“Well, at least we know it’s a man we’re after,” Tobin said. “That’s something.”
“It’s not very much. Goddamn it, we’ve got to find him before anybody else—”
The assistant M.E. had come over and he asked Manders if it was all right to release the body. Manders growled an affirmative. Two ambulance attendants were standing nearby with a black plastic body bag unzipped; when the assistant M.E. gestured to them they converged on what was left of Cindy Wilson like white-clad vultures eager to be at their carrion.
Manders said, “I’d better go deal with the media. I want you two on this thing twenty-four hours a day from now on. Understood? No off-duty time for any of us until we’ve got the psycho behind bars.”
Oxman watched him follow the ambulance attendants out with their burden. When he looked back at his partner Tobin said, “No witness to the shooting of the Wilson woman, but a man named Gerald Jackson, up in one-A, heard the shot. He’s one of those self-defense nuts; he came flying down the stairs with a loaded shotgun. He was the one who saw Kennebank pick the thirty-two up off the front steps. But by the time he got outside, the killer was too far away for him to identify.”
“Where’s Jackson now?”
“Up in his apartment. Want to go hear it from him?”
“Yeah.”
Gerald Jackson was a small, wiry man in his late thirties, with a ferretlike face and a head of bushy, prematurely white hair. He invited Oxman and Tobin into his apartment, where they declined his offer to have a seat. Oxman felt uncomfortable in the apartment. It was incongruously furnished in rattan and heavy dark wood, and there was a sparseness about the place that seemed unfriendly. The only wall hangings were framed bulbous glass displays containing stuffed specimens of squirrels and quail perched lifelike among plastic foliage. No doubt these were Gerald Jackson’s personal hunting trophies. Against one wall, near the door, leaned a gleaming pump-action shotgun.
“I always keep it there,” Jackson said. He’d noticed Oxman staring at the weapon. “Ain’t nothing better for taking care of an intruder than a twelve-gauge. And it damn near paid off this time, having it handy. A half-minute earlier and I’d of bagged Cindy’s killer. Say, how’s the cop that got shot?”
“Critical,” Tobin said.
“Damned shame.”
“I know you’ve been through it before, Mr. Jackson,” Oxman said, “but would you mind telling me exactly what you saw and heard earlier tonight?”
Jackson didn’t mind. His beady ferret’s eyes glowed and he slipped his hands into his hip pockets. He enjoyed telling his story, refining it before an audience. He’d be telling it for years.
“I was making a snack in the kitchen,” he said, “about eleven thirty—I know that because I was timing a pizza I’d just put in the oven—when I heard the shot downstairs. It wasn’t loud, and maybe nobody else in the building paid any attention if they heard it, but I know what a shot sounds like. So I grabbed my twelve-gauge and ran down the stairs to the lobby. When I got there I didn’t see much at first in the dim light, except that the front door was just swinging shut and there were two guys out on the stoop. They collided and one guy got knocked over; the other run down the stairs.
“I got to the door just in time to see the guy who’d been knocked aside aiming a pistol and yelling for the other to halt. He identified himself as a police officer, so I didn’t try to interfere. The other guy started to run; I couldn’t see him very well because it was dark. He was just a big guy, wearing what looked like a windbreaker—”
“No identifying characteristics?” Oxman asked. “Anything at all that might help us find him?”
“I’m afraid not,” Jackson said apologetically. “Just a big guy, like I said. Well, anyhow, the officer squeezed off a shot and then started chasing the big guy. I run outside myself and watched them head across Riverside Drive, into the park. I figured I’d better stay out of it, except to call the police like any good citizen. So I came back inside, and that’s when I damn near tripped over poor Cindy.”
“Did you know Miss Wilson well?”
“Naw, not very. We used to say hello in the hall or the lobby, that’s about all; she was the friendly type, you know?”
Oxman nodded. “Is there anything else you can tell us that might be of help, Mr. Jackson?”
“I guess not,” Jackson said reluctantly.
“Well, if you think of anything, you let us know. We may want to talk to you again. If you don’t hear from us, there’ll be a statement for you to sign at the precinct house later today. We’d appreciate it if you’d go down and sign it.”
“Sure thing. Say, you think I’ll need to testify in court?” He sounded eager.
“Maybe. We need to arrest somebody first.”
“There ain’t no doubt in my mind that will happen,” Jackson said, ushering them out, smiling encouragement.
“He’s some cowboy, isn’t he?” Tobin said when they were out of earshot halfway down the stairs.
“Yeah,” Oxman agreed. But he was thinking, ironically, that it would be all over now if the cowboy had reached the lobby seconds earlier, seen the killer standing over Cindy Wilson, and blown him to hell with that twelve-gauge shotgun.
THE COLLIER TAPES
I am calm now.
I was not calm when I returned from across the river; I was quite agitated, badly frightened. I undressed in my bedroom and immediately took a hot shower, surrounded myself with roaring water and fogged glistening tile. The bar of soap cupped in my hand and gliding over my body, the needles of warmth pounding my tense back muscles, soon began to soothe me. And it was not long before the anxiety and the fear were washed away, swirling down the drain with the residue of the filth from the streets where I walked tonight.
When I stepped from the steaming security of the shower stall and toweled myself dry I understood that the worries which had plagued me on the drive home were groundless. I have nothing to fear from the police. I am God, and what has God to fear from the likes of them?
It is true that the thirty-two caliber automatic I dropped and lost is the weapon I used in all my executions; the police will have it now and they will soon discover that fact with their ballistics tests. Ah, but the gun is not registered in my name. It cannot be traced to me. I bought it, just as I bought my second weapon, the thirty-eight caliber revolver the foolish policeman who chased me tonight did not suspect I carried, from a man of shady reputation in Pennsylvania four months ago. I obtained his name from an acquaintance, in the most casual fashion, and I did not give the gun-seller my real name when I approached him; nor did he ask for identification. He was only interested in the money I offered him.
Fingerprints? Yes, my fingerprints will surely be on the automatic; I did not expect to lose it, so I did not take the precaution of wiping its surfaces or of wearing gloves. But I have never been in the armed services, never acquired a police record, never held a civil service job, never been fingerprinted in my life. Let the police check. Let their computers hum. My fingerprints are on record nowhere!
What happened tonight, the unforeseen interference of the undercover policeman—for that is what he certainly was; the police are clever, if heavy-handed and inept—what happened was unfortunate, and might have been tragic. But I was not apprehended. I was able to strike down my pursuer with an unexpected suddenness and fury. If the lightning is turned away, even the thunder shall slay them. I am destiny. I am the Angel of Death.
As I speak I cross to the balcony door, step out, and move to where the Eye waits on its gaunt tripod, insectlike. A random thought strikes me: Would any of this have happened had the university granted me tenure? But that was another, a mortal life. A place of fools, better behind me. Like my marriage. All part of a past that was only preparation for something more fitting, something cosmic and grand.
I focus the Eye. The sharp angles of buildings, the hazy night over the river, impede my view. Sweeping, multicolored lights cast wild shadows in th
e park across from West Ninety-eighth Street, before the building where Cindy Wilson lives … lived. In the distant clash of light, magical shadow-shapes come and go—the policemen, the onlookers, the media, all those who have come to look with awe and trepidation upon my work. On Riverside Drive, the Eye sees the twin white beams of an approaching car. It turns into Ninety-eighth Street, stops at the wash of colored light. Another police car? Yes: the arrival of the man in charge of the police investigation, Detective Oxman. He steps from the car, hurries up the front stairs of 1279, disappears inside.
Detective E.L. Oxman. What do the initials E.L. stand for? The newspapers have not said, nor have the radio or television announcers. E.L. Oxman. Not a name that suggests mental alacrity. A name to loathe.
A man to loathe too. The Eye has told me that.
For the Eye has seen the way he looks at Jennifer Crane, the lust and longing in his policeman’s eyes. And the Eye has seen, too, that E.L. Oxman is the personification of the forces which threaten me. Or believe they threaten me. If I so choose I can snuff out Oxman’s life as well, cancel his remaining days, his future arrests and fornications. On West Ninety-eighth Street, in my universe, he is mine.
Lights are on in Cindy Wilson’s apartment, although the drapes are drawn so that the Eye cannot see inside. No doubt the police are searching it, seeking clues. Laughter roils within me, rises to a soft giggle. The only clues they will find are evidence of the unclean slut’s relationship with the married artist, Wally Singer.
E.L. Oxman. The name continues to repeat itself inside my head, over and over, like words from a popular song. Oxman. Oxman, Oxman, Oxman. Why do I hate it so? Why does it begin to make me feel nervous again now, to bring back a tiny measure of my earlier fear?
But I must not worry. Oxman cannot harm me; on the contrary, it is I who can harm him. And perhaps a small measure of fear isn’t altogether undesirable. Now I have been warned.
And so, soon, shall Detective E.L. Oxman.
7:30 A.M. — WALLY SINGER
Cindy was dead.
Cindy had been murdered last night, right across the street.
Sitting at the kitchen table, staring out blindly through the window, Singer still had trouble believing it was true. God, he could still hear her laugh, hear her moan, feel her slim, warm body moving frantically against him. He shuddered as he thought of that flawless body being cut open for autopsy, embalmed. It was almost indecent, as if something of his were being violated.
He shut his eyes, pressed the heels of his hands against his throbbing temples. There was an awful taste in his mouth, as if something foul had slept there. Hangover. All the beer he’d drunk last night, before going to bed and then afterward, when he’d happened to be standing at the open window in the bedroom, taking a little fresh air, and all the commotion started outside.
Christ, he’d seen what had happened over in the park, that cop getting shot. Well, not seen it actually, nothing he could really identify, just dark figures running and the muzzle flash of the gun when it went off. That was bad enough, and had led him straight to the refrigerator for more beer to settle his nerves. But then the cops had shown up in full force, with sirens blaring and lights flashing and that stupid cow Marian had gone out into the crowd in front to find out what had happened and then come back a while later to tell him it was Cindy who’d been killed.
His first reaction had been numb shock. He’d grabbed another beer quick and taken it into the bathroom, to hide the shock from Marian. But she knew anyway. Hidden behind her dismayed features was knowledge of the affair with Cindy and maybe satisfaction that somebody had ended Cindy’s life. Singer had been able to tell that by looking at her, by the way she’d acted. Goddamn her, she knew!
Then he’d thought of something that had made him feel even sicker, so sick his stomach had actually convulsed. There were several items in Cindy’s apartment that linked the two of them, that would lead the police right to him. Marian would know for sure about the affair, then. And even worse than that, the police might think he’d had something to do with Cindy’s murder, with all the other murders.
Wildly, he’d considered trying to sneak over into Cindy’s apartment and take back the painting he’d given her, the other things of his that were there. But it was an insane idea; the police were all over the place, and if he were caught trying to get in or out, it would look twice as bad for him. No, there wasn’t anything he could do. Except wait. Just sit and wait for the police to come.
He was still waiting. And the fact that they hadn’t come yet made him feel a little better. They’d have found the painting and his other stuff by now, and if they hadn’t rushed right over to talk to him, it had to mean they didn’t consider him a primary suspect. He was no longer as worried or frightened as he’d been last night. Hell, he had an alibi for the time of the shooting, didn’t he? He’d been right here with Marian all evening, he’d been standing at the bedroom window watching the real murderer shoot the undercover cop. They couldn’t pin anything on him.…
Marian frumped in from the bedroom, wearing a suit, a pair of gaudy earrings, and too much makeup. “I’m going,” she said.
He scowled at her. “Going where?”
“I told you that last night, Wally.”
Yeah, she had. Going down to Emil’s shop in the Village to talk to a guy who was interested in commissioning a sculpture, a Kraut friend of some other Kraut she knew. The guy owned a brauhaus over in Jersey and wanted a metal conversation piece for the outside fountain in the beer garden, a bird or something. How about a piece of crap, Singer thought.
He said, “Don’t hurry back.”
“I won’t.” She paused and gave him a long, funny look. “You’d better be civil to me from now on, Wally,” she said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means,” Marian said, and turned out of the doorway. He heard the muffled tattoo of her shoe heels on the floor, then the door slam as she left.
Singer got up, poured his cup of cold coffee into the sink, and refilled it from the pot. Then he sat back down at the table. He felt a little relieved that Marian had left before the cops showed up; now he wouldn’t have to face both them and her at the same time. But why hadn’t they come? Were they trying some subtle form of psychological pressure by not showing up before now? You could never tell what the police might do. Sometimes they refused to give up on an idea that they got into their heads, hounding people without mercy. That sort of thing, Singer knew, could cause even an innocent man to confess just to get them off his back. And that one detective, Oxman, was like a dog with a bone.
The apartment seemed empty, hushed, now that Marian was out of it. He glanced over at the telephone. Was it all a crazy dream? If he picked up the receiver and dialed Cindy’s number, would he hear her live, warm voice?
Cindy’s dead.
She was murdered last night, right across the street.
He shuddered again. This wasn’t a dream, at least not one from which he would awaken. This was a bright, sunshiny morning in the real world. This was his life. This was it.
8:15 A.M. — MARCO POLLO
The little cunt stole things. Marco knew that as surely as he knew high-C from F-flat. Sweet-ass Michele was some actress; her one facial expression seemed to be guilt. It’d be conviction city if she ever tried her act on a judge and jury.
Marco grinned. He was mellowed out from some of the good Mex weed he’d bought from Freddie the reliable. He lay stretched out on his back on the bed, hands clasped behind his head, ankles crossed, comfortable. It was a pleasure lying here thinking about Michele. Much better than thinking about the shootings, which were what had been in his head when he woke up forty-five minutes ago. Two more last night, one of them an undercover pig. Good thing he’d been blowing with the combo at Jazz Heaven, else he’d have been home, right here in the middle, when all the shit went down. Then he’d really have been spooked. Bad enough to hear about it at the club, have t
o come home at three fucking A.M. all wired up because some crazy was running loose with a piece in his pocket. Hell, he’d needed that first joint this morning bad. Who could blame him, man?
But now he was feeling all reet, all reet, thinking about sweet-ass Michele. His grin broadened. But hey, why only think about her? Why not go see her? She’d be home this early.
Yeah. Ask her where she got rid of the things she stole. It was damned important to have a reliable fence these days. The pigs were on to all the amateurs in the business; you needed a pro if you didn’t want to get busted. And Marco didn’t want Michele busted, at least not until he’d had the chance to bust her himself.
He got up from the bed. Should he have another joint before he went upstairs, maybe a hit on some of that good coke? Nah, better not. He didn’t want to get stoned, not with the pigs all over the place. They hadn’t been around to talk to him again, but they would be, sooner or later. His stash was safe enough, in the false pipe behind the radiator, but if the pigs saw him stoned they’d hassle him. Who needed that?
Marco took the stairs up to the fourth floor and did the old shave-and-a-haircut on Michele’s door. He heard her moving around inside, then stop moving near the door as she looked out through the peephole. He laid a smile on for her, playing it casual. And just like he knew she would, she opened right up.
Usually she acted kind of surprised and flustered when they met, but this time she was ready for him with a big bright smile. Marco tried to remember that acting was her life—not that she could ever fool him. As far as he was concerned, she’d had an X on her ass from the time he found out how she earned her part-time money.
She looked tasty standing there in the doorway, long blond hair pulled back and up in some kind of fancy braid across the top of her head. Wearing a pair of tight—real tight—jeans and a silky tan blouse that did good things for her tits. Marco gave her another grin, a cozy one this time.
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