Kerri was scribbling on the other end, saying over and over she couldn’t believe this. “So fast,” she said. “You left what? Sixty minutes ago?”
“Eighty.” Jill glanced at her watch. It was 6:10.
“Our lab’s just processing his DNA. Would they have even thought to look for infection?” Phones and hurried voices sounded in Kerri’s squad room.
“Why not? There was blood in the semen.”
“Not in our evidence logs.” Kerri at her end pushed aside Catch Me’s cut-up newspapers and scrolled her computer, squinting. “I don’t see anything with blood, they would have red-flagged it.”
“Maybe the blood just started last night, when he was in bed and masturbated,” Jill said. “Discovering his syphilis and maybe Beth’s pregnancy is what set him off. Now on top of the siff he has urethritis, which gets more painful fast and will make him crazier, if it’s possible. Secondary infections can take days longer to develop.”
“Incredible.”
A sign at the corner pointed to Staff Childcare and Jill headed that way; heard baby babble.
“If I were him I’d be doing one of two things,” she said.
“What?”
“I’d either be planning to break into a pharmacy or med supply place, or I’d be getting a new fake ID and planning to visit some ER. This guy may suspect docs have to report STDs.”
“What’s your guess?”
“Fake ID and visiting an ER. Because if Catch Me’s read online how to treat this, he knows syphilis is best treated IV or with deep intra-muscular injection. In theory he could do it himself, but it’s painful, dicey.”
Jill entered the childcare suite as Kerri was thanking her. Every ER, clinic, pharmacy and medical supply place would be given a BOLO and the killer’s description, as close as they could get it.
“This is good, Jill. This is so good.”
“Catch him, Kerri. Catch that MF.”
It was surreal, suddenly seeing a roomful of innocent babies, bright toys, and happy Jesse stumbling to her in contrast to the conversation she’d just had.
A smiling attendant lifted him to Jill. “I swear he’s learned to tell time,” she said. “Since six he’s been watching the door.”
Jill smiled back and took Jesse, felt his eager smooches and warmth and then laughed happily with the sudden release of tension. Those little arms around her neck felt so good. “Hugs, hugs, oh don’t stop honey, Mommy needs hugs.” Jesse squeezed her, then with his face pressed to her neck babbled something she didn’t understand.
She pulled her head back and looked at him.
“What, sweetie?”
“Mammy scawee?”
Omigod, he remembered. Had he been remembering all afternoon?
Jill asked one of the other attendants, named Chloe, if he’d seemed worried or fretful.
No, he’d been fine. “Plays well with others,” Chloe grinned, her arm sweeping the carpet barely visible under all-sized toys and other little ones. There were five attendants for them at this hour. Three of the five were volunteers studying early childhood development. Chloe was one of them.
She looked confused as Jill hunched down to the carpet with Jesse. “Aren’t you on call?” she asked.
“Yep,” Jill answered. “Phone’s been quiet for fifteen minutes so I raced over.”
“Ha,” Chloe joked. “You need roller blades.”
Jill’s phone rang – clench! – but it was David.
“Where are you?”
“With Jesse. Come.”
Eight minutes later he was there, hair awry, flushed from running, carrying a small blanket and a bulging diaper bag. “Dinner,” he grinned, hugging Jesse, sitting him on the edge of the blanket and holding up the clean diaper bag.
“Grabbed sandwiches from one of the machines. We’re going to eat as a family here.”
Sprawled, they took turns bolting down their food and feeding Jesse. Rather, he kept trying to feed himself, grabbing the spoon from David and sending squish flying. “What a mess,” David told his child’s squash-smeared, two-toothed, grinning little face.
“Mesh! Mesh!” Jesse thought that was hilarious.
In between and low-voiced, Jill filled David in on Catch Me’s syphilis. Stunned, he said the same thing Jill had been thinking.
“It’s what set him off. That and maybe finding out about Beth’s pregnancy. For a psycho crazy-obsessed with control…”
“Did he not know that syphilis was treatable?” Jill whispered, then added, “Well now he must. Cops have been alerted, BOLOs going out to half the city.”
“BOLOs?” David grimaced. “White, five-eleven? How many guys match that description?”
“And want penicillin for syphilis right away at night? He has urethritis too now, probably getting more painful. He’s in a rush, that narrows it down.”
They were interrupted by other staff parents arriving, rushing in during the dinnertime lull. Two neurology residents and a surgery resident scooped up their kids.
“Hey, good idea,” said Len Akers, an orthopedist and friend. He grabbed his fifteen-month-old daughter Ollie and crouched holding her to greet Jesse.
“Any way to eat as a family,” David said; then: “Hey, join us.”
Len did, plunking Ollie down mid-blanket next to Jesse. They looked at each other. “Bwah!” Ollie chirped, raising her hands. Jesse looked back to Jill, his older-than-his-age expression seeming to ask, Is that a word?
She shook her head and made room for Len on the blanket.
He was another of their comfort-friends. From Texas, it was Len who insisted that David take his gun during the second horror to hit them and the hospital. David had, and tragedy had been averted.
Len still bugged David about carrying his own gun. As an intern in Houston, Len Akers had seen another doctor shot dead in the ER. Kept his own registered Glock 26 strapped to his ankle under his scrub pants, insisted it was the most sought-after concealed carry weapon.
Jill wanted one. She and David had argued about it.
Her phone beeped, and she knew that was the end of their picnic.
“De-li-very,” she said with a groan, getting up, hoisting Jesse for a hug.
“Long night ahead.” Len shook his head sympathetically.
Jill nodded, grateful for a whole thirty-five minutes she’d had with her child. David, rising too, was telling Len that they were torn: alternate call nights meant they didn’t see enough of each other, but that one of them was always on hand for Jesse.
“At least you’re in the same hospital,” Len groaned, wistfully watching David hug his family. “It’s hard with Jane way uptown at Manhattan General. Ollie must feel like a shuttlecock going back and forth.”
David looked at him seriously. “Keep her here tonight.”
Len’s features turned grim. “I know. Jane called, said the same.” His eyes went from David to Jill. “Any update on The Couples Killer?”
“Yeah.” Jill arched her brows at David and put Jesse back down on the blanket. “Can I borrow your Glock? Tell David I’ll learn.”
24
I feel pretty, Oh, so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright! And I pity. Any girl who isn't me tonight.
The killer pictured Maria singing that in West Side Story, and the rest came easy. He actually got his voice up into a surprisingly good falsetto, throwing his head back, enjoying getting fussed over. He’d picked up Tiffany and Amanda in their tight shorts on West 19th Street, was at their place now way over in the West Village. Tiffany was lovingly brushing his huge blond wig before the full length mirror and Amanda was having great fun with his makeup.
“Ooh, plum eye shadow, it’s you,” Amanda said joyously in his gritty falsetto. “Hold still, honey! There, that’s better. Glad I started with the blue, for shadow you can always go darker.”
“I would have started with plum,” Tiffany mock-scolded in his falsetto. “You just fell in love with his gorgeous blue eyes, dincha?”
“It’s true,” Amanda simpered sadly, fluttering his fake eyelashes, pulling back to peer at his work. “I fall in love too easily. The right tran and I’m gone, lost! My heart’s been broken so many times, you’d think I’d learn, wouldn’t you, Sandy?”
He had told them his name was Sandy.
“Oh, the right one will come along,” he said, smiling encouragingly at Amanda, turning to admire his huge boobs, the frilly blouse over the long skirt.
Amanda cried, “That’s what I thought with Tiffany here, but she’s mean. All we do now is fight, hardly ever have sex. I was so glad when you came up to us and broke the tension.”
“Hey, I’ve been there.” The killer smiled again, thoroughly creeped by his reflection smiling back with its clownish eyes and heavy red lipstick. “Ah,” he glanced down. “Boots? You said you could make me a perfect Dolly Parton.”
“Coming!” Tiffany was already pulling boots from a closet and lining them up. “Size eleven, you said? These here are Josie’s, too small, practically for real girls. She left them with us instead of the damn rent she owed. That didn’t last long, did it?” A plucked eyebrow raised at Amanda, whose sad face gazed moon-eyed at Sandy.
“But my boots will fit. Hand tooled!” Tiffany pushed a pair to the killer, and patted his knee.
He realized they were competing for him. Smiled charmingly back at Tiffany, then sat, pulled on the boots, and stood.
“Perfect,” he said, looking again in the mirror at a tall, thoroughly grotesque Dolly Parton. “This is so kind of you.” Amanda and Tiffany smiled back at him in the mirror. “I’ll get it all back to you, ASAP.”
Tiffany’s expression turned skeptical – again. S/he’d been skeptical and more businesslike when he first walked up. “Tell again why you had none of your own?”
Defensive: “I had lots. The landlady kicked me out, and her thug of a son threatened to kill me.”
Amanda jumped lovingly to the defense. “He explained that.”
“Not about losing his clothes,” Tiffany snapped. Her gaze moved across the floor. “So what’s in your duffle?” She pointed to his long sports bag.
“The few things I could pack before getting my head smashed in,” he said with a fake shudder.
“See? She’s mean!” Amanda’s hands with their purple nails went to her pained face. “Interrogates me for every little thing too. Who paid me for what, who has more johns, where was I all last night…”
They started to argue, and the killer reached out to pat both on their broad shoulders. “Ladies, whoa. You’re helping me, remember?” He sweetly fingered Amanda’s tight tank top. “You haven’t given me your doctor’s name yet.”
“Oh, right.” Amanda recovered, rushed for her purse and came back pulling out a card. “She’s at Perry and Washington, on the corner, first floor. Just say we sent you, and she’ll fix you right up.”
Tiffany was back to friendly. “We’ve both had siffy so many times I’ve lost count. Safe sex is a drag. Thank goodness for antibiotics.”
“You’re sure this doctor’s okay?” the killer asked.
“Okay? She’s one of us!” Amanda said feelingly, fussing with a stray blond hair of Sandy’s wig. “A real M.D. Went to Cornell.”
“And she has office hours this late? It’s after seven.”
“She has parties at all hours. Dressed like Cher last time we were there. But listen, I’ll call her, make sure she’s there and waiting for you.” Amanda pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed a number. It was picked right up.
“Cherie,” Amanda cooed into the phone. “It’s me, Mandy. Tiff and I have a new friend here who’s got her very first case of siffy. Could she come over to you now? Her name is Sandy and she’s a gorgeous Dolly Parton.”
Amanda listened a moment, then beamed as she hung up. “Doctor Cherie will be waiting for you, more than happy to help.”
Tiffany said, “It’s a cruel world out there for girls like us, but there’s a community of us that helps.”
Just what he’d hoped for, the killer thought. What a brilliant stroke this was. He reached for the GAP bag he’d brought with him. “Listen,” he said, digging into it, bringing out a purse. “Again, please, let me pay you for all this.” He gestured to his face, the outfit. “At least let me leave money with you until I come back.”
They wouldn’t hear of it. Amanda was soulfully suggesting he’d be ever so happy moving in with them - their bed was king size, perfect for three – when the killer pulled from the purse his gun with its silencer and shot them. Pop! Pop! Tiffany was dead before she hit the floor. Amanda looked at him with stunned, heartbroken eyes as she sank down too.
Outside, only one cab would stop for him. The driver looked like a terrorist and Dolly Parton sat in back with his gun ready, under his purse on his lap. Towel-head, sand mite, he thought. How I’d love to blow your head off. The driver swerved and drove too fast through the narrow West Village Streets. Was on his phone yelling wildly too, probably telling some pal how depraved and dissolute this country was.
Minutes later, the terrorist dropped Dolly at the corner of Perry and Washington, and roared away like a bat out of hell.
Relieved, the killer studied the card Amanda had given him, and made his way to the right building.
In the vestibule, he rang.
A moment later he was greeted by someone dressed like Ru Paul, who hugged him, gushed over the Dolly outfit, and led him into an examining room.
25
The bird wore a top hat. Funny, he’d never noticed that.
David slouched facing the poster welcoming the visitor to the Stork Club. He’d tried to sleep, and couldn’t; had come here to the OB doctors’ lounge because he was lonely, and terribly on edge. He dropped his face onto his fisted left hand, and stared at the poster, trying to lose himself.
Black background, cartoonish gold stork perched on one foot, wearing a top hat and a monocle – very 1940’s. The club had been a hot spot for café society, he’d heard. Famous, self-important people: movie stars, the very rich, celebrities, showgirls and aristocrats. Sic transit, he thought. All gone now…
He was depressed, anxious, and hated feeling helpless. Squirming, he pulled his silver phone from his right pocket and checked it. No new messages. Nothing happening and everything happening. Where was Catch Me and who was he creeping up on now? What had they found at the police lab? Jill had led them right to the devil’s den. They got his prints and DNA - but what if the creep wasn’t in the system?
His mind churned. He couldn’t shut it off. It was 8:30 already. He’d spoken briefly with Alex, said Jill would be on call and to call him when they got results. Why hadn’t he heard?
His other phone, the old black one in his left pocket, hadn’t rung either. He thought, Call me, you bastard. Call and brag and tell me where you are. I’ll-
“Hey, you’re s’posed to be sleeping!”
He dropped his head back to see Sam MacIntyre drag in with Ramu Chitkara behind him.
“Thirty-two hours of no sleep!” Ramu said. “Not good. Nerves interfering?”
David groaned something that sounded like agreement.
They practically fell onto cushions, Sam on the couch under the stork poster, Ramu in an easy chair by David.
“I’m on call.” Sam mock-whined. “Your frantic expression’s gonna keep me from catching forty winks.”
“Any news?” Ramu asked more seriously.
“No, dammit.” David shifted and inhaled. “I have this feeling…like all hell’s gonna break loose any minute and I’m just waiting.”
Ramu made a pained sound. He and Sam took turns trying to divert David, saying first what a terrific job Jill and Gary Phipps were doing with that delivery in Room Five, then adding that they’d stopped to look in on Beth Willis. She was asleep. Ricky too. He looked so cute in his little cot next to hers.
“Still not sucking his thumb - progress,” Sam said, adding an even brighter note.
“I saw.” David
nodded tightly. “Just checked on them too.”
The other two fell silent, giving up and taking on David’s expression. Suddenly his phone chirped. The silver one. Sam and Ramu started and David sat bolt upright.
Alex. Speaking fast. “That Cortez visit was the break, we’ve got a match. Guy’s an Iraq vet too, dishonorably discharged. Just heard back from the military – he’s a violent loser. Name’s Mitch Haven. Fought with other soldiers, caught using drugs, assaulted an officer.” Alex stopped for breath. “And get this. He was in the same unit as Beth Willis, a support type for their medical unit kicked out nine weeks after she was sent home. I’ve got the dates here.”
David gripped his phone. “So…you know who he is but not where he is?”
“Unfortunately. He’s in the wind since our visit, disappeared and probably on his umpteenth fake ID. I’m sending you his file photo.”
David’s phone dinged, and the killer’s face was suddenly in his hand. He stared at the small, narrow eyes and mouth, the wide brow. “Weird-looking guy,” he said, feeling cold.
“Yeah, if he still looks like that.” A hesitation. “It’s only 8:45. Think Beth Willis would know anything about him now? Like where he is?”
“Doubtful plus she’s sleeping. Needs rest. No point in waking her and getting her agitated.”
Sam and Ramu were up, peering over David’s shoulder at the killer’s face on his phone. He saw them trade grimaces.
“Jill must have told you about the BOLOs,” Alex said.
“Yes.”
“Two males, perp’s description, have shown up so far in ERs for syphilis treatment. Embarrassed but co-operative. We promised their names would be kept private, they submitted voluntarily to GSR tests and told doctors about any sex partners who should be notified.”
“So, solid citizens except for the syphilis.”
“Everything’s relative, huh? You keeping your phone charged?”
“Both of them. He only has the old one’s number.”
“We’ll be listening. That Union Square double murder, bet he’ll be calling to brag.”
CATCH ME (EMBRYO: A Raney & Levine Thriller, Book 4) Page 11