“Do you get out much?” asked the Doberman. She was still standing in front of the display case. The old general was on the other side of the room so that Colesceau couldn’t see them both at the same time.
“I used to, occasionally. Now, it’s not possible.”
She looked toward the door. “Got you surrounded.”
“Like Custer in American history.”
“Custer thought he was a military genius. What kind of genius do you think you are?”
“None at all, I’m afraid. But I’m surrounded just the same.”
“Sit.”
Colesceau sat. He was suddenly outside himself again, watching himself sit. From this dislocated vantage point he could look down on the old guy’s bristly head, the Doberman’s wavy locks and his own thinning dark hair. When the bitch’s coat fell open he saw the holster up under her arm, saw the snap was loose, wondered if she kept it that way for quick kills.
And the strangest thing had begun to happen — his shrunken, hormone-battered sex organ was starting to stir.
“So, where did you used to go, when you could get out?” Sergeant Rayborn asked him.
Sergeant Rayborn.
“Movies, Sergeant. Inexpensive restaurants. The library.”
Yes, it was growing. Why now?
“When? What time of day?”
“After work, Sergeant. Evenings. Generally not on weekends because of the crowds.”
“Ever go to malls?”
“Yes. I like malls.”
“Why?” She was looking at him sharply now. And he was looking down at himself, at the beginning of a lump in his pants. He crossed his legs and locked his fingers over his knees.
What was going on?
“Variety,” he said. “Food, entertainment, merchandise. A nice environment. If you grew up where I did, an American mall is a wonderful place.”
“Ever go there to look at the women?”
“Never. I have had no interest in women for three years. I have no desire to look at them or touch them. Occasionally I want to talk to a female person, because females can have such a refreshing way of seeing things. Then, I can call my mother, or perhaps my psychologist, Dr. Carla Fontana. But so far as striking up conversations with unfamiliar women — I don’t do that. Very occasionally, one will strike up a conversation with me.”
“What do you do then, run?”
“I’m a good listener,” he said. He wondered if he was laying it on a little thick, because this Merci Rayborn was no typical American airhead. He had the feeling she was seeing right into him. He pressed his legs together to apply pressure to his shrunken testicles, in hopes of discouraging his excitement. What is it about talking to her that does this to me?
“I’ll bet you are,” she said. “Gives you a chance to think about them, watch them.”
“This is what conversation is, no?”
“Not when you’re figuring out a way to rape them it isn’t.”
“That is never what I do.”
“Stay where you are.”
He felt his excitement rise a notch.
“Don’t move.”
“Yes, Sergeant. Whatever you demand.”
Another notch. Something to do with her commanding voice, he thought: her authority and conviction. It was like she wore an invisible uniform. And not some indecisive American law enforcement costume, but the actual power-emanating uniform of the Romanian state police.
Merci thought that Colesceau was one of the weirdest guys she’d ever laid eyes on. The weirdness was too vague and vast to identify yet but she felt it anyway, like the first breeze before a massive storm. She shook her head and walked over to Hess, who was now looking at the eggs.
“Take your tour,” she said. “I’m going to stay on him.”
Hess looked over her shoulder, toward Colesceau, then back to the display case. “Keep him in front of you. He used an ice pick on those dogs.”
“I’d like to see him try one on me.”
“Beware a weak man’s rage.”
“Yes, master.”
She left Hess at the case and went back to Colesceau. He was right where she had left him, legs crossed and fingers locked over one knee. He looked pudgy and soft and she thought she could see mounds of breasts under his shirt. A track light from the ceiling lit the back of his slightly balding head. It was hard to imagine this man doing what was done on the Ortega, or at the construction site off Main. But he was compact enough to fit into the floor space behind the front seat of a car. So were half a million other men in the county.
“I’ve got some dates I want to ask you about,” she said.
He looked at her and smiled. “From a woman as attractive as you, I would say yes to all dates.”
She gave him her drop dead look, heartfelt. “Let’s get something straight, worm. One more comment about my appearance, I’ll book you for verbal assault. I’ll have your ass back in slam before you can form your next thought.”
He squirmed a little on the couch, nodding with apparent sincerity. He almost looked repentant.
“You clear on that, Jack?”
“Absolutely, Sergeant.”
His eyes, when I got up close, looked wet and sad...
A good description of this shitbird, thought Merci.
“Saturday night, fourteen August. Three nights ago.”
He looked at her with his regretful eyes and sighed. “I sat here and listened to my neighbors chant. I would like to state right now that I love children and have never harmed one. Anyway, I watched TV. I saw myself interviewed by a man who presented himself as an American Civil Liberties lawyer. He was in fact a reporter with a hidden camera. I confronted the crowd at approximately six, to see if they would be a little less loud. And again at nine-thirty, because they had not yet set a time to discontinue the noise. So, Sergeant, you can go outside and speak to them. They are my witnesses.”
“I’ll do that. All right, three August — two Tuesday evenings ago.”
“I need my calendar. It’s on the counter over there, by the phone.”
“I’ll get it. You’ll stay put.”
He was smiling again, an expression that seemed to hold a thousand messages but contain no clear meaning that Rayborn was familiar with. He recrossed his legs and fingers. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
Hess started in the kitchen. He could hear their voices as he stood in the middle of it and took in the generalities: neat, clean, used. He slid out the drawers and looked at the flatware, the oven mitts, the utensils, the plastic wrap and foil. No ice pick. The inside of the oven was clean. So was the stovetop. He turned on the sink faucet and let the water run a minute, turned it off and listened to it gurgling down the garbage disposal U. He looked in the cabinet under the sink: wastebasket, pots and pans, dishwasher soap, glass cleaner, rags, brushes. The dishwasher was half-loaded. No lidless canning jars. The refrigerator was lightly stocked with ordinary staples and condiments. The freezer had boxes of vegetables, ice cream and a package of hamburger.
The small downstairs bathroom looked rarely used. The fixtures were dusty and dry and the toilet bowl had a pale stain just above the water level.
Hess climbed the stairs and went into the main bedroom. Colesceau slept on a small twin that was neatly made: brown cotton bedspread, white sheets and pillow. On the wall above the bed was a poster of a bright yellow Shelby Cobra with its hood open to reveal a big highly chromed engine. Hess recognized the coveted Holly carbs of his youth. The print at the bottom said “Pratt Automotive — Classic Automobile Restoration,” which Hess remembered as Colesceau’s recent employer.