Ed Gorman: Rough Cut

I couldn't help myself. I found his question amusing. "I thought you were the cop, not me."

He smiled. "Yeah, I see what you mean."

I looked around the room, at its cleanliness and orderliness. It was a testament to Kenneth Martin's determination to lead a civilized life even if he had to do it in bad conditions.

"Reminds me of my uncle's room," Bonnell said. "He was a railroad man, lifelong bachelor. I used to come up and visit him. Since he didn't have any kids of his own, he always had plenty of money to spend on me."

I thought of Martin's little nephew in the photograph I'd seen the other day. Martin probably would have had his nephew visit him, too-if the nephew and his parents hadn't been killed in a car accident.

Bonnell sat down in a straight-back chair. "You think it might have been Wickes here tonight?"

"I don't think Merle could have driven from my place to here in time."

Bonnell frowned, studied aspects of the room some more. "Not much here that's helpful."

He stood up, started walking around. I watched him, then leaned back on the edge of the bed and looked at the photo of Martin in his Korean uniform.

"This sure would have been an easy case if Martin had only had the courtesy to stay alive," Bonnell said ruefully.

"Yeah, wouldn't it."

Bonnell thumbed through Martin's pipe collection. "I wonder why somebody would have come here tonight."

"Maybe the gems."

He shook his head. "No. If it was the gems they were after, they would have been here a long time ago and tossed the room. Nobody's done that." He sounded very sure of himself. "The gems have been in the hands of the killer for a long time. Safe and sound." He got quizzical again. "So why would somebody be here tonight?"

A knock came on the door.

Bonnell went to open it.

Mrs. Kubek stood there, shuddering from the cold. "Just wondered if you were about done. I gotta get up in a few hours. I need my sleep."

Bonnell shrugged. "Just a few more minutes."

She glowered at me just once then turned to walk back down the stairs.

I raised my eyes to the photograph of Martin again and then to the Mitchell Junior College pennant next to it.

I got fixated on the pennant without quite knowing why, just staring at its green and yellow colors until gradually the wrongness of it struck me.

"Why would he have a junior-college pennant?"

"What?" Bonnell said.

"Why would a man in his fifties have a junior-college pennant?" Otherwise this was a somber room, nothing frivolous.

"Maybe his niece or nephew went there."

"He only had a nephew and he died in a car accident with his parents."

Bonnell shrugged. "Maybe he followed the football team. Mitchell's got a good junior varsity squad."

I shrugged, thinking maybe he was right but not quite believing him.

"Well," he said, "no sense in making Mrs. Kubek any angrier. Might as well leave."

"Yeah," I said.

I stood up, looked around the room, followed Bonnell out.

He closed the door and it clicked shut with a real finality.

"I wish I knew what the hell was going on," he said. There was a genuine sadness in his voice.

As we passed by the office on the way to our cars, I saw Mrs. Kubek standing in the shadows. Obviously she hoped we didn't see her.

"Just a minute," I said.

Bonnell nodded. "I need to tell Mrs. Kubek about Martin."

"Can I ask her a question first?" I said. I walked up to the office door and turned the handle. It was locked.

From the shadows Mrs. Kubek stared at me. She made no move to open the door.

"Mrs. Kubek," I said, "I need to ask you a question."

"Go away," she said.

"Mrs. Kubek," I said. "Please." I wondered if I sounded as whiny as Merle Wickes had at my place. The door opened.

"You stay there," she said. "What's your question?"

"The Mitchell Junior College pennant in Kenneth's room. Why did he have it?"

"That's your question?" she snapped. "It's a stupid one."

"What's the answer, Mrs. Kubek?"

"Because his nephew went there."

"The little boy in the photograph?"

"Yes."

"You told me he was dead."

"You don't hear too good, Mr. Ketchum. What I said was the mother and father died. The boy, he lived in an orphanage. He came up to see Kenneth all the time. They love each other like father and son."

I looked at Bonnell, as a terrible idea came to mind.

"Do you have a picture of this boy?" I asked.

"Sure," she said.

"I need to see it," I said.

"Can't it wait till tomorrow?"

"No, it can't, Mrs. Kubek. It really can't."

"What's wrong?" Bonnell asked me when Mrs. Kubek shuffled away to get the photograph.

"It's starting to make sense," I said.

"What is?" Bonnell said.

"Who the killer is?"

"It is?" Bonnell asked.

"The only person it could be. The only person young enough to go to a junior college."

"What are you talking about?"

I had to put it together in my mind before I could say it. Three months ago somebody had started work at my agency. This was just after Martin had disappeared. Those two facts could have been coincidence until you considered that the murders had started soon after. Then coincidence became hard to explain-especially when you began to realize that with his agency job my new employee knew a great deal about our comings and goings. He would know, with his special vantage point, when to strike out.

"I wish I knew what the hell you were talking about," Bonnell said.

Mrs. Kubek came back and handed me a Polaroid photo, which I angled into the light.

"Meet Tommy Byrnes," I said to Bonnell, giving him the picture.

Then Bonnell proceeded to tell her about Martin's death.

One minute later I was using Mrs. Kubek's phone. But to no avail.

Either Cindy was still unconscious from the sedative, or…

I didn't like to think of "or." But it was obvious that Tommy Byrnes meant to get each of us in repayment for the death of his uncle.

I slammed the phone and asked Bonnell if he had a siren on his car.

I didn't even give him time to say yes. I just pushed him toward his Pontiac.

I had left home so quickly I hadn't noticed the red Mazda at the far end of my parking lot.

As Bonnell's headlights swept over the cars in the lot, I noticed the red vehicle and realized whose it was.

Merle Wickes's.

I was out of the Pontiac, running, before Bonnell had fully stopped.

I slipped on the ice as I ran toward the car, banged my knee against the pavement, swore, but kept running.

I skidded over to the Mazda, glanced inside, then quickly glanced away.

I had never seen anything like it. In the average experience of the average man, seeing a person with his throat cut is not a common experience.

Tommy had found Merle with no problem. I looked in once again, only to confirm the horrible image that had been pressed on my eyes moments before. Merle was still in there, his throat slashed-his hair, ironically, in perfect composure.

Behind me, Bonnell was saying something, but I didn't hear the exact words.

I was already on my way up the stairs. Terrified that I was too late.

I reached for the banister to help my flight be faster. Something sticky clung to my palm. I knew what it was without looking. I moved two steps at a time now.

My apartment door was slightly ajar when I reached it, the crack between door and frame dark.

I stopped, not out of fear for myself but afraid that Tommy might not have hurt her-and that my sudden presence might panic him into doing so.

My breathing crashed in my ears-I was dripping with sweat and freezing at the same time-as I eased up to the door and put my fingers on it.

I could hear Bonnell thundering into the vestibule below.