Slaughter - Lutz John (читать книги без txt) 📗

Up popped the digital likeness of the Gremlin, as it originally appeared on Minnie Miner ASAP.

“I wonder what he’d look like in a hard hat,” Helen said. “Carrying a clipboard.”

“I anticipated you,” the artist said. “Except for the clipboard.”

His fingers danced over the keys. He pressed some others, and there on the large screen was the Gremlin in a yellow hard hat that looked too big for him.

“My old friend,” the artist said.

“See anything that doesn’t look right?” Helen asked Louie, leaning toward the TV screen.

“No. That’s just the way the hat fit him, like he was a little kid playing dress up. How’s it look when you tug the hat down in front?”

The artist lowered the hard hat until the subject’s eyes almost disappeared. “Something like that?”

“Yeah. That’s more it. More hair sticking out.”

Helen said, “Now make the ears somewhat visible beneath the hair.”

“Like they’d stick out without the hair?” Louie said.

“Yeah, just like.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about the ears?”

“Naw. Not on this guy. Except for the right ear.”

“It sticks out more than the left?”

“Somewhat,” Louie said. “But like I told you, he was built like a flyweight boxer. Had a cauliflower ear, it looked like to me.”

The artist played electronically with the right ear. Made it slightly larger and more damaged by countless jabs and left hooks.

“That’s good,” Louie said. “But his hair should be a little longer, and slightly darker.”

Again the artist made some adjustments while the others looked on.

“More chin, less nose,” Louie said.

The artist complied.

“The ear that you can see all of, it is rather pointed, at least from a certain angle.”

Helen squinted at it. “So close to the head. Not like the other ear.”

“Other one probably came unstuck,” the artist said.

“Unstuck?”

“Like with movie stars. A guy’s or woman’s ears stick out like open car doors, so they got this flesh-colored two-sided tape. Like carpet tape. An ear won’t stay taped in for very long, but plenty long enough to shoot movie or TV scenes. And if it’s still too much trouble, there’s always an operation to make the ears flatter to the skull.”

“So tell me who’s had their ears operated on?” Madge said, from where she sat over in a corner where she could see the big screen.

The artist shook his head, smiling. “I couldn’t reveal that.”

“They’ve got their right to privacy,” Madge said

“I don’t know for sure about that, but they’ve got the right not to hire me if I shoot them or draw them with car-door ears.”

“Shoot?” Madge asked.

“Photograph. Shoot pictures.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, for photo shoots or short movies for TV scenes, there’s always the two-sided tape. The stuff works pretty well. And if you don’t like it, you can always do what this guy probably does . . . did—grow your hair long at the sides and comb it back over your ears.”

The artist put together another screen image of the Gremlin, this time without the hard hat.

“Look like the same guy?” he asked Louie.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t mistake him. Of course, some people do look different with and without caps or hats.”

“But would you feel confident picking this guy out of a lineup?”

“Sure. Unless he’s got a twin brother.”

“Louie,” Madge said, “don’t make things more complicated than they are.”

“So let’s make some final adjustments,” the artist said. “You never saw this guy’s hairline, right?”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t bald. He had sideburns, anyway.”

The artist used the mouse to create sideburns on the screen image. He paused and looked at Louie.

“A little longer,” Louie said. “There. Just right.”

“We can put out images with different hairlines,” Helen said.

“Good idea,” the artist said. He created several renderings, finishing with one that left the killer bald except for a bush of hair around his ears.

“I wish we could have one of him smiling,” Helen said.

The artist shook his head. “I’d have to see him smile to do that.” He looked at Louie. “Did he smile when you were with him?”

“Not once. He was all business.”

“Which you shouldn’t be all the time,” Madge said. “Remember you are not well.”

They thanked Little Louie and left him with Madge. Not a bad situation, if you didn’t count Louie’s nightmares and broken bones.

As they were walking toward where their cars were parked, the artist said, “I’d like to draw that woman.”

“You guys,” Helen said, “for the kind of drawing you’re talking about, you’d have to use a crayon so the other ten-year-olds would understand it.”

“A crayon,” the artist said, “would melt.”

37

An hour later, Renz called Quinn on his desk phone. “No doubt about it,” Renz said, when Quinn had picked up the bulky plastic receiver that fit hand and ear so well. “The crane falling was murder. There were traces of hydrofluoric acid found at the breaking points of the steel cables. It ate through the cables until enough strands popped that they finally broke apart under all that weight. That overloaded the stress on the other cables, then a small bomb separated the crane from the building and down it came. The thing is, whoever was responsible had to have some basic knowledge of how that crane was put together. How the damned thing worked.”

“Just like he knew about elevators,” Quinn said. “Was this the same kind of acid used on the elevator cables?”

“Yeah. The base was hydroflouride, along with nitric acid. A devil’s brew, according to the techs. If you want to tote it around, you’ll need a special container. Most likely it was outta the same lab.”

“Do the techs think our killer is a chemist?” Quinn asked.

“Not in any major way. But you don’t have to be a chemist or engineering genius to know how to destroy something. Common sense goes a long way. To know how to build up is to know how to tear down.”

“But we’re not necessarily looking for a scientist or engineer.”

“That’s right,” Renz said. “Matter of fact, most of the info you need, you can find on the Internet.”

Quinn doubted if that would be reassuring to the public.

“The Internet and DNA,” Renz said. “One helps find them, and the other helps prove them guilty. Life gets harder and harder for the bad guys.”

“Can’t get hard enough.”

“That’s what my ex-wife used to say.”

“The crane cables are right out where anyone can see them,” Quinn pointed out. “Or get to them, depending on the position of the crane.”

“It gets better and better,” Renz said bitterly. “Where do psychos like the Gremlin learn this crap?”

“Like the artist told us,” Quinn said, “there’s plenty of information on the Internet.” The main air conditioner in Q&A wasn’t quite keeping up with the heat, and his clothes were stuck to him. There was some not-quite-cold-enough diet cola in the little fridge by the coffeemaker, but he chose not to have gas.

“The Internet is a school for crime,” Renz agreed.

“And the students get their advanced degrees in prison.”

“It shouldn’t be like that.”

“Nobody’s figured out a better way.”

“I know one.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Quinn said.

“The Gremlin. I really hate that little bastard!”

“We’ll find him, Harley.”

“Will we? They never found Jack the Ripper.”

“They might have, if he’d ever been listed in the FBI database.”

“Speaking of data . . .”

Quinn brought him up to date on the Little Louie and Madge interview.

“This is a mass murderer,” Renz said, when Quinn was finished talking and reading aloud. As if Quinn needed reminding.

“We’ve got a reliable eyewitness that puts him at the scene of the crane collapse,” Quinn said. “And we’re working out a digital image that’ll be as good as a photo, if it isn’t already.”