The Assailant

by James Patrick Hunt

  Hastings shrugged. “I don’t know. I just thought I’d check.”

  “You have a distrustful nature.”

  “Right,” Hastings said. “How long did you know Reesa Woods?”

  “For about a year. Ever since she started working for the Flower Shop.”

  “You worked there before her?”

  “A couple of months before.”

  “How well did you know her?”

  “It’s hard to say. Fairly well, I think. We worked a few trade shows together. She was nice. Trying to save some money, trying to get ahead, like most of us.”

  “Was she?”

  “Was she what?”

  “Was she saving money?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked her.”

  “Did she ever ask you for money?”

  “No.” Rita Liu hesitated. “No, she never asked me for money. But she did stay with me for a couple of weeks.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. It’s small, I know. But she had a falling out with her roommates, and . . . she needed a place to stay.”

  “Roommates. Who were they?”

  “It was a guy and a girl. I think they were students at UMSL.”

  “Know their names?”

  “Larry and Jen. Short for Jennifer. I met them once.”

  Klosterman said, “What happened?”

  “You mean, why did she move out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She never told me straight. But I think something happened with her and the guy. The guy was with the girl, but somehow got hooked onto Reesa.”

  Hastings said, “Did they have a sexual relationship?”

  “I don’t know. Reesa says they didn’t. She said that they didn’t do anything, but that he tried. Or that he was always staring at her. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But she may not have been honest about that.”

  “You mean, honest with you.”

  “Right.”

  “Would you say she was a deceitful person?”

  “Well,” Rita said, “we’re all deceitful at times, aren’t we? She probably had something going with him, Jen found out, and . . . that was it.”

  “Do you know if they knew what she did for a living?” “I don’t fully know. But I think they didn’t. I met them once, like I told you. And Reesa told me, you know, to keep quiet about what we do. And when I met them, they just seemed sort of clueless.”

  “About her?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean, they seemed like kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hastings said, “Unlike you.”

  She caught his meaning then and took a moment before responding. Sitting in that chair with her legs tucked up, she looked a little older and wiser now. She said, “You could say that.”

  Hastings said, “You’re a student.”

  “Yes.”

  “At the undergraduate school.”

  “Yes. Are you interrogating me now?”

  Hastings had his eyes down on his notepad. He raised his hand in a sort of apology. “Just background, miss. There’s nothing personal about it.”

  “Hmmm,” she said. Disapproving.

  Hastings said, “Do you have friends at the school?”

  “Not close friends. They’re boys, mostly. And boys don’t interest me.”

  Hastings mentally sighed. She was trying to prove something to him now. He said, “Right. But the other students, they don’t know about this other life you have, do they?”

  “No.” She seemed proud of it. A performer, playing two distinct roles persuasively.

  “Okay, let me ask you something: was Reesa Woods as good at hiding it as you are?”

  “No,” she said, with no hesitation.

  “And apart from this Larry and Jen, you don’t think there was a boyfriend in her life?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “How about a girlfriend?”

  “No. No girlfriend.”

  “And you don’t know the last name of these roommates?”

  “No,” she said. “The guy, I think, works as a barback at McGill’s.”

  “The one downtown?”

  “Yes. They closed the one in West County last year. The girl may work there too, but I’m not sure.”

  “Apart from that,” Hastings said, “any customer you’re aware of that you would have concerns about?”

  “Of hers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I didn’t know them all. In the business, you learn not to invade another girl’s turf. You know what I mean?”

  “Sure,” Klosterman said.

  Rita Liu said, “She never complained to me about anyone. I mean, she never said that any of them scared her. They can creep you out, but making you scared is something different.”

  Maybe, Hastings thought. And maybe not. It was one of the problems with being a prostitute. They had to delude themselves in some way. One way to do it was to tell themselves they were able to perceive character traits that non-pros could not, but that was rarely the case. Hastings said, “Did she say anything about men who gave her the creeps?”

  “Not specifically. I mean, you know, she bitched about the fat guys, the ones with bad hygiene. The usual stuff.”

  “What about ones getting too rough?”

  “She never told me.”

  “What about ones getting too possessive?”

  “Again, she never told me. Listen, you know how it is: most of the customers were pretty passive, suburban types. They’re married, they got mortgages and white-collar careers, kids in college and so on. It’s mundane, most of it. Some of them are fun. A few of them are even interesting. But mostly, it’s just . . . nothing.”

  “Okay,” Hastings said, hiding his distaste for her talk. Perhaps it would have been easier to hear it if she hadn’t looked so young and normal. Easier if she’d looked like the typical truck-stop hooker, hopeless and run-down, a mere part of humanity’s depressing landscape. But Rita Liu didn’t look like that. It was unfair and superficial and he knew it, but it was what he thought. He said, “Ms. Liu, there’s something we haven’t told you.”

  “What?”

  “There’s been a second murder. Another prostitute. She was also strangled. We believe she was murdered by the same killer.”

  “Oh, God. Where?”

  “On West Manchester Road. The Thunderbird Motel. Do you know it?”

  “No, I’ve never been there.”

  “The woman’s name was Adele Sayers. Do you know her?”

  “No.”

  “She used to work for a guy named Roland Gent. Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  The detectives could see the effect this was having on her. She was not as relaxed as she had been, though she was still trying to hide her fear.

  Hastings said, “We believe this man is going to kill again. In each case, there was no robbery. Not even a rape. The fear we have is, he’s developed a taste for killing women. He’s chosen prostitutes for some reason. Perhaps because he believes they deserve it. Perhaps. But we don’t really know.” He paused, then said, “Are you afraid?”

  “. . . No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that this man has seen you?”

  “Yes . . . I—Why are you saying that to me?”

  “Well, I thought you should—”

  “Do you want to frighten me? Or punish me?”

  “Punish you?” Hastings said. “For what?”

  “You know.”

  Hastings shook his head. “No, I don’t want to punish you. I think you misunderstand me. Frighten you, yes, maybe I do. The killer, so far, has picked out his victims. We think he knew who they were. Two white, fairly high-dollar call girls. Maybe he thinks like a hunter. And the better-looking girls are, in his mind, bigger game.”

  “I’m not white,” she said, her fear making her sound bitter. “So long
as he doesn’t have an Asian fetish, I’m safe.”

  “Yes. Maybe. Tell me something: would you feel relieved if the next victim is someone else?”

  Her face contorted. “What the fuck sort of thing is that to say?”

  “Okay,” Hastings said, “maybe that was off base. But as of now, I’m a little short on leads. And I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything you know.”

  “You think I’m protecting a murderer? What do you think I am? Maybe you’re the one who hates women.”

  “No. And you don’t believe that, anyway. What I want from you is cooperation. Full cooperation. Parties, places, people that you and Reesa have seen in the past few weeks. Maybe even the past few months.”

  “How will that help you? A lot of these men are married. You want me to ruin them?”

  Klosterman said, “Ms. Liu, is it their livelihood you’re concerned about, or is it your own?”

  Rita Liu looked from one detective to the other. “Shit, I knew it. You’ve got me pegged, both of you. The nasty little whore. Look around you. What do you see? This apartment, my furniture . . . do you see anything lavish? Anything expensive? The people at school, they think I’m twenty-one years old. But I’m twenty-seven and it’s fading fast. I’ve been doing things for the last few years—gross, vile things I have to work to forget about. I’m saving money, I’m educating myself because I’m trying to get out. I don’t enjoy any of this. A girl I knew, not really a friend, more of a coworker, she dies, and you come here and put it on me. Why? What have I done to deserve this?”

  “Ms. Liu,” Hastings said. “There’s no need to get upset.”

  “You accused me of hiding things from you. I don’t know what you want from me. You want me to pretend that we were close friends? That we were sisters? We weren’t.”

  “Ms. Liu, Ms. Liu, it makes no difference to me if you were close friends. We just want to find this man, that’s all. We want this to stop. Okay?”

  Rita Liu gathered herself long enough to say, “You want names and places.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know, then I want you to leave me alone.”

  “I’ll try to,” Hastings said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  She wrote out a sort of journal for them, giving them the names of various functions they had attended over the past two months. Trade shows, parties, and the like. She escorted them to the door and did not say goodbye when they left.

  In the elevator, Klosterman said, “She’s scared.”

  “Yeah,” Hastings said. “I wanted to tell her she doesn’t have anything to worry about. But I really don’t know that. She hasn’t been threatened. Not directly, anyway. And what do I say to her? Is she any more at risk than any other hooker in the city?”

  “She might be,” Klosterman said, “if the killer knows her too.”

  Hastings said, “That thing with her getting upset, telling us she’s trying to put this life behind her—was that an act?”

  “If it was, it was a good one. You work crime, you meet all sorts of delusional people. The junkie who says he’s going to quit using, the hooker who believes one day she’s gonna be in the movies. I knew one, back when I was in uniform, she thought she should be hosting her own television show. And I don’t mean a show about hookers or ex-hookers. I mean she thought she should be like Tyra Banks. She didn’t just say it, she believed it.”

  Hastings said, “One of the problems with this job, people lie so fucking much you’re always afraid you’ll be played.” Klosterman was one of the few people to whom Hastings would confess this fear. Perhaps the only cop. “Rita Liu could have been playing us back there. Maybe she rolled her eyes at us for being saps as soon as we left. The funny thing is, I hope she’s telling the truth.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  “I’m not as cynical as you think. Not all the time, anyway.”

  “So . . . you’re falling in love with a prostitute.”

  “Right. Well, she’s a little young for me. And the prostitution thing may get in the way of having a healthy relationship.”

  “Some of them straighten out, though. You’d be surprised how many of them get religion.”

  “About the time they’re getting too old?”

  “No, not always,” Klosterman said. He was sensitive to Hastings’s occasional raps against organized religion. He said, “Did Rita Liu look old to you?”

  “In a way.”

  •

  Hastings parked the Jaguar on a hill at Laclede’s Landing. The Eads Bridge loomed overhead. They walked to McGill’s Bar and Grill and told the manager that they needed to speak with Larry, the barback.

  The manager said, “He doesn’t get here until six. What’s this about?”

  Klosterman said, “We just need to speak to him, that’s all.” They didn’t think the manager needed to know what it was about.

  “Well, I like to know if my people are in some sort of trouble.” The manager tried and succeeded in maintaining eye contact. A man in charge. The detectives ignored this.

  Klosterman said, “We need to know his home address and telephone number.” The manager hesitated and Klosterman raised his voice and said, “Come on.” And that was all it took, the manager giving Larry MacPherson’s full name, address, and home and cell numbers. Hastings turned around then so that the manager wouldn’t see him suppressing a laugh.

  Minutes later, they were on Interstate 70 going north and then swinging west toward a large, drab apartment complex near the airport. During the drive, Klosterman called the station and gave Larry MacPherson’s name to dispatch. Asked if there was any sort of criminal record on the man.

  Dispatch came back and told him yes, there was. Three arrests for drug possession, the last one for intent to distribute. They said his driver’s license had been suspended about a year before, but that he’d been pulled over for speeding two months ago. He’d been given a citation for the speeding and for driving under suspension. A month after that, he’d been a no-show at traffic court, so the court clerk had issued a bench warrant.

  “Oh, really?” Klosterman said.

  He turned to Hastings and said, “He’s a wanted man.”

  Hastings said, “What for?”

  “Failure to appear at traffic court.”

  “Hmmm. Well, let’s hope he’s home.”

  He was.

  The apartment was on the second floor of a complex that could have been a second-rate motel in a previous life. Hastings and Klosterman walked up the stairs and got to the number they’d been given. They looked through the window and saw a young man with big shoulders and chest sitting in front of a television holding the latest PlayStation controller.

  Klosterman said, “He’s a big ’un.”

  Hastings drew breath. “Looks like he’s on ’roids too.” He’d seen ’roid rage in action. Steroids didn’t make a man as strong or as unpredictable as PCP did, but it was in the same ball park.

  Klosterman stayed by the window so he could see what Larry MacPherson would do. Hastings moved in front of the door.

  “You ready?” Hastings said.

  “Yeah. Go ahead.”

  Hastings made three hard raps on the door.

  “Open up! Police!”

  Klosterman told Hastings what he saw as the man turned and got up. If MacPherson had run to the back of the apartment, Klosterman would have drawn his weapon. More often than not, losers who jump bond keep guns in their bedrooms. Often more than one.

  Hastings rapped the door again.

  “Police officers. I said open up.”

  Hastings could hear Larry MacPherson coming to the door, his movements bold and quick.

  Klosterman said, “George,” warning him as Larry MacPherson yanked the door open.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he said.

  Larry MacPherson was bigger when he was on his feet. He just about filled the door frame. He did not appear to be holding any sort of weapon. But he was at
least a head taller than Hastings.

  Hastings said, “Calm down, chief. I’m just here to talk to you.”

  “You smashing on my door like you got a right to do it.” MacPherson was putting his face close to Hastings’s face now. Pushing him . . .

  Hastings said, “There’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

  “Yeah? Who’s going to arrest me? You, you fucking pussy?”

  Hastings felt his heart racing. He was scared and he knew it. MacPherson would know it too, in time. Hastings said, “I don’t think I can.”

  “Why not?” MacPherson said.

  “ ’Cause you’re not wearing any shoes.”

  At that moment MacPherson looked down at his bare feet. His focus was still there when Hastings brought his shoe down hard on the top of Larry MacPherson’s bare foot in a vicious stomp. Larry MacPherson bellowed and Hastings smashed the heel of his hand into his throat.

  MacPherson stumbled back, off-balance now, and Hastings rushed him and knocked him down. He was on the floor, gathering himself to get back up and crush the smaller man, but now Hastings had his .38 snub-nose out, pointing it down on him.

  MacPherson stayed on the floor, trying to catch his breath. Klosterman followed them into the apartment. Then he got behind Larry MacPherson and pushed his face into the floor, pulled his arms behind his back, and put the handcuffs on him.

  “Such violence,” Klosterman said, because it was past now.

  “You fucking cops. You all fight dirty.”

  “Sorry,” Hastings said. Though he wasn’t.

  Klosterman placed Larry MacPherson under arrest and began reading him his Miranda rights.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ronnie Wulf said, “He’s a big fellah.”

  “Yeah, we noticed that,” Hastings said. “Look at his forehead. See the blemishes, the Frankenstein eyebrows. ’Roids.”

  Larry MacPherson was on the other side of the glass. Joe Klosterman was interviewing him. They had added a belly chain to him in case he got a mind to misbehave.

  Wulf said, “You search the apartment?”

  Hastings shrugged. “Plain view. We didn’t have a warrant.” He avoided Wulf’s gaze and said, “Found a gun. That’s a violation of his parole. Found a couple of bottles of cypionate and transdormal, which we think he got from Mexico. Probably selling it here. But no, we didn’t find anything linking him to the strangulations.”