“What did the kid get high on?” I said.
“Something new, that’s what has everyone extra worked up. They’re afraid that, whatever it is, it’s going to be the new crack.”
“Is the kid going to make it?”
“No, Duff, he’s already gone. Good kid too. Class president. What a waste,” Kelley said.
“What about these kids who are worshiping Howard?”
“Yeah, that’s some fucked-up shit.”
“You think there’s any chance they’re doing these murders?”
“Duff-you watch too much Court TV.”
“C’mon, Kell. There’s all sorts of copycat murders related to serial killers.”
“I’m sure it has dawned on the FBI. It’s a little outside my jurisdiction.”
I finished my beer and changed the subject. Thirty years ago one of Howard’s victims was the class president, and now another class president was dead. That, and there were a gang of kids who thought Howard’s killing spree was cooler than skateboarding. Too much had happened recently for me to figure out if all or any of that meant anything. It was easier just to go home.
28
All I wanted to do was avoid getting kicked in the nuts and go to bed. Before I hit the sack, I grabbed the mail, blocked Al’s assault, and hit the button on my machine.
“Duff, it’s me, Howard. I’ve been lying to you. I am the slayer and you need to stop looking into things or you may be next. It’s imperative that you stay away.”
So much for me getting some sleep.
That was all there was to his message and he hung up. I sat back on the couch and Al jumped up next to me. The silence we sat in made Al a bit uneasy and he started to hum. Howard’s message sounded different than the previous ones, more controlled, more calculated. I didn’t know what to make of the series of calls, but I also remembered my last encounter with Morris and the other cops and decided to call them.
The gang of them was there within fifteen minutes, and Al objected in what could probably be described as uncivil disobedience.
“AHOOOO… hmmmm… woof, woof… AHOOO… grrrr…,” Al said. He was staring at my friend Larry Bird.
Morris directed the crime-scene guys to examine the machine and the phone. I wasn’t sure what they were trying to accomplish, and I hoped they didn’t believe that Howard lived inside my answering machine.
“AHOOOO… hmmmm… woof, woof… AHOOO… grrrr…,” Al said.
Morris asked me about the time of the call, if he had called any other times, and if I had called him. I told him the truth, that is, that I hadn’t. Bird was walking around the Blue, picking things up, looking at my mail, and generally being nosy. This didn’t please Al.
“AHOOOO… hmmmm… woof… woof… AHOOO… grrrr
… grrrrrr… grrrrrrrr,” Al said. The extra “grrrrr’s” concerned me.
Apparently, they concerned Larry Bird too, because he pulled a can of mace out of his suit jacket and aimed it at Al.
I broke away from my conversation with Morris.
“Whoa, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I said, with my neck tendons dancing.
“Your dog needs to-”
He didn’t get to finish. As Bird turned to yell at me, Al pounced and went after his shin like it was a TV remote. Larry yelped, Al increased the intensity of his bite, which made Bird sing in pain, and then everyone’s favorite white hooper dropped the can of mace. Al scooped it up and ran into the bathroom.
While the all-time greatest shooting guard was jumping up and down on one foot, holding his bloody pant leg, I went to the head, grabbed the mace from Al, and closed him in.
“Now, what was it you were saying, detective Morris?” I said.
“You son-of-,” Bird said.
“That’ll be enough, Mullings. Go out to the car and put something on that,” Morris said.
Larry gave me a menacing look behind his bright-red face and limped out of the Blue.
“We’re going to have to take the tape out of your machine. I’m sure you understand,” Morris said. He directed the crime scene guys to dust a few things and poke around here and they all left soon after that. Mullings never came back in. I let Al out of the bathroom and fixed him his dinner, treated with a few extra sardines.
I met Billy in the aerobics room, and I was glad to see he made it on time, or, more accurately, his customary thirty minutes early. Today he had a zit on one ear lobe, which in some ways made him look a little hip, like he got it pierced or something. Billy was warming up by practicing his flying kicks, and each and every time he landed on his back. I decided to just not mention anything about Sofco.
“Billy, what was up with the class president over at McDonough?” I asked.
“Sir, he was a jerk-I mean, I’m sorry he’s dead, sort of, anyway, but he wasn’t real nice,” Billy said.
“How so?”
“He made fun of people a lot, sir.”
“Did he make fun of you?”
“Yes, sir.” Billy tried to put his energy into a technique, but I could see he was uncomfortable.
“What did he say?”
“Sir, he said it looked like my mom put out a fire on my face with my dad’s golf shoe… then, he once nominated me for some award just to tease me. He was a jerk, sir.”
I guess the more things change the more things stay the same. Teenagers can be real a-holes. When I was Billy’s age, my pizza face had gotten me into my share of fights, which at the time led me to my share of getting my ass kicked. In turn that got me into karate and then ultimately into boxing.
“Was he known to be into drugs?” I asked.
“I didn’t hang with him but he was in the crowd that thinks they’re cool, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Are there a lot of drugs at McDonough?”
“Yes, sir. I know I hear about the dealer ‘the Caretaker’ and the guys they call ‘the Caretaker’s men.’”
“Have you ever seen this guy they call the Caretaker?”
“No, sir. I’ve just heard about him.”
“What about this fan club for the serial killer?”
“They’re really weird and, if you ask me, sir, very disturbed.”
“How so?”
“There’s rumors about them torturing stray animals and doing things to little kids.”
“Damn, Billy, high school has gotten pretty weird, hasn’t it?”
“Compared to what, sir?” I didn’t have an answer for that, so I decided it was time for a workout.
I put Billy through his paces, trying my best to disguise fundamental boxing technique as karate. It wasn’t easy; there isn’t anything complex or fancy about throwing good punches. You could spend a lifetime learning the nuances of the most fundamental techniques; it was simple and complex at the same time.
I got to thinking of the Caretaker and his involvement at McDonough. I didn’t know a lot about him, but dealing at the high school didn’t seem like it was his game. The risk was too high, the penalties too great for a guy known for being in total control to take. It’s not that he necessarily had any honor, it was more like he just didn’t want to go to prison.
I dropped Billy off and headed to the DJ store to get another audience with my new bleached-out friend. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, but I wanted to see if I could get some answers. There was a different kid up front, and his boom box was blasting an angry rap song that referred to my sister and my mother and a series of unnatural acts that the singer desired to do to them. It took a while to get the kid’s attention, but he made the call and motioned for me to go back.
Mr. Caretaker was wearing a blue blazer, lightweight cuffed gray pants, and a red-striped shirt. He had his reddish hair awkwardly parted and he had on horn-rimmed glasses.
“My pugilistic ami. Bonjour,” he said when I came through the curtain.
“Hey, how you doing?” I said. With this cartoon character, having anything near a normal conversation seemed bizarre.
“What are you in search for?”
“Today, just some information.”
He laughed, sat, and crossed his legs in that affected way that talk show guests do.