WYATT HAD SET ASIDE a few small rooms at the back of the Oyster Bar for high rollers, private salons where they could eat, drink, relax, and maybe even snooze between turns at the faro and poker tables. On this particular night, he had reserved one of them for a much different purpose—poring over Nick’s question-and-answer interview with the killer and comparing the content with all the other evidence thus far gathered in the Nemesis affair.
Only the leads on the investigation—Bradshaw, Coyne, and Earp—had been invited to the conclave, and in order to keep whatever they might discover from leaking to the press or public, they had decided to assemble at a location away from the courts or jailhouse. Frankly, they no longer trusted anyone outside their own small inner circle from trying to make a buck off the Nemesis case. Most of the deputies would gladly pocket a little coin in return for divulging salacious details of their investigation to the other Nick Pinders of the world.
Cradoc breezed in around eight o’clock, grabbed a drink at the bar, and joined Wyatt in the back room. “Coyne’s gonna be little late,” the marshal announced, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table from his long-time friend.
“Late for suds and grub? Oh my!” said Wyatt with mock despair.
“Kendall wanted an update on the investigation. And he wanted it now.”
“When are y’all gonna stop kissing his ass?” Wyatt asked. “He’s not even an elected official.”
“Yeah, but he’s got all the duly elected in his pocket. And giving him the lowdown on a regular basis keeps at least one of the local papers off our back.”
Wyatt took a long, slow sip from his coffee mug, all the while staring at Cradoc.
“And there’s a reason you’re eyeballing me?” the marshal asked.
“As long as it’s just the two of us …”
“What?”
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to get off my chest.”
Cradoc sighed, rolled his eyes. “Not Emma Lee again.”
“Far from it,” Wyatt answered.
“What else would make you so goddamn brassy when it comes to my business?”
Wyatt hesitated, wondering if he should even broach the topic. “Now don’t take this wrong …”
“Just spit it out!”
“I’ve been wondering for a while now …”
“What?”
“How do I phrase this delicately …?” Wyatt blew air through his lips as a sign of surrender, looked his friend straight in the face and asked, “Are you Nemesis?”
Flabbergasted by the very suggestion, Cradoc didn’t know how to respond at first. And Wyatt construed that silence as possibly an admission of guilt. “I knew it … I knew it … I just knew it!” Wyatt yelped, pounding a fist into the palm of his hand.
“Have you lost your friggin’ mind?” Cradoc finally asked.
“You’re not denying it.”
“Because I can’t believe you would even think such an outlandish thing.”
“Come on, Cradoc. You’re all about justice. That’s why you left the Army—because the big bugs in Washington wouldn’t accept your findings in the Custer investigation. They wanted to portray him as a great American hero who died for his country fighting the savages rather than a reckless commander who got his troops slaughtered. You and me … we didn’t hesitate going above and beyond the law to take down bad guys in Dodge City because we figured the end result justified our means. And you’re the one who told me about how many times you and Nick purposely stepped outside the law to catch criminals during your bosom buddy days.”
Cradoc scoffed at the notion. “You really think Nick and I are in cahoots again? No more bad blood, no more hard feelings. Everything that happened just water under the bridge. And that we somehow concocted this grand scheme—that revolves around an imaginary killer named Nemesis—to catch fellas who had somehow evaded justice for evil deeds done long ago.”
Wyatt leaned forward. “It’s not that far-fetched. Given your history. Both you and Nick.”
“Coming from the mouth of a man who’s wanted—dead or alive—in the Arizona Territory because of his own vigilantism.”
“Of course! I’m right there with you, brother. I’m just sore you two didn’t let me in on the conspiracy.”
“There is no goddamn conspiracy!” Cradoc shot back.
“You can tell me, Cradoc. You know I can keep a secret.”
“If I was going rogue, don’t you think you’re the first person I tell? That you’re the one I’d conspire with rather than Nick?”
Wyatt shook his head. “I don’t know … you and Nick. I think you still got a hard-on for one another you’re just not willing to admit. Not only to me, but also to yourselves.”
Cradoc was in the middle of flinging his beer mug at Wyatt when the door swung open and Joe Coyne came rushing into the room. Wyatt ducked quick enough to evade the flying mug, which smashed into the wall behind him.
“Did I miss something?” asked Coyne, turning to stare at the spot where the mug hit the wall.
“Just horsing around,” Wyatt said quickly, brushing the broken glass off his shoulders.
Coyne looked to the marshal for confirmation.
Cradoc shrugged and flashed a tight smile. “Boys will be boys.”
Joe Coyne was not above reproach when it came to leveraging his position at the jailhouse for extra cash. But the sheriff was also aware that any short-term financial gain was far outweighed by the prospect of losing his job if the case remained unsolved—and especially if the killer kept dispatching prominent citizens. And while they may have had their “operational” differences over the nuts and bolts of solving the crime, he knew Cradoc still valued the sheriff’s perspective. Coyne may have grown overweight, over cautious, and avaricious after so many years with a badge, but his logic was still faultless and his intuition invaluable.
The ground rules for this evening of brainstorming were simple: no idea would be discounted no matter how rash or seemingly irrelevant. They would pool their hunches, rack their brains, and hopefully—by midnight or even dawn if that’s what it took—discover some clue, some link that had been previously overlooked, even the thinnest shred of evidence that could lead them to the killer.
Their first task was re-examining what just about everyone around town was now calling the “Nemesis Manifesto”—the killer’s carefully crafted answers to the questions put forth by the Times. Several days after its publication, the shock had by now worn off. It was not so much what Nemesis had to say—much of it the ramblings of a lunatic, albeit a very well-educated lunatic—but the fact that the newspaper had entered into a back-and-forth dialogue with an assassin who was still on the loose, and apparently bent on killing again. There had been a swift backlash from local political and religious leaders. But whatever downside that might engender was offset by the fact the Times had set yet another circulation record. Unseemly as it might be, the people of San Diego just couldn’t get enough. And as Clive had predicted, there wasn’t a damn thing the authorities could do about it.
Cradoc had already determined that the manifesto had been rendered by the same typing machine as the killer’s previous missives. Franked at the main post office in San Diego on the 23rd of July, the envelope bore no return address, handwriting or other markings that might have disclosed even a miniscule hint as what the killer’s identity might be.
Between the newspaper version and the original letter delivered (once again) by Wendell Smith, Cradoc had read the transcript at least a dozen times and in the process put together a loose profile of the killer based on his opinions, themes, and vocabulary during the question and answer session. Knowing that he was perfectly capable of missing something that might be vital, the marshal had suggested they go through the answers one more time, line by line, in the hope that Wyatt or Coyne might notice something he had missed.
“This son of a bitch is all over the map,” the marshal declared as they got down to business. “He talks about religion, he talks about politics, he talks about what’s inside his own head. You can’t tell if he’s the messiah, a savant, or merely your standard-issue nut case.”
“Maybe all three rolled into one,” said Wyatt, tossing in his two cents.
It was difficult to assess the killer’s language as belonging to one particular group or another. After the Archer killing, nearly everyone (but Cradoc) had assumed the felon was Chinese. Yet in retrospect, it was now clear that his speech was almost devoid of ethnic or regional mannerisms. Every phrase could pass for the standard English spoken anywhere in the thirty-eight states.
Yet there had been a definite evolution in his tone. In the first correspondence with Nick, the killer’s manner had been deadly earnest, almost bland. He had stuck to the matter at hand—the murder of Zebulon Archer and his motives for doing such. And while not exactly curt, the writing in that initial missive was Spartan, nothing more than the bare bones.
After the murder of Yankee Jim, the killer seemed more confident and relaxed. More like a seasoned professional—both at murder and composition. Here and there he dared to be brazen. And the meticulous side of his personality came into full bloom. Even more intriguing were his analogies, the examples used to justify his behavior. The interview—if one could call it such, given the fact that it had been done remotely—was another thing altogether, more like a philosophical lecture rendered by someone who considered themselves one of the great minds of our time.
Cradoc read a passage out loud:
“Those who so vehemently condemn my actions hail from government and law enforcement—the institutions most responsible for the lack of justice I strive to remedy. I haven’t heard one ordinary citizen demand that I be stopped. Quite the contrary. For whatever reason—their own sense of justice or revenge or simply bloodlust—they condone every step that I’ve made thus far … There must be rules and regulations to maintain order in society. But likewise, there must be an alternative means to contend with evil that is protected, condoned, or even spawned by the powers that be. Lacking any other options, I am that alternative means.”
“Maybe he’s a teacher,” Wyatt offered. “Someone from one of the local schools. It’s not like your general populous is going to reflect in such a sophisticated manner.”
“Or it’s all bullshit,” Cradoc countered. “I’ve come across more than one drunken bum with an ability to shovel this sort of intellectual crap.”
“Point taken. But our man is no dolt,” said Wyatt, reiterating his original point. “You’ve gotta give him that. He’s committed two murders without giving us so much as a whiff as to who he might be.”
“He’s bright all right,” said Joe Coyne, finally joining the conversation. “Not so much because of what he says, but what he does. This fella is like no criminal I’ve ever come across before. He hasn’t made even a paltry mistake. And I have the suspicion that what we know about him thus far is exactly what he wants us to know.”
Hands clasped behind his head, Cradoc let out a long breath. “Other than his smarts, which we sort of already suspected, does the interview get us anywhere closer to identifying this fella?”
Wyatt took in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. “Not really. But I’m starting to suspect the whole affair is a lot more personal than our killer is letting on.” Reaching across the table for the transcript, Wyatt recited one particular passage: “Like any man, I fear the hangman’s rope. But even more so I fear defeat—which is what capture would mean to me—defeat of my ideals and all the careful planning and hard work that I have put into this quest since its inception. He doesn’t mind getting caught or even hanging as long as he kills everyone he has set out to destroy. For someone to be that determined….”
Cradoc picked up the drift. “It has to be very personal. I fully agree. There has to be something else. Something he’s not telling us. Another way to connect the victims other than the fact they both caused the death of innocent people.”
Josie Earp entered with a platter of food—grilled steaks, baked sweet potatoes, lima beans, and bread—which she placed in the middle of the table amongst all their notes and documents. Wyatt and Coyne tore through their grub like famished animals; Cradoc poked at his plate with a fork, mulling over every detail of the case with every bite.
Next, they turned their attention to the victims and what could be deduced from their circumstances. Both were white, male, and roughly the same age (in their fifties). Yet beyond community picnics and other general gatherings, the two victims had moved in different social circles. Archer was part of the establishment, the Cuyamaca Club crowd; Yankee Jim had largely kept to family and friends on the haciendas of North County. Archer had been a Baptist, Ingraham not much of anything when it came to religion. Likewise, their politics diverged: Archer a Confederate sympathizer and dedicated Democrat; Ingraham a Republican from way back and most definitely a Union man.
Yet the victims did have two things in common: both had benefited from the demise of Old Town and the controversial shift to New Town. And both had taken human life and somehow avoided punishment for those transgressions.
“We know from our own investigating,” said Cradoc, “that the criminal acts Nemesis ascribes to his victims did take place. Both Archer and Ingraham got away with murder. So he can claim a certain righteousness.”
“But seriously,” said Coyne, pushing his empty plate aside and shoving a wad of chew into his cheek. “How virtuous can this fella be? A bonafide moralist doesn’t run around drowning and suffocating people. Doesn’t that make him just as evil?”
“A lot of folks say the same about the death penalty,” Wyatt pointed out. “That hanging contradicts the Good Book—‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’—every bit as much as the crime that sent that person to the gallows. Especially for things like horse theft or rustling.”
“We don’t hang animal thieves around here,” Coyne said defensively.
“They do in Texas!” Wyatt spat back. “You look the wrong way at some joker down there and you’ll find yourself strung up.”
“What if he really does have a deep sense of justice,” Cradoc mused, “and doesn’t see a moral contradiction between his own actions and the actions of those he’s killed?”
“Then I’d say he’s certifiably insane,” Coyne declared.
“Or incredibly empathic and compassionate,” the marshal retorted. “With a compelling need to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”
“And then blab about it to the whole goldarn world,” Wyatt added.
“That’s one of the things I just don’t get,” said Coyne. “If justice is your only motive, just kill the bastards with as little fuss as possible rather than splashing it all over the papers.”
“Because he’s clearly got other motivations,” Cradoc added. “He craves attention or affection. Not just from those around him but the entire community.”
“Isn’t there a name for that?” asked Wyatt.
“Megalomaniac,” Cradoc said.
“I was thinking more like politician.”
And they all laughed, a bit of mirth in amongst the earnestness.
“But like a politician,” Cradoc continued, “perhaps his jabbering to Nick is a means to seek approval for his thoughts and deeds.”
“You’re assuming that Nemesis has a conscience,” the sheriff observed.
“We don’t have any reason to think he doesn’t,” Cradoc suggested. “He could easily be of two minds about what he does. The men I’ve been forced to shoot in the line of duty—I knew it was a just and righteous action. But that didn’t mean I felt great about it or that I didn’t want to hear other people tell me it was the right thing to do.”
“You had the law on your side,” Wyatt declared. “In each and every one of those cases.”
“In his warped mind, Nemesis also thinks the law is on his side. A higher law. As well as public opinion.”
Coyne scratched his scalp, confused about something. “So what you’re saying is that by talking to Nick, Nemesis is asking the public to approve his crimes?”
“I’d bet good money on it,” Cradoc answered. “Every reader becomes a part of the jury. And so far, given the overwhelmingly positive reaction by our fellow citizens, the jury is tipped in his favor. Public opinion reconfirms the virtue of his deeds, no matter how misguided or gruesome.”
After several minutes of further reflection, Coyne suggested they take a short break. “I don’t know about you two, but my bladder’s about to burst.” Pushing back from the table, the sheriff headed for the john at the back of the Oyster.
“Gotta check on the faro tables,” said Wyatt, slipping out of the room behind Coyne.
Left alone, Cradoc continued to contemplate the case. Had there been anything like this in the annals of American crime? Multiple murder was nothing new—like the fellow in Texas who killed all those maids and the cannibal miner of the Colorado Rockies. But those affairs were nothing like what they now faced in San Diego. The Austin Axe Murderer had been a sexual predator; Alfred Packer had dispatched other prospectors in order to seize their claims and then devoured them as a matter of survival.
Nemesis was a horse of a far different color. The notion that kept coming back to Cradoc was the French Revolution. Or rather what happened right after the king was deposed—the Reign of Terror—murder as a means of transforming society into whatever happens to be your ideal of a better place to live. Isn’t that exactly what we have here? Nemesis wasn’t some common criminal with base motives. He was more like a modern Robespierre, the primary force behind France’s national cleansing via the guillotine. Cradoc had always been struck by a line recited during one of his history courses at West Point, words that Robespierre had used to justify his bloodshed: La terreur n’est autre chose que la justice prompte, sévère, inflexible. “Terror is nothing other than prompt, severe, inflexible justice.” And that pretty much defined San Diego’s reign of terror—the prompt, severe, and inflexible justice meted out by Nemesis.
Robespierre would probably have endured as the head of the revolutionary government—and not lost his own head—if he had known when to quit. Given what had sparked the revolution, he surely would have got away with eliminating the French aristocracy. But when he turned to executing ordinary people for seemingly minor crimes (like food theft), the rabble turned against him. Will Nemesis repeat that mistake? Take things one step too far? If the killer quit right now, if he never struck again, the law would never catch him. He could live amongst the good citizens of San Diego until the day he died, and no one would ever be the wiser. No matter how dreadful the thought, Cradoc found himself hoping that Nemesis would take another victim, or at least attempt such, because that was probably the only way they were ever going to catch the bastard.
The door burst open, and Cradoc looked up, expecting to see Wyatt or Coyne returning to their summit. But what he got instead was Emma Lee charging into the room with an empty serving tray and a look of absolute shock on her face.
“I didn’t know you was here,” she blurted.
“Me and Wyatt and Sheriff Coyne. We’ve been going over things.”
Emma Lee scooped a couple of dirty plates onto her tray. “You haven’t been around much lately,” she said without looking him in the face.
The marshal shrugged. “Been kinda busy.”
“Too busy for me?” she said bluntly. That was her way; get right to the point.
Cradoc struggled to respond. “You know what it’s like.”
“No, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Emma Lee …” he pleaded, hoping she would let him off the hook.
But she wouldn’t. “Is there somethin’ we need to discuss?”
Like why did you stab your husband? And why didn’t you tell me you killed him? Two questions that Cradoc sorely would love to ask but could not bring himself to utter even now that he had the perfect chance.
“I’m a grown woman. I can take it,” she told him.
Cradoc continued down the coward’s road instead of manning up. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Like maybe you don’t wanna see me no more?” She had stopped the clearing up and was staring down at him with accusatory eyes.
Truth be told, he did want to keep seeing her. Splitting those luscious thighs, kissing those moist lips, and generally just hanging out with the most low-maintenance gal he had ever had the pleasure to know. The caveat being that she had murdered someone or been accused of doing so. The only way Cradoc could continue to keep her company was putting on blinders. Because delving into her past would stir up things that he just didn’t want to deal with at the present time. Not with everything else happening in his life—the killer, the case, Nick Pinder, and all that crap. So Cradoc decided on the easy way out.
“How ’bout tonight?” he asked.
Emma Lee broke into a huge grin. Instantaneous joy. One of the reasons he liked this girl so much and could maybe even love her.
“Come around my place when you’re done,” he told her.
She cleared the rest of the table and turned around to leave as Wyatt ambled back into the room. “Excuse me, Mr. Earp,” she said merrily, slipping between the boss and the door post.
Soon as she was gone, Wyatt narrowed his eyes at Cradoc. “You didn’t tell her again?”
Cradoc cringed. He didn’t want to talk about it.
“Goddamit, Cradoc. You can’t keep stringing her along. She’s not the kind of gal who’s gonna read your mind and skedaddle on her own.”
“I will,” Cradoc said weakly.
“Yeah … right in the middle of when you’re fucking her tonight. Put the girl out of her misery, Cradoc. It’s the right and proper thing to do.”