The Assailant

by James Patrick Hunt

  “I just want to talk.”

  •

  The waitress brought her a cappuccino and the detective a large mug of coffee with a little container of milk and a spoon. Hastings poured the milk into his coffee, then stirred it. Gray light filtered in from outside. Students murmured at other tables.

  Hastings said, “This used to be a bar.”

  “Yeah?” Rita said. “When was that?”

  “Years ago.”

  “You didn’t go to school here, did you?”

  “I did, actually.”

  She looked at him for a moment. Then said, “That’s funny.”

  “Yeah, isn’t it.”

  “I suppose you don’t think I belong here either.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because of what I do.”

  “You’re a student,” Hastings said. “This is a school.”

  She looked at him for a moment. She had been around, and she thought that he might be playing her. Being a smart cop now instead of a mean one. It also occurred to her that he could have meant what he said. “Is that how you think of me? As a student?”

  “How do you want to be thought of?”

  “As a lady.”

  “You are.”

  “And what are you? A social worker, now? Maybe a minister trying to reform the bad girl?”

  “I’m trying to find a killer. Before he kills again.”

  “I see. He’s going after respectable women now. I suppose that changes things, doesn’t it?”

  “Like it wasn’t important before?”

  “Was it?”

  “Knock it off. You know it was. Let me ask you something: did you ever hear of Gary Ridgeway?”

  “No.”

  “He was a serial killer in Seattle. They caught him a few years ago. He admitted to killing forty-eight prostitutes. But some say he may have killed around seventy.” Hastings leaned forward, conscious of the other students sitting nearby. He said, “Most of those girls were streetwalkers. Poor, black, with drug addictions, some of them with children to support. He’d pick ’em up, take him to a hotel or to his house, and strangle them. Just like that. You think they deserved it?”

  “No.” Her face contorted. “Why would you ask me that?”

  “Do you think you deserve that?”

  “No.”

  He said, “What happened then, happened. Maybe it was because the community didn’t have much interest in helping the police. My own view is that the police probably did everything they could. But I’m biased, being a policeman myself.”

  “So you don’t think the community is anxious to help find a whore-killer? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “This can be a sick world, Ms. Liu. There are people who are attracted to monsters like this. They can draw admirers. Women have married them even while they’re sitting on death row. They become celebrities. That’s what this guy wants, I think. He wants to be known. Appreciated. Admired. Maybe he’ll kill another real estate saleslady or maybe he’ll stick to call girls. Because let’s be frank, who’s going to remember the name of his next victim? Particularly if she’s a hooker. He, in contrast, will be remembered. And he knows it.”

  “Why are you doing this to me? Haven’t I given you everything you want?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s not because I think you deserve it. Maybe you don’t believe me when I say that, but it’s true. I think I’m telling you because I have a feeling you’re one of the few people that can help me. And there’s a difference between cooperating in an investigation and helping.”

  “What, am I supposed to atone for my past sins? Is that what this is about?”

  “No.”

  “Because I don’t owe you that.”

  “What about Reesa Woods?”

  “I told you before. I hardly knew her. You came to me thinking I would want to help because she was a close friend. But I wasn’t lying to you. I really didn’t know her that well.”

  “I know.”

  “You know? You know?”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him. He was like a man confessing to her. Coming to her openly and honestly. He had admitted that there had been little or no friendship between her and Reesa. He was trying to appeal to her as a human being. Because he thought she was one. And maybe something else, too.

  She said, “It’s not my problem.”

  He shook his head. “Maybe not, but you didn’t tell me everything.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Adam’s Mark Hotel. You were there.”

  “What?”

  “I spoke with the desk manager. I asked him if Reesa had ever been a guest at a convention at the hotel. He said he wasn’t sure but he thought so. Then I asked him if he remembered an Asian girl being there too and he said he did.”

  “Did you show him a photo of me?”

  “I don’t have one. I described you and he remembered you.” Hastings leaned forward. “Look, stop lying to me. You and Reesa were there together. You worked a party together. He didn’t remember which one, but maybe it was more than one. But you didn’t tell me about it. You didn’t tell me you were at that hotel. Why did you keep that from me?”

  “You don’t know—”

  “You want, we can go down there right now. You may look plain and collegiate, but he’ll recognize you. You want to go? Come on, let’s go.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Okay. I was there. Once in a while, I’d go there.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Look, we were freelancing, okay? Bobbie didn’t know about it.”

  “Bobbie, your boss at the Flower Shop?”

  “Yes. If that got back to her, she’d fire me. Maybe do something worse.”

  “Was Reesa freelancing too?”

  “Yeah. A little. Not as much as me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because the man Reesa was with before she got killed was lined up through the Flower Shop. I know that’s true.”

  “So what if it was? We used that hotel a lot. It’s safe and it’s clean. What I’m saying is, we’d sometimes go to conventions without clearing it with Bobbie.”

  “And cut her out of her fee?”

  “I guess.”

  “Did Bobbie ever find out?”

  “No. I told you, that’s what I’m trying to prevent.”

  “You should have told me about this before.”

  “Now you’re angry at me? Why? What does it change?”

  “Young lady, you keep things from us, we may miss an important lead. And that’s another day this fiend has to roam the streets and find another victim. And you dare to sit there and tell me we’re not sympathetic.”

  “I told you, I could lose my job.”

  “A job? A job. How many more women have to die so you can remain comfortable?”

  Tears were coming down her cheeks now. She folded her arms and called him a fucker under her breath.

  “What?”

  “You,” she said. “You’re a bastard. What you’re doing is not . . . right.”

  Hastings said, “How many times did you do this? How many times did you crash these conventions?”

  “Me or both of us together?”

  “Both of you together.”

  “Twice. Two conventions. Any more than that, Bobbie would have been onto us.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “One was a group of manufacturers. They were mostly from out of town. I went with one upstairs; Reesa went with another guy from Wisconsin.”

  “Wisconsin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that the only time she was with him?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “It was a local thing. A pharmaceutical company sponsored a wine-and-cheese event. They sell their drugs to doctors and clinics. They want the doctors to be happy. I didn’t seal any deals tha
t night.”

  “What about Reesa?”

  “Yeah. Some doctor. I think he was Jewish.”

  “These were local doctors?”

  “Yes.”

  “A doctor you think was Jewish.”

  “She was talking with two guys. Sort of between them, you know, working them. And then she went up to the room with the older one. His name was Tim or Ted or something. Ted . . .”

  “Go on,” Hastings said. “Go back to it. Picture it. Picture yourself there . . . Are they wearing name tags?”

  “Yes, he’s got a funny name. I heard her call him Dr. Z.”

  “Z. Can you remember the rest of it?”

  “I’m trying . . .”

  Hastings said, “Keep going,” as he went to the counter and asked for a copy of a telephone book. The barista gave him one, and he brought it back to the table. He turned to “physicians” in the Yellow Pages and went to the end. There were four physicians under Z.

  Zanovich, Zarrinkameh, Zink, and Zoller.

  After a moment, Rita Liu put her finger on the name Zoller.

  “You think that’s it?” Hastings said.

  “Yes.” she said. “Yes. I think that’s it.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Hastings called Klosterman from his car. Police officers are supposed to advise dispatch of their whereabouts so that the department knows where they are in case of emergency. The rule does not apply very strictly to homicide detectives, who can operate on a more laissez-faire basis, but it is a good practice nonetheless. If he found Dr. Zoller at his clinic, it was not likely that the doctor would inject him with an overdose of morphine and then take off for Switzerland. But if he did, Klosterman would know where to find him.

  He summarized his interview with Rita Liu to Klosterman.

  Klosterman said, “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. It’s something we didn’t know before. It happened a week before she was killed. Reesa Woods is dead, so we can’t get her account of what happened after they went upstairs.”

  “A doctor, huh? You think he’ll condescend to see you?”

  “I’ll persuade him. How’re things there?”

  There was a pause and then Klosterman lowered his voice. “Karen seems to have taken a sudden interest in the case.”

  “You think Ronnie’s trying to squeeze me out?”

  “Maybe. Listen, George. He came to me and asked where you were on the case. I’m not saying he was going behind your back or anything, but . . .”

  “He’s going behind my back.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’d put it that way. But he’s getting nervous. I used to work under him years ago and he was okay. But . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. He’s okay,” Hastings said. “Did you put him at ease?”

  “I think I did. You know how it is, now the guy’s killing randomly. He’s not just limiting himself to prostitutes anymore. The public’s scared and they’re leaning on the brass.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Hastings was aware that Ronnie Wulf might replace personnel on the investigation just so that he could tell his superiors he was doing something. It was a common, unfortunate practice in administration. He wasn’t even sure he could blame Wulf for falling prey to it. He imagined that Karen Brady was second-guessing him now, coming up with ideas that probably weren’t very helpful. Maybe she’d find out about the “secret” meeting he had had with the members of his own team and demand to know why she hadn’t been advised of it. As if she would have been interested in coming anyway. When administration wanted to come after you, they could always come up with something.

  Ah, fuck it, Hastings thought. He had just lectured a call girl on being more concerned with her career, such as it was, than with preventing the deaths of more women. If he ignored or pissed off his superiors, they would find a pretext to take him off the investigation. But if he paid them too much heed, he would thwart himself. He couldn’t go through an investigation continually asking himself, What will Wulf think? What will Karen say? It would make him weak and ineffective and, ultimately, useless. In a sense, he’d be taking himself off the case. And maybe they’d find the killer without his help. Maybe he wasn’t as necessary as he thought he was. But he would have to sort that shit out later.

  He said, “Joe, just try to keep them . . . satisfied. Okay?”

  “I got your back, buddy. Call me if you need anything.”

  •

  The Brentwood Surgical Clinic was near the Galleria mall near the intersection of Brentwood and Clayton. It was a pretty green-and-white building with high-dollar vehicles parked on the side. Hastings remembered coming to another doctor’s office not far from here on another case. This had been a couple of years ago. That doctor had murdered two people.

  He showed his police identification to the receptionist in the waiting area. The receptionist was a tough-looking girl with a New Jersey accent and she said, “What’s this about?” in a blunt voice, and Hastings almost found himself developing a fondness for her.

  He told her that it was about a homicide investigation and that it was very important that he speak to Dr. Zoller as soon as possible. Hastings read the girl’s name tag and said, “Destiny, I’d like to do this discreetly, without having to bring a lot of uniformed officers and police vehicles around. I assure you it won’t take long.”

  The girl, whose full name was Destiny Fisher, said, “Homicide? Who got killed?”

  “You don’t need to know that. If I have to come back here later with more guys, are you going to take the responsibility?”

  “Maybe I will,” she said. Then she actually smiled at him and said, “Hold on a minute.”

  Dr. Zoller was not quite as cool.

  He tried a couple of psych games that professional men sometimes deploy to try to intimidate cops and other little civil servants: leading the cop into his office, sitting behind his desk surrounded by his diplomas and other signs of power and status, acting like he was in a hurry, and so forth. But he was scared and Hastings knew it.

  Dr. Zoller said, “So what can I do for you?”

  “I’ll come to the point, Doctor, as I know you’re very busy. We have evidence that you were with Ms. Reesa Woods a couple of weeks ago. You may have dealt with her in her professional capacity, wherein she goes by the name Ashley.”

  That was enough. Dr. Zoller was probably a good man overall, and it’s not easy to be nonchalant when a policeman confronts you with evidence of soliciting a prostitute.

  Zoller said, “Ah . . .”

  “She was a prostitute,” Hastings said.

  “Uh, yes. I may have—”

  “You did,” Hastings said.

  There was silence in the little office then. Hastings allowed it to fill the room with discomfort as he stared patiently at the little man.

  “Ah . . .”

  “Ashley’s dead, Dr. Zoller.”

  “I . . . I didn’t know.”

  “It was in the newspaper.”

  “. . . Was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I—I didn’t know. Listen, Lieutenant, I’m a married man. . . .”

  “Of course, sir. I’m not interested—not at this time—about whether or not you violated the laws of public decency or other such things.” Hastings remembered the language from the call girl’s Web site. He said, “After all, donations to a lady friend from a gentleman are private business, are they not?”

  “I . . . I suppose so.”

  “And what two consenting adults do in private should remain private, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.”

  “But this young lady was murdered.”

  “Last Friday—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Last Friday,” the doctor said. “Wasn’t it last Friday?”

  “Yes. It was.”

  “I was with my wife and family last Friday. My son had a football game. I swear—”

  “Football game?” Hastings was not on solid ground here. He had not
advised the man of his Miranda rights. But he had not arrested him either. Hastings said, “Who’s your son play for?”

  The question could be considered conversational.

  “Vianney,” the doctor said.

  “Who did they play?” Just chatting now.

  “Country Day.”

  “What was the score?”

  “Score? Oh, God, I don’t know. My son’s team won. He didn’t get to play till the second half. He complained about it—”

  “Other people can confirm that you were there?”

  “Yes. Definitely. Yes—oh God. Shouldn’t I have a lawyer here?”

  “Should you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hastings said, “Dr. Zoller, are you under the impression that you’re a suspect in a murder?”

  “No! I mean, God—I’m not, am I?”

  “No. But you’re a witness.”

  “Because I—Look, maybe I should have a lawyer present.”

  “For what? Diddling a call girl?”

  Dr. Zoller mumbled something that trailed off.

  Hastings said, “I told you, I don’t care about that. But you knew this young lady was murdered.” Hastings was using the principal’s tone of voice now. The tone that police and prosecutors can use on the most powerful of people. You should know better, mister. And it seemed to be working on this man.

  “Well—”

  “And you didn’t contact the police. Did you?”

  “I wasn’t aware that I needed to.”

  “You didn’t want to help?”

  “I’ve got . . . I’m married.”

  “You’re married with children and you’ve got a good practice and probably a lot of nice things. House, cars, boats, and what have you. Your wife finds out you misbehaved, she may file for a divorce. And then you’ve got a rather large mess on your hands. Am I right?”

  “I . . . don’t . . . It’s possible, yes.”

  “It’s very possible, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t want that.” Hastings was counseling him now. In a way.

  The doctor’s voice was distant, barely audible. “No,” he said.

  “I understand that. Believe me, I do. You want to talk about messy private lives, take a look at your average cop.”

  The doctor smiled uneasily.