Butch Karp: Absolute Rage Part 28

"Yes, and you're always making that kind of dirty remark. I mean, if you're going to be a prude, you ought to act like one. How come you're not grim-faced and shockable like the born-againers at McCullensburg High?"

"I'm sorry if I inflame your l.u.s.ts even more than they are by my preternatural physical beauty . . ."

"And you keep knocking the way you-"

He stopped abruptly. Something had gone wrong with his face, the expression frozen, the color draining from it so that his lips looked almost blue. He was sitting facing the door. She had her back to it, and he was staring past her shoulder. She turned to look and saw three men walking in, just past the swinging doors.

"Oh, s.h.i.t!" said Dan under his breath.

The three men went to the bar and loudly demanded beer. They were obviously already drunk: two big ones-one rawboned with an ugly weasel-sneering face, the other huge, neckless, gut hanging over the broad belt of his jeans-and one smaller with a pretty-boy face bleared by drink, with sleepy, sly eyes. Some altercation at the bar. The woman didn't want to serve them. The pretty boy vaulted the bar and extracted a double handful of beers from the cooler. They leaned against the bar and drank, glowering at the occupants. The other drinkers had fallen silent.

The no-neck said, "Hey, Bo. Go put some music on. This place is f.u.c.kin' dead."

Bo went to the jukebox. It started to play Merle Haggard's "Okie from Muskogee."

Lucy knew who the men were without being told. She had more acquaintance with killers than most girls her age, and she understood what she was looking at. Next to her, Dan sat frozen, staring at them.

They must have felt the stare, or else their eyes had now adjusted to the gloom of the barroom, for the ugly one said, "Hey, Wayne, ain't that Dan Heeney sittin' there?"

The big one stared and showed brownish teeth, a gap-toothed grin. "Yeah, Earl, I believe it is. How're you doin', Heeney? I hear your brother's in trouble. Hey, boys, let's go cheer old Dan up."

They clumped over to the table and hovered. Wayne said, "Now, Heeney, I want to know why Emmett'd do a mean thing like that? I mean, killin' his folks and his pore little sister. You all must've had a p.i.s.s poor upbringin', what d'you think, boys?"

Earl said, "Yeah, and his brother's sittin' in the jail, and he's out drinkin' with some d.a.m.n ugly girl. Heeney, you must be getting some kinda fierce p.u.s.s.y, to go out with a girl that plain."

Wayne said, "Yeah, now that you mention it, Earl, I don't believe I ever have seen a girl that flat-chested. You need to put them things back in the oven for a while, honey, get a little more rise outen 'em."

Then, to everyone's surprise, Lucy said, in a loud, clear voice, audible throughout the bar, over the music. "Yes, I used to worry about it myself. 'Oh, why don't I grow b.r.e.a.s.t.s?' I cried about it for years. Now I've come to accept it as my fate. And isn't that the real secret of happiness? To love your fate? Amor fati, as we say in Latin. How much happier you would be, for example," she added, looking directly at Earl, "if you truly accepted your ugliness and lack of intelligence. You would not feel impelled to take out your rage by doing s.a.d.i.s.tic and cruel acts."

Someone sn.i.g.g.e.red at one of the back tables. Lucy now looked carefully at Bo Cade. There was something off about him that she found interesting, something that distinguished him from the other two. He had composed his face into a contemptuous sneer, but it had no depth. "It's true," she said in the same tone, "what you feel is real. You're not like them. It's hard to go against your own blood, but sometimes you have to. Drinking doesn't help, really."

Bo opened his mouth in shock and then shut it with a snap. The others seemed not to have heard any of what she said, although Earl was conscious of having been insulted, and his slow brain was contemplating revenge. Wayne understood only that this little b.i.t.c.h who should have been quaking in terror was not, and it made him cranky. He was a good deal quicker than his cousin Earl, however, quick enough to see something pa.s.s between Bo and her, although not to understand it.

"Hey, little Bo, she likes you," Wayne said. "Why'nt you ask her to dance? I bet she's a real good dancer. Lady, you touch that f.u.c.kin' phone and I'll rip it off the wall and shove it up your sloppy old c.u.n.t." This last shouted to the bartender, who had been edging toward the pay phone on the far wall.

Wayne resumed, "Yeah, I want to see some dancing. Bo, go play that song again, and we'll see if Miss Smart here'll dance for us. Go do like I said, Bo."

Bo hesitated and then went and put another quarter in the slot.

When the music started again, Wayne said to Lucy, "Now, get up and dance!"

"I don't care to, thanks," said Lucy.

"Well, I don't give a s.h.i.t what you care to, honey. Just for being pert, you can dance nekkid. We'll see if you got no hair on your p.u.s.s.y like you got no t.i.tties."

When Lucy didn't move, Wayne grabbed her left arm and jerked her to her feet. Dan came out of his chair with a bottle in his hand, but Earl was ready for him and landed a solid punch on the side of Dan's head that knocked him sprawling. He got to his knees, and Earl kicked him in the ribs.

"Don't you ever watch movies?" Lucy asked. They all stared at her. "Every single movie you ever saw, a bunch of thugs goes into a place and abuses respectable people, and every time, something terrible happens to them. You're those guys now, and something terrible will happen to you if you don't stop this right now."

Again, they seemed not to hear what she said. Wayne said, "You better shuck out've them clothes, honey. Or do you want old Bo to take 'em off for you?" Wayne gave her arm a shake to make his point.

Lucy sighed, raised her fingers to her mouth, and produced a piercing, three-toned whistle.

Magog entered the barroom at a dead run, at which point Lucy shouted a command in a language only she and the dog understood. She also pulled against Wayne's grip, at which the man instinctively jerked back. This improved Magog's target picture. Without breaking stride, the dog hit Wayne Cade in the groin with a mouthful of teeth. Wayne went over backward, his mouth open wide enough to swallow a grapefruit. The dog gave a sharp jerk of her ma.s.sive head, like the jerk a terrier makes to kill a rat, producing the sound of tearing cloth and a high-pitched scream.

Magog then backed off a few steps and dropped on the floor a sodden ma.s.s of denim, Jockey-short stuff, blood, and tissue. Wayne writhed with his hands against his crotch, making the sort of sounds he had not made since he was weaned.

Earl reached under his shirt, brought out a revolver, and took careful aim at Magog. Lucy shouted something. Magog started to move and Earl fired. Dan Heeney rose slowly to his feet.

It is extremely hard even when cold sober to hit a black dog moving toward you at speed in a dim room, and Earl's bullet did not connect. His second shot also went wide, into the ceiling in fact, because Dan hit him over the head with a chair, and Magog launched her 110 pounds through the air and landed mouth-first on his forearm. Earl screamed and dropped the gun.

"Magog, off!" cried Lucy. "Heel! Dan, come on!"

After a second's hesitation, because he really wanted to hit Earl again with the chair, he ran after her, shaking his head to clear it.

Outside, they both stopped short, blinking. Four state police cars were lined up head to tail, forming a barricade across the parking lot. Helmeted troopers crouched behind them, pistols and shotguns at the ready. One of the troopers was making frantic "come here" motions. Looking wildly around her, Lucy saw that a team of police in helmets and flak jackets, carrying short-version M16s, were flattened against the walls of the bar on either side of the door.

Lucy and Dan did what the trooper wanted them to do and went behind the line of cars. At that moment, Earl Cade came running out, clutching his revolver in his left hand, his right hanging loose and b.l.o.o.d.y. Twenty voices started yelling at him to drop it, to get down, get down! Slowly, it seemed, it dawned on Earl that they were addressing him and not someone else with a gun in his hand, and also that enough firepower was pointing at him to stop a battalion. He let the gun fall and lay down on the gravel. Some troopers rushed forward and grabbed him.

"What'd I do? I ain't done nothin'," wailed Earl.

The a.s.sault team rushed into the saloon and soon emerged with Bo Cade, in handcuffs. Shortly thereafter, a paramedic van pulled into the lot; two paramedics pulled a gurney out of it and went in.

"Hi, Dad," said Lucy.

"Are you all right?" Karp asked. She saw how pale his face was and ran to embrace him.

"I'm fine. How did you know I was in there?"

"We didn't, until I saw your truck in the parking lot. I almost had a heart attack."

"You were following the Cades?"

"A trooper saw their truck and called it in. What were you doing in that place? I thought you were at Four Oaks."

"Dan took me. He's been showing me the McCullensburg sights."

Karp turned on Dan a paint-scorching look. "You think that was smart, zooming around the county with a bunch of killers on the loose?"

Before Dan could answer, the paramedics emerged from the building with Wayne Cade on their gurney. They stopped to talk to a tall trooper with gold glinting on his shoulders, then packed the man away in their van, with a trooper for company.

Hendricks walked over to the Karps and asked, "What happened in there?"

Lucy answered, "That big one, Wayne I think his name is, tried to s.e.xually a.s.sault me, and Magog bit him." A child of two lawyers, she was ever alert for torts.

"Bit him, eh? I'll say!"

"Is he badly hurt?" asked Lucy with real concern. "I called her off right away."

"Oh, he'll live. But I guess it'll be a while before Wayne's interested in that sort of thing." To Karp, Hendricks said, "You'll want to see them right away."

"Yeah. You know the drill. Keep them separate, and the Miranda stuff. Let's have that gun tested. Make sure they're comfortable and take care of their medical needs. We'll talk to Wayne later in the hospital."

"I guess my wife won't be leaving me now," said Stan Hawes to Karp as soon as Karp walked into his office. "And I can take my kid to Little League again."

"Was it that bad?"

"Pretty near. Anyhow, it worked. I guess we need to talk to those boys."

"Whenever you want." Karp hesitated, then said carefully, "You know, I've done this a lot. Maybe I should take the lead interviewing the first one."

"I got no problem with that. On the other hand, I think I got more experience with boys like the Cades than you do. I guess you don't have many like them in New York City."

"Good point.We'll feel our way. You want to go downstairs now?"

"You know, as a matter of fact, I'd like to get something to eat first." Hawes stood up and slipped on his suit jacket. "I haven't been eating all that well since I became a corrupt son of a b.i.t.c.h. Christine's been flinging a frozen dinner at my head and calling it supper. Let's go down to Rosie's. The Cades'll keep for a while."

The restaurant was crowded, much to Karp's surprise. There was no velvet rope, but they had to hang around in the entryway for a table to be cleared.

"It's Friday," Hawes explained as they took their seats, "catfish on the menu. Gus's catfish is famous. He's got a tank in the back he keeps them in. He brings them up from a farm in North Carolina."

"Well, I do love a mess o'catfish."

"I bet you do, country boy like yourself."

"What's with all the old guys?" asked Karp, surveying the room.

"Pension day today. They're all old miners. Basis of the economy, besides coal itself. Another one of our local traditions. There's your Lester Weames fan club. The union's been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g them for generations and they love it, because he hands them a cheap pension every month. Plus occasional odd jobs. A great and generous man, Lester. Another reason I brought you here. Look over there, those fellas at that big round table in the corner."

Karp looked. He did not recognize any of the eight men at the table, but he thought instantly of Marlene and her flash of dej vu. He had seen tables like that in Italian restaurants in his neighborhood at home. The men were dressed a little better, and a little more formally than the other diners, and they had a sleek, confident look as they dug into the greasy fried fish and downed bottles of beer. Three of them were larger men than average, with hard, stupid faces. The table was making a good deal of happy, aggressive noise.

"Man in the yellow golf shirt with the little round gla.s.ses, that's Lester himself. Over one to his right is George Floyd. The others are his buddies in the union management, and his goons. I guess you can tell which ones are the goons."

Karp inspected them for a moment. "They seem to be having a good time. I guess us arresting the Cade boys isn't affecting their appet.i.tes. I a.s.sume they know?"

"Oh, yeah. Swett must've been on the horn to them five minutes after we brought them in."

George Floyd said something and everyone laughed heartily. Karp imagined that this was not an infrequent occurrence when Floyd made a joke. Weames seemed quieter, almost studious; perhaps it was the gla.s.ses. He looked like the sort of nondescript accountant who turns out to have forty-three dismembered women in his bas.e.m.e.nt. Weames glanced up from his fish. His gla.s.ses glinted. He said something to Floyd, who raised his head and stared over at Karp. Their eyes met. Floyd said something to Weames and laughed, and then their whole table laughed and turned to look at Karp and Hawes.

The waitress cut off their view. Hawes said, "Don't need no menus, Maggie. We'll have the catfish specials. That all right with you, Butch?"

"Sure, why not." Karp smiled at the waitress.

The fish was extremely tasty, he had to agree. He could not help noticing that, as the various tables of pensioners finished their meals, they would go up to Weames's table for a word or two. Paying homage. George Floyd stood, pulled a fat roll of currency out of his pocket, and peeled off a half dozen bills, licking his thumb and snapping it down to pull each one off. Karp had seen the gesture a hundred times on Mulberry Street in Little Italy.

"In the event that Lester ever becomes a defendant here," Karp observed, "it's not going to be easy a.s.sembling a jury, is it?"

Hawes grinned at him, a satisfied grin. "Ah, finally, the penny drops."

15.

T HERE WERE NO FORMAL INTERVIEW ROOMS AT THE R OBBENS C OUNTY jail, so they had Bo Cade brought to the deputies' lunchroom, a fluorescent-lit, windowless nine-by-twelve with a Formica table and several mismatched straight chairs. Its air was warm, stagnant, reeking of burnt coffee and microwaved pizza.

"Do you like catfish, Mr. Cade?" was Karp's first question.

Bo looked confused, then nodded warily. A trick question, his face declared. He still smelled strongly of beer, but no longer felt drunk. Being arrested for murder often has a literally sobering effect.

"Good," said Karp. "I brought you some catfish from Rosie's." He handed over a paper sack. "We can talk while you have your supper. I think the sheriff can spare a soda, too."

Karp and Hawes watched Bo eat catfish and drink RC. "Pretty good, isn't it?" said Karp. "I never had catfish before today, but I'm a fan now. I don't think it's usually on the menu in the prison system-correct me if I'm wrong, Stan."

"No, I wouldn't think so," said Hawes, "not at Mt. Olive. Or not fresh like Rosie's anyway. Maybe you'd get some soggy frozen fish fingers, though."

Cade stopped chewing. "I got nothin' to say to you. I didn't do nothin' and I don't know nothin'. I don't even know why I'm here."

"Uh-huh," said Karp, "I hear what you're saying. Well, let me do something then. I'm going to read to you off this sheet of paper, and then I'm going to ask you to sign it if you understand what's on it." Karp read off the Miranda rights and asked, "Do you want to see a lawyer now, or would you like to talk with us some more?"

"h.e.l.l, I told you I don't know nothin'. Why'd I need a lawyer then?"

"Good, then sign the form." Bo signed. Karp said, "Okay, Mr. Cade, let's talk about your situation. On May twenty-eighth of this year, you went into the Bi-Lo in town and purchased a pair of Rocky-brand hunting boots, size nine and a half. We have a copy of the receipt and the clerk remembers you. You wore those boots the night you killed Mr. and Mrs. Heeney and Elizabeth Heeney."

"I didn't kill-"

"Right, you didn't do nothing. But just hold that for a second. Subsequent to the murders, upon finding the boots were spattered with blood, you threw them off the green bridge on Route 130, where they were found and worn by Mose Welch. You also left several good sets of fingerprints at the Heeney home. Now, we have done a detailed a.n.a.lysis of the interior of the boots-"

"Hey, now, wait a minute! I thought you got that Emmett Heeney for all that anyway."

"No, actually, that was a ruse."

"A what?"

"A trick. A swindle. We pretended to arrest Emmett Heeney so that you boys would come down from Burnt Peak and we could arrest you without having to go up there and drag you out, with the chance that someone might get hurt."

Bo Cade gaped.

"Yes, I thought it was pretty smart, and it worked," said Karp. "As I was saying, we took apart one of your boots. Do you know what DNA is, Mr. Cade?"

"Yeah, the forest rangers."

"No, that's DNR," said Hawes. "The Department of Natural Resources. DNA is a chemical found in your body. It's different for different people. If we got some DNA from a crime scene, we can compare it to the DNA in your body and tell if you were there."

"Thank you, Stan," said Karp. "Well, Mr. Cade, it turns out that when you wear boots, little flecks of skin get shed through your socks and stick to the leather. We've extracted some of those little flecks from your boots. Now, naturally, some of them belong to Mose Welch, because he wore those boots, but others of them we've found belong to someone else. I would bet a lot of money that when we compare that DNA to a sample from your body, it'll match right up. Also, we've got good footprints of where you stood on the night of the murder right outside the Heeneys' back door. Our lab people can tell the weight of whoever made those footprints with your boots, and I would also bet a lot of money that they're going to come up with exactly your weight. So we have what we call a good circ.u.mstantial case. That means we can put you in your fancy boots at the Heeney home the night of the murder, where you got them splattered with Mrs. Heeney's blood right after you killed her."