by Art Bourgeau
"I don’t believe so," said Adam.
"Come on, we'll introduce you to her. We're damn lucky to have her. A remarkable young woman. Tops in her field," he said as he began to lead the way.
"Duty calls," Adam mouthed, and they followed the department head and his wife across the dance floor to the far corner where another bar was located.
There, talking with a small group, Margaret saw a young woman dressed in an evening gown with a strapless shined bodice and a gently gathered skirt. In one hand she held a small evening bag and a pair of schoolboy glasses. She turned toward them now at the sound of the department head’s voice as he said, "Erin, here are a couple of people I'd like you to meet."
The man beside her also turned, and the rest of the department head’s words were lost on Margaret.
The man with Erin was Loring.
The shock of it made her heart race. She almost said, "What are you doing here?"
Seeing Margaret stunned Loring. But his immediate reaction was guilt. After all, he didn’t want her to think he had betrayed her by going out with another woman. It was all Wiladene’s fault. If she hadn’t meddled in his life . . . As the introductions were made Margaret delayed shaking hands with him, going first to Wiladene Jenkins, a beautiful black woman in a Georgio Armani outfit, then to her husband Cornell, the star of the Sixers, and finally to two teen-agers with the group — one named Traci, with dark curly hair; the other a short-haired blonde named Jennifer who was dressed in a dinner suit with a rayon piqué jacket and floor-length skirt complete with a godet flare. When Loring’s turn came he took her hand but gave no sign of recognition. Well, he’s in control, Margaret thought.
"You've done a fabulous job with the party," said the department head.
Jennifer took a cigarette from her purse. "Yes, hasn’t she. We're all so proud."
Erin seemed to bristle as Adam lighted Jennifer’s cigarette.
"Thank you," she said coolly. "Excuse me, there are a couple of details I still have to attend to. Wiladene, could you help me?"
"Certainly," she said, and they went off into the crowd. Loring made no attempt to follow. Let them have their illusion that this party, this exhibit, meant something. Reality was Margaret in front of him dressed in midnight blue.
"I think I need a refill," said Adam, looking at his glass.
Margaret understood that he needed to get away from his department head, and he left. A moment later Jennifer drifted off.
The department head and his wife then saw someone they wanted to talk to, and Margaret was alone with Loring.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" Loring asked.
"Yes, thank you," Margaret replied, thinking they sounded like lovers in a chance meeting. She shook her head to dismiss the thought.
He looked around. "Erin says the food is from Mama Yolanda’s. Would you like some?"
She felt his touch on her bare arm as he led her through the crowd. It was a violation of their relationship, but how to free herself from him without drawing undue attention. Her apparently allowing him an intimacy gave him a feeling of power. He was her protector. She was safe with him. When they were together nothing bad could happen. He knew she understood this.
She looked around for Adam, but when she finally spotted him he was on the dance floor with Jennifer.
Loring followed her gaze to Adam and Jennifer. What a disgusting creature he was, how could she ever have married him. Some evil spell . . .
"Your husband is on the faculty," he said.
"Yes," she said, waiting for the dance to be over, but when it was Adam stayed on the floor.
The band began to play "Shadow of Your Smile," and she felt Loring's hand on her arm. "This is our dance, I believe."
She was furious at Adam for staying with Jennifer, but she also knew this situation with Loring was impossible . . . But she had no way out, or so she told herself as he led her onto the dance floor . . .
When the dance was over Loring stayed at her side, his hand still on her waist as she looked over the crowd for Adam. But somewhere in the closing moments of "Shadow of Your Smile" he and Jennifer had disappeared from the floor. Well, damn it, she wouldn't make it worse by going to find him. To check up on her husband, for God's sake.
The music began again, she felt Loring’s hand rise to touch the bareness of her back. Wrong, but to hell with it. She could manage the situation. She was Margaret, Doctor Margaret . . .
Erin, the party, everything and everyone was lost to Loring. All that mattered, existed, was Margaret, their being together. He led her down one of the corridors, she full of thoughts of her dissolving marriage, he full of her. She was hardly aware when he opened a door and led her into an office with a fireplace and closed the door.
When she abruptly realized they were alone she nearly panicked. This had to stop. Now. When he tried to lead her to the sofa she said, "No, Loring. . ." and put her hand on his chest to push him, gently, away.
He resisted. Acting out his mother and stepfather. He had her against him, trying to kiss her, reaching for her breasts. God, Charles was so right. He is like a child. This is so crazy. Somehow she got her hands free and grabbed his hair, pulling his head back. "No, Loring. I mean it. I do not want this."
Slowly his expression changed, like one of those trick cinematic dissolves, changed from lust to a dawning horror. He backed away, like a penitent child.
"Oh, God . . . look, I understand," she said. "It wasn't wrong of you to want . . . you were showing that you cared . . ."
He shook his head. Too late. With this terrible moment he had lost everything. He turned and ran from the room.
CHAPTER 17
MERCANTO HEARD the phone as he opened the door to his apartment, flipped on the light and hurried to answer it. On the other end of the line he heard Sloan’s angry voice. "Where the hell have you been? We’ve been trying to get you for hours."
"My brother's . . . I stopped by to see him."
Silence, then in a quieter voice Sloan said, "Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. How’s he doing?"
Mercanto resented Sloan's question. Frank’s condition was none of his business. "So-so," he said, nestling the phone against his cheek as he struggled out of his top coat, the movement making him wince. "What's up?"
"Come out to the park right away. Hortter Street near the stables. We've got another body. Looks like it might be the kid who shot you."
Mercanto was pulling his top coat back on as he headed for the door.
Twenty-five minutes later he turned off Wissahickon Avenue onto Hortter and saw four blue-and-whites, an ambulance, two unmarked cars and a crime lab van parked along the wooded stretch leading to the stables.
A uniformed officer with a flashlight approached to tell him to move on. He shone the light in the window and recognized Mercanto. "Nate, they're looking for you. Better park along the side and go in on foot."
He parked behind the nearest blue-and-white, where uniformed officers were milling around in the glare of the flashing lights.
One of the uniforms said, "Nate, looks like they found your boy. . ."
Mercanto pulled his coat closer around him against the night chill and walked toward them. "What happened?"
"A couple of kids playing after school found him . . . it’s bad."
"Hope you didn't eat before you came," one of them said. Nobody laughed.
Up the hill and through the trees Mercanto could see the glow of portable lights powered by cables from the crime lab van. There was a special tension, it showed in their faces. Whatever it was had to be real bad. He knew these men, professionals, not a rookie in the bunch. Death was nothing new to them. Normally they took it with a gallows humor. Part of the job. You either accepted it or got out. But not tonight. Each man was quiet, very quiet.
"Might as well go have a look," he said.
As Mercanto started up the hill it occurred to him that there was no good place to die, not even in bed with your woman. But some places, like this o
ne, seemed worse than others. The climb into the woods made his chest hurt, and twice he stopped to catch his breath. Once the thought crossed his mind of his lunch with Erin. Something in the memory was comforting, made the unknown waiting for him at the top of the hill somehow seem less a threat.
The portable lights lit up the crime scene like a movie set. The Medical Examiner and another man were working on the body. Their backs shielded it from his view. All he could see were the legs. Sloan was off to one side talking to Captain Zinkowsky and a woman in a down parka who would have been pretty except for the hardness in her face. Mercanto saw the badge pinned to her parka and recognized her from the Roundhouse.
She saw him first and pointed. Sloan turned. "You know Mary Kane from Seven Squad," he said. "A couple of kids found the body late this afternoon. They were torn up by it, you'll understand when you see it."
When Mercanto looked around for the kids the woman said, "We sent them home already. No need to keep them."
Sloan produced a plastic evidence bag. Inside was the gun. "Recognize it?"
Mercanto took it, the pistol looked like an old West Colt .45. The sight of it made him remember it in the kid’s hand, the feeling of the bullet going into him. He wanted to throw the gun as far as possible into the woods. "Yeah, it looks like the same one."
Sloan took the gun back from him. "We found it a couple of feet from the body. No fingerprints, we've had a lot of rain lately, but we figure the kid must have dropped it in the struggle. You ready to see the body?"
Mercanto steeled himself and walked with Sloan to where the body lay, leaves and twigs rustling underfoot as they moved along. The Medical Examiner and his assistant looked up, then moved away to give them a clear view.
The body was on its back. A teen-age boy dressed in jeans and a dark jacket. Short hair, like prep school kids wore. The front was covered in leaves and dirt. What turned his stomach was the head. Someone, something had torn a gaping hole in the neck. Dried blood from the hole nearly covered the face, staining it dark brown like an old-time minstrel, and in the midst of it, where the eyes should have been, were two empty ragged holes.
Finally the Medical Examiner said, "He was face down when we got here. We turned him over. It looks like he was attacked from behind."
Sloan handed him a photo of the boy standing in front of a Christmas tree. "Is it the kid who shot you?"
Even through the dried blood there was no mistaking that face or the one in the picture. Mercanto nodded.
"Name is Brian Collins," Sloan said. "His mother reported him missing a couple of days ago. Said she woke up and he was gone from the house. We found a bicycle further in the woods. That same night a couple reported being held up while they were parked down here. A lone gunman. The description fits. The man was pistol-whipped and kicked around some. The kid made the woman show herself to him but didn't touch her, just took their wallets. We found them closer to the road. There was about a hundred and twenty-five dollars on the body."
Mercanto knew what the boy was like, he had first-hand experience. That was hardly the issue now. "Yeah, but this . . . who . . . what did this to him?"
The M.E. looked at Sloan before answering. "It was human," he said. "Damn strange human, but you can see the teeth marks in the neck. We'll try for a mold at the lab. I'm taking odds it's the same one who killed Hightower. Young male, very strong, and in some kind of rage . . ."
"How do you know it was a male?"
"Because this one was alive when it happened. You can tell by the blood. He wasn't shot first like Hightower. Whoever did it jumped him from behind and ripped out the carotid artery, plus a chunk of neck muscle. With his teeth. You know the kid had to be fighting like hell while it was happening.
Tell me a woman, even a crazy one, who'd have that kind of strength."
"What about his eyes?"
The Medical Examiner knelt beside the body. "Gouged them out with his fingers, most likely."
Mercanto shook his head. Even feeling about the kid like he did . . . nobody could wish that on anybody. He turned away from the body and started back to the edge of the light where Captain Zinkowsky and the woman detective were standing.
"We've got to get this son of a bitch," he said to Sloan.
Sloan just looked at him. "One thing, this blows away our theories about Hightower's death. No kinky sex, no blackmail, no ex-wife. None of that stuff. A new ballgame but an old diamond — the killer is in the park, we’ve got to find him . . . and before he does it again. Jesus, like a fucking animal
"Wait a minute before you rule out drugs — "
The three of them looked at Mercanto. "I know, I’ve been on leave but I’ve been nosing around and I’ve got a name . . . Rashid, a Jamaican drug dealer working Germantown Avenue. I’ve confirmed it from Hightower's ex-wife and a couple of friends. He was the one selling to him. There could be a connection . .
Captain Zinkowsky and Sloan just looked at each other, said nothing.
Mercanto hurried on. "I know it's weak . . . a Germantown dealer who’s smart enough to sell almost fifty grand worth of stuff to a Center City type like Hightower wouldn't be crazy enough to do something like this himself, but maybe he hired it done. Maybe the kid was somehow into him, too." Here he was going way out on a limb. "Just looking at the Hightower case, I thought it might be some sort of a ritual or a message we didn't understand, something Jamaican like a cult or voodoo or something, so I went to an expert on this stuff at the Braddon Museum — —"
"And . . . ?" Zinkowsky said tightly.
Mercanto knew he was running out of steam. "Nothing. She said it wasn’t part of any ritual." He took a deep breath. "But at least it's a place to start . . ."
At least Sloan didn't dismiss it. "We can’t rule it out, said that all along. Drug people do crazy things." He turned to the captain. "Does the name mean anything to you?"
"No," she said, "but he shouldn’t be too hard to find. We’ll bring him in."
"Meanwhile," said Sloan, "here's what we do. Until some real evidence, we assume Rashid isn’t our man, that this guy is a psycho, a random killer on the loose in the park. Time is everything now. I know you're on leave, Mercanto, but tomorrow morning you be at the Roundhouse. We're going to powwow with the shrink and see if he can develop some sort of profile on this guy. Maybe we can match him up to some weirdo sex offender or someone just out of the funny farm. A guy this sick can’t have slipped through all the cracks unnoticed. Someone has got to know something about him . . . After we finish here tonight Captain Zinkowsky and I are going to meet with the Chief and the Mayor. It's already been arranged, they're waiting for us. I’m going to tell 'em we got to put every available man on this. Including a house-to-house canvass of the neighborhood. Somebody must know something, or seen something suspicious . . . Two-man patrols, undercover men and women as parked couples, the works . . . even the granny squad if necessary. But I want this S.O.B. caught. Clear?" He smacked his fist into his other palm in punctuation. "I want him caught before he can do it again," his voice rising.
Mercanto did a silent amen to that.
CHAPTER 18
MARGARET HURRIED back to the party to find Loring but he'd vanished. She had to find him, what happened between them had to have precipitated a crisis, at least she was sure of that.
Finally she located Adam still with Jennifer at one of the bars. She ignored his guilty look and took him to one side.
"I have a splitting headache. Take me home. Please" She turned and started for the door, and he followed, reluctantly. On the ride home she sat silent, staring out the window, smoking, thinking what a disaster the evening had turned into. Seeing Adam with Jennifer topped by what had happened between her and Loring. Her problem with Adam had to wait. Right now the priority was to find Loring and deal with their crisis . . . yes, their’s . . . before it had time to undo all the work they'd managed together.
At the house she didn’t wait for Adam, got out of the car and went in alone. In t
he bedroom she began to undress. Below she heard the front door open and close.
A moment later Adam was standing in the doorway, his tie undone, a Heineken in his hand. "Look, I’m sorry about tonight."
"Yes, I know," she said as she stripped off her clothes. She was in a hurry but blurted out, "Tonight you put me down in a way you’ve never done in this marriage. And that's saying something."
"Hey, I know I’m not exactly the ideal husband but — "
"Adam, I've known about you and that girl for some time. I’m not stupid. She can fall for your line of crap, not me. Not anymore."
She turned to the bureau and got out fresh panties.
As she pulled them on he said, "It's not what you think, I’m not having an affair with her. She's just one of my students. My God, she’s young enough to be my daughter."
She didn’t bother with the obvious answer as she turned back to the bureau for a bra —
He had her by the arms, turned her around. "Margaret, believe me, there's no one else, never mind how it looks. God, I know you’re not stupid. Neither am I . . . do you think I'd risk losing you for a kid like — "
She pulled free, started to put on her bra. He ripped it out of her hands. "Damn it, I’ll show you."
He pushed her down on the bed. She tried to move away but he held her there, jerking her panties down. He pinned her hands above her head, holding them with one hand, forced her legs open with his knees.
In the stillness of the room she heard the sound of his zipper, then felt him against her. When he entered her she stopped struggling, willing it to be over. Her thoughts were not on him, but . . . and it startled her. . . on what she would say to Loring when she got to him.
He was quick, and when she felt him shudder it was as if it was happening to someone else. Then he lay quietly, his weight on her. "There, damn it, that should tell you something"
It does, she thought, as she pushed him off, got up and silently dressed in slacks and a sweater. He watched her closely, and when he saw her pull on boots he said, "Wait a minute, where are you going?"