Excerpt from The Death Collectors
By: Jack Kerley
Prologue
Mobile County Courthouse,
Mobile, Alabama, May 15, 1972
Detective Jacob Willow dodged a sign
proclaiming,
die you dam murdrer, ducked another saying,
repent
sinner! He shouldered past a pinched-faced
preacher waving a bible, and squirmed between two
agitated fat ladies in sweaty dresses. Breaking free
of the mob surging in front of the courthouse,
Willow bounded up the steps two at a time, tried
three, tripped, went back to two. He flicked his
cigarette into an urn at the door and stepped
inside. The trial was upstairs and he ran those
steps as well, dizzied when he reached the top. He
peered around the corner into the hall leading to
the courtroom, hoping he wouldn’t see the Crying
Woman.
Sure as sunrise, there she sat,
twenty steps away on an oaken bench the size of a
church pew, black dress, veil, elbows on her knees,
face in her hands. Willow felt guilt curdle through
his stomach. He turned his eyes from the Crying
Woman.
Courthouse guard Windell Latham sat
behind a folding table at the top of the stairs, a
checkpoint for major trials. Latham was tipped back
in a chair and trimming his nails with a deer knife,
white crescents dappling his outsized belly.
“See you’re on your late-as-usual
schedule, ’tective Willow,” Latham said, barely
looking up. “You gonna miss the sentencing you don’t
get inside that courtroom ’bout now.”
Willow nodded toward the Crying
Woman. “Doesn’t she ever leave?”
Another crescent tumbled. “Should be
gone after today, Willow. Won’t be nothing to see no
more.”
Willow walked toward the courtroom on
the balls of his feet, hoping she kept her head in
her hands. He hated the feelings the Crying Woman
sparked in him, though he had no idea who she was.
Some said she was mother to one of Marsden Hexcamp’s
victims, others said sister, or aunt; those asking
questions or offering comfort were waved off like
wasps.
The strange, heavily veiled woman
quickly became invisible to the courthouse crowd, as
familiar as the brass cuspidors or overflowing
ashtrays. Never entering the courtroom during the
three-week trial, she’d claimed the marble-columned
halls as her parlor of grief, weeping from opening
statements through last week’s verdict of guilty.
Believing her wounded by sorrow, the guards showed
kindness, allowing the Crying Woman the run of the
courthouse and occasional naps in an absent judge’s
chambers.
Willow took a deep breath and started
to the courtroom doors, walking light as hard-soled
brogans allowed. Her head lifted as he passed, the
veil askew. It was the first time Willow had seen
the Crying Woman’s face, and he was startled by her
eyes: tearless and resolute. Equally surprising was
her youth; she looked barely out of her teens. He
felt her eyes follow him to the door, as if riding
his guilt into the courtroom.
He tried to rationalize his guilt –
most often in the hours preceding dawn – telling
himself he’d been an Alabama State Police detective
for two years, lacking the experience to understand
virulent madness powered by intellect. He reminded
himself of scrapes with departmental major-domos,
trying to convince them the seemingly random horrors
occurring in South Alabama were connected, that a
full-scale investigation involving State, County and
Mobile City police was necessary. Like his
entreaties to higher-ups, the rationalizations
failed, and Willow’s pre-dawn sweats continued
through the trial’s daily revelations of the
sexually bizarre and murderously horrific.
Willow nodded to the guard at the
door, then slipped into the packed room. He excused
and pardoned his way to his assigned seat in the
gallery, against the railing directly behind the
defense table. He didn’t have time to sit. “All
rise,” the bailiff cried, and two hundred people in
the courtroom rose like a single wave.
Only one person remained seated, a
blond and slender man at the defense table, wearing
jailhouse stripes with the élan of a man in a Savile
Row suit. Marsden Hexcamp sat with his legs crossed,
the upper bobbing to some lazy internal rhythm. A
wisp of hair dangled down his forehead, drawing
attention to his water-blue eyes. He turned his head
to the gallery and smiled as if hearing the
punchline of a lively joke. His eyes found Willow
and for a split-second Hexcamp’s smile wavered. The
defense lawyer tapped Hexcamp’s shoulder and waved
in an upward motion, imploring his client to rise to
the judge’s entrance.
Marsden Hexcamp flicked his head
sideways and spat into the lawyer’s palm.
Willow saw the lawyer shiver with
disgust and wipe his hand on his pants. No one else
noticed this miniature drama, all other eyes
watching Circuit Judge Harlan T. Penfield striding
to the bench. Small in stature, Penfield compensated
through a voice as deep as a country well and
hawk-bright eyes blazing at any hint of misconduct.
Penfield’s eyes glared at Marsden Hexcamp, receiving
a smile and lazy nod in return. The judge slipped on
half-lens reading glasses and unfolded a sheet of
paper with his sentencing decision, a conclusion
reached by the end of the first week of trial.
“We gather today for the sentencing
of Marsden Hexcamp,” Penfield intoned. “And with it
end weeks of such revulsion and dismay that two
jurors could not continue, one still hospitalized
with a nervous condition …”
Marsden Hexcamp’s lawyer stood. “Your
Honor, I do not think this is –”
“Sit,” commanded Judge Penfield. The
lawyer sat, looking relieved to be finished with his
role.
“The toll has not only been on the
jurors,” Penfield continued in his rolling bass,
“but on all who have smelled the brimstone rising
from Mr Hexcamp like fog …”
Marsden Hexcamp mimed lifting a
wineglass as if acknowledging a toast, the chains
around his slender wrists ringing like chimes.
Penfield paused, studied the defendant. “Your antics
shall trouble this court no longer, Mr Hexcamp. By
the power vested in me by the great state of
Alabama, I sentence you to be conducted to Holman
Prison, there, hopefully in record time, to receive
the penalty of death by electrocution. And may God
have mercy on whatever squirms inside you.”
Penfield’s gavel dropped as Marsden
Hexcamp stood. He shrugged off his lawyer’s hand.
“No last words for the condemned,
Your Honor?”
“Sit, Mr Hexcamp.”
“Am I not entitled? Does not sure and
impending death allow a few final phrases?”
“Did you allow your victims a final
say, Mr Hexcamp?”
Marsden Hexcamp paused and thought.
Amusement flitted across his face. “Some of them
spoke volumes, Your Honor.”
“Bastard!” A coarse-faced man in the
gallery stood and waved his fist. He appeared drunk.
“Sit and behave, sir, or be removed,”
Penfield said, almost gently. The man dropped to his
seat, sunk his face into his hands.
Hexcamp said, “Well, Your Honor? May
I speak?”
Willow saw Judge Penfield’s eyes
sweep the expectant faces in the crowd, pause on
reporters aching to record the final public words of
Marsden Hexcamp. Penfield tapped his watch.
“I’ll grant you thirty seconds, Mr
Hexcamp. I suggest a prayer for salvation.”
Hexcamp’s smile flattened. His eyes
lit like flares. “Salvation is the province of
fools, Judge. A vacant lot in empty minds. What
counts is not where we go, but what we create while
in the world’s humble studio –”
“Murderer,” a woman screamed from the
gallery.
“Madman,” called another.
Penfield pounded his gavel. “Silence!
Ten seconds, Mr Hexcamp.”
Hexcamp turned to the gallery. His
eyes found Willow, held for a beat, returned to the
judge. “It’s the art of our lives that endures –
moments captured like spiders in amber. But
magically able to crawl. To bite. To influence …”
“Five seconds.” Penfield dramatically
stifled a yawn. Hexcamp’s face reddened at the
slight.
“YOU are a WORM,” Hexcamp screamed at
Penfield. “A wretched, despicable creature, a mere
nothing, less than nothing, a vile insect risen in
contempt against the majesty of ART!”
“Time’s up, Mr Hexcamp,” Penfield
said. “Never let it be said you were at a loss for
words.”
Marsden Hexcamp angled an eye at the
judge. Then, agile as a gymnast, he leapt atop the
defense table. “L’art du moment final,” he
howled, spittle flying. “C’est
moi! C’est moi! C’est moi!”
The art of the final moment,
Willow thought, two years of high school French
kicking in. It is me.
“Guards, seat that man,” Penfield
said. His gavel again rang from the sounding block.
A motion behind Penfield caught
Willow’s eye. He watched the door of the judge’s
chambers open slowly, saw the desk, bookshelves, low
table … and then, framed in the doorway, the Crying
Woman. She strode into the room and stopped at
Hexcamp’s feet, the crowd gasping. A large-bore
pistol appeared from the folds of her dress. The
weapon lifted, her finger tightening on the trigger.
She was crying again. She looked into
Marsden Hexcamp’s eyes.
Said, “I love you.”
Willow dove across the railing, arms
stretching for the gun. His foot caught the wood and
he tumbled to the floor below the defense table.
Thunder filled the room. Hexcamp’s shirtfront gained
a red button the size of a dime, but the back of his
shirt exploded. He crumpled to the floor, landing
supine beside Willow. Spectators hugged the floor or
jammed at the doorway, screaming.
Marsden Hexcamp lifted his head and
moaned, his lips forming words. Willow laid his ear
over the man’s mouth, listened. Hexcamp’s eyes
closed and his head slumped. “Stay with me,” Willow
yelled. He grabbed the man’s shirt and shook, as if
freeing words trapped in Hexcamp’s throat. Hexcamp’s
eyes snapped open. He sucked in breath.
“Follow, Jacob. You’ve got to
follow …” A scarlet bubble escaped his mouth. “You …
have to … follow …”
“What?” Willow yelled into Hexcamp’s
glazing eyes. “FOLLOW WHAT?”
Marsden Hexcamp’s eyelids fluttered.
“The art, Jacob,” he said, the blood now a red foam
crawling down his chin. “Follow the … glorious art.”
Hexcamp’s eyes became wax, his mouth
a frozen rictus. Willow heard a second roar of
self-inflicted thunder. A body dropped to the floor
six feet away. The Crying Woman became the Dying
Woman.
CHAPTER 1
Mobile, Alabama, present time
“Awards are dumb,” Harry Nautilus
said, aiming the big blue Crown Victoria away from
the headquarters of the Mobile Police Department.
“No good ever comes of stuff like this.”
“Lighten up, Harry,” I said,
tightening my tie in the rear-view mirror. “We’re
the Mayor’s Officers of the Year.”
“And I’m the state bird of Alabama.
Tweet.”
“It’s an honor,” I reasoned.
“It’s a pain in the ass. And it ain’t nothing but a politician’s words.”
“At least we’ll get a free breakfast.” I checked my watch; we had an easy twenty minutes to get to the hotel where the Mayor’s Recognition Breakfast was being held. I’d already cleared a space on my ersatz wall at work, a gray divider. I’d never had an award before.
“You think I should mention the folks at Forensics?” I said, holding out my arms and wondering if my navy blazer had shrunk since the last wearing, or if I was still growing at age thirty.
“What are you talking about, Carson?”
“My acceptance speech.”
Harry growled, a low bass note. Government Street was under construction ahead, so we cut through the south edge of downtown, a poorer neighborhood of small houses and apartments. I was buffing my nails on my pants when a woman exploded into the street from an alley, arms waving, pink robe flying behind like a horseman’s cape. She launched herself in front of the car. Two hundred and forty pounds of Harry Nautilus stood on the brakes. The robed woman held up her hands as if that would ward off a two-ton car. Tires squealed. The Crown Vic fishtailed. Our bumper stopped three inches shy of the woman’s knees.
“They’s a dead woman in that alley,” the woman panted, clutching at her robe. She was in her thirties, skinny as rope, an Appalachian twang in her voice. “Got blood all up underneath her.”
I called it into the dispatcher as Harry turned into the alley. A woman’s body sprawled face-down on the concrete, arms above her head. Her blouse was white and I saw a crimson smear in the upper center of her back. Fearful of tainting evidence, we stopped the car short and sprinted to the body. We always ran, praying fast response and CPR might make a difference.
Not this time; seeing the amount of blood beneath her, Harry stopped running and so did I. We walked the last few steps gingerly, careful of the flood of red on the pavement. The blood was congealing and I figured the killer long gone. Sirens wailed in the distance. Harry knelt beside the body while I studied the scene: shattered glass, strewn trash, and other detritus of an inner-city alley. The concrete was bordered by dilapidated garages. Grass between them was yellow from scant rain. A bright object caught my eye: a plump orange nestled against a slumping garage twenty or so feet from the woman’s outstretched hand.
Another Crown Victoria entered the
alley from the opposite direction, followed by a
patrol car and ambulance. Detectives Roy Trent and
Clay Bridges exited the Crown Vic. This was their
territory, District Two. Harry and I were District
One ninety-nine per cent of the time, part of a
special unit the other one per cent.
We gave Trent and Bridges a
three-line synopsis of what we knew. Bridges took
the woman in the robe aside to calm her for
questioning. Trent walked to the body, looked down.
He ran heavy hands through thinning hair.
“Damn. It’s the Orange Lady.”
“Orange Lady?” I said.
“Name’s Nancy something. Lives in a
group home a block over. Every morning she goes to
the market and gets herself an orange. One orange.
Does the same thing every night. I asked once why
she didn’t get two oranges in the morning, or buy a
bag. Know what she said?”
“What?”
“The oranges liked being at the store
because they got to watch people. At her place
they’d just see the inside of the refrigerator.”
Harry said, “This group home’s for
folks with mental problems, I take it.”
Trent nodded. “Harmless types who
need a little help getting by. Nancy might have been
a tad disjointed in her thinking, but she was always
happy, chattering at people, singing songs in
French, whatever.”
“There’s the morning orange,” I said,
pointing it out. I crouched and looked between the
woman and the orange, then dropped to my stomach,
eyeballing the topography and the drain grate in the
middle of the alley.
“You need water to swim, Cars,” Trent
said.
“And momentum to roll,” I added,
standing and brushing gravel from my palms. Trent
studied the body, shook his head. “Who’d shoot her
dead while she was standing in an alley?”
“Running in the alley,” I suggested.
Trent raised an eyebrow.
“The orange is about twenty feet away. Slightly uphill. If she’d been standing or walking, the orange might have rolled a few feet. But the other way, toward the center of the alley. It’s concave for drainage. The shot knocked her forward, of course. But I think it took added momentum for the orange to travel that far. Forensics’ll do the math, but I’d bet a couple bucks she was running full-tilt.”
Trent thought a moment. “If she was running, she knew she was in danger; recognized the perp, probably.” He started to the patrol car to get the uniformed guys cordoning off the scene, then paused.
“Hey, did I hear the Mayor’s making
you guys Officers of the Year?”
“It’s just a rumor,” Harry said.
Trent grinned. “Officers of the Year
doesn’t quite cut it for you two. How about the Grand Pooh-bahs of Piss-it?”
Piss-it was departmental slang for
the PSIT, or Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team, a specialty unit with a name longer than its roster: Harry and me. It was the one per cent of our jobs.
Harry sighed. “Don’t start, Roy.”
Trent thought a moment. “Or how about
the Wizards of Weirdness?” He chuckled and started to invent another title, saw the look in Harry’s eyes, remembered his business with the patrol guys and retreated.
Our bit part in a too-familiar drama
over, Harry and I climbed back into the car. The Orange Lady’s case would be cleared fast, we figured; the poor woman had pissed someone off and he or she had gotten revenge. Backshooting a fleeing woman in broad daylight was irrational, an act of emotion, not brains. Trent and Bridges would check the victim’s acquaintances, find who she’d recently irritated. Nail the case shut.
Bang. Just like that. |