The Man Who Loved Women to Death (9 page)

“Sorry. I’ll just share my stupid ones with you from now on.”

The inspector heaved his chest, exasperated. “So what’s the deal? You and me just going to tangle all afternoon?”

“That all depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re planning to continue this on into the evening as well.”

We stared across the table at each other in charged silence. Until, abruptly, he decided to let it slide. “How much do you know about the serial killer, Hoagy? As a species, I mean?”

“As little as possible.”

“First thing I want you to do is forget the standard psychobabble. He doesn’t want to be caught or helped or any of that shit. If he did, he’d turn himself in. What he wants is attention. That’s why he’s contacted you. Christ, Dave Berkowitz left us letters at the scene. Even wrote to that fat fuck at the
Daily News,
Breslin. Your boy, the answer man, is what I call a water walker. He’s walking on water. Making us plotz while we wait for his next move. He’s playing games with us, my friend. He’s playing God.” Feldman sat back, his eyes examining the ceiling. “We are not dealing with an ordinary criminal here, Hoagy. It’s vital to understand that going in. He’s a unique animal. A cunning and utterly sociopathic animal. A roving killing machine. A shark. Whereas in more than half of your common murder cases the victim was killed by someone they knew, ninety percent of the time your serial killer goes after a total stranger. Serial killers do not view their victims as human beings. They view them as prey. If he were to kill someone he knew it would spoil it for him. He has no remorse. None. And I choose the word ‘he’ carefully. Invariably they are men, with the rare exception of women who go after elderly nursing home patients for their life insurance money. For all practical purposes, there is no such thing as a woman serial killer.”

“Yo, what about that one down in Daytona Beach in eighty-nine, Inspector?” Very spoke up like an eager pupil. “They had her for doing seven guys, remember? She posed as a hitchhiker. She’d offer ’em sex for money and then she’d
do
’em. What was her name again? Wuornos? Aileen Wuornos?”

“There is no such thing as a woman serial killer,” Feldman repeated, raising his voice insistently. He did not dignify the lieutenant’s comment with any other response. I didn’t like the way he treated Very. He treated him like he was a grease spot on the floor.

Very clearly didn’t care for it either. His ears were burning and one knee was quaking. The table shook.

The lecture resumed.

“Most of our common murderers, statistically speaking, are aged eighteen to twenty-four. They are below average in intelligence. They also tend to be poor, and therefore more likely than not to be black. Your serial killer is white, he is above average in intelligence and he is typically a more mature individual, in his thirties or even forties. His crimes are not spontaneous. They are well planned. He cleans up after himself. We seldom find anything. We search, naturally. We look for a matchup from one crime scene to the next—a latent print, a hair, a fiber. But he is careful. And he is clever. Some are so clever they deliberately change their method of operation so as to confuse us. Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler, murdered thirteen women. Some he stabbed, some he smashed in the head with a pipe. Five more he raped but didn’t kill. Christopher Wilder, the so-called Beauty Queen Killer of the mid-eighties, killed some by suffocation, some by stabbing. One he shot. Often, we find that these guys are consummate con men. Wilder posed as a fashion photographer, Ted Bundy as a police detective. A number of them, like Bundy and Wilder and John Collins, the Michigan Coed Killer, were charming, engaging, clean-cut guys who possessed a magical touch with women. In that sense, your answer man is a classic. He’s the boy next door. He’s Jekyll and Hyde …”

Okay, now he’d done it—he’d succeeded in scaring Lulu, the big bully. She was cowering between my legs, shaking. I reached down and gave her a reassuring pat. I just wished someone would give me one.

“That’s why they fascinate and horrify the public to the degree that they do,” Feldman went on. “Let’s face it, there’s something inherently disturbing about a man who is capable of killing yet is also capable of functioning successfully in polite society. Wilder ran a business. So did John Wayne Gacy. Collins was a few credits short of getting his bachelor’s degree. Bundy was a law student. More than anything, these guys are clever. That’s what the answer man is—clever. Making us think he’s an addict. Making us think he’s just out of jail. Making us think he’s someone who washes dishes for a living.”

“You think he’s none of the above?” I asked.

Feldman sniffed. “He’s playing games with us. This is someone bright. My guess is he works in publishing.”

“I thought you just said he was someone bright.”

The inspector let that one slide by. He was thinking out loud now. “Sure, sure—he’s an editor or a proofreader. Maybe some guy who works in the mailroom, thinks he should be a famous author.”

“That’s half the people in publishing, Inspector.”

“He’s frustrated. He’s bitter. He’s angry.”

“That’s the other half.”

“I like this angle, Lieutenant,” Feldman concluded, pleased, as if someone else had raised it. “I want you to work it. Discreetly, so you don’t set off any alarm bells.”

“We have been, Inspector.” Very spoke up in his own defense. “We been checking the publishing houses to see if anyone remembers getting a submission that matches up even slightly. Also working the literary agencies. Maybe he shopped it to an agent first.”

“I’d focus your efforts on the smaller, independent agents, Lieutenant,” I said. “Most of the big agencies don’t read stuff that comes in over the transom anymore.”

Very made a note of this in his pad. Then he scratched his buzz-cut head reflectively. “Weird that he’s so polite, don’t you think? In his letters, I mean.”

“You haven’t been listening to me, Lieutenant,” Feldman huffed impatiently. “Just because he’s psychotic doesn’t mean he’s ill bred.” Now the hooded eyes turned back my way. “Which reminds me, we’re shortstopping your mail at the post office from now on. Before your carrier delivers it. That way, if you get another installment we’ll get a jump of several hours. We’ll make sure you get a copy, so you’re kept abreast.”

“What about this personal ad I’m supposed to place in the
Times?”

“All taken care of,” Feldman answered brusquely.

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning exactly what it sounds like. It’s taken care of. It’ll run in tomorrow’s paper, bottom of page one, just like he asked.”

“And what does it say?”

“It says, ‘Answer man—Have promising news. Let’s meet at Barney Greengrass at ten.’”

Lulu let out a cough.

He frowned down at her.
“Now
what’s her problem?”

“Well, it could use some tweaking.”

“Tweaking? What’s that mean?”

“It means,” Very translated, “he thinks it sucks.”

“I usually write my own material, Inspector. I really wish you had consulted me.”

Feldman shot a cold, hard look at me.
“Consulted
you? What do
you
know about it? You ever been on a task force?”

“I’ve worked with seriously disturbed individuals a number of rimes. We just don’t call them disturbed; we call them celebrities. In my experience, it’s vital that I gain his trust. He and I have to get a dialogue going. That’s the only way he’ll reveal himself to me. For starters, he has to believe I wrote that ad myself.”

The inspector shook his head, disgusted. “Christ, I’ve heard about you writers and your egos—”

“This has nothing to do with my ego. It has to do with right and wrong. I’m right and you’re wrong.”

Feldman turned to Very, incredulous. “You
believe
this guy?”

“Welcome to my nightmare, sir.”

“Pull your ad, Inspector. Pull it and let me write my own.”

“I know what I’m doing, Hoagy.” Feldman was speaking with exaggerated patience now, as if he were trying to placate a shrill, annoying old lady whose petunias had gotten trampled by some little boys. “I been through this kind of thing before. Just let me do my job, okay?”

“Fine, but he won’t show. He’ll know it’s a trap. He’s not stupid. You said so yourself.”

“Maybe he won’t,” Feldman allowed. “But we have to try it, don’t we? We have to try everything. You never know—just because he’s clever doesn’t mean he’s smart.”

“Maybe you should let me write your material, too.”

“I picked Barney Greengrass because he’s already observed you there. It’s a familiar location. He’ll feel at ease.”

“That’ll make one of us.”

“You just start showing up there every morning at ten, starting tomorrow, until he makes contact.”

“He won’t,” I insisted.

“I’ll be the one behind the counter slicing sturgeon, dude,” Very informed me. It didn’t sound to me like his heart was in it, but I may have imagined that.

I tugged at my left ear. “Is that wise, Lieutenant?”

“Hey, I worked at a deli all through high school.”

“But he’s
seen
you.”

“That’s the whole idea,” explained Feldman. Clearly, it was his plan, not that I ever had any doubt. “We
want
him to walk in and make the lieutenant. That’s how we’ll know he’s our man.”

“I’ll go in real early, dude. He won’t make me—not until it’s too late.”

“And he won’t get away,” Feldman vowed. “Once he reacts, he’s ours.”

“What if he resists?”

“We’ll put him down. Sharpshooters stationed across the avenue and at neighboring tables.”

“I don’t like this.”

“Now, there’s no reason to feel concerned,” Feldman said reassuringly. “We’re very good at this sort of thing.”

I said it again, louder. “I don’t like this.”

“We’ll even outfit you with a bulletproof vest,” added the inspector.

“Thank you, no. Kevlar doesn’t do a thing for me.”

“Hey, it’s not like appearances are a priority,” he said scornfully.

Which drew another cough from Lulu.

And another look from Feldman. “Now what is she …?”

“She doesn’t know how to laugh,” I explained. “May I ask you a stupid question, Inspector?”

“Of course.”

“Will the answer man strike again?”

He considered this a moment, his claws gripping the arms of his chair tightly. “I hope not. I fear yes. Once this kind of shark gets a taste for blood he usually comes back for more.”

“Can I ask you another stupid question?”

“You can ask me any question you want.”

“Are you going to catch him?”

“Of course we will,” he replied, totally confident. “Two things have to happen, that’s all.”

I leaned forward anxiously. “What are they? What are those two things?”

Feldman shot his cuffs. He smoothed his white pompadour. He said, “The first is, we have to be lucky.”

“And what’s the second?”

“He has to fuck up.”

But the answer man wasn’t going to fuck up—he wasn’t stupid. I knew this. I knew this because Feldman had said he wasn’t. And I knew this because way down deep inside, where the great big ugly black snakes and the three-headed toads and the cackling rats lived, I had a feeling I knew who the answer man was.

Oh, yeah, I had me a feeling.

I HAD PARKED THE
Jag out front, my beloved red 1958 XK 150 drophead with its 60-spoke wire wheels, every inch of it original. I got in with Lulu next to me and started it up and cranked up the heat as high as it would go, which isn’t real high. Especially when you’re already feeling frozen.

Very and Feldman stood there at the curb watching me, Feldman muttering something sour at him, Very’s jaw muscles clenching and unclenching. I watched them watching me. Then I got out of there fast.

I headed uptown to my personal crumple zone, my drafty old fifth-floor walk-up on West Ninety-third, which I’d had since I first moved to New York and which I still kept as an office. This is where I go to brood and to pace and to think my nondeep thoughts. It’s not much. A small, dingy living room. A smaller, dingier bedroom. But it’s my refuge, my treehouse, my fort—no girls or babies allowed. Not that they ever came knocking. Merilee loathed the place and Tracy was forbidden to go there. Too many germs.

The only bad part was the climb. My landlord wasn’t making it any easier—he kept adding another flight of steps every couple of years so as to drive me out. Even Lulu was starting to notice it. She slowed up herself when we reached the fourth-floor landing. Only, she wasn’t out of breath. She wasn’t so much as panting.

She was stalking, her large black nose aquiver.

Slowly, quietly, she resumed climbing. Until halfway up the steps to the top floor she froze, her hackles rising, a low, menacing growl coming from her throat …

My apartment door was open. Maybe an inch.

Someone was in there. I could hear a drawer being opened, then closed. Footsteps. I stood there on the stairs, wheezing, weighing my options. I thought about tiptoeing back downstairs to call the police, only, Lulu had other ideas. She does that sometimes—freelances. This was one of those times.

She charged the door, teeth bared, a savage roar coming from her throat. Made straight for the bedroom, her nails clacketing, clacketing on the parquet floor. I heard a scream. A bloodcurdling woman’s scream. Followed by a voice I would know anywhere:

“GEEZ, HOAGY, GET HER THE HELL AWFFA ME, WILL YA?!”

I relaxed at once. Because there was only one person in the whole wide world who actually was afraid of Lulu and that person was Cassandra Dee, star of
Face to Face
or
Cheek to Jowl
or whatever the hell it was called.

She was standing on a chair inside my bedroom closet, the better to go through the personal papers that were stored up on the top shelf. Lulu was circling the chair, barking up at her furiously. She had the poor woman treed.

“How did you get in, Cassandra?” I asked, standing there in the bedroom doorway.

“I shmeared the super, okay?” she cried in her nasal Bensonhurst bray. “Now w-will ya—?”

“No kidding, I have a super?”