“Bodge,” I said, tears in my eyes and on my cheeks. “The number’s in that book under ‘Bodge.’”
“That son of a bitch is crazy,” he muttered while he dialed. “I’ve heard of jealous lovers, but this is un-fucking-believable. Don’t they sew fingers back on now? What do they do — give it to you like a pulled tooth and — Bodge Scully, please? Oh no? Well, can I reach him at home? This is important. Mike Alexander. Yeah, Alexander... I’m at Jackie Sheppard’s and it’s important. Thank you.”
“Why would he do this to me, Mike? Why? I can’t believe that anyone would do something like this!”
Mike stared at the finger, about an inch and a quarter of it with protruding flesh on the end. It looked like wax; the fingernail was clean and perfect. He scratched his head. “Wonder what law he broke? Littering? Illegal disposal of body parts?” I thought I might be sick; if I hadn’t been so scared and upset, I could have been sick. Mike kept muttering. “Harassment, that would work. Too bad there isn’t a law against being fucked-up. This guy is gonzo.”
“God, is this happening?”
“Oh good, you have coffee,” he said.
“You’re kidding, right? You could drink coffee?”
He went to the kitchen and poured himself a cup. “I drink too much coffee, you know? Maybe I associate coffee and corpses. I got desensitized looking at dead bodies; they almost never bother me anymore. Well, they bother me when they’re —”
“Stop! Don’t tell me what kind bother you! If that... that... thing doesn’t bother you, I don’t want to hear about it!”
“Yeah, okay.” He wrapped his towel around again, securing it. He shivered. “I got the carpet wet,” he said.
“I almost got the carpet wet, too.”
The phone rang and he picked it up. “Hello? Hiya, Bodge. Got a finger here wrapped up in Jackie’s newspaper. I know, I know... far out, huh? Okey-dokey.” He hung up and looked at me. “He’s coming right over; can I throw some clothes on?”
“You aren’t going to leave me alone with that thing, are you?”
“Well, Jack, I’d say come upstairs with me, but to tell you the truth, I think you ought to guard it. This shit is so weird it wouldn’t surprise me if you went to the toilet and came back and it was gone. I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all.”
“Well, I get it!” I raged. “I damn sure get it — he’s playing with my mind! It was him all along, getting in my house. Think about it — he asks me to come out to his place for a date. He calls me at work so he knows I’m not home. He might have called me from here for all I know. And then he plays with my radio alarm so the music would come on in the middle of the night. He asked me to spend the night with him; he must have had that fright in mind for me if I refused and came home! And if I did stay, it would get me the next night. You know, your radio-alarm only plays for an hour and then shuts itself off.”
“Look, I’m going to get some pants —”
“And he just happens to call me the Sunday night I get home from L.A. He calls after I’ve been home about an hour so he knows by then I know. Wearing me down, making me feel unsafe so I’ll do the sensible thing and ask him to move in and take care of me, protect me.”
“Jack, chill out till I get some pants —”
“Then he gets me in his grip and decides we’re going steady; that’s right. So if I won’t play his game, he’s going to let me know that he’s a bad, bad boy who can always get to me and scare the living shit out of me even if I have a bona fide cop staying in the house.” I stopped for a moment, “Why don’t you get some pants on?”
Mike paused only long enough to throw the bolt on the front door before jogging up the stairs. I continued to rage silently downstairs. If I had seen Tom Wahl’s face in the window, I would have found my gun and put a bullet in his head. I was convinced that this lunatic was somehow, for some reason, after me. He wanted to scare me to death, drive me insane, something. I knew in my heart that he was crazy.
And I felt I had to nail him. It was a survival instinct.
By the time Bodge arrived, I was roaring with anger, indignation, and a shuddering fear that made me furious. I was outraged at the injustice of this; why would someone do something like this to me, a woman alone who was trying desperately to start over after losing an only child? To do this at all was cruel; to do this under such circumstances seemed to me inhuman.
“It’s Tom Wahl, and you can’t convince me otherwise,” I said. “I know all about this bastard. I checked him out before I ever accepted a date with him, and he didn’t check great. There’s more to him,” I said. I handed Bodge the file that Mike had brought.
“Aw, Jack, you shouldn’t —” Mike began to protest. “Bodge, you gotta understand, she’s distraught, and I pulled all that stuff from L.A. and you know how it goes with police reports. I’m not supposed to have that stuff here. If it wasn’t Jack I was helping out, I wouldn’t...”
“I understand, Mike,” Bodge said. “Let me have a look; this’ll go no further.”
“Yeah, look it over,” I urged. “Bear in mind that the case is not closed. While he’s been playing the polite, reclusive carpenter around here, back in the big city they still think he could have murdered his wife and daughter. He wasn’t indicted, but they haven’t found any other suspects either. He’s a son of a bitch, Bodge. I just know it.”
“Take it easy, Jack,” Mike said to me.
“I can’t take it easy anymore, Mike. I was set up and used. I danced with him Friday night, Bodge, right before he had his ‘accident.’ He gave me a lot of grief for being at the fair with my ex-husband, told me he didn’t believe I was really alone. He was pouty and sulky; he talked mean and avoided everyone else. He never said hello to Roberta and Harry and Sue. And then this. He was mad at me because I wasn’t going along with his game plan! He’s nuts.”
“We’ll check it, Jackie,” Bodge said. He said it smoothly; authoritatively. The tone of his voice made me feel that I’d been frantic, out of control. I started to cry.
“She’s upset, Bodge. Why don’t you take that thing out of here and see what you can find out. And call us later.”
“I’m upset, not wrong,” I argued softly. “Ask Wharton about him; Wharton insists that Tom drives up and down the road to Sixteen with his lights off. Wharton doesn’t trust him — I’ll bet Wharton thinks there’s something wrong with this guy.”
“That business about the fence?” Bodge asked.
“Yeah, how about that?”
“That was a long while back, Jackie. I don’t know if it got resolved, but it went away. That doesn’t have anything to do with the rest of this stuff. And I’m pretty damn sure that Tom isn’t sneaking in people’s houses shutting off their dishwashers and unplugging their crockpots.”
“How can you be so sure?” I demanded angrily.
“Because I don’t think he has the time; because a lot of people know him and someone, somewhere, would have seen him or his truck. I can’t say for sure. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t think it would be him.”
“Well, I think maybe it is!”
“Anyone would be upset by this, Jackie,” Bodge said.
He took that disgusting appendage away. It took me a couple of hours to calm down at all. I was wanting to talk it to death; I couldn’t get off the subject for five minutes.
During that morning, while I followed Mike around the house ranting and raving, he occupied himself with some police-type busywork. First of all, he found a dormer window upstairs that was unlocked and could have been used by someone to enter and leave my house. A ladder would be required, and I had one in my unlocked garage. There was nothing in there I valued, so I hadn’t locked it. I didn’t park my car in it, detached as it was from the house. My yard, though not huge, was fenced, surrounded by thick shrubs and tall trees and concealed from the neighbors’ view. Anyone could wander around back there without being seen.
“This is it, Jack,” he said, then explained as he walke
d me around the yard. Any kid could come down through the backyards at night or right up the unlit driveway to the back gate without being seen; anybody with an imagination could open the side garage door, use the ladder, climb in the unlocked window of my spare room, and sneak out the back door, put the ladder away, and leave as quietly as he came.
“Except it was him, not ‘anybody.’”
“I don’t know. Jack. Wait and see.”
“Too bad he didn’t try it when Sweeny was on my couch,” I said. I would have loved the sight of that. The feeling of not being able to catch the bastard created an anger in me that was hot and irrepressible.
“Bodge thinks it’s a couple of kids doing the phantom act,” Mike said.
“During school?” I asked, unconvinced.
“Well, I guess those days of playing hooky to go fishing are over.”
“You don’t think it’s him, do you?”
“Regardless of what I think, there is no convincing evidence, Jack. There wasn’t enough evidence in L.A. to indict him for a murder in which he was the only suspect. You can’t make assumptions like this.”
“And the finger?”
“Yuk,” he said. “Really sick.”
Here’s what Mike had in mind. He was going to spend Monday morning putting on some more locks. He knew of a couple of types that could be used from the inside only: a hinge lock and a bar lock. They would secure the house in such a way that entry without breaking down a door or breaking a window would be virtually impossible. At least I would be safe while inside.
Then he surprised me with a fingerprint kit and taught me how to lift prints. For myself. He said it would take a police computer to run them, but I could gather them and mail them to him if I wanted to.
“What for?”
“Well, for starters, Lawler’s prints are on file even though he wasn’t booked or charged. He did do military service. And if this funny business keeps up, you might as well be able to lift a print. Doesn’t sound like Bodge is going to print him. I brought it so you could have it; I forgot about it when Sweeny came to tell you this stuff was happening all over town. Now, I guess, you ought to have it even if you never use it.”
“I hope I’ll never use it. God, how I wish I could get a look inside that guy’s head. He’s had me up and down since the day I met him. I think he’s swell, then I think he’s trouble, then I decide I overreacted and he’s perfectly normal, then I’m convinced he’s a lunatic. I’m ready to pack up and run for my life.”
“You can do that, you know,” he said. “You can pack a bag and come back with me. We could get your stuff later.”
“Do you think I’m in danger?” I asked.
“Logically? No. There just isn’t anything worse than being scared witless. But there isn’t any reason you have to stay here. It’s a great place and all, but life’s too short to put up with this crap. You wanna leave? Leave.”
“And quit? Before I understand this? Before I know what this is about? No. I’m staying. He’s not running me off with spilled cranberry juice and a chopped-off finger.”
“Just remember, Jack,” he said, “you can change your mind any time. If you feel like you ought to get out of here, don’t think about it for long.”
After playing with the fingerprint kit for a couple of hours, drinking coffee, and talking, we ran out of things to say and do. I put the recorder on in case Bodge called and we walked down to the fair.
The Sunday afternoon was quiet and so was I. I saw some familiar faces, but since I didn’t feel it would be prudent to tell anyone how I’d spent my Sunday morning, I didn’t chat much. We took Mexican food from a street vendor to my house, where Mike ate with gusto. My appetite had not yet recovered. There was no message from Bodge on my machine.
“I’ll stay longer than I’ve planned if you want me to,” Mike said.
I was exhausted, frustrated, and angry. “No, Mike, you have to go tomorrow. This isn’t your job anymore.”
“If you need me...”
“If I need you, so what? You have a wife, kids. This isn’t your bone to chew on. Anyway, I get the feeling that both you and Bodge think I’m overreacting. I hate that. From a woman’s point of view, it’s so much worse. Women are always being accused of being hysterical — and I’m not hysterical.”
“Maybe a little hysterical.”
“Not!” I insisted.
One thing a woman hates to be accused of is hysteria. Or jumping to conclusions, which is what Bodge said I had done. He called at about nine that night. The coincidence was again bizarre, again indisputable.
“There was a break-in at a mortuary and the body of an elderly man, which was embalmed yesterday, was violated. Someone or several someones cut off two fingers and two toes. So far three of these appendages have turned up around town — tucked inside the Sunday morning newspaper. The finger is not Tom Wahl’s.”
“How do you know for sure?” I wanted to know.
“Several ways, though I’m planning to have the lab match these up for me. We have recovered Tom’s amputated finger from the hospital lab, two fingers and one toe from the corpse. Jackie, I’m sure. The hospital had iced the finger Tom lost. They talked briefly about taking him by ambulance or Airevac to a hospital where a specialist could try to sew it back on—but Tom scrapped that idea.
“The body at the mortuary was in one piece Saturday afternoon, the break-in was Saturday night, and Tom was hospitalized at that time. He wasn’t in good shape. He was in pain and full of pain medication.
“He was discharged this morning. I drove him home from the hospital and Sweeny followed us in Tom’s truck.
“Jackie,” he said solemnly, “it just wasn’t him. And I know before the lab tells me, it isn’t his finger you found.”
“You’re sure?” I asked very softly.
“I’m sure.”
“Who is doing this to me?”
“I don’t know, but you haven’t been singled out. It’s being done to some other people, too. Much as you’re going to hate the sound of this, I believe it is random and not linked to any other crime or crimes in this area.”
“Random?”
“Like random vandalism, random anything. Like someone happens to think you’re in a good ‘hit’ house; maybe your yard isn’t well lit or it’s been noticed that you’re not home much. Burglars tend to be able to spot unlocked doors, dim passageways, concealed entries...”
“Random,” I said aloud.
“I took the opportunity to interview Tom. I’d better tell you this. He believes that the information about his former life in Los Angeles came through you. He would think that, of course, if you’re the only one he’s confided in.”
“What did you say to him, Bodge?” I asked weakly, sitting down.
“I asked him what this business in L.A. was about and he didn’t miss a beat. Told me the whole thing from start to finish. Everything he says matches everything in that file. He knows for a fact that he is still suspected.”
“And what do you think? You think he’s innocent, don’t you?”
“Doesn’t matter, Jackie. There’s nothing on him as far as I’m concerned. Even if I had an instinct about this, which I can’t say I have, there’s nothing on him. He hasn’t so much as run a stop sign in my town. Now it’s time to let it go.”
Let it go, he said. Just like that.
“I can’t see the good it’ll do to keep working this in your head. Get you some good, strong locks, keep an eye on things, avoid him if you don’t feel right about him... There isn’t anything else to be done.”
“And don’t call you if my toilet seats are up or a wineglass is turned over on my white linen tablecloth?” I asked emotionally.
“Jackie, you call me for anything at all. I want you to understand, I do not consider Tom Wahl, or whatever his name is, a suspect in these incidents. And you might be relieved to know that he asked if there was any reason he couldn’t leave town for a while. He’s decided to get away, by himsel
f.”
“Why?”
“Pressure, maybe. If I recall, he takes a winter vacation sometimes anyway. He’s talking about closing up his shop and house and leaving for the winter. He asked me to check on his place from time to time to be sure it’s okay.”
I was deflated. I didn’t know at the time if I felt embarrassed, relieved, or still frightened.
“I got a lot to do, Jackie,” Bodge said. “That husband of yours still around?”
“Ex-husband, Bodge. Yeah, he’s here.”
“Tell him to come out to the station tonight or tomorrow morning and I’ll show him around.”
“Sure. Bodge? Why didn’t they try to sew his finger back on? Isn’t that an option now?”
“Yeah. The chances of it working are around seventy-five percent. Tom has no medical insurance. He lives from job to job. He has a few thousand dollars saved, and that wouldn’t even get him the emergency ride to the surgeon. Too bad, huh?”
“Too bad,” I said.
Another double-scotch night for me and Mike. I felt so stupid, so unsettled. How could I be so certain about the guy, and then be so wrong? Mike said I hadn’t had enough practice; he’s been through that sort of thing more than once. He’ll get a guy he’s so sure is dirty, he gets himself all worked up and convinced that the problem is not that he’s innocent, but that they just couldn’t nail the bastard. Then, sometimes almost by accident, the criminal turns up. Plays havoc on these instincts that you want to be on target. Sometimes, doubting your instincts, you let a bugger get away from you because you’re working too hard at trying to get the wrong guy. That might have happened twelve years ago in Los Angeles, he said. Maybe it wasn’t Lawler or Devalian who killed the woman and child.
“That’s why we work on evidence, Jack,” he said calmly. “You can get yourself so damned convinced that you got the guy that you don’t look any further. And then what happens? The bad guys slip away. Might be old Mrs. Wright wandering into people’s houses —”
“And cutting digits off corpses?”
“Naw. When something about someone bothers you, you give ‘em a wide berth. In this case there isn’t anything more you can do.”