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

‘Well, what have we here?’ Richardson said from the kitchen.

He emerged with photographs.

Gratelli’s countenance brightened. ‘Photos?’

Richardson’s face held less promise. ‘Interesting, but not what you’d hope. Even so…’

Gratelli looked. Polaroids, not of the victims, but of Earl Falwell himself. Oiled and naked. ‘Not a hair on his body,’ Gratelli said, flipping through the photos showing Earl in various poses.

‘I don’t know if that’s being neat or just kinky,’ Richardson said.

‘This puts a whole new light on things,’ Gratelli said, more to himself than to Richardson.

‘That would explain no pubic hair left at the scene,’ Richardson volunteered. ‘But that’s about all.’

‘A freshly bathed body, free of body hair, a little oil to keep the body tissue from scaling, a hood over his head…’ Gratelli’s voice trailed off into thought. What traces would the killer leave behind?

‘You see a hood?’ Barnaby asked.

The kid not only had a fairly substantial vacuum cleaner for his small, one room apartment, but an abnormally large number of specialized cleaning products for kitchen and bath – items that Gratelli and McClellan had overlooked or at least gave no importance to during the first search.

The bag of the vacuum cleaner had been emptied recently.

Gratelli and Richardson spent hours in the small apartment, but found nothing other than the Polaroids that were incriminating – and those weren’t anything on which to base an arrest. It wasn’t illegal to take a picture of yourself or to shave your body.

However, it did give Gratelli reason to heighten his interest in Falwell. He would interrogate him again tomorrow.

On the drive back to the Hall of Justice, the image of Falwell’s oiled flesh danced back to Julia Bateman’s comments about smelling butter and leather.

He had foolishly not paid attention to the various lotions in Falwell’s bathroom and linen closet. He had seen Johnson’s Baby Oil. There was tanning lotion. Was there butter in the refrigerator? Where would there be a smell of leather?

For a moment, Gratelli’s mind flashed back to the leather chaps in Paul Chang’s apartment. He dismissed it.

Perhaps after the interrogation tomorrow, he would go back to Earl’s apartment and check out these little details himself.

‘ H ow did he get out?’ Gratelli spoke into the telephone. ‘Oh, who bailed him?’ There was a pause. ‘Find out.’

Gratelli wanted to talk with Earl Falwell, wanted to take one more shot. McClellan had done the interview before. He was better than Gratelli at interrogation. But maybe a different approach would mean a few different answers.

He had spent the morning testifying on an unrelated case. It was one McClellan was supposed to handle. McClellan had done the report and most of the work. Gratelli’s testimony was thin, bordering on flaky. He was embarrassed and angry.

He was still thinking about Falwell. He hadn’t gotten out after his first arrest. No one wanted the kid, as Gratelli remembered it. Falwell was stuck in jail for months because he didn’t have the bail and, apparently, anyone willing to post it. What changed in Falwell’s life? Who cared enough about him to bail him out? And bail him out so quickly. Who knew he was in?

Gratelli stood. Falwell’s small, dark apartment wasn’t designed for visitors. In fact there wasn’t much in the way of creature comforts even for the resident creature. If you wanted off your feet, there was the bed. There were two visitors. One was a uniformed policeman, Gratelli commandeered. He wasn’t about to spend a few hours alone with some guy who had a history of beating people to an inch of their lives with his bare fists.

‘You remember me, right?’ Gratelli asked. He held two envelopes in his hand. One large brown one. One smaller white one.

‘Yeah.’ Falwell said. His head was aimed down at the floor, but his eyes were on the inspector. ‘You were with the fat guy at the station.’

‘Earl, you could be in a lot of trouble.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Killing people.’

‘I didn’t kill nobody. Beat up one guy on the highway and beat up this bastard at work. They’re still walking around.’

‘How’d you get out?’

‘Whaddya mean?’

‘Bail. Who got you out?’

‘Magic, man.’ Earl looked up, grinned.

‘You gonna be difficult?’

‘Don’t wanna be. Don’t know.’

‘Don’t know who posted bail?’

‘Nope.’

‘Friends. One of your friends maybe? Your boss? A relative?’

Earl kept shaking his head. ‘No relatives, no friends. My boss fired my ass. Don’t imagine he came through. Call him. Ask him.’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Nobody you can think of? No one pops into your mind?’

‘Why do you keep asking me the same question?’

‘Because you’re not telling me the truth.’ Gratelli spoke flatly, without intonation. ‘You have a good guess, don’t you?’ There was a long silence. ‘OK,’ Gratelli continued. ‘I have some photos I want you to look at.’

Earl shrugged.

‘Come over here,’ Gratelli said, spreading the contents of the larger envelope on the bed. He fanned out the photos of eight victims. Their faces. The bodies. Close-ups of the engravings.

Falwell came over, stared for a moment, looked away.

‘What do you think?’ Gratelli asked.

Earl said nothing.

‘C’mon, Earl. Answer me. What do you think?’

‘What are you showing me that for?’ Earl blushed. Deeply.

‘I want you to see them. Familiar faces?’

‘No.’

‘You the artist?’

‘No.’

Gratelli picked up one photo. ‘What is it carved on this girl’s thigh?’

‘How do I know?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No.’ Falwell wasn’t looking at it.

‘Guess,’ Gratelli continued, still holding the photo up to the boy’s face. ‘Turn around, look at it. I said look at it.’

Falwell turned slowly. ‘A flower.’

‘What kind of flower, Earl?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What does it look like?’

‘I said I don’t know.’

‘A common flower, isn’t it?’ Gratelli said. ‘Tell me what it is.’

‘I don’t know.’ Anger was building. ‘I guess it could be a fuckin’ tulip, couldn’t it?’

‘A tulip?’ Gratelli was stunned. Could be a tulip. Christ, Gratelli thought. He looked at each one of the pictures. Where had he gotten the idea it was a rose? ‘I have some other photos to show you, Earl. I don’t want you to get upset.’

‘I don’t get upset,’ Earl said, still excited. He was breathing heavy.

‘Yeah, and I have a date with Rita Hayworth.’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind.’ Gratelli pulled color copies of the Polaroids. ‘Got another celebrity for you to look at.’

‘What?’ Earl grabbed the sheets of paper from the inspector. ‘Where in the hell… you were here…’

Gratelli looked at the uniform cop, hoping he was staying alert. He was.

Earl was still sputtering.

‘Calm down. I don’t give a shit what you do. It isn’t a crime. Just some questions.’

It appeared that Earl was doing all he could to keep from exploding in anger or tears.

‘Sorry, Earl,’ Gratelli said. ‘We’ll give ’em back.’

‘You stole…’

‘This is the warrant,’ Gratelli said, pulling folded papers from his pocket. ‘A few more hours on it, Earl. You want to see it?’

Earl shook his head. ‘What difference would it make? A guy like me doesn’t have any rights.’

‘I do have a question though. Why do you shave your body?’