Lightning

by Ed McBain

  Studying the chart, Annie made some notes she planned to have Binky put into the computer later. According to her calculations, most of the victims were white: six as against two black and one Hispanic. All of them were Catholic. Three were married, four were single, and two were divorced. Five of the victims were childless. One of them had four children. Another had three. The remaining two had two children each. The women’s ethnic backgrounds were varied, with the largest number of them—three—being Irish. Their ages ranged from a low of nineteen in the case of Janet Reilly to a high of forty-six as concerned Blanca Diaz, the only Hispanic victim. Discounting these two extremes, Annie came up with an average age of about thirty—the same age as the rapist.

  She looked at the chart again.

  It seemed odd to her that all of the victims were Catholic. It seemed further odd that none of them had been sodomized. That simply didn’t jibe with the m.o. of most rapists. Would Binky Bowles—she smiled every time she thought of his name—come up with a knife-wielder who matched the description the women had given and who further specialized in rape alone? Was he afraid one of them might bite it off? Put the son of a bitch out of business forever. Serve him right.

  She didn’t have enough data.

  She looked through the DD reports and profiles again, taking notes, and then prepared another rough chart she would later ask Binky to feed into the computer for a more sophisticated evaluation than her own.

  A mixed bag if ever there was one. Housewives, students, a blue collar worker (literally, since she was a postal clerk), a domestic, a translator, and a former travel agent now living on the proceeds of alimony. Three natives of the city, the rest from all over creation. Education ranging from elementary school to a master’s degree. Clubs and organizations, sports and hobbies ranging from—God, what a woman this Angela Ferrari seemed to be! Only thirty-four years old, married and with two children, she’d still found the time to get her masters degree, and was presently engaged in more activities than a colony of ants. And how about Janet Reilly? Nineteen years old, in her first year of college, and already involved in enough extracurricular pursuits to keep the entire freshman class busy. So the son of a bitch rapes them. Caught Janet twice and Angela four—no, wait a minute. Angela was the one who’d described one rapist differently: twenty-one years old, five foot seven, 160 pounds, blond hair and green eyes, no weapon. Had she been hysterical on that occasion? Or had another son of a bitch decided to take advantage of someone he knew had already been raped repeatedly? The way so many lunatics will jump on a bandwagon once it starts rolling, to cash in on the notoriety of the originator.

  She looked at the computer printout again.

  Lois Carmody: raped four times by the same man. Blanca Diaz, a forty-six-year-old housewife with four kids: three times. Patricia Ryan: three times. Vivienne Chabrun: three times. Angela Ferrari: three times for sure by the same man, yet another time by someone else. Cecily Bainbridge: twice. Mary Hollings: three times. Janet Reilly: twice.

  Why the same women again and again?

  Why?

  She went back over the original DD reports, trying to find a pattern, trying to zero in on the link. Each of the women had been raped at night. Even in the case of Mary Hollings, the last time the rapist had struck—coming into her apartment this time—it was still dark, even though it was technically Friday morning, October 7. She traced back through the DD reports on Mary. The first reported rape was on June 10, a Friday. The next was on September 16, another Friday.

  Well, coincidence maybe.

  She looked at the DD reports on Janet Reilly.

  She had been raped for the first time on September 13, a Tuesday night. And she had been raped again little more than a week ago, on October 11—another Tuesday night.

  Okay. Okay, Annie thought. Take it easy now. Do them in order, check off the dates on all the DD reports against the computer printout of names. I need a calendar, where the hell’s a calendar?

  She opened the top drawer of her desk, rummaged around for a calendar, found one already marked with appointments, and then opened her notebook to the first several pages, where there were blank calendars for both this year and next. She carried the notebook to the copying machine in the corner of her office, and then made a dozen copies of this year’s calendar—one for each of the victims, three spares for errors. Back at her desk again, she headed nine of the calendars with different names, and then—referring to the DD reports on each woman—began circling dates:

  She hesitated. The three dates she had just circled were the dates for identifications of the same man. The man Angela had described differently—the wild card, so to speak—had raped her on June 28. On the calendar, Annie marked that date with an X.

  On a separate sheet of paper, she listed all nine names again, and then—referring to the calendar entries for each name—made yet another list.

  Lois Carmody: March 7, April 4, April 25, May 9. All Monday nights.

  Blanca Diaz: March 15, April 12, May 3. Tuesday nights.

  Patricia Ryan: March 23, April 20, May 25. Wednesday nights.

  Vivienne Chabrun: March 31, May 19, June 2. Thursdays.

  Angela Ferrari: April 11, May 30, and June 13 for description of same man. All Monday nights. June 28 for the wild card. A Tuesday night.

  Terry Cooper: May 1, June 19. Both Sunday nights.

  Cecily Bainbridge: May 7, June 4. Saturday nights.

  Mary Hollings: June 10, September 16, October 7. Fridays.

  Janet Reilly: September 13, October 11. Tuesdays.

  She studied the list.

  Okay. Same woman on the same night of the week. But what the hell did it mean? His choice of a night for any given woman may have been premised on a study of her habits. Maybe Vivienne Chabrun went to a meeting of L’Alliance des Femmes Francaises on Thursday nights. Maybe Lois Carmody played tennis on Monday nights. Maybe Janet Reilly sang with the chorus on Tuesday nights. Who the hell knew?

  She leafed through the calendars.

  Vivienne Chabrun had been raped for the first time on the last day of March, the second time seven weeks later on May 19, and then again two weeks after that on the second of June. All Thursday nights. Terry Cooper had been raped on the first of May, and then seven weeks later, on June 19. Sunday nights. Patricia Ryan had been raped on March 23, again four weeks later on April 20, and then not again till May 25, five weeks after the April date. Wednesday nights. There seemed to be no discernible pattern until Annie went back through the calendars again, and studied the one for Lois Carmody, the first of the serial victims.

  First rape: Monday, March 7.

  Second rape: Four weeks later. Monday, April 4.

  Third rape: Three weeks later. Monday, April 25.

  Fourth rape: Two weeks later. Monday, May 9.

  Annie looked at the calendar again. Four weeks, three weeks, two weeks. If he’d raped her again after that, would there have been an interval of only one week?

  She looked at the calendar for Angela Ferrari.

  Hit for the first time on April 11. Four weeks after that would have been May 9. Nothing on that date. Three weeks after May 9 was May 30. Yep, he’d hit her again on the thirtieth. And two weeks after that was—right on the nose! He’d raped her again on June 13.

  Okay, hold it, Annie thought, take it easy.

  Cecily Bainbridge: First rape on Saturday, May 7. Next rape four weeks later on Saturday, June 4. Blanca Diaz, right on schedule: First rape on March 15, next one four weeks later on April 12, the one after that—when he’d cut her—three weeks later on May 3. Mary Hollings…well, this was a tough one.

  Raped for the first time on Friday, June 10, and then not again till Friday, September 16. Annie started counting off weeks on the calendar. Four weeks after June 10 was July 8. Three weeks after that was July 29. Two weeks after that was August 12. A week after that was August 19. Starting the cycle all over again, four weeks after August 19 was September 16, the exact date Mary Hollings h
ad been raped for the second time. And three weeks after that was the seventh of October, the date of the most recent attack on her.

  Janet Reilly: Raped on the thirteenth of September and then again exactly four weeks later, on October 11.

  But if this was a pattern—four weeks, three weeks, two weeks—then how did it tie in with the seemingly patternless calendars for Vivienne Chabrun, Terry Cooper, and Patricia Ryan?

  Vivienne Chabrun: First rape, March 31. Four weeks after that was April 28. No circle on her calendar for that date. But three weeks after the twenty-eighth was May 19, and he’d hit her on that date, and again two weeks after that, on June 2!

  Okay. Okay now.

  Terry Cooper: Hit for the first time on May 1, nothing four weeks later on May 29, but hit again three weeks after that on June 19!

  Come on, Patricia, Annie thought, and looked at the last calendar.

  Patricia Ryan: Raped on March 23. Four weeks after that was April 20, marked with another circle on the calendar. Three weeks after that was May 11…nothing. But hold it. She’d been raped again on May 25, only two weeks after the May 11 date.

  Maybe it didn’t matter whether the intervals were exactly spaced so long as…

  Was it possible?

  Was he trying to make sure he got each of them at spaced intervals of a week, never mind how the intervals fell provided that he didn’t duplicate any week? If not, why rape each of them on different nights, the same night for each woman? Had the son of a bitch worked out a calendar for each of his victims? Hit them at specified intervals, so long as he didn’t duplicate the weeks one, two, three, four as indicated for any given woman? Skip a week, skip two weeks, six weeks, it didn’t matter. All he had to do was count off the weeks to make sure he picked up the cycle again.

  But why?

  What the hell kind of freak were they dealing with here?

  Annie made up one last calendar, listing all the dates of the multiple rapes, and labeling it “Cumulative.”

  The attacks had started in March, four that month, spaced eight days apart on successive nights of the week. Lois Carmody on March 7. Blanca Diaz on March 15. Patricia Ryan on March 23. Vivienne Chabrun on March 31.

  In April, he’d hit Lois Carmody again on the fourth, added Angela Ferrari as a new victim on the eleventh, hit Blanca Diaz again on the twelfth, Patricia Ryan on the twentieth, and Lois Carmody yet another time on the twenty-fifth.

  Two new victims in May, Terry Cooper and Cecily Bainbridge, for a total of seven hits that month.

  Another frenzy of activity in June—five hits that month with Mary Hollings added as a new victim and Lois Carmody dropped from his calendar after a total of four consecutive hits spaced four weeks, three weeks, and two weeks apart.

  Nothing in July or August.

  Or at least nothing reported.

  In September he’d hit Mary Hollings again, and had added Janet Reilly to his list.

  In October—so far—just Mary and Janet.

  Why nothing for July and August?

  And would he soon pick up again on the victims he’d only raped two or three times? Was four his goal? Why four? Or had they not yet heard the last of Lois Carmody?

  Too many questions, Annie thought.

  Plus the big unanswered one.

  Why these particular women?

  Why?

  In the October stillness of the squadroom, the windows open to a golden wash of late morning sunlight that seemed more fitting for August, the four detectives stood around Meyer’s desk, listening to the tape cassette. Ollie Weeks had heard it before, but he was listening intently nonetheless, as if trying to memorize the words. Meyer, Carella, and Hawes were hearing it for the first time, and separately trying to recall what the Deaf Man’s voice sounded like.

  There were two people on the cassette.

  Darcy Welles and the man they knew only as Corey McIntyre.

  MCINTYRE: The red light means it’s on, the green light means it’s taping. So. You were about to say.

  DARCY: Only that it was funny how your questions this afternoon started me thinking. I mean, who can remember how I first got interested in running? You know what my mother said?

  MCINTYRE: Your mother?

  DARCY: Yeah, when I called her. She said I—

  MCINTYRE: You called her in Ohio?

  “Sounds a little nervous there, don’t he?” Ollie said.

  “Shhh,” Carella said.

  DARCY: …get interviewed by Sports USA?

  MCINTYRE: Was she pleased?

  “Nervous as hell, you ask me,” Ollie said. “Kid called her mother to tell her who she’s having dinner with—”

  “You want us to listen to this, or you want to talk?” Hawes said.

  “This is all bullshit, anyway,” Ollie said, “this part of it. She talks about her brother, she talks about how terrific running makes her feel…here, right here.”

  DARCY: …how good it makes me feel, do you know what I mean?

  MCINTYRE: Yes.

  “Guy knows how good it makes her feel,” Ollie said. “Knows all about running.”

  “Will you please shut the hell up?” Meyer said.

  “This is just shit where the waiter comes in with the drinks and asks them if they want to see menus…Here’s what I mean, listen to this. The guy keeps agreeing how good running makes you feel, listen. It’s yes, yes, yes, all the way down the line.”

  DARCY: …snow is covering up all the garbage and all the petty little junk, and it’s leaving everything clean and white and pure. That’s how I feel when I’m running. As if it’s Christmas all year round. With everything white and soft and beautiful.

  MCINTYRE: Yes, I know. Shall we look at the menus now? I’ll just turn this off for a minute.

  “He turns it off here,” Ollie says, “and he don’t turn it on again till later. But most of the stuff is just Q and A about running, and once she calls him ‘Mr. McIntyre,’ who you say was in LA at the time, huh, Steve?”

  “Yes,” Carella said.

  “I marked a place we ought to listen to, unless you really want to hear what kind of training a runner does, which to me is all bullshit,” Ollie said. “Can I run it ahead a bit?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Ollie put the recorder on Fast Forward. He stopped the tape a bit past the mark and then fiddled with the controls, jockeying the tape back and forth until he found what he wanted.

  “Yeah, here it is,” he said. “Listen.”

  MCINTYRE: Well, I can’t thank you enough, Darcy. That was just the kind of material I was looking for.

  DARCY: I hope so, anyway.

  MCINTYRE: It was, believe me. Would you like more coffee?

  DARCY: No, I’d better get moving. What time is it, anyway?

  MCINTYRE: A quarter to ten.

  “Gives us a time,” Ollie said. “Very nice of him.”

  DARCY: …realize it was so late. I have to look over that Psych material again.

  MCINTYRE: I can give you a lift back to school, if you like.

  “Here it comes,” Ollie said.

  DARCY: No, that’s okay…

  MCINTYRE: My car’s parked right around the corner, near Jefferson. We can walk over to the garage, if you like…

  DARCY: Well, gee, that’s very nice of you.

  MCINTYRE: Let me get the check.

  “He turns off the machine here,” Ollie said.

  “Is that it?”

  “There’s more. But the guy just located the garage for us, so it should be pretty easy to find it, don’t you think? Right around the corner, near Jefferson. How many garages…?”

  “We’ve already hit a dozen of them,” Hawes said.

  “Well, this should make it easier. You checked the phone books for Corey McIntyres?”

  “None in the city,” Carella said.

  “So he was just usin’ that guy’s name out West, huh?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “He won’t be usin’ it no more,” Ollie
said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Listen,” he said, and pointed to the recorder. “He musta turned it on again just before he killed her. Wanted a permanent record, huh? The guy must be nuts.”

  The detectives listened.

  “There’s the click,” Ollie said. “Here it comes.”

  DARCY: Will we be able to see this statue? It looks dark in there.

  MCINTYRE: Oh, there are lights.

  DARCY: Should have brought a flashlight.

  MCINTYRE: Vandals. But there’s a lamppost just a little ways in.

  “Where you suppose they are?” Ollie asked.

  “Shhh,” Meyer said.

  DARCY: Who’s this a statue of, anyway?

  MCINTYRE: Jesse Owens.

  DARCY: Really? Here? I thought he was from Cleveland.

  MCINTYRE: You know the name, do you?

  DARCY: Well, sure. He ran the socks off everybody in the world…When was it?

  MCINTYRE: 1936. The Berlin Olympics.

  DARCY: Made a fool of Hitler and all his Aryan theories.

  MCINTYRE: Ten-six for the hundred meter. Broke the world record at twenty point seven for the two-hundred, and also won the four-hundred meter relay.

  DARCY: Not to mention the broad jump.

  MCINTYRE: You do know him then.

  DARCY: Of course I know him, I’m a runner.

  “Here it comes,” Ollie said.

  The sounds of scuffling, heavy breathing, rasping, a thud, a gasp for breath, and another thud, and yet another, and now more gasping, fitful, frenzied.

  “He’s beating the shit out of her,” Ollie said. “You should see how she looked when we found her…”