The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “For about a year now,” Draper said, “we’ve been requesting reports from local jurisdictions on all current homicides—unsolved homicides thirty days old or more.”

  “Ah …” Hastings nodded. It was a responsibility he’d assigned to Richard Gee, the newest man in Homicide. “Right.”

  “What we’re doing,” Draper said, “is trying to see whether we can find any similarities between the victims, anything the computers can kick out for us.”

  Through the glass door of his office, Hastings saw two detectives standing expectantly in the hallway, mutely asking whether they could interrupt. Hastings moved his head a half inch, side to side.

  “How’s it going?” Hastings asked, returning his attention to the man from Washington.

  “The computer is an incredible tool,” Draper announced. “Unbelievable. I don’t have to tell you that. They make matchups that would take clerks months to work out. We’ve been running this program for six months now, and it’s amazing what we’ve turned up.”

  “What’s the purpose of the program?”

  Draper hesitated, then moved slightly forward in his chair, lowering his voice. “Actually,” he said, “the goals are still classified. But, confidentially—” His voice dropped another half note. “Confidentially, we’re trying to see whether we can get a handle on serial killers.”

  “Serial killers …” Interested, Hastings looked more attentively at the other man.

  “It’s a new approach,” Draper explained, “a new concept. Up to now, we’ve been looking for connections between the victims and the killer. Which is tough going, as you know. I mean, the definition of a serial killer, after all, is that he kills at random. Usually there’s no connection between the killer and the victim. None. Some guy gets in his car and starts driving—across the country, maybe. He gets drunk, or high, or his demons start acting up, or whatever, and he finds someone, and he kills him—or her. True, there’ll usually be a common denominator relating to the killer’s personality—he’s a homosexual, and usually kills teenage boys, let’s say. That gives us something to work on, but it’s not a very good predictive tool.”

  Hastings frowned. “Predictive tool?”

  “Some means of predicting where or when a serial killer will strike next.”

  “So what’s your new approach?”

  For effect, Draper allowed a moment to pass before he said, “We’re trying to attack the problem from the other end, so to speak. The homosexual killer, for example. We know he goes after teenage boys. But the question is, what kinds of teenage boys? Blonds? Brunettes? Maybe he only gets turned on by boys with blue eyes—or boys who wear tennis shoes, whatever. Maybe not just tennis shoes, maybe it’s Adidas shoes that turn him on. Or maybe one guy kills only when the moon’s in the fourth quarter. He doesn’t know that’s when he kills. But the computer knows. And if the Adidas killer is also the one who kills when the moon’s in its fourth quarter, then we’re making progress. Not much progress. But some. Because we’ve got a two-way matchup, then, you see—a cross-check.”

  “Yeah,” Hastings said, politely nodding. “I can see it.”

  “Some of the connections we’re getting are pretty erudite,” Draper continued. “For instance, prostitutes are obviously a big target group, for obvious reasons. And in Trenton last year, there were four prostitutes killed at one-month intervals. They were all black, all in their early twenties. They’d all come from small towns in the South—and their fathers all worked for the civil service, in some capacity. And it turned out they were all murdered by the same guy.”

  “Are you telling me that he—” Hastings broke off, searching for the phrase, “—that he screened his victims?”

  “No. Not consciously, anyhow. But subconsciously—” Draper spread his hands. The FBI man’s fingernails, Hastings noticed, looked as if they were manicured. “Who knows?”

  “Computers …” Registering polite wonderment, Hastings shook his head. “They’re amazing. I guess we’ll all be spending more time looking at the green numbers.”

  Decisively, Draper nodded emphatic agreement. “The programmer who set up the study told me that he used to work for an outfit called the North American Society for Cyclical Research, which was set up to predict the changes in the business cycle. And he says that the sales curve of junior misses ready-to-wear at Macy’s corresponds exactly to the nesting cycle of the brown starling.”

  “The brown starling?”

  Draper’s answering nod was solemn. “The brown starling.” He let a beat pass before he said, “Going back to prostitutes, that’s why I’m here.” He let another beat pass, compelling Hastings’s closer attention. “Today is Wednesday. Beginning Monday, have there been any prostitutes killed in San Francisco?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Hastings answered slowly, “there was one killed. Last night, down in the Tenderloin.”

  Instantly, Draper’s eyes came alive; his carefully cultivated image of the aloof FBI executive abruptly faded as he asked, “Last night? No fooling?” Eagerly, he came forward in his chair. Amused, Hastings nodded. Could Draper be another likable FBI agent, one capable of actual enthusiasm, the second likable agent he’d ever encountered?

  “She was killed about ten last night. Why?”

  “Do you have anyone in custody?”

  “Ah, ah.” Hastings raised a gamesman’s forefinger. “I asked you first. What’s the rundown?”

  As Draper considered the question, caution veiled his eyes. “Lieutenant …” It was a pained admonishment. “I don’t have to tell you that I can’t give out information without—”

  “Without checking with Washington. I know. Well—” Hastings smiled: a small, knowing smile. “Well, it’s the same with me. I have to check with my people.”

  Draper eyed the man across the desk. Obviously, Hastings was an intelligent man, undoubtedly a competent officer: quiet, cautious, probably conscientious. Some ranking officers in the local jurisdictions, Draper had concluded, were thick-headed obstructionists: sidewalk cops promoted beyond their capacities, therefore insecure and envious when dealing with their opposite numbers in the Bureau. But Hastings talked like a man who’d gone to college—and graduated.

  “You’re, ah, the co-commander of the homicide detail,” Draper said, offering a gambit. “Is that correct?”

  Hastings nodded. “Correct. Pete Friedman and I—Lieutenant Friedman—we share command. He’s in court today.”

  “So you really don’t have to check with anyone.”

  “I have limited discretion.” Holding the FBI man’s gaze, Hastings allowed a long, measured beat to pass, then added meaningfully, “You have limited discretion, too.”

  For a full thirty seconds Draper stared out through the window at a fragmented view of the city. The time was 11:10 A.M. He was booked on a 7:15 P.M. flight to D.C. Conceivably, he could persuade the local bureau chief to contact Hastings’s superior officer, probably the chief of detectives. The chief of detectives might go along, might order Hastings to cooperate, without demanding anything in return.

  He might, or he might not.

  Either way, Draper had a meeting scheduled in exactly twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes in D.C.

  And if he could announce a break in the case, or at least a good, solid lead …

  He returned his gaze to Hastings, who was calmly waiting for his answer.

  “Okay,” Draper said, his voice crisp, his manner brusque. He took out a small leather-bound notebook, twisted the barrel of a Cross pen. “Let’s have it. You first.”

  As Draper took notes, Hastings ran down the Amy MacFarland case, supplying all the facts, all the names, all the speculation. Only twice did Draper interrupt, asking for additional details. Ten minutes later, satisfied, Draper reviewed his notes, pocketed the pen and notebook.

  “Your turn,” Hastings said, drawing a notepad closer.

  A last long moment of silence as Draper stared gravely across the desk. Finally, portentously
, he said:

  “It could be that I’m going to give you a big one, Lieutenant. If that’s the way it comes down, I hope you’ll remember that you heard it here first—from me. Fair?”

  “Fair.”

  “Okay.” Heavily decisive, Draper squared himself in his chair, facing up to the bargain he’d made. “Here it is …” Another reluctant pause. Then: “Amy MacFarland fits the victim profile of a serial murder case we’ve been working on. She fits the computer model exactly. Right on the money.”

  Hastings decided his best tactic was simply to nod, waiting for the FBI man to continue:

  “A little more than a year ago, in a period of three weeks, two prostitutes were murdered in Los Angeles. At the time, the two homicides didn’t seem to be connected. And, let’s face it, the police didn’t exactly pull out all the stops when they investigated. But when we activated the task force, we went back over the data. And that’s when the similarities began popping up.”

  “On the printouts.”

  Draper nodded. “Exactly. On the printouts. Both the victims were white, in their twenties. Both of them were murdered in hotel or motel rooms, where they’d taken a john. Both of them were strangled by a thick cord, or a rope. It wasn’t robbery, nothing was taken. And there weren’t any messages left behind. You know, ‘Death to harlots’ written in lipstick on the mirror, or whatever.

  “So the information went into the computer,” Draper continued, “which was programmed to pick up similarities in sex, age, occupation, mode of death, probable weapon, whether robbery was involved, et cetera et cetera.” Draper paused, reflectively shaking his head. “It’s incredible, what these computers can do, matching things up. Unbelievable.”

  “So how does this come down to Amy MacFarland?”

  As if he were ignoring the question, Draper went on, stolidly telling his story in sequence: “That was about a year ago, that the first two were killed. Then, about a month later—I’m not positive about the dates—another one showed up. In Cleveland.”

  “Cleveland?”

  “Cleveland. And then one showed up in Los Angeles, then two in San Diego, if I remember correctly—then back to Los Angeles. And so on—for a year. One or two in different cities, but always back to Los Angeles—a total of fourteen, the way we figure it.” A short, significant pause. Then: “Including Amy MacFarland, last night.”

  “The murderer is based in Los Angeles, and travels around the country.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what’s the rest of it? You said you were giving me a big one.”

  “What I’m giving you—” Draper paused again, allowing himself a moment of drama, building the suspense. “What I’m giving you is Austin Holloway.”

  “The evangelist?” Disbelieving, Hastings shook his head. “You’re kidding.”

  “Not Austin Holloway himself. But someone in his organization, sure as hell. Because that’s what the computer turned up, you see. The only common denominator was the itinerary of Austin Holloway. And, believe me, our programmer—he’s a genius—he punched in everything; big league baseball schedules, stock car racers, cosmetics salesmen, every kind of convention you can name, God knows what all. It took him months, assigning a code to all the suspect models, then running the program. But finally it came down to Holloway. Computerwise, it’s absolutely irrefutable. I was there myself, and saw it happen. The programmer punched in the code for Austin Holloway’s itinerary, and the goddamn bells and whistles went off. And I’m talking a hundred-percent correlation.”

  “That’s not evidence, though.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s sure as hell probable cause. Reason enough to turn out the troops, as I’m sure you’d certainly agree.”

  “Yes,” Hastings answered slowly. “I’d agree.” He let a moment of thoughtful silence pass, staring across his small, glass-paneled office before he said softly, “So now Holloway’s in San Francisco.”

  “Right.”

  “How long have you known this, about Holloway’s connection with the murders?”

  “Just about two weeks,” Draper answered.

  “Have you had Holloway under surveillance in Los Angeles?”

  “The FBI hasn’t. So far, we’re just acting in an advisory capacity. But the local authorities’ve put three men on it, full-time. Lieutenant Brinker, in Homicide down there, is the officer in charge.”

  “Have they got anything? Any leads?”

  “Not yet, as far as I know. L.A.’s got at least eight cases, potentially. If we’re right, the last victim was killed about five weeks ago.”

  Nodding thoughtfully, Hastings let his gaze wander away again, this time to focus on his own private view: a truncated city scape, highlighted by a tiny, top-to-bottom slice of the Transamerica Pyramid.

  Austin Holloway …

  The face, the voice, the man—known throughout the world, a Sunday video presence in millions of American homes. Of all the TV evangelists, Holloway was the most successful, the most famous, the most mesmerizing, some said the most manipulative, therefore the most dangerous. A recent newsmagazine had done a cover story on TV evangelists. In every category—number of weekly viewers, gross revenue, value of real estate holdings—Holloway had far outstripped his nearest competitor. Hastings could clearly recall the magazine’s cover: Austin Holloway, dressed in a purple robe, handsome as a gray-haired prophet, with his towering glass cathedral glowing in the background. The inference: among American evangelists, Austin Holloway was chairman of the board.

  “You aren’t telling me,” Hastings said, “that you think Austin Holloway himself is killing these hookers. Because the description we’ve got doesn’t fit Holloway.”

  “What I’m telling you,” Draper said, “is what the computer tells me. And, as far as I know, there’s no data on the suspect. The weapon, yes. The suspect, no.” He glanced at his wrist-watch, rose, pointed to his business card lying on Hastings’s desk. “I’ve got a lunch date, and then I’ll be tied up for the rest of the day. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep in touch. And don’t forget, when it’s news conference time, remember Uncle. Remember Uncle—and remember me.”

  Also on his feet, Hastings extended his hand. “I’ll remember—both of you.”

  5

  FRIEDMAN SAW IT LYING in the center of his desk, printed with a bold black felt marking pen across a form meant for interoffice memos, a message from Hastings:

  SEE ME ASAP.

  For Friedman, it was an intriguing surprise; Hastings seldom used a felt marker, almost never sounded the alarm.

  Stopping only at a dispensing machine, then carrying a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee, Friedman walked down a short hallway to Hastings’s office. Seeing him alone, bent over his desk, Friedman knocked twice on the glass door and entered without being invited. He closed the door, went to Hastings’s visitors’ chair, and sank down with a grateful sigh as he sipped the steaming coffee. Friedman was a large, big-bellied man in his middle fifties. His face was broad and swarthy, his dark eyes heavily lidded. His graying hair was thick, haphazardly combed. Even at odd hours, Friedman wore three-piece suits that never quite fit. His collar was perpetually mashed by a sizable double chin, his vests constantly smudged by cigar ash. Friedman’s manner was elliptical, playfully inscrutable. Offered a captaincy and command of Homicide, he’d promptly declined. Instead, he’d offered Hastings a deal. Friedman would work inside, exercising his intellect in the battle against crime, while Hastings worked in the field, exercising his muscles. Hastings had accepted, and Chief Dwyer had reluctantly gone along. Unlike Dwyer, Friedman and Hastings had never regretted their decision.

  “What’s up?” Friedman asked, settling himself more comfortably in the visitor’s chair and putting his coffee on Hastings’s desktop.

  In detail, Hastings ran down the MacFarland homicide, then described his meeting with Draper. As he finished, Friedman began dolefully shaking his head. “You know what’s happening here, don’t you?” he said. “It’s the godda
mn inevitable, finally coming true. The computers’re taking over.”

  “This is no different than our fingerprint computer,” Hastings answered. “It’s like Draper said, the computer comes up with comparisons that it’d take techs weeks to make. Months, maybe.”

  “That’s techs,” Friedman grunted. “I’m talking about us.” He touched the vest pocket where, every morning, he put four cigars, his daily ration. Then he remembered that he’d smoked his fourth cigar as he rode to the Hall of Justice. “So how’re we handling it?”

  “Canelli and Culligan are at the St. Francis, getting the feel of things. That’s where Austin Holloway and a lot of his staff are staying. I’m going to go over there in a half hour. If it’s feasible, I thought I’d take Dancer Browne along and plant him in the lobby, or somewhere. We might get lucky.”

  Amused, Friedman smiled: a slow, lazy twisting of his cherub’s mouth. “The DA’ll love that—his key witness a pimp.”

  “Have you got a better idea?”

  “No.” Friedman’s ironic smile widened. “But I hope you can find a potted palm, or something, to stick Dancer Browne behind. I’ve never met the gentleman, but if he’s like most pimps I’ve met, I don’t think he’s going to fit in with the St. Francis crowd.”

  Hastings made no comment, and for a long moment the two men sat silently, thinking about the computer-generated possibilities. Finally, still smiling ironically, Friedman shook his head, as if he’d just been struck by a thought so incredibly intriguing that it must be shared:

  “God,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be great if we nailed one of Austin Holloway’s flunkies for murder one? It’d be a public service, for God’s sake.”

  Reflectively answering the smile, Hastings nodded. “I know …”

  “What’s Holloway doing here, anyhow—in San Francisco? This sure as hell isn’t the Bible Belt.”

  “Good question. I was wondering myself.”

  “We should lean on that room clerk,” Friedman said. “If we get a positive ID from the pimp—Browne—I think we should get that clerk down here, and make sure he does it right, for the lineup. I’ll find out who owns the—what’s the name of the hotel?”