Gray Matter (30 page)

Schultz slept in Saturday morning. Casey, the luscious blonde who worked in Vehicles, had graced him with another visit last night. She was turning out to be one of his more durable fantasies, in more ways than one. When he finally woke up, he urgently needed to get to the bathroom. He lurched to his feet. There was pain in his knees, sharper than usual, and he couldn’t seem to get them moving. He shuffled along stiff-legged, but he wasn’t making good enough time. The urge to urinate was too strong and the bathroom was too far away. He headed for the wastebasket that stood next to his dresser and relieved himself there. When he was done, he slowly made his way to the bathroom carrying the wastebasket, emptied it into the toilet, and rinsed it in the sink.

He was deeply embarrassed, even though he was all alone. What if this happened at work? He’d be put out to pasture for sure. Thinking of what PJ had said about consulting a private doctor, he went back to the bed, sat down heavily, and pulled the Yellow Pages out of the night stand drawer. He selected a private orthopedic clinic as a starting point. If that wasn’t right, they could refer him to one from there. He used his own name when he called, but he planned to pay for the treatment himself rather than submit a claim under the Department insurance program. As he had hoped, there was an opening due to a cancellation, and they were able to see him at eleven-thirty that morning. By the time he showered and shaved, his legs were starting to limber up.

He breakfasted on instant coffee and a stale Danish he had bought a couple of days ago. The empty house seemed oppressive to him, and he was not looking forward to today’s agenda: the doctor’s office followed by a visit to his son. Schultz had posted bail for Rick, and the boy was living in the apartment he had shared with a roommate whom Schultz considered to be a bad influence. The day he drove his son home from his bail hearing, Schultz had unceremoniously kicked the roommate out.

Other than posting bail, he had decided not to help Rick avoid jail time. The charges against his son were serious, and in Schultz’s mind, deserving of punishment. If it had been something like auto theft, he might have been inclined to exert pressure to get the charges dropped or reduced. But selling drugs to kids—potentially ruining young lives—was not something he wanted to brush under the rug. Since this was a first offense, if things took their normal course, Rick would serve maybe six months in jail and two or three years on probation. Schultz intended to be there for his son when he got out of prison, to give him a place to live, make sure he got a job, and simply be a presence in his life. Schultz had hopes his son could turn things around for himself with the proper environment, and that environment included a caring, involved father.

Schultz’s biggest fear was that Rick would contract HIV from forced sex during his jail stay. Rick was a big, strong man, with the same powerful build that Schultz had at that age, so he would not be an easy target for exploitation. Schultz planned to share with him everything he knew about ways to avoid the most onerous possibilities during incarceration: rape and beatings. He would also use his network of contacts to ensure that the guards kept an eye on things and alerted him early if trouble was brewing. It was the best that he could do, and he didn’t think it made up for years of looking the other way when Rick’s difficulties first surfaced.

This afternoon he was going to visit Rick and let him know that Pop was not going to try to keep him out of jail. He fully expected an emotional, maybe even violent, reaction from the young man when it became clear to him that he was going to have to face the consequences of what he had done. Then Schultz could begin the difficult task of rebuilding his relationship with his son, and there was always the chance that he wouldn’t succeed.

After breakfast, Schultz decided to use the slack time before his doctor appointment by going in to work. He would rather occupy his mind with the circumstances of brutal killings than dwell on the prospect of what he faced with his son. As he sat at his kitchen table, draining the last drops from his coffee cup, he thought he felt Julia’s hand resting gently on his shoulder. Not the Julia of today, but the Julia of thirty years ago, when there was a kind of electricity, an innocent magic, in her touch. He tilted his head to brush his cheek against her hand, as he had done so many times, but the sense of her presence was gone. He realized that it had been gone for years.

He put his coffee cup and plate in the sink and left.

PJ slurped noisily on her straw, drawing up the last of the chocolate shake. Briefly she considered ordering another one, then decided that would be a bad idea. She had to get up on that ladder when she got back to the house, and she didn’t want to be overly full when she started her afternoon of work.

Millie wandered over and sat down on a stool behind the counter across from PJ.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider delivering one of these shakes to my house at about four o’clock, would you?” PJ said.

Millie laughed, “Well, Dearie, I just might consider it. Lunch was slow today. By four, this place is gonna be dead.” She reached under the counter and pulled out a coffee cup for herself. Glancing over at the commercial coffee maker at the end of the counter, she saw that both the regular and decaf pots were empty. That was the “quick fill” service area, and apparently it had been depleted during lunch. Face pinched in annoyance, she pushed herself off the stool and went into the kitchen where there was another coffee maker. PJ heard her voice drift out from the pass-through between the serving area and the kitchen.

“Cut that out, I tell you. Whaddya think this is, the ball park? If I hear the “Star-Spangled Banner” outta you one more time, I’m gonna go nuts. For Christ’s sake, give it a rest!”

Millie came out with a steaming cup of coffee and sat back down on the stool, her chest heaving with an exaggerated sigh.

“I swear, that cook’s starting to get to me. It’s like a little kid saying ‘You can’t make me’ in that taunting kind of voice. The first fifty times you hear it, you shrug it off. Then on the fifty-first, you haul off and slug ’em. I’m afraid I’m gonna deck that guy some day, poor kid.”

PJ chuckled. Millie was a strong woman with a lot of street smarts. There was little doubt she could do what she said. “I know how you feel. I used to have a patient who…wait a minute, did you say the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’?”

“Yeah. Sometimes I think he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.”

PJ closed her eyes. Memories were sliding into place like continental drift in reverse: all the land masses were fitting back together to form Pangaea.

“Millie,” she said, leaning toward the woman and speaking in a low, flat voice, “I’m going to ask you for some information. I would appreciate it if you’d just go along with me and not ask any questions. It might be very important, or it might be nothing.”

“Sure, Dearie. Ask away.” Millie’s voice matched hers, low and conspiratorial.

“I’d like to know the name and address of your cook, the one who’s working now.”

“That’s it? I thought it was going to be something hard. You just wait right here, and I’ll go get his paper.” She bustled off, leaving PJ fiddling with her straw and trying not to get a glimpse of the man in the kitchen.

“Here it is,” she said, laying a coffee-stained form down on the counter in front of PJ. “Everybody who works here fills out one of these, so’s I can pay social security and workman’s comp. I do everything by the book here. If I don’t, my accountant, Eddie, screams at me with language I wouldn’t repeat.”

“Thanks.” PJ pulled a notebook from her purse and copied down the man’s name, Peter M. Hampton, and his address.

“Do you know what kind of car he drives? And when does his shift end?”

“He’s got a red pickup, not new but real nice and shiny. Probably waxes it every week. Got those vanity plates, something like BADBOY…no, it’s BADDOG. I asked him about it once. He said it didn’t mean anything, just something easy to remember. He gets off at two today.” Millie’s eyes revealed her curiosity, but she had agreed not to ask any questions, and now it was a matter of honor to stick to that.

PJ put a five dollar bill on the counter for her lunch and tip. “Where’s the phone?”

“Over by the ladies’ room.” She leaned over and laid a hand on PJ’s arm as PJ rose from her seat at the counter. “Whatever you’re up to, Dearie, you be careful, OK? I don’t want anything to happen to my best tipper.”

PJ nodded and headed over to the phone. She dug some coins out of her purse and called Schultz at home. She got an answering machine, and left a rambling message.

“Leo, this is PJ. Something exciting just…I’m at Millie’s, and I’ve got an idea. You just listen, and don’t laugh, all right? You remember that video tape with the murderer humming the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’? Millie says her cook hums that very song all the time. Remember we talked about the killer wanting to take on the characteristics of his victims? We heard classical music coming from the kitchen, that’s Burton, the pianist. Then Millie said the guy broke some dishes dancing around the kitchen. That’s Vanitzky. Remember that awful painting of a baseball stadium? That’s Sheila Armor. Sheila said that the man following her was wearing a baseball cap. That waitress, Kelly, who gave you an eyeful of boobs, said the cook was watching her like a hungry dog looking at a steak. A hungry
dog.
Here’s the best part…”

PJ got cut off by the answering machine, which apparently had a time limit for each message. She dialed back and continued.

“This is part two of my message. The best part is that Millie says he’s got a red truck with license plates that spell BADDOG. This couldn’t all be coincidence, Leo. I think he’s the man. His name is Peter M. Hampton, and he lives at 8420 Long Drive in St. Ann. I’m not sure where that is, but I’ve got a map in the car. Millie says he works until two o’clock, so I’m going to drive out there and cruise by his house. If the red truck’s not there, I might get out and poke around a little. I’ll let you know what happens.”

PJ hung up and, with her last thirty-five cents, called Schultz’s office number. No answer there, either, so she left a brief message on his voice mail telling him to check his machine at home. Disappointed that she couldn’t get him right away, she wondered if in the future they should each carry pagers. She considered contacting Dave or Anita, then decided not to. If this was a wild goose chase, at least she would only look foolish in front of Schultz.

She left the diner. On impulse, she walked down the short alley that led to the parking spaces around the back for the employees.

The truck was there, and the sight of it was disturbing. It was red and arrogant and threatening, like the engorged penis of a rapist. Shuddering, she wondered if she should just go home and let Schultz check out this man. Then she remembered what he had said to her earlier: that she hadn’t paid her dues. If she could get a concrete lead on this cook, maybe that would be a down payment. She shook herself mentally, plumping up her nerve as though she were fluffing a pillow, and headed for her old VW.

“I need to have you on your hands and knees up on the table,” the X-ray technician said.

Schultz, feeling a draft under his loose gown, scowled at her. Just the thought of resting his weight on his knees on a metal table sent little shivers of anticipated pain through him. “If I could do that, young lady, I wouldn’t need these X-rays in the first place. Can’t I just stand up for this?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the tech, who had last qualified as a young lady two decades ago. “We have to get a shot of your knees in a bent position, from the side.” She was sympathetic but possessed enough determination for a half-dozen marathon runners. “There is an alternative, though. You can lay flat on your stomach, bend your knees, and raise your feet up in the air. I can put a couple of pillows under your calves and get enough of an angle that way.”

Schultz pictured himself in the position she described, and it was clear to him that there was a problem with his gown, which was open in the back. “Just a minute,” he said. He went back into the small changing booth and took another gown from the top of the stack. He put it on over the other gown, but backwards, so that it was open in the front. Back-to-back gowns at least ensured that his posterior would not be offered for appraisal like a couple of hams in a cooking contest. “OK,” he told the tech, “do your worst.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Schultz,” she said with an enigmatic smile, “I’m sure you wouldn’t want that.”

PJ drove slowly past the house. This was a neighborhood of boxy two-bedroom frame homes, built thirty or forty years ago. Most of them had two layers of shingles on the roof, aluminum storm windows, and single driveways with no garages on the narrow lots. PJ knew just by looking at them that the upscale houses here had air conditioning and finished basements with a third bedroom and a rec room with a bar, perhaps even a second bathroom.

The street dead-ended a few blocks past Hampton’s house at a church with a school attached. For the second time, PJ pulled into the church parking lot and swung the car around. This time, she pulled up to the curb a couple of houses down and across the street, killed the engine, and studied the house.

It was humble even for this neighborhood. A concrete porch with a green fiberglass roof sheltered the front door. White paint was peeling from the wood trim, and the chimney was ragged on top, missing a few bricks. There was no sign that anyone was at home. The red truck was not parked in the narrow, shrub-lined driveway. The owner was at work, frying hamburgers or mopping the floor when the flow of customers diminished.

She pictured Peter Hampton fixing her lunch, sticking the little toothpick flag into her BLT on whole wheat. She thought about him using the butcher knives in the diner, quartering chickens or slicing onions, and on his hands the blood of her friend Sheila and who knows how many others.

“Innocent until proven guilty,” she said aloud in the car. She was already trying and sentencing this man, and he might not be the right one. Perhaps he hadn’t held Sheila’s head in position by her long reddish-blond hair, hadn’t stroked her exposed throat with sharp steel.