by John Lutz
For a brief moment she felt relief.
Okay, this is the end of the nightmare . . .
Only it wasn’t.
The air conditioner continued its monotonous low humming. A car horn honked blocks away. Far, far in the distance a police or emergency vehicle siren wailed like a lost lament. The soft breeze pushing through the open window caused the drape cord to sway so its plastic pull tapped lightly against the sill.
All of these sounds were louder than Pattie’s screams.
They had all made do on Bickerstaff ‘s high-energy candy bars and decided to meet for breakfast so they wouldn’t be too exhausted to talk. Paula had said good night to Bicker-staff, climbed out of the unmarked, then trudged up to her apartment. She was barely able to stay awake long enough to undress and fall onto the bed.
Horn was right, she remembered thinking just before falling asleep. It was already 11 P.M., and everyone’s brains were scrambled from listening to the same stories for the second or third time, going over the same crime scenes, and making the same notes. Tomorrow, Horn had said, was soon enough to start analyzing what they had.
It hadn’t taken them long to examine the roofs above the victims’ apartment windows and determine the killer had lowered himself to his prey, not climbed up. Other than that, they’d have to talk things over in the morning and compare notes, see if there was something else worthwhile when they put their information together. Other than that . . .
When Paula and Bickerstaff walked in, Horn was already at the diner where he’d set up the meet, a place called the
Home Away, not far from his brownstone. He was slouched in a back booth, sipping coffee, with a plate in front of him that contained nothing but yellow crumbs.
There were only a few other customers, and it was pleasantly cool in the diner. The unmarked’s air conditioner wasn’t working well, so Paula and Bickerstaff had removed their jackets and, still uncomfortable, had left them in the car. Bickerstaff had tucked his holstered service revolver beneath his shirt, where it was barely noticeable amidst his bulk. Paula had her handgun and shield in her small black leather purse, which she carried just for that purpose. After a few days around ninety, with nights that didn’t cool down much, the city’s miles of concrete held the heat like a kiln. Summer in New York could be brutal. For some people it was hell.
The two detectives slid into the booth so they were across the table from Horn. Paula thought the mingled scents of fried bacon and slightly burned toast or bagel smelled great, but she wasn’t hungry. Bickerstaff ‘s energy bars seemed to have formed an indigestible lump in her stomach.
Bickerstaff didn’t feel the same gastric discomfort. “So what’s good here?” he asked.
“Toasted corn muffins,” Horn said without hesitation.
A waitress with an order pad came over. She was a nice looking brunette with a good figure and kind of sad face.
“I’m not a muffin man,” Bickerstaff said.
“Could have fooled me,” the waitress said without a change of expression.
Bickerstaff grinned.
“Marla, Marla. . .” Horn said. Then to Bickerstaff: “Marla has a droll sense of humor, among her many other attributes.”
Marla seemed unaffected by the compliment.
Bickerstaff simply grunted, then ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee. Paula just went with coffee.
“You must come in here pretty often,” she said to Horn.
“Probably too often. It’s the muffins.”
“They must be something.” Paula glanced at the waitress, making sure Horn saw her.
So she’d built up the nerve to joke with him. Horn liked that. It could be they were becoming a real team.
“Let’s go over what we learned last night,” he said.
They did this through breakfast, then over second cups of coffee.
“Seems to me the only new thing we learned is that the killer lowers himself from the roof to get to the victims’ windows,” Bickerstaff said.
But something had struck Paula after hearing overlapping accounts of the murders. “The first victim was stabbed thirty-seven times, the second thirty-six, the third thirty-seven.”
“Sounds like my first wife,” Bickerstaff said. “Thirty-seven, thirty-six, thirty seven.”
Christ! Paula thought. She and Horn both frowned at Bickerstaff.
“According to the ME, the sick bastard knows exactly where to stab them over and over without killing them, so they suffer maximum pain,” Bickerstaff said with exaggerated somberness, obviously realizing he might have gone too far humorwise. “Turns out the way he does it, the number of stab wounds they survive is in the mid-thirties.”
Paula felt slightly ill.
“A surgeon?” Bickerstaff asked.
“Not likely,” she said, “according to the ME. The murder knife isn’t surgical, and a doctor would probably cut rather than stab.”
“So?” Bickerstaff raised his bushy eyebrows as he delicately picked up a last crumb of bacon from his plate and popped it into his mouth. Paula noticed that though it was cool in the diner, there were still dark crescents of perspiration beneath the arms of his wrinkled blue shirt.
“He’s killed plenty of times before,” Paula said. “Not only these three times. He must have, in order to learn precisely how, where, and the number of times to stab his victims to inflict pain without causing immediate death.”
“Or even unconsciousness,” Horn said, smiling at Paula.
She was pleased by his approval but at the same time irritated. Horn had known where she was going and was there ahead of her, waiting for her to catch up. He must have thought of the likelihood of previous victims and already talked to the ME about it.
“I called the ME from home this morning,” he said, knowing what she must be thinking.
“What about the partial bare footprint?” Bickerstaff said. “What the hell is that all about?”
“Our barefoot boy didn’t get undressed to prevent himself from getting bloody,” Horn said. “In all but the Sally Bridge murder, the sheets wrapped around the victims absorbed most of the bleeding and prevented him from becoming bloodstained. At least bloodstained enough that it was worth the risk to take extra time undressing, washing up afterward, and dressing. And there was no sign of blood in the bathroom or kitchen drains.”
While they were thinking about that, Horn finished his coffee and set the cup down slowly but firmly in its saucer so it wouldn’t clink. If the cup was going to be picked up again soon, it wouldn’t be by him.
“So what’re our marching orders for the day?” Bicker-staff asked.
“You and Paula see if you can find some cold cases in the area during the past three or four years that are similar to the three murders we’ve got.”
“Murders when he was learning,” Paula said. “Perfecting his act.”
Horn nodded. “And it wouldn’t hurt to check some other cities. Our killer might be a transient.”
He slid his bulk out of the booth and stood up straight, a big man with dark slacks, white shirt with tie, and suspenders. The shirt had long sleeves, but they were neatly rolled up to about six inches above his wrists. Paula thought he looked like an ominous blackjack dealer and wondered if he always dressed that way.
“What I’m going to do today is consult some experts,” he said.
“Medical experts?” Bickerstaff asked. “No,” Horn said, “I’ll be looking for somebody who climbs mountains.”
They’d just stepped outside the cool diner into the bright, warm morning, when Horn’s cell phone chirped.
He fished it from his pants pocket and stepped a few feet away. Paula could see his face while he listened to whoever was on the other end of the connection, the phone made miniature in his huge hand. His expression might as well have been sculpted in marble. The call could be his wife reminding him to pick up some salami on the way home tonight, or it might be news of catastrophe. You couldn’t know which by studying Horn’s
features.
It wasn’t the salami.
He slid the phone back in his pocket and returned to where Paula and Bickerstaff stood in the shade of the diner’s rust-colored awning.
“Another killing,” he said, and gave them a West Side address. “We’ll take your car. Use the siren so we arrive before the crime scene gets as cold as the victim.”
9
When they approached the address of the reported homicide, Paula saw only one police car parked directly in front of the building. No unmarkeds of a make and model like hers and Bickerstaff’s. No ambulance or other emergency vehicles. Only a hint of the horror above.
“We got the call early,” Horn said from the backseat. “So we can examine everything fresh and unedited.”
Paula was impressed. She had to admit it was nice working with someone with pull. Bickerstaff, quiet beside her, simply stared straight ahead. “There,” he said, pointing to a parking slot that turned out to be a loading zone featuring a homemade sign saying don’t even think of parking here.
Paula parked there anyway and pulled down the visor to display the NYPD placard. Inanely, she wished she had a sign saying don’t even think of towing this car.
When they were out of the car, Horn led the way. He was swinging his long arms, head thrust forward on his bull shoulders. He seemed eager.
An overweight uniformed cop stood near the building entrance and straightened his posture when he saw them approach. Horn flashed his shield in the way of a man who’d made the motion thousands of times.
“Nineteenth floor, sir,” the cop said to Horn. “Apartment 195.”
“Anybody up there but the victim?”
“My partner Eb guarding the door. We got a ten-three when we got the call, then phoned in and were instructed to secure the scene and wait for you.”
Horn nodded and pushed inside, holding the door open for Paula and Bickerstaff. There was no doorman. Except for the uniform outside, nothing in the lobby seemed out of the ordinary. The elevator door opened and two women got out jabbering to each other about someone’s wedding. Not a word about anyone’s death.
The three detectives made it into the elevator before the door slid shut, and Paula punched the button for nineteen.
When the door glided open they saw Eb halfway down the hall. He was young and tall and looked as if he’d spent most of his brief life lifting weights. When he pushed away from leaning against the wall, Paula noticed his uniform appeared to be tailored.
When Horn showed his shield, Eb said, “Door’s unlocked, sir. Vic’s name’s Patricia Redmond. When she didn’t show for work this morning, her employer called and had the super check on her. He found her . . . like she is.” An expression of distaste, maybe fear, crossed his handsome features, which appeared to be unmarked by previous experience. “My partner carl and I checked to make sure she was dead, like we were instructed when we phoned in to the dispatcher. Then we secured the area and kept a low profile till you guys showed.”
Paula wasn’t sure a low profile was a six-foot-two uniformed cop stationed in an apartment hall, but it seemed to have worked. An elderly woman emerged from an apartment down the hall, did a double take when she saw the uniform and knot of people near Patricia Redmond’s door, then got in the elevator and descended. Seemed to have worked so far, anyway.
The door was cracked open half an inch. Horn used a knuckle to ease it open all the way. He instructed Eb to stay on guard in the hall, then led the way into the apartment.
Immediately, Paula caught the faint but unmistakable scent of fresh blood and sensed the unearthly stillness that gathered like coagulated time in the wake of violent death. She and Bickerstaff looked at each other, then at the broad back of Horn moving almost grudgingly toward the bedroom. She knew both men felt as she did, that they were unwilling trespassers in a place made terrible and sacred by the killer.
Horn had been to this place many times following the footsteps of numerous killers. While he moved slowly, he didn’t hesitate as he entered the bedroom, leaving enough space for the other two detectives to come in behind him without inadvertently touching anything.
Paula heard her own involuntary gasp as she saw Patricia Redmond beyond Horn’s left shoulder. Bickerstaff swallowed, phlegm cracking in his throat. Horn, still facing away from them, held out a big hand and motioned for them to stand still.
To his credit, Paula thought, he didn’t voice what he was thinking: that they should be careful here and not disturb any evidence. A virgin crime scene had to be treated with respect.
Patricia Redmond was lying on her back in the center of her double bed, shrouded in tightly wrapped blood-soaked sheets. Even the bottom sheet, with elasticized corners, had been pulled up from the mattress and used to shroud her. She must not have been able to move anything but her head, fingers, and toes. The toes of her left foot, nails enameled a brilliant red, extended beyond the edge of the taut sheets, tensed and curled like talons. At the other end of the shrouded form was her head. Her shoulder-length dark hair was wild, suggesting she’d thrashed her head around violently as she’d suffered. The white of the one eye visible beneath the tumble of hair could be seen all the way around the pupil, as if she’d taken a terrified peek into the void an instant before death. Her mouth was agape, forming a round depression in the gray duct tape that covered it. To Paula, nothing had ever looked more silent. Where are the screams she tried to form? What happened to the stillborn screams of these women?
“Pattie,” Bickerstaff said, breaking Paula’s mood.
“What?” Horn asked.
“I bet the people she knew called her Pattie. She was probably a pretty thing.” Bickerstaff shook his head. “Fuckin’ shame!”
“The victim was stabbed repeatedly,” Horn said, slipping into cop talk to put a protective shell around his emotions and to signal Bickerstaff and Paula to do the same.
“I’ll bet somewhere around thirty-seven times,” Paula said, noting the many slits in the bloody sheets. Each cut must have seemed like a world of pain in suspended time. Paula hoped her stomach, her emotions, were going to hold up here.
Careful not to tread on any impressions on the throw rug, Horn moved across the bare wood floor to the open window. He peered up beneath the shade. “The glass has been cut so he could open the window and climb in. Looks like soap or candle wax on the tracks to smooth the way and mute the sound.”
“Our guy,” Paula said. Not that there’d been some doubt.
Horn led them back into the living room. Strangely, it was like leaving a church.
“We’ll let the ME and techs go over the place,” he said, “see what they come up with before we conduct a thorough search. Assign some uniforms to question neighbors in this building, and don’t forget canvassing adjacent buildings. Then you two interview the best possibilities in a second pass and compare their stories with the first versions.”
Bickerstaff was staring down at an angle through the living room window. “Cavalry’s here. Ambulance, two squad cars, and the ME.”
Paula walked over and looked down at the small shiny vehicles parked at careless angles in front of the building, like toys hurriedly shoved there by a child. Tiny, foreshortened human figures were scurrying toward the entrance. “They’re on the way up.”
“Fine,” Horn said. “We’re done here, for the moment, anyway.”
“Let’s go up to the roof,” Bickerstaff said. “Maybe he dropped his wallet.”
It’s happened before, Paula mused, as they exited Pattie Redmond’s apartment and made their way toward the elevator.
Not this time, though.
But the roof gave them what they expected to find. There were scuff marks in the heat-softened, graveled tar directly above the victim’s window. The tile-capped parapet was marked by what might have been a rope rubbing on it. And there, low on the parapet, was a deep and freshly forged hole where a piton might have been driven into the mortar.
“He was here, all right,” Horn
said.
“Notice the pigeon droppings here have been stepped in,” Paula said. Further evidence.
Horn looked over at her approvingly, but Bickerstaff said, “Sherlock Homing pigeon.”
The roof of the building next door was only about ten feet higher than the one on which they stood, and only about ten feet away, sharing what amounted to an air shaft. At that edge of the roof they found more scuff marks, and, in farther, a vent pipe that was marked by what might have been some kind of grappling hook that secured a line.
Horn smiled grimly. “We certainly have his MO nailed.”
“Now all we have to do is nail the bastard himself,” Paula said, surprising herself with the vehemence of her words. Horn didn’t seem to notice, which didn’t fool Paula. Bickerstaff was grinning at her.
The three detectives spent another ten minutes on the roof, carefully searching for anything of possible use.
All they came up with were a tangle of old antenna wire and a crumpled chewing gum wrapper.
“Juicy Fruit,” Bickerstaff said, staring at the smoothed-out wrapper in his hand.
“The sun’s faded the lettering,” Horn said, “and the antenn wire’s rusty. This stuff ‘s been here awhile and doesn’t help us.”
Bickerstaff nodded, then wadded and flipped the gum wrapper away.
They went back through the service door and into the building. As they were descending in the elevator, it stopped at nineteen to pick up Eb, the uniform. He nodded to them, and when he stepped in, Paula looked beyond his bulk and got a glimpse of the techs and emergency personnel milling around in the hall. The ME was there, too. Harry Potter again.
He caught sight of Paula and smiled and winked at her as the elevator door slid shut. There was no reason death shouldn’t be a little bit fun.
10
Pattie Redmond’s fellow clerk at Styles and Smiles wasn’t a guy who minded people seeing him cry. His name was Herb, and dressed in black as he was, he looked too thin to be alive as he stood near a rack of swimwear and unabashedly let tears track down his sallow cheeks.