Ronald Tierney - Good To The Last Kiss - Crimes of the Depraved Mind Series

Nothing about the killing, he thought, then relaxed. Embarrassing yeah, but not anything they could use against him. Earl went to the refrigerator, pulled out the meat tray, undid the tape holding the envelope underneath.

Didn’t look tampered with. He’d check anyway. All three Polaroids were there. He’d taken fifty or so, but saved only the three. He cut the others into little pieces and threw them in the neighbor’s trash.

If the cops took a peek at these, they would think he was all fucked up, taking naked pictures of himself. Fuck, he thought, they think he’s all fucked up anyway. They were right, weren’t they? But taking pictures of yourself all shaved and naked wasn’t illegal. Just weird.

The photos looked good. Sharp definition to the muscles. He’d have to work like hell to get that back. Even a few months without the right equipment and off the ’roids and you’re screwed. He went to the bathroom, lit the candles, catching glimpses of himself in the full-length mirror on one wall. He undressed. Somehow, it didn’t excite him. Maybe he should go ahead and shave his body. Maybe that would help. He was tired. That seemed like a lot of effort. Later.

Maybe he should dump the photos. He put the photos, one on top of the other, and grabbed the scissors. He would cut them up in little pieces and scatter the cuttings in trash cans around the city so no one could put them back together again.

Even that required more effort or interest than he could muster. Later, he thought. He put them back where he found them, using new tape.

In bed he felt empty. He ought to be glad he didn’t have the desire. He didn’t feel driven. Not to do that, anyway. He was edgy though. Unsettled. Not his body. There was nothing left to drive it. But his mind. He couldn’t make sense of what was going on there. Edgy, angry, impatient. But he had no idea how to calm it. The way he felt, though, he almost wished he had the desire. Somehow, not knowing what he wanted, he was starting to feel worse. Now there was no reason to move, to open his eyes.

It was like something filled his chest, a pressure kind of; a kind of pressure that started to feel like it was going to explode, like it was all out of his control. But what? What could he do about it. It was anger, he was pretty sure. But at what? At who? He knew life was unfair. That couldn’t be it. It wasn’t just unfair to him. It was just the way of things.

He was free from the family. No one was calling him names any more. He was out of jail. What was it? What was this thing that was so ready to explode?

It was rare when Gratelli couldn’t sleep. All he could think about was McClellan, and those thoughts were disturbing. If one were sensitive, any conversation with his partner could be disturbing; but what made Gratelli uneasy was that his partner had been getting quieter. He wasn’t bothering so much with keeping up the tough guy act. He seemed to be taking the deaths of the girls personally. Anger had turned to futility. The ‘end of the line’ remark wasn’t vintage McClellan.

McClellan had grown increasingly quiet during dinner, refused to respond to guaranteed hot buttons and was nearly morose by the time dinner was over.

A lot of things were coming down on the guy. All at once. The marriage, the embarrassment of having the investigation taken away – most of it anyway, and the case itself. Nothing to do really. Julia’s survival was supposed to have moved the whole thing along. But she wasn’t much help. Now things were at a standstill. Gratelli knew that the only hope for finding the killer, besides an unexpected confession, would have to come from another victim. A new victim. Would there be one? Was he wishing for one?

The Panhandle was a drive across town from North Beach, but not a long one. Even in the rain – the heavy drizzle – at this time of night Gratelli could be there in ten minutes. There was a space out front – the same space that had been there when he dropped McClellan off at his new digs.

There were four apartments in the building. Three had names, none of which were McClellan’s. One was unmarked. That was apartment A, just as you came in. Gratelli knocked. No sound. No answer. There weren’t many places near there where a guy could go for a drink. Maybe down into the Haight, but the bars down there weren’t likely McClellan hangouts.

He knocked again. He put his ear to the door.

Gratelli wondered if he’d done the right thing. Maybe Mickey had called one of the various ‘escort’ or ‘massage’ services. Maybe the pot-bellied Irishman had tanked up on a bottle of Jack Daniels and was out. Then again, the reason Gratelli drove all the way across town was to find out. And Gratelli wasn’t acting on curiosity. He had a bad feeling. McClellan’s normally abnormal behavior was more abnormal than usual.

‘Mickey! You in there?’

No answer.

The lock wouldn’t be much of a challenge. One more time. McClellan may be inside, half drunk, and think that the guy busting in was some stranger. Like any cop, McClellan had to be considered armed. And if he was drunk – a likely condition given the hour – also dangerous. Gratelli was content enough with life. He didn’t want to die just yet.

‘This is Vincent, Mickey. I’m coming in.’

This time, Gratelli heard a sound.

‘Shit.’

He heard a thud on the floor, the scraping of furniture and then the knob turned. But the door didn’t open. ‘Shit.’ There were some clicks and the door opened to reveal a half-steady, bleary-eyed McClellan. He still had on his suit jacket, but was without pants and shoes. His dress shirt was open. The tails hung down over the boxer shorts.

‘What the fuck is this?’ McClellan asked.

‘Welcome wagon,’ Gratelli said. ‘I’ve been asked to officially welcome you to the neighborhood.’ Gratelli looked over the slouching McClellan to see the Irish cop’s gun on the table beside the bed. ‘You got company?’

‘You. Don’t I see too fucking much of you during the day, you gotta haunt my nights as well.’

‘Yeah, well…’ Gratelli stammered. He’d forgotten what excuse he’d thought up on the way over, the one he’d use when called upon to explain his presence.

‘Yeah, well what?’

‘I wanted to talk about that kid, what’s his name? Falwell?’

‘Earl,’ McClellan said.

‘Yeah, Earl Falwell. You gotta minute?’

‘No, no, no,’ McClellan said. ‘You never wanted to talk about a case…’

‘I’m spooked. I’m afraid we didn’t search his place all that well.’

McClellan ran his hand through his hair. ‘There was nothing in his room except a few fucking muscle mags, Gratelli. Zero. Zilch. I don’t even think he reads those magazines, just looks at the pictures. The kid’s got to be the dimmest bulb on his family tree. He hasn’t got the smarts to snap these little girls’ necks and not leave at least one fucking clue. We talked about it. OK? Goodbye. Sweet dreams.’

Gratelli was relieved McClellan bought the story about coming over to discuss Earl Falwell.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Gratelli said.

‘So you thought I shouldn’t sleep either. Nice of you.’ McClellan turned to go back toward his bed, sitting down on the edge. Gratelli followed. There were two pint bottles of Jack Daniels. One was empty. The other was nearly so. The pistol bothered him. So near the bed could merely mean that McClellan was too tired, too lazy to take off the holster and simply wanted the weight of the piece off him. Or it could have been so close because McClellan was thinking about doing something with it.

‘That’s it, huh? You come over to talk about a case even though in fifteen years you never did this?’

‘Seemed to bother you too,’ Gratelli said.