Part 18 (1/2)
”So you could be this guy yourself. And not know it.” Was this some crazy kind of confession? Was von Hesse the killer, and maybe playing with him?
”Exactly. If I were he, I would have no recollection whatever of committing these crimes.”
”Which'd mean,” Grigsby said, ”that you'd be innocent in a way, that right?”
”In a sense, yes. But I believe, you see, that in a sense we are all innocent.”
”Yeah. Well, Colonel, I been around too long to buy that. There are some folks in the world that're just plain evil, pure and simple. They got something missin', a conscience or whatever, and hurtin' other people don't mean a thing to them. Some of them even like it. This b.a.s.t.a.r.d that killed those women, way I read him, he's one of the ones that like it.”
”But evil, I think, is a kind of ignorance.”
”I don't give a d.a.m.n what it is, tell you the truth. All I care about is stoppin' it. Now this corporal you're talkin' about, what happened to him?”
Von Hesse pressed his lips briefly together. ”I recommended that he be hospitalized. My recommendation was ignored. He was executed.”
”Well,” said Grigsby, and shrugged, ”there you go.”
”Justice in this world is imperfect, Marshal Grigsby.”
”Maybe so. But at least that fella wasn't out there diggin' up no more graves.” Grigsby s.h.i.+fted in his chair. ”But okay. Let's say you're right. Let's say one of the others is crazy the way you're talkin' about. Which one you figure it is?”
Von Hesse smiled a small prim smile. ”But this is exactly my point, you see. There would be no way of my knowing. Outwardly, this man would appear perfectly normal.”
Grigsby nodded. ”Uh-huh. So try it the other way. Say this b.a.s.t.a.r.d knows exactly what he's doin'. All the time. So then who would you say it is?”
”I would say, then, that it was none of them.”
”Way I figure it,” Grigsby said, ”it's gotta be one of them.” And maybe you, scout.
”I am inclined to agree. That the murders were committed in each of the towns we visited makes this seem likely. But none of these men has at any time evinced any behavior that suggests his guilt. It is precisely this, you see, which leads me to believe that he may himself be unaware of it.”
”Uh-huh. Well, Mr. von Hesse, I appreciate you comin' by and talkin' to me. I'll surely bear in mind what you say.”
Von Hesse smiled. ”And I thank you for your patience, Marshal, in listening to me.”
The rain had started. It drummed steadily along the window, rattled occasionally against the gla.s.s like a handful of thrown stones. Now and then, m.u.f.fled by distance, far-off thunder boomed and rumbled. Grigsby had lighted the oil lamp and, ankles crossed, bootheels on the desktop, the gla.s.s of bourbon perched atop his stomach, he sat back in his chair and considered.
Wilde? O'Conner? Vail? Von Hesse?
He couldn't buy von Hesse's theory. Okay, you drink too much, you black out, you maybe act like a born fool (you grab Brenda from the saloon and drag her home). But you don't spend hours cutting a prost.i.tute into careful b.l.o.o.d.y strips. You don't hang pieces of her from the mirror, from the dresser. That took an act of deliberate will. A completely crazy will, for sure, but a will. And enough physical strength and enough coordination to carry it out.
So how come von Hesse wanted him to buy the story? He was blowing smoke, maybe. Trying to confuse the issue.
Only reason to do that was if he was the killer.
But he really seemed to believe all that s.h.i.+t. And he even admitted that if he was right, he could've been the killer himself.
More smoke? Trying to flimflam the bonehead country marshal?
Just then, Grigsby heard a commotion out in the anteroom, beyond the closed door. He heard Carver's voice rising almost to a squeak as it called out, ”You can't do that!” and then another voice, gruff and deep, bellowing, ”Out of my way, you fool.”
Grigsby recognized the second voice as Greaves's. He frowned and remained where he was.
The door swung open, smacked against the doorstop, bounced back. Greaves slammed at it with his open palm and strode into the room. Behind him, Harlan Brubaker held his splayed hands to Carver's narrow chest, preventing the deputy from moving forward. Carver's face was red and his mouth was twisted in frustration.
Greaves stopped, still looking sleek and prosperous in his fur-lined overcoat, and he smiled broadly, theatrically, at Grigsby. ”Well, my friend,” he said, ”you really f.u.c.ked up this time.”
Carver said, ”Marshal, I told 'em you were busy, they couldn't come in, but they-”
”S'okay, Carver,” Grigsby said. He took a swallow of bourbon. ”Greaves, you tell your boy there to let go my deputy.”
Greaves laughed, a deep booming baritone. He turned to Brubaker and nodded. Brubaker stood back away from Carver and put his hands in his topcoat pockets. Carver adjusted his black wool vest and then, glaring at Brubaker, elaborately brushed it off with his fingers. Brubaker smirked.
Grigsby said, ”Go get some coffee, Carver.”
Carver glanced at Brubaker, at Greaves, back to Grigsby. ”You sure, Marshal?”
”I'm sure.”
Frowning, Carver glanced again at the other two men, and then turned and walked away.
Grigsby looked at Greaves. ”You got somethin' to say to me?”
Greaves grinned. ”I've already said it. You f.u.c.ked up.”
”That right?”
”I told you to stay away from the Molly Woods killing. I told you, I reminded you, that you don't have any jurisdiction over a munic.i.p.al homicide. I made that very clear this morning. Imagine how surprised I was when I found out, a few hours ago, that you've been snooping around, asking questions, disturbing people, sticking your fat nose in places where it doesn't belong. So I went and had a long conversation with Judge Sheldon. I have to tell you that the judge was shocked.”
Grigsby smiled. The only time Sheldon ever got shocked was when someone forgot to slip him a bribe.
”But he agreed with me,” Greaves said, ”that this meddling of yours has got to be stopped.” He reached into the inside pocket of his topcoat, came out with a folded sheet of paper. ”This is an injunction ordering you to to cease and desist your interference in the Molly Woods investigation.” He tossed it onto Grigsby's desk. ”And I think it only fair to tell you that Judge Sheldon has sent a telegram to Was.h.i.+ngton, demanding your immediate recall.”
Poor Mort would be earning his keep today. ”Sheldon tried that once,” Grigsby said. He shrugged. ”Didn't get him very far.”
Greaves grinned again. ”Like I say, Grigsby, times have changed. Even at the attorney general's office. Your friend Dan-ner is out. And by tomorrow, you'll be out too. Just another saddle tramp.” Still grinning, he added, ”I'm going to enjoy that.”
Grigsby nodded. ”Fella's got to take his pleasure where he finds it.”
Greaves smiled. ”You know, Grigsby, the sad thing is, it never had to come to this. I'm a reasonable man-I told you that a long time ago. We could've worked together. We could've cooperated. But no, not you. You chose to go your own way. And after all this time, you still haven't learned that your way, the old way, is finished now. Forever. You're like one of those big lizards they dig out of the ground, so old they've turned into stone. And the pitiful thing is, you don't even know it. In a way, it's a real.tragedy.”
Grigsby smiled. ”You want to borrow a hanky?”
Greaves grinned at him. ”I've always admired your spirit.” He turned to Brubaker. ”Haven't I, Harlan? Haven't I always said so?”
Brubaker smirked. ”Sure.”
”But the fact is,” said Greaves, ”you're washed up. Look at you. You're a pathetic old drunk. A lush. A rummy. No good to anybody, not even yourself. No wonder you couldn't hold on to that pretty young wife of yours. No wonder she took your brats and ran off to California.”
Behind Greaves, Brubaker snorted.