Slaughter - Lutz John (читать книги без txt) 📗

A man in neatly pressed pajamas, sitting on the edge of a bed, came on the TV screen and began talking about the benefits of a new pill that helped people get to sleep and wasn’t habit-forming. It also sometimes eliminated erectile dysfunction.

The killer remained zeroed in on toaster dysfunction. This time being more careful.

Until he heard a local newscaster’s voice say Lois Graham’s name.

He put down the toaster and sat watching the flat-screen TV. The newscaster, Tad something, was interviewing a detective the killer was familiar with, a man named Frank Quinn. It took the killer only a few seconds to recognize Quinn, but who could forget the imposing figure? He was a big man, too rugged to be a leading man, but with the kind of honest ugliness that attracted some women.

“We’re searching now for whoever killed her,” Quinn was saying. No doubt talking about Lois Graham. “It appears that he panicked, probably scared away by someone or some animal. Unfortunately, no one reached her in time to save her.”

The killer almost laughed out loud; I guess not, with her insides all over the grass, and the rest of her taken apart like a puzzle.

He was proud of his work.

“There’s nothing special about this killer,” Quinn was saying.

The killer smiled. You’re lying!

“But we would like to warn people again about the park,” Quinn continued. “Sometimes such places are scenic and safe during daylight hours, but are much different after dark. Central Park is a great place, but don’t go there unless you have to after sundown.”

“To Central Park?” Tad the newsman seemed incredulous.

“To any park. Cowardly killers like this are friendly with the night.”

Cowardly? The killer’s hands balled into fists.

“Unless he moves on,” Quinn continued, “we’ll catch him. Killers like this are doomed to be apprehended. Experience has taught us that they’re not overly bright.”

You’re lying!

“So entangled in their compulsion that they’re not capable of logical reasoning.”

You’re lying!

“There’s nothing much in them but evil.”

Lying! If God doesn’t want me to do this, why is He letting me? Why is He urging me? Why is He my accomplice?

The camera moved to the handsome newscaster, who absently lifted a hand and smoothed back his hair. “So except for the victim and her family—and our hearts go out to them—would you say there is nothing special about this murder?”

Tell him about the gutting, the disassembly of her parts!

“No,” Quinn said, “it’s just another squalid homicide, probably done on impulse by a maniac.”

Lying! Lying!

Tad the newsman shook his head. “So sad . . .”

Lying!

Quinn was back on camera, looking straight into the lens. “It’s a kind of sickness that can overcome even the best of us.”

“So this kind of killer is a mental case, silently screaming for help?”

“Usually.”

Lie on.

Quinn imagined the killer someplace comfortable, with his feet propped up, watching television.

You’ll be sorry.

6

The trees blocked their view. Or the dusk was dark enough that there were reflections in the windows and the glass had turned to mirrors. Windows of the buildings across the street from the park, overlooking the crime scene, didn’t yield much help. None of the potential witnesses happened to be looking outside at the time of the murder.

That was their story, anyway.

Fedderman, Sal, and Harold knocked on doors much of the day and were dismayed by how no one would claim to have seen Lois Graham’s murder. All three detectives knew that some of them might be withholding evidence. They didn’t want to get involved; it might somehow taint them, lead to some crime they’d committed without knowing, suck them into the system and rightly or wrongly list their names forever

These days more than ever, people didn’t want their names on a list. Any kind of list.

After lunch, Sal and Harold continued canvassing the neighborhood, while Quinn and Fedderman made a second examination of the victim’s apartment. They looked again at a stack of blank paper near the printer. Wouldn’t it be nice if her laptop or pad turned up, full of information that could identify her killer?

They poked and peered but found nothing of use in the apartment. It was fashionably but not lavishly furnished. Eclectic would describe it.

“One thing,” Quinn said. “Wasn’t there a carpet in the bedroom?”

Fedderman cupped his chin in his hand and thought. “Yes,” he said with certainty. “Not very large, though. More like a throw rug.”

They tried to think what else had been here but was now gone. They couldn’t identify anything for sure. It was possible some dishes or glasses were missing from a kitchen cabinet.

“Weren’t there three chairs instead of two at the kitchen table?” Fedderman asked, pointing to the small drop-leaf table and two wooden chairs that looked as if they’d spent years in classrooms.

“Could have been,” Quinn said.

“I remember now because the missing chair didn’t look like the others. It was a little larger and had some guy’s name carved in it.”

“Our killer?” Quinn asked, knowing it wouldn’t be so.

“If his name is Hinkley,” Fedderman said.

They continued their search. Like last time, they found no evidence that the victim had been under duress, or was being stalked, during the time leading up to her murder. Her purse, found near her body, had held the usual items found in women’s purses—wadded tissue, a comb, lipstick, an oversized key ring holding a plastic four-leaf clover that if squeezed became a tiny flashlight, a pair of very dark made-in-Taiwan sunglasses, some old theater and movie ticket stubs. There was a wallet containing two twenty-dollar bills and the usual charge, debit, and ID cards. No driver’s license (no surprise, in New York City). A plasticized card proclaimed her membership in a gym. (They all belong to gyms, Quinn thought.) Her keys were missing. The supposition was that after killing Lois, the murderer let himself into her apartment and stole her computer. Obviously, he was afraid something on it might lead to him.

Maybe, Quinn thought, he’d also stolen a throw rug and a wooden chair.

A phone call to a local antique dealer shed some light. The dealer said on the phone he’d have to see the rug in order to give an estimate of its worth. The missing wooden chair, he said, after hearing Quinn’s description, if genuine and in good condition, might be worth several thousand dollars.

So the killer had taken the victim’s computer and then come back later to move what was valuable and more noticeable. Quinn assumed the killer would have dressed like some sort of workman and simply walked out of the building and to his car or truck with the chair and rolled rug.

But what amazed and angered the detectives was the strong possibility that he had returned and taken away what was valuable in the apartment while they were eating lunch.

After work at Coaxly and Simms, writing ad copy, Rose Darling entered her apartment, closed the door behind her, and fastened all her locks. Since finding that girl the way she was in Central Park, Rose hadn’t felt safe. She read everything she could find on the murder. Watched the news.

How could something have happened so close to her? She had passed right by where and when that poor woman was murdered. The fear had pushed her into a run.

She recalled the curious sense of dread she’d felt while jogging there. Some part of her mind must have realized something. Her anxiety had been so real!

She decided she wasn’t going to run this evening in the unrelenting heat. And certainly not in the park. She wasn’t sure when she’d feel comfortable again while jogging. The thing to do, she decided, was wait until the sicko killer was caught. And killed. (She hoped.) Then she could run again, but on the sidewalks, where people were walking. Then she realized that might be unwise, being the fastest one and drawing everyone’s stares.