Paint It Black (19 page)

“That's all right, Mr. Webb, you're doing fine,” Horton said. “Go on.”

Webb pulled in a breath. “Well, then he pulls this pole up and levels it across my throat.”

“A pole? What kind of pole?” Wainwright said.

“A long metal pole, like a pipe of some kind. It was maybe four or five feet long and he pulled it real tight against my throat. I barely got my fingers between it and my neck.”

“Are you sure it wasn't a shotgun barrel?” Wainwright asked.

Webb shook his head. “No . . . no, I never seen no gun, just that pole.”

“What about his hands? Can you describe them?”

“He was wearing gloves, tan, I think, looked like leather. And long sleeves. Denim.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright. “Could you tell how tall he was?”

“Taller than me. I had the feeling my back was dead against his chest. And I could feel from his arm that he was pretty well muscled.”

“How did you get away?” Louis asked.

Webb rubbed his face. It was quiet in the room for a moment except for Webb's labored breathing.

“Mr. Webb? You all right?” Horton asked quietly.

“Yeah, yeah . . .”

“Take your time.”

Webb pulled in a deep shuddering breath. “I knew I was losing it,” he said. “I couldn't breathe and I knew I was losing it and I was going to die.” He paused. “I don't know what made me think of it, but I remembered my corkscrew in my apron. I reached down and pulled it out . . .”

He stopped, closing his eyes tight. His hands were clenched. “I flipped it open and just brought it down as hard as I could. I . . . it hit his leg.”

Webb opened his eyes. The room was air-conditioned to arctic, but he had sweated through his T-shirt.

“He let go,” he said quietly. “He let go and I ran.”

“Did he chase you?” Louis asked.

“I don't know. I was blocks down the road when I saw the cop car.” He leaned back in the chair, spent, his eyes going from one man to the other.

Louis looked up at Horton. “Your guys see anyone?”

Horton shook his head. “The second unit was ten minutes out.”

Louis sat back in his chair. Not much to go on. Maybe, if they were lucky, some hair or clothing fibers or a blood type off the corkscrew. He glanced at Emily, who was standing against the far wall. She was scribbling in her notebook.

“Anything else, Chief?” Louis asked Wainwright.

Wainwright hesitated, then came forward. “Mr. Webb, did he say anything?”

Webb looked up at him. “Oh, yes, sir.”

“What did he say? And try to recall his exact words.”

Webb swallowed hard. “Shit, it's hard to forget. He said, ‘You're gonna die tonight, nigger.' ”

“He used those exact words?” Louis asked.

Webb nodded.

Louis glanced at Wainwright, then leaned closer to Webb. “Mr. Webb, was this man black or white?”

Webb stared at Louis for a moment. “I didn't see his face—”

“I know. Was this man black or white, Mr. Webb?”

His eyes went from Louis, up to Wainwright and Horton, and back to Louis. “I've been called a nigger by a black man and I've been called a nigger by a white man,” he said firmly. “There's a difference.” He paused. “This was a white man.”

Louis held Roscoe's eyes for a moment, then leaned back, looking up at Wainwright and Horton. They were staring at Roscoe. Louis looked at Emily. She had stopped writing in her notebook. Her face was like ice.

“Thank you, Mr. Webb,” Louis said, touching the man's arm. “You did fine.”

Webb nodded, his eyes empty. “I guess,” he said softly. “I'm alive.”

They left the room, gathering just outside the door.

“We've got him a hotel room for the night with a uniform, in case this asshole tries to find him,” Horton says. “We'll take good care of him.”

“Good job, Al,” Wainwright said.

Horton nodded and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I guess I better go call Mobley and get this over with. I'll keep you posted, Dan.”

Horton left and they made their way back to the lobby and outside. They stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the cool, damp night air.

“He might go underground after this,” Wainwright said, breaking the silence.

“Why?” Louis asked.

“This one got away. It could make him nervous.”

“Or just madder,” Louis said. “I've got a feeling this isn't going to make a difference one way or the other. I think he's going right back out hunting.”

Wainwright shook his head, looking at the squad cars parked at the curb.

“White,” Louis said. “He said he's white.”

“Yeah, a white guy with long, greasy hair,” Wainwright said quietly. “Shit. I don't know what to think now.”

Louis looked at Farentino. She was staring at the ground.

“What about you, Farentino?” Louis asked.

She wouldn't look up.

“Farentino?” Louis repeated.

Emily lifted her head. “I think we just wasted two days,” she said.

“Tell me again about this guy, Van Slate,” Farentino said, as she turned a corner.

Louis loosened his grip on the armrest and reached for his glasses. After the interview with Roscoe Webb last night, they had switched their focus back to white suspects. And now they were on their way to see Matthew Van Slate again. Louis had suggested to Wainwright that Emily come along this time to get a reading on Van Slate. Wainwright had agreed; he and Candy were following them in another squad car.

Emily was driving the Sereno Key cruiser and she seemed to have two speeds: fast and get-the-hell-outta-my-way. Louis tried not to look at the water as they sped across the causeway. He opened Van Slate's file.

“Matthew Van Slate. Arrested and convicted of a racially motivated beating last summer. Served ten months. His father, Hugh, is a high-profile local who helped get the sentence reduced.”

Emily reached down and turned up the air conditioner. “Tell me the circumstances,” she said.

“He and two friends followed a black man and white woman from a bar, ran them off the road, and beat the guy up.”

“How bad?”

“Hospitalized him.”

“What's his beef with blacks?”

“He thought his wife left him for a black guy.”

Farentino was quiet for a minute, then asked, “Did they use weapons?”

Louis closed Van Slate's file. “Their fists and a board.”

“Did they all participate?”

“Yes.”

Farentino shook her head slightly. “Did he confess when he was caught?”

Louis reopened the file and read down the page. “Yes, after confronted with a witness.”

“How many times has this guy told you to get lost?”

“Twice.”

Farentino was quiet as they pulled up to Van Slate's apartment. She killed the engine and they sat there for a moment waiting for the second cruiser with Wainwright and Candy.

“What do you think?” Louis asked Emily.

“I'll tell you when we're done talking to him,” Emily said.

Van Slate came out of his apartment just as Wainwright's cruiser pulled in. He was carrying a small cooler. He locked his door and turned, freezing when he saw the two cruisers in the lot.

“Is that him?” Emily asked.

“That's our hero,” Louis said, getting out.

Van Slate turned back to his door, jiggling his keys, as if he was thinking about going back inside. But after a moment, he turned back and started out toward the parking lot, not even looking their way.

“Van Slate,” Louis called out.

Van Slate kept going.

“Hold it, Van Slate.”

He stopped and turned. Wainwright and Candy came forward. They formed a half circle around him and as Van Slate's eyes moved over them, Louis could see him tense.

“Who's dead now?” Van Slate asked.

“Stay cool, Van Slate. We just want to ask you a few questions,” Wainwright said. “Why don't you come down to the station with us?”

Van Slate set the cooler on the top of a black pickup. He looked at Louis.

“What is your problem with me?” he said. “You're not even a cop and you got these guys—the real cops—believing I'm some sort of serial killer.” Van Slate spat into the gravel. “And they call
me
the racist.”

“We just want to ask a few questions,” Louis said.

Van Slate spun around and slapped angrily at the bed of the truck, and took a few steps toward the apartment. Then he turned back. “All right. Ask. Right here. Right now. I'm not going anywhere.”

Wainwright glanced at Louis, then rubbed his jaw. “Suit yourself,” Wainwright said. “We got a witness that says the killer's truck is blue.” Wainwright nodded at Van Slate's shiny blue truck parked a few spots away. “That's one piss-ass fairy color but to me, it looks blue.”

“Fuck,” Van Slate muttered, leaning against the black pickup. “Like I'm the only guy with a blue truck around here?”

“You're the only guy around here with a blue truck and a record,” Wainwright said.

Louis looked at Emily and knew she was thinking the same thing, that Roscoe Webb said the truck he saw in the restaurant lot was dark, maybe blue, but definitely old and rusted.

“How long are you guys going to hassle me over that shit?” Van Slate asked, his voice rising. “This is fucking bullshit.”

Louis looked at Farentino. She was taking notes.

“Own a knife, Van Slate?” Wainwright asked.

Van Slate eyed Wainwright. “Christ.” He took a few steps and reached in the flatbed of the black truck he had been leaning against. He threw back the tarp and spread his arm toward it. “Be my guest.”

“Is this your truck?” Louis asked.

“Hell no. This piece of shit is the boatyard truck. I just drive it for work.”

Louis's eyes swept over the rust-pocked black pickup and then he glanced up at Wainwright. Louis stepped forward and looked inside the flatbed. It was filled with tools, white plastic tubs of paint. There was a large, plastic case that looked like a toolbox.

“How about you open that for us, Van Slate?” Wainwright said, pointing to it.

Van Slate reached in and popped it open. Louis peered inside. It was a tackle box, filled with the usual fishing paraphernalia. But there were also eight knives, different shapes and sizes.

“We'd like to have those knives, Van Slate,” Wainwright said.

Van Slate threw up his hands. “Go ahead, take them! You'll get them eventually anyway.” He leaned against the truck, his arms crossed. “You won't find anything on any of them, except maybe some fish guts and worm shit.”

Wainwright nodded at Candy, who came forward, pulling a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. He carefully picked out the knives and bagged them.

“I want them back,” Van Slate said.

Wainwright spoke again. “You got any spray paint, Van Slate?”

“Spray paint? Yeah, I got—” he stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”

They didn't answer him. Louis could almost hear the gears in Van Slate's brains grinding. “Did this guy paint a message on the walls?” Van Slate asked. When no one answered, he smiled. “Manson did that, he painted ‘Helter Skelter' on the walls. You know, the Beatles song?”

Van Slate started singing the song, but then stopped suddenly. “No, wait! I got it. He wrote a message on the bodies or something, right?”

“Can you go get the paint for us?” Wainwright asked.

“They had paint on them. What color was it?”

“You tell us,” Wainwright said.

Van Slate shrugged. “White?”

Louis glanced at Emily. She was staring hard at Van Slate.

“Why white?” Wainwright asked.

Van Slate was suddenly interested in the conversation. “Well, it makes sense, don't it? I mean, these dead guys are all black, right? Why would anyone paint them black? They're already black.” Van Slate locked eyes with Louis, and a slow grin came over his face. “Shit, if I was doing this, I'd paint 'em white. You know, make 'em lighter. Do a Michael Jackson on 'em. Improve on nature.”

Louis resisted the urge to reach over and grab a handful of Van Slate's T-shirt.

Van Slate's grin widened. “This is a real kick in the ass, ain't it?” he said. “Me helping you guys.”

“Go get the paint, Van Slate. That would be a help to us,” Wainwright said.

“Get a warrant,” he said.

“I will if I have to,” Wainwright said.

Van Slate was shaking his head, still smiling. “You guys are fishing, aren't you? You don't know
who
the fuck you're looking for. You don't even know why these poor assholes were even offed in the first place.”

He paused to pull a pack of Marlboros out of his jeans. “I read the paper. I know what they're saying, that some guy with a hard-on toward black guys is doing it. You know what I think? I think these guys were all asking for it some way.”

Louis suddenly realized that here they were, four experienced cops, standing and listening to this scumbag's opinions. He knew that suspects who could manipulate an interrogation were dangerous to investigations. But he wasn't sure that's what Van Slate was doing.

“Shut up, Van Slate,” Wainwright interrupted. “Nobody wants to hear your theories.”

“I do,” Louis said.

Van Slate's eyes snapped to Louis, along with Wainwright's. He lit his cigarette and blew the smoke over his head before he answered.

“You
want to hear
my
opinion?”

“I do, too,” Emily said.

Van Slate focused on her for a second, as if he had just now noticed she was there.

“I can't believe I'm helping you,” he said, smiling. “Okay, here it is. None of these dead guys had it coming for the reasons you're thinking. From all appearances, they lived a very normal black life. They were no threat.”

“To who?” Louis asked.

Van Slate met his eyes. “To guys like me.” He took a quick drag on his cigarette. “Besides, no self-respecting racist—which I am not, by the way—would do these guys the way they were done.”

“Enlighten us,” Louis said tightly.

Van Slate's eyes focused for a moment on Emily, on the pad and pencil in her hands. “Let me put it this way, if I'm going to beat the shit out of somebody, I ain't going to get my hands dirty doing it.”

“Is that why you used a board on Zengo?” Wainwright asked.

Van Slate looked at him, a smirk on his face. “You're learning.”

Louis looked away, his gaze settling on a dandelion poking through the gravel.

“Plus,” Van Slate said, “if this guy is a racist—which I am not, by the way—he'd be proud of what he did. He'd leave you a message. You know, like a dog pissing to show you he was there. And from what I hear, this guy leaves nada.”

Louis had heard enough. He turned and started back to the squad car.

Van Slate was an idiot, but one thing he had said had stuck in Louis's mind:
And you call me a racist?

A long time ago, he had learned not to turn a deaf ear when his instinct was trying to tell him something. But instinct—vibrations, gut feeling, whatever it was that had worked for him so well in the past—had failed him in Michigan. He'd been blindsided, not only by a killer, but by people he had grown to trust. He'd been wrong. Fatally wrong.

Was he wrong here, too? Was he going after Van Slate just because he was a small-minded bigot? Because he was white?

He heard Wainwright finishing up with Van Slate, but he didn't care. Van Slate hadn't murdered those men. Van Slate wanted no contact with blacks; he would never have gone to Queenie Boulevard. And his bigotry was too generalized, his hatred too unspecific. He had attacked Joshua Zengo, true, but it had come from some warped personal motive. These murders were seemingly without any reason. There was still no
why
—at least not that they had been able to see.

If a white man like Van Slate doesn't kill a black stranger out of hate, what else could it be?

Wainwright, Emily, and Candy were coming toward him. They all stood, watching as Van Slate busied himself rearranging the tarp in the flatbed.

“He made a good point,” Emily said, closing her notebook.

“About what?” Wainwright said.

“About the murderer being proud of what he does,” she said. “Whoever murdered Tatum, Quick, and the homeless man doesn't seem to care what we think. He hasn't contacted anyone, hasn't taken any souvenirs from his victims or left his mark. Most serial killers do.”

“You don't call the paint a mark?” Wainwright said.

Emily shook her head. “I agree with Louis. I think it's a symbol, something important to him alone. It's not a sign that he was there. He's not like the Zodiac killer. He's not saying, ‘Remember me.' ”

“What's your take on Van Slate, Farentino?” Louis asked.

“Well, he definitely doesn't fit the disorganized offender category. I guess a case could be made for organized—”

“In English, Farentino,” Wainwright said patiently.

She sighed. “I think Matt Van Slate is mean-spirited and a bigot. But I don't think he's a murderer. At least not this one.”

Wainwright looked at Louis. “You agree?”

Louis nodded. “I guess I couldn't see past my disgust of this guy.”

Van Slate gunned the black truck. He gave them a taunting wave as he peeled out, spraying gravel.

“What an asshole,” Candy offered.

Wainwright watched the truck tear down the road. “Yeah,” he said. “But unfortunately being an asshole isn't against the law.”