Dean gunned the gas pedal and the car sped back to the cream-colored Municipal complex downtown. Inside was the booze hound who had slept and cowered within sight of the murder of the Jimenez woman and her unborn child.
* * * *
"I told you all I know,” grumbled the broken-down old drunk with the tattered gray coat, baggy pants, and grease-spotted tie. He fumbled with a hat that looked older than he did. His white hair was a wild mass of explosive strands waving above him with the wind stirred up by a ceiling fan. His jowls and gums had long since caved in, his teeth gone. Dean imagined his liver was also in sad shape. From the way Dyer kept his handkerchief close by his nose, Dean imagined the old guy smelled pretty bad, too.
"Just give us some idea what this man looked like,” pleaded Frank Dyer, exasperated with the old-timer. Dean imagined Dyer had been at it for some time.
"And I ain't lying, son, got to have a drink bad—real bad, you understand, son?” said Frank Dyer's stellar witness, brought in for questioning.
Dean watched through a one-way glass, and suddenly Chief Jake Hodges, taking a personal interest in the case, blotted out Dean's view of the old man, coming at him like a bull, asking, “What year is this, Mr. Silbey?"
"Year? What year?"
"Do you know what year it is? What day?"
"Course I do. Nineteen and—and eighty..."
"Eighty what, Mr. Silbey?"
"Keep civil now, son ... it's eighty, eighty-seven, no, eight."
"Who's the President of the United States?” asked Hodges."
"I tell ya', I gotta’ have a drink bad ... real bad,” said Silbey. Dean entered the room where he and Silbey were to confer.
"Who's the goddamned President of the—"
"Randolph Fuckin’ Scott!” Silbey glared at Hodges, then laughed at his own joke, saying in Red Skelton silliness, “Fooled ya', didn't I ... course it's Ronnie Reagan ... or did that rag get taken off the Bush! Ha! Say, can't a murder witness get a drink around here?"
Dean saw they were getting nowhere with the old man, and he thought how differently Ken Kelso in Chicago would handle the derelict. Dean exited and returned fifteen minutes later with what he hoped to be a remedy for the old man's memory. By now, Hodges had disappeared, and Dyer, too, had given up. Dean was sorry to have missed Dyer; he wanted to tell him about his decision to stay and see the case to its conclusion. Dean almost missed old Silbey, too, who was being escorted kindly to the nearest exit, and told thank you and good-bye by a female officer that he doffed his hat at.
Dean caught up with the old man on the street, frightening him at first, but calming him down with what he displayed, a pint of Jack Daniels.
"Huh, hmm, not bad stuff,” said the old critic. “All right, Don—” He shaded his eyes from the bright sun.
"Dean."
"All right, I'll sit and talk a spell with you."
Dean found a park bench outside the municipal building.
"Mr. Silbey, you want to help the police, don't you?"
"Well yeees, but ... I was left here alone by Mr. Fat, and I got awful dry and they started in angry at me, the big ‘un."
Dean stared away at a tree to catch his breath. The old man smelled like the scummy bottom of a trash can.
"Well, now, you're all set, old-timer, and welcome to it."
"You're sent from the heavens, a real godsend,” said Silbey.
"No, Mr. Silbey, I'm with the coroner's office. I'm Dean Grant—call me Dean."
"Thank you, Dean,” Silbey said after another swill, smiling an almost lovable, toothless grin, his wrinkly, leathered face covered in white stubble. The drink had its desired effect for them both. Silbey the Third, as he began to call himself, quickly improved in his communication skills, speaking out loudly against police brutality of a mental nature. Two large swallows on the pint bottle effectively emptied it to a remaining quarter. It was like a balm for the man. Dean took the container and tucked it away, making the old man grimace.
"What'd you do that for?"
"You'll get it back if you'll tell me what you know."
"That'd take ... well, a lifetime!"
"About the killing the other night."
"You ... you believe me? That I saw it? Swear I did,” he told Dean, and then with great detail, Silbey went into the horrid act, standing and displaying with his own hands and arms how the little man chopped and cut away the woman's head to get at the prize he wanted. He moved off some distance, pacing off the space between the killers and himself. Then, finishing, he said, “What in God's name do you suppose they did with that blood-soaked thing, Don? What? Going to have nightmares over this, I know, lessen I can stay bombed. Can I have it back?"
"Sorry, sir—not just yet. Can you tell me anything at all about the man ... the big man, I mean."
Silbey begged off. “Not much to tell. Was dark ... and he looked like just any other guy."
"His clothes, what about them?"
"Good clothes, nice, well dressed, yeah."
"Sweater, shirt sleeves?"
"Sport coat, I think."
"Color?"
"Green, no, light blue."
"Color of his hair?"
"Hair ... hair?"
"Yes, his mop,” said Dean, tugging at his own hair.
"Too dark to tell. Regular ... nothing special. But the midget guy, he was covered with black hair, real black. Thought it was a coat at first. Looked almost like a monkey, I tell you."
"Height, weight?"
"Like I told the cop, I was flat on my back. Even the dwarf guy looked thirty feet tall to me."
Dean nodded, relenting. “Will you give me a call if you can remember anything else, Mr. Silbey? Anything at all?” Dean jotted down two numbers on a card he handed the old man, who kept his eye on Dean's pocket, where the bottle had disappeared. Dean gave in, handing it to the man.
"You mean I'm free to go now?"
"Yes."
"Listen, I ... I work at Chung Fat's..."
"The little joint on the alley where the body was found?"
"Yes, sir, and ... anyway ... had to take a whole day off, you know, to be here ... think maybe I ... I could get, you know, something for my trouble?"
Dean smiled at the old cuss, knowing he was beyond help or even pity.
Dean reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “Think this'll cover your loss of wages, Mr. Silbey?"
The man's rheumy eyes lit up and he grinned wide. “Yeah, thank you kindly, Don.” He snatched up the bill and his bottle and rushed away. Dean watched the old man's departure for his known haunts, watched him shake all over half a block off, filled with a mix of joy and palsy and booze.
How much was his testimony worth? Perhaps a dime and a nickel in a court of law.
Dean took the elevator for Sid's pathology lab, which occupied most of the fifth floor and a few rooms in the basement, as near as possible to the municipal morgue. As Dean made his way to the labs on the upper floor, he mulled over all that had happened, concentrating hard on the certain connection between a pair of murdering scalpers who'd attacked Peggy Carson, and the killers of the Jimenez woman, as well as her unborn child, a part of which they'd also taken, according to Dyer.
Assuming that Silbey actually saw what he claimed to have seen through the haze of his alcohol, it simply was not likely that two separate man-and-dwarf murder teams could be at work, committing such acts in the same city. Such a notion was more farfetched than believing the old drunk had in fact seen what he claimed.
And if this were so, then what had motivated the killers to turn from scalping lone, helpless victims to attempted abduction, as Silbey had indicated. They'd chased the child down the alley. Would they have scalped the child, too, for a double murder? As it was, they'd snuffed out the life of the child Mrs. Jimenez was carrying. At any rate, it was a sure break with previous acts, their usual M.O. Had their deadly fetish with hair taken a new and even more horrible twist? Had they some new bizarre ritual which required a child's scalp? Dean shuddered at the thought.