In for the Kill

by John Lutz

Not robbery. Something more. Something worse.

  Her dread was like a drug, slowing her motions. Florence undressed slowly and deliberately, keeping her elbows in close, movements tight, trying to make what she was doing look like anything but a striptease.

  "All the way," he said, when she was down to panties and bra. "Leave your clothes on the floor. I'll pick them up and fold them for you later."

  She felt more naked than she ever had in her life, yet strangely she wasn't embarrassed. Maybe because the stakes were so high. Or because of her terror. She would cling to any hope. She told herself the nice man was right. If I keep my head and do as I'm instructed, I might get through this.

  Might.

  It was all she had, all she could allow herself to believe.

  "Sit down on the sofa."

  She obeyed, keeping her knees pressed tightly together, her arms crossed over her breasts.

  He laid the white box down alongside the sofa, where she couldn't see its contents, then straightened up holding a thick roll of wide silver-gray duct tape.

  Useful for so many things.

  Quickly and skillfully, with the practiced motions of someone who'd rehearsed or done it countless times before, he taped her wrists together, then her ankles, then her knees. It had happened almost before she started to panic, aghast at her sudden immobility. She strained against the tape. He seemed to expect this and hurriedly ran a length of tape around her back and taped her wrists so she couldn't raise her arms from her lap.

  She was about to scream when a rectangle of tape was slapped painfully over her mouth. Her lips were parted about half an inch and stayed that way. She began breathing noisily through her nose and realized she was crying.

  She panicked and began to squirm desperately.

  He smiled and patted her gently on the head until she was calm enough to sit still.

  "It's going to be all right," he said. "I promise."

  She nodded.

  "There's nothing to get excited about," he assured her.

  But at the same time he pulled the white box out where she could see its contents--gleaming steel, and what looked like a portable electric drill or saw.

  Yes, a saw!

  Meticulously, with a lazy kind of precision, he undressed before her, standing directly in front of the sofa so she'd have to look at him.

  He had an erection, but how could he violate her, with her legs taped so tightly together? The inaccessibility of her position was some small comfort to Florence. If only she could move something other than fingers, toes, or her head. If only she could make some noise, attract someone's attention. Anyone's attention. She needed help.

  Any kind of help!

  Without glancing at her, the intruder turned his back and sauntered toward the hall, toward her bedroom and the bathroom.

  Then came a familiar sound; pipes clanking in the walls.

  Water. Preparation!

  Florence knew that the man in her bathroom must be the Butcher.

  Panic took her again and her body shuddered as if she were freezing. Her tears blurred the room around her. Her rapid breathing through her nose sounded like a small animal nearby panting.

  A warmth spread beneath her and she knew she was urinating on the sofa cushions. An acute humiliation cut through her panic, only making it worse.

  There was no hope here. None.

  She attempted mightily to scream, but the only sound in the apartment was that of running water.

  12

  Pearl almost fainted when she was hit with the familiar charnel house smell as she, Quinn, and Fedderman entered the victim's apartment. Sickening images of the previous Butcher victims flashed through her mind. She felt them in her stomach.

  It was another white-glove affair. The crime scene unit was still at work, dusting, photographing, picking, probing, bagging, choreographed to stay out of one another's way in the crowded apartment.

  Fedderman started talking to the uniform who'd been standing by the door, someone he knew, or possibly the first officer on the scene. Pearl followed Quinn toward a hall and what figured to be a bathroom. The meat market stench grew stronger, along with the perfumed disinfectant scent of soap and detergent.

  Only Nift, from the Medical Examiner's office, was in the bathroom with the victim. Though it was hard to think of Florence Norton as a victim, because a victim was a person. Florence had become a blanched stack of body parts in the bathtub. Pearl remembered what Sinclair had said at Nuts and Bolts:

  "...the way he carves up his victims and puts their parts on display. The meat."

  The Napoleonic, annoying little bastard Nift was dressed today as if on his way to apply for a banker's job. His shave was so close he'd nicked himself, and his sleek black hair was combed straight back. Stooped low next to the tub, he had his chalk-stripe blue suit coat unbuttoned. His red silk tie was tucked into his white shirt, so it wouldn't dangle and contact any blood or anything else that might stain it. He glanced up at Quinn and Pearl, flashing his nasty smile.

  On the floor was an assortment of bottles and boxes, empty cleaning agent containers. The shampoo was Swan, the brand Pearl used--used to use.

  The body parts were stacked in the same ritualistic order, the severed head resting on top, its facial expression one of pain even though the eyes were closed. The victim's brow was furrowed, cheeks and mouth drawn tight as if braced for more agony to come. Agony that had mercifully ceased.

  It was obvious to Pearl that Florence was older than the other victims, and though it was unfair to judge in death, she hadn't been a particularly attractive woman. Not the usual sort of Butcher prey. Pearl wondered why the deviation from type.

  "The guy would make things easier if he'd shrink-wrap the meat," Nift said.

  Pearl felt like kicking him.

  "What I'm wondering," Quinn said, "is if you'll find any water in her lungs."

  "Haven't gotten that far yet." Nift began parting the victim's matted hair with his fingertips, exploring for head injuries. "Haven't even gotten down to finding out whether she had good boobs. It's a science, you know. The blood stops flowing and they don't look so great, but I can tell."

  Pearl felt herself flush. If this wasn't bad enough, a horrible little prick like Nift could make it worse.

  "You're sick," was all she said. Admirable restraint.

  "She's right," Quinn said. He didn't want Pearl getting out of control. Her temper was what had hamstrung her in her career, even before the missing knife incident that had resulted in her leaving the department.

  Even awkwardly stooped over as he was, Nift somehow shrugged and made it look nonchalant. "Well, whatever I have, it isn't fatal."

  He straightened up all the way and stretched his back, sighing and sticking out his stomach. Like a lot or short men, he stood with rigid posture, as if to make every inch count. Pearl saw that he was getting a little paunchy. He was wearing suspenders so his suit pants draped well. "To answer your question," he said, "my guess is we'll find water in her lungs, like with the other victims." He pointed at the mottled bleached skin, some with bone protruding. "You can still find traces of adhesive from where he taped her." He shifted around the aim of his index finger. "There, and there."

  Quinn nodded, but Pearl looked and saw nothing.

  "The width is right for duct tape," Nift said. His vision was better than Pearl's. Also, he knew what to look for.

  "She looks older than the other three," Quinn said. Like Pearl, he was wondering about the variance in type.

  Nift nodded. "She was well into her forties. And good tits or not, she wasn't a looker. I think what really killed her was her name started with an N. Funny how serial killers like to play games. This one even went out of his way to murder a woman not his preferred type, just so he could spell your name right, Quinn."

  "Maybe, but there are plenty of attractive young brunettes whose surnames start with the letter N."

  "So something else could have attracted the killer to this victim.
Maybe he's a guy can't resist a great rack. We might know more when we get to those boobs."

  Liking Nift less and less, Pearl backed out of the bathroom and left Quinn to deal with the obnoxious little medical examiner. As she did so, she couldn't help but notice Nift's shoes, gleaming black and as meticulously clean as what was left of Florence Norton. Strange how images stuck in the mind. Pearl knew that when she was an old lady she'd be able to recall those polished black wingtips contrasting with the clean tile floor and chalk-white body parts stacked neatly in the tub.

  "Did you close her eyes?" Quinn asked, as Pearl backed into the hall.

  "Sure did," she heard Nift answer. "I didn't like the way she was looking at me."

  So sensitive.

  Pearl walked over to a small desk that was situated near a window so Florence would have natural light to work by during the day.

  "Done with this?" she asked one of the techs.

  He nodded. "We got what we can. Your turn."

  Pearl put on her evidence gloves anyway, before opening the top desk drawer. Maybe Florence knew who'd killed her and had his name in her address book. It had happened.

  But not this time. There was a dog-eared address book, but it contained almost exclusively the phone numbers of merchants or fellow employees. Or women. It seemed Florence Norton hadn't had much of a love life.

  Still, the numbers would prove useful.

  Other than the book, the desk contained only the usual pens, pencils, stamps, stationary, paid bills, and canceled checks for utilities or credit cards. There was a self-inking stamp with the victim's name and address, a stack of old checkbook pads (which Pearl placed off to the side with the address book and checkbook), and a tangle of rubber bands and paper clips in a plastic drawer divider. Unpaid bills indicated that Florence still owed more than five thousand dollars on her MasterCard.

  One way to beat them, Pearl thought, reminding herself that her own monthly payment was due.

  Staying out of the techs' way, she moved across the room to where Florence's obvious Prada knockoff purse lay on a table near the door. Fedderman and the uniform, who were standing nearby, glanced at her, then moved away to give her room. They were still conversing in low tones. Pearl heard Fedderman say something about an Italian restaurant where the two men used to eat, asking if the place was still in business.

  Good investigating, Feds. You're sure to come away with something.

  She caught the same tech's eye and pointed to the purse. He nodded, then ignored her as thoroughly as did Fedderman and the uniform.

  Pearl carefully unzipped the purse and began examining its contents: wadded tissue; a small folding umbrella that didn't look as if it could be more than a foot in diameter when opened; loose change; a tiny round mirror; comb; lipstick; wrapped condom (Florence living in hope?); half a box of lemon-flavored cough drops; and a bulging red leather wallet.

  It continued to bother Pearl that this victim wasn't in her thirties, like the other victims, and she wouldn't be regarded as a beauty. She'd died simply because of her last initial. And Quinn was right; there were lots of younger, more attractive brunettes whose last names began with the letter N, so why Florence?

  Pearl decided to look through Florence's wallet.

  She withdrew it carefully from the purse, then opened it.

  Lots of credit cards, way too many. Pearl wondered what the dead woman had owed on them combined. Or did she merely carry the extra cards as backup, as many women did? A plastic security blanket. Or were they in her wallet simply to make her feel richer?

  The bills in the wallet added up to twenty-seven dollars. An old theater stub from a play called I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change was stuffed in among them. There were no photos, but there was a New York Public Library card, a small plastic calendar from an insurance company, a Metrocard, and a medical insurance card that had been laminated.

  Pearl held the med insurance card up and squinted at it. Florence had belonged to an HMO Pearl had never heard of. Pearl, who was barely insured.

  The card had Florence's account number and the expiration date--six months from now. On the flip side of the card was some general information about the insured. She'd been five-foot-two and would have been forty-four in December. She-—

  Pearl felt a chill on her neck and stood motionless, staring at the card.

  If she hadn't once loved and lived with Quinn, she might not have noticed.

  She returned to the bathroom, carrying the insurance card.

  Quinn was still watching Nift work. Some of the body parts were spread out in the tub now. The head was near the drain. Quinn looked over at Pearl, his face completely without emotion--holding his feelings at bay like the pro he had been and still was. His dreams, the sudden unbidden images, would come later.

  Fedderman had finished his conversation with the uniform and had come to stand in the bathroom doorway. He was looking over Pearl's shoulder. "Jesus H. Christ," he said softly, staring at what was in the tub.

  "I guess He's here someplace," Nift said, still leaning over the tub, his voice echoing faintly against porcelain. "You want I should call Him?"

  "We want you should go see him personally," Pearl said.

  She handed Quinn Florence's medical insurance card.

  He glanced at it, then looked inquisitively at her.

  "The victim's date of birth," Pearl said. "December fourth. The same as yours."

  That caused Nift to pause in what he was doing. Pearl instantly regretted having told Quinn about this in his presence.

  Nift turned only his head. "You and the victim shared a birthday?"

  "It looks that way," Quinn said.

  "That's why the killer couldn't be so particular about looks," Nift said. "He wanted one with your birthday and the last initial N. That's why he killed such a dog."

  Pearl couldn't hold it in. "You little asshole!"

  Quinn gripped her shoulders, pulling her away from Nift, out of the bathroom. Pearl heard Nift chuckle.

  "He's such a...a..." Pearl sputtered.

  "But he's right," Fedderman said somberly. "First there's the note to Renz about Quinn, then the dead women whose last initials are spelling out Quinn's name, and now this victim, whose birthday's the same as Quinn's. She had two criteria to meet. The killer couldn't be his usual particular self, which is why he settled for Florence."

  "Feds, why don't you--"

  "Ease up, Pearl." Quinn handed her back Florence Norton's insurance card. "And don't forget the 'coincidence' of one of the victims living in your old apartment."

  "So what's it all mean?" Pearl asked, still too angry, primarily at Nift, to think clearly.

  "It suggests the killer maneuvered the police into assigning Quinn, and us, to track him down," Fedderman said. "Spelling out Quinn's name, he's finishing what he started, and he chose a victim with Quinn's birthday so we wouldn't have any doubt about what he's doing."

  "And so we know he's in control," Quinn said. "Moving us around like pawns."

  Pearl did some deep breathing, feeling her rage at Nift dissipating now that she had something else to occupy her mind. The person she should be mad at, the killer. "You really figure that's what this is about?"

  "It's at least a possibility," Fedderman said.

  "We all know when we can be positive," Quinn said.

  "She did have pretty good boobs," Nift called from the bathroom.

  Pearl started toward him, but this time Fedderman held her back.

  "Ignore the little prick, Pearl. He just wants to get to you. We've got other things to think about."

  They both knew what Quinn had meant. There was little doubt that the killer knew how to spell Quinn's name: with two Ns.

  13

  Manhattan was like a kiln that had been shut down, but only temporarily and not for long. It was another morning already uncomfortably warm because of yesterday's heat still permeating the city's miles of concrete. Day after day, the heat built pressure. Off in the distance
a siren wailed, bemoaning the meteorological injustice of it all.

  "There was never much doubt he was jerking our strings," Harley Renz said. "We just didn't know how hard and how many strings."

  They were in Renz's office at One Police Plaza, where it was at least cooler than outside. The office was small and looked as if it had been decorated by Eliot Ness. An old Thompson submachine gun was displayed in a glass-fronted case on the wall behind Renz's desk. Also on the wall were framed certificates and awards Renz had accumulated through wile or war; a photo of him shaking hands with the mayor; another, older, photo of the two of them on a dais in a similar situation. In that one the younger, less saggy-faced Renz was holding up his right hand as if about to inhale from a cigarette he was smoking, only the cigarette had been airbrushed from the photo, leaving Renz looking like he was signaling someone somewhere that the number was two.

  Quinn, seated between Pearl and Fedderman before Renz's wide desk, glanced around and noted that everything in the office was either functional or laudatory, no doubt exactly the impression Renz wanted to project. Quinn recalled that he'd never been here when there wasn't an open file with some fanned papers on Renz's desk, as if he'd just been interrupted while pondering a case. This time maybe he really had been pondering, because the file was the autopsy report on Florence Norton.

  "The killer must have gone to a lot of trouble to find a victim who shared Quinn's birth date," Pearl said. Renz was important enough to have an office with a window; light shone through the blinds and illuminated her black hair as if it were a raven's wing.

  Renz said, "Our guy's resourceful, like you people are gonna have to be in order to catch him."

  Pearl didn't figure there had to be a reply to that.

  "Did the lab find anything he left behind on this one?" Quinn asked. He noticed something new on Renz's desk, a small silver picture frame propped at an angle to face the chair where Renz sat. Quinn knew Renz was unmarried and had no children. He wondered who or what was in the photo, or whatever the silver frame contained. Maybe a romantic interest.