Regina's Song (23 page)

“Oh?” Bob said, looking at our friend.

“Something occurred to me over the weekend,” James told him. “We’ve got a workshop in the basement at the boardinghouse, and I went down there on Saturday to get my pipe wrench. I spotted one of Mark’s tools, and it set me to wondering about something. Those Navy doctors who performed the autopsy on Walton said that the murder weapon might be some sort of homemade implement, but I think they might have overlooked something that’s fairly common. Last fall, Mark and I resurfaced the floor in the kitchen, and when we came to fitting the linoleum around the doorframes, Mark had a special tool he used to trim the tiles to fit. I’d forgotten about it, but when I saw it again last Saturday, I started to wonder if the Slasher’s weapon could be a linoleum knife?”

Bob blinked. “Oh, shit!” he said. “It
could
be, couldn’t it? Boy, did we drop the ball on
that
one! It fits exactly—short, hook-pointed, and with the sharp edge on the inside of the curve. It’d leave wounds exactly like the ones we’ve been looking at since last September.”

“And you can pick one up in any hardware store for under ten bucks,” Charlie added.

“We owe you one, James,” Bob said.

“I should have thought of it earlier,” James replied. “It wasn’t until I saw that knife of Mark’s that it dawned on me that it might be the Slasher’s implement of choice.”

“You see, big brother?” Charlie said, grinning, “Anytime you come up with a problem you can’t solve, bring it to us. We’ll take care of it for you. How’s Burpee handling the ‘Joan the Ripper’ discovery?”

“He’s not a happy camper, I’ll tell you that much.” Bob chuckled. “Cheetah left town this past weekend.”

“Aw,” Charlie said, “shuckey-darn. Poor old Burpee! What sent Cheetah off in search of greener pastures?”

“From what our informants told us, it was the ‘Joan the Ripper’ thing. When Burpee leaked the word that the Slasher’s a woman, I guess Cheetah hit the panic switch. One of our informants told us that Cheetah’s positive that the lady with the knife’s out looking for him—specifically. He’s convinced that the other killings have just been for practice, and Joanie-girl’s ultimate target is him. I guess that when the news broke on television last Thursday, Cheetah started hiding under his bed. He was shaking all over and babbling incoherently. Then he stuffed a week’s supply of dope and a pair of clean socks in a paper bag, ran down to his car, and drove off at about eighty miles an hour.”

“Then there might be something to all this folk heroine crap the lady reporters are babbling about,” Charlie observed. “Joan managed to get rid of Cheetah without even reaching for her knife. Did your snitch happen to tell you where Cheetah was going?”

“He was headed south the last time our informant saw him,” Bob replied. “He might be headed for Tijuana, but that might not be far enough south to make him feel comfortable. I’d guess maybe Mexico City—or Buenos Aires. I think he wants to get as far away from Seattle as he possibly can.”

“We’ll miss him terribly,” James said.

“Not as much as Burpee will.” Bob chuckled. “Burpee was hanging all of his hopes for promotion on his whacko Cheetah theory, and Joan the Ripper just pulled the rug out from under him.”

“Aw,” Charlie said, “what a shame.”

“I’ve got to split, guys,” Bob said then. “I want to hit a hardware store on my way home. If I’m going to talk with the coroner about the possibility that the murder weapon in all these killings is a linoleum knife, I’d better have one handy so that he can see what I’m talking about.”

No matter how hard I tried to shrug off my theory that Twinkie could be the Seattle Slasher, it kept nagging at me. Too many things fit too closely. The next question, obviously, was what the hell was I going to do about it.

I certainly wasn’t going to go see Bob West and rat her off. When I got to the bottom, I realized that I had a strong tendency to agree with the militant feminist point of view that the assorted killings were justifiable homicides. There was a distinct possibility that every victim was a rapist who richly deserved what had happened to him. That was beside the point, though. Twink obviously had some serious mental problems that needed medical attention—probably back in Doc Fallon’s bughouse. My best bet would be to get some good solid proof—one way or the other—that she was or wasn’t the Slasher, and if it turned out that she
was
, to present my findings to Fallon and persuade him to quietly recommit her. The killings would come to a halt, and after six months or so the media would find something else to babble about.

The next question was how to go about it. How the hell was I going to prove—or disprove—my suspicions?

Does the term “stakeout” ring any bells for you? It didn’t make me very happy, but I was damned if I could come up with any alternatives. To make matters worse, it’d have to be a one-man stakeout—I couldn’t enlist James or Charlie or anybody else to help me. I had to keep this strictly to myself, and that meant that I’d probably have to forgo sleeping. I might be able to last four or five days that way, then I’d probably lapse into a coma. It wasn’t going to work.

Obviously, I wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on Twinkie for twenty-four hours a day for weeks at a time. The more I thought about it, though, the more I came to realize that it wouldn’t
be
a twenty-four-hour job. These killings had all taken place after midnight, and I could skip the nights when Mary wasn’t working.
If
Twink decided to go hunting on any particular night, she’d probably take off right after Mary left the house to go to work. That was about ten o’clock. I could watch the house from ten o’clock until about one or two in the morning and then hang it up. If Twink hadn’t left by then, it’d be obvious that she wasn’t going out that night.

That moved the whole idea into the realm of possibility. I might be a little sandy-eyed, but I wouldn’t fall apart after the first week.

“What the hell?” I muttered. “Let’s give it a try and see what happens.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

On Thursday of the week after the Montlake killing, I took my first try at playing the private eye game. To be honest about it, the whole thing made me feel silly: I wasn’t cut out to be Sam Spade or Mike Hammer. I had a couple of cover stories I’d cobbled together to explain why I’d be taking off late in the evening, but as luck had it, all the rest of the boardinghouse gang were in their rooms when I slipped out, so I didn’t have to lie to anybody.

It was about nine-thirty when I drove past Mary’s place. Her car was still parked in front of the house, so she obviously hadn’t taken off yet. I pulled into a space about a block away on the opposite side of the street. I could see the house from there, but I wasn’t parked right across from it. I knew that Mary would recognize my old Dodge, so I didn’t want be too close. After she left, I could move in closer if it seemed necessary. I wasn’t entirely certain whether Twink would spot my car if she happened to be in the fugue state. For all I knew, she might not even recognize
me
. I made a mental note to check that with Sylvia.

It was about five minutes after ten when Mary came out and got into her car. I was sure she wouldn’t drive past the place where I was parked, but I didn’t want to take any chances, so I ducked down behind the dashboard until she’d driven off.

Then I moved my car up to the intersection and watched the house. I
hoped
that this wasn’t going to go on forever. All I really needed to put my suspicions to rest would be a nice, messy murder on some night when I was watching Mary’s house. If Twink was home in bed while Joan the Ripper was busy carving out some guy’s tripes, it
would
prove a negative, and logic be damned.

After Mary left, the light stayed on in the living room until about eleven-thirty. Then the living room light went out and the bathroom light came on and stayed on for a half hour or so. Twinkie was probably taking a bath. The chances that she might go out prowling now were pretty remote, I thought.

Then again, maybe not. I didn’t really know enough about the fugue state to be sure of much of anything. If it was something like sleepwalking, maybe Twink would have to go to bed and drift off before her alternative identity took over.

I watched the house intently as the bathroom light went out and the kitchen light spilled out into the backyard. I made a mental note to find a better parking place: I needed to see the back of the house.

Then Twink’s bedroom light came on. I could see that one OK from where I was. It stayed on for about ten minutes, and then the house went dark.

I looked at my watch. It was about ten after twelve. If Twinkie
was
Joan the Ripper and she was planning to go hunting tonight, she’d better get on with it.

The key to the whole thing, I reasoned, was that bike of hers. It wasn’t likely that she’d walk. As long as her bike was chained to Mary’s back porch, she was almost certainly in bed.

At twelve-thirty, I started my car, drove to the end of the block, hooked left, and then turned into the alley. I drove slowly past the back of Mary’s house.

Twink’s bike was still on the back porch.

I drove back to where I’d parked before and sat watching.

At quarter to two, I took another run through the alley. Twink’s bike was still there at that point, so I decided to go home. There wasn’t enough time left for Twinkie to go out prowling, locate a victim, butcher him, clean up, and get back here before Mary came home from work. The procedure was a bit more complicated and time-consuming than a simple drive-by shooting.

I realized that I’d made a couple of boo-boos, but it was my first time out. I was sure I’d get better at it with more practice. Hopefully, though, this wouldn’t be a permanent thing. All I needed was a murder when Twink was right there in Mary’s house where I could see her—or her bike. Then I wouldn’t have to play Sherlock Holmes anymore.

I was a little sandy-eyed when Charlie banged on my door the next morning. “Daylight in the swamp,” he announced, “and it’s feeding time.”

“Tell the girls I’ll be right down,” I replied, sitting up. “I’ll only be a couple minutes.” This stakeout business had already cut into my sleep time. Four or five hours a night wasn’t going to cut it. I pulled on my clothes, hit the bathroom long enough to splash some cold water on my face and brush my teeth. Then I stumbled downstairs.

“Sorry,” I apologized when I went into the kitchen. “I must have forgotten to flip the switch on my alarm clock.”

“How late were you out last night?” Trish asked. “I heard you leave, but I must have been long asleep by the time you came home.”

“It was about two or so, I think,” I replied evasively. “I had something I had to take care of.”

“Have we got a new girlfriend, maybe?” Charlie slyly suggested.

For some reason that didn’t go over too well. The ladies didn’t say anything, but there was a definite chill in the air after that. I floundered through a couple of vague denials, and that seemed to make things even worse.

I wolfed down my breakfast and took off for the campus. Hemingway and Faulkner were waiting for me.

It was noon when I got back to the boardinghouse, and Sylvia was in the kitchen fixing a sandwich. “You look awful, Mark,” she said.

“I’m running on short sleep,” I said. “I think I’ll crash for a while this afternoon. Did Twinkie make it to class today?”

“She was there—physically, anyway. Her head seemed to be turned off, though. After class, I reminded her that this was ‘Friday-go-to-meeting-day,’ and she seemed surprised. I actually think she’d forgotten that we have to run on up to Lake Stevens today.”

“She gets spacey every now and then, Sylvia—you know that. If you get to talk privately with Doc Fallon, you’d better let him know that Mary’s worried. She’s almost positive that Twink’s close to the breaking point. If we don’t come up with some answers pretty damn soon, we’re liable to lose her.”

“You’re just filled with good cheer today, aren’t you?” she replied sourly.

I dozed a little that afternoon, but I was still pretty groggy at suppertime. “I’m off to the library,” I announced after we’d finished.

“I’ll come with you,” James volunteered.

“Don’t bother,” I said, grabbing up my stuff. I was out the door before the others could object to my breaking our no-going-out-alone-after-dark rule. “Don’t wait up,” I called over my shoulder. It was a none-too-polite way to tell them all to butt out. I was having enough trouble without any more snooping by my housemates.

I regretted it before I even got to my car, but by then it was too late.

I
did
go to the library, but I didn’t accomplish very much. I was still punchy from lack of sleep and worried that Twinkie might decide it was time to go hunting again.

I got to Wallingford about nine-thirty and parked a few blocks from Mary’s house. I didn’t want to make a habit of parking in the same place every night.

Getting out, I locked the car and strolled toward Mary’s place, putting on what was probably a grossly overdone show of nonchalance. Us private eyes do that every now and again. Overacting is actually pretty dumb, but I seemed to be coming down with a bad case of high drama.

I backed up against a conveniently high hedge about a block and a half from Mary’s place and waited.

At five minutes after ten, Mary came out, in full uniform and pistol belt, and got into her car. She was predictable, that’s for sure.

I hunkered down a bit to stay out of sight until she drove off. Then I went back and got my car. It was colder than hell that night, and a chilly fog was drifting in from Green Lake. That was all I needed. Even if Twink left Mary’s house, there was a fair chance that I’d lose her in the fog if I tried to follow her.

I drove back to the place where I’d parked on the previous night so that I could watch the house.

The light in the living room stayed on until a quarter to twelve. Then it went out, and the bathroom light came on for a while.

By twelve-thirty, the only light that was on was the one in Twink’s bedroom. When it went out, I fired up my car and made a pass down the alley behind Mary’s house. Twink’s bike was still on the back porch, so I went home to catch up on my sleep.

We always slept a little later than usual on Saturday mornings, and that gave me the chance to sleep in. This stakeout business was definitely cutting into my sack time.

Trish whipped up some buttermilk pancakes that morning, and we all pigged out.

“Who’s the lucky girl, Mark?” Charlie asked me, as we lingered over coffee.

“What lucky girl?” I tried to evade his prying.

“Get real,” he said. “When a guy doesn’t come home until way past midnight, it can only mean one thing.”

“Can I take the fifth amendment on that, Trish?”

“If it makes you feel better,” she replied in a rather unfriendly tone.

“Let it lie, Charlie,” James suggested. “It’s none of our business, you know.”

“Just making conversation.” Charlie shrugged it off. Then he stood up. “Gotta hit the books,” he said then.

There was a definite chill in the air that morning, and I couldn’t figure out why. I went down to my basement workshop, mostly to get away from the ladies. All three of them were scowling at me every time I turned around. The house rule against hanky-panky didn’t involve a vow of celibacy, but the ladies were behaving as if I’d broken some rule. Charlie’s “Mark’s got a girlfriend” joke wasn’t coming off very well. Trish, Erika, and Sylvia seemed to be offended.

Maybe it was group possessiveness. Women get strange now and then.

When I thought about it, though, I realized that the “Mark’s got a girlfriend” thing might just solve a problem that was certain to come up in the very near future. I definitely didn’t want my housemates to know about my suspicions or that I was camped out in front of Mary’s house every night. If they were convinced that I was out chasing some girl, they might get a little grumpy about it, but they wouldn’t catch on to what I was
really
doing—or why. Probably the best way to pull that off would be to spiff up before I left the house—dress the part. It was devious and probably a little dishonest, but we start moving into “the ends justify the means” territory here.

The more I thought about it, the better I liked it, and I felt pretty good when I started to cobble together a rough sort of workbench.

After supper I went upstairs to change clothes. If I was going to pull off this “girlfriend” scam, I should probably look the part. This time, though, nobody offered to keep me company when I hustled out the front door.

It was already a little foggy when I fired up my car, and there was a fair chance that the weather would get worse as the night wore on. That could definitely complicate matters. If Twinkie really
was
Joan the Ripper and she decided to go hunting that night, it wouldn’t be hard for her to get away after Mary went to work. Even if I saw her leave the house, she wouldn’t have much trouble slipping out of sight in that damned fog.

I’d left the boardinghouse early, more to persuade my housemates that I was off to see my fictitious lady friend than out of any necessity. Rather than just sitting in my car watching the fog grow thicker, I cruised the alleys in the neighborhood of Mary’s house to get the lay of the land. If Twink left the house on her bicycle, I’d be at a definite disadvantage. People
do
park cars in alleys, even though it’s not exactly legal. A bike wouldn’t have any trouble slipping through, but a car would never make it. A little scouting in advance seemed appropriate.

The streets in residential neighborhoods are usually fairly tidy, but you wouldn’t
believe
how much stuff piles up in the alleys. There are junk cars, old refrigerators and stoves, Dumpsters, and beat-up old garbage cans. Driving a car through an alley is almost like trying to run an obstacle course. That didn’t brighten my evening very much.

At about quarter to ten, I hauled into the parking place I’d used the previous night and started to consider my options. I might have to get a bike of my own—I could stow it in the trunk of my car, pull it out in no more than a minute, and stay on Twink’s tail no matter where she went.

That
jerked me up short. My goal was to prove a negative, and here I was scheming up ways to prove that Twink
was
in fact the Seattle Slasher. Or Joan the Ripper—or whatever else the media wanted to call her.

Mary left the house at the usual time, and after she’d gone off to work, I moved my car closer so I could watch the house.

At ten-thirty, the living room lights went out. Then the bathroom light came on. Then it went out, and the kitchen light followed. Then, even as it had on the two previous nights, the light in Twink’s bedroom came on.

That light stayed on for about fifteen minutes, and then it went out and the whole house was dark.

I didn’t even bother to take a pass through the alley. I just fired up my car and went home.

Mary had Sunday and Monday off, so I wasn’t going to have to play the stakeout game until Tuesday. That gave me some time to think things over. So far, all I’d managed to do was waste a lot of time and lose a lot of sleep. My suspicions weren’t holding water. It was fairly clear that Twinkie did
not
go out on the prowl every time Mary left the house.

I’d done enough ordinary hunting in my own time that I knew that no hunter scores every time he picks up his rifle or shotgun. And it’s pretty much the same with fishing: Some days they just aren’t biting. The Slasher-Ripper-whatever had managed to score eight times—officially—and probably four or five times unofficially. The killings in Woodinville and Auburn might be just the tip of the iceberg. To score that often, the Ripper would almost have to be out there nearly every night, trolling for game, and Twinkie was passing up a lot opportunities. A dedicated hunter doesn’t do that.

Actually, that should have made me feel better. I didn’t
want
to pin the Ripper murders on Twinkie. What I was trying to do was prove that she
wasn’t
the one who’d been carving people up since last fall. If the
real
Joan the Ripper would just cooperate and butcher some minor hoodling while I was camped on Mary’s doorstep making sure that Twink hadn’t left the house, I’d be off the hook.