Ox and I talked the situation over. We concluded that the presence of uniformed officers might indeed deter the mugger, but we wanted to catch him. He certainly wouldn’t strike with us there. The solution we arrived at was to go undercover. Yes!
I used to watch The Streets of New York City and Hill Street Blues, and I thought it would be so cool to work undercover.
Unfortunately, you can’t sell many houses as an undercover realtor. So my dream had to wait.
Our problem was Ox. He’s built like a tank, and at fifty-two he was a good twenty-five years younger than the average senior population. Plus, he still had his own hair and teeth. That was a dead giveaway.
Our solution was, with the cooperation of the center administrator, to ostensibly hire Ox as a maintenance/janitorial worker. His job was to sweep floors, bus tables, and clean the pee off the bathroom walls when the old guys missed. He was thrilled.
I fit right in. Sixty-five years old, a head of gray hair, and I still had a powder blue leisure suit and a shirt with a Nehru collar from the 1960s in my closet. For some reason, I just couldn’t part with them. I just knew I’d attract the chicks like a magnet.
On Thursday, the first day of our undercover operation, Ox was introduced at lunch to the assembled seniors. He busied himself bussing tables and emptying trash. The only event of any significance was when bussing a vacated table Ox found a set of teeth the previous occupant had left by their plate.
Thank heavens for lost and found.
I, on the other hand, was doing my best to blend in. I had watched some of the guys playing pool. When they tired, I picked up a stick and looked around for a partner.
An old guy with a hump on his shoulder and a limp in his walk made his way to the table.
“Looking for a game, sonny?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied, and we racked them up. Eight ball.
I’m no slouch at pool. My grandpa taught me to play when I was old enough to hold a cue and see over the edge of the table.
We seemed pretty evenly matched, and finally only the eight ball was left on the table. We each missed a couple of shots, and on his last shot he left me set up for a perfect kill shot. I slammed the ball in the pocket, and he said, “Good game, sonny. You want to make it interesting? Say, uh, $5 a game?”
Not wanting to be a piker or sore winner, I said, “Sure, $5. I won. You break.”
He broke all right, and then he ran the table. Sucker punch! I had been set up.
Just as he was pocketing my five spot, another old guy walked up. “New fish, Ernie?” He grinned and walked away.
So much for day one.
There was nothing out of the ordinary on Friday, the second day of our undercover operation. Just old ladies in leotards with their butts stuck up in the air doing the Squatting Dog or something like that. I tried not to look.
The day was boring, but we expected more action in the evening. It was Bingo night --- one of the highlights of the Senior’s week.
The games started at seven o’clock sharp and ran until nine. Cards were fifty cents each per game, and the winner got half the pot while the other half went into a kitty for the grand prize on the last game of the evening, blackout.
The hall was packed. When I saw each player with a half dozen cards for each game, I did a mental calculation and figured that final pot would buy a lot of Metamucil.
Very methodically, the caller turned the drum filled with the precious little round balls. Each player was poised with their multicolored dabbers, frantically searching and dabbing as each number was called.
The evening went smoothly, and finally it was time for the big game. Numbers were called, and everyone waited breathlessly as the cards began to fill.
“B-3,” the caller announced.
“Bingo!” shouted Mabel Whisler, and she jumped to her feet and did a little victory dance. A collective moan was heard around the room. So near and yet so far.
As the hall was clearing, Mabel was one of the last ones to leave. She was on the podium collecting her winnings. She stuffed the envelope in her purse and headed for the parking lot. But just as she passed a janitor’s closet, the door opened, and out stepped Richard Nixon.
“Time to pay your taxes, Mabel,” he said and grabbed her purse. I took off after him. Ox was cleaning yellow stains off the wall beside the urinals when he heard Mabel scream. He bolted out of the can and stood face to face with Richard Nixon.
“You’re about to be impeached,” he snarled.
Seeing this mountain of muscle between himself and the door to the parking lot, Nixon did an about face and sprinted back past Mabel and into the bingo hall.
I was just coming out the door when he blew past me. He was headed toward the emergency exit at the far end of the hall. As he leaped onto the podium, he gave the bingo table a flip. The cage with the balls flew into the air and crashed to the floor, exploding and scattering bingo balls everywhere.
I turned to pursue, but I saw the disaster too late. My momentum carried me forward, I hit the sea of balls, my feet flew out from under me, and again, I saw those stars as my tailbone landed squarely on B-17.
I heard the emergency bell sound as the mugger burst through the exit and out into the night. What a disaster.
Our only consolation was that the mugger dropped Mabel’s purse during his frantic escape.
On Saturday, the third day of our undercover operation, there was excitement in the air. It was a special occasion, the Seniors’ Prom.
While the center has a dance event every Saturday, this one was special. Just like high school, the hall was decorated with multicolored streamers, paper tablecloths, and centerpieces --- the whole works. And the coup de grâce, a live band!
The seniors paid $5 a pop to cover expenses. We figured that since the mugger didn’t get away with his loot the night before, the take from the entrance fees might lure him to strike again. After the previous night’s debacle, we concluded that with so many people to watch in such a large area we could use some extra eyes, so we invited Mary and the professor to the prom. At seventy-five and eighty-five years respectively, they, of course, would fit right in.
When I told the professor of our botched job and of our plan for the evening, I was comforted by his words from the master: “Our greatest glory is not in never failing but rising every time we fall.”
Great words to live by.
Mary, on the other hand, had a different spin on things. “Hell yes, I’ll go,” she said. “I love to dance.”
As we arrived at the hall that evening, we could feel the electricity in the air.
Seniors love to dance. And I mean really dance. Not just the ‘stand in one spot and wiggle your butt with your hands in the air crap’ that youngsters today call dancing. These people grew up in the Big Band era. Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Artie Shaw. Ahhh! Those were the days. They knew how to waltz, foxtrot, and swing. A few of the crowd even mustered up a tango.
There’s something magical about seniors at a dance. You will see these good folks coming from the parking lot with walkers and canes, and you immediately think, “Wow! This is gonna be a real hoot!” But the minute the music starts, it’s as if twenty years and most of the ravages of their dotage have fallen away. They dance. And dance. And dance.
This evening was extra special because of the live music. Naturally, the band consisted of four old guys who billed themselves as “The Grateful Not To Be Dead.”
Wonder where they got that?
Our town is known for its Kansas City jazz. The Eighteenth and Vine district is every bit as famous as Beal Street in Memphis or the French Quarter in New Orleans. There is even a jazz museum there. Good music has been coming from Vine Street since the turn of the century.
All the guys in the band had, at some time, played in the clubs or the fancy ballrooms of that era. You can take the man out of the music, but you can’t take the music out of the man, and these guys would get together to jam at the drop of a hat.
We were all set. Ox busied himself in the hallway and bathroom area, as he had on the previous night, to watch the main entrance. I had the professor take a table by the little old gal taking the money, and Mary was seated by the emergency exit. I circulated around the room trying to spot anything unusual.
The professor was quite dapper in a brown tweed suit and bowtie. Mary had come in her best floral muumuu. I can only say that with this full billowing garment draped over her two hundred-pound frame, it looked like someone had pitched a rose-colored tent over a Christmas tree. A sight to behold.
In fact, when Mary took her seat at the table, one old guy turned to his buddy and remarked, “Hey, Ralph. Get a load of this. You gotta see it to believe it.”
Mary fired right back, “Well, Buster, then you better believe it, ‘cause you ain’t gonna get to see it.” Can’t get ahead of that girl.
Later that evening, an old geezer slipped into the chair next to her and whispered, “Hey, sweetie, do you believe in the hereafter?”
“Well, of course I do,” Mary replied.
“Then you understand what I’m here after,” he said.
Mary gave him a look that would peel paint, and he quietly slipped back into the crowd to look for a more willing lass. Ruth Buzzi would be proud.
The evening was soon coming to an end. Tuxedo Junction, In the Mood, and all the old favorites had been played. Finally it was time for the last dance of the night. As the strains of Hoagy Carmichael’s Stardust filled the room, every senior was on the floor.
Then suddenly a figure burst into the room, grabbed the cash box, and bolted for the door.
“There he is,” someone shouted. “It’s Nixon!”
As the night before, Ox emerged from the powder room to block the main entrance. I happened to be by the kitchen door on the opposite side of the room.
So the mugger, as he did the previous night, elbowed his way toward the emergency exit. Only tonight, standing between him and freedom was a two hundred-pound obstacle dressed in a pink floral muumuu with a thirty-six inch Hillrich and Bradsby.
He stopped short. Mary looked him in the eye. “You feel lucky tonight, sucker? Well, do you?”
Dirty Mary.
The mugger’s shoulders drooped, he dropped the cash box, and with a sob, we heard Richard Nixon wail, “I am not a thief.”
The lights came up and I approached the mugger. I cuffed him, and as I removed the mask, a collective gasp came from the gathered crowd. “Louie.”
“I didn’t want to do it,” he cried. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Martha is so sick. She’s dying of cancer. I needed the money for her.”
Stunned silence. One of their own had fallen.
We got our man.
Justice? I suppose so.
But sometimes I think Lady Justice wears that blindfold to wipe the tears from her eyes.
CHAPTER 13
Jack Ballard heard the knock on his office door.
It was Brenda Martin. She had attacked her new role as office manager with a vengeance.
He knew why she had come calling. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but he figured that he might as well get it over with.
“Come in,” he said tersely.
Brenda wasn’t one to beat around the bush. “Jack, I know this has been unpleasant for you with the Professional Standards Hearing coming up next week, and I understand that, but you didn’t show up for your floor duty yesterday. You didn’t even call to let us know. You left us short handed. I talked with our owner and he agreed that if you’re going to remain in this office, we’ll need your co-operation.”
He didn’t even look up from his computer. “Uhhh, sure Brenda. Sorry about that. I’ll try to be more considerate in the future.”
She stared at him for a moment, turned and huffed away.
He would have loved nothing more than to choke the life out of her; to look into her eyes as she fought for her final breath, but he knew that could never be. If his replacement turned up dead, he would be at the top of the suspect list.
The Duncan woman had proved to be an acceptable surrogate.
Julie Bowen had gone out of her way to smirk at him every time they had crossed paths in the office. Samantha Green had temporarily quenched the fire that was burning in his belly.
By attacking agents outside his office that had no connection to his current problems, the cops were looking everywhere but at him.
He knew that if he were to continue, he would have to change his tactics. He had taken Nancy from an open house and Samantha from a vacant listing. Fear had spread throughout the real estate community and agents were on high alert. Brenda had even had a sales meeting featuring a distributor of stun guns and pepper spray.
These thoughts were running through his mind when he sensed someone at his door.
Julie Bowen had paused briefly and when she caught his eye, she whispered, “See you at the hearing, Jack. I’ve REALLY been looking forward to it.”
Before he could reply, she was gone, but the comment of the vicious little twit, on top of Brenda’s veiled threat, was more than he could bear. He felt the rage building again and he needed to get away from the office before he did something foolish that would draw attention.
He shut down his computer, locked his office and headed to his car.
He sat there for a full ten minutes, holding the steering wheel in a death grip.
When the rage finally subsided, he pulled out of the lot and headed south on Main Street.
When he pulled up to the stoplight at 39th, he glanced at the car in the next lane. The driver was Lucy Lindquist, an agent from a competitor’s office that he hoped to someday ask out to dinner.
Their eyes met and he waved, but Lucy quickly turned away. The light changed to green and she sped away, but not before he saw the disgusted look on her face. Bowen’s allegations of sexual harassment had spread throughout the real estate community and even though they had not been substantiated, the damage to his reputation had been done.
He followed the taillights of her black Caddy into the Plaza. He knew that she lived in one of the high-rise apartments that overlooked the famous shopping district.
All he wanted was a chance to explain --- to tell her his side of the story.
She turned into the underground parking garage attached to her building. Ballard followed and parked a few cars from her in a vacant spot.
She was surprised to see him when she stepped out of her car.
“Jack! Have you been following me?”
“Hi Lucy, I just wanted a chance to talk to you for a minute.”
“We don’t have anything to talk about, so please, just leave!”
He continued to move towards her. She reached into her purse and grabbed the can of pepper spray. “Get away from me you pervert --- or I’ll have to use this!”
Jack heard the stinging words, saw the spray, and suddenly, it was not Lucy Lindquist standing before him, but his mother, belittling and threatening as she had always done, and he was not about to endure it anymore.
We had missed three days of squad meetings while undercover and were anxious to find out what progress had been made in the apprehension of the “Realtor Rapist,” as he had been dubbed by the press.
Bad news.
The autopsy on Samantha Green had produced exactly what was found on Nancy Duncan. Nothing. Same cause of death. Same trauma. Same torture.
Interviews with family and coworkers had produced no viable leads. Upon searching the victims’ apartments, they found no evidence that indicated that anyone other than the occupant had been there. Dead ends everywhere.
Then more bad news.
The captain arrived looking weary and dejected. “Another body was found floating in Troost Lake,” he said. “She’s been tentatively identified as Lucy Lindquist, age fifty-five, and, of course, a realtor.”
The room fell silent. We were all doing our best, but it just wasn’t good enough. A week had passed since the first murder
, and we were no closer to the killer than the day we started
According to Maggie, the realtor community had come together as never before. Each office had conducted classes on self-defense and how to use the pepper spray that each carried on their key chains. Office policies had been put in place requiring agents to leave word with the office secretary of every scheduled appointment, and agents were cautioned to go out in twos, if possible. E-mails had been sent warning agents to be wary of male cash buyers they didn’t already know.
With everyone on high alert, the opportunities for the killer to strike at an open house or vacant house diminished. So he had taken a different tack.
Apparently he had stalked Lucy and followed her home. Lucy lived in a high rise on the Country Club Plaza. The building had underground parking, and the killer had followed her there and attacked as she exited her car.
Forensics had found traces of pepper spray and blood at the scene. Lucy had fought back. But she was no match.
The captain introduced Dr. Cecil Billings, a forensic psychologist, a profiler.
His examination of evidence in the three killings indicated that we were dealing with someone whose violent rage was directed specifically toward powerful women.
He told us that rapists, in general, fall into this category. Their hatred of women is manifested in their dominance and control of the women’s minds and bodies and their ability to inflict pain. Some rapists are wound so tight they can’t achieve penetration on their own, so they use other objects to achieve the end. This seemed to be the M.O. of this killer.
He explained that this hatred often originated early in life, initiated by a cruel, domineering, or uncaring mother. Historically, these men cannot sustain a satisfactory long-term relationship, and if they do marry, it ends in abuse and divorce.
These men are especially vulnerable to women in power. It’s bad enough to have to endure these women in a social setting, but when subjected to a situation, such as at work, where a woman has been given a position of authority, the rage can boil over.
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