Silent Victim (21 page)

“Look what I brought you,” Caleb said, closing the door behind him as he entered the darkened room. He raised the window shade to let sunlight stream in through the grimy windows. “Why do you stay here in the dark? It’s such a nice day outside—you should really get out more.”

But his pa just lay there, unmoving except for his hands, which twitched spasmodically at his sides. Caleb moved closer, holding out his prize. They were still wet and dripping onto the floor, so he fished a Kleenex out of his pocket and dried them off.

“Good, aren’t they?” he said, bending down so his father could see. “I like blue eyes, don’t you?”

There was no reply, but he was used to that. His pa didn’t talk much anymore. Caleb preferred it that way—when his father used to talk all the time, his words were so hard and cold they hurt Caleb’s ears. No, it was much better like this, much easier. He could take care of his pa, and bring him what he needed—even clean him up when he soiled himself, which he was doing more often now. It was the least he could do, after all his father had done for him—brought him up all by himself, and looked after him, keeping Caleb away from wicked women and their influence. No, it was no trouble at all to look after his pa now, Caleb told himself—a good son does that when his father gets old and feeble.

He turned and put his prize in the jar with the others, then took a moment to admire them as they bobbed gently up and down in the formaldehyde. This was his first pair from a human, which was very exciting, but the others were nice, too. So many different shades of brown and blue, and one pair that was even a little bit green—hazel, his mother would have called them. Those belonged to a golden retriever who lived next door to them a few years ago, and had the unfortunate habit of waking Caleb up late at night with his barking. No one had even suspected him when the dog disappeared.

The dog’s eyes were hazel, like his mother’s, with little flecks of caramel brown. Even now his mother’s eyes floated through his dreams at night, the brown flecks spinning and whirling like the kernels in the air popper she used to make them popcorn on Sunday night. That’s when Caleb’s favorite show was on—
The Wonderful World of Disney.
He liked to watch Tinker Bell fly around waving her wand as the fireworks exploded behind her—the sight always made his stomach tingle. He thought Tinker Bell looked cute in her little green outfit, and wondered if she had a fairy boyfriend who was as tiny as she was. He imagined what it would be like to be that small, and imagined himself kissing Tinker Bell. He always thought she would taste lemony, like his mother’s dishwashing liquid.

When his mother was still around, she watched his show with him. They would eat popcorn together, sitting side by side on the big green sofa, their faces lit by the glow from the television screen. He still had that air popper, and now he made popcorn for himself and his father on Sunday nights. That show was no longer on the air, so he and his pa watched football, or
60 Minutes,
or whatever was on. It’s too bad his mother turned out to be wicked in the end—even so, sometimes he wished she were here so she could sit with them and eat popcorn in front of the television on Sunday nights.

He put the jar back in the closet by the bed, and looked down at his father. He was working his jaw, trying to say something, but all that came out was a high squeaking sound, like a frightened mouse.

Caleb smiled indulgently. “What is it—what are you trying to say? Concentrate now,” he said, bending lower so that their faces almost touched. His father’s breath smelled rusty, like old coffee grounds. “Remember what I said about concentrating on each word,” Caleb said with a tolerant smile.

His father struggled to speak, his face growing redder until it was a mottled scarlet. Caleb smiled down at him. He would be patient until his pa got the words out. He didn’t mind waiting—he had all the time in the world.

The next day Lee and Butts dropped by the Jack Hammer, after finding out from Bobby Vangetti that was where he and Joe partied the night before Joe was killed. It was a Monday, though, and the place was closed, locked, and bolted. The owner was out of town, so rather than try to get a search warrant on short notice, they planned to return when it was open, figuring the clientele would offer more leads than an empty room. Technically speaking, it wasn’t a crime scene—though both Lee and Butts thought it likely Joe had met his murderer that night.

Bobby had been so stoned that night he remembered little about the evening. They failed to get much out of him during their interview, other than that he and Joe “weren’t faggots,” and were just there “on a kick,” a phrase he repeated over and over. They suspected he had been on other things besides alcohol, but it hardly mattered; whatever altered state he was in, he couldn’t remember much.

In the meantime, they decided to pay another visit to Dr. Martin Perkins. The Honorable Deborah Weinstein, the judge they approached for a warrant to search his patient files, turned out to be a stickler for civil liberties and didn’t feel they had enough cause to go rifling through people’s private lives.

“You’re persuasive,” she said, gazing up at them over bifocals while munching on a ham sandwich. “Use your charm—get the good doctor to surrender them voluntarily.” She added a few choice comments about the Bush Administration’s recent rollbacks on civil liberties—her refusal felt like a backlash reaction to the excesses of the White House.

They left early, driving in the opposite direction from the commuters headed into Manhattan, and arrived in Stockton in about ninety minutes. They had not warned Perkins of their visit, and they parked down the street in front of the liquor store, hoping to catch him off guard. The chances of getting something out of an interview with a potential suspect increased exponentially when you added the element of surprise.

When they knocked on the front door, it opened almost immediately to reveal Martin Perkins, immaculately dressed in a cream-colored flannel suit and Italian leather shoes. A striped blue and ivory cravat was wrapped tightly around his neck; he looked like something out of an Oscar Wilde play. A pair of old-fashioned bifocals perched precariously on his thin nose. The wire rims looked handcrafted, and the lenses had an uneven quality, the glass thicker in some places than others.

“Hello there,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to sound friendly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a return visit?”

“We just had a few follow-up questions for you,” Butts replied.

“I see,” Perkins said, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind him. “This is about poor Ana, then? I don’t know what I’ll be able to add, but I’m always glad to assist the law in any way I can.”

“I noticed your Green Man,” Lee remarked with a glance in the direction of the statue. The stony eyes glared down at them, vines gushing out of its sculpted mouth.

“Ah, yes,” Perkins said, squinting up at it. “An excellent specimen, isn’t it? I found it in a wonderful antique store in Tewkesbury.”

“England?” Lee asked.

“Yes, indeed. Have you ever been?”

“I have—my mother is Scottish.”

“Ah, yes,” Perkins said, giving Lee an appraising look over the rim of his bifocals. “You do look rather Celtic. So you know of the Green Man?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Sort of like the Medusa,” Butts remarked, “except it’s got vines instead of snakes. It’s kinda creepy.”

“I see—so that is your verdict,” Perkins replied with an extravagant sigh. “I’m sorry you don’t appreciate my little souvenir. Shall we go inside?” He turned to open the door.

“Well,
I
think it’s just the right touch for your porch,” Lee said, trying to make eye contact with Butts, who was studying the statue.

“I’m glad,” Perkins said, not sounding at all placated. “Come in and I’ll make you some tea. That is, if that meets your approval, Detective,” he added with an sardonic smile at Butts.

“Sounds good to me,” Butts muttered, trundling after him.

The living room was as pristine a showroom as before—everything was in immaculate order, as though it had been prepared for a photo shoot. The tasseled pillows were perfectly plumped on the chaise longue in the corner, and the gold drapes over the French windows were swept back, displaying their expensive elegance. The brass on the fireplace tools gleamed, reflecting the cut glass on the ceiling chandelier, which sparkled like diamonds.

“Now then, I’ll just fetch the tea,” said Perkins.

“Please don’t go to any trouble,” Lee answered, but Perkins dismissed him with a wave of his elegant hand.

“I was just about to have tea myself—all I have to do is add two cups. I’ll just be a minute,” he said, withdrawing from the room, leaving Lee and Butts alone.

“What are you trying to do, alienate him?” Lee whispered fiercely to Butts when Perkins had gone.

Butts sank into one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. “He gets on my nerves,” he replied in a sulky voice.

“Look,” Lee scolded, “as long as he’s a suspect, we can’t afford—”

“Yeah, I
know,”
Butts said irritably. “I been doin’ this a lot longer than you, Doc, so cut me some slack, will ya? He just gets my goat, is all. I’ll get over it. Hey,” he continued, waving a hand at the room, “I was right—no electricity.”

Lee looked around at the elegant lamps in wall sconces. Butts was right—they did resemble old-fashioned gaslights. The morning sun streamed in through the French windows, so there was no way to test their theory except by coming back at night.

Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, he cleared his throat and sat down opposite Butts. Perkins entered the room carrying an enormous silver tea tray. Lee had no doubt it was solid sterling, and couldn’t help staring at it.

“Here we are,” Perkins said, setting it down on the rosewood sideboard. “I hope you like Indian tea, Detective?”

“Fine with me,” Butts mumbled, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from his trousers.

“I cannot abide Chinese blends,” Perkins continued, setting out a plate of shortbread. “No body at all, and they have an unattractive grayish color. No, give me a good Darjeeling or an Orange Pekoe any day,” he said, but Lee wasn’t listening. He was trying to figure out how many hours it took to keep that tea tray polished, where Perkins and his sister got their servants, how much they paid them, and where all the money came from.

“Your house is very impressive,” Lee remarked. “And your decorating style is quite—unique.”

“Ah, yes,” Perkins replied. “You might have said old-fashioned, but you are too polite for that. You see,” he continued smoothly as he poured steaming tea from a blue chintz china pot, “my sister and I are the reincarnated spirits of a husband and wife who lived—and died—in the nineteenth century.”

“Really?” said Lee, keeping his voice neutral. He glared at Butts, who was rolling his eyes.

“So,” Butts asked, “are those gas lamps?”

“Yes, they are,” Perkins replied smoothly. “You wouldn’t believe how much more attractive they are—they cast such a soft, relaxing glow.”

Perkins handed him tea in a delicate blue cup, so thin it was almost translucent. The porcelain was a creamy white, and the blue glaze was the color of a Mediterranean sky. Lee knew enough about ceramics to know that it was bone china, and very expensive. The glaze was cracked around the edges, which meant that it was also very old.

“It’s Spode,” Perkins said, handing Butts a cup, “in case you’re interested. Blue Italian, circa 1860.”

Lee raised an eyebrow and studied the cup.

“I see you’ve heard of him,” Perkins said with a smile.

“Well, I haven’t,” Butts interjected. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Josiah Spode perfected blue glazing in the late eighteenth century in England. And as if that weren’t enough, he also invented bone china by adding bone ash to the formula for porcelain, which had been perfected by the Chinese centuries earlier,” Perkins explained, stirring sugar into his tea. “It’s the finest quality of English china, delicate but strong.”

“Oh,” said Butts. He looked unimpressed.

“Are you a fancier of antiques, Dr. Campbell?” Perkins asked, settling down on a blue and gold flowered love seat with matching tassels.

“My mother is,” Lee answered.

“Ah, then you must bring her around sometime. I would be happy to give her a tour of my humble abode. There may be some items of interest to her, and I’m always happy to meet a fellow aficionado.”

“Thanks, but she lives in Texas,” Lee lied.

He avoided looking at Butts to see his reaction to the lie.

The detective cleared his throat. “So, you and your sister are … reincarnated, you said?”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Perkins said with another dismissive wave of his hand. “In fact, I wouldn’t even have mentioned it if not for the fact that you noticed the Green Man.”

Butts’s brow furrowed, increasing his resemblance to a pockmarked bulldog. “What’s that got to do with the Green Man?”

“It’s a long story,” Perkins answered. “Perhaps another time.”

“Where is your sister?” Butts asked, looking around. Except for the sound of their voices and the rattling of teacups, the house was still and silent.

“Oh, Charlotte was called out suddenly,” Perkins said. “She’s a midwife by vocation, and one of her patients found herself unexpectedly in labor, a week or so early.”

Lee couldn’t help thinking there were midwives in the nineteenth century, though he knew there were plenty in the present day as well.

“That’s what happened when my son was born,” Butts said. “He popped out ahead of schedule. Surprised the hell out of my wife—she was in the housewares aisle at the IGA.”

“How very interesting,” Perkins murmured. Lee couldn’t tell if he was mocking Butts or being sincere, since his voice always had an edge. “Do you have any hobbies, Detective?” he asked, leaning back in the love seat and putting his feet up. A casual observer might think he was the picture of relaxation and ease, but a vein in his neck twitched, and he was blinking frequently. Lee suspected that the languorous pose was just that—a pose.

“I leave that to the wife,” Butts replied, slurping his tea. “She’s the one with the spare time. I spend most of my time chasin’ down bad guys, and that keeps me pretty busy,” he added with a significant look at Perkins.

“Yes, I can imagine,” Perkins replied, raising his teacup to his lips and sipping delicately, his lips barely grazing the lip of the cup. Once again, Lee was reminded of an actor playing a role. Everything about Perkins was theatrical, as though done for effect, from the crisp striped cravat around his neck to the precise, archaic phrasing of his speech. There was something odd going on here—he just didn’t know what it was yet.

“Not to press the point,” he ventured, “but have you always known you were—uh, reincarnated?”

“No,” Perkins said, setting down his teacup. “You see, Charlotte and I are neo-pagans—it’s the modern version of the ancient Celtic religion. Hence the Green Man on the porch—it’s a symbol that is particularly meaningful to people of our faith.”

Lee looked at Butts, but the detective was showing admirable discipline. His face betrayed no sign of disbelief or disdain.

“Yes,” Lee said. “Go on.”

“The pagan faith has in common with Buddhism the belief in reincarnation,” Perkins continued, “though there are differences in the way we believe it manifests. Well, when we became members of the Old Religion, as we call it, we discovered that we in fact were reincarnated souls from the nineteenth century—husband and wife, to be exact. No doubt you observed a certain old-fashioned style in our manner of dress,” he added.

“Now that you mention it,” Lee said, “I did.”

Perkins indicated a pair of portraits hanging over the parlor grand piano.

“That’s us,” he said casually. “Or rather, that
was
us about a hundred and fifty years ago.”

Lee rose to study the portraits. One was of a handsome man of middle years, with thick black hair, high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a full mouth. The hair was oiled and slicked back, but from the rogue curls around his temples, it was clear that had taken some effort. The likeness was so remarkable that Lee could have been looking at a painting of himself. Taken aback, he turned to look at the woman. To his relief, she looked like no one he knew. She had a sweet, heart-shaped face, full lips and large, intelligent gray eyes.

He turned back to Perkins, who smiled. “No doubt you are struck by the resemblance between Mr. McLean and yourself. I too noticed it when we first met. Perhaps that accounts for the certain … simpatico between us.”

Lee felt no such thing, but he nodded. He wanted to keep Perkins talking.

“That’s your ancestor?” Butts said. Lee thought he was being deliberately dense.

“Not my
ancestor,
Detective,” Perkins corrected him. “That is the man whose soul I now possess.”

Butts stared at him, then muttered, “Oh, yeah—right.”

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” Perkins said, pouring himself more tea. “Few people outside of the Old Religion do, of course. But those of us who know better—well, let’s just say our number is small, but our membership is growing.”

“And was Ana Watkins one of your new members?” Butts asked.

Well done,
Lee thought,
catch him off guard.

But Perkins didn’t answer immediately, no doubt giving himself time to formulate a response that wouldn’t let slip anything he didn’t want revealed. He rose and took the plate of shortbread from the tray, offering it to Butts.

“Would you care for a lemon cream tea biscuit?”

“Thanks,” Butts said. Taking one, he settled his stocky body back in the armchair. Without taking his eyes off Perkins, he waited for his answer.

Lee relaxed. Butts was back on form, playing his hand like the pro he was. It was a mistake to ever let your feelings toward a suspect get in the way of the job you had to do, which was to get information.