Llewellyn said, “Should we call the police?”
“Why?” said Coury.
“Well, I mean, it might be important.”
“A crank?” Coury sighed again, pushing the older man. “I just don’t see why he’d call here.”
“Maybe to get attention.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about. He calls up here, jacking around, and I’m supposed to send you on some sort of treasure hunt. I don’t see the point.” Coury said, “Do you want to go to the library?” He said it like it was a waste of time.
Cliff Llewellyn wanted to call the police. A crank, maybe, but the guy had sounded creepy. He could want attention and be a killer. He wanted to tell Mitchell what it was like to be on the receiving end of that call. That it wasn’t cowardly to be afraid about something like that. To trust a rational fear.
He said, “Mitchell, I think we should take it seriously. I mean, it’s up to you. But I . . .”
“So you do want to call the police.”
“Well—yeah.”
“Okay, Cliff. If that’s what you want.”
Mitchell Coury left Llewellyn alone. He seemed not to want to be around if things became embarrassing. Llewellyn mentally shrugged his shoulders, resigned himself to the situation, and picked up the telephone.
•
It was Escobar who called Hastings.
Hastings was cleaning up the dishes after dinner. He had made a pasta dish with Italian sausage and some spring peas and an egg-cream sauce. Amy said it was a little bland and Hastings told her to use more salt and pepper.
Hastings shut off the water when Amy brought him the telephone. She told him it was a Detective Escobar.
“Yeah?” Hastings said.
“George, Escobar here. Hey, we got a call from a reporter at the Herald. He said a guy called him claiming that he killed the two girls. He said he left a letter for the reporter in the downtown library.”
“Who’s the reporter?”
“Cliff Llewellyn. You know him?”
“Yeah. He’s all right.”
“I talked with him on the phone. I’m headed down to the library with some other guys. Llewellyn’s going to meet us there. You want to come?”
“Yeah. I’ve got my daughter here . . . let me drop her with some friends and I’ll meet you there.”
“Good. Listen, George: Llewellyn said the caller told him, ‘It’s three now.’ ”
Hastings looked over the kitchen counter at his daughter. She was doing her homework, but Dancing with the Stars was on the television.
He said, “Three?”
“Yeah,” Escobar said. “I don’t know if I should hope the guy’s a crank or if it’s an honest-to-God lead.”
“I know what you mean,” Hastings said. “I’ll see you soon.”
•
There were at least two dozen police officers in and around the library. A good many of them were not in uniform, searching for a suspect who perhaps wanted to view the investigation in process. Library staff members were stopped and questioned along with library patrons, many of whom were homeless people looking for a warm place to be for the day. Protests were made, voices were raised, people were delayed. No suspects were held.
When Hastings arrived, a technician from the crime scene unit was already there. They had cordoned off the shelf holding the book When Terror Walked in London. Llewellyn was there with a younger guy, and Hastings saw right off that this guy was going to be a problem.
The guy said his name was Mitchell Coury and he was the managing editor of the Herald. He said to Hastings, “Are you in charge?”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you the lead detective on this case?”
“No,” Hastings said. “Would you mind stepping back?”
Mitchell Coury said, “Do you have a search warrant?”
“No. This is a public place. The staff has agreed to cooperate with us. Are you speaking on their behalf?”
“I’m the one that received the call,” Coury said.
“Yeah?” Hastings said, a little hardness in his voice.
“Well, actually it was Mr. Llewellyn here. But I’m speaking for the paper.”
“That’s good to know,” Hastings said, and walked past him
The technician’s name was Curtis Nyguen. Hastings had worked with him before. Nyguen looked at Hastings and said, “Okay?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Curtis Nyguen pulled on his latex gloves and removed the book from the shelf. He opened the book and went through the pages and soon found a sheet of paper with words typed on it. He placed the paper in a see-through plastic bag and sealed it. He paged through the book twice more and did not find anything. Then he placed the book in a separate container.
Nyguen said, “You think he used gloves?”
Hastings said, “If it’s our guy, yeah. He seems to be pretty smart. But you’re going to dust these shelves, aren’t you?”
“Yes. And our people will take the letter and the book back to our lab.”
Hastings nodded.
Then he looked at the letter.
Greetings, my children.
You may have read about the murders of the ladies of the night, to wit, Ms. Reesa Woods and Ms. Adele Sayers and, the latest addition, Mrs. Marla Hilsheimer, who’s not technically a prostitute but cut from the same cloth as the other two. Let me assure you that the demise of all three of these women was all my doing. Reesa was found by the river, where I left her. Ms. Sayers is missing an earring, which I have decided to keep. Mrs. Hilsheimer is somewhere north of the city, waiting to be discovered by the authorities, who may get around to finding her if they put all their small minds together. When she is found, it will be noticed that she is missing the bracelet which was on her right wrist. Unfortunately, she was not strangled like the others, but we can’t win all our battles.
You may wonder, Who is this? Is he something we can understand? Is he a product of our times? A product of our society?
The truth is, you cannot know. You want to know, but you can’t. It’s not in you or the pedestrians at the police department to know. It’s not in you to understand. It’s only in me.
Yours truly,
Springheel Jim
TWENTY-SEVEN
Wulf wanted to know why he hadn’t called him immediately.
Hastings said, “Detective Escobar called me first. It was a tip. But we weren’t sure it was anything legitimate until we checked it out.”
“And now?”
“We think he wrote the letter.”
“You think who wrote the letter?”
“The killer.”
“That’s your theory,” Wulf said.
“It’s my thinking, yes.” Hastings said, “Detective Escobar thinks so too.”
Wulf looked away. Since Escobar didn’t work for him, his viewpoint didn’t count.
Hastings saw that Wulf was pissed off. He wanted to have the killer in custody. He wanted it to be Larry MacPherson because they already had MacPherson in the county lockup and that would make things easier for everyone. Hastings didn’t blame Wulf for being angry, generally. But he suspected that Wulf had found out about the letter from his counterpart at the County Police Department, rather than from his own people. This had cost Wulf some face on top of being wrong about MacPherson’s being the killer.
Hastings said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call you right away. I didn’t know it would turn out to be something key.”
“You still don’t know that.”
Christ, Hastings thought. He said, “Perhaps not. But it’s been confirmed that Marla Hilsheimer is missing.”
Wulf shrugged.
And Hastings said, “And the thing about the earring. The earring belonging to Adele Sayers. Springheel Jim made a mention of that. That detail wasn’t available to the public.”
Wulf still wanted to fight him for some reason. He said, “It could have come from someone who had access to the task force’s docume
ntation,” still wanting to fight him.
“It’s possible,” Hastings said. Though he didn’t think it was possible. “But it’s not at all likely. But putting the earring aside, how could he have known about the disappearance of Marla Hilsheimer?”
“You’re presuming she’s dead?”
“Yes, sir. I’m presuming he killed her.”
“And you want to tell this to her husband? Her family? Are you that sure?”
It was a shitty question. An unfair one, geared to emotions. Hastings said, “I can hope that I’m wrong. But if you order me to give my opinion to the family, I will.” Hastings hesitated, then he said, “Listen, do you think we should fax a copy of the letter to the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit?”
Wulf seemed to consider this. The lieutenant was asking his opinion. It was intended to flatter him, though Hastings hoped that Wulf would not detect it.
He didn’t. Wulf said, “Yes. Do that.” Some of his authority had been regained.
Hastings figured that it would take the FBI profilers at least two days to render an opinion on Springheel Jim’s letter. Yes, it was written by the killer. No, it was not. Perhaps it may have been. Whatever their finding would be was of little importance to Hastings. He thought it was written by the killer, and that was all that mattered to him.
Hastings was familiar with the Green River serial killer investigation. There were few homicide detectives who weren’t. In that case, the killer had sent a letter to the local newspaper. The Seattle task force forwarded a copy to the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. After review, the FBI said that the letter had “no connection with the Green River homicides” and that the letter was a “feeble and amateurish attempt to gain some personal importance by manipulating the investigation.”
They were right about the letter being an attempt to gain some personal importance, but they were wrong about it not being written by the murderer. Gary Ridgeway, the Green River serial killer, later testified in court that he did write and send that letter. And that after he wrote it, he’d gone on to kill several more young women.
Hastings had had no role in that investigation. It was in another city and it was before his time. He had no reason to think that the FBI analyst had acted in bad faith or was incompetent. To his way of thinking, it was the culture in law enforcement that was probably to blame. The overconfident belief in the all-knowing profiler.
But for whatever reason, men like Ronnie Wulf seemed to take comfort in sending things to the FBI. Perhaps it was because Wulf actually believed the feds were expert in making such determinations. But Hastings had worked in law enforcement long enough to know that that would only be part of it. FBI assistance would take some political heat off the chief of detectives and, by extension, the Metropolitan Police Department itself. Whether FBI assistance was helpful or not, Wulf would be better able to claim he’d done everything he could.
Which was fine with Hastings. He had no personal beef with Ronnie Wulf. The existence of a random killer loose in the city frightened people. And the longer the killer remained at large, the more police officers’ nerves became frayed and department morale declined. Wulf was in charge of the task force, and he had to answer directly to people that Hastings did not. And it was obvious that the investigation was wearing on Wulf, making him irritable and at times even petty. Hastings had to remind himself that Wulf was essentially a good man and that he probably had not wanted to be put in charge of this.
Now Hastings could see that Wulf’s anger was off him. At least at this moment. Hastings said, “Is there anything else you’d recommend?”
“You’ve interviewed the reporter?”
“Yes. I spoke with the one that spoke with Springheel Jim.”
“Did he tape the call?”
“No. But I summarized what the reporter remembered in my report. The reporter seemed to believe that the caller was an educated man.”
“Why’s that?”
“He used a couple of big words. Prosaic being one of them.”
“Prosaic.”
“Yeah. It means ordinary. Common—”
“I know what it means. So we’re dealing with a college-degreed murderer, huh?”
“I don’t know,” Hastings said. “I do think he’s smart though.”
“No prints on the letter or the book?”
“No.”
Ronnie Wulf sighed. “No, there’s nothing else I can suggest. Just go back to work.”
Hastings left Wulf’s office and started his drive home. It was almost midnight. Hastings cursed to himself. Earlier, he had dropped Amy off at the McGregors’, neighbors who had a daughter Amy’s age. Hastings liked Terry McGregor, the kid’s mom, but found the husband pretty tiresome. If he picked Amy up now, he would likely wake up the parents, inconveniencing them even more. Terry was a good lady and she had never once complained about having Amy over. But sometimes Hastings feared that he was taking her for granted.
He thought back to what he had said when he left Amy there hours ago. Something to the effect that he should be gone for only a couple of hours. And Terry McGregor had said not to worry because it was perfectly fine if Amy stayed the night. A casual offer inconsiderately accepted.
Shit. Well, he would drive by their house on the way home. If a light was on, or the flashing light of a flickering television screen, he would give a couple of soft knocks on the door. If not, he would have to let Amy stay the night and then pick her up early in the morning.
There was no light on, though, flickering or otherwise. And Hastings drove home alone, feeling like a crappy parent.
He unlocked the door to his condo and walked to the kitchen. There was too much on his mind to go straight to sleep. He made himself a whiskey, two fingers on ice, and a splash of water on top. He left the television off and put a George Jones record on the turntable.
Alone now, and he would still be alone if Amy were down the hall asleep in her bedroom. But he felt better when she was in the house with him. He felt more secure, more complete. He did not believe he was the sort to mope over the past. But tonight he thought about the past. He thought about what his life would be like if Eileen hadn’t left him. They would still be a family, and he wouldn’t have to feel shitty for dropping Amy off at a friend’s and taking advantage of a decent, generous woman whom he didn’t know well enough to be taking advantage of. It would be different if Eileen hadn’t left. Maybe not better and almost certainly not happier or calmer, but they would be a family under one roof.
A family. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could round out the circle. He wondered if Carol McGuire could fill that role. Not just as a wife but as a stepmother. He feared that he knew the answer. Carol had always been nice to Amy. Had never said an unkind word to her or about her. (Though she’d said plenty about Eileen.) But, though there was nothing negative on Carol’s part regarding Amy, there had been nothing positive either. Not much concern either way. She had once said to him, “You need to take better care of yourself.” And Hastings had not liked that, had not liked that at all. It was not so much the words she had used as the context in which she’d used them. In that conversation, he had taken Carol to mean that he should pay more attention to himself than he did to his kid.
But he had chickened out of that conversation. He had an idea of what she had meant, but he wasn’t entirely sure. She could have meant that he should eat better or exercise more or get more sleep. It may not have been a suggestion that he give less of his time and less of himself to his daughter. He could have asked Carol to explain her comment then, to elaborate. But he hadn’t. He had let it drop. Perhaps to avoid conflict. Perhaps because he didn’t want to know the truth.
He wondered about it from time to time. And when he did, he wondered if he and Carol McGuire would go further in their relationship. Whether they were building to something or if they had reached their zenith. He wondered if what they had now was enough for him. He’d never asked her if it was enough for her.
&nbs
p; Eileen, Amy, Carol, Terry McGregor. Hastings was a cop, an ex-jock, a die-hard Nebraska college football fan, a hunter and an outdoorsman and a country music fan. A man’s man, by God. Yet his personal life was wrapped up with women and girls. He had no son. His only close male friends were the police officers he worked with. His relationship with his father had been terrible. His mother had been a sweet and gentle soul, and he had spent much of his childhood protecting her from his father’s petty cruelty. He wondered if there was some sort of connection there.
And he wondered about Springheel Jim.
What had his childhood been like? Had it been normal? Had it been unhealthy? Had abuse or neglect played a part in making him a monster? Had there been some concrete incident or series of incidents that caused him to hate women? To look upon them with nothing but contempt and callousness and a complete absence of empathy? To see them not as women or as human beings but as objects to fulfill his dark, pitiless fantasies. Was there a cause? Or did he just exist?
Hastings did not like to think about this man. He did not want to contemplate this beast at the same time that he contemplated people he cared about. Women he cared about. This beast who looked upon women as not quite human.
If you were not a psychopath, it was difficult to get at. It was difficult to understand. It was difficult to get into the killer’s head, because he thinks in ways normal people are not capable of thinking.
The most hardened policeman will weep at the sight of a child’s corpse at the scene of a traffic accident. Will wince if he sees the accident happening. Shoulders hunch as the vehicles collide because the normal person hopes that no one will be hurt. Please, God, don’t let someone die. Please let it be all right.
But the psychopath doesn’t think that way. He is not affected. He lacks the capability to feel the affect. To him, death and cruelty and destruction are mere images. It’s not in him to feel.
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