“Good morning, Walcott Imports and Collectibles.”
The voice was deep and polished, the syllables individually savored, a man enjoying the sound of his voice. Figuring he’d have some form of caller ID, I’d phoned from a booth on Government Street.
“Mr Walcott?”
“Yes. Who’s calling, please?”
A first-timer would be nervous, and I made my voice hesitate. “My name is…Carrol Ransburg, sir. I’d like to talk to you about getting an appraisal.”
I selected the first name on the theory that any male choosing a false moniker wouldn’t opt for a name generally associated with women.
“On an antique?” Walcott said.
“No. Another kind of item…a more special sort.”
Utter silence, no TV or radio in the background, no traffic outside. “First, how did you hear of me?” It was more command than question.
I said, “From…a friend. No, not really a friend, a person I met. He suggested you’d be the one to do this thing. The appraisal.”
“What’s the name of the person who suggested you contact me?”
“He wouldn’t want me to say. He’s…very private.”
Walcott’s defenses slammed into place like a portcullis. “I’m sorry, I only do business on known referrals.”
“I promised his name would remain unspoken.”
“Then my response can only be, good day, sir.” The voice grew distant as he moved the phone from his mouth.
“I’m calling about Forrier,” I yelled. “Trey Forrier.”
I heard the phone return to his ear. “What did you say?”
“Trey Forrier. I have something of his. A mask.”
I gave him a precise recounting of its look and construction. There was a long pause. When he spoke I heard a pitch-rise of concealed excitement.
“How did you come up with this…item?”
“I was on the team that evaluated Forrier’s state of mind after he was captured. I’m…was, a psychologist.” I didn’t know if Walcott knew anything about psychology, but I could babble the jargon if necessary. The character I’d selected was Fallen Psychologist; I’d seen a couple of them.
“Go on…”
“I worked as a clinical hypnotician, a forensic hypnotist. On a project basis.”
“Trey Forrier never said anything noteworthy under hypnosis.”
“I never reported he said anything. There’s a difference.”
“You’ve had this piece for years. Why do you want me to see it now?”
I added shame to my voice. “I…know it might be worth some money. I could use money, Mr Walcott. Times haven’t been good, I lost my license to practice. A problem with…substances.”
A long pause. Walcott said, “I don’t know what such a piece would bring, Mr Ransburg. The market’s been depressed. We all suffer from a weak economy. There’s been a glut on the market recently.”
Just like that he turned from suspicion to camel merchant. I backpedaled, hoping it would set the hook. “You’re probably right, Mr Walcott. Maybe this isn’t the time. I’m sorry for disturbing -”
The command returned to his voice. “Bring it by tonight. At nine. Be precise. You’re in the Mobile area? Here’s my address…”
Giles Walcott’s home seemed normal for the upscale neighborhood: pricey landscaping, lush carpet of lawn, a ludicrous but expensive fountain featuring a leaping dolphin squirting water through its blowhole. I noted a camera tucked in a tree and one above the door, hidden in a cast bronze eagle with spreading wings.
Deadbolts withdrew electronically. The door opened to a large and chandeliered foyer. Beyond sat high-ticket antique furniture in rooms with twelve-foot ceilings. It seemed more museum than home.
“This way, Mr Ransburg,” a deep voice rumbled. “Down the hallway, turn right.”
Suspecting surveillance, I paused as if fighting panic, tucked the box with the mask to my chest, and walked to a dimly lit room. A deep indigo carpet cushioned my footfalls as I entered. A man appearing to be in his early sixties stood behind a massive desk. He looked less born than extruded, head and neck almost the same circumference, broken only by a flat length of nose and a half-cup of chin. Thinning black hair stretched across his scalp in shining strands. His shoulders sloped to a tubular body in a dark suit, adding to the sense of extrusion.
“You’re Mr Walcott?” I said, not extending my hand. He nodded, not offering his, and looked at me curiously.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“You remind me of someone, but I don’t know who.”
I shrugged and looked away. On his desk lay a ceramic representation of the male genitalia, crude and outsized. I couldn’t help staring. Walcott raised an eyebrow.
“Do you know what that is, Mr Ransburg?”
“I have a passing familiarity.”
“I mean do you know who created it. No? It’s a Vaughn Ray Bodie original. He created them while he was…working. Primitive but very expressive, don’t you think? It’s dated behind the testicles. May fourteenth, 1959. His fourth…event occurred on May sixteenth. It’s the only Bodie phallus not currently in a private collection.”
Vaughn Ray Bodie was a serial rapist and murderer finally dragged down in the early sixties. I suppressed a shudder and forced interest into my eyes.
“It’s quite rare, I’d imagine, Mr Walcott.”
“Six victims, six phalli. I’m reserving it for auction. I expect it to generate something in the low six figures. Another item I’m auctioning is a tee-shirt worn by Vincent Canario when he was journeying with Terrance Swann.”
“Journeying” was Walcott’s euphemism for Canario’s abduction and violent cross-country run with the terrified fourteen-year-old Swann. Neither survived.
“What would such an item bring?” I asked.
“I’m anticipating something in the eleven to fourteen thousand dollar range. He wore several shirts on his way, so its value is diminished.”
“A pity he packed to travel,” I noted.
Walcott nodded mournfully. “The mask - let me see the mask.”
I set the box on his desk and removed the mask. Walcott held it beneath a lamp and magnifier combination, switched on the light. He inspected the mask from every angle, checking various measurements with a small ruler. Twice he stopped looking at the mask, studied me, then returned to his labors.
“The paint appears to be oil-based, not overly unharmed by time. The eyeholes are the correct width. The glass teeth are carefully fitted into bored sockets. There’s a craftsman at work here, Mr Ransburg. Some people do things right. Look here -” Walcott used his thumbnail to flick at a loose end of the composition material. “It’s a combination of cloth and paper instead of paper alone; rather like money. One of the reasons it’s in such fine shape. And one of the reasons I know it’s not a forgery.”
“There are forgers in this business, Mr Walcott?”
“There are forgers in every pursuit where money can be made through forgery.” He smiled as he dropped the ruler back in the drawer. “I’m in favor of them, myself.”
It took me a second to catch on. “Because it makes you more valuable; you provide authentication, right?”
“Within the boundaries of my experience and knowledge, yes.” His tone implied that he found few boundaries to his expertise.
“Then you’d know what the mask is worth.”
I caught him staring at me again. This time something seemed to click and he frowned. “Excuse me, Mr Ransburg,” he said, and left the room.
My inclination was to rifle drawers and search closets, but wary of unseen surveillance, I remained in front of the desk and let my eyes roam the shadowed room. I discerned no other attendants of death.
Walcott returned, a large envelope in his hand. He picked up the mask, sighed, then returned it to the box. “Is it really yours, sir, the mask? Or is it perhaps the property of a police department somewhere?”
My heart paused. “I don’t understand, Mr Walcott.”
“I think it’s simple. You’re not who you say you are.”
I forced myself to breathe normally, look nonchalant. “Who am I, then?”
A smirk danced at the edge of his mouth. He tapped the envelope. “Not long ago I came across a piece of information I thought might somehow be useful - a couple of fellows who wander at the edge of my business.”
Walcott slipped a scrap of newsprint from the envelope and held it up to me. It was the photo from the awards ceremony.
“It appears you’ve a double at the Mobile Police Department, Mr Ransburg. A brother, perhaps?”
That damned picture. I said, “I am here as a researcher, nothing more.”
He narrowed a dark eye. “I’ve done nothing wrong. You must leave. You unsettle me.”
“I unsettle you? A guy who keeps a plaster dick made by a serial killer on his desk?”
“It’s ceramic. And I do not collect such items, I broker them. I’m but a humble dealer in limited commodities, that’s all. Much like rare stamps. Or coins, perhaps.”
“Coins don’t take part in murders.”
He smirked. “If you believe no one has died over gold doubloons, you hold a naïveté perhaps beyond cure.”
I produced my badge wallet and set the black leather square on his desk. “If I open that, there will be a badge in the room. It will drastically alter the complexion of our conversation, Mr Walcott.”
“I doubt it, since I’ve done nothing wrong. Do I need to phone my attorney and have him explain that to you?”
“Your lawyer has no reason to be here, Mr Walcott, unless he’s interested in research. I simply need a historical perspective on certain items. Surely that’s not too much to ask.”
“What is this historical perspective?”
“I want to know about the Hexcamp collection.”
He walked to the window, looked out into the dark woods behind the house, and stared into the trees. When he turned to me, his eyes were oddly disengaged, as though focused an inch above my pupils.
“There is no such thing, sir. It’s a myth, a gorgon.”
“For something that doesn’t exist, it gets a lot of attention.”
He returned to his position behind the desk, putting four feet of gleaming wood between us. “In philately, there is a stamp called the Scarlet Angelus. Some say it exists, some say it never did. But that doesn’t prevent people from seeking it.” He paused. “In every form of collection, there must be a ghost piece, an entity to make the spine tingle. To give people something to whisper about.”
“Who whispers about Hexcamp’s collection?”
He smiled, his teeth tiny wet chisels behind his lips. “The collecting community as a whole.”
“What does this community say about it?”
“The community’s opinion doesn’t matter; the collection is a pocketful of dreams…until pronounced otherwise by someone in a position to know.”
“Like yourself?”
“In this matter, even I lack the proper qualifications.”
“My research must continue, then. I need the name of a major collector, Mr Walcott. Local, if possible.”
He rotated his tubular head. “If I were to tell you, my record of confidentiality would be broken. I’d be out of business.”
“Give me several names to use as reference; I won’t mention yours. No one would know who sent me.”
He tapped the crystal of his watch. “I’m sorry, sir. Our time together is up.”
“This is important, Mr Walcott. I need to know -”
“My patience is wearing thin, sir. I’m afraid if you’re not out of my home in ten seconds, I’ll phone my lawyer.”
He put his hand atop his phone and studied me calmly. I had no leverage over Giles Walcott. I expected he recorded all sales, kept accountant-quality figures, everything necessary to remain above reproach with governmental entities.
But with the public?
In spending so much time with killers who giggled when caught, pimps proud of beating their women, dope-boys driving mink-upholstered Beamers, I sometimes lost sight of people’s sensitivity to public opinion. Walcott’s prissily attended yard, crafted suit, attention to financial detail, all bespoke a man who wouldn’t wish his neighbors to know he sold relics from abattoirs.
I reached to the desk and picked up the ceramic phallus. He frowned. “Careful with that, it’s quite -”
I flipped it in the air, caught it.
“I think you should call your lawyer,” I said. “I’ll phone the Spanish Fort constabulary. Let’s have a coming-out party for Walcott Collectibles.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “What do you mean?”
“When the local cops know what you do, it’s bound to leak into the community. How’s it going to be, pulling into the Winn-Dixie and hearing the whispers? ‘That’s him, Giles Walcott. He makes his money from death.’ You ready for that, Giles? Or how about the low-level crazoids who’ll line up at your front gate, drooling for a chance to sniff Vincent Canario’s tee-shirt? Get ready for the parade.”
The phallus took flight again, grazing the ceiling. I had to reach out to make the save. “You know what you’re lacking in here, Mr Walcott?”
“Careful! What?” Sweat beaded his face. I cocked my hand, ready to toss.
“One of those signs.”
“What - put that down, please - what signs?”
“You break it, you bought it.”
He lowered his head. His hand retreated from the phone. “I think we can work something out, sir,” he mumbled. “Please put my penis down.”
I left with Walcott’s promise of a suitable entrée into the world of his buyers. I planned to continue as Carrol Ransburg, now a man with some ready money and newly hot for the idea of acquiring serial-killer memorabilia. As I walked from his house he called to my back.
“One thing, Mr Ransburg. The mask. It is the property of a police department somewhere, isn’t it? On loan?”
I turned and let my eyes say there were no lies left in them. “No, Mr Walcott. The mask resides at my address.”
I felt his confused stare long after the door fell shut.