CHAPTER ONE

 

The day felt like bad news. The night’s rain had left the city looking sick and gray like a drowned rat. Water collected in gutters, swirling around the garbage piled at the sewage drains. Puddles stood in the streets, but the sidewalks were mostly dry. People driving to work didn’t look too happy to be up so early. Even the birds refused to sing.

Roy Porter leaned against the brick wall of the Tulsa Rescue Mission, turning his harmonica over in his ebony hands. He liked the feel of the instrument—liked the fact that he could play a bit of music that wouldn’t sound great to anyone listening but would create true songs in his mind. Sometimes the music brought back memories he’d rather forget, but on days such as today, it pushed the bad times back into the shadows where they belonged. He brought the harmonica to his lips, cradling it with both hands, and blew a tune.

A heavy loneliness settled onto his shoulders, and he wondered who he hadn’t seen today. Who he’d never see again.

That feeling of dread tickled at the back of his mind. Down the alley, his buddy Frank dug in a trash dumpster. Frank rooted around a bit then stood up straight, a smile stretching his face as he tossed a new treasure into the shopping cart he’d stolen from the Homeland grocery store down the street. The cart overflowed with junk, but Frank would protect it with his life.

Roy kept playing the tune, and the bad feeling nudged at him like a cat that wanted to go outside. He watched another of the mission’s regulars approach. Pete walked by holding a bandage on his arm. Roy figured he had finally sobered up enough to sell blood down at the clinic. Roy had gone with him a time or two but not lately. He liked his blood just fine right where it was, and it would take more than a lousy fifteen bucks to convince him otherwise.

Pete didn’t even nod hello as he passed, but Roy didn’t take it personally. Pete wasn’t much for conversation. Near as Roy could tell, Pete had been a fine, upstanding citizen until one fateful day when he’d been driving his father to work and instead, in a moment of carelessness, ran a red light and delivered his old man to the reaper by way of a Mack truck. Pete’s father had died badly in his arms.

Roy stopped playing the harmonica and sat down on a dry patch of sidewalk. The damp wind carried a song of warning. Its mournful voice whispered and moaned. Roy shivered in the cold air while whatever the wind said drifted out of reach like bits of a forgotten dream.

He wasn’t surprised when the Reverend came up with a couple of Tulsa’s finest trailing behind her. The Reverend tugged her heavy, black overcoat tightly around her thin frame. Age spots dotted her hands and cheeks. Her wild, silver hair waved in the breeze like a lion’s mane.

“Roy,” the Reverend said, adjusting her spectacles.

Roy looked up at her. “Who was it this time?”

The Reverend choked on her reply and looked at the cops. The older man could stand to lose twenty pounds. His name badge read Thompson, and his gray eyes lacked the spark, the fire that burned in the younger man, Anderson. Neither spoke. Roy knew it was going to be bad.

She took a deep breath and shook her head. “Willie.”

Roy closed his eyes. The Reverend laid a hand on his shoulder. Roy knew that she understood the loss of friends and loved ones. The Reverend’s husband, Charles, passed away six years back, following a long battle with the Big C. After he died, the Reverend threw herself into her work. She went out of her way to help the homeless. She once admitted to Roy that without Charles, she felt as if she were completely lost.

Roy sat still a moment, letting the news sink in.

Willie was gone.

No more late-night stories or practical jokes. No more smiles or clever turns of phrase. No more walks in the park with Willie making up names and pasts for the people they saw.

No more Willie.

If only Roy had tried to do something, maybe Willie would still be alive. He knew that was ridiculous, but he still felt guilty because Willie was his friend. He shook his head and forced himself to breathe.

“Where was he?” Roy asked.

“He was found in the field behind the mission,” the Reverend said. “I’m sorry, Roy. I know you two were close.”

“Yeah.” Roy glanced at the two policemen who stood behind her. Let them wait, he thought.

Willie was dead.

Roy’s mind came back to that thought. He tried to dodge it, to think about the Reverend and himself, but the fact was there, plain as day. His friend was dead. Just last night he and Willie had shared a cigarette and they’d laughed about some tall tale Willie told. Frank had been gullible enough to believe it. When Roy suggested they tell Frank the truth, Willie laughed and said they’d do that tomorrow. Now tomorrow would never come.

“Mr. Porter,” said Anderson, “we need you to come with us.” It wasn’t a request.

“Why?”

“We need you to identify the body.”

“Can’t the Reverend do that?”

They just looked at him.

“Look, if you already know it’s him, you don’t need me.”

“We still need a positive ID.”

“And the Reverend can give it. Why do you want me? I don’t want to see my friend’s corpse. I’ve seen more than enough death.”

“We understand that, Mr. Porter,” Thompson said. “But—”

“But nothing. I ain’t going. I can tell from the way you’re looking at me that you think I did it.”

“Mr. Porter—”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet,” Anderson said.

“Come on, Roy,” the Reverend said. “It’s all right.”

“No it’s not. I’m not a killer.”

“I know, Roy. Really, they just need a positive ID. You’re the closest thing Willie had to next of kin. I’ll go with you. All right?”

Roy sighed and pushed himself to his feet. The two policemen led the way back to their cruiser.

“Get in the car,” Anderson said. He locked his fingers together and popped his knuckles.

Roy looked at him, saw that Anderson clearly considered street people to be beneath him. Roy was used to that, but it still didn’t sit well with him. “Crackin’ your knuckles like that makes arthritis set in faster.”

“Shut up, old man.” Anderson opened the door. “Get in. And try not to piss on the upholstery.”

Roy made a show of sniffing the air inside the car. He made a face. “Smells like you beat me to it.”

“Just get in,” Anderson said and pushed him.

Roy rolled his eyes and climbed into the backseat. He didn’t want to make a trip to the morgue, but he felt he owed it to Willie. He slid over so the Reverend could get in, and she patted his leg.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Roy nodded. She was going all out to try to comfort him. Roy wished she’d stop; he wanted his own space.

Anderson drove.

“It’s terrible,” the Reverend said to no one in particular. “Just terrible.”

“Yep,” Thompson said.

“Why do these things happen?”

“That’s more your arena than mine, Reverend. I’d just say these are bad times.”

Death must have a warped sense of humor, Roy thought. It always takes those who most love life. Willie had been a happy man. Roy didn’t know what happened to leave him on the streets; the old man had been a permanent fixture for as long as anyone could remember. He’d been a good friend and had lit up the lives of those around him. They used to say that nothing could get him down.

They were wrong.

Roy stared out the window at the houses they passed. Junked cars sat in some of the driveways, on the lawns, at the curbs. He knew the owners planned to fix them up or part them out someday, but until then, those junkers would just sit there.

It reminded Roy of his life. When he was young, he had so much to live for. Then, after the war—after Rose—he’d thrown it all away. He’d parked himself in the driveway to rust, never bothering to fix himself up or part himself out. How many others did the same thing?

When they reached the hospital, Anderson parked in a no-parking zone.

“You can’t park here,” Roy said.

“I’m a cop,” Anderson said as if that made it all right.

“You still can’t park here.”

“Shut up, old man.”

“It says no parking.”

“I didn’t know you could read,” Anderson said.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know,” Roy said.

Anderson opened the door. “Out.”

The Reverend climbed out and Roy followed. He took a moment to stare into the young cop’s eyes. “You ain’t such a good valet,” Roy said. “Might want to take a class or something.”

“Let’s not cause any trouble,” the Reverend said, but Roy could tell she was hiding a grin.

“Tell that to him,” Roy said.

“Let’s go.” The young cop led the way to the double glass doors of Hillcrest Medical Center. He held the door and waited for the others to come up the walk. He tapped his foot and sighed. “Come on.”

Roy walked even slower; he wasn’t about to be rushed. He didn’t want to see the corpse of his friend, and if he could delay that, he would.

Anderson fumed. “I don’t have all day.”

“I do,” Roy said as he walked past him into the building.

Even without the sad reason for coming here, Roy hated hospitals. The smell of antiseptics never quite overpowered the stench of the sick and dying. It was worse when they descended into the basement. A sign hung on the wall with arrows pointing left and right. To the left was the morgue, to the right, the cafeteria.

“Good thing I ain’t hungry,” Roy said. “Whoever designed this place is one sick puppy.”

Anderson grinned. “Do you expect someone to offer you some Soylent Green, Mr. Porter?”

Thompson shook his head and guided Roy to the left.

They entered the morgue.

A long-haired young man sat behind a desk with his back to them, bouncing his head in time with the rap music thundering from the headphones of his portable CD player. The room couldn’t have been more than ten feet by ten feet and the off-white walls with framed pictures of clowns did nothing to improve the atmosphere.

Thompson cleared his throat.

The morgue attendant’s curly brown hair bobbed and waved, and he wore thick glasses that wouldn’t stay seated on the bridge of his nose. He didn’t give any sign that he heard anything beyond the rap song.

Anderson stepped forward and tapped the man on the shoulder. The attendant nearly hit the ceiling. “Jesus!” he yelled yanking off the headphones. “Don’t do that, man!” He noticed the uniforms and gathered his composure with a half grin. When he saw the Reverend, he blushed.

“You the attendant?” Anderson said.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” He nudged his glasses up with a forefinger and looked at the group. “What’s up?”

“We’re here to identify a John Doe,” Thompson said.

“No prob. Follow me.” He tossed the headphones on the desk then rose and led them into a large room. Roy shivered, blaming it on the refrigeration; it was cold in there, but the chills came more from being surrounded by death. A couple of tables stood in the center of the floor. Three walls were painted a blinding white. The fourth wall had rows of stainless-steel drawers where they stored corpses.

The attendant held a silver clipboard in one hand. Several sheets of paper flapped on it as he walked over to the drawers. “So do you want to take a look inside drawer number one, drawer number two, or trade it all for what lies inside drawer number three?”

Roy guessed one had to be twisted to work in a morgue, but this guy really rubbed him wrong. They were here to identify Roy’s friend and he didn’t appreciate the attendant’s attempt at humor. Maybe the guy’s brain had soaked up too much formaldehyde and he was sliding off into the void of insanity. Or—and Roy liked this possibility—the rap music had burned out his brain with its unbearable volume.

“We’re here for an old, Black man,” Anderson said. “Would’ve been brought in this morning.”

“Old puffball, eh?”

“That’s the guy.”

The attendant yanked a drawer open. It held the naked body of an old woman. He gave a sheepish grin and closed the drawer. “Memory’s gone,” he said and consulted his clipboard. “Let’s see . . . here it is. Number seventeen.” He moved along the bank of drawers and pulled out a tray.

The body had a sheet draped over it. Roy knew that wasn’t standard practice. “Even Dr. Coverdale can’t stand looking at this poor guy. So who’s holding the short straw?” The attendant’s eyes sparkled with glee.

Anderson stepped forward. “Come on, Mr. Porter.” He raised the sheet so Roy could get a look.

An awful smell hit him, but even that didn’t prepare him for how bad old Willie looked. This time it was snakes. Willie was as full of holes as a pair of two-dollar shoes. Each set of twin puncture marks oozed purple fluid. His face was so swelled that his eyes bulged, threatening to burst. His skin was gray. Roy looked away. “That’s Willie.”

“We need a full name,” Thompson said. “He had no identification.”

“I told them you might know his name,” the Reverend said. She stayed back so as not to see the body. She always tried to help the cops. Roy knew she did it because she figured they’d patrol the neighborhood a bit more, help her if she needed it or help one of the homeless. Fat chance.

Roy shrugged. “He was always old Willie to me. I doubt if Willie himself would have remembered his last name.”

Anderson still held the sheet up, so Roy jerked it away from him and covered Willie’s face. He hated to look at him like that—degraded. He patted him, saying his final good-byes. “You was good people, Willie. I’m gonna miss you.”

“Pretty wild, huh?” the attendant said.

Thompson walked over and placed a hand on Roy’s shoulder. “You all right, Mr. Porter?”

“I’m okay.”

“Did Willie have any enemies?” Anderson asked. “Who’s his next of kin?”

Roy stared at him. He knew they’d have lots of questions. Willie was the third street person to die in the past two weeks. It just so happened that Roy knew all of the victims, and everyone from the cops to the guys at the mission to Roy himself was aware of that fact. He kept repeating that he didn’t have any answers, but no one accepted that, not even Roy.

He didn’t consider telling the cops what little he knew. They’d think he was insane. The cops couldn’t help. They’d look for a regular man, and one thing Roy knew for sure was that the killer was definitely not a regular person.

He’d seen the pattern of death before, ten years back, when he was new to the streets. A few of the old-timers took him under their wings and taught him to survive.

Then they started dropping off, each in a different horrible way. It looked like the killing would go on forever, but then came Jim. He was a long-haired, pot-smoking, rock star wannabe but he cared. Roy wasn’t sure how he did it, but Jim stopped the killing.

Always afraid that it might start up again, Roy kept an eye on Jim. Jim was different after he’d dealt with the killer, meaner. He traded his sandals for biker boots, bought himself a Harley, and took off for a couple of years of soul searching. When he came back, he settled on the West Side.

Roy figured it was time to pay him a visit.

He turned to the Reverend. “Get me out of here.”