Medusa (4 page)

Tiller was an able detective, smart and resolute. He routinely dragged out folders from those filing cabinets on long unsolved cases, and with his peculiar blend of penetrating insight and good old horse sense, frequently found a solution where none before had seemed possible. Tiller was no miracle worker, no Sherlock Holmes, he was simply meticulous to the point of being dogged, and wasn’t ever in too much of a hurry to disregard any lead, no matter how weird, or seemingly outlandish. Over a hundred cases, long languishing in the archives of the Birmingham Police Department, had been solved by Detective Sergeant Amos Tiller and his over-active brow. Some of those cases had been well over thirty years old.
 

With his notorious eye for detail, and with what some of his fellow officers considered an off-beat way of thinking, Tiller had helped me track the all-but-undetectable Samson Fain across the continent of North America, from the middle of the Deep South, to his hiding place in the Arizona desert. He had been with me when we encountered Fain in the ghost town of Inspiration, where carnivals and circuses spent their winters replenishing, repairing, and practicing for the next year. It was there where the giant, fiendish clown-magician was hiding out, one place where his otherworldly size, strength, and other oddities attracted little attention.
 

Tiller had also shared my anger and despair at Fain’s escape. Our great success had been abruptly turned to failure. Now, it seemed possible that Fain had surfaced again. But Tiller didn’t appear totally convinced, at the moment. He was stroking his stubble of beard meditatively, and sipping his perpetually present cup of black coffee.
 

Detective Sergeant Tiller was a squat, intelligent-looking man, in his early fifties, who wore horn-rimmed glasses and had a head full of dense, curly brown hair. He had a scruffy, close-cropped mustache and beard, and wore a tie and suspenders. His black necktie bore a small golden shield of the Birmingham Police.
 

Tiller hadn’t always been a detective. Prior to his service with the Birmingham Police, he had joined the United States Navy at 16, spent ten years and three cruises in the Mediterranean; been married and divorced three times; and retired as a Chief Petty Officer at 36 years of age. He then began his second career as a Birmingham policeman. He was decidedly crusty, but also decidedly knowledgeable. In addition to other things, he was a voracious bookworm, and would settle down with a compendium of Dickens or the technical manual for a Soviet-era Russian Army tank with equal enthusiasm. Now, he simply knitted his brow and shook his head.
 

“It’s not his style, Roland. When this guy’s hidden, he stays hidden. No bragging notes, no hints as to his whereabouts.”
 

“He sent me a postcard after he escaped, remember.”
 

“That was different. His whole point was to say, ‘I got away. Tiller and you, Roland Longville, are idiots.’ He gave you no hint of where it was that he had fled to. This newspaper clipping is telling you, ‘Here I am. Come and get me.’ It’s just not Fain’s style, I tell you.”
 

“Right. In fact, you’re exactly right. That’s the point, you see, this newspaper clipping isn’t from him, Tiller. This is someone trying to tell me where he is.”
 

“Now, why on earth would they do that? Why would they bother you, instead of simply reporting him to the police in wherever, Louisiana? Or, if they are a big fan of yours, they could just call you up, and say, come get him, here he is.” Tiller shrugged.
 

“Broom said the same thing. I’ve thought about all of that, and I admit, I can’t understand why whoever it is doesn’t just call me, or better yet, the New Orleans police. Maybe the caller—or callers—are involved in some kind of crime, so they can’t go to the authorities. Maybe they are afraid to for some other reason. But it doesn’t matter. I can feel it. This is Fain down there, abducting these girls. Look at the M.O., Tiller. A couple of these little girls are abducted from their homes in the middle of their birthday parties. He’s reliving the Georgia Champion case, the triumph of his life.”
 

Tiller remembered all too well that Georgia Champion’s distraught father had hired me to reexamine the evidence from that case, three years after she had been taken, in the hopes of finding something, anything. In the end, Tiller and I, working together, had indeed found that little something, and that one slender lead had led the two of us down a very unlikely path.
 

Without Tiller, I doubt the case could have proceeded. It was an old case, and a strange one; but ultimately, we had found Fain, and with some help from others, we had apprehended him, though it almost cost us our lives. But in the end, I had to admit to myself, it had come to naught. I had never found Georgia Champion. Other little girls had died at Fain’s hands out in the Midwest, and Samson Fain had made good his escape. He had won the final round of the fight.

But today was different. Whatever had happened in the past, here was a clue. Fain had surfaced again. I tried to make Tiller understand that.
 

Tiller sat there, staring at the newspaper clipping, stroking his chin.
 

“Fain’s down there, Tiller. He’s in Louisiana,” I said, staring levelly at him. Tiller blinked his eyes, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was a sign he was coming to a decision, I knew. His next words didn’t fill me with a lot of hope.
 

“Now listen, Roland. You and I did good work out there in Arizona. We read the leads right. We did what no one else had been able to do. We ran the evil son of a bitch to ground. But be that as it may, I can’t go tearing off to another state every time you think Fain’s popped up.”
 

“You’re getting pretty close to retirement, Tiller. You work in the basement here all day, exclusively on cold cases. Are you saying you can’t go with me, because a case of yours just won’t wait?”
 

“Hmm. Your argument sounds vaguely familiar, Roland. I seem to remember making an unplanned trip to Arizona after you made similar comments, a few years back. But think about this. What if it isn’t him, after all? What if we go all the way down there and find out that you’re wrong?”
 

“We won’t, because I’m not wrong. We’ve danced this dance before, Tiller. You know I’m right this time, too. You sound just like you did before we went to Arizona. Remember, it was you who had the theory about him then. And you were right about where he was. Misdirection, remember? This guy knows how to hide in plain sight. That’s what’s happening again, this time in Louisiana. He’s found new stomping grounds, somewhere else he seems to fit in, but he’s doing the same thing that he used to do. He’s hurting young girls. He’s far enough away from his past that no one gives him a second glance.”
 

I drove my finger into the scrap of newsprint that lay on the table in front of Tiller.
 

“Samson Fain got away clean, but somebody has sniffed him out. Maybe they are afraid to act. Maybe they are afraid of the police. Who knows why, but they contacted me when they found out who he really was. There’s an explanation for that, too, I’m sure. We’ll have to find out the ‘why’ of it all. Come on, Tiller. Say that you’ll go with me. You have to do this.”
 

Tiller squinted again at the copied newsprint. He rubbed his chin. “You have no empirical evidence, you know.”
 

“Tiller.”
 

“There could be any number of explanations.”
 

“Tiller.”
 

“We should let the police down there know.” Tiller lifted a reproving hand against my impending protest. “Before you get angry, let me just say it—I’ll go. Maybe I’m getting a bit senile, but, God help me, I do think— maybe—you’re right. There, I said it. I hope and pray that you are. But we have to play with a few ground rules if I’m to involve myself.”
 

Tiller averted his gaze from my triumphant expression and went on.
 

“First of all, we inform the New Orleans police. Remember the hostility we got from the police in Arizona? I don’t want a repeat of that. That almost got us both killed. Not this time. I’ll give them a call personally. I’ll talk to the Chief of Detectives down there, and give them the rundown. They should know. I won’t set foot in New Orleans otherwise.”
 

“That’s fine with me. Come to think of it, maybe you had best be the one to contact the authorities,” I said. “After all, I’m just a private detective. Your status as a Sergeant of Detectives would carry more weight with the police there.”
 

“Roland, you mean to tell me that you haven’t spoken with anyone on the force down there yet?” Tiller asked with a look of surprise.
 

“The only reason that I haven’t called them already,” I replied, “is because they probably aren’t going to listen.”

* * *

They weren’t listening. The man on the other end of the line, who identified himself as Officer Gaius Dupree, was only mildly interested in Tiller’s theory, and was in no hurry to connect him with anyone on the abduction case. Tiller wondered if there were other Officer Duprees, and the officer was trying to avoid confusion, or if he just gave his given name out over the telephone because he thought it sounded so cool. Officer Gaius Dupree, man of action.
 

“Listen, Officer Dupree, I am Sergeant of Detectives Amos Tiller.”
 

“Yes. So you said, in Birmingham. Am I to understand that you are working on a case that is somehow related to the Danielle LeGrandville abduction case?”
 

“No, but I worked on a case a while back that shares striking similarities—”
 

“Hold please, detective.”
 

Tiller held the telephone away from him and glared into the receiver in anger and astonishment.
 

Eventually the voice came back on the line. “Detective Bishop isn’t in, but I’ll transfer you to his voicemail.” Tiller was transferred before he could respond.
 

Tiller had never shot a brother policeman, but he was seriously considering trying it out on this Dupree fellow. Just in the kneecap, he decided. Professional courtesy, and all that. Bishop’s voicemail came on the line.
 

“This is Detective Sergeant Amos Tiller, Birmingham Police, Homicide. I have worked on a case, in the past, one that bears remarkable similarities to the LeGrandville abduction case. The perpetrator in my case is at large and has been known to travel to new locales and repeat offend. This is an extremely dangerous offender who is on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. Samson Fain. He is a repeat child rapist and murderer. I have reason to believe that he is in your area. Please contact me as soon as possible for further information.”
 

Tiller left his information and hung up. He hoped this Bishop was a little more cooperative than Officer Dupree. For now, he set aside the idea of going over both men’s heads. He’d just have to wait for Bishop’s response.

Chapter 4

I showed up at Tiller’s house the next morning in a rental car. He eyed the small blue dodge sedan suspiciously, and then slanted his eyes at me.
 

“What in the hell’s the matter with you, Longville? Haven’t you ever heard of a Chevrolet? Didn’t we get a car just like this out in Arizona?”
 

I pretended innocence. Tiller was a man with set narrow tastes in cars, music, ladies, and most other things. I usually drove a restored brown 1979 Buick, which, to my tastes, was the best car ever produced by modern automotive science. The Buick’s V-8 engine, however, was just a little too gas indulgent for such a long drive, so I had opted for a rental car as the most economical mode of travel.
 

I did my best deadpan expression. I moved my hands around in an all-encompassing gesture, and smiled sheepishly at Tiller.
 

“It’s all they had.”
 

* * *

We had been driving a while, and I had sensed that Tiller was ruminating on something. Somewhere around Tuscaloosa, he split a seam and it all came pouring out:
 

“When we get to New Orleans, I’m going to find this Officer Dupree and kick the shit out of him,” Tiller grumbled. “I mean, imagine, the guy talking to me like I’m some rookie wannabe. I was working homicide when his mother was still wiping his bottom.”
 

I smirked and shook my head. Dupree’s callous handling of Tiller had hurt the older man’s pride. I tried to look at the encounter from Dupree’s point of view. I figured that New Orleans Police were probably pulling some long hours and handling some big caseloads. New Orleans was still very much on the mend, having suffered through Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, and the even more brutal aftermath of those two storms. I had a suspicion that Tiller’s opinion of Dupree would soften somewhat after we actually got to New Orleans, and he saw what the man had to contend with on a daily basis.
 

“The last time I was in New Orleans was before Hurricane Katrina hit.” I pointed to the trees along the side of the highway, many of which still canted at a forty-five degree angle. “Look at those trees. We’re still a hundred miles inland. Can you even imagine what it was like to be in New Orleans when the storm hit? It must have been like a nuclear war, or maybe even the end of the world.”