Lieutenant Norman Bendix shook out a cigarette, lit it, and watched the office door open.
“Here he is, Lieutenant.”
Bendix leaned forward across the desk, folding his hands. The cigarette jerked with his words. “Come in, Mr. Pruyn.”
A small man stood uneasily before the desk, bald, smiling nervously, twisting a gray felt hat in his hands.
In his early thirties, guessed Bendix. Probably a recluse. Lives alone in a small apartment. No hobbies. Broods a lot. They don’t have to say a word. I can spot one a mile away.
“Are you the gentleman I’m to see about my murder?” asked the small man. His voice was high and uncertain. He blinked rapidly behind thick-rimmed glasses.
“That’s right, Mr. Pruyn. Bendix is my name. Lieutenant Bendix. Won’t you sit down?”
Bendix indicated a chair near the desk.
“Pruyn. Like in sign,” said the bald little man. “Everyone mispronounces it, you know. An easy name to get wrong, I suppose. But, it’s Pruyn. Emery T. Pruyn.” He sat down.
“Well, Mr. Pruyn.” Bendix was careful to get the name right. “Want to go ahead?”
“Uh—I do hope you are the correct gentleman. I should hate to repeat it all to someone else. I abhor repetition, you know.” He blinked at Bendix.
“Believe me, I’m your man. Please go ahead with your story.”
Sure, Bendix thought, rave away, Mr. Pruyn. This office lacks one damned important item: a leather couch. He offered the small man a cigarette.
“Oh, no. No, thank you, Lieutenant. I don’t smoke.”
Or murder, either, Bendix added in his mind. All you do, Blinky, is read the papers.
“Is it true, Lieutenant, that the police have absolutely no clues to work on?”
“That’s what it said in the papers. They get the facts, Mr. Pruyn.”
“Yes. Well—I was naturally curious as to the job I had done.” He paused to adjust his glasses. “May I assure you, from the outset, that I am indeed the guilty party. The crime of murder is on my hands.” Bendix nodded. Okay, Blinky, I’m impressed.
“I—uh—suppose you’ll want to take my story down on tape or however you—”
Bendix smiled. “Officer Barnhart will take down what you say. Learned shorthand in junior high, didn’t you, Pete?”
Barnhart grinned from the back of the room.
Emery Pruyn glanced nervously over his shoulder at the uniformed policeman seated near the door. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t realize that the officer had remained. I thought that he—left.”
“He’s very quiet,” said Bendix, exhaling a cloud of pale blue cigarette smoke. “Please go on with your story, Mr. Pruyn.”
“Of course. Yes. Well—I know I don’t look like a murderer, Lieutenant Bendix, but then—” he chuckled softly, “—we seldom look like what we really are. Murderers, after all, can look like anybody.” Bendix fought back a yawn. Why do these jokers pick late afternoon to unload? God, he was hungry. If I let this character ramble on, I’ll be here all night. Helen will blow her stack if I’m late for dinner again. Better pep things up. Ask him some leading questions.
“Just how did you get into the Sloane apartment?”
“Disguise,” said Pruyn with a shy smile. He sat forward in the leather chair. “I posed as a television man.”
“You mean a television repair man?”
“Oh, no. Then I should never have gained entry since I had no way of knowing whether or not Mrs. Sloane needed a repair man. No, I took the role of a television representative. I told Mrs. Sloane that her name had been chosen at random, along with four others in that vicinity, for a free enhancer.”
“Enhancer?”
“To enhance the color range in her television set. I just made it up, out of my imagination.”
“I see. She let you in?”
“Oh, yes. She was utterly convinced, grateful that her name had been chosen, all excited and talking fast. You know, like women do.”
Bendix nodded.
“Told me to come right in, that her husband would be delighted when he got home and found out what she’d won. Said it would be a wonderful surprise for him.” Mr. Pruyn smiled. “I walked right in carrying my bag and wearing some blue coveralls and a cap I’d bought the day before. Oh—do you want the name and address of the clothing store in order to verify—”
“That won’t be necessary at the moment,” Bendix: cut in. “Just tell us about the crime first. We’ll have plenty of time to pick up the details later.”
“Oh, well, fine. I just thought—well, I put down my bag and—”
“Bag?”
“Yes. I carry a wrench and things in the bag.”
“What for?”
“To use as murder weapons,” smiled Pruyn, blinking. “I like to take them all along each time and select the one that fits.”
“How do you mean?”
“Fits the personality. I simply choose the weapon which is, in my opinion, best suited. Each person has a distinctive personality.”
“Then—” Bendix watched the little man’s eyes behind the heavy lenses. “—you’ve killed before.”
“Oh, of course, Lieutenant. Five times prior to Mrs. Sloane. Five ladies.”
“And why have you waited until now to come to the police? Why haven’t you confessed before?”
“Because I chose not to. Because my goal had not been reached.”
“Which was?”
“An even six. In the beginning I determined to kill exactly six women and then give myself up. Which I have done. Every man should have a goal in life. Mine was six murders.”
“I see. Well—to get back to Mrs. Sloane. What happened after she let you in?”
“I put down my bag and walked back to her.”
“Where was she?”
“In the middle of the room, watching me. Smiling. Very friendly. Asking me questions about how the enhancer worked. Not suspecting a thing. Not until...”
“Until what, Mr. Pruyn?”
“Until I wouldn’t answer her. I just stood in front of her, smiling, not saying a word. Just standing there.”
“What did she do?”
“Got nervous. Quit smiling. Asked me why I wasn’t working on the set. But, I didn’t say anything. I just watched the fear grow in her eyes.” The little man paused; he was sweating, breathing hard now. “Fear is a really wonderful thing to watch in the eyes of a woman, Lieutenant, a lovely thing to watch.”
“Go on.”
“When she reached a certain point I knew she’d scream. So, just before she did, I clapped one hand over her mouth and kicked her.”
Bendix drew in his breath sharply. “What did you say you did?” he demanded.
“I said I kicked her—in the stomach—to knock the wind out of her. Then she couldn’t scream.” Pruyn chuckled softly, shaking his bald head. “It was fine. Fine.”
Bendix stubbed out his cigarette. Maybe, he thought, just maybe... “Then what?”
“I walked to the bag and selected the knife. Long blade. Good steel. Then I walked back to Mrs. Sloane and cut her throat. It was very rewarding. A goal well conquered.”
“Is that all?” Bendix asked, watching Pruyn’s eyes.
Because if he tells me about twenty-one cuts, then he’s our boy, thought Bendix. The kick in the stomach could be, just could be, something he’d figured out for himself. It’s done in the movies all the time. But, if he tells me about the cuts...
“Oh, there’s more, Lieutenant. Naturally, I rolled her over and left my trademark.”
“What kind of trademark?”
The small man grinned shyly behind the thick glasses. “Like the Sign of the Saint—or the Mark of Zorro,” he said. “My initials. On her back. E.T.P. Emery T. Pruyn.”
Bendix eased back in his chair, sighed, ran a slow tongue around his lips and shook out a fresh cigarette.
“Then I removed her ears.” He looked proud. “For my collection. I have six nice pairs now.�
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“Wouldn’t have them with you, I don’t suppose?”
“Oh, no, Lieutenant. I keep them at home—in an attractive silver box in my dresser. Do you want to hear the rest of my story?”
“Sure. Go on.”
“Next, I took all of Mrs. Sloane’s perfume and emptied it in the kitchen sink. Four bottles.”
Like hell you did, thought Bendix. He recalled the small pink bottles of perfume on Mrs. Sloane’s dressing table—three quarters full.
“I can’t stand cheap perfume. Poured it all out. Every drop. Then I cut all her nightgowns to ribbons. Nightgowns are foul, don’t you agree? They smother the body I burned the pieces before I left.”
“That’s it, eh?”
“Yes. Then I went home. That was three days ago. I arranged my affairs, put things in order and came here, to you. I’m ready for my cell.”
“No cell, Mr. Pruyn.”
“What do you mean, Lieutenant?” Emery Pruyn’s lower lip began to tremble. He stood up. “I—I don’t understand.”
“I mean you can go now.”
“But, I—I—”
“Goodnight, Mr. Pruyn. Officer Barnhart will show you out.”
From the door of his office, Norman Bendix watched the two figures recede down the narrow hall.
An odd one, he thought, a real odd one.
Emery Pruyn pulled the Buick out of the police parking lot and eased the big car into the evening flow of traffic.
So easy, he thought, so wonderfully exciting and easy, his sortie into the lion’s den. The excitement of it was very much like the excitement with the knife. Delicious, the way he’d included that bit about the kick in the stomach. Dangerous, but brilliant. The false confession performed by a master!
Emery Pruyn smiled as he drove, remembering the look on the Lieutenant’s face when he’d mentioned the kick. Absolutely delicious! Well, more excitement was ahead.
Much more.
00:05
A REAL NICE GUY
Fictionally speaking, I have always wanted to explore the mind of a sniper, to investigate that bizarre mental landscape, to examine the twisted thoughts of a human being who uses his fellow humans as living targets.
A malfunctioning mentality offers rich material for horror and, in this character study of a sniper, I have attempted to define a special kind of madness. My attempt was validated when Edward D. Hoch selected “A Real Nice Guy” for inclusion in his Best Detective Stories of the Year.
Here, then, is the cold-blooded world of a random killer.
A REAL NICE GUY
Warm sun.
A summer afternoon.
The sniper emerged from the roof door, walking easily, carrying a custom-leather guncase.
Opened the case.
Assembled the weapon.
Loaded it.
Sighted the street below.
Adjusted the focus.
Waited.
There was no hurry.
No hurry at all.
He was famous, yet no one knew his name. There were portraits of him printed in dozens of newspapers and magazines; he’d even made the cover of Time. But no one had really seen his face. The portraits were composites, drawn by frustrated police artists, based on the few misleading descriptions given by witnesses who claimed to have seen him leaving a building or jumping from a roof, or driving from the target area in a stolen automobile. But no two descriptions matched.
One witness described a chunky man of average height with a dark beard and cap. Another described a thin, extremely tall man with a bushy head of hair and a thick mustache. A third description pegged him as balding, paunchy and wearing heavy hornrims. On Time’s cover, a large blood-soaked question mark replaced his features—above the words WHO IS HE?
Reporters had given him many names: “The Phantom Sniper”... “The Deadly Ghost”... “The Silent Slayer”... and his personal favorite, “The Master of Whispering Death.” This was often shortened to “Deathmaster” but he liked the full title; it was fresh and poetic—and accurate.
He was a master. He never missed a target, never wasted a shot. He was cool and nerveless and smooth, and totally without conscience. And death indeed whispered from his silenced weapon: a dry snap of the trigger, a muffled pop, and the target dropped as though struck down by the fist of God.
They were always targets, never people. Men, women, children. Young, middle-aged, old. Strong ones. Weak ones. Healthy or crippled. Black or white. Rich or poor. Targets—all of them.
He considered himself a successful sharpshooter, demonstrating his unique skill in a world teeming with moving targets placed there for his amusement. Day and night, city by city, state by state, they were always there, ready for his gun, for the sudden whispering death from its barrel. An endless supply just for him.
Each city street was his personal shooting gallery.
But he was careful. Very careful. He never killed twice in the same city. He switched weapons. He never used a car more than once. He never wore the same clothes twice on a shoot. Even the shoes would be discarded; he wore a fresh pair for each target run. And, usually, he was never seen at all.
He thought of it as a sport.
A game.
A run.
A vocation.
A skill.
But never murder.
His name was Jimmie Prescott and he was thirty-one years of age. Five foot ten. Slight build. Platform shoes could add three inches and body pillows up to fifty pounds. He had thinning brown hair framing a bland, unmemorable face. He shaved twice daily—but the case of wigs, beards and mustaches he always carried easily disguised the shape of his mouth, chin and skull. Sometimes he would wear a skin-colored fleshcap for baldness, or use heavy glasses—though his sight was perfect. Once, for a lark, he had worn a black eye patch. He would walk in a crouch; or stride with a sailors swagger, or assume a limp. Each disguise amused him, helped make life more challenging. Each was a small work of art, flawlessly executed.
Jimmie was a perfectionist.
And he was clean: no police record. Never arrested. No set of his prints on file, no dossier, He had a great deal of money (inherited) with no need or inclination to earn more. He had spent his lifetime honing his considerable skills: he was an expert on weaponry, car theft, body-combat, police procedures; he made it a strict rule to memorize the street system of each city he entered before embarking on a shoot. And once his target was down he knew exactly how to leave the area. The proper escape route was essential.
Jimmie was a knowledgeable historian in his field: he had made a thorough study of snipers, and held them all in cold contempt. Not a worthwhile one in the lot. They deserved to be caught; they were tools and idiots and blunderers, often acting out of neurotic impulse or psychotic emotion. Even the hired professionals drew Jimmies ire—since these were men who espoused political causes or who worked for government money. Jimmie had no cause, nor would he ever allow himself to be bought like a pig on the market.
He considered himself quite sane. Lacking moral conscience, he did not suffer from a guilt complex. Nor did he operate from a basic hatred of humankind, as did so many of the warped criminals he had studied.
Basically, Jimmie liked people, got along fine with them on a casual basis. He hated no one. (Except his parents, but they were long dead and something he did not think about anymore.) He was incapable of love or friendship, but felt no need for either. Jimmie depended only on himself; he had learned to do that from childhood. He was, therefore, a loner by choice, and made it a rule (Jimmie had many rules) never to date the same female twice, no matter how sexually appealing she might be. Man-woman relationships were a weakness, a form of dangerous self-indulgence he carefully avoided.
In sum, Jimmie Prescott didn’t need anyone. He had himself, his skills, his weapons and his targets. More than enough for a full, rich life. He did not drink or smoke. (Oh, a bit of vintage wine in a good restaurant was always welcome, but he had never been drunk in his
life.) He jogged each day, morning and evening, and worked out twice a week in the local gym in whatever city he was visiting. A trim, healthy body was an absolute necessity in his specialized career. Jimmie left nothing to chance. He was not a gambler and took no joy in risk.
A few times things had been close: a roof door that had jammed shut in Detroit after a kill, forcing him to make a perilous between-buildings leap... an engine that died during a police chase in Portland, causing him to abandon his car... an intense struggle with an off-duty patrolman in Indianapolis who’d witnessed a shot. The fellow had been tough, and dispatching him was physically difficult; Jimmie finally snapped his neck—but it had been close.
He kept a neat, handwritten record of each shoot in his tooled-leather notebook: state, city, name of street, weather, time of day, sex, age and skin color of target. Under “Comments,” he would add pertinent facts, including the make and year of the stolen car he had driven, and the type of disguise he had utilized. Each item of clothing worn was listed. And if he experienced any problem in exiting the target area this would also be noted. Thus, each shoot was critically analyzed upon completion—as a football coach might dissect a game after it had been played.
The only random factor was the target. Pre-selection spoiled the freshness, the purity of the act. Jimmie liked to surprise himself Which shall it be: that young girl in red, laughing up at her boyfriend? The old newsman on the corner? The school kid skipping homeward with books under his arm? Or, perhaps, the beefy, bored truckdriver, sitting idly in his cab, waiting for the light to change?
Selection was always a big part of the challenge.
And this time...
A male. Strong looking. Well dressed. Businessman with a briefcase, in his late forties. Hair beginning to silver at the temples. He’d just left the drugstore; probably stopped there to pick up something for his wife. Maybe she’d called to remind him at lunch.
Moving toward the corner. Walking briskly.
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