P. Parrish - Paint It Black

Louis smiled to himself.

Planned out. Right.

Just like all those great plans he had made for himself. Prelaw at Michigan but always with an eye to the police academy. Then the first job with the Ann Arbor force and the plan was officially launched. Two quick seasons in the minors and he’d move up to the Detroit PD, the real work. A couple more years in uniform, making his mark, and then a nice gold detective badge hanging on his dress shirt. All without ever having to leave the great state of Michigan. Nice and neat.

Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans, Louis.

Who was it who had told him that? Phillip Lawrence. . his foster father. He remembered now. A rainy afternoon in May 1980. College graduation ceremony. It was what Phillip had said after Louis had finally worked up the guts to tell him he wasn’t going on to law school after all.

I’ve got it all planned out, Phillip. It’s what I want. I want to be a cop and stay here in Michigan, near you and Frances.

Phillip Lawrence had been disppointed. Frances had cried. But they supported his plan. It was three years later when Phillip finally told Louis what he really thought, that Louis’s life plan was “safe.”

Safe? What’s safe about being a cop?

You’re looking for what you didn’t have as a kid, Louis, assurances that life is neat and tidy and safe. But life, real life, is messy. It’s what happens when you’re busy making plans.

He sat up in the seat. A thought that had been just a swirl in his brain was starting to coalesce. He wasn’t going back to Michigan. He could see that now. He didn’t know where he would go when this was done. But he knew now that he wasn’t going back.

“We’re here.”

Candy pulled to a stop in front of a pale pink apartment building. There were four units. Louis got out and followed Candy to the door of one on the ground floor. They knocked and waited. Candy was tapping his nightstick lightly against his thigh, whistling softly.

Van Slate opened the door, squinting into the sun.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. .”

“May we come in, Mr. Van Slate?” Candy asked.

“What do you think?”

Candy glanced at Louis. “Where were you last night after eleven?”

Van Slate started to close the door. Candy shoved his foot in to brace it. Van Slate looked down at Candy’s shiny black shoe, then up, his eyes sliding to Louis.

“Get off my property. You’re trespassing.”

“He’s with me,” Candy said.

“Ain’t that too bad.” Van Slate shoved on the door and Candy was forced to withdraw his foot. The door shut in their faces.

“So much for cooperating,” Louis said, turning. He spotted Van Slate’s truck in the drive and walked to it. It was a new Chevy pickup, painted a bright custom blue. Louis went to it, his eyes scanning the flatbed. It was immaculate. Not a speck of dirt, let alone an empty spray paint can.

He moved to the doors and peered in the dark-tinted windows, tempted to try the door handle. He knew he couldn’t open the doors as a cop, but he wasn’t sure where he stood as a private citizen. He also knew it would bring Van Slate storming from his apartment. He decided to take the chance.

He opened the truck door. The interior was clean, except for sand on the driver’s-side floorboards.

“You can’t touch that without a warrant!” Van Slate shouted, bursting from his apartment.

Louis turned, facing him. Candy was standing to Van Slate’s left, watching.

“Get away from my truck.”

“Where were you last night?” Louis asked.

Van Slate was panting. Louis glanced back at the truck. There was definitely something in there that Van Slate didn’t want them to see. What was it? Gloves? A knife hidden under the seat?

“Where were you last night?”

Van Slate took a step toward Louis and Candy gently slapped the nightstick sideways against his belly. Van Slate looked down at it.

“I can puncture your spleen and never leave a bruise with this, Van Slate,” Candy said calmly. “Want to see?”

Van Slate took a step back.

“Answer the man,” Candy said.

“I went out drinking with my friends. I was at the Lob Lolly till after two. Then we went to the beach.”

“What beach?”

Van Slate glared at him. “Fort Myers.”

“You weren’t on Captiva?”

“Captiva? Hell no.”

Louis was looking behind the seat now. On the floor, he saw what looked like the handle of a knife, but he wasn’t sure.

Damn.

He wondered what the chances were of getting a quick warrant for the truck. He looked over at Candy.

“Watch him.”

He walked back to the cruiser and radioed Wainwright, and told him about what he thought he saw. He asked about a search warrant.

“All we got is his past crimes,” Wainwright said. “Unless you can break his alibi, it’s weak. Damn weak.”

“I know.”

“Can you call it plain view exception?” Wainwright asked.

Louis glanced back. “Yeah. Let’s try it.”

He clicked off and returned to the truck, reaching under the seat.

“What are you doing?” Van Slate yelled.

Louis used a pen to carefully extract the knife handle so he could see the blade. But it wasn’t a blade. It was a putty knife, dull and gobbed with a hard mud-brown paste.

Louis let the seat fall back into place. Damn it.

“What? What?” Van Slate asked.

“Let’s go,” Louis said to Candy.

They got back in the cruiser and pulled away. Louis was watching as Van Slate moved quickly to his truck and started rummaging inside.

“What a nightmare,” Louis muttered.

“What?” Candy asked.

“He might be destroying evidence and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.”

It was late when he got home that night. Inside, the house was quiet and dark except for the patio lanterns out back.

Louis grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, picked up his files and notes, and slipped out the sliding glass door to the patio. He dropped into a chair and took a drink. It was pitch-black, no moon, no stars. A cool breeze drifted in from the mangroves bringing with it the dank smell of low tide. The quiet was broken only by the groan of Dodie’s boat against the pilings.

Serial killer.

When Wainwright had come out and said those two words, something had ignited inside him-horror, fear. He wasn’t afraid to admit it. More dead men, more dead black men, more crushed faces and broken families.

But with the horror had come something else-a ripple of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He had spent most of the day after the visit to Van Slate wading through the NAACP files. One hundred and five angry white men, all with axes to grind, rage to vent. All looking for someone to blame for their own misery.

He thought back to the encounter with Van Slate. The guy hated blacks, that much was obvious. But did he hate them enough to kill? He didn’t know that much about serial killers, but he did know enough about people in general, that sometimes what you saw on the surface wasn’t what simmered beneath. Did enough rage boil below Matt Van Slate’s bigotry to turn him into a murderer? Was there a seed of evil there?

“You’re in late.”

Louis turned to see Dodie standing near the patio door. He was wearing boxers, a T-shirt, and white socks. His little spikes of gray hair shimmered in the lantern light.

“Need a fresh one?” he asked, nodding at Louis’s beer.

Louis shook his head. “No, thanks. Did I wake you?”

“Nah, I was watching the news in bed. The guy said cops think it’s a serial killer now. That true?”

Louis nodded and took a drink.

Dodie sat down across from Louis. “You know much about serial killers?”