P. Parrish - Paint It Black

“We’d like to have those knives, Van Slate,” Wainwright said.

Van Slate threw up his hands. “Go ahead, take them! You’ll get them eventually anyway.” He leaned against the truck, his arms crossed. “You won’t find anything on any of them, except maybe some fish guts and worm shit.”

Wainwright nodded at Candy, who came forward, pulling a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. He carefully picked out the knives and bagged them.

“I want them back,” Van Slate said.

Wainwright spoke again. “You got any spray paint, Van Slate?”

“Spray paint? Yeah, I got-” he stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”

They didn’t answer him. Louis could almost hear the gears in Van Slate’s brains grinding. “Did this guy paint a message on the walls?” Van Slate asked. When no one answered, he smiled. “Manson did that, he painted ‘Helter Skelter’ on the walls. You know, the Beatles song?”

Van Slate started singing the song, but then stopped suddenly. “No, wait! I got it. He wrote a message on the bodies or something, right?”

“Can you go get the paint for us?” Wainwright asked.

“They had paint on them. What color was it?”

“You tell us,” Wainwright said.

Van Slate shrugged. “White?”

Louis glanced at Emily. She was staring hard at Van Slate.

“Why white?” Wainwright asked.

Van Slate was suddenly interested in the conversation. “Well, it makes sense, don’t it? I mean, these dead guys are all black, right? Why would anyone paint them black? They’re already black.” Van Slate locked eyes with Louis, and a slow grin came over his face. “Shit, if I was doing this, I’d paint ’em white. You know, make ’em lighter. Do a Michael Jackson on ’em. Improve on nature.”

Louis resisted the urge to reach over and grab a handful of Van Slate’s T-shirt.

Van Slate’s grin widened. “This is a real kick in the ass, ain’t it?” he said. “Me helping you guys.”

“Go get the paint, Van Slate. That would be a help to us,” Wainwright said.

“Get a warrant,” he said.

“I will if I have to,” Wainwright said.

Van Slate was shaking his head, still smiling. “You guys are fishing, aren’t you? You don’t know who the fuck you’re looking for. You don’t even know why these poor assholes were even offed in the first place.”

He paused to pull a pack of Marlboros out of his jeans. “I read the paper. I know what they’re saying, that some guy with a hard-on toward black guys is doing it. You know what I think? I think these guys were all asking for it some way.”

Louis suddenly realized that here they were, four experienced cops, standing and listening to this scumbag’s opinions. He knew that suspects who could manipulate an interrogation were dangerous to investigations. But he wasn’t sure that’s what Van Slate was doing.

“Shut up, Van Slate,” Wainwright interrupted. “Nobody wants to hear your theories.”

“I do,” Louis said.

Van Slate’s eyes snapped to Louis, along with Wainwright’s. He lit his cigarette and blew the smoke over his head before he answered.

“You want to hear my opinion?”

“I do, too,” Emily said.

Van Slate focused on her for a second, as if he had just now noticed she was there.

“I can’t believe I’m helping you,” he said, smiling. “Okay, here it is. None of these dead guys had it coming for the reasons you’re thinking. From all appearances, they lived a very normal black life. They were no threat.”

“To who?” Louis asked.

Van Slate met his eyes. “To guys like me.” He took a quick drag on his cigarette. “Besides, no self-respecting racist-which I am not, by the way-would do these guys the way they were done.”

“Enlighten us,” Louis said tightly.

Van Slate’s eyes focused for a moment on Emily, on the pad and pencil in her hands. “Let me put it this way, if I’m going to beat the shit out of somebody, I ain’t going to get my hands dirty doing it.”

“Is that why you used a board on Zengo?” Wainwright asked.

Van Slate looked at him, a smirk on his face. “You’re learning.”

Louis looked away, his gaze settling on a dandelion poking through the gravel.

“Plus,” Van Slate said, “if this guy is a racist-which I am not, by the way-he’d be proud of what he did. He’d leave you a message. You know, like a dog pissing to show you he was there. And from what I hear, this guy leaves nada.”

Louis had heard enough. He turned and started back to the squad car.

Van Slate was an idiot, but one thing he had said had stuck in Louis’s mind: And you call me a racist?

A long time ago, he had learned not to turn a deaf ear when his instinct was trying to tell him something. But instinct-vibrations, gut feeling, whatever it was that had worked for him so well in the past-had failed him in Michigan. He’d been blindsided, not only by a killer, but by people he had grown to trust. He’d been wrong. Fatally wrong.

Was he wrong here, too? Was he going after Van Slate just because he was a small-minded bigot? Because he was white?

He heard Wainwright finishing up with Van Slate, but he didn’t care. Van Slate hadn’t murdered those men. Van Slate wanted no contact with blacks; he would never have gone to Queenie Boulevard. And his bigotry was too generalized, his hatred too unspecific. He had attacked Joshua Zengo, true, but it had come from some warped personal motive. These murders were seemingly without any reason. There was still no why -at least not that they had been able to see.

If a white man like Van Slate doesn’t kill a black stranger out of hate, what else could it be?

Wainwright, Emily, and Candy were coming toward him. They all stood, watching as Van Slate busied himself rearranging the tarp in the flatbed.

“He made a good point,” Emily said, closing her notebook.

“About what?” Wainwright said.

“About the murderer being proud of what he does,” she said. “Whoever murdered Tatum, Quick, and the homeless man doesn’t seem to care what we think. He hasn’t contacted anyone, hasn’t taken any souvenirs from his victims or left his mark. Most serial killers do.”

“You don’t call the paint a mark?” Wainwright said.

Emily shook her head. “I agree with Louis. I think it’s a symbol, something important to him alone. It’s not a sign that he was there. He’s not like the Zodiac killer. He’s not saying, ‘Remember me.’ ”

“What’s your take on Van Slate, Farentino?” Louis asked.

“Well, he definitely doesn’t fit the disorganized offender category. I guess a case could be made for organized-”

“In English, Farentino,” Wainwright said patiently.

She sighed. “I think Matt Van Slate is mean-spirited and a bigot. But I don’t think he’s a murderer. At least not this one.”

Wainwright looked at Louis. “You agree?”

Louis nodded. “I guess I couldn’t see past my disgust of this guy.”

Van Slate gunned the black truck. He gave them a taunting wave as he peeled out, spraying gravel.

“What an asshole,” Candy offered.

Wainwright watched the truck tear down the road. “Yeah,” he said. “But unfortunately being an asshole isn’t against the law.”

Wainwright came out of his bathroom, buttoning a fresh shirt. He stared at Louis and Emily, who were slumped in chairs around the conference table. It was heaped with files, faxes, and coffee cups.

“Why don’t you two go home and change? You’re starting to stink up the joint,” Wainwright said.

Emily was on the phone, on hold, but she ignored him. Louis rubbed his bristly jaw and took a sip of coffee. It was cold.