by John Lutz
Quinn slipped on his latex gloves, and Pearl did the same.
“The kitchen again,” Quinn said.
Moving carefully and not stepping in any blood, he and Pearl made their way over to the table. On a certain level they were both pleased. The killer was far enough along on his sick and deadly journey that it could be said he was leaving his signature at the scenes of his murders.
“Something new,” Pearl said, looking at the carton of milk, unwrapped loaf of bread, and half-eaten sandwich on the table. She touched the milk carton; even through the glove she could tell immediately that it was room temperature. “It appears the killer was interrupted while having a snack.” She bent low to examine the sandwich more closely. “Pastrami.” She eased up the top slice of bread with her fingertip and peered beneath it. “Mustard and pickles.” There was no mustard container on the table. And no pickle jar. But the sandwich was definitely homemade, not a carryout or delivery.
Quinn was stooping over Donald’s body. “Stab wound.” He straightened up with difficulty, a grinding cartilage sound reminding him his knees were no longer what they’d been, then went over to Mary’s corpse. “Lots of stab wounds in this one. I count twelve and I probably can’t see them all. Mostly around the breasts and pubic area.”
“Fits our guy,” Pearl said. “Focus is on the woman.”
“Hubby’s got something that looks like a pineapple clutched in his hand. Not a real one. Plaster or metal. As if he was going to use it as a weapon. There isn’t any blood or hair on it, though.”
“A shame.”
Quinn twisted his body so he could scan the tabletop. He wasn’t moving his feet much, what with all the mess on the floor. “Check the fridge.” His own words sounded incongruous to him, as if he were asking the little lady to see if there was cold beer on hand.
Pearl opened the refrigerator door. “Well stocked, and there’s a squeeze bottle of mustard and a jar of what looks like the same kind of pickles that are on the sandwich.” She pulled out a deep plastic drawer lettered that it was for meat, and there was the package containing the rest of the pastrami. “Meat’s in here.”
“So our killer built himself a sandwich, put away the meat and condiments he used, then sat down at the table to eat.”
“Like he didn’t want anything perishable to spoil.” Pearl felt a chill. “Maybe he planned on coming back for seconds some other night.”
“Or he’s compulsively neat.”
“What he did here isn’t neat.”
“What about the milk?” Quinn asked.
“It’s warm. And there’s no glass. He was drinking it straight from the carton. Kind of homey and familiar. Bad mannered, though.”
“Should be plenty of DNA evidence,” Quinn said. “Saliva on the milk carton and sandwich.”
“Maybe even tooth marks.”
“It’d all be very helpful, if only we had samples to match it against.”
“We will someday,” Pearl said, “and we’ll use them to nail this bastard to the wall.”
Quinn glanced at her and smiled slightly, no longer surprised by her vehemence. What is it, genetic?
“What if it was one of the victims who was having the snack?” Pearl asked.
“Good question. Medical examiner can answer it later. But I don’t think he’ll be able to help us with what Mary tried to write on the wall.”
“Huh?”
“C’mon over here,” Quinn said, “and I’ll show you.”
Pearl followed him to where Mary Navarre lay, and they both stooped low to be closer to what she’d begun to write with her own blood on the wall.
“It looks like a caret,” Pearl said.
“You kidding?” Fedderman’s voice. He’d entered the apartment and come up behind them. “It’s too pointy, upside down, and doesn’t have any leafy stuff growing outta the top.”
“She means a caret, like an A without a cross stroke, to show where something should be inserted in print.”
“Ah,” Fedderman said. “So maybe the victim was starting to print an A when she died. Or it could be the first part of an M.”
“Looks like she died last,” Quinn said, “like Marcy Graham. Only one or two stabs to finish the husband—I can’t tell for sure and don’t wanna move the body—then our killer took out all his frustration on the wife.”
“He hates women, all right,” Fedderman said.
Pearl gave him a look. “Don’t they all? It’s why the scumbags kill.”
She left the kitchen and walked into the bedroom. It was restful and tastefully and expensively furnished. Not like my bedroom. The bed was unmade, the duvet and a blanket folded on a chair. It looked as if the victims had been sleeping with only a light sheet over them, and it was thrown back and wadded as if they’d climbed out of bed in a hurry. Maybe somebody heard a noise. On the windowsill was a lineup of books—mysteries, biographies, including some recent bestsellers. There was a gold-painted pineapple bookend supporting them on the left, nothing on the right. That was where Hubby found his weapon, Pearl thought. It appeared as if one or both of the victims woke up afraid of something. Hubby grabbed hold of a convenient blunt object, the pineapple bookend, and bravely went to investigate. The alpha male. His wife, Mary, followed and shouldn’t have.
Why don’t people call 911?
Pearl walked back into the kitchen and told Quinn and Fedderman what she’d observed. Then she went to the refrigerator again and looked for duplicate items or gourmet food. Nothing unusual, but if the couple got stranded in the apartment, it would be months before they’d starve.
She wandered over to the door to the hall and examined it. “No sign of forced entry.”
Quinn and Fedderman didn’t answer; she realized they’d both made a note of the door’s condition when they entered. Pearl was a bit surprised to realize this didn’t annoy her; it was great to be working with pros.
There was a crisp snapping sound as Quinn peeled off his gloves. “Egan’s army’s gonna be here soon. Let’s get the jump on them. I’ll go downstairs and talk to the super. You two start with the neighbors and the doorman. Later we’ll get together at my place and compare notes.”
Pearl nodded. Maybe I’ll stay the night at your place.
Where did that come from?
She started toward the door to the hall, Fedderman close behind.
The Night Prowler stood beneath the shower and let hot needles of water drive away his thoughts. It was a time of satisfaction and peace, of triumph. When he turned off the shower, he knew he wouldn’t hear the buzzing.
He’d been prepared, and his dark knowledge had been validated. He’d stood at the foot of their bed and observed them, Donald who didn’t know, and Mary who knew but wouldn’t admit it. They slept lightly, Mary close to Donald, as if her asleep self knew she was being watched and was disturbed. They loved each other, the Night Prowler was sure. They didn’t love him and wouldn’t have, even if they’d known they were two-thirds of a ménage à trois.
Mary had known, of course, but tried to hide from the knowledge.
He smoothed back his wet hair with both hands, then reached out and turned off the shower. In the white steaming bathroom he dried himself with a rough terry cloth towel; then, leaving his hair damp, he went out into the coolness on the other side of the door. He didn’t bother putting on clothes; no one could see in, and he was comfortable as he was. He got a glass of ice water from the refrigerator, then sat in a corner of the sofa and used the remote to switch on the TV.
He smiled. There on cable news was a wedding photo of Mary and Donald. The caption at the bottom of the screen read, WEST SIDE SLAYINGS.
A wedding photo! Wonderful! Handsome couple.
The newlyweds in the photo disappeared and there was a blond-haired young woman in a navy blazer, standing with the victims’ apartment building in the background. There were several police cars parked at the curb, and people milling about in front of the building. The journalist, whose name was Kay
Kemper, wore a serious expression that didn’t work because the top of her fluffy hairdo kept standing straight up in the breeze, then settling almost back down, like a lid that didn’t quite fit but wouldn’t stop trying. “The police aren’t talking,” she was saying into the microphone while staring at the camera, “but sources tell us this is almost certainly another deadly attack by the Night Prowler. Both victims were purportedly stabbed to death, Mary Navarre and her husband, Donald Baines. The couple was childless. Neighbors say…”
The Night Prowler stopped listening closely; he knew all about the victims, more even than they’d known about each other, their secret places and desires. Mary he knew from reading her mail, both snail and e, from the scent of her clothes, clean and unwashed, from what she ate and liked and disliked. He knew what authors she read, what cosmetics she used, her medications and birth control pills, her breathing and scent when she slept, the up-close warmth of her flesh, her intimate thoughts murmured in her sleep. Her favorite colors.
And he knew about last night. Far more than anyone else would ever know. The way he’d possibly made enough noise to wake them. Though they might just as easily have slept through his secret visit as they had the others. They’d surprised him there in the kitchen, but not completely. He had, in his way, been waiting for them, sitting with his knife close at hand, sitting with a plan imprinted in his mind, a plan that required action not thought. A plan that was justice and balance and vengeance. Freedom, at least for a while. Escape and salvation, at least for a while. Oh, he was ready for surprise as he sat with his blade and his plan, eating his sandwich and drinking milk. A late-night snack, and not the first.
He was prepared, as he had been night after night. There were no real surprises in life. It was just that people had trouble reaching and touching what they knew was coming. Mary and Donald, all of them, they knew before they knew. Everything that walked or squirmed on earth knew at the end, learned at the end, welcomed the end. The terminally ill dying in hospital wards. Animals sagging limp in the jaws of predators, patient yet impatient.
Their deaths are a benediction.
Adrift on his thoughts, the Night Prowler only half heard what Kay Kemper was saying as he sat watching her glossy lips move, the way she shaped her vowels and unconsciously ran the ripe tip of her tongue, so pink, over her white upper incisors when she glanced down to check her notes flapping in the breeze. An errant blond strand of hair interfered with her vision and she brushed it back, almost losing the notes.
The Night Prowler wondered if the station would ever make up its mind what it wanted to do with her hair. Such indecision. It should be shorter and closer to her head, and lose the bangs, please! Her lips were remarkably mobile, stretching and inverting, ideal for unnatural acts, never still, as if they had too many nerve endings in them: “…had moved into their apartment only, pink tongue, two months ago, looking, pink, to…brutally, pink, murdered sometime last night…impacted by…say they heard nothing…any suspects…hopefully, pink, the fear…. Detective Frank Quinn was unavailable, for comment…no leads…”
Frank Quinn.
The Night Prowler stretched his left arm and placed his glass of water on the floor near the sofa. Quinn’s name was appearing more and more in conjunction with the Night Prowler. It was becoming difficult to think of one and not the other. A team. A chess set. Adversaries.
Enemies.
The Night Prowler knew how to deal with enemies. What to expect from them. It had been his first hard lesson in life.
On the table next to the sofa was a small bottle with a rubber stopper, along with a folded white handkerchief. The Night Prowler unstopped the bottle and carefully tilted it to let a few drops fall onto the handkerchief, which he picked up and pressed lightly over his nose and mouth.
He breathed in deeply. A cool and silent wind blew somehow without motion. Walls fell away, and curtains swayed wide to reveal vistas of light and color. Truth became evident, and what wasn’t evident didn’t matter.
He wished now he still had his gun. He should never have used it to begin with; he should have saved it for killing from a distance.
Should he obtain another gun? It would have to be done illegally; there could be no record of a transaction, and no one must know of his possession of the gun. So there was only one way. That would be stealing. Blatantly breaking the law.
He threw back his head and laughed at the azure blue truth of it. His pursuer Quinn had broken the law, hadn’t he? With that young girl, that beautiful child with flesh the hue of—
But he’d seen only photographs of the child. Anna something.
Handkerchief to nose. Breathe in, breathe in…
How could Quinn do such a thing? Where was honor, love, and fidelity? He was a cop! How could he betray that girl? She hadn’t betrayed him. She hadn’t had the opportunity.
Yesterday’s Quinn.
Today’s Quinn, second-chance Quinn, was a mechanical, determined hunter, a relentless agent of a god that was like Judas. The god of the girl he had raped. The Night Prowler’s god of gray.
Handkerchief to nose…
Yes, Quinn was a dangerous man, and that was a fact the color of blood.
Quinn was a stalker who would follow and follow and become his prey so there would be no escape. They were, in the end, always the same, hunter and quarry, both of them diminished by either’s death.
That mustn’t happen. Not to me. Us…
Sleep was taking control now, a drug relaxing every muscle, comfortable and familiar, welcome as death that thwarted pain.
Mary, Mary…
He mustn’t. Must not…
Enemies!
34
Renz had done his job well in stalling Egan’s troops. It had been a full twenty minutes before the crime scene techs and detectives from the precinct arrived at the apartment of Donald Baines and Mary Navarre. After they arrived, information Quinn and his team hadn’t had access to began flowing within the NYPD. Renz phoned Quinn that evening to bring him up to date, while Quinn was waiting for Pearl and Fedderman to arrive.
“Hubby was killed by a single stab wound to the heart. Mary Navarre had sixteen stab wounds in her. Probably the fatal one was to the heart, though several of the others would have eventually proved fatal.”
“How long did she last before she died?” Quinn asked, remembering the trail of blood on the floor where Mary had crawled or pulled herself to the wall to scrawl her indecipherable message that was abbreviated by death.
“ME says it’s difficult to know for sure, but after the wound to the heart, not more than a minute or so. Blood patterns indicate some of the more debilitating wounds were suffered first.”
“How about prints or DNA?”
“No prints, of course. Our man favors gloves. We did pick up some DNA samples from the milk carton and the half-eaten sandwich. And we’re still checking blood on the scene to make sure none of it’s from the killer.” Renz paused. Quinn could hear him making rhythmic little puffing sounds into the phone, a nervous habit, as if he were halfheartedly trying to whistle. “How do you read it, Quinn?”
“The bloody mark Mary made on the wall?”
“No, no, that doesn’t mean shit. I mean, how do you read the situation in the apartment?”
“Something disturbed the victims’ sleep and they went to investigate, Donald first. They interrupted the killer eating a sandwich and drinking milk from the carton. He had to kill them.”
“Really? I’ve been caught drinking milk from the carton.”
“Word’s gotten around,” Quinn said.
“Hubby was carrying a heavy bookend and primed for action.” Renz, serious again.
“The killer was ready for them. Almost waiting for them.”
“Whaddya mean, almost waiting?”
“He knew the risk and thought they might wake up. He had to know.”
“You think he wanted them to wake up?”
“Maybe not last night, but sooner or later. H
e probably kept pushing it, increasing the risk.”
“Tell you the truth, Quinn, I don’t see it, but you’re supposed to be the expert on how these sickos think.”
“It doesn’t take a psychic, Harley. After all, he was eating a sandwich while wearing rubber gloves, and he must have had his knife where he could reach it in a hurry. It doesn’t look as if Donald got to use his pineapple bookend.”
“He didn’t. There was no trace of blood or hair on it. Quinn…you realize you’re saying our Night Prowler did something to wake them up? That he wanted them to find him making himself at home in their apartment?”
“It reads that way. Like the way he’ll eventually yearn to be caught and confess his crimes. It builds in them; they keep pressing, taking more chances. It’s part of the package.”
“So the shrinks say, but it doesn’t make sense.”
“Except in the killer’s mind, and he’s the one eating pastrami sandwiches with his gloves on.”
“Not to mention stabbing people through the heart,” Renz said.
“Not to mention. You know how it works, we have to get inside this guy’s sick brain and figure out how he’s thinking. Gotta be him, at least for a while.”
That’s why I hired you, baby.
“That’s the only way we’ll be able to predict what he might do when, where, and to who,” Quinn said.
“Isn’t that to whom?”
“Fuck youm.”
Renz chuckled, pleased to have gotten to Quinn. “Well, this is his third set. If there was any doubt before, there isn’t now. We’ve got a serial killer who does happily married couples.”
“All three couples were married,” Quinn said, “but two of the wives used their maiden names. There are plenty of couples living together in New York who aren’t married.”
“So, you’re saying them being legally hitched was coincidental?”