‘ H ow did he get out?’ Gratelli spoke into the telephone. ‘Oh, who bailed him?’ There was a pause. ‘Find out.’
Gratelli wanted to talk with Earl Falwell, wanted to take one more shot. McClellan had done the interview before. He was better than Gratelli at interrogation. But maybe a different approach would mean a few different answers.
He had spent the morning testifying on an unrelated case. It was one McClellan was supposed to handle. McClellan had done the report and most of the work. Gratelli’s testimony was thin, bordering on flaky. He was embarrassed and angry.
He was still thinking about Falwell. He hadn’t gotten out after his first arrest. No one wanted the kid, as Gratelli remembered it. Falwell was stuck in jail for months because he didn’t have the bail and, apparently, anyone willing to post it. What changed in Falwell’s life? Who cared enough about him to bail him out? And bail him out so quickly. Who knew he was in?
Gratelli stood. Falwell’s small, dark apartment wasn’t designed for visitors. In fact there wasn’t much in the way of creature comforts even for the resident creature. If you wanted off your feet, there was the bed. There were two visitors. One was a uniformed policeman, Gratelli commandeered. He wasn’t about to spend a few hours alone with some guy who had a history of beating people to an inch of their lives with his bare fists.
‘You remember me, right?’ Gratelli asked. He held two envelopes in his hand. One large brown one. One smaller white one.
‘Yeah.’ Falwell said. His head was aimed down at the floor, but his eyes were on the inspector. ‘You were with the fat guy at the station.’
‘Earl, you could be in a lot of trouble.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Killing people.’
‘I didn’t kill nobody. Beat up one guy on the highway and beat up this bastard at work. They’re still walking around.’
‘How’d you get out?’
‘Whaddya mean?’
‘Bail. Who got you out?’
‘Magic, man.’ Earl looked up, grinned.
‘You gonna be difficult?’
‘Don’t wanna be. Don’t know.’
‘Don’t know who posted bail?’
‘Nope.’
‘Friends. One of your friends maybe? Your boss? A relative?’
Earl kept shaking his head. ‘No relatives, no friends. My boss fired my ass. Don’t imagine he came through. Call him. Ask him.’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Nobody you can think of? No one pops into your mind?’
‘Why do you keep asking me the same question?’
‘Because you’re not telling me the truth.’ Gratelli spoke flatly, without intonation. ‘You have a good guess, don’t you?’ There was a long silence. ‘OK,’ Gratelli continued. ‘I have some photos I want you to look at.’
Earl shrugged.
‘Come over here,’ Gratelli said, spreading the contents of the larger envelope on the bed. He fanned out the photos of eight victims. Their faces. The bodies. Close-ups of the engravings.
Falwell came over, stared for a moment, looked away.
‘What do you think?’ Gratelli asked.
Earl said nothing.
‘C’mon, Earl. Answer me. What do you think?’
‘What are you showing me that for?’ Earl blushed. Deeply.
‘I want you to see them. Familiar faces?’
‘No.’
‘You the artist?’
‘No.’
Gratelli picked up one photo. ‘What is it carved on this girl’s thigh?’
‘How do I know?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’ Falwell wasn’t looking at it.
‘Guess,’ Gratelli continued, still holding the photo up to the boy’s face. ‘Turn around, look at it. I said look at it.’
Falwell turned slowly. ‘A flower.’
‘What kind of flower, Earl?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What does it look like?’
‘I said I don’t know.’
‘A common flower, isn’t it?’ Gratelli said. ‘Tell me what it is.’
‘I don’t know.’ Anger was building. ‘I guess it could be a fuckin’ tulip, couldn’t it?’
‘A tulip?’ Gratelli was stunned. Could be a tulip. Christ, Gratelli thought. He looked at each one of the pictures. Where had he gotten the idea it was a rose? ‘I have some other photos to show you, Earl. I don’t want you to get upset.’
‘I don’t get upset,’ Earl said, still excited. He was breathing heavy.
‘Yeah, and I have a date with Rita Hayworth.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’ Gratelli pulled color copies of the Polaroids. ‘Got another celebrity for you to look at.’
‘What?’ Earl grabbed the sheets of paper from the inspector. ‘Where in the hell… you were here…’
Gratelli looked at the uniform cop, hoping he was staying alert. He was.
Earl was still sputtering.
‘Calm down. I don’t give a shit what you do. It isn’t a crime. Just some questions.’
It appeared that Earl was doing all he could to keep from exploding in anger or tears.
‘Sorry, Earl,’ Gratelli said. ‘We’ll give ’em back.’
‘You stole…’
‘This is the warrant,’ Gratelli said, pulling folded papers from his pocket. ‘A few more hours on it, Earl. You want to see it?’
Earl shook his head. ‘What difference would it make? A guy like me doesn’t have any rights.’
‘I do have a question though. Why do you shave your body?’
Earl no longer had the pink color of embarrassment, but the paleness of anger. He wasn’t answering.
‘I’m gonna go look in your bathroom,’ Gratelli said. ‘Stay here with the nice officer and cool down. Be thinking of an answer.’
It took awhile for the whir of thoughts to slow enough for his brain to think anything remotely rational. Earl brought himself back from the verge of cracking – of lashing out like he did at that guy in the Honda and that guy at the dock. It was close. He had caught himself just in time.
Now he felt defeated. Wounded. Near dead. What else could someone know about him that would bring him so much shame? He couldn’t talk to them. They wouldn’t understand. He didn’t expect to be let off, but they wouldn’t understand. They would never see how beautiful those girls were after he had brought them peace. They would never believe him. Hell, he didn’t believe himself in the light of day. Which was right? Night or day? Which one was he, the killer when it was dark? Or the asshole sissy-ass during the day? No, if he was one thing, he was a monster. A fucking monster. Life was shit. He was worthless. What was the point of going on? What difference did it make for him to be on the inside or outside? It was all the same. Inside, it was easier, wasn’t it? Didn’t have to decide things. Didn’t have to worry if someone was going to catch you, put you away. You were already away and only death could catch you and it didn’t matter because death could catch you anywhere.
It wasn’t so fuckin’ bad in jail. First few weeks or so would be hell. After that he’d adapt. It would be the same, only easier. He wouldn’t have to pay rent, fix food. Easier.
Maybe he should just tell them. Get it over with. That was what was intended for him, wasn’t it? He wasn’t smart enough to do anything good anyway. Couldn’t be a success. Yeah, he was smarter than people thought. But he’d never amount to anything and nobody fuckin’ cared.
Except Grandma O. She cared. She believed him. Loved him. Understood him. Yeah, Earl thought, he’d give in, give it all up after she was gone. He couldn’t just go off to prison or death without seeing her first anyway. He’d have to tough it out. Christ, the effort was almost too much.
He looked at the uniformed cop. Didn’t say a word. Neither did the cop. Just stood there and stared, probably laughing his ass off thinking about those pictures of Earl without any pubes, posing naked like that, oiled up and excited. Cop is thinking Earl is a retard, a perv.
‘I’m a pervert,’ Earl said to the cop. ‘So?’
Cop didn’t blink.
It was a game, Earl thought. Otherwise they’d arrest him. Now they’re harassing him. Trying to get him to break. Damned if he didn’t almost just let it all out. The tulip thing.
He’d have to hold on. He’d have to pretend real hard that he didn’t care. Even so, he felt small. Real small.
Gratelli checked the bathroom for anything that would yield a fragrance – something buttery or leathery. He sniffed at the baby oil for fragrances, replaced its cap. There was a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil. There was a plastic container of Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion. Gratelli had the same size and brand of lotion in his bathroom. The difference was that a bit of lotion had congealed at the spout of his own bottle. Falwell’s half-empty container was spotlessly clean.
‘What are you doing?’ Earl asked Gratelli when he came back in the room and checked the floor of the closet.
‘I’m taking these with me,’ he said, carrying bottles of oils and a bar of soap.
‘How am I supposed to get clean?’
‘Confess,’ Gratelli said, checking the floor of the closet.
‘Now what are you doing?’
‘Just browsing,’ came the reply.
Gratelli noticed one pair of leather sandals. Open, just one broad strap over the ankle and another over the toe. Falwell was wearing an identical pair at the moment.
Was it possible that the combination of leather and butter came from some mix of oil and the sandals? Was Julia picking up on a scent that was an accidental combination?
Gratelli looked at the bottom of the sandals. Flat. Smooth. Didn’t make that much difference. Nowhere did the attacker leave footprints.
‘I’m taking the sandals too. Keep the ones you’ve got.’ Gratelli noticed that Earl looked worried. ‘You have something to tell me, Earl?’ Gratelli said while he was still down on his knees, face in the closet. There was no answer. Gratelli stood, went to Falwell, who seemed to have himself under control. Maybe Gratelli should have pushed when the kid was upset. McClellan would have.
‘Earl. We’re closing in on the killer.’
‘Good,’ Earl said. ‘Find the bastard. Then you’ll leave me the hell alone.’
‘You sure, Earl?’
‘String him up by the balls.’
Now it was Gratelli who was confused. Earl had said it like he meant it.
‘You want that, huh?’
‘You better believe it. I want him dead and buried. Probably more than you.’
Gratelli gathered up the photos from the bed, again noticing how the scar tissue engravings looked more like rosebuds than tulips. But the fact remained, none had thorns except for the artwork left on Julia Bateman.
Tulips? Roses? Maybe it made no difference at all.