First she just kept calling out his name over and over. Sweetly sometimes. Like she was trying to wake him up for school. Then she stroked the back of his head and rocked him and told him to go back to sleep. We all stood around and watched. Even the goons didn’t bother her.”
“What about the other gunshots?” Myron asked.
“What about them?”
“Didn’t you wonder where they had come from?”
“I guess I did,” he replied. “But I figured the security guys had shot after Swade. I didn’t think they’d be dumb enough to admit it, but that’s what I thought.”
“It never crossed your mind they might have shot Yeller?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I told you the mother went through stages.”
“Right.”
“Once she realized her boy wasn’t waking up again, she started pointing fingers and screaming. She wanted to know who had shot her boy. She wanted to look the killer in the eyes, the murderer who had shot her son on the street in cold blood. She said that Swade had dragged her boy in like that. Already shot up and dead.”
“She said all that? That Swade dragged him in and that he was already shot?”
“Yes.”
Silence. No water rippling. No birds chirping. Not even whittling. Several minutes passed before Blaine looked up and squinted. Then he said, “Cold.”
“What?” Myron asked.
“That mother. If she was lying about who killed her boy. I always wondered why there were no repercussions. The mother never made a fuss. She didn’t go to the newspapers. She didn’t press charges. She didn’t demand an explanation.” He shook his head. “But what could have made her do that to her own flesh and blood? How could they have gotten to her so fast? With money? With threats? What?”
“I don’t know,” Myron said.
Jimmy Blaine finished whittling. It was a rabbit. Pretty good one too. A bird finally chirped, but it wasn’t a pretty sound. More like a caw than a melody. Blaine spun his wheelchair around. “You want something to eat?” he asked. “I’m about to make lunch.”
Myron looked at his watch. It was getting late. He had to get back to the office for his meeting with Ned Tunwell. “Thanks, but I really have to get going.”
“Some other time then. When you’re all done with this.”
“Yes,” Myron said.
Blaine blew the wood dust off the rabbit. “Still don’t get it,” he said.
“What?”
He stared at his finished handiwork, turning the rabbit over in his hand, studying it from every angle. “Could the mother have really been that frosty?” he asked. “How much money did they offer her? How much fright did they put into her? Hell, is there enough money or frights in the world for a mother to do that to her son?” He shook his head, dropped the wooden rabbit into his lap. “I just don’t get it.”
Myron didn’t get it either.
41
Myron got back into his Ford Taurus and headed east. He drove several miles without seeing a car. Mostly he saw trees. Lots of trees. Yes, the great outdoors. Myron was not an outdoors kind of guy. He didn’t hunt or fish or do any of that. The appeal seemed clear, but it just wasn’t for him. Something about being alone in the woods always reminded him of Ned Beatty in Deliverance. He needed people. He needed movement. He needed noise. City noise—as opposed to squeal-like-a-pig noise.
He now knew a lot more about the deaths of both Alexander Cross and Curtis Yeller than he’d known twenty-four hours ago, but he still didn’t know if any of it was relevant to what happened to Valerie Simpson. And that was what he was after. Digging into a sensational six-year-old murder might be fun, but it was beside the point. He wanted Valerie Simpson’s murderer. He wanted to find the person who had decided to snuff out that young, tortured life. Call it righting a wrong. Call it having a rescue or hero complex. Call it chivalry. Didn’t matter. It was far simpler to Myron: Valerie deserved better.
The roads were still abandoned. The foliage on both sides of the road blurred into green walls. He started putting together what he knew. Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller had been spotted by Jimmy Blaine and his partner. A chase had ensued. Leaving aside the question of whether it was a legitimate shooting or not, Jimmy Blaine fired at Curtis Yeller. One of Blaine’s bullets probably hit Curtis Yeller in the ribs, but the key fact is that somebody else shot Yeller in the head at close range. Somebody who was using a different caliber gun. Somebody who was not a cop.
So who shot Curtis Yeller?
The answer now seemed fairly obvious. Senator Cross’s men—thugs or security forces or whatever they were—had been carrying firearms. Both Amanda West and Jimmy Blaine had confirmed that. They certainly had the opportunity. They certainly had the motive. It didn’t matter if Cross had lied to Myron or not. Either way it would be in the senator’s best interest for Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade to end up dead. Live suspects could talk. Live suspects could tell tales of drug use. Live suspects could counter the claim that Alexander Cross had died a hero. Dead men tell no tales. More important, dead men do not dispute spin doctors.
As for Errol Swade—the mysterious “escapee”—he’d almost assuredly been killed, probably in that gunfire Jimmy Blaine heard. The senator’s men could have hid the body and dumped it later. Not definite, but again most likely. Errol Swade had a lot working against him. He was no genius. He was six-four. Myron knew from personal experience it was difficult to hide when you were that big. The odds of Swade eluding the police dragnet for so long—not to mention the mob’s underworld army—were, as they say, statistically insignificant.
