The Assailant

by James Patrick Hunt

  No, Hastings thought. That’s not entirely true. They feel, all right. They feel the thrill and joy of being wicked. For them, it is liberating. And they feed on fear. The fear can be almost intoxicating.

  That’s why you wrote that letter, isn’t it? Hastings thought. You wanted attention and you wanted to brag and you wanted to show the police and the press how smart you were. But you wanted to create fear too. Like a cat batting at a mouse. You want to feed on that, don’t you?

  He was vain, this killer. He had placed his letter in a book about Jack the Ripper. Look at me! A modern-day Jack the Ripper, see? Ha-ha! He liked being clever. Apart from creating sensation, Springheel Jim wanted to let the public know that serial killers were by no means a recent creation. They had been around for centuries. Indeed, the FBI had taught Hastings that the medieval myths of vampires, demons, and werewolves stemmed not just from German folklore but from actual gruesome murders. Even back then, people could not comprehend that human beings could commit such atrocities. It had to be attributed to the supernatural because it could not be comprehended that a man could do such things. The existence of Stoker’s Dracula was easier to contemplate than history’s Vlad the Impaler.

  It was these thoughts that put the minor issues with Ronnie Wulf in perspective. Wulf was getting worn-out. Maybe it had something to do with age too. Maybe Wulf had liked the thrill of pursuing the enemy, the chase, when he was younger, but now he was getting leaned on from people above him. Or maybe he was just tired. It could happen to the best of officers. Maybe it would happen to Hastings one day as well, and he too would seek refuge in an administrative position.

  But not yet, Hastings thought. Not yet, Jim.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  His letter was in The Herald the next morning.

  The police had not encouraged that. Indeed, Lieutenant Hastings had told the managing editor that publishing the letter would reward the killer. But Mitchell Coury had said, “If it’s the killer. But you don’t really know, do you?” Hastings would have liked to find a way to stop the publication, but he was too busy working the case and updating Wulf to do anything about it.

  So it was a front-page story, and the full letter appeared on page 5.

  •

  Raymond Sheffield bought a copy in the lobby of the hospital and read it in a stall in the bathroom. It brought a smile to his face. A smile, then a laugh, and he wondered for a moment if there was anyone else in the restroom to hear him. He was still for a minute or so and concluded that he was alone. With some effort, he stuffed the newspaper into the trash bin on his way out.

  His thrill renewed when he went into the locker room and saw Ogilvy reading the story. Yes, yes, he was reading it; he had it open to the page. Raymond remembered his discipline. Don’t crow about it, he told himself. Don’t brag. Not to these fools. He could look at Ogilvy and smile and say, Reading the lowbrow rags, eh, Ogilvy? Or something else clever. Watch the slob lift his stupid fat face and say, Huh? No. He would resist that. Not that there was a risk of giving himself away. Not to Ogilvy anyway: Ogilvy was too stupid to figure it out. No, he would resist it because it would be too obvious, too pedestrian. Better to wait.

  And he was glad he waited, glad he resisted, because sure enough Tassett came in and Ogilvy looked at him and said, “Have you read about this?”

  And Tassett walked over and looked at the paper and took in a few lines and said, “Huh. Fucked-up, man.”

  And then Raymond had to say over his shoulder, “What’s that?”

  “There’s a serial killer on the loose,” Ogilvy said. “He’s killed three women.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible.”

  “Three?” Tassett said. “No, it says two.”

  “He’s claimed he killed another one,” Ogilvy said. “The police confirm that she’s missing. They haven’t found her yet.”

  Raymond kept his face turned away from them. He hung his sport coat in his locker and removed his white smock and put it on. They will, he thought. They’ll find her today if they try. He hadn’t buried her. He hadn’t even tried to hide her. He wanted her to be found.

  Tassett seemed unconcerned and blasé about it all. But Ogilvy was looking up and down from the newspaper. Perhaps to himself, he said, “How do you explain something like that?”

  Tassett said, “What?” He didn’t know that they were still on the subject.

  “How do you explain something like this guy?” Ogilvy said again. He was directing the question to Tassett, but he seemed disturbed enough that he would have taken an answer from Raymond, whom he had never really liked.

  Tassett turned and said, “You mean, clinically?”

  “Yeah, clinically.” He would take anything. Raymond knew that Ogilvy had a wife and daughter. He had a dog too, and he probably wondered if she would bark if someone tried to break into their home. Raymond also knew that Olgilvy’s wife was a graduate student at Washington University and that she walked alone to her car when she went home at night.

  Tassett shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you don’t.”

  They finished dressing and then walked out. Neither one of them said a word to Raymond.

  Raymond hesitated for a moment. Ogilvy had left the newspaper on the bench. Raymond wanted to walk over and read it again. But he didn’t.

  •

  In the hall, Helen gave him a bright good morning. She asked him how his weekend had been, if he enjoyed the party. Raymond gave her the right answers. The weekend was nice, the party was pleasant, but he was tired after working that long shift and so forth and so on. They spoke briefly about the weather and work and where they would go for Thanksgiving vacation.

  Helen said that her family was in Virginia but that she wouldn’t have time to go that distance.

  Raymond said, “Are you scheduled for Thanksgiving day?”

  “Sort of. I come on at midnight.”

  “Ooh.”

  “Yeah, I know. It sucks. How about you?”

  “Me? I don’t think I’m scheduled until that Friday.”

  “No,” Helen said, “I meant how about your plans for Thanksgiving?”

  “Thanksgiving?”

  “Yes. Are you going back to Boston?”

  “No. There isn’t time for that.”

  “That’s where your family is, though. Right?”

  “My parents are dead.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. And . . . no siblings?” Helen Krans was starting to regret that she’d gone down this conversational path.

  “No.” He waited to see if she would ask if he had children. He was ready for it.

  But she took whatever signal he was sending and accepted it. She looked up at the room where they had booked a diabetic coma a couple of days earlier. “Busy day today,” she said. And that was that.

  •

  Later that day, Raymond was sitting alone at a table in the cafeteria when Tassett approached him. Tassett did not ask but merely sat down opposite him.

  “Hi, Raymond.”

  “Hello.”

  “Listen, I’d like to ask you a favor. Helen said you’re on shift the Friday after Thanksgiving and she’s on Thursday. Thanksgiving. Could you switch shifts with her?”

  “Switch shifts,” Raymond said, “so that I work Thanksgiving, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I’ve got that Wednesday off and Thanksgiving, and we’d like to spend a couple of days in Chicago.”

  After a moment, Raymond said, “Chicago.”

  “Yeah. A two-day trip.” Tassett smiled. “We could use the break, man.”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Well, I figured you didn’t have anything—”

  “No. Why are you asking?”

  “She didn’t want to ask you.”

  “So she sent you to?”

  “No,” Tassett said. “This was my idea.”

  Raymond studied the young man sitting across from him. He wondered what it w
ould be like to shoot him in the face.

  He said, “No.”

  “No?”

  “No,” Raymond said again. He returned his attention to his food.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Escobar called Hastings to tell him that they had found Marla Hilsheimer’s body in the woods north of St. Charles.

  Hastings said, “Has her husband been notified?”

  “Yeah. I spoke with him on the phone. George, I asked him if she had been wearing a bracelet. He said she had a lot of jewelry, and he couldn’t be sure what she was wearing the day she went missing. But one of my guys checked with the staff at her office, and they said she had been wearing some sort of turquoise Indian thing.”

  Hastings asked for directions and then told Escobar he’d meet him there.

  Klosterman was with him as they drove out to the site. When they arrived, Mr. Hilsheimer was there, an older man in a high-dollar camel coat, his strong face twisted in grief. Hastings took him in view and reminded himself that somewhere was a man who had taken pleasure in inflicting this pain.

  There was a single dirt road that brought them to the edge of the woods, vehicles from the County Police Department and St. Charles PD and a few unmarked cars. The officers had to walk through wet ground to reach the body of the woman.

  Hastings and Klosterman conferred with the county medical examiner. They were informed that she had died of a blow to the back of her skull and that the time of her death was likely between six and eight P.M. the night before.

  Escobar left Mr. Hilsheimer and came over to talk with them. The detectives made sure that the next of kin were not within hearing distance before they began a discussion that could be construed as clinical.

  Escobar said, “There was no bracelet found on her. And we seem to have confirmation that she was wearing one yesterday at work.”

  Hastings said, “So Springheel Jim was probably the killer.”

  “Looks that way.”

  Klosterman said, “She worked at a real estate office?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No part-time . . .”

  “No,” Escobar said. “She wasn’t a call girl. I guess she could pass for one. She’s pretty.”

  Hastings said, “She’s a prize.”

  “Pardon?”

  “A prize,” Hastings said. “He’s picking out attractive women. To him, maybe they’re all whores.”

  “Killing them because he likes them?” Klosterman said. “Because he’s attracted to them?”

  “You could call it an attraction, but when I say prize, I mean, you know, the way a hunter gets points. A ten-point buck, that sort of thing.” He said to Escobar, “Have we got any sort of footprints?”

  Escobar sighed. “I don’t know, George. We’ve had about twenty officers walking all over the place.”

  “Well, that’s fucking great.”

  “It happens.”

  “I know it happens. It doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

  After a moment, Escobar said, “She had an appointment yesterday in the Central West End. She was showing a house on Pershing Place to a couple that are moving here from New York. They told our officer that they left her between six and seven P.M. And as far as we know, that’s the last time anyone saw her.”

  “What time does she usually get home?”

  “Her husband said it varies. Sometimes it’s late. She usually calls him, though.”

  “Was the Pershing Place house her last scheduled showing?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he abducted her there.” Hastings turned to Klosterman and said, “Pershing Place off Euclid? That’s a bunch of row houses, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Million-dollar ones. But . . . it would have been dark. You want to check it out?”

  “Yeah,” Hastings said. He turned to Escobar and said, “The vehicle’s still there?”

  “Should be.”

  “I’ll have my techs get on it. Will you fax me a copy of the husband’s statement as soon as you can?”

  “Sure.”

  Klosterman said, “I’ll see if I can get the keys from the husband.”

  •

  Klosterman called the crime scene unit from the car. The techs weren’t there yet when he and Hastings got to the Central West End. The street was tree lined and they could see the gray-stone townhouse with the For Sale sign in front, the Range Rover in front of that.

  Klosterman touched the keys in his pocket, and Hastings remembered the way the old man had handed them to him without saying a word, Klosterman saying, thank you, sir, but not telling him he was sorry because he’d probably heard it too much for it to mean anything now.

  Hastings parked the Jaguar across the road, and they got out and pulled on their latex gloves. They approached the Range Rover. Klosterman pressed the locking device on the keys and heard the car lock.

  Up close, Klosterman said, “I just locked it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I mean, it was unlocked. She left it unlocked.”

  “Or he did.”

  They opened the front door and did a cursory search for bloodstains. They didn’t find any. Her work materials were on the front seat. Sales sheets, listings, contracts with the company’s banner across the top. A briefcase on top of them to hold them in place. They didn’t look like they’d been pushed around.

  Hastings said, “There doesn’t seem to be any sign of struggle up here.”

  “Or in the back,” Klosterman said. Though he had only glanced back there. He would leave the thorough examination to the techs.

  Hastings said, “Did he grab her before she got in the car?” Klosterman shook his head. “No. Her stuff is in the vehicle. She must have gotten in first. He could have been waiting for her in the back, like he did with Adele Sayers. But there’s no sign of a struggle.”

  “She got in and then she got out.” Hastings looked at Klosterman and said, “Hand me the keys, will you?”

  Hastings put the key in the ignition and turned. Nothing. He tried again and there was still nothing, so he leaned forward and pulled the release lever for the hood. He got out of the vehicle and took a look at the engine and the battery and saw what he thought he might see.

  “Shit,” Hastings said. “He disconnected the battery. Waited for her to try to start the car and then came along—”

  “And probably offered to help,” Klosterman said.

  “Knocked her on the head and then took her away.”

  “In a neighborhood like this,” Klosterman said, looking down the street at the wealthy homes and the well-kept trees and high-dollar cars, “maybe he found a way to blend in. Put her at ease.”

  “Maybe.”

  Yeah, maybe. For this was a sadist and a psychopath they were dealing with. The psychopath likes to deceive, likes to trick. He likes being clever.

  And Hastings couldn’t help wondering what Marla Hilsheimer thought in her last few moments. Goddamn car . . . oh, good, here’s someone who might help . . . looks harmless enough . . . Seeing a man, not a monster. Seeing what she wanted to see and not what he was. Seeing what he wanted her to see.

  And what do you hope for now? Hastings thought. They had nothing. They knew it and he probably knew it too. What do you hope for? That he just gets tired and stops? That he decides to give humanity a break and stay in for a few nights? That he retires? That the merciless somehow finds mercy? What do you hope for?

  Hastings remembered the time he had taken Amy to the Chicago Field Museum of Natural History and they had seen the man-eating lions of Tsavo. Stuffed and mounted there since 1924, they seemed unimpressive. Though male, neither of them had the shaggy, virile mane that you see on the MGM roaring lion. They were four feet at the shoulder and weighed about five hundred pounds apiece, but they still looked a little scrawny.

  Yet, between the two of them, they had killed 135 railroad workers in Uganda in just a few months, and that was the conservative estimate. They worked mainly at night, unafraid and undeterred by campfires or t
horn bomas. Every night for three weeks straight, they stalked, they killed, and they remained at large. At one point, fifty shots were fired into the darkness at the sound of a roar, but they made no purchase. It was at this time that the natives, and not a few Englishmen, began to think that they were dealing not just with a couple of man-eating lions but with demons. Colonel Patterson himself, the supervising engineer, later wrote that he saw a pair of eyes glowing at him in the dark. People later remarked that this would not have been physically possible, as there was no outside light to reflect the glow. But Patterson was there among the heat and the darkness and the sound of a man screaming as he was dragged off into the bush.

  The guide at the museum said, “Don’t let the appearance fool you. They didn’t have manes, but these were tremendous animals. They were in great condition.” There was admiration in the guide’s voice then. Even Amy noticed it, and Hastings felt some comfort at her recoil.

  When they left the museum, she asked if the lions were demons.

  And Hastings had said, “Of course not, sweetie. They’re just animals that formed a taste for people. A lion’s not capable of being good or evil.”

  “But why did it take so long to kill them?” She wasn’t sympathetic to the lions. Perhaps they weren’t pretty to her. They were a hard, dark force of nature.

  Hastings said, “That was over a hundred years ago. They didn’t have the technology we have now. Infrared lights, that sort of thing. As far as seeing eyes glowing in the night, well, fear and darkness and heat can mess up your perspective.”

  Hastings wondered about that conversation now. Wondered if he’d been wrong. They had technicians and infrared lights and task forces now. And yet they had nothing. There were still eyes glowing in the darkness. Seeing, stalking, and planning.

  THIRTY

  There were three car wrecks that night. Four people were brought in by ambulance, two by their own vehicles. The two that drove themselves weren’t particularly injured but were seeking documentation to strengthen a lawsuit. The ER staff was used to such things. Three of the people brought by ambulance had legitimate injuries, one of them requiring sutures to the forehead and one with a dislocated shoulder.