Crimson Joy (5 page)

"You read the papers?" Quirk said.

"Of course," Rashad said. His hair was a close-cropped Afro. His mustache was carefully trimmed. He wore a dark blue suit and a white shirt with long collar points, and a blue-and-red-striped tie. Around his neck was a gold chain and from it a gold medallion hung on his chest, on top of the tie. On the medallion was the raised profile of an African.

"That's the progress we're making," Quirk said.

The white woman, Ms. Quince, leaned slightly forward. She was scowling with concentration.

"You know nothing that hasn't been reported in the papers?" she said.

"Just about," Quirk said.

"Not good enough, Lieutenant," Rashad said.

"No," Ms. Quince said. "We wish to know everything."

"Why?" Quirk said.

Ms. Quince opened her mouth and closed it and looked at Rashad.

Clancy said, "Lieutenant Quirk." Rashad said, "That's all right, Jerry, I can handle the Lieutenant."

Tuttle spoke for the first time. "Lieutenant, I would hate to have to report to Pat Wilson that you were uncooperative."

Quirk was quiet.

It was Reverend Trenton's turn. He spoke very softly. "We are here, Lieutenant Quirk, to ascertain if the police are doing everything possible on this matter. It is a matter of great concern to the black community, to women, to every one of us who opposes racism in this city."

"And sexism," Ms. Quince said.

"And murder," Quirk said. "And the misuse of clothesline."

"Lieutenant," Ms. Quince said. "That is uncalled for."

Quirk nodded. "Sure it is, Ms. Quince. I apologize. But the thing is, your visit is uncalled for too." Rashad said, "Every citizen of this community has the right to hold you accountable."

"Sure," Quirk said.

"And there is a vicious racist, sexist killer out there, a self-admitted member of your department. We want answers, not smart remarks, and we want them now."

"You may have to settle for smart remarks," Quirk said. "Because I don't have any answers." Clancy said, "Martin, there's no need to be angry."

"The hell there isn't," Quirk said. "They come in here to be sure I'm doing my job, like I'd forget about it if they didn't."

"Lieutenant," Trenton said, "the black community cannot be blamed for viewing the police with suspicion. How assiduous have you been in the past in solving what I've heard some of you call a 'shine' killing?"

I saw Quirk take a long breath. He let his chair tilt forward and put his hand flat on his desktop.

"Reverend," he said, "I am a professional homicide investigator. I've been one for twenty-seven years. I try to solve every murder, and catch every murderer, because I am employed to do that, and because I want to do that. I do that whether anyone is watching me or not, whether the victim is black or white, male or female; whether the commissioner wants me to or you want me to or God wants me to." Quirk paused. No one spoke.

"Now, you people," Quirk said, "you people are not employed to catch murderers, and if you were employed to do it, you wouldn't know how. But here you are. If you can be honest with yourselves, you know that coming here won't catch the murderer. You're here so that you can tell your voters or your parishioners or your members that you're on top of things and that you are, therefore, the cat's ass."

When Quirk stopped speaking there was enough silence in the room to walk on.

Finally Rashad said, "Well, clearly, with that attitude there is little point in continuing." Quirk smiled pleasantly.

Tuttle looked at me. "I will be reporting this meeting to Commissioner Pat Wilson," he said. "Might I know who you are?"

"Orotund Vowel," I said. "I'm the lieutenant's elocution teacher."

Tuttle stared at me. He knew he was being kidded but he didn't know what to say. Finally he turned and led them out.

"Orotund Vowel?" Quirk said.

I shrugged.

"You're a strange bastard," he said.

"… 7 was hers all the time I was a kid," he was saying.

"Her what?" the therapist said.

"What do you mean, 'her what'? I was her son."

The therapist nodded.

He wanted to say more about what he was. "I was her only child, you know, she worried about me all the time."

"How do you know she worried?" the shrink said.

Christ, couldn't she figure anything out? "She said so," he said, "and when I did stuff that worried her she'd get, like, sick."

"Sick?" the shrink said.

"Yeah, she'd lie on the couch and not talk all day and her face would have this look, like she was having cramps or something. You know, like broads get when they're having their period. "He felt the tingle of daring and guilt when he said it.

"Like mean, you know. Bitchy."

"What does bitchy mean to you?" the shrink said.

"It means crabby, it means, you know, not talking to you, being mad at you, not… not loving you. Not being nice to you."

The shrink nodded.

"If I'd come home late for supper or hang around with the guys or go out." He could feel the tightening in his throat and the way his nose began to tingle.

"Go out?" the shrink said.

"With girls," he said. His eyes were filling. He felt himself burning with frustration and shame. "She told me that every girl was going to take me for all they could get." He fought the hot crying. He turned his head.

The shrink said, "Let it come. Let's see what comes with it."

Like hell. He wasn't going to cry here. His mother had never caught him crying. He held his head down and forced his breath in and out. In his groin he could feel the pressure.

"I can control myself," he said.

"Always?" the shrink said.

He felt a trill of fear.

"Absolutely," he said.

"Control is important," the shrink said.

"You lose control," he said, "you lose yourself."

The shrink waited.

"You get controlled," he said. "You don't control yourself, people control you."

"Then they could take you," the shrink said, "for all they could get."

He wanted to speak and couldn't. He felt as if he'd pushed something aside. He felt shaky now. Deep breath. Let it out. His arm muscles were bunched, and he pressed with his elbows against the arms of the chair.

"My mother always used to say that," he said.

The shrink nodded.

The next woman was a schoolteacher, killed in her own apartment on Park Drive overlooking The Fenway. It was Saturday, lunchtime. Quirk and Belson and I looked at the murder scene again. It was as before. The rope. The tape. The blood. One of the precinct detectives was reading aloud from a notebook to Belson.

"Name's Emmeline Washburn," he said. "Teaches at the Luther Burbank Middle School. Seventh grade. Fortythree years old, separated from her husband, lives alone. Husband's over there." He nodded to a black man sitting motionless on an uncomfortable red couch, staring at nothing.

"Emmeline went to the movies with a friend, lives on Gainsborough Street, Deirdre Simmons. She left Deirdre at about ten-fifteen at her place, and intended to walk home. Husband came by this morning to have lunch with her and found her. He hasn't been able to say much.

ME hasn't established time of death yet. But she's in rigor. MO seems just like the other four.

Quirk said, "You establish an alibi on the husband yet?"

The detective shook his head. "He's in bad shape, Lieutenant. All I got so far is, he found her." Quirk said, "I'll talk to him," and walked over to where the man was sitting. "I'm Martin Quirk," he said. "I'm in charge of homicide."

"Washburn," the husband said, "Raymond Washburn."

He didn't look up at Quirk. He didn't look down at the dead woman. He simply fixed on the middle distance.

"I'm sorry," Quirk said.

Washburn nodded. "We were going to put it back together," he said.

"We'd been separated a year and we'd been seeing a counselor and it was working and we were going to put it back together."

As he spoke, his body suddenly went limp and he began slowly to lean forward on the couch. Quirk dropped to one knee and caught him as Washburn pitched off the couch. Washburn looked to weigh maybe 190 pounds, and Quirk had to steady himself a moment as he caught the dead weight. Then without apparent effort he stood, his arms around Washburn. Washburn wasn't out. As Quirk straightened I could see him staring blankly over Quirk's shoulder. Then he began to cry. It sounded like the sobs were being twisted out of him. Quirk held Washburn and let him cry until he stopped. Then Quirk eased him back on the couch. Washburn slumped when Quirk let go of him, as if there were no strength in him. His eyes were swollen and his face was wet.

Quirk looked at one of the EMTs that had come with the ambulance. "He'll need help," Quirk said.

"We'll take him down to City," the EMT said, "let one of the doctors talk with him."

Quirk nodded. He looked at me.

"You got any thoughts?" he said.

"No."

"Belson?"

"No."

"Me either," Quirk said. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

We went to my office. I sat at my desk. Quirk sat across, and Belson stood, as he almost always did, leaning against the wall. The office had a closed-up smell. I opened the window and the sparse weekend traffic noise drifted up.

"Could be a copycat," Belson said. "Guy wants to do his wife in, covers it up by making it look like Red Rose, except there's no semen."

"Scene looked authentic," Quirk said, "otherwise."

"It's all been in the papers," Belson said.

"Takes a special guy," I said. "To murder his wife and then deposit semen stains on the rug."

Belson shrugged.

"He was grief-stricken," Quirk said, "but that doesn't mean he didn't do it."

"Got the name of the counselor?" I said.

"Yeah, woman in the South End," Belson said, "Rebecca Stimpson, MSW."

"I'll ask Susan to call her," I said.

"Frank," Quirk said, "go over the crime scene, everything, compare it with the other killings."

Belson nodded.

"And we should get a report on the media coverage. See exactly what it's possible to know about Red Rose from the papers. If this isn't a copycat, there will be one later."

Belson nodded.

"Newspapers, TV, radio, everything."

"Take some time, Lieutenant."

Belson said.

"We got nothing else to do," Quirk said.

"Other people get killed in this city," Belson said.

"They wait their turn," Quirk said. "I am going to catch this motherfucker."

From the intersection below my office window a horn brayed.

"Spenser," Quirk said, "I want you to backtrack each case. Start with the first murder. Go through it just like it was brand-new. Talk to everyone involved, read the evidence file and the forensic stuff, treat it like no one ever looked at it before."

"We need a pattern," I said.

"Black women, over forty, living in racially mixed or fringe neighborhoods. One hooker, one cocktail waitress, one dancer, one singer, one teacher," Belson said.

"Up the social scale?" Quirk said.

"If you think singers rank higher than dancers," I said.

"Or he thinks so."

"Over forty," I said.

"Yes," Belson said. "Royette Chambers, the hooker, was forty-one.

Chantelle was forty-six. The other three were in between."

"That's a fairly tight age-cluster," I said.

"Especially the hooker," Quirk said. "Forty-one's old for a hooker."

"So why does he only kill women in their forties?" I said. "Five times, it can't be an accident."

"Zee muzzer," Quirk said. "We usually look to zee muzzer."

Routine is routine, repetitious details endlessly pursued. I talked with the relatives of the victims, all of whom were bitter and saddened and outraged. All of whom felt that racism had caused their daughter, sister, mother, wife, to die; all of whom had talked before with policemen; and all of whom resented talking with another honkie who was pretending to care while he covered up for the white establishment, which harbored the killer. The bereaved are not necessarily smarter than anyone else.

In three days of this I learned absolutely nothing that the cops didn't already know.

"My daughter was a good girl, mister. She didn't do nothin so someone should kill her."

"Nobody wanted to kill my sister, man. She was a nice lady. She was working regular. She was helping out at home. You got no business trying to say it's her fault."

The hooker had no bereaved kin that we could find. I talked with her pimp. He was taller than I was and twenty pounds slimmer, with close-cropped hair and a one-inch part scribed in the middle. He had on a white tank top and maroon sweats and black high-top Reeboks. There were five or six small gold earrings in the lobe and up the outer curve of his left ear.

"I catch the motherfucker, I'll cut his ass in two," the pimp said.

"You'll have to take a number," I said. "Any thoughts who it might be?"

"Some kinky white John," the pimp said, staring at me.

"We were sort of guessing that too," I said. "You have any special kinky white John in mind?"

The pimp shrugged. "Most of them kinky, man, they down here cruising for hookers."

"Any that complained about bondage, stuff like that?"

"Complain, man? Shit. Hookers don't complain, get slapped upside the fucking head they start complaining. They do what the John wants and afterwards they gimme the money."

"Works out swell for them, doesn't it."

"Whores is whores, man. Ain't my doing."

"You hear any talk," I said, "any stories about guys into bondage,'s and m, whatever?"

"Shit, man, I said all this already. Sure there's Johns everybody knows about. Like handcuffs, gags."

"Ropes?" I said.

"Ropes, man, inner tubes, fucking anchor chains. Guys that like being spanked. Guys that like spanking. Guys that like rubber underwear.

What you want, I know Johns do all that shit."

"And you told the cops about them?"