Sherlock said, “I see. So it has nothing at all to do with the fact that you seem to be trying your best to murder your father?”
“No, dammit. Do you have any idea what he’s done to me all my life?”
Weldon looked ill, but he held on, sucked in a deep breath.
“No, no one knows anything,” Delion said. “Listen, Weldon, someone murdered four people in San Francisco. You hired that moron Milton to kill Nick at the funeral because she saw you in the church. Then there’s Pasadena. It’s times like this I’m really glad I live in California and we’ve got the death penalty. They’re gonna cook you, Weldon.”
The pain was glazing his eyes. He was holding his foot, crying, pleading. “No, listen to me, I wouldn’t kill anybody. I’m not like that.”
Savich said, “Tell us exactly why you tried to kill your father. This time in nice plain English.”
Weldon’s voice was soft now, so quiet it was like listening to him again on the video. He was getting himself back in control. He’d finally managed to regain some calm, control the pain in his foot. “I can’t. There’s too much at stake here.”
“That’s not a very good start, Weldon,” Dane said.
Weldon lowered his head and moaned at the pain in his foot.
Delion snorted, stood, his hands on his hips. “Sherlock has called on her cell phone and rounded up a doctor for you. Let’s get you back to the parking lot. Detective Flynn and I will help you.”
Weldon DeLoach tried to get up on his own, but ended up moaning again, clutching his foot. Flynn and Delion got him up and half carried him back to the facility.
Dr. Randolph Winston, a geriatrician, was waiting for them at the front entrance to attend to the foot, a thick black eyebrow arched. “A woman shot him in the foot? Here, at Lakeview?” The eyebrow went even higher when Detective Flynn just shrugged.
“No elderly person I’ve treated has ever been shot in the foot. Let’s get him to the hospital.”
Dane nodded. “We’ll follow. We’ve got lots more to talk about with Mr. DeLoach.”
THIRTY-ONE
Delion and Flynn read the riot act to the two policemen assigned to keep an eye on Captain DeLoach, then rode with Weldon to the hospital. The rest of them walked back to Captain DeLoach’s room.
It appeared that Captain DeLoach’s brain had faded into the ether again. Or it was all an act, one at which he excelled.
He was still singing “Eleanor Rigby.” Nurse Carla said, just shaking her head, “The fact that his son tried to kill him-I think it knocked him right off his mental pins again. I was with him several times during the morning and he was with it the whole time, but not now. Poor old man. How would you like to have a son who keeps trying to kill you?”
Nick moved away from Captain DeLoach and said, her voice low, “Something is very strange here. When Weldon was in the captain’s room, he called his father a monster, said he had to stop him. But Captain DeLoach, he wasn’t afraid at all. He taunted Weldon.”
Savich walked to the old man, who was still singing softly, vacantly, in his wheelchair.
“Captain DeLoach? You’ve met me before. I’m Dillon Savich. I’m an FBI agent.”
Slowly, the old man stopped singing “Eleanor Rigby” and raised his eyes to Savich’s face. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and saluted.
Savich, without pause, saluted him back.
“I saluted that girl, too,” Captain DeLoach said in a singsong voice. “I thought it was weird to have to salute a girl, but I did it. Respect for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, you know? It’s a sign of the times that the Feds would allow a girl to join up. I always wanted to be an FBI agent, but I couldn’t. And now it turns out she isn’t a cop, just a girl who’s homeless, leastwise that’s what Weldon said. Hey, is that little redheaded girl a cop?”
“She certainly is, an excellent FBI agent.”
The old man gave her a toothy grin and saluted her. Sherlock didn’t salute him back, just gave him a little wave with her fingers. He gave a dry, cracking laugh, shook his head. “That girl over there, the homeless one, she saved me from Weldon, the little pissant. I don’t think he would have killed me. You see, Weldon’s a coward. I never could teach him to be a man. He’s always hated blood, wouldn’t ever go hunting with me. Once I tried to get him to butcher a buck, but he vomited all over his shoes and hid. He’s never even used a gun as far as I know.”
“How was he going to kill you, sir?” Dane said. “I believe he struck you the first time.”
“Nah, that first time, I fell over all on my own. That last time he could only bring himself to shove my chair over.”
The old man started laughing, more spittle spotted with blood sprayed on his chin. “What a hoot this all is, best time I’ve had in years. Nah, I don’t think Weldon could have killed me. But I could tell he was going to try. He was going to strangle me with a string. The girl there thought he had a gun, but he didn’t. He won’t touch ’em. I saw the string hanging out of his pocket, you know, real stout with little knots tied along the length? Yep, just a string because there’s no blood when you strangle someone. But it’s still gross. Weldon just doesn’t realize how gross it is to strangle someone-all the gagging, the eyes, my God, the eyes, they bulge, you know? And you can see all the terror, the fright-it all oozes out-then the final acceptance that they’re going to die. It isn’t a pretty sight. No, shooting’s cleaner. Only thing is, though, that the eyes fade really fast with a bullet.”
Nick closed her eyes, said, “I shot Weldon in the foot. You’re right, it was easier.”
“For a homeless girl, she knows stuff,” Captain DeLoach said, and began humming “Eleanor Rigby” again.
“Are you trying to make us think you’re senile, Captain DeLoach?” Sherlock said, her palm resting lightly on the old man’s shoulder. She gently kneaded the flesh and bone and the flannel shirt, all that was left of him.
“Nah, I just like to sing. I was the only middle-aged guy who liked the Beatles.”
Dane said, “But why did Weldon want to kill you, sir?”
The old man looked at Dane. “I think you’re probably an excellent cop, young man. You’re passionate, you stick tight, you don’t screw around, all are important to be successful in any job.”
Dane said again, “Why does your son want you dead?”
“The little pussy thinks he’s safe if I’m dead. And he would be.” The old man, now as sharp as any of them, stared at Dane, his faded eyes bright with intelligence. He said, his voice so proud, “Weldon’s got to know that I’ll talk now, and why not? I was the sheriff, and look at what I did, no one ever had a clue. Of course, like the saying goes, a dog never shits in his own backyard.” He laughed, a wheezing, scaly sound that made Sherlock’s skin crawl.
“Captain DeLoach,” she said, “do you pretend to be senile? Is it all just an elaborate charade?”
The old man said, “Me, senile? Hey, I haven’t seen you before, have I? Aren’t you the cutest little thing. My wife had the look of you. All sprite and fire and that lovely hair, so red, like blood, one could say.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly, “I suppose you could say that, but I doubt many people would. Now, Captain, you just made a little joke, didn’t you? You know exactly who I am. You were just pretending, just continuing with your charade.”
He said nothing.
Sherlock said, “What was your wife’s name, sir?”
“Marie. Her name was Marie, French for God’s mother’s name, something that always made me smile, particularly when I’d come home and my hands would still have seams of blood in the cracks. Yep, my palms would look like road maps.”
“I know you were a sheriff,” Dane said, “but did you have blood on your hands that often?”
“No, not just on my hands, Agent. There was usually so much blood it would work its way into the lines and hunker down and live there. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t get it all out. Then I really looked at my hands one day and knew I liked it. It was always a reminder to me of how much fun I had.”