Page 13 of The Poet


  “The two shots.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s get out of here. Let’s get some food.”

  He put the car in drive and made a large circle in the lot and then out onto the street. We headed north on streets I had never been on. I had an idea where we were going, though. After five minutes of this I was tired of waiting for the next part of the story.

  “What about the two shots?”

  “He fired two shots, right?”

  “Did he? It wasn’t in the papers.”

  “They never put out all the details on anything. But I was there at the house. Edna called me after she found him. I got there ahead of MIU. There was one shot in the floor and one shot in the mouth. The official explanation was that the first shot was supposed to be him seeing if he could do it or something, like a practice. Gettin’ the courage up. Then the second time was when he went ahead and did it. It didn’t make sense. Not to me.”

  “Why not? What did you think the two shots were for?”

  “I think the first one went in the mouth. The second one was for gunshot residue. The perp wrapped John’s hand around the gun and fired it into the floor. John’s hand gets GSR on it. The case goes suicide. End of story.”

  “But nobody agreed with you.”

  “Not until today. Not until you turn up with this Edgar Allan Poe thing. I went to Major Investigations to tell them what you’ve got. I reminded them of the problems with the suicide. My problems. They are going to reopen it and take another look. Tomorrow A.M. we’ve got a start-up meeting over at Eleven-Twenty-One. The MIU chief is going to get me detached and put on the squad.”

  “That’s great.”

  I watched out the window and was silent for a while. I was excited. Things were falling into place. I now had the presumed self-inflicted deaths of two cops in two different cities being reinvestigated as possible murders and possibly connected. That was a story. A damn good one. And it was something I could use as a wedge in Washington to get into the foundation records and even the FBI. That is, if I got there first. If Chicago or Denver went to the bureau first, I’d likely be squeezed out because they wouldn’t need me anymore.

  “Why?” I said out loud.

  “Why what?”

  “Why is somebody doing this? What exactly are they doing?”

  Washington didn’t answer. He just drove through the cold night.

  We had dinner in a booth in the back of the Slammer, a cop bar near Area Three. Both of us ordered the special, roast turkey and gravy, good cold-weather food. As we ate, Washington gave me a rundown on the MIU plan. He told me everything was off the record and that if I wanted to write anything, I had to get it from the lieutenant who would eventually head up the squad. I had no problem with that. The squad was going to exist because of me. The lieutenant would have to talk to me.

  Washington kept both elbows on the table while he ate. It looked like he was guarding his food. He spoke with his mouth full at times but that was because he was excited. So was I. I was also wary of protecting my place in the investigation, in the story.

  “We’ll start off with Denver,” Washington said. “We’ll work together, get our ducks lined up and then see what happens. Hey, did you talk to Wexler? He was mad at you, boy.”

  “How come?”

  “Why you think? You didn’t tell him about Poe, Brooks, Chicago. I think you lost a source there, Jack.”

  “Maybe. They got anything new there?”

  “Yeah, the ranger.”

  “What about him?”

  “They did the hypnosis thing. Took him back to that day. He said your brother was wearing only one glove when he looked in the window of the car for the gun. Then that glove, with the GSR, somehow gets back on the hand. Wexler said they’ve got no doubts about it now.”

  I nodded more to myself than to Washington.

  “You and Denver, you’ll have to go to the FBI, won’t you? You’re talking about crimes connected across state lines.”

  “We’ll see. You gotta remember the locals here never get much excited about working with the G. We go to them and we get bigfooted. Every time, right up the ass. But you’re right, it’s probably the only way. If this is what I think it is, and what you think it is, the bureau will eventually have to run the show.”

  I didn’t tell Washington I was going to the FBI myself. I knew I had to get there first. I pushed my plate aside, looked at Washington and shook my head. This story was incredible.

  “What’s your feeling on this? What are we talking about?”

  “Only a few possibilities,” Washington said. “One, we’re talking about one guy, somebody out there killing people, then doubling back and taking out the lead cop working the case.”

  I nodded. I was with him.

  “Second, the first killings are unrelated and our doer just comes into town, waits for a case he likes or sees on the TV and goes after the cop who heads up the investigation.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And third is we have two killers. In both cities one does the first killing and the second comes in and does the second, takes out the cop. Of the three, I don’t like this one. Too many questions. Do they know each other? Are they working together? It gets pretty far out there.”

  “They would have to know each other. How else would the second guy know where the first one has been?”

  “Exactly. So we are concentrating on possibilities one and two. We haven’t decided whether Denver is coming here and we’ll send some people there but we’ve got to look at the boy and the college kid. Look for any connection and if we find one we go from there.”

  I nodded. I was thinking of the first possibility. One person, one killer doing all of this.

  “If it is just one guy, who is the real target?” I asked, more to myself than Washington. “Is it the first victim or the cop?”

  Washington put the V back in his brow.

  “Maybe,” I said, “we’ve got somebody who wants to kill cops. That’s his objective, okay? So he uses the first killing—Smathers, Lofton—to draw out his prey. The cop.”

  I looked around the table. Saying it out loud, though I had been thinking it since I was on the plane, sent a chill through me.

  “Spooky, huh?” Washington asked.

  “Yeah. Real spooky.”

  “And you know why? Because if this is the case, there’s got to be others. Every time a cop supposedly kills himself the investigation is quick and quiet. No department wants that kind of story. So they go through the motions quick and then that’s it. So there’s gotta be more of them out there. If the first possibility is the correct one, then this guy didn’t begin with Brooks and end with your brother. There’s more. I’d bet on it.”

  He pushed his plate away. He was finished.

  A half hour later he dropped me at the front of the Hyatt. The wind off the lake was chilling. I didn’t want to stand outside but Washington said he wasn’t coming up to the room. He gave me a business card.

  “I got my home and beeper on there. Call me.”

  “I will.”

  “Okay then, Jack.” He put his hand out and I took it.

  “And thanks, man.”

  “For what?”

  “For making believers out of them. I owe you one for that. So does Jumpin’ John.”

  13

  Gladden stared at the bright blue screen for several seconds before starting. It was an exercise he routinely followed to help clear his mind of the pressures and the hatred. But this time it was hard. He was full of rage.

  He shook it off and pulled the computer onto his lap. He cleared the screen and rolled the ball with his thumb until the arrow moved from window to window on the screen and stopped on the TERMINAL icon. He clicked the ENTER button and then chose the program he wanted. He clicked on DIAL and then waited while listening to the harsh screech of the computer’s uplink. It was like birth, he thought, every time. The horrible screech of the newly born. After the connection wa
s complete, the welcome template appeared on the screen.

  * * *

  WELCOME TO THE PTL CLUB

  * * *

  After a few seconds the screen moved up and there was a coded prompt for Gladden’s first password. He entered the letters, waited while they were acknowledged, then entered the second password when he got the prompt. In a moment his entry was approved and the warning template appeared on the screen.

  * * *

  PRAISE THE LORD!

  * * *

  RULES OF THE ROAD

  NEVER EVER USE A REAL NAME

  NEVER PROVIDE SYSTEMS NUMBERS TO ACQUAINTANCES

  NEVER AGREE TO MEET ANOTHER USER

  BE AWARE THAT OTHER USERS MAY BE FOREIGN BODIES

  SYSOP RESERVES THE RIGHT TO DELETE ANY USER

  MESSAGE BOARDS MAY NOT BE USED FOR DISCUSSION OF ANY ILLEGAL ACTIVITIES—THIS IS FORBIDDEN

  PTL NETWORK IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT

  PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE

  Gladden pressed ENTER and the computer informed him he had a private message waiting to be read. He lightly touched the appropriate keys and the message from the systems operator filled the top half of the laptop’s screen.

  * * *

  THANKS FOR THE WARNING. HOPE ALL IS WELL AND MOST SORRY TO HEAR OF YOU IN HARM’S WAY. ALL IS WELL ON THIS END. IF YOU ARE READING THIS THEN I ASSUME YOU ARE OUT AND ABOUT. BRAVO! GOOD LUCK AND STAY IN TOUCH WITH YOURSELF AND OTHERS. (HEH, HEH)

  . . . . . . . . . . PTL

  * * *

  Gladden typed in an R and hit ENTER and a reply message template appeared on the screen. He typed out a message to the sender of the first message.

  * * *

  NOT TO WORRY ABOUT ME. ALL IS TAKEN CARE OF. YOURS TRULY IS NOW OUT AND ABOUT

  . . . . . . . . . . PTL

  * * *

  That done, Gladden typed in commands so that he could move to the main bulletin board directory. Finally, the screen filled with the directory of message boards. Each board was listed with the number of active messages available to be read.

  * * *

  General Forum 89

  B+9 46

  B-9 23

  G+9 12

  G-9 6

  All’s fair 51

  Musings & Whinings 76

  Legal Beagles 24

  Services by city 56

  Barter Board 91

  * * *

  He quickly typed in the necessary commands to move to the Musings & Whinings board. It was one of the most popular boards. He’d already read through most of the files and had contributed a few himself. The writers were all ranting about how unfair life was to them. How maybe in a different time their tastes and instincts would be accepted as normal. It was more whining than musing, Gladden had always thought. He called up the file marked Eidolon and began reading.

  * * *

  I think they will know about me soon. My time in the light of public fascination and fear is near. I am ready. Each one of my kind eventually assumes the mantle. Anonymity will be lost. I will be given a name, a designation not reflective of who I am nor of my many skills, but simply determined by its ability to fit nicely into a tabloid newspaper headline and stimulate the masses to thoughts of fear. We study what we fear. Fear sells newspapers and television shows. Soon it will be my turn to sell.

  I will be hunted soon and I will be notorious. But they won’t find me. Never. That’s what they won’t realize. That I have always been ready for them.

  I have decided it is time to tell my story. I want to tell it. I will input all that I have, all that I am. Through these windows you will see me live and die. My laptop Boswell makes no judgments, cringes not at a single word. Who better to hear my confession than Laptop Boswell? Who more accurate a biographer than Laptop Boswell? I will begin to tell you all now. Turn on your flashlights. I will live and die here in the dark.

  Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering.

  I didn’t write that first but I wish that I had. But it doesn’t matter because I believe it. My suffering is my passion, my religion. It never leaves me. It guides me. It is me. I can see that now. I think what is meant by those words is that our pain is the pathway upon which we make our life’s travels and choices. It paves the way, so to speak, for all that we do and become. Therefore, we embrace it. We study it and, for all its harshness, we love it. We have no choice.

  I have a great feeling of clarity about this, of complete understanding. I can turn and look back on my path and see how the pain made all my choices. I look forward and can see where it will take me. I don’t really walk along the path any more. It moves beneath me, carrying me, like a great ribbon through time. It carried me here.

  My pain is the rock upon which I make my stand. I am the perpetrator. The Eidolon. True identity is pain. My pain. Until death do we part.

  Drive safely, dear friends.

  * * *

  He read it again and felt deeply moved by it. It touched his true heart.

  He went back to the main menu and switched into the Barter Board to see if there were any new customers. There weren’t. He typed the G command for good-bye. He then turned off the computer and folded it closed.

  Gladden wished the cops hadn’t taken his camera. He couldn’t risk going to claim it and he could barely afford to buy another one with the money he had left. But he knew that without a camera he could not fill orders and there would be no more money. The anger building inside him felt like razors moving through his blood, cutting him from inside. He decided to wire money out from Florida, then go shopping for another camera.

  He went to the window and looked out at the cars slowly moving along Sunset. It was an endless moving parking lot. All that smoking steel, he thought. All that flesh. Where was it going? He wondered how many of them in those cars were like himself. How many had the urges and how many felt the razors? How many had the courage to follow through? Again the anger pushed through his thoughts. It was something palpable inside him now, a black flower spreading its petals in his throat, choking him.

  He went to the phone and dialed the number Krasner had given him. Sweetzer picked up after four rings.

  “Busy, Sweetzer?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s me. How are the kids?”

  “What—who is this?”

  His instincts told Gladden to hang up right then. Don’t deal with their kind. But he was so curious.

  “You have my camera,” he said.

  There was a short moment of silence.

  “Mr. Brisbane, and how are you?”

  “Fine, Detective, thank you.”

  “Yes, we have your camera and you are entitled to have that back since you require it to make a living. Do you want to make an appointment to pick it up?”

  Gladden closed his eyes and squeezed the phone until he thought he would crush it. They knew. If they didn’t they would have told him to forget the camera. But they knew something. And they wanted him to come in. The question was how much did they know? Gladden wanted to scream but a higher thought was to keep cool with Sweetzer. No false moves, he told himself.

  “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Well, it looks like a nice camera. I’m not sure how it works but I wouldn’t mind having it. It’s here if you want—”

  “Fuck you, Sweetzer.”

  The anger overtook him. Gladden spoke the words through a clenched jaw.

  “Look, Brisbane, I was doing my job. If you got a problem with that come see me and we’ll do something about that. If you want your fucking camera then you can come and get that, too. But I’m not going to stay on the line while you—”

  “You got kids, Sweetzer?”

  The line was silent for a long moment but Gladden knew the detective was there.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Are you threatening my family, you motherfucking son of a bitch?”

  Now Gladden wa
s silent for a moment. Then a low sound started deep in his throat and grew into a maniacal laugh. He let it out uncontrolled until it was all he could hear and think about. Then, suddenly, he slammed the receiver down on the phone and cut the laughter off like a knife in the throat. He had an ugly grimace across his face and he shouted to the empty room through clenched teeth.

  “Fuck you!”

  Gladden opened his laptop again and accessed the photo directory. The computer’s screen was state of the art for a laptop model but the graphics chip still wasn’t nearly the quality he’d have on a stationary PC. But the images were clear enough and he was able to make do. He went through the file photo by photo. It was a macabre collection of the dead and the living. Somehow, he was able to find solace in the photos, a sense that he had control over things in his life.

  Still, he was saddened by what he saw before him and what he had done. These little sacrifices. Offered up so that he could salve his wounds. He knew how selfish it was, how grotesquely warped it was. And the fact that he turned these sacrifices into money tore away his comfort, turned it into the self-loathing and disgust that always came. Sweetzer and the others were right. He deserved to be hunted.

  He rolled onto his back and looked at the water-stained ceiling. Tears filled his eyes. He closed them and tried to sleep, tried to forget. But his Best Pal was there in the darkness behind his eyelids. As always, he was there. His face set, a horrible slash for lips.

  Gladden opened his eyes and looked at the door. There had been a knock. He quickly sat up as he heard the metal scrape of a key going into the outside knob. He realized his mistake. Sweetzer had had a trace on the line. They knew he would call!

  The door to the room swung open. A small black woman in a white uniform stood in the doorway with two towels draped over her arm.