Sacred and Profane

The detective pulled out his badge and ID, and as Pode read, a look of horrified recognition swept across his face.

“You’re the cop who murdered my father.”

Decker stuffed the badge back in his jacket and said, “We have a search warrant for this premise and an arrest warrant for Cameron Smithson.”

“Cameron isn’t here,” Harrison said quickly.

“Where is he?” Marge asked.

“I don’t know,” his father answered. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing barging in on citizens like this?”

The feigned outrage did little to conceal the obvious fright that was overtaking Smithson. Decker bore into him.

“Unless you want an obstruction charge tacked onto whatever else we find, I suggest you let us get on with our work.”

“Call Cahill and Jarrett,” Pode said softly to Smithson. “And don’t say anything until someone gets here.”

“Dustin, I think-”

“Harrison, just do as I say!”

Decker walked around the room, tangled his leg in the switchboard cord, tripped, and ripped it out of the wall.

“Goddam!” he swore. “I sure am clumsy.”

He searched his pockets and pulled out some change.

“Here. There must be a pay phone in the building somewhere. The call’s on me.”

“Generous,” Pode said, glaring at the open palm. “Keep your change. I don’t want anything from you.” He turned his attention to Smithson. “Use the phone in the lobby, Harry.”

“I think I need some air, Pete,” Marge said. “I’ll walk you down, Mr. Smithson.”

“A phone call to my lawyer is confidential, Detective,” Smithson said, trying to remain calm.

“Yeah, but a phone call to your son warning him off could get you in a lot of trouble,” Marge replied. “I’m only thinking of your welfare.”

“Make the call, Harrison,” Pode ordered.

As they left, Marge gave Decker a surreptitious wink. God bless Marjorie, he thought. If only he and the woman he loved were as attuned to each other as the two of them were.

He started sorting through the piles of papers while trying to size up Pode. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the stockbroker methodicaly remove a box from a chair, pick up a copy of Forbes that was lying around, and bury himself in the magazine. He looked nervous but still in control. Well, let’s see if something can’t be done about that.

“You know, Pode,” he began. “I’ve been checking into you.”

“Do tell.”

“I’ve been checking into you like the way I checked into your father.” Decker pulled out a ledger and opened it. “Like I checked into your mother, like I checked into your brother…”

Pode didn’t react.

“Tell me something, Dustin. Did Earl ever stop wetting his bed?”

Pode’s only response was fingers gripping the edges of the magazine.

“He didn’t?” Decker pressed.

A small laugh emanated from behind the periodical.

“I guess not, huh?”

Silence.

“Hey, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. A lot of boys are bed wetters. I’m just curious if Earl ever licked the problem.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I would if I could find him,” said Decker. “Heard from him lately?”

Silence.

Decker had asked the morgue to hold off notifying Pode about his brother’s death. Just now Pode had responded acerbically, without fear or trepidation. Either Dustin didn’t know that Earl had died or he didn’t care.

“Where’s Cameron?” Decker asked.

“I don’t have to answer your questions,” Pode said. “Just do what you have to do and get out of here.”

“You’re right,” Decker agreed. “You don’t have to answer my questions, but I can still ask ’em. For instance, how come your mama had such a hard time opening her bedroom door to escape that fire she died in?”

Pode slammed down the magazine. His face had turned white.

“I don’t have to listen to this!”

Decker ignored him. “Now sometimes people can’t turn door handles because they’re just too damn hot to touch,” he went on. “But that’s usually the case when the fire starts on the outside, not on the inside. And if Mama did grab a red-hot handle, some of her flesh would have seared onto the metal. That didn’t happen. Now how could she not have had enough strength to turn a door handle and get the hell out of there?”

“I’m going to take a walk,” Pode said.

“I don’t think so.”

“And how do you propose to stop me?”

“How about I’m delaying you for questioning? Material witness to a triple homicide.”

“Is that official?”

“If you want it to be.”

Pode said nothing, turned around, and started straightening some papers.

“Don’t touch anything,” Decker commanded.

Clenching his jaw, Pode went back to Forbes. Decker sca

“Now I know that your mother was drunk that day. In fact she was a chronic alcoholic. And chronic lushes have a keen sense of survival.” He dumped the contents of the carton of the floor and began to sort through the scattered papers. “See, what I figure is maybe Mama was trying to get out from the inside and someone was holding the door from the outside.

Carefully, Pode placed the magazine on the floor and went to the water cooler. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead.

“As long as you’re up, how about you getting me a drink?” Decker asked.

“Get it yourself!”

“C’mon. Don’t be sore.”

“Fuck off!”

Decker got up, kicked another box and, walked over to the cooler. Dustin walked away, but Decker dogged his heels.

“Did you ever see that special with Farrah Fawcett that was on the boob tube a couple of years back? The Burning Bed, I think it was.”

Dustin sat back down in his chair and didn’t answer. Decker stood behind him, peering down over his shoulders.

“I remember when the real case hit the papers,” he said. “Francine Hughes murdered her husband by burning him to death after putting up with years of physical abuse.”

“Are you insinuating anything?” Pode croaked out.

“Nah,” he said, dismissing the thought as absurd. “Want to know what I found out about you?”

“I’m not particularly interested in what you found out,” Dustin said. He had interlaced his fingers, but the hands were still shaking.

“I looked at your medical records and found out you were an abused kid,” Decker said. “Damn shame no one reported it back then. Your mother used to get drunk a lot and whop the shit out of you. You want to know what else I found out?”

Dustin didn’t respond.

“Earl was an abused child also. But when he reached five, something amazing happened. His pediatric records stopped showing signs of physical abuse. Now yours were full of them clear up through your teens.”

Pode began to breathe heavily.

“Now this is just speculation-”

“I’m not interested,” uttered Pode weakly. But Decker went on.

“When Earl was seven, he was hauled into the doctor for treatment of burns on his hands. At first I thought this was abuse also, but then I started thinking. Burns for abuse are usually on places where people don’t see them-the back, the stomach, the butt. Burns on the hand indicate a kid playing with fire.

“See, that’s why I asked you about the bed-wetting. Fire-starting and bed-wetting, along with cruelty to animals, are a triad you find in a lot of psychopathic teenagers. I’m wondering if Earl ever tortured anything living-like bugs or pets…or people?”

Pode refused to answer. Decker began to circle him-a vulture ready to swoop.

“Let’s get a little more hypothetical,” he said. “For some reason Earl stopped getting beat up by your mother. Now I, being a curious kind of guy, think to myself, why? Maybe Earl was a weird kid who played with fire to scare Mama off, huh? What do you think about that?”

“You have a vivid imagination.”

“Earl started setting fire to Mama’s bed as she slept off her stupors. And she was a bright lady who got the message real fast. Of course she never told anyone that so