Wish there mask for me.
Follow street long way to river. See many lights across river. Far past there is place where grew. Never want go back to there. Never.
Catch back of truck. Ride home.
Home. Bright bulb hang ceiling. Not care. The Old Jessi waiting. The Jessi friend. Only friend. The Jessi’s eyes not see. Ever. When the Jessi look me, her face not wear sick-scared look. Hate that look.
Come in kitchen window. The Jessi’s face wrinkle-black. Smile when hear me come. TV on. Always on. The Jessi cannot watch. Say it company for her.
“You’re so late tonight.”
“Hard work. Get moneys tonight.”
Feel sick. Want cry. Hate kill. Wish stop.
“That’s nice. Are you going to put it in the drawer?”
“Doing now.”
Empty wallets. Put money in slots. Ones first slot. Fives next slot. Then tens and twenties. So the Jessi can pay when boy bring foods. Sometimes eat stealed foods. Mostly the Jessi call for foods.
The Old Jessi hardly walk. Good. Do not want her go out. Bad peoples round here. Many. Hurt one who not see. One bad man try hurt Jessi once. Push through door. Thought only the blind Old Jessi live here.
Lucky the Jessi not alone that day.
Not lucky bad man. Hit the Jessi. Laugh hard. Then look me. Get sick-scared look. Hate that look. Kill him quick. Put in tub. Bleed there. Bad man friend come soon after. Kill him also too. Late at night take both dead bad men out. Go through window. Carry down wall. Throw in river.
No bad men come again. Ever.
“I’ve been waiting all night for my bath. Do you think you can help me a little?”
Always help. But the Old Jessi always ask. The Jessi very polite. Sponge the Old Jessi back in tub. Rinse her hair. Think of the Detective Harrison. His kind eyes. Must talk him. Want stop this. Stop now. Maybe will understand. Will. Can feel.
Seven grisly murders in eight weeks.
Kevin Harrison studied a photo of the latest victim, taken before she was mutilated. A nice eight by ten glossy furnished by her agent. A real beauty. A dancer with Broadway dreams.
He tossed the photo aside and pulled the stack of files toward him. The remnants of six lives in this pile. Somewhere within had to be an answer, the thread that linked each of them to the Facelift Killer.
But what if there was no common link? What if all the killings were at random, linked only by the fact that they were beautiful? Seven deaths, all over the city. All with their faces gnawed off. Gnawed.
He flipped through the victims one by one and studied their photos. He had begun to feel he knew each one of them personally:
Mary Detrick, 20, a junior at N.Y.U., killed in Washington Square Park on January 5. She was the first.
Mia Chandler, 25, a secretary at Merrill Lynch, killed January 13 in Battery Park.
Ellen Beasley, 22, a photographer’s assistant, killed in an alley in Chelsea on January 22.
Hazel Hauge, 30, artist agent, killed in her Soho loft on January 27.
Elisabeth Paine, 28, housewife, killed on February 2 while jogging late in Central Park.
Joan Perrin, 25, a model from Brooklyn, pulled from her car while stopped at a light on the Upper East Side on February 8.
He picked up the eight by ten again. And the last: Liza Lee, 21, Dancer. Lived across the river in Jersey City. Ducked into an alley for a toot with her boyfriend tonight and never came out.
Three blondes, three brunettes, one redhead. Some stacked, some on the flat side. All caucs except for Perrin. All lookers. But besides that, how in the world could these women be linked? They came from all over town, and they met their respective ends all over town. What could—
“Well, you sure hit the bull’s-eye about that roof!” Jacobi said as he burst into the office.
Harrison straightened in his chair. “What did you find?”
“Blood.”
“Whose?”
“The victim’s.”
“No prints? No hairs? No fibers?”
“We’re working on it. But how’d you figure to check the roof top?”
“Lucky guess.”
Harrison didn’t want to provide Jacobi with more grist for the departmental gossip mill by mentioning his feeling of being watched from up there.
But the killer had been watching, hadn’t he?
“Any prelims from pathology?”
Jacobi shrugged and stuffed three sticks of gum into his mouth. Then he tried to talk.
“Same as ever. Money gone, throat ripped open by a pair of sharp pointed instruments, not knives, the bite marks on the face are the usual: the teeth that made them aren’t human, but the saliva is.”
The “non-human” teeth part—more teeth, bigger and sharper than found in any human mouth—had baffled them all from the start. Early on someone remembered a horror novel or movie where the killer used some weird sort of false teeth to bite his victims. That had sent them off on a wild goose chase to all the dental labs looking for records of bizarre bite prostheses. No dice. No one had seen or even heard of teeth that could gnaw off a person’s face.
Harrison shuddered. What could explain wounds like that? What were they dealing with here?
The irritating pops, snaps, and cracks of jacobi’s gum filled the office.
“I liked you better when you smoked.”
Jacobi’s reply was cut off by the phone. The sergeant picked it up.
“Detective Harrison’s office!” he said, listened a moment, then, with his hand over the mouthpiece, passed the receiver to Harrison. “Some fairy wants to shpeak to you,” he said with an evil grin.
“Fairy?”
“Hey,” he said, getting up and walking toward the door. “I don’t mind. I’m a liberal kinda guy, y’know?”
Harrison shook his head with disgust. Jacobi was getting less likeable every day.
“Hello. Harrison here.”
“Shorry dishturb you, Detective Harrishon.”
The voice was soft, pitched somewhere between a man’s and a woman’s, and sounded as if the speaker had half a mouthful of saliva. Harrison had never heard anything like it. Who could be—?
And then it struck him: It was three a.m. Only a handful of people knew he was here.
“Do I know you?”
“No. Watch you tonight. You almosht shee me in dark.”
That same chill from earlier tonight ran down Harrison’s back again.
“Are . . . are you who I think you are?”
There was a pause, then one soft word, more sobbed than spoken:
“Yesh.”
If the reply had been cocky, something along the line of And just who do you think I am ? Harrison would have looked for much more in the way of corroboration. But that single word, and the soul deep heartbreak that propelled it, banished all doubt.
My God! He looked around frantically. No one in sight. Where the fuck was Jacobi now when he needed him? This was the Facelift Killer! He needed a trace!
Got to keep him on the line!
“I have to ask you something to be sure you are who you say you are.”
“Yesh?”
“Do you take anything from the victims—I mean, besides their faces?”
“Money. Take money.”
This is him! The department had withheld the money part from the papers. Only the real Facelift Killer could know!
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Yesh.”
Harrison was asking this one for himself.
“What do you do with the faces?”
He had to know. The question drove him crazy at night. He dreamed about those faces. Did the killer tack them on the wall, or press them in a book, or freeze them, or did he wear them around the house like that Leatherface character from that chain- saw movie?
On the other end of the line he sensed sudden agitation and panic: “No! Can not shay! Can not!”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy.”
“Y
ou will help shtop?”
“Oh, yes! Oh, God, yes, I’ll help you stop!” He prayed his genuine heartfelt desire to end this was coming through. “I’ll help you any way I can!”
There was a long pause, then:
“You hate? Hate me?”
Harrison didn’t trust himself to answer that right away. He searched his feelings quickly, but carefully.
“No,” he said finally. “I think you have done some awful, horrible things but, strangely enough, I don’t hate you.”
And that was true. Why didn’t he hate this murdering maniac? Oh, he wanted to stop him more than anything in the world, and wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him dead if the situation required it, but there was no personal hatred for the Facelift Killer.
What is it in you that speaks to me? he wondered.
“Shank you,” said the voice, couched once more in a sob. And then the killer hung up.
Harrison shouted into the dead phone, banged it on his desk, but the line was dead.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Jacobi said from the office door.
“That so-called ‘fairy’ on the phone was the Facelift Killer, you idiot! We could have had a trace if you’d stuck around!”
“Bullshit!”
“He knew about taking the money!”
“So why’d he talk like that? That’s a dumb-ass way to try to disguise your voice.”
And then it suddenly hit Harrison like a sucker punch to the gut. He swallowed hard and said:
“Jacobi, how do you think your voice would sound if you had a jaw crammed full of teeth much larger and sharper than the kind found in the typical human mouth?”
Harrison took genuine pleasure in the way Jacobi’s face blanched slowly to yellow-white.
He didn’t get home again until after seven the following night. The whole department had been in an uproar all day. This was the first break they had had in the case. It wasn’t much, but contact had been made. That was the important part. And although Harrison had done nothing he could think of to deserve any credit, he had accepted the commissioner’s compliments and encouragement on the phone shortly before he had left the office tonight.
But what was most important to Harrison was the evidence from the call—Damn! he wished it had been taped—that the killer wanted to stop. They didn’t have one more goddamn clue tonight than they’d had yesterday, but the call offered hope that soon there might be an end to this horror.
Martha had dinner waiting. The kids were scrubbed and pajamaed and waiting for their goodnight kiss. He gave them each a hug and poured himself a stiff scotch while Martha put them in the sack.
“Do you feel as tired as you look?” she said as she returned from the bedroom wing.
She was a big woman with bright blue eyes and natural dark blond hair. Harrison toasted her with his glass.
“The expression ‘dead on his feet’ has taken on a whole new meaning for me.”
She kissed him, then they sat down to eat.
He had spoken to Martha a couple of times since he had left the house twenty hours ago. She knew about the phone call from the Facelift Killer, about the new hope in the department about the case, but he was glad she didn’t bring it up now. He was sick of talking about it. Instead, he sat in front of his cooling meatloaf and wrestled with the images that had been nibbling at the edges of his consciousness all day.
“What are you daydreaming about?” Martha said.
Without thinking, Harrison said, “Annie.”
“Annie who?”
“My sister.”
Martha put her fork down. “Your sister? Kevin, you don’t have a sister.”
“Not any more. But I did.”
Her expression was alarmed now. “Kevin, are you all right? I’ve known your family for ten years. Your mother has never once mentioned—”
“We don’t talk about Annie, Mar. We try not to even think about her. She died when she was five.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Annie was . . . deformed. Terribly deformed. She never really had a chance.”
Open trunk from inside. Get out. The Detective Harrison’s house here. Cold night. Cold feel good. Trunk air make sick, dizzy.
Light here. Hurry round side of house.
Darker here. No one see. Look in window. Dark but see good. Two little ones there. Sleeping. Move away. Not want them cry.
Go more round. The Detective Harrison with lady. Sit table near window. Must be wife. Pretty but not oh-so-beauty. Not have mom-face. Not like ones who die.
Watch behind tree. Hungry. They not eat food. Talk-talk-talk. Can not hear.
The Detective Harrison do most talk. Kind face. Kind eyes. Some terrible sad there. Hides. Him understands. Heard in phone voice. Understands. Him one can stop kills.
Spent day watch the Detective Harrison car. All day watch at police house. Saw him come-go many times. Soon dark, open trunk with claw. Ride with him. Ride long. Wonder what town this?
The Detective Harrison look this way. Stare like last night. Must not see me! Must not!
Harrison stopped in mid-sentence and stared out the window as his skin prickled.
That watched feeling again.
It was the same as last night. Something was out in the backyard watching them. He strained to see through the wooded darkness outside the window but saw only shadows within shadows.
But something was there! He could feel it!
He got up and turned on the outside spotlights, hoping, praying that the backyard would be empty.
It was.
He smiled to hide his relief and glanced at Martha.
“Thought that raccoon was back.”
He left the spots on and settled back into his place at the table. But the thoughts racing through his mind made eating unthinkable.
What if that maniac had followed him out here? What if the call had been a ploy to get him off-guard so the Facelift Killer could do to Martha what he had done to the other women?
My God . . .
First thing tomorrow morning he was going to call the local alarm boys and put in a security system. Cost be damned, he had to have it. Immediately!
As for tonight . . .
Tonight he’d keep the .38 under the pillow.
Run away. Run low and fast. Get bushes before light come. Must stay way now. Not come back.
The Detective Harrison feel me. Know when watched. Him the one, sure.
Walk in dark, in woods. See back many houses. Come park. Feel strange. See this park before. Can not be—
Then know.
Monroe! This Monroe! Born here! Live here! Hate Monroe! Monroe bad place, bad people! House, home, old home near here! There! Cross park! Old home! New color but same house.
Hate house!
Sit on froze park grass. Cry. Why Monroe? Do not want be in Monroe. The Mom gone. The Sissy gone. The Jimmy very gone. House here.
Dry tears. Watch old home long time till light go out. Wait more. Go to windows. See new folks inside. The Mom took the Sissy and go. Where? Don’t know.
Go to back. Push cellar window. Crawl in. See good in dark. New folks make nice cellar. Wood on walls. Rug on floor. No chain.
Sit floor. Remember . . .
Remember hanging on wall. Look little window near ceiling. Watch kids play in park cross street. Want go with kids. Want play there with kids. Want have friends.
But the Mom won’t let. Never leave basement. Too strong. Break everything. Have TV. Broke it. Have toys. Broke them. Stay in basement. Chain round waist hold to center pole. Can not leave.
Remember terrible bad things happen.
Run. Run way Monroe. Never come back.
Til now.
Now back. Still hate house! Want hurt house. See cigarettes. With matches. Light all. Burn now!
Watch rug burn. Chair burn. So hot. Run back to cold park. Watch house burn. See new folks run out. Trucks come throw water. House burn and burn.
Glad but tears
come anyway.
Hate house. Now house gone. Hate Monroe.
Wonder where the Mom and the Sissy live now.
Leave Monroe for new home and the Old Jessi.
The second call came the next day. And this time they were ready for it. The tape recorders were set, the computers were waiting to begin the tracing protocol. As soon as Harrison recognized the voice, he gave the signal. On the other side of the desk, Jacobi put on a headset and people started running in all directions. Off to the races.
“I’m glad you called,” Harrison said. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“You undershtand?” said the soft voice.
“I’m not sure.”
“Musht help shtop.”
“I will! I will! Tell me how!”
“Not know.”
There was a pause. Harrison wasn’t sure what to say next. He didn’t want to push, but he had to keep him on the line.
“Did you . . . hurt anyone last night.”
“No. Shaw houshes. Your houshe. Your wife.”
Harrison’s blood froze. Last night—in the back yard. That had been the Facelift Killer in the dark. He looked up and saw genuine concern in Jacobi’s eyes. He forced himself to speak.
“You were at my house? Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“No-no! Cannot let shee! Run way your house. Go mine!”
“Yours? You live in Monroe?”
“No! Hate Monroe! Once lived. Gone long! Burn old houshe. Never go back!”
This could be important. Harrison phrased the next question carefully.
“You burned your old house? When was that?”
If he could just get a date, a year . . .
“Lasht night.”
“Last night?” Harrison remembered hearing the sirens and fire horns in the early morning darkness.
“Yesh! Hate houshe!”
And then the line went dead.
He looked at Jacobi who had picked up another line.
“Did we get the trace?”
“Waiting to hear. Christ, he sounds retarded, doesn’t he?” Retarded. The word sent ripples across the surface of his brain. Non-human teeth . . . Monroe . . . retarded . . . a picture was forming in the settling sediment, a picture he felt he should avoid.
“Maybe he is.”
“You’d think that would make him easy to—”
Jacobi stopped, listened to the receiver, then shook his head disgustedly.
Great Noir Fiction Page 52