Slaughter - Lutz John (читать книги без txt) 📗

Quinn felt a helplessness about Dora Palm’s death that he hadn’t felt after the other murders. It wasn’t that the severing of body parts and removal of internal organs was that much more vicious and sadistic than the other murders. It was more of a wearing-down process. Quinn knew his patience was getting thin.

In a case like this, where the investigation seemed to go nowhere, there came a time when the strain reached its breaking point. The killer was aware that he could stretch his good luck only so far, then something he overlooked, or some little something that was supported only by a mass of lies and an alternative reality, would finally give. He would be tripped up, and he knew that moment would someday come, had been getting closer all the time.

Quinn knew that some part of the killer’s mind yearned for luck that would see him through, and at the same time he wanted something out of his control that would end the suspense. In glory and gunfire, it would end. And no one would ever forget what the Gremlin had done.

No one would ever forget the Gremlin.

The public would eventually forget what Quinn had done. Who remembers who arrested Son of Sam? Or Ted Bundy? The age of tech didn’t help as often as it upset balances. Computer mice were clicked. Buttons were pushed. Digital blood was spilled. It all confirmed that death and murder could be reduced to a game. And even if the players were acutely aware that their luck, good or bad, couldn’t run forever, who was afraid of a game?

Quinn felt about that the same way he knew his quarry felt.

As if a noose were around his neck, and tightening.

This game was going to end soon, along with someone’s death. It must end that way. Both men understood that. Someone’s trust would be misplaced, or an informant would whisper in the wrong ear. Or someone’s will would break. Someone would have to die.

To help make sure he wouldn’t be the one, the NYPD photography director carefully selected enlarged backgrounds and photos.

The photographs of what was left of Dora Palm looked as if they’d been taken by someone with more than mediocre skill with a camera. Still, they would accomplish their purpose, which was to encourage Minnie Miner to cooperate with the law. Minnie was glad to give Quinn a few minutes to describe any progress on the Gremlin case, and to answer a few questions. Quinn gave her the questions.

Minnie, who had been in Renz’s office when Quinn arrived, gave Quinn a baleful stare and asked him if Renz had known about the use of her program, Minnie Miner ASAP, to help lay a trap for the Gremlin.

“Maybe,” Quinn said with an enigmatic smile.

But it was smile enough for Minnie, which is how Quinn came to find himself on her early call-in TV show the next morning.

This was one interview, Quinn knew, that would have to go right.

Not like the few, dream-filled hours’ sleep he had last night worrying about it.

54

After the round of applause for Quinn, Minnie let the callers talk about the Gremlin investigation. Quinn sat in one of the big easy chairs angled toward the audience, and Minnie sat in the other.

She made a big deal out of using Quinn’s clout so they didn’t have to reveal the questioners’ names. For safety’s sake.

“This man looks friendly,” Quinn said, about the composite rendering of the Gremlin on the big screen centered on the wall behind the easy chairs. Quinn wished he had a laser pointer. “He isn’t. He’s thirty-five years old. He was released from detention in Louisiana recently because some DNA in sperm found near a young girl’s dead body had been contaminated and so couldn’t be matched to his, as the prosecuting attorney had pointed out over and over to a grand jury. It was also confirmed that, while the grand jury had thought him guilty, they had their reasonable doubts about whether he should be indicted and tried in criminal court. Not only would the judicial process be futile, it might be unfair to the defendant.”

“We could use fewer of those cases of mistaken identity,” Minnie said. She raised a hand palm-out. “I don’t mean we should railroad people, just that we get tough with the real criminals. The violent ones.”

There was a great deal of applause from the studio audience.

“We’re trying,” Quinn said. He continued to lie about the sprung prisoner in Louisiana, who didn’t exist except as a ploy created by Quinn. “The Louisiana defendant was released, though the jury made it clear they thought he did the crime. They were also sure that with the compromised DNA evidence, he would probably not be found guilty. In the court of public opinion, he would become a victim.

“A range of other expert witnesses were called,” Quinn said. “But they couldn’t prove beyond some people’s idea of a reasonable doubt that the defendant was in any way implicated in what could have been an extremely unfriendly separation, like so many others wherein both parties became losers.

“The prosecutor didn’t know it, but he was a pawn in a small game inside a large game.

“Here’s the thing,” Quinn said, leaning forward in his chair. “This woman had been raped and killed, and now the law can prove it. And if it weren’t for contaminated DNA, there wouldn’t have been a chance in hell of the suspect escaping punishment. All of you know, or think you know, that he’s beaten the justice system. All of us also know that sometimes the justice system isn’t enough, and that’s because we subscribe to the idea that it’s better to let a guilty man go free than to imprison, or even execute, an innocent man.” Quinn looked directly at the camera. “This refusal to bring an indictment will be appealed.”

Knowing all the time that an actual appeals court would never act on this matter. It couldn’t, without an actual potential defendant.

“We did good,” Renz said to Quinn later, in Renz’s office.

Quinn’s gaze slid over the wall festooned with framed photos of Renz receiving medals, winning awards, posing with celebrities.

“We only did half a job,” Quinn said.

“Now don’t go getting all wishy-washy, Quinn. We put a dagger through the heart of whoever it was who’s trying to ruin my political career. You might be able to make it look like we solved your case.”

“We solved nothing,” Quinn said. “Not for sure, anyway.”

Renz shrugged his meaty shoulders. “I’m suspicious of that word, sure. What the hell’s for sure in this life or the next?”

“I’m sure I’m the lead investigator on this case,” Quinn said.

“In a way.”

“In a way that might have got my brains shot out.”

“Prepare to be shocked, Quinn: I don’t care a rat’s ass about who gets shot or who’s guilty.”

“Speaking generally, what about the hypothetical guy in a jail cell who’s innocent?”

“He’s just that—hypothetical, not real.”

“You’re all politics and games,” Quinn said.

Renz shrugged. “You forgot heart.”

“No,” Quinn said, “I didn’t.”

Renz was now occupied in making sure his expensive pen was working well so his signature would be unbroken and impressive. He was way, way beyond inkblots.

Quinn felt anger rise in him, along with a kind of pressure. He absently reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a cellophane-wrapped cigar that he’d been given earlier as a kind of harmless bribe involving Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

Harmless bribe?

Renz raised a pudgy hand. “You can’t smoke cigars in here.”

“I have before, just like you.”

“We’ve got rules, regulations.”

“Laws,” Quinn added. He lit his cigar, drew smoke into his mouth, and exhaled. All with a stare fixed on Renz.

“Look at yourself,” Renz said. “You’re no different from me. It’s just that you won’t admit to yourself that you’re like the rest of the world. You are definitely not the type who wouldn’t jaywalk even if there wasn’t a car for miles. Just look at you.”