Faye Kellerman - Sacred and Profane

It was close to five by the time Decker finished all the paperwork. His back and shoulders ached and his head was exploding. Popping a couple of aspirins in his mouth, he swallowed them dry, stretched, and walked over to the coffee urn. Some kind soul had had the decency to brew up a fresh batch.

He poured himself a cup of black coffee and went back to his desk, troubled. Dustin Pode had burned his house down because he hated his mother. But he didn’t harbor overt animosity toward his father. So why would he blow up Cecil’s studio? And why the sudden switch from arson to detonators? Dustin insisted he hadn’t done it. Maybe he was telling the truth.

He walked over to Marge. She was catnapping at her desk and he shook her shoulders gently. She awoke abruptly and confused.

“What time is it?” She bolted upward.

“About five.”

“Why the hell did you wake me up?” she asked, irritatedly. “We’ve still got three hours before we have to be at the bank.”

“Take a ride with me,” Decker said.

“Where?”

“To the beach.”

“What?” she said, laughing. But she was already reaching for her coat.

“Let’s go visit another angry young man,” he said. “I’ll explain on the way over.”

Truscott opened the door, rubbed his eyes, and broke into a vacant grin.

“I was expecting you,” he giggled. “I was. I was. I was.”

The kid had changed, The depression was gone. He was dancing around in a tiny circle, clapping his hands and stomping his feet as if doing a hora.

Decker looked around. The place had changed, too. The black sheets had ben removed, and in their place were photos of Lindsey, hundreds of them, papering the walls. The floor was a garbage dump-heaps of empty styrofoam hamburger containers, empty Coke cups, cigarette butts, half-eaten doughnuts and cookies, quart containers with melted ice cream oozing out, cupcake wrappers.

Twinkie defense, thought Decker.

“You shouldn’t have blown up the studio,” Decker said gently.

“We had to,” Chris said, looking at the walls. “Didn’t we, Lindsey? I told you we’d get the sucker, and we did, Babydoll.” He burst into applause and shouted. “Yea!”

“Chris, someone could have gotten hurt,” Marge said.

“Uh uh, no way. No way, José!” Truscott shook his head vehemently. “I made sure. I saw you guys go in, I waited for you guys to go out. I waited till everyone was far away. I made sure. I don’t want to hurt anybody except the fucker who hurt us. Right, Babydoll?”

He was talking to the wall again.

Marge looked at Decker. He shrugged.

“We’re going to call Santa Monica police now, Chris,” Decker said. “You’re going to be arrested. Do you have a lawyer?”

“Nope.”

“They’ll give you one,” Decker said. “Don’t say anymore until you’ve talked with your lawyer. All right?”

Truscott smiled angelically. “May I use the bathroom?” he asked politely. “I’d like to wash up before I go.”

“No,” Marge said. “Stay right here.”

“I have to make pee-pee,” Truscott babbled out.

“Make in your pants,” she said softly.

He did and smiled as his pants leg became saturated with urine.

“Suicidal,” Marge whispered to Decker. “I don’t want him alone in there.”

They waited in silence until the police arrived. The detectives gave their statements as Chris was led out whistling “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Decker watched as they stuffed him in a blue and white cruiser. Involuntarily, he found himself planning the kid’s defense. A psych. eval.; the kid was obviously distressed-no, distraught. Much better word. Bring in a few of Lindsey’s friends as character witnesses. Mention that Lindsey’s father had been feeding Chris’s bottomless pit of guilt. The kid had no priors-Decker had checked that out when he’d suspected him in Lindsey’s death. No one had been injured in the blast. Even with a mediocre lawyer, Chris should get off with probation.

Decker rubbed his arms, remembering how he had held Chris, rocked him as he wept. A pitiful, broken kid, consumed with guilt. He made a mental note to call up Chris’s PD. The young man needed psychiatric counseling and his lawyer could request it. Decker hoped to God that the court would follow the recommendation. The last thing he needed was another body on his conscience.

“Think Cammy Boy will show?” Decker asked Marge over the radio.

“Who knows?” she answered. “But we’ve got nothing else to lose. Daddy doesn’t know where he is; Mommy doesn’t know where he is; Pode doesn’t know where he is; and Cameron doesn’t have any other friends.”

“If he doesn’t turn up,” said Decker, “maybe the papers we seized last night will tell us something.”

“Hope springs eternal.”

The bank had opened fifteen minutes ago. Decker readjusted his stance and scanned the twenty-story building. He was situated behind a pillar with a view of the back exit. Marge was watching the front. Behind him, across a large, paved courtyard was Century City Shopping Center. The outdoor mall was a conglomeration of department stores, trendy boutiques, and alfresco sandwich shops. Around noon, the walkways were often filled with popcorn, cookie, and candy vendors, flower stands, and espresso machines on push-carts. Decker’s ex-wife often shopped there with Cindy. Decker found the place overly cute.

He looked in front of him, then over his shoulder. People were mulling around, skittering about like moths on a lightbulb. Then what was he, he thought. A hawk? Was there a purpose to all of this? He looked at the sky. Damn it, he swore. If You’re out there, why don’t You ever show Your face. Make it all so much easier.

He was still angry at Rina. She had finally given herself over to him completely only to withdraw literally from his grasp. He ached inside and out and felt it was all her fault.

Aw, screw it! Maybe it wasn’t Rina at all. Just lack of sleep or a decent meal. Maybe it was age.

He saw Cameron and snapped himself out of his funk.

“Go in and take him, Pete,” said a voice on the radio.

Decker began his cautious approach, and when he was close enough, called out his name. Smithson turned around.

“He’s got a gun!” someone shouted into the wireless.

Decker hit the ground as Cameron let go with two shots and headed in the direction of the mall. Decker and a half dozen cops took off after him, dodging screaming shoppers.

Smithson stopped, took aim, fired again, and ducked into the Broadway, knocking down mannequins and upsetting racks of spring fashions. Bright-hued fabrics spilled onto the floor, dripping color like paint off an artist’s palette. Decker tripped over an anorexic dummy modeling a string bikini and red plastic sunglasses. The head split open, revealing a skull as empty as the expression frozen on its face. He regained his footing, heard the crack of a bullet whizzing past him, and fell back onto the floor. As soon as he saw Smithson take off, he got up and followed. His quarry sprinted up the escalator, pushing women behind him as he approached the second, then the third level.

Shrieks were accompanied by shattering glass. Smithson was in the China Department. The police approached slowly, avoiding the shards of broken crystal and china. An eerie calm hung in the air, the sound of shallow breathing.

Then a lead crystal ship’s decanter shot out of nowhere and smashed into a cop. The heavy mass of solid glass bounced off his face and blood poured out of his nose. Gouges etched his cheeks and face. He clutched at his eyes.

“Call an ambulance,” Decker shouted.

Another officer ministered to the wounded man as Decker rushed after Cameron, who had sped back down the escalator to the first floor, into Men’s Wear.