More hours down doing nothing.
The phone rang–Ed flailed for it blind. “Uh . . . yes?”
“Captain, you there? It’s Vincennes.”
“I’m here. What is it?”
“I’m at the Bureau with White. We just caught a squeal and grabbed it. 2206 North New Hampshire, Billy Dieterling’s house. Billy and an unknown male dead. Fisk rolled on it already. Cap, _are you there?_”
No no no–yes. “I’m going . . . I’ll be there.”
“Will do. And by the way, White and I didn’t tell Gallaudet what Stanton said. Thought you should know that.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Thank White. He’s the one you had to worry about.”
o o o
Fisk met him there–a mock Tudor lit by headlights–blackand-whites, crime lab cars on the lawn.
Ed ran up; Fisk spoke shorthand. “Neighbor woman heard screams, waited half an hour and called. She saw a man run out, get into Billy Dieterling’s car and take off. He hit a tree down the block, got out and ran. I took a statement. White, male, early forties, average build. Sir, brace yourself.”
Flashbulb pops inside. Ed said, “_Seal it here_. No Homicide, no station cops. No press, and I don’t want Dieterling’s father to find out. Have Kleckner seal the car and go get me Timmy Valburn. _Find him. Now_.”
“Sir, they blew our tail. I feel bad about this, like it’s our fault.”
“It doesn’t matter, just do what I told you.”
Fisk ran to his car; Ed walked in, looked.
Billy Dieterling on a white couch soaked red. A knife in his throat; two knives in his stomach. His scalp on the floor, stuck to the carpet with an icepick. A few feet away: a fortyish white man–disemboweled, eviscerated, knives in his cheeks, two kitchen forks in his eyes. Drug capsules soaking in floor blood.
No artful desecrations–his man was past it now.
Ed walked into the kitchen. Patchett to Lux ’39: “I’ve got the chemicals to keep him from hurting anybody, and you plasticked him.” Cupboards dumped; forks and spoons on the floor. Ray Dieterling ’39: “A scapegoat he believes in.” Bloody footprints in and out–his man made trips for more adornment. Lux: “I’ll get him a keeper.” A scalp section in the sink. “Preston Exley, he was a big-shot contractor now.” A bloody handprint on the wall, a psycho passion job for Crim 101’s all-time list.
Ed squinted at the print–ridges and whirls showed plainly. Psycho oblivion: his man pressed his hand there to leave an imprimatur.
Back to the living room. Trashcan Jack in the middle of a half dozen lab techs. Bad flashbulb glare, no Bud White.
Trash said, “The other man’s Jerry Marsalas. He’s a male nurse, and he’s sort of the keeper of this guy on the _Badge of Honor_ crew. David Mertens, the set designer. Very quiet, he’s got epilepsy or something like that.”
“Plastic surgery scars?”
“Graft scars all over his neck and back. I saw him with his shirt off once.”
Techs swarming now–Ed led Vincennes out to the porch. Cool air, bright bright headlights. Trash said, “Mertens is the right age to be that older kid Stanton was talking about. Lux cut him, so Miller wouldn’t have recognized him on the set. All the grafts on his back, he could have been cut lots of times. Jesus, the look on your face. You’re taking it all the way?”
“I don’t know. I want one more day to see what we can get on Dudley.”
“And see if White tries to shank you. He could have told Gallaudet the whole story, but he didn’t.”
“White’s as crazy as anybody in this thing.”
Trash laughed. “Yeah, like you. Boss, if you and Gallaudet want this mess to go to due process, you’d better lock that boy up. He’s out to kill Dudley and Deuce, and believe me he’ll do it.”
Ed laughed. “I told him he could.”
“You’d _let him_ do–”
Cut him off. “Jack, do this. Stake Mertens’ place and see if you can find White, then–”
“He’s chasing down Perkins, how do I–”
“Just try to find him. And with or without him, meet me at Mickey Cohen’s house tomorrow at nine. We’re going to brace him on Dudley.”