Face Off (6 page)

The scene began unfolding in front of her. She could see animals prancing around. Monkeys. And a man with a beard. But the images were spinning. Going too fast for her to see them plainly. A seat. She could see people in some kind of seat, with their arms in the air as though someone were holding a gun on them. Then she heard Amy's voice, as clear as if she had been speaking to her from the backseat. “Jessie! Come for me! Please!” Then the images began to fade, as they spun faster and faster.

“No!” Jessie screamed. “It isn't enough!” She put her hands to her forehead in concentration, but it was gone. “No!” She doubled up her fists, smashing them into the car seat. “Amy! I need more! Please, Amy! Stay with me!”

*   *   *

Thirty miles away, dizziness finally overcame the girl in the cement box, and she sank to the floor, unconscious.

Chapter Six

Chief of Detectives Edward K. Caswell had two habits which drove his men crazy. He constantly cracked his knuckles, and he made little sucking noises with his mouth, as if he were trying to dislodge a stuck piece of food from between his teeth. Sometimes, between the sucking and the cracking, it was hard to concentrate on the man's words.

Harry McDermott was doing his best to follow along. Chief Caswell had listened stone-faced to Harry's report of what he'd heard from Willie, then uttered one word. Sonofabitch. When Caswell said it, it came out as one word and it could mean anything from “congratulations” to “get the hell out of my face.” Harry gathered that this time it meant merely, “Sonofabitch!”

“And on top of everything else the families of the three missing girls are coming down on us hard. I just found out two of the mothers are going on
Noontime with Nora
tomorrow.”

“What will that hurt, Chief? We need to get the public involved. God knows where he left those bodies. Everyone in K.C. needs to be on the alert.”

“Right!” Caswell raised his hand to quiet him. “Don't say it. It's the public's right to know, right? Sonofabitch, but I get tired of the public's right to know. Do you have any idea how many leads will come through this office once those ladies hit that talk show? About five hundred in the first hour alone!” Caswell ran long fingers over his closely cropped gray hair. “And city hall thinks we need to cut back on manpower. Sonofabitch!”

“How should we handle Willie's little bombshell? Do you think there's any chance Clark's attorney started the rumor about us having the wrong man? Nordyke is just about that much of an asshole.”

“No. Christ, no! Andrew Nordyke doesn't want Clark back on the street any more than
we
do. He's just making the usual rumblings, but hell—he has three daughters all in about the same age group as the ones Clark's been killing. I can't imagine him wanting Clark set free, and I sure as hell don't think he would phony-up evidence to see that happen.”

“Well, I've certainly seen him do some fancy legal footwork to keep his clients from doing any time in jail. Wouldn't it be a feather in his cap if he could free Clark, the worst serial killer Kansas City has ever seen?”

Caswell shook his head. “That's just it. You don't want to be the one responsible for setting a cold-blooded killer like that free. It would ruin Nordyke, especially if Clark was released and killed again. No. As long as Nordyke is convinced of Clark's guilt, it wouldn't be in his best interests to see him get off. Which doesn't mean, of course, that he wouldn't do his best to defend him.”

“Well, then what? You were in Clark's apartment. Did you see any sign of a roommate? I know I sure as hell didn't. But yet Rodriguez seemed mighty sure of his facts.”

From the back of the room Jim Stahl spoke for the first time. “I've got to tell you, Chief, Willie Rodriguez is my best informant. We go back a long ways—a hell of a long ways. He might try to jive one of the other boys, but he wouldn't me.”

Chief Caswell nodded. “I know, Jim. If Willie told you it's the word on the street, then by God, it's the word on the street.”

*   *   *

The year was 1973 when Jim Stahl, along with his wife, Ruth, and their two teenage sons, moved to the Kansas City area from Chicago. He had only been on the force a few days, and even though he had entered the K.C. precinct with nearly twenty years' experience in police work, he was being tested by the local boys to see if he measured up.

The call had come through about midnight. A worker at the Kansas City stockyards was unloading cattle when he heard faint yelling from one of the cars. He didn't know what to do. The train had come from New Mexico, and if it was carrying illegal aliens, most of them were surely dead by now. On top of that, the latch to the boxcar had been welded shut and he would need help getting into the car.

Jim's car was the second on the scene. By the time he got there, two officers were helping young Mexican men out of the boxcar. A third officer was chasing after a slightly older man. As Jim watched, the officer easily overtook the man, then swung his baton at the man's legs. Jim could hear the crack as the Mexican's thin leg broke.

“Hey!” Jim yelled as he ran up. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

“This isn't any of your business,” the officer snapped. “Get back there and help unload the rest of those damn wetbacks.” His baton again cracked down on the Mexican.

“The hell I will!” Jim yelled as he threw a punch which connected solidly with the officer's chin. With one hand he grabbed the officer's baton and hurled it back toward the police car. With the other hand he gathered the top of the officer's shirt into a wad, then lifted him into the air, tossing him away. “Get the fuck out of here!” Jim screamed. “And call an ambulance, or I'll have your badge, asshole.”

Jim dropped to one knee and spoke softly to the man. “Do you speak English, señor?”

“Sí, sí.” The man nodded. “I speak very good English.”

“My name is Jim Stahl. Officer Stahl. I'm so sorry for what the other officer did.”

The man nodded again. “My leg, I think she is broken, señor.”

“Don't worry. I'll get help for you. I'll see that you get to the hospital. What is your name?”

At first Jim thought the man wasn't going to answer, but then he said, “Willie. Willie Rodriguez. I come to this city because my father, he is dying and calling for me. I must go to him.”

By the time the ambulance arrived, several more police cars had arrived on the scene. The officer who had broken Willie's leg came over to Jim and in front of a force of twenty or so of his buddies said, “You've been in town three days and you think you can
have my badge?
That asshole was an illegal running from the law. I was perfectly within my rights to stop him. You and me aren't finished, yet.”

“Oh, yes, but we are,” Jim had answered him coldly. “I can't abide a sniveling coward who uses his uniform to hide behind when he wants to pull a bully act. And you don't need to worry about my having your badge. Just remember if I see or hear about anything like this again, I will personally beat the living shit out of you.”

The next day when Jim reported for duty, he could tell by the slaps on his back and the handshakes, that he wasn't the only officer who had been sickened by the events of the previous night.

Three days later, before his leg had properly been set, Willie Rodriguez disappeared from the hospital. Six months later Jim ran into him again, hustling anything he could on the streets, and dragging a gimp leg along.

As an officer of the law, Jim knew he should report Willie as an illegal to be deported. But by then he knew that Willie had kept seven young Mexican men alive in the hot train car by shinnying out of a tiny space in the ceiling and going for food and water whenever there was a train stop. He was the only one small enough to do it, and at any point could have abandoned them, disappearing into the countryside.

Besides, Jim figured, Willie was left with a crippled leg because one of his own kind wanted to flex his muscles. Screw it. He wouldn't give him up.

Willie was still eyeing him warily when Jim stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again, Willie. How's it going? Did you get to your dad in time?”

Relief and admiration played across Willie's features. “Sí. I was with him two weeks before he died.”

And with that, a friendship had developed between the two men. Several years later, when amnesty was granted to many of the illegals, Jim had made it a point to see that Willie got his papers.

Now, Jim was sixty-three years old and Willie had passed fifty, but they still looked out for one another and both men trusted each other implicitly. That was what worried Jim. Willie kept his ears to the pavement. He could weasel in and out of places without anyone ever realizing he was there. After talking with Willie, Jim felt in his gut that the story of the Kansas City Butcher wasn't over yet.

There was a light staccato beat on the door to Caswell's office. Jena Karnitz, a first-year detective, stuck her head in. “Chief, you won't believe this, but we have a murder on Brighton Avenue. Same MO as the butcher—body parts scattered about.”

“Sonofabitch!” Caswell exploded.

“And, Harry…” Jena's tone indicated that there was a marked difference between how she viewed the nearly sixty-year-old, graying, potbellied, married chief, and the thirty-seven-year-old, unmarried Harry, who was six foot four inches of lean muscle. “There's a nun here who wants to see Clark. Shall I let her go back?”

Harry nodded. Right now, the last thing he had time for, was Randal Clark's religious needs.

“Get the ME on the phone, Jena—Davis, if he's available, and get him over to Brighton. Jim, let's roll. This has got to be a copycat, but we won't know for sure until Davis checks. Good thing there are a few little facts that the copycat couldn't know. Maybe that will keep Nordyke off our asses.”

Chief Caswell's office was located down a narrow hall, just slightly off the main activity room. When Harry hurried past Jena out the door, he saw the nun standing off to the side, and thought to himself that if the nuns who had drilled catechism into him in his younger days had looked anything like this one, he might have learned his lessons. She was tall, with thick eyebrows and lashes, and a complexion which was flawless, except for the film of sweat covering it. There was just something about the woman that caused Harry to slide to a stop. “You wanted to see Clark?”

Suzanne nodded, dropping her eyes demurely. “Yes, sir.”

Harry glanced at Jena. “Fix her up with the phones for a few minutes, then.”

“The phones?” Suzanne questioned.

“Yes,” Jena said. “We have a two-way phone where you can speak to Clark through a glass window.”

“Oh, but that won't do!” Suzanne protested. “I need to touch Clark.” Her mind searched for a logical reason for the request. “I need to anoint him. You know, the anointing of the damned. His forehead. I'll just need to touch his forehead long enough to make the sign of the cross.”

“All right,” Harry said, giving in to her easily. “Jena, see that—” He turned to Suzanne. “What was your name?”

“Sister Mary Elizabeth.”

“Jena, see that Sister Mary Elizabeth has a few minutes with Clark.” He reached out and took Suzanne's hand in his own large one. “It was nice to meet you, Sister. Why don't you wait in Chief Caswell's office while Jena arranges things?”

Suzanne entered the office, puzzling over her handshake with the handsome detective. Why hadn't she picked up a reading from him? Rarely did she ever come in physical contact with someone without immediately knowing more about the person than she had any right to know. It had all but killed her love life. Yet she hadn't received anything from this man.

Outside in the hall, Harry motioned for Jena and Jim to follow him farther away from the closed door.

“Set up a tape recorder before you bring the two of them together. I don't know who the beauty in the black habit is, but she sure as hell isn't a nun.”

“How so?” asked Jim.

“For one thing, there is a faint smell of tobacco about her, and that deep, husky voice sure sounds like a smoker to me. But for clinchers, I know for damn sure that there is no such thing as the
anointing of the damned.
She just said the first thing that popped into her head when she learned there would be a glass partition between her and Clark. So just play along and see what she wants. But keep a close eye on her and search Clark the minute she leaves. For some reason, she wants to be physically close to Clark. Find out why, then hold her here until we get back. Oh, and you'd better make sure she doesn't have any weapons on her.”

Jena raised perfectly arched eyebrows at Harry. “And just how would you suggest I do that?”

“Send her through the metal detector, officer,” Jim interrupted. “Just go through yourself, and she will follow. She doesn't need to know a thing.”

*   *   *

The instant Officer Karnitz took her by the arm to guide her into the meeting with Clark, Suzanne knew she was in trouble. The young woman's thoughts were a jumble of wondering who the woman in the nun's habit really was, if someone named Harry was ever going to ask her out, and what she was going to say to the nun to keep her at the police station.

Damn,
Suzanne thought wildly.
They plan on keeping me here when I finish with Clark!

She followed the officer into a room where a man sat alone at a table, his hands and feet cuffed. Two police officers stood by each of the doors.

The first thing that struck Suzanne was how ordinary the man looked. He wasn't anyone she would have even noticed in a crowd. His features were fine, but his complexion suggested he spent a lot of time out of doors. It was ruddy, lined, and weathered. There was nothing on his face to suggest he was a killer who had slaughtered God knows how many young girls, scattering their bodies across the city. He was someone Suzanne would have stopped on the street to ask directions of, or spoken to in a grocery line.