Night-World (6 page)

“I realize it’s only an outside chance,” Barringer said. He glanced at Karen. “That’s why I was hoping Mrs. Raymond here would listen to reason.”

Karen glanced up quickly. “You’re the ones who aren’t reasonable. Just because Bruce was a patient at the sanatorium—that doesn’t mean he was involved in those murders. Why should he kill those people and run away when he was ready to be discharged?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions—”

“What about you?” Karen faced Barringer directly. “This morning you said Dorothy Anderson was killed to keep her from talking. Where’s your proof? People are murdered every day—maybe it was just coincidence.”

Lieutenant Barringer shrugged. “Griswold’s car was missing from the sanatorium last night. We located it about an hour ago—parked on a side street about a block away from Dorothy Anderson’s apartment.”

Karen turned away, but Barringer’s voice pursued her. “Still sound like coincidence, Mrs. Raymond?”

“I tell you Bruce wouldn’t harm anyone—”

“We haven’t accused your husband.” Dr. Vicente rose and moved around the desk to where Karen sat. “All we’re saying, all we know at the moment, is that he is one of five escapees from that sanatorium. And that on the basis of evidence presently known, it would appear that one or more of those escapees committed the murders.”

“But you admit you don’t know which one it is,” Karen said.

“That’s right.” Vicente pursed his lips. “But every indication seems to point to
what
he is. A sociopathic personality. Someone who may appear to behave quite rationally, who may even act with brilliant intelligence most of the time—but becomes utterly ruthless when triggered into violence.

“Make no mistake about it, whoever killed those people knows exactly what he’s doing, and why. He’s out to destroy all evidence of his identity—anything, and anyone. And that means you yourself are in jeopardy.”

“But that’s ridiculous—”

“Is it?” Lieutenant Barringer broke in with a frown. “The morning paper carried a frontpage story on the slayings. Your name is in it.”

Karen didn’t say anything, but her hands tightened on the rim of her purse.

“Please don’t misunderstand. We’re not trying to alarm you. But perhaps now you can realize the importance of cooperation on every level. Your own safety is involved. Anything that you can tell us that might lead to the apprehension of the slayer—”

Karen’s fingers pressed into the folds of the purse, but she shook her head. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

“All right,” said Lieutenant Barringer. “I guess we go downtown.”

“Downtown?”

Barringer nodded. “I’m going to have to hold you in protective custody.”

“No—” Karen rose quickly.

“Sorry. You’re a material witness.”

“But you already have my statement.”

“If there are any further developments in the case, we may have to talk to you again.”

“You don’t need to lock me up for that! I’m not going to leave town. I’ve got a job here, you can reach me any hour of the day or night—”

“And so can the person who committed the murders.” Lieutenant Barringer shook his head. “It’s our responsibility to see that you’re not in danger.”

“But this could go on for weeks! I’ll lose my job—”

“And save your life.”

“Please! There must be some other way.” Karen spoke hastily. “Suppose you gave me a bodyguard—”

“Have you any idea of the number of men already involved in this case? We’re short-handed as it is. What you’re asking involves assigning at least three men to you, working on eight-hour shifts. And it’s not just manpower, it’s the taxpayers’ money we have to think about.”

“I’m a taxpayer. It’s my money, too. And if I lose my position at the agency because of this—” Karen felt the tears, fought them. “Please, you’ve got to give me a chance!”

Barringer glanced at Dr. Vicente.

“All right,” he said. “But I want it clearly understood. No statements to the press, no television interviews. Whoever’s assigned to duty with you, you’re to follow his orders.”

“I promise.”

“Better think it over. It’s not going to be easy. You won’t have any privacy—there’ll be someone watching you night and day. And if anything happens—”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” said Karen, quickly. “You’ll see.”

She stared at the two men as she spoke, trying to read their faces, wondering if they believed her.

Not that it mattered.

Because she didn’t believe herself.

CHAPTER 9

T
he weather forecaster had kept his promise. It was fair and warmer in Los Angeles.

Not that people were thinking about the weather. They were too busy reading the headline story in the
Times
and listening to the early newscasts. And, warm as it was, a collective shudder swept across the city. Memories began to stir.

There had been a strangler in Boston, cold-blooded murderers on the prairie, a rampaging rifleman on a tower in Texas, a psychotic slayer in Phoenix, a killer of migrant workers who filled more than two dozen shallow graves dotting the California farmlands. Somewhere around the Bay Area a slayboy turned homicides into an ego-trip, as he boasted of his tally of victims in letters to the newspapers which he signed with the
nom de doom
of Zodiac. And right here in fair and warmer Los Angeles, people were remembering the Manson family.

All men are brothers—but which brother is named Cain?

An unfair question, perhaps, and an unfair comparison. For Cain slew Abel for personal reasons, unacceptable but understandable.

There was nothing personal about these killings. Cain had become a mass murderer, striking savagely and at random.

In Biblical times, God put a mark upon Cain but did not kill him, and Cain went to dwell in the land of Nod.

Today, God’s surrogate, the psychotherapist, puts his mark upon Cain, branding him sociopath, psychopath, multiple schizophrenic, cycloid personality—and Cain is sent to dwell in the asylum.

And now, today, five potential murderers were at large. And their bloody trail led from the distant canyon into the heart of the city itself. The heart began to pulse and pound at the realization of its own vulnerability.

Telephones rang and women exchanged shrill queries.
Did you read the paper, did you hear the news on television, do you think they’ll find out who they are, do you think they’ll catch them?
Appointments were canceled at the hairdressers’ and shopping plans hastily abandoned.
That poor Dorothy Anderson. Remember all those nurses in Chicago? I’m not leaving the house today.

It was the men who left the house, who did the shopping. Before they went to work, they stopped by the hardware stores and bought locks, install-it-yourself alarms.

And as the day grew warmer, children whined behind closed doors.
Why can’t I go outside, Mommy? I want to play. You promised I could go in the pool, remember?

Mommy shut them up. Shut them up inside, behind closed doors, barricaded from all callers, even the mailman.

The noonday sun was high in the heavens, but Los Angeles stayed at home, listening to the latest news—which was no news at all.

At police headquarters in the West Valley, in Van Nuys, Hollywood, downtown, the reports were coming in from the lab boys. Again, no news at all.

The murderer had been careful about prints. He had worn gloves. The Anderson apartment and the Griswold automobile had yielded no clues, and nothing had been turned up at the sanatorium, though a team was still working. But so far there weren’t any leads—and no one had phoned in to volunteer any information.

“Just the usual crank calls,” Lieutenant Barringer told Dr. Vicente. He took the last gulp of his coffee and frowned down at the cup. “Why do they always call, Doc? Why is it that every nut in town gets on the phone at a time like this—fake confessions, phoney reports of guys hiding under the bed, old
yentas
telling about their dreams?”

“You touch a nerve, you get a response,” Vicente said. “The reaction to violence is usually a violent one, but it takes a variety of forms. People tend to dramatize their guilt feelings, fantasize their fears.”

“Save the lecture for UCLA,” Barringer said. He shook his head, yawned heavily. “I’m going to get some sleep.”

Dr. Vicente hesitated. “There’s something I wanted to tell you before you check out.”

“Go ahead.”

“I contacted Sawtelle this morning. The VA Center has a file on Bruce Raymond.”

“Was he a patient?”

“No, not there. But it’s a medical discharge, and he was definitely under psychiatric observation before he was released from service. That’s all they told me over the phone, but they’re getting a transcript to us this afternoon.”

“Good.”

“Is it?” Dr. Vicente’s eyes were thoughtful. “I have no way of knowing what that transcript will show, but one thing is already clear. Whatever was wrong with Bruce Raymond, he obviously didn’t make a permanent recovery. That’s why he went to the sanatorium.”

“You’re not telling me anything new,” Barringer said.

Dr. Vicente’s gaze narrowed. “But, knowing this, you still allowed Mrs. Raymond to go home.”

“With around-the-clock surveillance.”

“Her husband could be dangerous.”

“We’re already set up to monitor any calls on her apartment phone. If he tries to contact her directly, there’ll be a good man waiting for him.”

“You’re hoping he does show up, aren’t you? That’s why you let her go—to use her as bait.”

“No comment.”

“I’ll comment on it. I think it’s one hell of a risk.”

“She asked for it, remember? And we’re giving her every possible protection.”

“If you really wanted to protect her, you’d see to it that she was held here.”

“Get off my back, Doc.” Barringer stood up. “Sure, she’d be better off under maximum security conditions. But that’s just part of the job. There’s three million other people out there whose phones aren’t bugged, who have nobody assigned to stand guard duty, who have no security at all. They’ve got to be protected, too—and none of them are safe until we nail whoever’s reponsible for these killings.”

Dr. Vicente shrugged. “You talk as though you were the only man on the case. Between the LAPD and the Sheriff’s Department, how many men are working with us? There must be hundreds—”

“And not a single goddam lead for any one of them to go with.” Barringer shook his head. “I agree with you, letting that girl go is a hell of a risk. But if it can give us a line on Bruce Raymond or any of the other suspects, it’s a risk we’ve got to take.”

“All right.” Dr. Vicente moved with Barringer towards the door. “Get some rest.”

“I’ll do that,” said Barringer.

And he did.

Karen sat in the air-conditioned hum of her apartment, staring alternately at the telephone and at Tom Doyle.

The telephone was black and squat and silent.

Tom Doyle was white and tall and silent.

The telephone sat on an end table. Tom Doyle sat on the sofa, but in the past hour he’d come to seem as much of a fixture in the apartment as the phone—just another permanent installation.

Well, she’d asked for it, Karen told herself. There was no reason to resent him or his presence. But she hadn’t realized somebody would be breathing down her neck quite so closely.
He’s here to protect you, that’s his job. Be reasonable.

Easier said than done. Doyle was reading a magazine, and Karen gave him a sidelong glance of appraisal. Long and lanky, with sandy hair and a pale, freckled face. Probably in his middle thirties. Gray suit, summer weight, with medium-wide lapels. Gray-and-white striped shirt, pale blue tie. Conservative. He didn’t look like a detective.

Karen caught herself and frowned.
What’s a detective supposed to look like?
She’d watched too much television, she told herself. All those shows with the older, craggy-featured ex-leading man playing the brains and the young, grinning ex-filling station attendant playing the muscles. Racing around in sports cars, up and down the hills of San Francisco, while rock music blasted from the soundtrack.

Doyle didn’t drive a sports car, and there was no rock music here—just the humming of the air-conditioner. But he was a detective; the minute they’d arrived he’d examined the front door to see if anyone had forced the lock. Then he checked out the entire apartment, revolver in hand, making sure she stood well to one side as he opened and closed closets, examined the windows. The window in the bathroom was partway raised, and if she hadn’t told him at once that she’d left it open before going to work yesterday morning, he probably would have called Barringer right then and there and arranged to drag her back to the station. He was a detective, no doubt about it.

Karen stirred in her chair, her left foot tapping against its base like a nervous metronome.

Doyle looked up. “You don’t have to keep me company, Mrs. Raymond. If you want to lie down for a while—”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Avoiding his eyes, Karen concentrated on the telephone.
Bruce, I know you’re out there somewhere. For God’s sake, why don’t you call?