Act of Love (2011)

  Smiling she did, but briefly. "You going to tell me about it?" she asked, pulling away.

  "Nope."

  "Why not?"

  "You always wake up beautiful."

  Rachel grinned. "Baby, I stay beautiful."

  "That's, T stays beautiful, baby.' You're falling down on your black accent."

  "Weren't we talking about dreams?"

  "Were we?"

  "Don't change the subject."

  "Subject?"

  "Marvel"

  "Forget it, Rachel. It was a stupid nightmare. What time is it, by the way?"

  "You're changing the subject again." Rachel looked at her watch, practically sprang out of Hanson's lap. "ShitI What am I doing sitting here. I've got to get Jo Anna off to school and my ass off to work." _

  "Uh huh."

  "You win this time," Rachel said feigning anger, "but next time . . ."

  "Sure. Scoot, you'll be late."

  And she went; graceful, quick and sensuous . . . and unfortunately, thought Hanson, off to work.

  When Rachel was out of sight, Hanson picked up the De Vries book and returned it to the bookshelf. He stood looking at the other titles. One caught his eye: Living the Good Life by Helen and Scott Nearing. He hadn't read that one in years. When he had the farming bug the book had attracted him. They had a lot to say about homesteading, its joys and benefits. They were a bit eccentric, but there was good material there, a lot to be said for their simple existence. That reminded Hanson of his granddaddy's farm. Weedy, lifeless, weathered.

  He took Living the Good Life down and opened it to the fly page.

  "Daddy?"

  Hanson turned to look at his daughter, JoAnna. His mind must really be preoccupied. It was rare someone could walk up on him that easy. Hanson smiled, "Good morning, sweetheart."

  JoAnna had the same smile as her mother. In fact, except for the reddish tint to her afro hairdo, she was nearly the spitting image of Rachel. She was dressed in green slacks—a bit too tight, Hanson thought—and a white blouse that wasn't exactly lowcut, but a bit too revealing. The mounds of her breasts pushed at the fabric precariously. High school certainly had changed since he was a kid.

  "Daddy, I need ten dollars."

  "That's quite a good morning."

  "Sorry. Mom said for me to ask and to hurry. I've got to finish getting dressed. I need it for cap and gown reserve."

  "Ummm." Hanson returned the book to the shelf, took out his wallet and gave JoAnna two fives. "Graduation, huh?"

  "Right," JoAnna slid the money into her pants pocket.

  "You know, young lady, if you had a quarter in your pocket you could tell if it was heads or tails."

  "What?"

  "The pants. They're too tight."

  "Oh, Daddy. They're not any tighter than anyone else's. I got to run and finish dressing. I haven't even got my shoes on." With that she turned and made for the stairs.

  Graduation, Hanson thought. Christ, time slipped up on you . . . suddenly he was sweating.

  Fear moved inside his brain like a lizard on a hot rock, and for a moment there was an image, fleeting, but identifiable. It was JoAnna, his lovely JoAnna, and she was as Bella. Ripped, ruined, wasted. Black whipped with red. A hunk of hamburger on a cold slab smoking with cold refrigerated breath.

  He said weakly, "JoAnna."

  JoAnna had just reached the stairs. "Wha . . ." And then she saw his face. She went to him quickly, took hold of his arm. "Daddy?"

  "It's okay. Really."

  "Daddy, are you all right?"

  "Yeah."

  "You sure?"

  "Just dizzy for a moment."

  "You're sweating."

  "Just a little dizzy. Tired I guess. A cold maybe."

  "You look like death warmed over. You better sit down." She held his arm as she guided him to the leather chair next to the window. Hanson sat. "You gonna be alright? You want me to get Momma?"

  "No. I'm over it already. Just working too hard."

  "You always work too hard. That's not news. Maybe you need to see a doctor."

  Hanson smiled. "I'm alright, baby, really. Go on. Get ready for school, and don't say anything to momma. It's passed. Really."

  JoAnna worked her lip. He did look better. "You're all right, then?"

  Hanson nodded.

  "For sure? You're not just telling me that?"

  "I'm not just telling you that. I'm fine. Nothing rest won't cure. I'm going to take a little nap when you two get out of my way. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Run along. I'll take a couple of aspirins in a minute."

  "Alright," and she went.

  *

  Upstairs JoAnna added perfume and a few rake strokes to her hair, slipped on some soft, low cut shoes. She never could figure how Mary and the rest of the girls wore those big, clunky shoes to school. Her feet would have been so much mud by the end of the day. Dressing for the boys, she guessed.

  Well, she did a bit of that herself. Actually for one boy, Tommy Rae Evans. They had been dating for over a month now, and each date had been a little hotter and heavier than the last. He had almost gotten into her pants last time, but at the last moment she had chickened out. If her daddy found out, well, as the old saying went, it would be too wet to plow.

  Of course, if Tommy tried again this weekend—she smiled, and he'd be a darn fool not to—she just might let him.

  "JoAnna," Rachel said as she stepped inside her daughter's room. "Ready yet?"

  "Ready, Momma." JoAnna stood up from the dresser after a last look at her hair.

  Rachel wrinkled her nose. "You've got too much perfume on, young lady."

  "Just a drop or two."

  "Big drops."

  "I'll wash some of it off."

  "Never mind. Come on, let's hustle."

  "Momma?"

  "What?"

  "Daddy's acting kind of funny."

  "He had a nightmare."

  "Daddy? I've never known anything to scare him."

  "A nightmare's different."

  "I never even knew he had them."

  "This is the second as far as I know. Once he dreamed a giant taco was chasing him."

  JoAnna laughed. "Oh yeah, I remember that. I was just a kid then."

  "Was?" Rachel said, raising her eyebrows.

  JoAnna frowned. "All right. I was a smaller kid then."

  "Come on, bigger kid." Rachel looked at her watch. "Oh hell. 8:30. I've got fifteen minutes to get you to school and then fifteen more to get to work. Come on."

  They hurried down stairs, kissed Hanson goodbye and left. Both mother and daughter decided that he looked a lot better than when they had talked to him earlier. Neither thought anything more of it.

  JoAnna was on time at school. Rachel was five minutes late for work.

  *

  When the women were gone Hanson fixed himself a cup of hot chocolate. He thought it might steady his nerves and help his sleep. He didn't understand what was happening to him. It was almost as if he had discovered another person inside his body. A person that feared and worried deeply. He had never been one to dwell on such things. He was always forging ahead, no matter what. Hanson The Juggernaut.

  But that had been before Bella's murder. Why was this one getting to him? Did he, like

  Smokey, have a sort of inbred sense, warning him of worse things to follow?

  And that brief vision of JoAnna. Had that been brought on by lack of rest ... or had he for a fleeting moment actually peered into the future like a clairvoyant?

  The hot chocolate tasted as bitter as lye. He poured it down the drain, went about the ritual of running water in the cup.

  He wouldn't let dreams worry him. They were intangible and could not be grasped with the hands. Bella's murderer was quite a different matter. He could be grabbed and held. It was just a matter of time—and possibly deaths.

  What was he worrying about?

  A silly dream?

  A bad flash concerning JoAnna?


  It was all malarky. About the worst thing that had ever happened in their family was a missing dog. Nothing tragic within the immediate nucleus of his family unit had ever occurred. Nothing. Nothing at all.

  MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY

  Monday, after Rachel and JoAnna had left and the hot chocolate had relaxed him somewhat, Hanson rested. He dozed off and on until shortly after noon. At that time he awoke, showered, drank coffee and had another tuna sandwich. He felt better, if not completely refreshed. He went about his obligatory duty with the water and the dishes, then called his partner, Joe Clark.

  Clark answered on the third ring. Hanson offered to pick up Clark, adding that he would need the address however, as he had never even seen Clark's apartment. Instead, Clark offered to pick up Hanson. He said he had been sleeping when Hanson called, and that the drive from his place to Hanson's would do him good, let him shake some of the cobwebs out of his head.

  Hanson agreed to this, and shortly after 1:30 p.m., Clark's arrival interrupted his reading of Living the Good Life. They drove to The Fifth Ward to begin their investigation; started at the scene of the crime.

  Although this was the proper method, Hanson was a bit perturbed that he had been put on the case after the initial investigation had already occurred. It seemed foolish to him for the Chief to assign him to the case merely because he knew The Ward, and remove Higgins who also had Ward experience. He shrugged it off with his usual resignation that the upper ranks move in strange and mysterious ways.

  The site of the murder was still marked off and restricted to authorized personnel only. Normally the crime scene would have already been abandoned, but in an unusual case like this, and considering the officer in charge had yet to investigate, bluesuits had kept vigil over the spot in shifts.

  Hanson and Clark talked briefly with the cops in charge and began looking the site over. The investigation of a crime scene is important. The investigator must take into account that the scene is constantly changing, like the sands of a beach, shifting, moving. A good preliminary survey is the most important part of an investigation; one must observe and report accurately. In this case, however, Hanson had the equivalent to sloppy seconds. It irritated him a bit to know that what he and Clark were doing was merely formality and he told Clark as much. But he knew Higgins was a good investigator, and that he could depend on his report and on the crime scene photos.

  Hanson told the bluesuits they could wrap the site up, they were through with it.

  Next on the agenda was talking to people in The Ward, never a pleasant or welcome task on either side. Oddly enough, the residents were willing to talk, but none knew anything of importance. Hanson and Clark were surprised at this cooperation, and it further confirmed Hanson's suspicions that people living at street level had a higher developed sense of awareness—at least in matters like this. Somehow they knew there was more to this death than anger. Behind it was something quite different. Hanson sensed this too, and furthermore, he had Doc Warren's experienced opinion to back it up. He hoped his theory about The Ward residents and their heightened awareness, and Doc Warren's remarks, were off base—but that hope wasn't one he entertained seriously.

  Much to the pair's dismay, they discovered that Philip Barlowe, reporter for The Houston Bugle had been there ahead of them. If any reporter would be on top of things it would be Barlowe, and worse yet, he had the uncanny knack of getting people to cooperate.

  Barlowe was noted for his sensationalist reporting and his unjournalistic style. The Bugle was an odd cross between newspaper and scandalous tabloid; it was more than willing to print Barlowe's "ravings," as Hanson called them, and in fact, allowed him a personal column titled "Crime Scene: Houston."

  Less than a year ago The Bugle had been a faltering newcomer, no competition for the well-established Houston Chronicle or The Houston Post, but by combining news with gossip, it had moved from a weekly joke to a daily profit; a publication to be reckoned with; a soldier of equal rank marching in a hard line with the more established publications. And perhaps, at least at times, stepping a step ahead in sales and popularity. Hanson considered it the pinnacle of muckraking, and therefore stuck staunchly to his beloved Post.

  It was with a feeling of hopelessness that Hanson suggested they check in at the station. Both men knew the hard truth concerning this investigation. If proof of guilt, or apprehension of the suspect, did not occur in the first forty-eight hours after the crime, chances were nothing would ever come of it.

  Unless the killer struck again. And unless, this time, evidence of an incriminating nature was left behind.

  This in mind, Clark drove them to the station.

  *

  Hanson and Clark shared a desk in the squad room. Since Hanson was of higher rank, he got to sit behind the desk. Joe was allowed a hardbacked chair next to it and a desk drawer of his own. He shared the other drawers with Hanson. Clark and Hanson often laughed about the situation. The desk, or "the office" as they called it, was of little importance anyway. They were seldom at the desk more than a few hours.

  Together they pored over Higgins' report, read the autopsy report and looked at the photographs of the scene and the victim. The photographs brought Hanson's dream to mind, but he pushed it aside and got on with business. He made out a chart, something to help assimilate the facts and evidence. He went over them with Clark.

  They were:

  FACT:

  (1) Bella Louise Robbins is dead, murdered in an alley in a section of The Fifth Ward called Pearl Harbor.

  Murder involved mutilation of the body, and it was confirmed by the autopsy report that she had been raped.

  No suspects.

  No witnesses to the crime. (Least none known, unless you want to count the killer, and I don't.)

  Body discovered shortlyafter murder and reported. Discoverer has no real alibi, but not suspected.

  Hanson handed his scrawl to Clark, said, "Can you add to that?"

  Clark read it. "Nope, let's add the evidence." Clark took his pen and wrote:

  EVIDENCE:

  (1) The body, autopsy reports confirming manner of death and rape.

  He sat for a moment. "You know, Gorilla, this list shit is for the birds."

  Hanson pulled the list away from him. "So's our evidence. Besides what you got here, we got zilch. And a chimpanzee could have told us this."

  Hanson wrote on the list again, began a heading titled:

  SPECULATION:

  A nut murder, probably the first of many, as many as the sonofabitch can get away with.

  Hanson looked the list over for a moment, wadded it up and tossed it in the trashcan. "Well," he said, "the list always seems to work on television."

  "Yeah, they've read the script before they make it out."

  Hanson grunted.

  Clark said, "I'll check with evidence, right back."

  *

  Hanson was using his two-finger, hunt-and- peck method of typing a long overdue report when Clark returned with a newspaper under his arm and two sheets of paper in his hand. He didn't bother Hanson who was deeply considering the mystical complexity of the typewriter keys. Clark sat down, placed the two sheets of paper behind the typewriter and unfolded the newspaper. He took his ball point pen from his shirt pocket and began underlining something in the paper. When he was finished, he returned the pen to his pocket, put the paper in his lap, shook out a Kool and lit it, listened patiently to Hanson's . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap. . . tap . . . tap . . . tap…tap.

  Finally Hanson stopped, smiled. "You know, Joe. It's the black folks that are supposed to be cool. Here I am waiting you out, and you're not biting."

  Clark said, "What?"

  Hanson smiled. "What have you got, the suspense is killing me."

  "Nothing, just a little something that's going to make you mad."

  "So give it to me."

  "First," Clark picked up the two sheets of paper behind the typewriter, "for formality's sake, here's the latest
from evidence. They didn't even find a hair that would help us. All the blood was the girl's. There wasn't any flesh under Bella's fingernails. He got her to cooperate, and got her hands bound too quickly, I guess. But what's going to piss you off is The Bugle."

  "The Bugle always pisses me off."

  "More than usual today."

  Clark picked it from his lap, unfolded it and handed the newspaper to Hanson.

  "Those places I've got marked," Clark said. "Read those."

  Hanson read:

  Houston's annals of violent crime have once again opened to include a new and brutal murder. As special crime reporter for The Bugle, I have inside sources with the police . . .

  Hanson looked up. "Inside sources with the cops. Who, I wonder? Who'd help this muckraking bastard?"

  "Told you you'd love it."

  "Christ, a cop spilling stuff like that."

  "It probably doesn't matter."

  "Yeah, except for the panic. All we need is everybody hopping because they think Houston's got its own Jack the Ripper."

  "Doesn't it?"

  "Maybe," Hanson said quietly. "But a cop . . ."

  "You know better, Gorilla. It's not like all the cops in this precinct are honest. Haven't you been reading Texas Monthly and the newspapers lately?"

  "So I like a few illusions. Most of these guys are good cops."

  "The key word there, my friend, is most. It doesn't take more than one turd in the toilet to stink the place up."

  "Very folksy."

  "Thank you. Read on."

  . . . and have the added benefit of seeing the autopsy reports, as well as having discussed this case with reliable sources. From my examination of the facts, it is this reporter's conclusion that this is merely the first of a chain of savage murders performed by another Jack the Ripper type.