Kill Devil Falls Page 10

  “Marshal! Come look at this!”

  Helen held her irritation in check. She plodded over. On the floor of the trunk, amid old newspapers, a roll of duct tape, dirty rags, an empty water bottle, she saw a glint of metal. Teddy moved aside. Helen leaned in.

  It was a hunting knife. Five-inch blade with a blood groove, a wooden handle, brass-colored accents.

  “Don’t touch it,” Helen said immediately. “Just leave it right there.”

  Teddy slapped his thigh. “How about that!”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  Teddy pointed, his finger creating a giant shadow in the beam of his flashlight. “Don’t that look like blood on the blade?”

  It did. Indeed it did. “We need to get techs up here.” Helen took out her phone, photographed the knife, motioned Teddy back, shut the trunk.

  When Helen and Teddy came through the jailhouse door, Big Ed was sitting behind the massive desk, smoking a Camel, tapping the ashes into Teddy’s can-spittoon. One halogen lantern was on the desk, another on the floor across the room. Helen blinked at the sudden glare.

  “Well, now,” Big Ed said, his words punctuated with puffs of smoke. “I was beginning to think you got eaten by the ghost of old Stoppard.”

  “We found all kinds of creepy stuff,” Teddy said. “This guy’s crazier than a sack of rabid weasels.”

  “Shut it, Edward,” Big Ed barked. He inclined his head toward the cells. Helen saw Lawrence’s fingers curled around the iron slats of the rightmost door, his eye glinting as he peered out.

  “You had no right to go in my house,” Lawrence said. “That was an illegal search.”

  Big Ed tossed his cigarette in the can, stood up.

  “You a lawyer?”

  “I know my rights.”

  Big Ed crossed the room, picked the lantern up off the floor, crooked a finger at Helen and Teddy. “Follow me.”

  They walked down the short hallway into the guard room. Rita’s body lay on the bed, still wrapped in the old Indian blanket.

  “What’s she doing here?” Teddy squealed.

  “You rather I left her on the couch in our living room?”

  “No … ”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Big Ed snarled shutting the door. “I know you ain’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but you don’t burst in hollering about what evidence you found when the suspect is right there within earshot.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re as dumb as a pile of bricks, boy. You must take after your mother.”

  “Don’t talk about Mom like that,” Teddy muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Teddy glared at the wooden floorboards.

  “So go on, then. Tell me.”

  Teddy didn’t respond. Helen was afraid Big Ed would light into him again, so she chimed in.

  “For starters, I found lots of prescription drugs in the bathroom.”

  “What kind?”

  “Some Percocets. A collection of anxiety meds. And one other … buprenorphine.”

  Big Ed chewed on that. “Junkie meds.”

  “We found a bunch of mutilated and stuffed animals down in the cellar,” Teddy said.

  “What?”

  “Dog heads on cats, wings on rats, like that.”

  Big Ed’s mouth twisted. “That don’t sound right.”

  “And we found a knife in the trunk of his car,” Teddy continued. “Possible murder weapon.”

  “We don’t know for sure,” Helen said. “It needs to be bagged and tagged and analyzed.”

  “You saw those things he made,” Teddy said. “There’s no doubt he’s sick in the head.”

  “Just because he has a … weird hobby … It doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”

  “But he’s got cat heads on dogs, and horns on woodchucks!”

  “She’s right, Edward.” Big Ed stuck his thumbs in his gun belt and leaned against the wall. “Did you find bloody clothes? Rita likely leaked all over whoever cut her throat.”

  “I found a bag of laundry, but no blood on the clothes,” Helen said. She was a touch surprised Big Ed wasn’t immediately stringing up a noose for Lawrence.

  “No normal person does what he’s been doing down in that cellar,” Teddy insisted.

  “That may be true, Edward, but lots of people ain’t normal, and ain’t killers either,” Big Ed said. “Right?”

  Teddy didn’t answer, just resumed drilling holes in the floor with his eyes.

  “Okay,” Big Ed said. “We got some stuff to go on, anyway. We’ll need to get a warrant and”—he held up fingers in air quotes—“‘find the evidence.’ Again. Let’s hope you bursting in and screaming about the cellar of horrors doesn’t screw the pooch, Edward.”

  “We can aim for exigent circumstances, Sheriff,” Helen said. “Immediate aftermath of murder. Viable suspect. Unsure if anyone else in town was missing or harmed. Something like that.”

  Big Ed nodded. “That’d probably do it. In the meantime, I’m gonna hold him until we get that warrant. Make sure that knife don’t go missing.”

  “How did the questioning go, Sheriff?” Helen’s eyes darted toward the body on the cot. It was creepy, the blanket-wrapped bundle of dead flesh just lying there.

  “He didn’t confess.”

  “So what did he say?”

  Big Ed’s imitation of Lawrence was high-pitched and quavering: “I’m innocent … You got the wrong man.”

  “Would you mind if I spoke to him?”

  “What for?”

  “Maybe he’s threatened by you. Scared. Perhaps I’d be able to get him to talk.”

  Big Ed frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “Can’t hurt, can it? At worst, he just won’t tell me anything.”

  Big Ed yawned, looked at his watch. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

  They returned to the front room. Big Ed set the lantern back on the desk and took a seat. Teddy leaned against a wall.

  “I really hate to ask, Sheriff, but do you think Lawrence and I could speak privately?” Helen said.

  “Why? You want to hold hands?”

  “Please.”

  Big Ed rolled his eyes. “Fine. I might as well check the access road, although you can’t see squat out there in the dark. Edward, why don’t you get that old coffee percolator brewing on the stove? It’s gonna be a long night.”

  They took one of the lanterns and disappeared through the front door. Helen went to the window. She watched as Big Ed took the shotgun from Teddy, climbed into the Explorer, turned on the headlights, and drove away. Teddy walked toward the red farmhouse, the lantern swinging in his hand.

  Definitely some father-son issues with those two.

  Helen turned, went to the wall where the key ring hung on its hook. With only a single lantern providing light, the ceiling and corners of the room were heavily shadowed. She felt trapped in a time before electricity, or rule of law, where the potential for violence lurked within every darkened doorway.

  “I’m going to open your cell door,” she said. “Give you some air. Keep in mind, I’m armed.”

  Lawrence grumbled unintelligibly. Helen unlocked the door, opened it, set the key ring on the desk. “You want some water or something?”

  Lawrence sat huddled on the cot, shivering with cold.

  “I could use a drink,” he said, eyes glittering. “A real drink.”

  “Let’s have a little chat first, and I’ll see what I can do about that later.”

  Lawrence stuffed his fingers into his armpits. “I didn’t kill that woman, like the sheriff thinks.”

  “Hold on. I’m going to advise you of your rights, okay?”

  “He did that.”

  “Did you sign a waiver?”

  “I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t kill that woman.”

  “Okay. Well, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. My name is Helen Morrissey. I’m a deputy with the US Marshal’s ser
vice.”

  “I know. I was in the restaurant when you came in.”

  “Right. And you obviously are aware that Rita Scroggins was murdered this evening and you are a suspect.”

  “I never met her. I don’t even know what she looks like. Looked like.”

  “Can you give me an account of your whereabouts after you finished dinner and left the restaurant?”

  “I went back to the house.”

  “Anyone see you? You talk to anyone?”

  Lawrence looked at her like a poodle was growing out of her skull.

  “Did I talk to anyone? No, I didn’t. First of all, everyone was at the Trading Post. And second, you’ve met the people in this town. I never talk to any of them, except for Mrs. Patterson when I order my meals.”

  “Why is that, Lawrence? What are you doing up here, if you’re not fond of the company?”

  “I needed a place to get away, is all.”

  “Get away from what?”

  He shook his head, didn’t answer.

  “I found buprenorphine in your medicine cabinet, Lawrence.”

  “You had no right to search my house.”

  “Your grandmother’s house.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Are you currently using heroin?”

  He sprang to his feet. She took a step back.

  “No! I came up here to get as far from all that shit as possible!”

  “Calm down.”

  “I’m calm!”

  “You’re shouting. Back up against that wall!”

  He vibrated on the balls of his feet for a moment, like he was getting ready to run or throw a punch. Then he slumped, backed away, leaned on the wall.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell,” he said.

  “That’s all right, I understand. This is a very stressful situation. Now … you are not currently using heroin?”

  “No. That’s what the bupreno is for. It’s prescribed. I was in a program.”

  “Where?”

  “Oakland.”

  “Was this a court-mandated program?”

  “I entered it myself. To get clean.”

  “Not the result of a drug bust, something like that?” she asked.

  “No, I said!”

  “Do you have a record, Lawrence?”

  He huffed. “I’ve got a couple of possession busts. Nothing major.”

  “No felony convictions?”

  “No.”

  “I have to ask you about the cellar, Lawrence. The fact is, you’ve got some very questionable shit going on down there.”

  “I’m an artist, okay? That’s my art. It’s what I’m working on now.”

  “Mixed-up animal bodies?”

  “You don’t have to get it. It’s not for you. It’s transgressive. Fucked up. That’s the point. It made you feel something, right? A raw emotional response?”

  “Yeah. Disgusted.”

  “Great. What did you feel the last time you went to an art museum and looked at some Impressionists? Like you needed a nap?”

  She had to admit, he had a point.

  “Okay, so you’re an artist.”

  “Yes. Well. It doesn’t pay much. But it’s what I do. I paint, I sculpt, I write. The stuff in the cellar … it’s just what I’m working on at the moment.”

  “Lawrence—did you kill the animals you’re using in those … art pieces?”

  “No. I’m not an animal killer. I … ”

  He paused for a long while. He approached the doorway of the cell. Shadows etched the sharp contours of his cheekbones.

  “I know a guy who works at a pet store. Another one who’s a tech at a vet clinic. Animals die. Usually they get cremated or dumped in a landfill or something. These guys sell them to me. It’s not exactly legal, because of health codes. But it’s not cruelty to animals or anything like that.”

  “I see. Anything else you want to tell me?”

  “I never laid eyes on Rita Crawford. I didn’t even know she was in town. I didn’t kill her. I swear to God.”

  “What about the key, Lawrence?”

  “What key?”

  “The key to this jail.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never been in here before. I didn’t even know the building was locked or that there was a key to open the door.”

  “Okay.”

  “You believe me, don’t you, Marshal?”

  She did. She could think of no possible motive for why Lawrence might kill Rita and considered it unlikely he knew about the key and where to find it. But, as he was still a suspect, she couldn’t tell him that.

  “I’m going to lock you inside again, okay? Just until we can get this straightened out.”

  “Don’t leave me in here alone.”

  She thought it odd that a man who spent hours in a cellar dissecting dead animals and creating monsters out of them should be scared of being left alone, but who knew what was really going on with this kid.

  “I won’t,” she said.

  “The sheriff and deputy. They’re … It’s like they’re straight out of a bad hillbilly-exploitation movie.”

  Helen smiled.

  “Don’t worry. No one’s forcing anybody to squeal like a pig on my watch.”

  9

  WHEN THE ELECTRICITY DIED, Jesse Patterson was relaxing in his private home theater, sprawled on a leather recliner, halfway through his fourth Scotch and finally developing an agreeable buzz.

  The home theater consumed the entire living room of the apartment Jesse shared with Alice on the second floor of the Trading Post. He’d installed it with his own two hands, painstakingly, meticulously, and at no small expense. It featured QuietRock soundproof drywall, a 7.1 surround-sound system, an echo-absorbing, medium-shag carpet, a ViewSonic PJD7820HK DLP projector, a 101-inch screen and, to round it all out, an Octane Turbo genuine bonded leather manual recliner.

  In addition to Jesse’s living room-cum-theater, the apartment included two sizable bedrooms, a kitchen/dining area, and a bathroom with an old clawfoot tub and vintage toilet powerful enough to flush down a baby watermelon. Jesse and Alice slept in the largest bedroom, on the back side of the building. By mutual agreement, the home theater was Jesse’s inviable domain, while the second bedroom belonged exclusively to Alice. She called it her “Grove.” He called it “the Stygian Lair.”

  Most evenings, after dinner was served, the dishes were washed, and the Trading Post was locked up for the night, Jesse shut himself in here, drank Scotch, smoked a little reefer (compliments of Frank and Mike), and watched movies. Sometimes old classics, other times the subversive New Hollywood films of the early ’70s, occasionally a more recent feature. But more often than not, he watched his own films.

  Jesse was a graduate of the prestigious USC School of Cinematic Arts. Immediately upon receiving his diploma in 1969, he moved to France, hoping to find work with one of his directorial idols: Jean-Luc Goddard, Francois Truffaut, even, in a pinch, a lesser talent like Alain Resnais. But within three years he was back in LA, penniless, without a single demo reel to his name. He was eventually reduced to second unit work on low-budget tits-and-gore flicks. When he finally received his big break, a chance to direct a film with a decent budget and production values, naturally it was for a pornographic feature. Down to his last sixty-three dollars and living in a seedy Santa Monica bungalow with three other starving artists, Jesse didn’t—couldn’t—turn down the opportunity.

  He was lucky to catch the tail end of porn’s golden age, when films played in theaters on 42nd Street and Hollywood Boulevard, stars like John Holmes and Linda Lovelace were household names, and smut flicks were reviewed, often favorably, by critics in the New York Times. VHS video eventually killed the celluloid starlet, however, and the industry returned to cheap, gonzo filmmaking with shitty lighting, bad camerawork, and a revolving door of forgettable “talent,” for lack of a better word, in front of and behind the camcorder. Jesse hung on for as long as he could, much longer than
he would have thought possible, but by the late ’80s, his career was kaput.

  Twenty years ago, Jesse had converted both his 35 millimeter and VHS masters to digital, eventually storing them on a laptop connected to his ViewSonic. The 35-millimeter transferred nicely, but the VHS films looked terrible in hi-def and he rarely rewatched them.

  Before the lights crapped out, Jesse was viewing the lone exception—an homage to Fellini’s 8½, which the studio had forced him to title 8½ Inches. An infantile, obvious name for a pornographic film, but Jesse was proud of the finished product. The budget he’d been given was unusually generous for the VHS era and every dollar showed on screen—the hair, makeup, costumes were all top-notch. His major regret, aside from the pandering title, was that the studio refused his request to film in black-and-white.

  The studio head, a fat little Greek, had laughed in his face. “Our customers want to see pussy in full color,” he’d said. “The redder the better.”

  Jesse’s favorite part of 8½ Inches was his remake of the scene in Fellini’s masterpiece where the protagonist, Guido, pays tribute to the prostitute Saraghina by waving his cap from afar. In Fellini’s version, Saraghina smiled at him, whispering a plaintive “ciao.” In Jesse’s, she stripped, fondled herself, and crooked a finger at Guido. He ran to her and they made love in the sand. As a director, the sex was secondary, a necessary evil, for Jesse. It was there simply to justify the expense of the film. What really mattered was the unspoken emotion expressed by the actors before they got naked and rutted like animals.

  The film was just about to reach this climatic scene when all went dark. Jesse panicked, thinking his projector was broken. He lurched to his feet, spilling Scotch, cursed, and felt his way to over to the wall where he blindly fiddled with the ViewSonic. He couldn’t see a damn thing, so he went to the door and flicked the light switch. No dice. He opened the door, poked his head into the hall. No lights working here, either.

  “Alice?”

  She didn’t answer. Jesse shuffled down the hall to her room. His body ached from the roll down the stairs. What hurt the most, however, was the nasty little wound on his neck. God forbid he should get tetanus, or something worse—like HIV. Not that Alice cared, the old shrew. He turned the knob, gave the door a push.