Cutting Loose, page 25
“Sure.”
“Case had gone cold. The parents kept coming round, saying, do something, you’re forgetting ’bout her. But yesterday we got a lead on a guy who’d been in a woman’s backyard. She always kept doors and windows locked. So, she saw him this second time through the net curtains, heard the door-knob rattle, phoned the cops again. He was gone when they arrived, but a sergeant back at the precinct had someone in mind, feller from a couple streets away. There’s no sheet on him but the sarge had him pegged as a sex creep. They went to his place. It was locked. Neighbors said they hadn’t seen him in a while. So, they had no reason to force entry, but then they heard a kid crying. They couldn’t be sure which apartment the kid was in, but it came under the heading of exigent need, so they forced the door.”
“Was there a kid in there?”
“As chance would have it, no,” Lou said with a smile.
“Why take the chance?”
“Exactly. Weird thing about that place: no fingerprints. What are the odds? Either he’d wiped it down―like, everything―or he’d worn gloves. All the time. Is that likely? In the can, even? Place was clear of documentation. But we found some pics under insulation in the loft. Maybe he thought they were safe there. Women naked, vacant look on their faces. Posed. Dead or drugged. We’re trying to put names to them. Neighbors said he went by Norm Sanders. Then someone walking by, seeing us there, said, that Sanders guy? He’s got a lockup garage a couple along from mine. There’s nothing to link Sanders to Mendoza. But we said to the judge, these could be snuff photos. He signed off, and here we are.”
“No photos of him?”
“We should be so lucky. ’Less something turns up in here. Like you see, no vehicle. Just cardboard boxes. But we got an artist working with the woman who called it in.”
“Is he done yet?”
“He said he’d call me when he was through.”
“Emmett,” said Harry. “Your girl in the barrel was over your way in Masonville. That’s quite a ride from here.”
“Right.”
“But you’re thinking one guy for the both?”
“I’m always looking for connections, however remote. Like connecting Sanders to Mendoza―you never can tell where it’ll go. I’m just casting a line.”
“Right.”
“I’ll just set awhile if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
He waited in the car, with the windows rolled down. It was baking hot. That morning, back at his desk, he had been catching up with current cases. Among missing persons was a Hispanic girl who had been missing for a while. There was no picture, so he phoned Giddings to request a fax image of her. When it came through, that familiar jolt of recognition shot through him. He did not know her and yet he did: she was uncannily like his two Jane Does. The angle of the eyes, the skin tone, and the set of the face were the same. This was beyond coincidence. Now there were three. It may not have been proof but it was good enough for him. Giddings PD switchboard gave him the address of the garages where Lou Bosco would be working for most of the day. Sitting there, tapping the wheel, Emmett was finding it hard to keep still. He knew in his bones this was his perp.
A half hour later, Harry looked through the window.
“No prints. Just like in his place.”
Emmett nodded.
“First few boxes are just, like, ordinary stuff. There’s a lot to look at yet.”
“Okay.”
It was a while later that Lou and Harry came out of the garage, talking. Emmett could sense something had been found. A certain electricity was there that he recognized. Lou looked over at him and walked over.
“We got us a sick puppy, Emmett. Come take a look.”
He got out and walked with them into the garage.
“Rick,” said Lou. “This is Emmett. Bring him up to speed.”
A forensics officer turned and said, “Sure. This is the mother lode. Restraints, masks, stun gun. And photos. I’ve just skimmed the first few. You’ll need a strong stomach.”
Rick, with gloved hands, laid six photos on a carton. The first showed a woman who was fixed with handcuffs to a metal frame; her face had a stunned, glassy expression. Emmett sighed. This was a world he had met more than once―the cesspit that existed somewhere out there, hidden among ordinary people living ordinary lives. He glanced briefly at the other photos and nodded.
“Still a wall of boxes to look at.”
“Okay, Rick. Thanks.”
Outside, he heard the squawk of his intercom and leaned into the car.
“Capps.”
“Agent, we’ve had a call from the Warden at Eastham Unit. He’d like to speak with you.”
“All right. Remind me of the number.”
He wrote it down and said, “Thanks.”
Walking out of the lot, he saw a retiree by the gate.
“Enjoying the show?”
“Hell, yes. Beats cartoons on the tube. Ranger, huh?”
“Sure.”
“Dead body in there?”
“Uh―no.”
“Okay.”
“You live close by?”
“Right there.” The guy pointed at a single storey house with a grille over the door.
“Got crime round here?”
The guy followed his gaze to the grille.
“Is there anywhere you don’t?”
“Gonna ask a favor.”
“Uh huh. Ask. Worst I can say is no.”
“I’d like to make a phone call.”
The retiree gave him a steady look, then said, “Sure. Come on in.”
The place was immaculate. On a sideboard was a black-and-white photo of an army private standing in front of palm trees.
“Pacific?”
“Yeah. Guam. Phone’s right there.”
“Thanks.”
“Leave you to it.”
A secretary fielded the call and said, “Sure, Ranger Capps. Just a moment.”
After a few moments, a voice said, “Emmett Capps?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s make it Finlay.”
“Okay, Finlay. Returning your call.”
“Right. You were here a while back to see Mack Pruett.”
“Sure.”
“He took a call. As you know, they’re all recorded.”
“Right.”
“Calls are checked every so often. Your name was mentioned during this one.”
“Uh huh.”
“Best maybe if I play it back to you. I have a tape recorder right here. You can draw your own conclusions.”
Two buttons clicked.
“This is a call from Eastham Unit, Texas. It will be recorded. Will you accept this call?”
“Yes.”
“Please proceed with your conversation.”
“This is, uh, Mack Pruett speaking.”
“Yeah, Mack. Hi.”
“Hi. You wrote.”
“Sure. I guess the letter kinda came out of nowhere.”
“Yeah.”
“So, look, uh, there’s maybe things we got in common.”
“How about that.”
“Yeah, like, I met someone maybe we both know.”
“Uh huh.”
“Jimmy Chacon. He mentioned your name.”
“Sure. I did time with Jimmy. How’s he doing?”
“Just fine. He suggested I call you, shoot the breeze.”
“Okay. Then I guess that’s what we’re doing.”
“You hanging tough there, Mack?”
“Better believe it.”
“I got a question. Cops been around to see you recently?”
“Maybe.”
“So . . .”
“Yeah, okay. Ranger came around, shot me a line. Now when I try to get in touch with him, he don’t want to know.”
“That right?”
“Yeah. It was bullshit. Maybe I’m getting the same from you. Where is this going?”
“Listen, I’ve done stuff. I’m in the life. But there’s a limit what we can say on this line.”
“Gotta say something or we’re just beating our chops.”
“This Ranger . . .”
“What about him?”
“He was picking your brains.”
“No shit. Okay, you’re after something too. What the fuck, why not? The cop’s name was Emmett Capps. And, man, was he full of promises. Slicker’n snot on a door knob.Yada yada.”
“Who was he looking for?”
“What’s my angle here?”
“Maybe we can help each other. What have you got to lose?”
“He was looking at this guy called Appelbaum. Did I know him.”
“Did you?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“You got kin I can say hi to?”
“Now why would you want to do that?”
“Hey, I’m just talking here.”
“Right. Listen, if you’ve got something I can use, okay. Otherwise it’s going nowhere.”
“Okay, Mack, we’ll keep in touch.”
“That’s what Capps said.”
There was a click.
“That’s it, Ranger. That’s all.”
“Okay, Finlay.”
“Any use?”
“I believe so. Was the incoming phone number recorded?”
“Yes. I’ll call it out.”
Emmett wrote it down, and the Warden said, “That’s in Smyrna, Tennessee. We checked. It’s a restaurant payphone.”
“Okay, Finlay. And thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Emmett saw the retiree in the kitchen and said, “Thanks. Give you something for that?”
“You nuts? Get outa here.”
Emmett walked back to his car and looked at the scene of activity ahead. A Forensics truck had arrived while he had been making the call: it was a full call-out. They would be there for quite a while.
Lou saw him there and walked up. “The name Norman Foster’s been run through the system. I just got a call saying, no hits. Looks to me as though he’s lit out. There has to be somewhere else he hangs his hat. Who is this guy?”
“Lou, I’m gonna leave you to it. I’ll call tomorrow when you’ve got a clearer picture.”
“Sure.”
Emmett slipped behind the wheel of his car. The knowledge was pounding in his head: he had been listening to Max Lindemann.
A line of the conversation was repeating itself in his head.
“You got kin I can say hi to?”
Lindemann would be going to Fairfield to see Loomis and Etta Pruett: he may already have been and gone. Emmett knew he needed to make another call. He drove fast out of the lot and kept going westward until he saw a payphone outside a car-parts dealer. He looked up the Pruetts’ number in his notebook and made the call, willing them to answer. The phone kept ringing.
“Damn, damn. Pick up, for Christ’s sake.”
Above the phone there was a Walmart ad. He disconnected and rang the number.
“Yes? How may I help?”
“Can you transfer me to the Sefton branch?”
“What does this pertain to, sir?”
“It pertains to a police emergency. Do it right now.”
There was a pause, a ringing tone, then the sound of a phone being picked up.
“The manager? Just a moment, sir.”
After a while, a voice said, “This is Bill Hurley speaking.”
“Are you the manager there in Sefton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m trying to contact a friend who works there. Her name is Marie.”
“Marie Pruett?”
Emmett breathed out slowly. How fucking dumb could he be?
“Uh, Mr. Hurley, I just changed my mind. I don’t need to speak with her. But look―is she in the store right now?”
“Sir, I’ve said too much already in terms of confidentiality.”
“Okay. Sure.”
He did not want to say he was a cop in case Hurley said something indiscreet after the call.
What had Loomis Pruett said? “She’s like a daughter to us.”
Marie had started using their name. She was the M. Pruett who had stayed with Sol Monckton in that motel in Waco. She was Carey Astaire.
Emmett pushed open the door of the car-parts store. The young guy behind the counter, wearing the company uniform, said, “Help you, officer?”
“Do you have a fax?”
“Sure do.”
“Use your phone?”
“Be my guest.”
He called Giddings PD, and was passed through to Lou Bosco.
“Emmett? What gives?”
“Listen, Lou, has that artist finished the composite?”
“Sure has.”
“Can you fax it to me?”
“I can’t do it from here, but give me a number and I’ll have it sent.”
Emmett turned to the counter guy and said, “Call out the number.”
Ten minutes later, the machine started to chug, and the image began to emerge. He stared in disbelief, then took it from the tray. It was not Max Lindemann.
“Okay, sir?”
“Yeah, sure. And thanks.”
In his car, he checked his road map. He was forty miles from Sefton.
Last time, a Ford F100 pickup truck was the only vehicle. Now, a tan Toyota was beside it. Lindemann glanced at his watch as he slowed. It was 7:35 am. If anyone was going to commute, it would need to happen soon. Behind him, eastward, lay open country for many miles. To the west was Fairfield and Sefton. He would bet on the west. He kept driving for a couple of miles till he came to a church, and parked there by a yew. Ten minutes later, the Toyota passed. He gave it a lead of a couple of hundred yards, then followed in its wake. It went through the hamlet of Fairfield and, after a mile, took the left turn to Sefton, traveling at a steady pace. The country was bare of houses. Cattle grazed. There was an abandoned oil derrick on the horizon.
On the outskirts of Sefton were a few houses and then a Walmart. The Toyota turned into it, and Max kept driving. A hundred yards beyond, he made a turn and came back, approaching slowly. The driver of the Toyota, a middle-aged woman wearing jeans and T shirt, was walking into the store. He drove into the lot and parked. There was no hurry. He knew where she was; he would go in and take a closer look. She was certainly no one he recognized, at least from a distance. If she led nowhere, so be it. He put on a pair of Ray-Bans and stepped out. Was his luck about to change?
He took a shopping trolley from a line and pushed it into the store. The air was cool. People were smiling. A sign said that all Scotch Buy products were reduced; the Eureka 1425F upright vacuum cleaner was now available; and baked beans could not be bought cheaper anywhere.
He put a couple of notepads, a roll of sellotape, and a coffee pot in his trolley for the look of it, and kept slowly patrolling the aisles. A member of staff was demonstrating how to operate a floor polisher to three shoppers. A butcher was dicing meat. The staff door at the back swung open and the woman came through, wearing a blue Walmart jerkin. The overhead strip-lighting caught a certain angle of her face, and Max paused, transfixed.
No, it was not possible: he was fooling himself. Thirteen years could change a person beyond recognition: her hair was dowdy, she wore no makeup, and her manner was dull and matter-of-fact. She took a seat behind a till and used a key to open the cash drawer.
“Hi, Marie,” said a black woman pushing a mop.
“Hi, Norah.”
The voice was low and unemphatic.
He went to the cafeteria behind the tills and queued for a cup of coffee, then took a seat that gave a three-quarter rear view of her. Memories stirred. There were certain small movements he remembered: there―that turn of the head; and the finger touching a cheek. He finally smiled. No one was this lucky.
He was looking at her life: a half-existence in the back of beyond, doing work fit for a drudge. He sipped his coffee as an announcement said Martha White Corn Muffin Mix gave that great home-cooked flavor.
Carey knew she should have left. As soon as that Texas Ranger came to the house, she should have pulled the plug, but the life she was leading had fixed her in place. Tomorrow, always tomorrow, she would think again; and she had thought again, and again, and still she was there. Her reasons for staying were good; but would they keep her off Death Row?
She had read about Capps and knew what he had done. He had that down-home style, the manner that could fool you, but she knew he was a time-bomb. Max was less of a worry. How could he find her if the FBI could not?
She would tell herself to relax: everything would be fine; and it had been fine until Capps came calling. Walking away from the house that time, he had turned. She, upstairs in her bedroom, watching him, had sensed he would pause and turn and look up; and it happened. She had replayed that moment a hundred times. Their eyes had met, and he had smiled and touched the brim of his hat, and a shock like electricity had pierced her, and a page was turned.
It was on a cold day in January 1974 that she drove into Sefton and saw an ad on a cork board in a cafė. Mr. & Mrs. Pruett, of Bewlay Avenue, Fairfield, had a room available for a single, gainfully-employed female. She phoned the number and Mrs. Pruett suggested she come round so they could speak in person.
When Carey drove there and met them, she had the impression of encountering a world of which she knew nothing. They were the straightest people she had ever met. Her America, formed of doubt, of crisis, of intellectual debate and shifting cultural mores, had gained no purchase with them. It had slid off them like rain off a slicker. In their faces there was no irony, no hip awareness, and no suggestion that their views needed the slightest reconsideration. They were of a piece with the terrain outside that ceded nothing . What was there to cede?
She tried at first to fit them into the template of American Gothic, but their shape was all wrong: they were too much themselves to be fit in a frame. Their combination of singularity and ordinariness disconcerted her. How could people like them be anything but forgettable? Yet they were not forgettable. They were the Pruetts, pieces that did not fit the jigsaw. Theirs was not the straightness of polyester shirts, plaid jackets, crew cuts, and junk TV. They harked farther back.
