When he was ready, he looked around, took stock. Still wearing the latex gloves. Sport coat, overcoat, hat, scarf, driving gloves. Was he forgetting anything? The business card. He found it on the floor. That was everything. Leave the sock and potato on the floor. Drop the note on her chest: Isolate yourself from random discovery. Ready. He patted her on the tummy and left.
He stepped out, walked down the sidewalk and around the house, stripping off the latex gloves as he walked. The old woman's apartment was dark. There was a light upstairs, in the third apartment, but nobody at the window. He walked briskly down the sidewalk, and, as he passed under a streetlight, noticed a dark stain on the back of one hand. He hesitated, looking at it. Blood? He touched it to his tongue. Blood. Sweet. He passed no one on the street on the way to his car. He opened it, climbed in, and drove.
Out to I-94. Pressure behind his eyes. He was going to do it. Telephone on a pole, outside a Laundromat. One guy inside, reading a newspaper while his clothes went around in the dryer. It was a mistake before, it would be a mistake again. But he needed it. He needed it like he needed the women. Someone to talk to. Someone who might understand. The maddog pulled in to the Laundromat phone, dialed Davenport's house.
And got an answering machine. "Leave a message," Davenport's voice said tersely, without identifying itself. There was a beep. The maddog was disappointed. It was not the same as human contact. He touched his tongue to the spot of blood on the back of his hand, savored it, then said, "I did another one."
The line stayed open and he wet his lips.
"It was lovely," he said.
CHAPTER
19
"It was lovely."
Lucas listened a second time, the despair growing in his chest.
"Motherfucker," he whispered.
He ran the tape back and played it again.
"It was lovely."
"Motherfucker." He sank down beside the desk, put his elbow on it, propped his forehead up with his hand. He sat for three minutes, unable to think. The house huddled around him, dim, protective, quiet. A car rolled by in the street, its lights tracking across the wall. Rousing himself, he called Minneapolis and asked for the watch commander.
"Nothing here," he was told. St. Paul said the same. Nothing in Bloomington. There were too many suburbs to check them all. And Lucas thought it likely that the maddog had killed one in Lucas' own jurisdiction. It was a contest now. Explicitly.
"Lucas?" Daniel's voice had an ugly edge to it.
"I got a call. He's says he's done another one."
"Sweet bleedin' Jesus," Daniel said. In the background Lucas heard Daniel's wife ask if there had been another one, and where.
"I don't know where," Lucas said. "He didn't tell me. He just said it was lovely."
***
They found the law student two days later, in the late afternoon. She rarely missed class. When she was gone the first day, her absence was noted, but not investigated. When she missed the second day with no word from her, no excuse, a friend called her apartment but got no answer. At dinnertime the friend stopped and saw the light in the back. She knocked, peered through the window, saw a rubber grip handle of the wheelchair protruding from the bedroom doorway. Worried, she went to the old woman, who brought her keys. Together they found the Chosen.
"I was afraid the maddog had killed her," the friend wept when the first cops arrived. "I thought of it on the way over. What if the maddog's taken her?"
***
"Red Horse?"
"Annie, there's another one," Lucas said. He gave her the name and address. "Over by the university. A law student, crippled. Name Cheryl-"
"Spell it."
"Wheatcroft, C-h-e-r-y-l W-h-e-a-t-c-r-o-f-t. There have been a bunch of newspaper stories about her, I think, in the Strib."
"I can look. We've got an on-line library."
"Look in the Pioneer Press too. She was a senior, right at the top of her class. Her folks are here; they live over on the east side of St. Paul. Nobody else knows about it yet, but everybody's going to find out pretty soon. There are about a million cops in the street, going in and out. And the medical examiner. We're attracting neighbors and students. But if you get a crew over here fast, you should catch the parents coming out."
"Five minutes," she said, and hung up.
***
"Cheryl Wheatcroft," Daniel said. He stood in the kitchen, hat less, coatless, angry. "What did she do to deserve this, Davenport? Did she sin? Did she fornicate in the nighttime? Did she miss Mass on Sunday? What did she fuckin' do, Davenport?"
Lucas looked away from the outburst, tried to deflect it with a question. "What'd they show her folks?"
"Her face. That's all. Her mother wanted to see the rest of her, but I told her old man to get her out of here. He was almost as bad as the old lady, but he knew what we were talking about, he got her out. That TV camera was right in their faces. Jesus Christ, those people are animals, the fuckin' TV people are as bad as the fuckin' maddog."
The homicide detectives moved around the apartment with their heads down, as though with poor posture they might somehow avoid Daniel's wrath. The talk was in whispers. It continued in whispers after Daniel left. When he went out the door, the TV cameras across the street caught his face and held it. For the next week, his profile, frozen in anguish like a block of Lake Superior ice, was used to promo the nightly news on Channel Eight.
Lucas stayed at the scene while the technicians processed it. "Is there anything out of the pattern?" he asked the medical examiner.
The chief examiner was on the scene in person. He turned his eyes on Lucas and gave him a tiny nod. "Yeah. He butchered her. The other ones, it was surgical. Go in, kill. This one, he cut apart. She was alive for most of it."
"Sex?"
"You mean did he rape her? No. Doesn't look like it. She has numerous stab wounds over the pelvic area, up into the vaginal opening, the rectum, then across the anterior aspect of the pelvis-"
"The what?"
"The front, the front, right up her front. It looks like... Mother of God..." The medical examiner ran his hands through his graying hair.
"Sam..."
"It looks like he was trying to find where the pain started. She has a case full of medical records, and from what I can tell, the spinal event that crippled her was relatively high. Above the hip, below the breasts. She would have lost the superficial... Jesus, Lucas, this is freaking me out. Can't you wait for the reports?"
"No. I want to hear it."
"Well, when you have a spinal accident, you lose varying amounts of muscular control and the super... the feeling in your lower body. The loss ranges from minor disability to total paralysis, where you lose everything. That's what happened to her. But depending on where the damage happens to the spine, you lose superficial sensory... you lose the feeling over different areas. We're talking about the pain. And it looks like he was systematically working up her body, trying to find where it began."
"What about all the stab wounds in the vaginal area?"
"I was about to say, that doesn't fit with the other pattern of wounds. That appears to be sexual. And it's not uncommon when there's a sexual motivation behind a murder. There was also substantial flensing of the breasts-"
"What? Flensing?"
"He was skinning her. I think he stopped when he realized she was dying. That's when he finally put the knife in, so he could do it himself. Kill her."
"Jesus God."
The technicians tramped in and out. Lucas poked through the cripple's possessions, found a small collection of graduation pictures tucked in the top drawer of her chest. She was wearing a black gown and mortarboard, tassel to the left. He slipped the picture in his pocket and left.
***
Lucas was awake when the newspaper hit his screen door. He lay with his eyes closed for a moment, then gave up and walked out to retrieve it.
A double-deck headline spread across the page. Beneath it a four-column color pho
tograph dominated the page, a shot of the covered body being rolled out to the medical examiner's wagon on a gurney. The photographer had used a superwide lens that distorted the faces of the men pushing the gurney. HANDICAPPED, the headline said. TORTURE, it said. Lucas closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.
***
The meeting started angry and stayed that way.
"So there's nothing substantial?" They were gathered in Daniel's office-Lucas, Anderson, Lester, a dozen of the lead detectives.
"It's just like the others. He left us nothing," said Anderson.
"I'm not going to take this kind of answer anymore," Daniel suddenly shouted, smashing the top of his desk with his hand, staring at Anderson. "I don't want to hear this bullshit about-"
"It's not bullshit," Anderson shouted back. "It's what we got. We got nothing. And I don't want to hear any shit from you or Davenport about any fuckin' media firestorms-that's the first fuckin' thing you said when we came in: what about the fuckin' media? Fuck the fuckin' media. We're doing the best we fuckin' can and I don't want to hear any fuckin' shit about it...." He turned and stomped out of the room.
Daniel, caught in mid-explosion by Anderson's outburst, slumped back in his chair. "Somebody go get him back," he said after a minute.
When Anderson came back, Daniel nodded at him. "Sorry," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I'm losing it. We've got to stop this dirtbag. We gotta get him. Ideas. Somebody give me ideas."
"Don't cut the surveillance on McGowan," Lucas said. "I still think that's a shot."
"She was all over the place out at the Wheatcroft scene," one of the detectives said. "How'd she know? She was there a half-hour before the rest of the media."
"Don't worry about it," Daniel snapped. "And I want the surveillance on her so tight that an ant couldn't get to her on his hands and knees. Okay? What else? Anything? Anybody? What's happening with the follow-up on the people who might have gotten the gun from Rice?"
"Uh, we got an odd one on that," said Sloan. "Rice was over in Japan right after World War II and he brought back these souvenirs, these little ivory-doll kind of things? Net-soo-kees? Anyway, he told some guy about them, a neighbor, and the neighbor told him about this gallery that deals in Oriental art. This guy from the gallery comes over and he buys these things. Gave Rice five hundred dollars for fifteen of them. We got the receipt. I went over to talk to the guy, Alan Nester's his name, he's over on Nicollet."
"I've seen his place," said Anderson. "Alan Nester Objets d'Art Orientaux. Ground floor of the Balmoral Building."
"Pretty fancy address," said Lucas.
"That's him," said Sloan. "Anyway, the guy wouldn't give me the time of day. Said he didn't know anything, that he only talked to Mr. Rice for a minute and left. Never saw any gun, doesn't know about the gun."
"So?" asked Daniel. "You think he might be the guy?"
"No, no, he's too tall, must be six-five, and he's real skinny. And he's too old for the profile. Must be fifty. One of those really snotty assholes who wear those scarves instead of ties?"
"Ascots?"
"Whatever, yeah. I don't think he's the guy, but he was nervous and he was lying to me. He probably doesn't know anything about the maddog, but there's something he's nervous about."
"Look around, see what you can find out," Daniel said. "What about the other people?"
"We've got six more to do," he said. "They're the least likely ones."
"Do them first. Who knows, maybe somebody'll jump up and bite you on the ass." He looked around. "Anything else?"
"I've got nothing," Lucas said. "I can't think. I'm going out on the street this afternoon, catch up out there, then I'm going up north. I'm not doing any good here."
"Hang around for a minute, will you?" Daniel asked. "Okay, everybody. And I'm sorry, Andy. Didn't mean to yell."
"Didn't mean to myself," Anderson said, smiling ruefully. "The maddog is killing us all."
***
"Anderson doesn't want to talk about the media," Daniel said, rapping the pile of newspapers on his desk. "But we've got to do something. And I'm not talking about saving our jobs. We could see some panic out there. This might be routine in Los Angeles, but the people here... It just doesn't happen. They're getting scared."
"What do you mean by panic! People running in the streets? That won't happen. They'll just hunker down-"
"I'm talking about people carrying guns in public. I'm talking about a college kid coming home from the U when his parents don't expect him, in the middle of the night, and having the old man take off his head with the family Colt. That's what I'm talking about. You're probably too young to remember when Charlie Starkweather was killing people out in Nebraska, but there were people walking around in the streets of Lincoln carrying shotguns. We don't need that. And we don't need the National Rifle Association cranking up its scare campaign, a gun in every house and a tank in every garage."
"We should talk to the publishers and the station managers or the station owners," Lucas said after a moment's reflection. "They can order the heat turned down."
"Think they'll do it?"
Lucas considered for another moment. "If we do it right. Media people are generally despised, but they're like anybody else: they want to be loved. Give them a chance to show that they're really good guys, they'll lick your shoes. But it's got to come from you. Like, top guy to top guy. And maybe you ought to take the deputy chiefs with you. Maybe the mayor. That'll flatter them, show them that you respect them. They're going to ask some stuff like, 'You want us to censor ourselves?' You've got to say, 'No, we don't. We just want to apprise you of the dangers of public panic; we want you to be sensitive to it.'"
"Do I have to share those thoughts with them?" Daniel asked sarcastically.
Lucas pointed a finger at him. "Quit that," he said harshly. "No humor. You're dealing with the press. And yeah, say share. They talk like that. 'Let me share this with you.'"
"And they'll buy it?"
"I think so. It gives the newspapers a chance to be responsible. They can do that because they aren't making any money off the deal anyway. You don't get more advertisers because you're carrying murder stories. And they don't care much about short-term circulation gains. They can't sell those, either."
"What about the TV?"
"That's a bigger problem, because their ratings do shift, and that does count. Christ, I think I read in the paper last week that the sweeps are coming up. If we don't cut some kind of a deal with TV, they'll go nuts with the maddog stuff."
Daniel groaned. "The sweeps. I forgot about the sweeps. Jesus, this is supposed to be a police department. We're supposed to catch crooks, and I sit here sweating about the ratings sweeps."
"I'll get the names of everybody you want to talk to," Lucas said. "I'll give them to Linda in an hour. With phone numbers. Best to call them directly. Then they think you know who they are."
"Okay. One meeting? Or two? One for the papers and one for the TV?"
"One, I think. The TV people like to be in the same discussions with the newspaper guys. Makes them feel like journalists."
"What about radio?" Daniel asked.
"Fuck radio."
***
Anderson propped himself in Lucas' office doorway.
"Something?"
"He may drive a dark-colored Thunderbird, new, probably midnight blue," he said with just the mildest air of satisfaction.
"Where'd that come from?" Lucas asked.
"Okay. The medical examiner figured she was killed sometime Wednesday night or Thursday morning. We know she was alive at seven o'clock because she talked on the telephone with a friend. Then a guy who lives across the street works on the night shift, he got home at eleven-twenty and noticed that her light was still on. He noticed because she usually went to bed early."
"How's he know that?"
"I'm getting to it. This guy works a rotating shift out at 3-M. When he was working the day shift, seven to three, he used to see her going do
wn the sidewalk when he left for work. One time he asked her why she got up so early, and she said she always did, it was the best time of day. She couldn't work at night. So he noticed the light. Thought maybe she had a big test."
Rules of Prey Page 26