Cop Town (40 page)

“Thank you.” Kate stroked back her hair. She couldn’t help herself. “There hasn’t been anyone here lately who seems out of place? Someone who doesn’t blend in?”

“Honey, every man in this place blends in as soon as he walks through that door. That’s kind of the point.” He refilled Maggie’s glass. “Sorry I couldn’t—” He stopped. “You know what? There was a guy here yesterday who kind of freaked me.”

Maggie asked, “What did he look like?”

“Me.” He laughed. “Except older.”

Kate knew this wasn’t much help. When you were eighteen, thirty was ancient. “Did he say anything?”

“Not really. He was one of those strong, silent types. Good tipper. Drank Southern Comfort. He kept watching the door every time it opened. I got the feeling he was either waiting for somebody or looking for somebody. Of course, that’s pretty much what everybody’s doing when they’re in here.”

“Was he a cop?”

“He wasn’t wearing a uniform. He kind of looked like a cop. Or a soldier. We get a lot of vets in here. I think most of ’em aren’t even gay. They just got used to being around men over there. They want to feel like they’re part of a unit again. Weird, huh?”

Kate nodded like she understood.

He topped off Maggie’s drink again. “Listen, cutie, you’re both welcome to sit here and drink all you want, but don’t go asking the customers questions. You won’t get anything more than what I’ve told you, and you’d be surprised how many cops higher up the food chain darken our doors. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down?”

“Yes.” Kate had given up on jive talk after yesterday’s debacle. “Thank you.”

He winked at her before walking away.

Maggie took another drink. Kate tried her bourbon and nearly gagged. He certainly hadn’t given them top shelf.

“Let’s go.” Maggie grabbed her hat. She walked toward the door.

Kate decided to take her time. She picked up the photograph on the bar. It was a good picture of Jimmy. He was leaning against a car. His shirt was tight across his muscular chest. His chin was tilted up confidently.
He was smiling, and Kate hoped that Maggie had taken the picture, that the grin captured by the camera was meant for his sister.

She tucked her hat under her arm as she made her way through the crowded room. She didn’t have to push her way out. Men politely stepped aside. They nodded deferentially. Someone even opened the door for her.

She scanned the parking lot for Maggie. She wasn’t in the cruiser. She wasn’t walking between cars. Kate turned. The pay phones were empty. She was about to go back into the bar when she heard heaving.

Maggie was on the side of the building. She was on the ground, on all fours, divulging the contents of her stomach.

Kate’s first instinct was to go to her, to put her hand to her back, to help keep her hair out of the way. But she was the second Kate now, or maybe the fourth, so she just stood there waiting for the nausea to pass.

The passing took longer than she anticipated. Kate’s feet started to hurt. She sat down on the curb. She stared out at the debris-strewn vacant lot next door. Someone had abandoned a shopping cart filled with wet pieces of cardboard. Condoms, needles, tinfoil, spoons. The usual detritus that she’d come to accept riddled every part of the city but her own.

Finally, Maggie groaned out what little liquid was left in her stomach. She wiped her mouth with her hand.

Kate looked down at her hat. Jimmy’s name was written inside the brim. She had no idea where her own hat was. She’d found her shoes in the back of Gail’s car, but the hat was missing.

Maggie sat back on her knees. She was panting.

Kate said, “I meant to put a sachet in this hat last night. I keep some in my lingerie drawer. They smell like roses.”

Maggie looked out at the lot.

Kate hooked the hat on her knee. She smoothed the legs of her pants. “My father’s a psychiatrist.”

“Goddamn it,” Maggie muttered. “That makes so much sense.”

Kate smiled, because it probably did. “He’s paying for my apartment. There was no insurance policy. I never claimed my husband’s benefits, because I thought if I did, then it would mean he’s really dead.”

Maggie turned to look at her.

“I spent last night with a married man. He wants me to come back tonight, but I don’t know if I will. Should I? Probably not.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know,” Kate admitted. “You seemed so angry at me before. I thought it was because you knew I was lying. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“Is this some sort of deal? Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”

Kate shrugged. She didn’t know what it was.

“Jimmy’s gay.” Maggie’s tone had a finality to it. “He wasn’t lying about that. I’ve been fighting it all night, but I don’t think he was lying about anything.”

Kate knew better than to ask for clarification.

“On the street, somebody tells you one lie, you just block out everything else. They can’t be trusted.” Maggie cleared her throat several times. She looked like she wanted to spit. “So if he’s telling the truth about something so horrible …” Her voice trailed off. She leaned over and spit on the ground. “I’m sorry.”

Kate didn’t know why spitting felt less ladylike than throwing up, but it did. “Do you want me to go back into the bar and get you a glass of water?”

“All those men in there …” She started shaking her head. “They looked so normal.”

“They
are
normal.”

Maggie looked back at her again.

“You never thought about what your brother did with women. Why would you think about what he might be doing with men?”

“It’s all so easy for you. You just decide that this is the way things are, and you go on like it doesn’t matter.”

“I can’t sit around feeling sorry for myself. I tried that for two years and it gained me nothing.”

“Kate, you cry all the time.”

She laughed, because she didn’t think of it as crying. The tears from the last few days were nothing like the ones she’d cried for Patrick. “You have to get things out. You can’t keep them bottled in all the time.”

“That’s easy to say when you have choices.”

“You have a choice.” Kate handed her the photo of Jimmy. “You can choose to love your brother no matter what.”

Maggie cupped the photo in her hand. She stared at the image until a tear splashed onto Jimmy’s face. “All night, I didn’t believe him. I know my brother. At least I thought I knew him.”

Kate maintained her silent strategy.

Maggie crumpled the photo. She stuck it in her pants pocket. “Jimmy confessed to being the Shooter. He killed all those men.”

Kate felt the words travel around her brain. They were like marbles in a wooden labyrinth puzzle, rolling around, looking for the right path.

Maggie said, “Mark Porter, Greg Keen, Alex Ballard, Leonard Johnson, Don Wesley. Jimmy killed them all.”

Finally, Kate could speak. “That’s not possible.”

“He wrote it down.” Maggie pulled her notebook out of her pocket. “His confession. I copied it.”

“Where’s the original?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Kate took the notebook. “Of course it matters. What happened to the original?”

“My mother tore it up, all right? Are you going to read it or not?”

Confusion still clouded Kate’s brain. She looked down at the letter and silently read the words. She had to go through the note twice before comprehension began to dawn.

I am the Atlanta Shooter. I killed those guys because I was a dirty fag with them and I didn’t want anybody to find out. Don’t try to find me or I will kill more people. Maggie, I’m sorry that I never apologized to you. I should’ve told you that what happened wasn’t your fault
.

Kate was so stunned that she could barely think of a response. “Jimmy didn’t write this.”

“He did. It was his handwriting. His signature.”

“It’s not true.”

“I know what you’re going to say. I went through the same thing last night.” Maggie indicated the bar. “He’s gay, Kate. Why would he tell the truth about being gay and lie about being a murderer?”

Kate’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t think what to say.

“You ask my uncle Terry, the first one is worse than the second. Jimmy might as well have written a suicide note. Tell me why he said any of it if it’s not true.”

“Because—” Kate was still stymied. “Because.”

“Eduardo’s description. That’s Jimmy. Think about the Shooter: He knows the police codes. He knows police routines and procedures. Don wouldn’t be expecting Jimmy to pull a gun. Nobody would. And look at where we are. This is a gay bar where they had a memorial service for Don. You don’t have a service for somebody you don’t know. Don was gay. They were both gay, and Jimmy snapped, and—”

“Maggie, stop this. You’re exhausted. You haven’t slept all night. You’re jumping to so many conclusions that you’ve forgotten the facts.”

“I know the facts.”

“Then let’s go over them.” Kate laid it out for her. “Delilah said that the Shooter was wearing jeans and a red shirt. Are you telling me Jimmy changed his clothes to kill Don, then changed back into his uniform before carrying him all the way to the hospital?”

Maggie started shaking her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Does Jimmy own a red shirt? You said he only wears black, gray, and navy.”

“The whore could’ve been lying. Or Eduardo was.”

“She told the same lie Jimmy did, then. He said the Shooter was wearing a red shirt and jeans.”

Maggie still could not accept it. “Jimmy lied about the Shooter. He said he was black.”

“The Shooter was wearing black gloves. That’s why Jimmy said he was black. He probably saw the gun, and the hand holding it, and then he dove for cover. After what you and I both went through yesterday, I think it’s understandable that some of the details were lost.”

Maggie kept shaking her head. There were tears in her eyes. “You just have to accept it. We both have to accept it.”

“I won’t accept anything of the sort.” Kate finally realized that there
was nothing to do but to tell Maggie the truth. Or at least part of it. “The night that Don was killed, Jimmy got hurt, too.”

Maggie looked dubious. “I told you he has a bad knee.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Some shrapnel from the bullet that killed Don was in Jimmy’s thigh.” Kate chose her words carefully. Maggie didn’t need the details. “I talked to the doctor at Grady who treated him.”

“Jimmy didn’t say anything about shrapnel.”

Kate flailed for an explanation. “You know how Jimmy is. He’s not going to admit he’s hurt. He’s too tough for that.”

Maggie looked desperate to be persuaded. “What are you saying?”

“Jimmy couldn’t get shrapnel in his leg if he was holding the gun. Ergo, he was standing beside Don when it happened.”

Maggie put her hand to her neck. “He had blood all over his face and chest. I remember thinking he had to be close when Don was shot.”

“That’s right,” Kate agreed. “He was standing beside Don when it happened.”

Maggie sat up. “I saw fresh blood on Jimmy’s pants. You were there. I was in the street with Conroy. You guys pulled up. I saw the blood, and I asked him about it, and he got really weird.” She grabbed Kate’s arm. “Oh, Kate—are you sure? That’s really what the doctor said?”

“You can talk to him yourself.” Kate felt certain Philip would have no trouble spinning a white lie. “We’ll go there now.”

Maggie wasn’t listening. She was still picking everything apart. “I don’t understand. Why would he say he killed those people?”

“Stress?” Kate was on shaky ground. This was more her father’s area of expertise. “Maybe at some level he felt responsible because he couldn’t save Don?”

Maggie saw another hole in the confession. “So all those guys were gay? Keen, Porter, Johnson, Ballard?”

“You heard the bartender,” Kate said. “The force is full of them.”

“But those guys had wives. They had mistresses.”

Kate could not begin to explain. She was only worried about Jimmy now. Why had he written those words? What could his motive possibly be?

She read the letter again.
Dirty fag
. The phrase was something another person would call you, not something you would call yourself.

Maggie said what they were both thinking. “None of this makes sense.”

“There’s always a reason. We just need to figure it out.”

“I’ve spent all night trying to. There’s no reason.” Maggie picked up a piece of gravel from the ground. She tossed it into the weeds.

Kate read Jimmy’s words aloud. “ ‘I should’ve told you that what happened wasn’t your fault.’ ”

Maggie threw another rock. This one went farther. She was trying to hit the shopping cart.

Kate silently read the lines again.

I’m sorry that I never apologized to you. I should’ve told you that what happened wasn’t your fault
.

She asked, “What wasn’t your fault?”

Maggie hurled another rock. This one landed closer to the cart. Instead of answering, she searched for another weapon.

Kate looked down at the letter. She had it memorized by now. She stared instead at the cursive words. Maggie’s handwriting was better than her own. The pen had bored down into the paper. She could feel the indentations through the back of the page.

Maggie said, “Eight years ago, Jimmy had this friend named Michael.”

Kate kept her eyes down.

“He was good-looking. Jimmy’s friends are always good-looking.” Maggie’s sharp, surprised laugh indicated that she finally understood why. “Michael slept over all the time. I was fifteen. I had a crush on him. He wouldn’t give me the time of day.” She gripped a rock in her hand. “One night, I was asleep and I woke up and Michael was on top of me.” She shrugged. “I was stupid about that kind of stuff. I didn’t really know what was going on, but it hurt like hell and he wouldn’t stop, and Jimmy must’ve heard me scream, because the next thing I know, he’s in my room and he’s beating the shit out of Michael.”

She glanced over at Kate. “My mother was there, and my uncle Terry,
which was the first time I realized he spent the night sometimes. My sister was five. She slept through it, but she knows about it now. Terry made sure of that.” She threw the rock. It clanged against the metal cart. “He hangs it over my head all the time. All of them do. It’s what they use against me when I forget my place.”