Chapter 6
Mary Kaye Mallory lay on a gurney in a curtained-off corner of the Community Hospital emergency room, clad in a hospital gown from which the sterile dressings on her legs protruded. Her ginger-colored hair stood on end as if from fright, and she had a large gauze pad taped to each of her elbows. But she hadn’t withdrawn behind a wall of shock. Her green eyes gleamed, and she was speaking to the ER physician with animation in her voice when Ron stepped into the enclosure.
A smile lit her face when Ron first entered, and then slipped back into an grin of self-satisfaction, the corners of her mouth turning up just enough to be noticed.
“Ms. Mallory, I’m Chief Ketchum, Goldstrike PD,” Ron said with a nod of greeting. “Sorry if I’m not who you were expecting.”
“I just thought someone might come see me before I left,” she answered. “But I’m not sure if he even heard what happened.”
“If there’s someone you’d like me to contact …”
The thing was, Mary Kaye wasn’t sure if she wanted Brad or Carter to rush to her side. And how would they even know what had happened to her? And why would she want either of them to see her looking the way she did? Then it occurred to her that maybe a brush with death was something of an aphrodisiac. But she wasn’t about to say so.
“No thank you, Chief. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
The ever-efficient Sergeant Stanley had radioed Ron on his way to the hospital and gave him a brief sketch of Mary Kaye Mallory’s background. A millionaire businesswoman, she could have played the prima donna. But she looked like the kid sister who early on always wanted to play ball with the guys, and later on you warned your no-account buddies to stay away from if they knew what was good for them.
Ron liked her immediately.
“If you feel up to it, Ms. Mallory, I have a few questions.”
The ER doc smiled and told Ron, “Oh, she’s up to it, and it’s a helluva story.” Then he excused himself.
“I got that sonofabitch good,” Mary Kaye said with a hard smile, as if she’d just humbled the neighborhood bully. “I only wish I’d had sulfuric acid in my canister.”
She then proceeded to describe in detail the events of that morning.
“How are you able to recall so precisely where the attack occurred?” Ron wanted to know.
“I parked my car at the scenic overlook at Alpine Glen, the way I always do. I run a seven and a half minute mile. When the cat ran back into the woods and I started back to my car, I looked at my watch. Ten minutes had passed since I’d started out. Ergo I’d run about a mile and a third, minus a little for the time the actual confrontation lasted.”
She grinned and added again, “I really kicked his ass.”
“What was the animal’s coloration, Ms. Mallory? And did you notice any unusual markings or features?”
Mary Kaye looked inward, remembering. A slight trembling started in both of her feet that she didn’t seem to notice: the subconscious urge of the body to flee from the power of the memory. The first sign of a chink in her bravado. Ron decided to ask again at the end of the interview if there was anyone he could contact for her.
“He was the usual tawny brown color. The eyes, I remember the eyes — I don’t think I’ll ever forget them — were a malignant yellow.” She furrowed her brow in concentration. “And above the … the left eye he had a jagged scar.”
The tremor in her feet started working its way up her body. Ron knew he had to ask the rest of his questions before she got too upset.
“Can you estimate the lion’s size?” He realized he was asking the same questions he’d ask if the assailant had been human, but that was what he knew.
Mary Kaye Mallory’s teeth started to chatter as she considered the question, and that was when she became aware of the dread that had slipped past the drawbridge of her conscious mind. It was also when Ron saw just how strong this woman was. She might actually have been somebody’s kid sister, but she needed no one to watch out for her. The look of determination that came into her eyes was so fierce that he had no problem understanding her professional success. She made a tooth-grinding effort to master her fear. A long moment and several controlled breaths later her trembling stopped.
Then she exhaled deeply and said, “It’s just a guess, but I’d have to say he was about a hundred and forty pounds. Average for males of his species, from what I’ve read.”
Ron said, “You keep referring to the animal in masculine terms. Did you actually notice its … gender?”
Now, Mary Kaye Mallory grinned. “No, I didn’t. It just helps me to think of the bastard as male. Does such sexism offend you, Chief Ketchum?”
Ron shook his head.
“You’ve probably got it right, Ms. Mallory.”
At that moment, a man of about Ron’s age poked his head into the enclosure. “I called your office and heard what happened,” he said to Mary Kaye. “May I come in? The nurse told me you’re leaving for San Francisco soon. If you like, I can accompany you.”
A repeat of the smile she’d mistakenly given Ron was all the answer he needed. He stepped to the side of the bed and took Mary Kaye’s hand. She squeezed his in return.
Apparently, Ms. Mallory had the good sense to recognize that not all males were bastards.
Ron slipped away unnoticed.
As Ron entered the roll call room at police headquarters, the sixteen available officers of Goldstrike’s finest snapped to attention at Oliver Gosden’s crisp command. They held the rigid posture as the chief stepped behind the lectern where Sergeant Stanley usually stood. He regarded his ten men and six women individually and then put them at ease.
There was no need to ask whether Oliver had briefed them and handed out copies of the victim’s likeness, so he started right in.
“A man was killed in our town last night. He died very badly. If the killer hasn’t fled our jurisdiction, we are going to catch him. We are going to work smart and hard and for as long as it takes. We are going to catch him.
“As you can imagine, the mayor feels very strongly about this situation. As do the deputy chief and I. As, undoubtedly, do all of you. Every decent person abhors a killing. But, in my view, a murder offends a police officer more grievously than anyone else. A homicide
mocks
our pledge to protect the public. It
violates
our very sense of who we are.
“It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to know that this killing has enormous potential for being sensationalized. Once that happens, it will become a media event and quite likely a political football. There will be great pressure on this department to solve the case quickly. So that the story will have a neat ending. So that the politics of the situation can be distilled and peddled to the voters.”
Ron spoke here from personal experience, and again he paused to look at each and every one of his officers.
“None of this is your concern. Any and all questions from anyone outside this department are to be referred to my office. This is not to cover anyone’s ass, it’s to free you from any distraction to doing your police work. I’ll remind you again. If the killer is still in our town, we
will
catch him
“The first order of business is to identify the victim. If he was a resident, someone will know him. If he was a visitor, he had to have a means of transportation and probably a place to stay. I want the man’s picture shown at every hotel, motel, and campground in town. I want it shown at every eating place, from four-star to fast food. I want it shown at every grocery store and convenience store. I want it shown at every single place of business where this man might conceivably have walked in off the street.
“And I want this done as quickly as possible without sacrificing due diligence. Because if we can’t identify him this way, we will go door-to-door to every residence in town. Sergeant Stanley will detail each officer’s initial assignment.”
Ron laid the weight of one last stare from the chief on his cops.
“As of now, you’re all working continuous shifts until we know who the victim is.”
That Friday evening, Mayor Clay Steadman made Ron Ketchum’s job both easier and much more difficult. Since Goldstrike was in many ways the mayor’s town, that was his prerogative. He used the forum of the Clay Steadman Show to spread his message.
Whenever the mayor was in town, not off making a movie, he appeared on the government access cable TV channel each weekday at 6:45 PM. Sometimes he discussed municipal ballot propositions on which the electorate would vote; sometimes he did movie reviews on upcoming films he’d seen at industry screenings; sometimes he just read the weather report and wished everyone a pleasant evening.
It was his way of staying in touch, as broadly as possible, with his constituency.
And his constituency watched faithfully, loving the fact that they alone got to see the only TV program that Clay Steadman would ever do. In homes, public places and even on electronics store displays, if a TV in Goldstrike was on at 6:45 PM, it was tuned to the Clay Steadman Show.
That included the TV in Ron Ketchum’s office. As soon as the chief saw the look on the mayor’s face, he knew what Clay was going to do. It was all Ron could do to watch. But he knew he’d better, so he did.
“I have something shocking to show you tonight, something horrible to talk about. So right now I’d like to give you parents out there a few seconds to shoo the kids out of the room. Any of you more impressionable adults might just want to turn off your sets, too.”
Then the mayor simply focused his cold, blue, unblinking eyes on the camera. Ron counted to himself. Clay Steadman gave his audience ten seconds to follow his advice — a good deal longer than the three count he was famous for giving movie villains.
Then the mayor held up a photograph and the TV camera zoomed in close on it. It was a full-length picture of the crucifixion victim, one of the shots Oliver had taken. Ron hadn’t known the mayor had requested it, but he couldn’t have stopped him from getting it in any event.
“This man was killed in our town this morning,” Clay said in voice-over as the gruesome image continued to fill the screen. “He was crucified.”
Ron said a silent prayer that the mayor wouldn’t give away
all
the details of the killing. That’d he’d leave the police something to distinguish any real tips they might get from the flood of crackpot calls that would soon inundate the department’s phone lines.
The angry face of the mayor came back on the screen.
“To say that this is the work of a sick, twisted sonofabitch belabors the obvious. To understand why it happened here is not so simple.”
Oliver Gosden came into Ron’s office and took a seat on the corner of his desk to watch the mayor speak.
“You look at what was done to this man …” Ron was glad that Clay chose not to show the crucifixion picture again. “… and you know that someone wanted to achieve more than the taking of his life. Someone wanted to send a grotesque message.”
Clay Steadman let his audience think about that while he took a sip of water.
“The first conclusion you might reach is that this killing is racially motivated. Somebody hated this man for the color of his skin. Our country’s history is tragically filled with such outrages. And why else would anyone go to the trouble of staging such a vile, sacrilegious execution?”
Oliver exchanged a glance with Ron.
“The answer is we don’t know. But that’s exactly what we have to find out. Was this man killed for what he looked like … or was he killed for who he was … or for something he did? Only when we know the answer to those questions will we be able to pursue his killer.”
The mayor paused for another sip of water.
Oliver asked Ron, “You think he’s gonna—”
“Yeah,” Ron answered, not needing to hear the rest of the question.
“The first thing our police department needs to know is this man’s identity,” Clay said. “Please take a good look at him. See if you know him.”
Sergeant Stanley stepped into Ron’s office as a headshot of the victim filled the TV screen. The sergeant stood next to the deputy chief.
“Please call the number on your screen if you know who this man is,” Clay narrated as the telephone number for police headquarters appeared on the screen below the victim’s face. “Do
not
call 911. Leave that line open for emergencies.”
All three cops listened for the sound of their main phone line starting to ring. The first call came within five seconds.
“At least we won’t have to do a house to house canvas now,” Sergeant Stanley said. “I’ll get additional clerical help to cover the phones.”
The mayor came back on the screen. “I know everybody in town wants to catch this bastard as badly as I do. And I know this murder couldn’t have been committed without somebody in Goldstrike having some information that will help our police catch the killer. But I’m also aware that in a situation like this people can sometimes be afraid to come forward. So I am offering a reward …
“You were right,” Oliver told Ron.
“… I will pay $100,000 from my own pocket for information leading to the arrest and conviction of whoever killed this man.”