Bill Pronzini - Schemers

“Body odor, cigarettes, booze, cologne or aftershave.”

“… Henderson didn’t say anything about that.”

And St. John hadn’t thought to ask. Runyon let it go. “How did the perp get inside the garage?”

“Jimmied the lock on the side door. Didn’t make much noise, but Henderson was awake-using the toilet. That’s how come he heard.”

“Perp wore gloves, I suppose. No prints.”

“None that didn’t belong to the family members.”

“Other evidence of any kind?”

“Not that we could find.” St. John was defensive again. “We don’t have a big city forensics department here. We did the best we could.”

“Sure you did,” Runyon said. “What about Damon’s family? They see or hear anything?”

“His wife woke up and ran out when she heard him screaming. But the perp was gone by then.”

“Neighbors?”

“Woman lives down the block thought she heard a car racing off but she didn’t see it. Otherwise… no.”

“Damon still in the hospital?”

“As of this morning. He’ll probably be there a couple more days. The perp busted up his collarbone pretty badly with that tire iron.”

Runyon said, “That’s about it for now, then. Thanks for your help, Lieutenant.”

“Okay. Just make sure you let me know if you find out anything.” The look in St. John’s eyes said he’d be damn surprised if Runyon did.

L os Alegres Valley Cemetery was in a semirural area a couple of miles northeast of the Henderson residence. One look at the somewhat secluded location, the low encircling fence, and it was easy to see how the perp had gotten in and out without being seen. The main gates were open and when Runyon drove through he could see a couple of low buildings off on the right-office, maintenance facility. But he didn’t need to go there to find out where the Henderson family plot was located. Two men working with a big forklift drew him to the other end of the grounds, and when he reached them he saw that they were putting a new black-granite monument into one of the larger sites-the Henderson plot, it turned out. Much of the earth in the large, square patch of ground had been dug up and resodded as well.

There were half a dozen gravestones in addition to the new monument with Lloyd Henderson’s name on it. The others, judging from the names and dates, appeared to be the parents and grandparents of Lloyd Henderson, and two sisters who had precedeased him.

The older of the workmen, heavyset and gray-bearded, was supervising the job. Runyon approached him, flashed his license, explained what he was doing there. The man, Joe Sobolewsky, was head groundskeeper and willing to talk.

“I was the one found the mess in the morning,” he said. He had a malleable face; it twisted up into an expression of disgust. “Never seen anything like it in all the years I been here. Close my eyes, I can still smell the stink of that acid.”

“Extensive damage?”

“Real extensive. Enough acid on the marker to wipe out all the words, eat a hole in the granite big enough to put the top of your head in.”

“Not simple vandalism, then.”

“Oh, hell, no. We get that kind of thing out here once in a great while, but nothing like this.”

“Hate crime,” Runyon said.

“That’s it, mister. That’s it in a nutshell. Hate crime.” Sobolewsky paused to dig a knuckle into one ear. “One funny thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Water tap over there on your right. When I came out that morning, the ground under it was soaking wet. And it wasn’t from leakage-the tap was shut off tight.”

“As if somebody turned it on for some reason during the night.”

“Right. Had to be the guy who desecrated the grave. But I can’t figure why, unless all that devil’s work made him thirsty.”

“Or he spilled a drop or two of acid on himself or his clothing.”

“Yeah, that could be it, too.”

Runyon asked, “Do you know the Hendersons?”

“Not personally. By reputation. Good people.”

“So you don’t know of anyone who’d have this much of a grudge against one or more of the family?”

“I sure don’t. Cops asked me that, too. Beats the hell out of me.”

“Whoever did it had to have come here at least once and probably two or three times,” Runyon said. “Pinpoint the location, figure out how to find his way in the dark.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“You see anybody in this vicinity before it happened? At any time?”

“No, nobody,” Sobolewsky said. “Frank, neither, he’s my assistant there on the forklift. But I work all over these grounds-maintenance, landscaping, grave-digging. People come and go, put down flowers, pay their respects. Me and Frank, we’re both too busy to pay much attention unless somebody does something, you know, out of the ordinary.”

“And nobody did.”

“If somebody had, we’d’ve sure told the cops when they asked.”

A s much as he hated hospitals, after all the time he’d spent in Seattle General watching Colleen waste away to a morphined husk, Runyon seemed to find himself in one too damned often since he’d moved down here. Once in Red Bluff as a patient, the mild concussion on the firebug business last September. As a visitor when his son’s boyfriend had been mugged and badly beaten in the city, twice more in Red Bluff, and now again in Los Alegres.

They were all the same. Same sounds, same smells, same palpable aura of sickness and death. Took a special kind of person to be a doctor or a nurse or any other kind of hospital worker, people with systems immune to the stifling atmosphere-total opposites of a man like him, who needed to be outdoors and moving. Walls, particularly hospital walls, had a way of closing in on him after a while. As soon as he walked through the main entrance of Los Alegres Valley Hospital, he felt his stomach contract and his gorge rise, and the images of Colleen shriveled in that white bed in that white room came flooding back with an impact that was almost physical. Not as intense a reaction now as it had been, but bad enough.

A woman on the reception desk told him where to find Damon Henderson. He rode an elevator up to the second floor, followed directions to the south wing. It was an old building with three or four wings, a couple of them probably add-ons, surrounded by medical offices, shopping centers, older east-side tracts. Everything was clean, reasonably well maintained, but faintly shabby, and the equipment struck him as borderline obsolete. The hospital stink seemed stronger up here; tightening his nasal passages and breathing through his mouth didn’t block it out. There was muscle tension all through him by the time he got to the semiprivate room where Damon Henderson lay and a woman sat in a chair at his bedside, holding his hand.

The man-early to mid-thirties, slight, balding like his brother-was in rough shape. Facial bruises and contusions, right arm and shoulder in a cast. Doped to relieve his pain, apparently, but alert enough to talk. The thin-faced, scared-looking woman was his wife, Samantha. They were expecting him; Cliff had called her from San Francisco, she said, then stopped in at the hospital after he got back to tell Damon.

Runyon asked the same questions he’d asked Lieutenant St. John, got pretty much the same answers. All except one. When he asked Damon Henderson if he’d had any aural or olfactory impressions of his attacker, the man said, “I’ve been thinking about that. Yes. Soap.”

“How do you mean exactly? His body, his clothing?”

“Everything about him. One of his hands, on my neck… gloved, but the soap smell was still strong.”

“As if he’d scrubbed up recently.”

“Yes. His hair… shampoo. And his clothes… freshly washed. Heavy, sweetish smell.”