by John Lutz
Another glance at Pearl with those deep, dark eyes. Maybe a shadow smile. Myrna looked again at Quinn. “You know a lot, but not enough to apprehend my darling boy.”
“Why did you desert your darling boy?” Pearl asked, before she might gag. She knew Quinn was supposed to be controlling this interview, but she couldn’t stay silent.
Quinn’s cell phone beeped. Everyone stared at him as he fished it from his pocket, as if the noise had interrupted a Broadway hit. He saw that it was Renz who was calling.
“Excuse me.” He walked toward the far side of the room as he answered the call, keeping his voice low. “What is it, Harley?”
“You made contact yet with the mother?”
“Yes.” Quinn moved closer to the window that looked out at an air shaft. Old brick, lots of recent tuck-pointing.
“Okay, can she hear you?”
“Somewhat.”
“Jeb Jones has been sprung. Pareta went on a tear and made us drop charges so he could walk.”
“Figures.”
“Best we could do without evidence, not to mention that he’s most likely innocent. Why I called is, I had him tailed and he’s making a beeline for Mom. My man called just before I contacted you and said Jeb was getting out of a cab and about to enter the Meredith Hotel.”
“Okay, I’ll take care of it tomorrow. I’m busy on another matter now.”
“I hired you because you’re such a nifty liar,” Renz said, and hung up.
Quinn folded his phone and slipped it back in his pocket.
And there was a knock on the door.
“Busy, busy,” Pearl said.
They watched Myrna go to the door and open it about six inches. “I don’t think—”
But an agitated Jeb pushed his way inside.
When Jeb saw the three detectives his jaw dropped, but he recovered his composure nicely. “You don’t have to talk to them, Mother.”
Myrna ran her fingertips gently down his upper arm and smiled. “I’m afraid I do, Jeb. We both do.” Her brow knit in sudden concern. “Did they hurt you anywhere?”
Pearl waited for her to wink, but she didn’t.
“No, Mother. They followed the rules.”
“We interrupted you,” Quinn said to Myrna.
Jeb spread his feet, crossed his arms, and stared at the floor. Fedderman was the only one sitting down, on the edge of the bed. His arms were at his sides, his palms helping to support him on the soft mattress. His loosened right cuff was pinned beneath his hand.
“I was explaining about Sherman,” Myrna said. To Jeb: “You might as well hear.”
Jeb didn’t look at her. She faced Quinn, her main inquisitor, and began:
“When Sherman was a boy he liked to spend time in the swamp, right near where we lived. From time to time he’d come home with dead things.”
“He hunted?” Quinn asked.
“Sometimes, but other times he’d just find things already dead. For some reason he liked to dismember them. Tell you true, it gave me the creeps, but I told myself it might be natural boy curiosity, like maybe he’d grow up to be a doctor. The thing he’d do was cut up these creatures in the bathtub, then clean their parts real well and kind of stack them up, doing the same things to them that Butcher killer does. I’d already told Jeb about Sherman, about him doing this, and when we saw on the news about the Butcher, we both knew it had to be Sherman, all grown up.”
“Detective Kasner asked why you deserted Sherman,” Quinn reminded her in a neutral tone.
“I didn’t desert him. I was talking to him about what he was doing to those animals, why he even wanted to do such a thing, and he attacked me with his skinning knife. I managed to fight him off and he ran away into the swamp. I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t want to contact the sheriff’s department, knowing he might do harm to Sherman.”
“What about Sherman doing harm to somebody else?” Pearl asked.
“I didn’t think he would. Far as I knew, I was the only person he ever attacked. I decided to wait, a few days if necessary. I kept a shotgun nearby and didn’t sleep for two nights. Then it became three days, and I knew it was too late to contact the law because they’d have too many questions. Sherman knew the swamp and I figured he’d be okay for quite a while there, but when a week had gone by, I gotta say I figured him for dead.”
“Didn’t you go looking for him yourself?” Pearl asked.
Myrna shook her head no. “Nothing didn’t wanna be found in that swamp ever got found. Besides, Sherman took the knife with him when he ran.” Myrna drew a deep breath and touched her fingers to her eyes as if they were tearing up, but no tears were evident. “About a month passed, and I saw on the TV news that Sherman had been found. They were calling him the Swamp Boy, didn’t know who he was, and he was traumatized, they said, and wouldn’t speak. I decided I’d keep my silence, just like Sherman. But next night on TV news they showed a photo of him, and even wild-looking like he was, I knew somebody’d surely recognize him.” She glanced at Jeb now, and maybe those were tears glistening in her dark eyes. “Tell you true, I was pregnant by a man who’d recently deserted me. I wanted that child to have a chance in life, so I ran. I admit I panicked, but thinking back it mighta been the best thing I coulda done. I moved to Courtney, Louisiana, got a waitress job, and sacrificed for Jeb. I don’t regret a second of that time.” Jeb was looking at his mother now, his own eyes moist. “My boy Jeb was bright as a new dime, a scholar, and ’cause he was a brilliant student he went to the best schools even if I only made a poor working woman’s wages.”
“What about Sherman?” Quinn asked.
“I never knew. Tell you true, I made it a point to avoid watching or reading the news entirely in those Louisiana days. Never learned a thing about his whereabouts nor whether he recovered his memory. Far as I was concerned, that time was past. I had to look ahead, for myself and for Jeb. But I knew I’d hear about Sherman someday, and when I just happened to look at a New York paper in a store near a motel in Louisville, right there on the front page was a story about the Butcher, about what he did to his victims. I knew it had to be Sherman, so I phoned Jeb and told him everything. We decided the two of us best come to New York and try to find Sherman before you people did. We were gonna try to stop him from what he was doing and have him give himself up.”
“Why?” Quinn asked simply.
Myrna stared at him as if he must be insane to ask the question. “He’s my own flesh and blood.”
“He’s also police business.”
“Blood’s much more important than business.”
“Not if that business is to keep more of it from being shed.”
“You are twisting my words, sir.”
She bowed her head and the tears came, dropping and leaving trailing marks on the front of her yellow blouse. Pearl wondered if Myrna could will herself to cry; Pearl had seen people who could.
Jeb moved over and stood close to his mother, making cooing sounds, and very near tears himself. The doting son. He lovingly put his arm around Myrna, then hugged her and rocked her gently.
Pearl remembered that same arm around her and shuddered.
Unmoved by the scene before him, Quinn wondered what the Butcher would think when he learned his mother was in town.
53
Nobody knew for sure how it should be handled, but they all knew where it was going.
They were in Renz’s office, sitting in front of Renz’s desk. Quinn and Pearl were in the chairs that were usually there. Two folding chairs had been brought in for Fedderman and the police profiler. Fedderman slouched in one of the tiny metal chairs as if numbed by exhaustion. The profiler, Helen Iman, ignored her chair and stood near the window so she was silhouetted in front of the open blind slats and was painful to look at.
She was a tall, lanky redheaded woman Quinn had worked with before, who looked more suited to beach volleyball than to police work. While still not a hearty advocate of profiling, Quinn had to admit that Helen was one of the bes
t.
“They’re both staying at their respective hotels,” Quinn said of Jeb and Myrna. “Now they’re making noises like family members who have a right to all our information.”
“Where’s the media on this?” Renz asked.
Quinn thought he caught a whiff of burned tobacco and wondered if Renz had been secretly smoking cigars in his office again. “They know Jeb was released, and they’re still in the dark about Myrna.” Quinn glanced at Helen, squinting. “That’s why I requested this meeting.”
“You requested it because you want to use Mom as bait,” Renz said.
“Sharks aren’t often used for bait,” Helen said
“Move over a few feet so I can see you better,” Quinn asked her.
She did so, smiling. Her features were strong, bony, almost masculine. But Quinn knew of a dead cop who had loved her.
“You want to know if it will work,” she said in her throaty voice.
Renz laughed. “She’s got you profiled.”
“So what are the odds?” Quinn asked.
“I don’t usually quote odds,” Helen said, “but the Butcher is a killer who’s classic in that his victims are all, in his mind, his mother. She’s iconic to him.” She couldn’t suppress an eager grin. Lots of teeth. They all looked sharp. “It’s pure textbook. This is so rare. They usually don’t get a chance to kill the real thing, the archetype, the woman they know is behind their compulsion. She’s the fuel for his fire. Will he be tempted to kill her when he learns she’s in New York?” The grin widened. “The way a junkie who needs a fix is tempted by heroin. I’d say the odds are about even he’ll go for her.”
“Only even?” Quinn was disappointed.
“The variable in this is the exceptional intelligence of the killer. He’ll have read the literature and know that we know the real object of his deadly desires is his mother. He’ll almost surely suspect she’ll be used as bait.”
“If he does suspect that, will he still try for her?” Pearl asked.
“Maybe, but he’ll be very, very careful, as he is in all things.”
“If he knows it’s a trap,” Fedderman said, “why will he enter it?”
“If a rat’s starving, it will go for the bait in a trap,” Helen said.
Quinn said, “I think we should take a chance on this one.”
“Your call,” Renz said. “Your ass.”
“I’ll approach Myrna with the idea. She isn’t as educated as either of her sons, but my impression is she’s every bit as smart. If she goes for it—”
“She will,” Pearl said. “Smart’s got nothing to do with it.”
Helen nodded. “There’s a certain connection between killer and potential victim, almost a magnetism. Some even say that sometimes the victim is, in subconscious ways, complicit in her own murder. That might prove true in this case.”
Quinn wasn’t sure if he bought into that one. Profilers.
“If she agrees,” he said to Renz, “you could set up a press conference, make sure a photo of Myrna gets to the papers and TV news. Use Mary Mulanphy for local cable. Give her a scoop.”
“Cindy Sellers for print media,” Renz said. “City Beat.”
“How could we forget?” Quinn was amused by the notion that Renz thought he was using Sellers, when actually it was the other way around.
“Also use that old shot of the Swamp Boy,” Helen said. “The one taken in Florida right after he was found.”
“Great idea!” said Pearl.
“When he sees it side by side with Myrna’s photo,” Helen said, “it’ll take him back in time and tug at more than his heartstrings. Family photos do that.”
Quinn gave both women a look. The ladies were into it.
“Family’s the most powerful component in these murders,” Helen said. “Family’s what serial killers are almost always about.”
“What all of us are about in the end,” Fedderman said. Wisdom from a disjointed anti-fashion model.
Renz’s desk phone buzzed. He glanced at it in irritation, then snatched up the receiver and punched the glowing line button on the base unit. Said, “I thought—”
Then he shut up and the expression on his face became grimmer and grimmer.
He scribbled something on a piece of scratch paper, then replaced the receiver.
“We’ve got another Butcher victim. Lower East Side. Name’s Maria Cirillo. Neighbors noticed an unpleasant odor coming from her apartment and called the super. The ME’s already there, puts the time of death somewhere between five and midnight evening before last.”
“Evening before last?” Quinn said.
“You heard me right.”
“That’s when we had Jeb Kraft in custody,” Quinn said. “If he wasn’t cleared before, he is now.” He stood up to get the address Renz had scribbled on the slip of paper. He could hear Pearl and Fedderman standing up behind him. There was a clatter as one of them, probably Fedderman, knocked over one of the metal folding chairs.
Renz looked up at Quinn. “This is gonna make for a lively press conference.” There was a note of real trepidation beneath his mock enthusiasm.
“When we’re done at the crime scene,” Quinn said, “I’ll call and bring you up to speed, and then go talk to Myrna Kraft.”
Renz started drumming his fingertips, maybe having second thoughts.
“She’ll go for it,” Helen said. “Blood calling to blood.”
54
He was always alone.
He’d come into the Hungry U a few times before, pretending to listen to the music. Lauri had noticed him because he didn’t seem to actually like the music. There he’d sit, handsome in a pleasant sort of way, the kind of guy you didn’t notice unless you looked at him closely, and then what was there not to like? He had blond hair, was average height and weight, and looked good in clothes. Lauri thought he was probably a young executive of some sort, or maybe a high-tech wiz with his own company. He looked intelligent. And he looked vaguely familiar, but she didn’t know why. Another thing about him was he seemed interested in her.
She brought his second glass of milk over to his table.
“Lunch was delicious,” he said, smiling up at her, “but I have no idea what I ate.”
“At least you’re honest about it,” she said, liking his smile. It made him seem more familiar. Then suddenly she had it—he reminded her of Pearl’s friend Jeb. That was something Lauri counted in his favor. “Lots of our customers like the food and pretend they’re gourmets. Like they know more about food than our cook—chef.”
“I know what I like,” he said, aiming his smile at her in a way that left no doubt as to what he liked right now.
“People say that about art,” she said
He shrugged. “There are all kinds of art. Beautiful women are art.”
“I guess they can be.”
“You should have said ‘we can be.’”
Lauri felt her face flush. To the best of her recollection, Wormy had never referred to her as a woman—much less a beautiful one. Compliments didn’t trip off his tongue. “Baddest squeeze” was as close as he’d come.
She cautioned herself. This guy was definitely hot for her, but he was too old for her, possibly way into his thirties. Look at those crinkly little lines just beginning at the corners of his brown eyes. But maybe that was what appealed to her—his maturity. Maturity was something Wormy definitely lacked. Sometimes he was difficult to talk with, as if he were in another dimension. Maybe he was. Lauri knew she didn’t really understand musicians, didn’t hear exactly what they heard, or at least not in the same way. So possibly it wasn’t just Wormy’s lack of maturity; maybe he was as mature as he was going to get. And the man smiling up at her wasn’t that old. Crinkly little lines or not, he had nice eyes. They said he was a decent, compassionate person, and eyes didn’t lie.
“When you get off after the lunch crowd leaves, maybe we could go have a coffee somewhere.”
It took her a second to fully comprehend
he was speaking to her.
“I, uh, don’t get off after lunch. We start getting ready right away for the dinner rush.”
“After dinner, then? Maybe a drink.”
Should she tell him she wasn’t of age, and she might get carded?
Lauri didn’t have to think long or hard about that one. Jump in, she told herself. Swim! Wasn’t that why’d she’d come to New York? And Wormy had a club date with the band in Tribeca. What he didn’t know wouldn’t make him sing off-key, and if he did somehow learn she went someplace after work and had a drink with a male friend, maybe it would do their relationship some good.
“I think I’d enjoy that,” she said. “I get off work at eleven. But I don’t even know your name.”
“You’re Lauri,” he said. “I’ve heard people call you that.”
She smiled. “I already knew my name.”
“My last name’s a little embarrassing,” he said. “It’s Hooker. I’m Joe Hooker.”
Lauri was careful not to smile. “I’ve heard lots more embarrassing names. I knew a girl named Ima Hore.”
Not true, but he’d never know. And if it made him feel better about his name, what was the harm?
He laughed. “Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t complain. My name happens to be famous, too. Joseph Hooker was a great Civil War general.”
“Then you oughta be proud of it.”
“Tell you true,” he said, “I am.”
The crime scene was, as Pearl saw it, exactly like the others as far as potential leads were concerned. The only real difference was the noxious stench of corruption. It was as if this victim had been dead for a long time.
When they got near the apartment, Fedderman paused and drew a small jar of mentholated chest rub from his pocket. He unscrewed the lid, got a dab of cream on his fingertip, and applied it beneath his nose. He handed the jar to Pearl, who did likewise. Quinn refused.
When they entered, Pearl understood the stench. The apartment was stifling, at least eighty-five degrees.
The techs swarming over the place wore white face masks to go with their white gloves, like movie bandits who were the good guys. Pearl envied them their masks.