Good To The Last Kiss: Crimes of the Depraved Mind Series

by Ronald Tierney

  ‘Was she actually raped?’ asked the woman who had asked the question earlier. ‘I mean, was the guy getting off on it?’

  Gratelli remembered she was the civilian psychologist brought into the case with much fanfare after the third victim was found and the incidents linked together.

  ‘As far as Miss Bateman could tell… uh… something was inserted. But, according to the medical report, there was no semen.’

  ‘And we don’t know how big it was,’ McClellan said. The room was quiet. McClellan sought to retrieve his remark by suggesting it had been serious, after all. ‘I mean, I suppose that could be a way to identify him or something.’ McClellan’s face went beet red and he squirmed in his seat.

  ‘It was difficult talking with her,’ Gratelli said quickly. ‘We need to give her a few days to rest.’

  ‘With a little rest perhaps her memory will be more vivid,’ Thompson said dryly, looking at McClellan.

  Everyone laughed except McClellan – whose embarrassment seemed terminal – and Gratelli.

  The FBI criminologist offered a profile.

  ‘I know we’ve gone over this, but for the benefit of the inspectors on the Bateman end, let me repeat. Because the victims were young and disadvantaged – excluding Bateman for now – we believe the perpetrator to be shy, under twenty-five, anti-social, probably abused as a child. VW bugs used to be the popular vehicle for a serial killer. Don’t ask me why. Now, he is likely to own a van. He may very well stutter or otherwise have a communication problem, not to mention serious problems with sex.’

  ‘How do you know all that?’ McClellan asked.

  ‘What he’s done fits the pattern established by other serial killers who have left these kinds of victims.’

  ‘What color is the van?’ McClellan asked, arms folded. Gratelli wished he would just shut up and listen.

  ‘Probably black, dark gray or dark blue. Dark in any event. Or at least plain.’

  McClellan shook his head.

  ‘None of this works for Bateman,’ she continued. ‘He’s either changing his target which is possible, or something has changed in his life. Perhaps he has built some confidence. She could have been some sort of accident, a miscalculation on his part. Could be just that the opportunity was so right, he couldn’t resist.’

  ‘Our perpetrator could have done Bateman. I believe he did,’ McClellan said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Like I said, a change or insight on his part, a graduation of sorts based on increased confidence, an opportunistic decision. Any of those would explain what amounts to a modest modification of his behavior. She was the most recent victim, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gratelli said. ‘As far as we know.’

  ‘Since this one was somewhat different, perhaps this signifies a change in pattern.’

  ‘Any other possibilities?’ Lieutenant Thompson asked.

  McClellan and Gratelli were dismissed. The meeting, however, continued.

  TEN

  ‘ W hat more can I say?’ Paul asked his two visitors, Inspectors Gratelli and McClellan as he handed them an inch-thick manila folder. ‘These are a few of the recent cases, the nastier ones. There’s also a little file on a Darvy McWilliams. She testified against him in a parole hearing. And I’ve put in a little profile of Ezra Blackburn, her former employer who might have a grudge. Might not.’

  Gratelli and McClellan had been all but banished from the serial killings. The task force and new homicide detectives were following up on what was becoming increasingly cold leads in deaths of the others – the girls. No new deaths that fit the pattern. No new leads.

  Bateman’s case remained on the fringe. Gratelli and McClellan still had it, though it was clear what Gratelli and McClellan were doing was now little more than clerical as it related to Julia’s possible connection. They were to build files to show the police had followed all the leads. ‘Cover your ass’ was the operative philosophy. The task force was divided on the Bateman connection. On one hand, it really didn’t fit. On the other, there was the tiny detail – the rose tattoo. For Gratelli and McClellan, Bateman was the only link to the deaths worth pursuing. So despite the short shrift the department gave the investigation, Gratelli and McClellan continued to pursue it.

  ‘You’ve been very thorough,’ Gratelli said to Paul Chang. ‘Appreciate it. But could you tell us a little more about her?’ Gratelli sat on the edge of the day bed. McClellan leaned against the windowsill. Paul was in his adjustable chair. He swiveled away from the drafting table.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘How about, where were you the night this happened?’ McClellan asked.

  ‘How about here. My apartment. Here.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  ‘Um. Uh. Yes. Working.’

  ‘Anyone with you?’ McClellan continued.

  ‘I just said I was by myself.’

  ‘Well you didn’t seem too sure.’

  ‘I was trying to remember if Bradley was here. He wasn’t.’

  ‘Bradley being your close buddy?’ McClellan’s question was punctuated with a nasty grin.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘I could say a lot of things,’ McClellan said.

  ‘Problem there is that not much of it would make much sense,’ Paul said.

  Gratelli looked around the apartment. Nothing had changed since he and McClellan did a little illegal search. He felt a little awkward knowing so much intimate stuff about Paul Chang. He knew it was unfair. If only cats could talk.

  ‘What about friends?’ McClellan said.

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Hers, dummy,’ McClellan said.

  ‘Sammie Cassidy. She works at DRP Insurance, one of the companies we work with. They’re not real close, but have lunch, hang out every once in a while. Workouts at the gym. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Surely there is someone else,’ McClellan said, turning back. Gratelli scribbled Sammie’s name in his notebook.

  ‘Me,’ Paul said, seemingly having trouble thinking of another. ‘We spend a lot of time together. Otherwise she was pretty reclusive. Nobody special.’

  ‘You and her get together outside of working hours?’ McClellan asked.

  ‘Sure. Shopping. Movies. Plays sometimes. Galleries.’

  ‘David Seidman. I guess he’s nothing special,’ Gratelli said.

  ‘Yes, of course, I forgot David,’ Paul said.

  ‘Why did you forget David Seidman?’ Gratelli asked.

  ‘I don’t know. He’s forgettable.’ There, he had said it.

  ‘Maybe I could take your little smart ass down to the rubber room sometime,’ McClellan said.

  ‘Not into rubber.’

  McClellan’s laugh was filled with disgust. He turned, looked out of the window, down across Hayes Street. The peeper was on the other side, the alley side of the building.

  ‘But Julia Bateman likes Seidman,’ Gratelli said.

  ‘Yes, she does, but not as much as David would like.’

  ‘Oh?’ McClellan turned back around. He seemed interested in the conversation again.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Paul said, answering McClellan’s cryptic suggestion.

  ‘Don’t think so, what?’ McClellan asked.

  ‘David Seidman did not attack Jules. No way.’

  ‘Why not?’ the overweight detective said, coming toward Paul, nearly tripping over the little brown cat.

  McClellan let out a string of obscenities and the cat went toward Gratelli, unfazed by it all, hopping on Gratelli’s lap.

  ‘It’s like Chat knows you guys,’ Paul said.

  ‘People make that mistake all the time,’ Gratelli said. ‘Nobody knows Mickey. Not even Mickey.’

  ‘Makes sense to me,’ Paul said. He turned to McClellan, answering his question. ‘Because David loved Jules.’

  ‘She didn’t love him is what you’re saying,’ Gratelli said.

  ‘She liked him,’ Paul said. ‘They spent time together.’

  ‘Did that bo
ther you?’ McClellan asked.

  ‘No,’ Paul said. He laughed.

  ‘Because he wasn’t a threat to you?’ the heavier cop continued.

  ‘This is weird,’ Paul said, standing up. ‘I have a life. Jules has a life. I hope she has, anyway. I was neither threatened or unthreatened. I wanted… want her to be happy.’

  ‘She couldn’t be happy with this David guy?’ McClellan said.

  Paul shook his head. ‘Listen carefully. David is a nice man. Jules is a nice woman. But no bells. No magic. No symphonies. No tingling sensation. You getting any of this?’

  ‘You’re coming about this close,’ McClellan said putting finger and thumb about an inch apart, ‘to being on my enemies list. And that’s not a place to be.’

  ‘Part of our job is to ask questions other people think are stupid,’ Gratelli said. ‘Any other boyfriends? Maybe the recent past?’

  ‘No. The only guy she goes out with is David. Aside from me, that is.’

  ‘That doesn’t count for much in the man-woman department, does it?’ McClellan asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, c’mon now, anybody make her bells ring lately?’ McClellan asked, his face up next to Paul’s.

  ‘I don’t know if I’d tell you anyway.’

  ‘Go sit down, Mickey,’ Gratelli said.

  ‘She had dinner with Thaddeus Maldeaux,’ Paul said. ‘Just dinner. A little magic, I think.’

  ‘But you don’t think he buried the sausage? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was unable to put it so poetically,’ Paul said.

  Gratelli was fortunate enough to arrange to meet Seidman at his house. He preferred not having the man feeling the full power of the D.A.’s office while they talked. Also, Gratelli believed that a person’s home was far more revealing than an office; even more revealing in the case of a single man.

  McClellan agreed to split up and go talk to Ezra Blackburn. This too was a bit of luck. McClellan’s confrontational attitude and dislike of authority would make Seidman a more difficult interview than it had to be. McClellan’s sledgehammer approach was far better suited to a man like Blackburn.

  Gratelli knew where Seidman’s house was. The rising star in politics lived on that long, steep slope that rose from the back of Levi’s Plaza up to Coit Tower. One either parked on top and walked down or parked at the bottom and walked up, depending where on the hill you lived. Seidman, as it turned out, lived midway – a trek, no way around it. Gratelli decided to get the painful part of the walk done first. He parked below and went up.

  A couple of wild cats scampered in front of Gratelli, then darted off the path. It wasn’t dark yet, but it was evening. A light fog drifted in, presumably on little cats’ feet. It would be dark when he left.

  ‘Mr Seidman,’ Gratelli said, breathless.

  ‘Hello Inspector. Come in.’ Seidman smiled.

  The place was larger than it looked from outside. The main room was warm and masculine. Woods, brown leathers, a big, bright piece of contemporary art. Through the window, one could make out a bit of the city between the trees.

  David Seidman picked up a plastic remote, turning the volume down on a classical piece of music Gratelli didn’t recognize. German, probably, he thought. Or contemporary.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Gratelli said. He had paced himself, but was breathing hard just the same.

  ‘Anything to help Julia. Sit down.’

  The leather chair seemed to fit itself around Gratelli’s bony frame. Comfortable. Even more comfortable because of the long walk. He could have just put his head back and slept.

  ‘You’ve got your own built-in Stepmaster out there,’ the inspector said.

  Seidman smiled again. No doubt he was used to the complaint and, perhaps, took some mild sadistic pleasure in the efforts people had to make to see him.

  Gratelli took a deep breath. ‘What do you know about all this?’

  ‘What I hear. Rape. Possible connection to the tattoo artist. Unsolved.’ The last word he said, pointedly. ‘Do you have anything?’

  ‘You are friends with Ms Bateman? That’s established.’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I’m following it. The case.’

  ‘And uh, what is the nature of your friendship.’

  Seidman cocked his head to one side, now understanding Gratelli was there for more than courtesy or to seek advice.

  ‘Friendly,’ Seidman said.

  The sheepish quality present on the attorney’s face in Julia’s room shortly after her arrival from Gurneville, was no longer visible.

  ‘Could you be a little more descriptive.’

  ‘We dated, inspector.’

  ‘Engaged?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is this a romantic relationship?’

  ‘Undecided, I think.’

  Gratelli searched his pocket for a pen and notebook, not so much because he needed them for notes, but to give him some reason not to look at Seidman while he formulated how to put the next question.

  ‘It’s been suggested that it was not a romantic affair on her part.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Seidman asked. After a long silence in which it became evident Gratelli was not going to answer, Seidman answered his own question. ‘Paul Chang.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Seidman smiled. ‘I’m not used to being cross-examined.’ He took a breath. Smiled. ‘Because Paul is about the only person who would know that sort of thing.’

  ‘Why would he know that?’

  ‘Because they’re friends. Girlfriends as far as I can tell.’

  ‘True then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you and Ms Bateman were friends, not lovers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did that bother you?’

  ‘Yes, it did. And where was I the night she was attacked? I was at a fund-raiser for the Mayor. About seven hundred people, give or take fifty, can vouch for my whereabouts. I was on the dais for two hours. Then I went to a more intimate party.’

  ‘And how long were you there?’

  ‘Two, maybe three hours. That would put me out at two or three a.m.’

  ‘Pretty late.’

  ‘It was a Friday night.’

  ‘Julia’s attack could have happened almost anytime between late night and early morning.’

  ‘I understand the implication,’ Seidman said, unconcerned. ‘You might ask my dog.’

  It was obvious the assistant D.A. was trying to keep the mood light and the interview as friendly and unofficial as possible.

  ‘Might you have been upset with Ms Bateman because she was seeing Thaddeus Maldeaux.’

  ‘She wasn’t seeing Teddy.’

  ‘You know Mr Maldeaux?’

  ‘We’re very close. From Stanford. Who told you she was seeing him?’

  Again, Gratelli was quiet.

  ‘Paul Chang. Why do I ask?’ Seidman answered, breaking the silence.

  ‘Mr Chang just happened to mention that Ms Bateman had dinner with Mr Maldeaux a night or so before she left for her cabin.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Actually, you sound bothered by Mr Maldeaux’s relationship with Ms Bateman.’

  ‘It hadn’t progressed to a relationship stage – in a romantic way, I mean. Teddy and I have discussed it. I don’t think she was interested in him.’

  ‘You also seem a little put off by Paul Chang’s relationship with Ms Bateman. Are you generally a possessive sort of person.’

  ‘Jealous of Paul? Heavens no. Paul and I would not have had the same kind of relationship with Julia. Ours would have been one between a man and a woman.’

  ‘Your close friend, Mr Maldeaux, didn’t tell you that he asked her out and that she was quite attracted to him.’

  ‘She thought he was immature, childish. She saw through him.’

  ‘And you two are friends?’

  ‘Yes. I would tell him the same thing I’ve told you. And my friend, Teddy,
would tell you I’m an old stick in the mud who never does anything adventurous, never takes chances. Still, we’re good friends.’

  Seidman was smiling, but Gratelli sensed a little seething underneath.

  Gratelli waited. Seidman had worked up some anger. When people get angry, they get careless.

  Instead David Seidman suddenly laughed. ‘You are good. I could use you in court.’

  ‘As I understand it. Mr Maldeaux is handsome, charming and very rich.’

  Seidman tried to cover the displeasure Gratelli’s remarks gave him.

  ‘And he usually gets what he wants. But he wasn’t about to get Julia.’

  ELEVEN

  E zra Blackburn lived on Sanchez, a few blocks south of Market. The white framed house hinted at Victorian, but it had been dressed plainly, and treated without affection. A dozen rail-less steps led up from the sidewalk to the white door.

  A dark-haired man with exaggerated facial features sat in a wheelchair. He was halfway visible in the narrow opening. He was a big man – all fat.

  ‘Don’t want any.’

  ‘Don’t have any,’ McClellan said. ‘Ezra Blackburn?’

  ‘Mother made only one.’

  ‘My name’s McClellan, Inspector McClellan.’

  ‘What do you inspect, Mr McClellan?’ Blackburn asked, widening the gap between door and doorframe and giving the inspector a whiff of stale air. ‘Is it termites, building permits, spoiled food?’

  ‘Murder,’ McClellan said, flashing his badge.

  ‘In that case, come in,’ Blackburn said, rolling back to allow the large police detective entry. ‘Inspect all you want. I’ve removed all the asbestos, radon and rotting corpses.’

  The small entranceway and the two rooms immediately visible from it were cluttered with mail, magazines, newspapers, plates, glasses and various wrappers. McClellan followed Blackburn into a room that had a sofa and TV, virtual islands among the stacks in a surprisingly large room. The pathways, most of them, were wide enough for a wheelchair. Some of the stacks, farther back toward the walls, got narrow. There was no filth, merely stacks in an order that could only have made sense to Blackburn.

  ‘My cleaning lady has called in sick for couple of years. If you can find a place to sit, by all means sit.’