“Yeah.” Ruddy rose and walked to and fro in the office. “Could be.” His voice was high-pitched and tense. “Anything could be,” he added, hoping to wipe out any untoward meaning that might have crept into his voice.
“But, Ruddy, do you get the kind of ‘feeling’ that might have been in our slayer?” Ed asked. “I need not continue to spin out these hypothetical situations.”
“I get it,” Ruddy said crisply.
“Now, how do we start looking for such a man?” Ed asked.
“Beats me,” Ruddy growled. “I’ll have the newspapers searched for any untoward happenings of an odd nature.” He kept his voice neutral. “You never can tell what’ll turn up.”
“Right,” Ed said, scribbling on a pad of paper.
“We’ll have the high school and university examination records in this area gone over to see if there were any failures that had a bad emotional reaction upon the student,” Ruddy said.
“Right,” Ed agreed, sribbling again.
“I’m going to have all bankruptcy proceedings in this area looked into,” Ruddy added.
“Not a bad idea at all,” Ed said. “Since we have nothing, something just might turn up.”
“And we must leave no stone unturned to trace that .38,” Ruddy said.
“It was odd about that gun,” Ed said reflectively. “It was the same gun used in all three murders. That’s another fact that convinces me that there was one murderer.”
“I want all suicides checked into again,” Ruddy said. “Not only might the fool have killed himself, but he might have left traces of evidence in his life that could lead us to a solution.”
“Right.”
“I want all of those psychopath confessions reexamined,” Ruddy ordered.
“Right.”
“I want the correspondence, signed and anonymous, relating to this case reread and reassessed,” Ruddy ordered.
“Not bad.”
“As discreetly as possible, I want to check, in some way or other, all psychiatric records of those appealing for help at the various hospitals and mental clinics,” Ruddy said.
“Good.”
“In order to facilitate our work, we must somehow determine if our murderer lives in Brentwood Park or not,” Ruddy said, remembering the Professor Louis Redfield he had met a few hours past.
“Yes,” Ed murmured. “That’s baffling.”
“Ed, there is a secret—no I oughtn’t say that—but a little-known path leading into those woods—”
“No! How do you know?”
“A professor at the University of Chicago told me that,” Ruddy said softly.
“There’s no mention of that in these dossiers,” Ed said.
“It seems to have been overlooked.”
“Looks like a lot has been overlooked in this case,” Ed sighed. “Say, where does that path begin?”
“From a slum area near the railroad tracks,” Ruddy explained. “It mounts over a huge rock, then leads to a creek, across which it is not difficult to negotiate, and then on into the woods.”
“Goddamn.”
“Ed, I want to start backward in this case,” Ruddy went on. “Forget the preacher. That priest. Let’s start with Heard Jr. We will be able to determine quickly if the cases are linked. If we get any lead on how Heard was killed, then we’ll know if the others were linked to him. That’ll save us time. And Heard’s case is closer to us in time.”
“Right.”
Suddenly the teletype machine began to whir clackingly. Ruddy’s and Ed’s eyes turned to it. Ruddy picked up the jutting and sliding tape of paper and began to read it. He was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. He lifted the receiver.
“Chief Turner speaking.”
“Chief, this is Lieutenant Parrish reporting. A report from Officer Only says that a workman has reported to him that the body of a young woman has been found dead in the woods above Brentwood Park. Shot to death. We’re holding the workman, though he seems to be telling a straight story. I’ve notified the medical exaiminer’s office. Three squad cars have responded to calls and are on the way.”
“What part of the woods is the body in?”
“Near the center,” Lieutenant Parrish said. “Your official car’s ready for you if you plan to go.”
“Right. I’ll be right down,” Ruddy said, slamming down the receiver.
“What’s up?” Ed asked.
“Looks like we won’t have to bother about starting the investigation of this goddamn case in reverse,” Ruddy said. “It’s opened again, it seems.”
“No?”
“Yeah. The body of a young woman, shot to death, has just been reported as found in the center of Brentwood Park.”
“Crawling Baby Jesus Christ,” Ed exclaimed.
“Let’s go, Ed.”
“Hell, yes!”
Not another word was spoken until the two officers had rushed down and gotten into the waiting car, their lips pursed tight, their eyes stony and hard and unblinking.
CHAPTER 12
Midnight was striking on all the town’s clocks as the police-car’s siren screamed into the balmy April air. Amidst high purple scudding clouds, a few faint yellow stars were visible. The car’s resilient springs jolted them like a pitching ship as they sought to equalize the rutted streetcar tracks. Ruddy and Ed were alone in the back seat and two officers were in front—one of whom was a chauffeur at the steering wheel, his face hunched grimly forward. Ruddy and Ed sat hunched forward, tense, their fingers holding smoldering cigarettes that they had lit and had forgot.
“It’s the goddamnest thing,” Ed commented.
“Yeah.”
“If it’s the murderer again, then it rules out some of your suggestions,” Ed said.
“Don’t want to sound sadistic,” Ruddy muttered, “but I’d not be sorry if it is the murderer. At least then we’d get a line on ’im and maybe keep ’im from killing again.”
“Yes. Since this girl’s dead already…and we were just thinking about starting with Heard’s son—”
“Hunh?”
“It’s strange, this new killing. Wonder if it is really linked with the others?”
“Hard to tell. We’ll know something soon.”
“Sleepy?”
“No. You?”
“No. But you didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.”
“I was a bit dopey. Earlier today. But I’m more wide awake now than I ever was in all of my life.”
“It’s always like that,” Ed sympathized.
“Say,” Ruddy asked of the chauffeur, leaning forward, “is your radio-telephone working?”
“Yes, sir. It’s right before you, down a bit toward the floorboard.”
“Oh, yes.”
“If you pick up the receiver and wait till the light flashes green, you’ll get a line.”
“Thanks.” Ruddy lifted the black receiver, and when the light glowed green, he asked the operator amid brittle static for Commissioner King’s office. When put through, he was told that naturally the commissioner was not in but that he could leave any messages he wanted. Ruddy informed the secretary that she must tell the commissioner: he was canceling the inaugural ceremony, scheduled for two o’clock in the afternoon, and he was also postponing the slated staff conference, which was to be held at four P.M.; that he would be absent in the field, giving his reasons as “the urgent nature of the new developments that were taking place in Brentwood Park.”
He hung up, feeling free now to give himself over without reserve to what lay ahead.
“Gosh, you weren’t an hour too soon, Chief,” the chauffeur said as Ruddy hugged the car handle, balancing himself against the tight pull of a steep curve.
“Looks like it,” Ruddy mumbled in an uncommunicative tone. “No facts as yet on this new find?”
“Nothing, Chief. Just what came over the wire about finding a girl’s body.”
“Hummn…”
“A workman found the body?” E
d asked.
“Yes, sir. But he seems on the level.”
“Funny, eh? It comes just a bit after you took the oath of office,” Ed commented.
“I was thinking about that,” Ruddy said almost defensively.
Ten minutes later, both Ruddy and Ed, following an officer with a flashlight, plunged into high wet grass and thick tree leaves and struggled toward an area ahead, which was illuminated by blinding spotlights. Yeah, a regular paradise for muggers. The cuffs of his trousers were becoming heavy and waterlogged from the limp, dew-wet grass.
“We must map out this little-used path in these woods right away,” Ruddy growled angrily.
“Yeah. This surely ain’t it,” an officer volunteered.
“Why in hell would a young girl come in here?” Ed asked, more of himself than of Ruddy.
“You got me there. I’d rather walk a mile on asphalt than wade through here,” Ruddy said. “But some people have odd ideas.”
“Her body must be somewhere near that path one keeps hearing about,” Ed hazarded.
“Maybe.”
“These damned wild woods are more frequented than we imagine,” Ed observed.
“People who live in cities dote on savage places like this,” Ruddy said.
“Looks like it.”
Far ahead, through wet leaves, Ruddy could glimpse bits of dazzling yellow light.
“Not far now,” the officer grunted.
“I see the lights,” Ed announced.
A minute later the officer said, “Here we are, sir.”
He pulled aside a bunch of slender tree branches so that Ruddy and Ed could step into the full glare of the circularly grouped spotlights. A dozen or so officers and plainclothesmen stood in a rough semicircle. Ruddy pressed forward and a few officers made way for him, calling out softly: “It’s the Chief; let ’im in.”
Ruddy halted abruptly. He stood gazing down at the prone body of a young girl who lay half on her stomach and half on her side, as though her body had twisted itself while in the act of pitching headlong toward the ground. The girl’s body pressed down wet weeds more than two feet tall.
“Has anybody seen that path?” Ruddy called out.
“Yes, sir. It’s about half a mile from here.”
“Then she was running, trying to dodge somebody,” Ruddy said. “Even a damn fool wouldn’t walk in here.”
“That seems about it, Chief,” somebody chimed in.
A cheap, white handbag, the handle of which was still clutched in the still, waxen, stiff fingers, lay partly opened with most of its contents spilled out: a handkerchief, now wet and soggy; a brown comb with a few strands of blond hair; an address book, swollen from humidity; a gilt-colored lipstick; a powder case; a cheap paperback love novel, now swelling with dew; a billfold fairly thick with what seemed like paper money; a few opened letters; a batch of keys; and other odd items. A light wind was still blowing and it was agitating the girl’s cheap skirt, which was pulled a few inches above her right knee, revealing a short sweep of white thigh. The girl’s tiny hat was still on her head, tied by a pink ribbon under her chin, the knotted bow out of sight now. Both of the nylon stockings had been ripped. The long blond hair, worn loose and tied in a ponytail at the back of her head, was tangled and wet about her face and shoulders. A tiny band of gold ring—not a wedding ring—showed in soft glints around a dim blue stone on the middle finger of the girl’s left hand. Ruddy had to stoop and peer in order to study the girl’s face, and he saw a bullet wound high in the middle of her forehead.
“Felled like an ox,” he breathed.
“Done at point-blank range,” Ed said.
“Exactly like the other wounds,” Ruddy said.
“A .38?” Ed asked, looking up.
“Yes, sir. Seems like it.”
“Identification?” Ruddy asked.
“Yes sir, Chief.” The voice was that of Captain Snell.
“Oh, Captain. You’re there,” Ruddy complimented the man.
“And I’m amazed to see you here, knowing you had no sleep last night,” Captain Snell said. “We’ve been into the handbag. Her name is Janet Wilder. Aged twenty. We got that off her Social Security card. She lives at 931 Beachcomb Street—in Brentwood—that’s way over where there’s a new housing development. She worked as a wrapper, it seemed, for Swift’s, in the stockyards.”
“Any signs of sexual molestation?”
“No sign of any. Of course, the coroner will be able to tell definitely. But I’d say no, from the looks of her clothes,” the captain reported.
“Anything seems to be missing?”
“Doesn’t seem like it so far,” the captain said. “We’re going to check to find out what she had on her, besides what we see here. It seems that she’s just been paid off. Her paycheck is here—calling for eighty-one dollars and sixteen cents, minus income tax. And there is four dollars and forty cents in cash in the handbag.”
Ruddy stood and pulled off his cap and felt the cool night air on his hot forehead.
“What was she doing in these goddamned woods?” Ruddy demanded with savage compassiion.
“Looks like she was taking a short-cut, Chief,” somebody said.
“She took one.” Ruddy was wild with impotent grief.
“We just heard about that path tonight,” Ed murmured.
“Any idea when she died?” Ruddy asked.
“The coroner’s rough estimate is about two P.M. this afternoon—that is, Chief, yesterday afternoon, for it’s after midnight now. She must’ve died at once. Rigor mortis is beginning to set in.”
“No signs of a struggle?”
“None whatsoever.”
“No clues?”
“No, not yet. About five of our officers are fanning out with flashlights and beating the bushes. We’ll be able to see better tomorrow morning.”
“This is undoubtedly a repetition of those three past murders,” Ed stated stoutly.
“Seems like it,” several voices sounded at once.
“Captain Snell, get to her home and notify her kin and pick up whatever you can from ’em,” Ruddy ordered, sighing.
“Yes, sir, Chief.”
“Photos have been taken?”
“Yes, sir. They just finished, sir.”
“Go over that handbag for fingerprints—just to make sure that we don’t overlook any bets,” Ruddy ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
“Any sign of footprints at all?” he asked of the assembled officers.
“None, sir,” Captain Snell answered. “You see, this grass here is now wet with dew. Whatever could have been seen is now gone. The dew made it rise and take its old stance again, and the leaves, if they’ve been pushed aside, have also gone back to their original position.”
“Yeah. I see that.” Ruddy sighed. “We never seem to be in time for our killer.”
“Here comes somebody,” Ed announced, pointing to an advancing cone of yellow light that wobbled in the darkness, a wobble that indicated a man walking.
Jock Weidman pushed forward, bareheaded, his face red and streaked with sweat and wet and showing scratches and bruises where tree twigs had whipped about his cheeks.
“I lost my cap somewhere,” he said idly.
“Anything, Jock?” Ruddy called.
“Hi, Chief,” Jock answered. “I’ve found something. A hole…freshly dug…about a quarter of a mile from here. Looks to me like somebody was digging up a buried gun. In fact, there seems to be the shape of something that looks like a .38 molded into the clay there.”
“Jesus…let’s get there!” Ruddy yelled.
“A clue of some kind at last,” Ed yelled.
“I want a cast made of that hole at once,” Ruddy ordered, plunging forward.
“Chief, the dew is still falling,” Jock said.
“That’s why we must shelter that hole,” Ruddy said.
“I did, Chief,” Jock said. “I put newspapers over it.”
“God, good for you, Jock,”
Ruddy thanked his man.
“Get that plaster guy here quick and let ’im take a cast of this,” Ruddy called.
“Yes, sir,” an eager chorus of voices answered.
“Don’t know if there is any chance of fingerprints,” Ed spoke pessimistically, panting as they half ran and half walked.
“Maybe not,” Ruddy agreed.
Jock was at their side, puffing, for he had been over this route and was now retraveling it. Ruddy saw that his coat was sticking to his skin.
“Jock, get to a car and get your clothes changed as soon as you show us this hole,” Ruddy advised.
“It’s nothing, Chief.”
“No backtalk. Do as I tell you,” Ruddy scolded him. “Don’t want any of my men getting sick on me.”
“Okay, Chief.” Jock’s voice held a note of gratitude.
Five minutes later they stood over a gaping brown hole amid tall grass.
“Goddamn,” Ruddy breathed. “Now, what made ’im rush here and dig up that gun?”
“We won’t know maybe till we catch ’im,” Captain Snell murmured.
“Captain, get to that girl’s house, like I told you,” Ruddy snapped.
“Yes sir, Chief,” Captain Snell answered and vanished.
“Not much of a chance for any kind of prints there.” Ed spoke studiedly. “Sometimes a print will adhere from one object to another. But that clay is already losing its shape. This is a goddamn luckless case.”
“Well, take a mold quick, anyhow,” Ruddy pressed. “You can never tell. Maybe that .38 has certain defects that’ll show. Now, we’ve got to find that gun. The killer has it. No wonder we could never find it—with its being buried here. Who in all hell would’ve thought of digging in this godforsaken wood for a .38? But what is he going to do with it? He’s got one victim with it already, but he did not dig it up for that. He’s going to use it. He thought enough of digging it up to risk being seen, for he knows we’re looking for ’im high and low.” Ruddy looked at the circle of officers flanking him. “Men, we are looking for a desperate killer. He’s reached into our force and laid low the son of one of our men, Detective Heard. Before that, for some fantastic reason, he killed four times, twice each time he struck. Now, this is the sixth killing. I’m canceling all leaves. The search for this killer has priority over everything. And I’m asking Commissioner King to make it priority number one for the whole city of Chicago! Our police department is not going to rest until this killer has been had by the heels!”
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