The Naked Face (12 page)

“He killed her so she couldn’t identify him?”

“No. The man we’re looking for isn’t a sadist. Carol was tortured because he wanted something. Say, a piece of in criminating evidence. And she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—give it to him.”

“What kind of evidence?” probed Angeli.

“I have no idea,” Judd said. “But it’s the key to
this whole thing. Moody found out the answer, and that’s why they killed him.”

“There’s one thing that still doesn’t make sense. If they had killed you on the street, then they couldn’t have gotten the evidence. It doesn’t fit with the rest of your theory,” An geli persisted.

“It could. Let’s assume that the evidence is on one of my tapes. It might be perfectly harmless by itself, but if I put it together with other facts, it could threaten them. So they have two choices. Either take it away from me, or eliminate me so I can’t reveal it to anyone. First they tried to eliminate me. But they made a mistake and killed Hanson. Then they went to the second alternative. They tried to get it from Carol. When that failed, they decided to concentrate on kill ing me. That was the car accident. I was probably followed when I went to hire Moody, and he, in turn, was followed. When he got onto the truth, they murdered him.”

Angeli looked at Judd, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“That’s why the killer is not going to stop until I’m dead,” Judd concluded quietly. “It’s become a deadly game, and the man I’ve described can’t stand losing.”

Angeli was studying him, weighing what Judd had said. “If you’re right,” he said finally, “you’re going to need protection.” He took his service revolver out, flipped the chamber open to make sure it was fully loaded.

“Thanks, Angeli, but I don’t need a gun. I’m going to fight them with my own weapons.”

There was the sharp click of the outer door opening. “Were you expecting anyone?”

Judd shook his head. “No. I have no patients this afternoon.”

Gun still in hand, Angeli moved quietly to the door leading to the reception room. He stepped to one side and
yanked the door open. Peter Hadley stood there, a bewildered expression on his face. “Who are you?” Angeli snapped.

Judd moved over to the door. “It’s all right,” Judd said quickly. “He’s a friend of mine.”

“Hey! What the hell goes?” asked Peter.

“Sorry,” Angeli apologized. He put his gun away.

“This is Dr. Peter Hadley—Detective Angeli.”

“What kind of nutty psychiatric clinic are you running here?” Peter asked.

“There’s been a little trouble,” Angeli explained. “Dr. Stevens’ office has been…burglarized, and we thought whoever did it might be returning.”

Judd picked up the cue. “Yes. They didn’t find what they were looking for.”

“Does this have anything to do with Carol’s murder?” Peter asked.

Angeli spoke before Judd could answer. “We’re not sure, Dr. Hadley. For the moment, the Department has asked Dr. Stevens not to discuss the case.”

“I understand,” Peter said. He looked at Judd. “Is our luncheon date still on?”

Judd realized he had forgotten about it. “Of course,” he said quickly. He turned to Angeli. “I think we’ve covered everything.”

“And then some,” Angeli agreed. “You’re sure you don’t want…” He indicated his revolver.

Judd shook his head. “Thanks.”

“OK. Be careful,” Angeli said.

“I will,” Judd promised. “I will.”

Judd was preoccupied during luncheon, and Peter did not press him. They talked of mutual friends, patients that they had in common. Peter told Judd he had spoken to Harrison
Burke’s employer and it had been quietly arranged for Burke to have a mental examination. He was being sent to a private institution.

Over coffee Peter said, “I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re having, Judd, but if I can be of any help…”

Judd shook his head. “Thanks, Peter. This is something I have to take care of myself. I’ll tell you all about it when it’s over.”

“I hope that’s soon,” Peter said lightly. He hesitated. “Judd—are you in any danger?”

“Of course not,” replied Judd.

Unless you counted a homicidal maniac who had committed three murders and was determined to make Judd his fourth victim.

AFTER LUNCH, Judd returned to his office. He went through the same careful routine, checking to make sure that he exposed himself to minimum vulnerability.

For whatever that was worth.

He began going through the tapes again, listening for anything that might provide some clue. It was like turning on a torrent of verbal graffiti. The gusher of sounds that spewed forth was filled with hatred…perversion…fear…self-pity…megalomania…loneliness…emptiness…pain…

At the end of three hours he had found only one new name to add to his list: Bruce Boyd, the man with whom John Hanson had last lived. He put the Hanson tape on the recorder again.

“…I suppose I fell in love with Bruce the first time I saw him. He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.”

“Was he the passive or dominant partner, John?”

“Dominant. That’s one of the things that attracted me to him. He’s very strong. In fact, later, when we became lovers, we used to quarrel about that.”

“Why?”

“Bruce didn’t realize how strong he really was. He used to walk up behind me and hit me on the back. He meant it as a loving gesture, but one day he almost broke my spine. I wanted to kill him. When he shook hands, he would crush your fingers. He always pretended to be sorry, but Bruce enjoys hurting people. He didn’t need whips. He’s very strong…”

Judd stopped the tape and sat there, thinking. The homosexual pattern did not fit into his concept of the killer, but on the other hand, Boyd had been involved with Hanson and was a sadist and an egotist.

He looked at the two names on his list: Teri Washburn, who had killed a man in Hollywood and had never mentioned it; and Bruce Boyd, John Hanson’s last lover. If it were one of them—which one?

Teri Washburn lived in a penthouse suite on Sutton Place. The entire apartment was decorated in shocking pink: walls, furniture, drapes. There were expensive pieces scattered around the room, and the wall was covered with French impressionists. Judd recognized two Manets, two Degas, a Monet, and a Renoir before Teri walked into the room. He had phoned her to tell her that he wanted to come by. She had gotten ready for him. She was wearing a wispy pink negligee with nothing on underneath it.

“You really came,” she exclaimed happily.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Sure. A little drinkie?”

“No, thanks.”

“Then I think I’ll fix myself one to celebrate,” Teri said. She moved toward the coral-shell bar in the corner of the large living room.

Judd watched her thoughtfully.

She returned with her drink and sat next to him on the pink couch. “So your cock finally got you up here, honey,” she said. “I knew you couldn’t hold out on little Teri. I’m nuts about you, Judd. I’d do anything for you. You name it. You make all the crummy pricks I’ve known in my life look like dirt.” She put her drink down and put her hand on his trousers.

Judd took her hands in his. “Teri,” he said. “I need your help.”

Her mind was traveling in its own groove. “I know, baby,” she moaned. “I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked in your life.”

“Teri—listen to me! Someone is trying to murder me!”

Her eyes registered slow surprise. Acting—or real? He remembered a performance he had seen her give on one of the late late shows. Real. She was good, but not that good an actress.

“For Christ sake! Who—who’d want to murder
you?”

“It could be someone connected with one of my patients.”

“But—Jesus—why?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Teri. Have any of your friends ever talked about killing .. . or murder? Maybe as a party game, for laughs?”

Teri shook her head. “No.”

“Do you know anyone named Don Vinton?” He watched her closely.

“Don Vinton? Uhn-uhn. Should I?”

“Teri—how do you feel about murder?” A small shiver went through her body. He was holding her wrists and he could feel her pulse racing. “Does murder excite you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it,” Judd insisted. “Does the thought of it excite you?”

Her pulse was beginning to skip irregularly. “No! Of course not.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the man you killed in Hollywood?”

Without warning she reached out to rake his face with her long fingernails. He grabbed her wrists.

“You rotten sonofabitch! That was twenty years ago. .. . So that’s why you came. Get out of here. Get out! She collapsed in sobbing hysteria.

Judd watched her a moment. Teri was capable of being involved in a thrill murder. Her insecurity, her total lack of self-esteem, would make her easy prey to anyone who wanted to use her. She was like a piece of soft clay lying in the gutter. The person who picked her up could mould her into a beautiful statue—or into a deadly weapon. The question was, Who had picked her up last? Don Vinton?

Judd got to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said.

He walked out of the pink apartment.

Bruce Boyd occupied a house in a converted mews off the park in Greenwich Village. The door was opened by a white-jacketed Filipino butler. Judd gave his name and was invited to wait in the foyer. The butler disappeared. Ten minutes went by, then fifteen. Judd checked his irritation. Perhaps he should have told Detective Angeli he was coming here. If Judd’s theory was right, the next attempt on his life would take place very soon. And his attacker would try to make certain of his success.

The butler reappeared. “Mr. Boyd will see you now,” he said. He led Judd upstairs to a tastefully decorated study, then discreetly withdrew.

Boyd was at a desk, writing. He was a beautiful man with sharp, delicate features, an aquiline nose, and a sensuous, full mouth. He had blond hair curled into ringlets. He got to his feet as Judd entered. He was about six foot three with the chest and shoulders of a football player. Judd thought about
his physical identi-kit of the killer. Boyd matched it. Judd wished more than ever that he had left some word with Angeli.

Boyd’s voice was soft and cultured. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Dr. Stevens,” he said pleasantly. “I’m Bruce Boyd.” He held out his hand.

Judd reached out to take it and Boyd hit him in the mouth with a granite fist. The blow was totally unexpected, and the impact of it sent Judd crashing against a standing lamp, knocking it over as his body fell to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” said Boyd, looking down at him. “You had that coming. You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you? Get up and I’ll fix you a drink.”

Judd shook his head groggily. He started to push himself up from the floor. When he got halfway up, Boyd kicked him in the groin with the tip of his shoe and Judd fell writhing to the floor in agony. “I’ve been waiting for you to call,” Boyd said.

Judd looked up through the blinding waves of pain at the figure that towered over him. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t get the words out.

“Don’t try to talk,” Boyd said sympathetically. “It must hurt. I know why you’re here. You want to ask me about Johnny.”

Judd started to nod and Boyd kicked him in the head. Through a red blur he heard Boyd’s voice coming from some distant place through a cottony filter, fading in and out. “We loved each other until he went to you. You made him feel like a freak. You made him feel our love was dirty. Do you know who made it dirty, Dr. Stevens? You.”

Judd felt something hard smash into his ribs, sending an exquisite river of pain through his veins. He was seeing everything in beautiful colors now, as though his head were filled with shimmering rainbows.

“Who gave you the right to tell people how to love, Doctor? You sit there in your office like some kind of god, condemning everyone who doesn’t think like you.”

That’s not true,
Judd was answering somewhere in his mind.
Hanson had never had choices before. I gave him choices. And he didn’t choose you.

“Now Johnny’s dead,” said the blond giant towering over him. “You killed my Johnny. And now I’m going to kill you.”

He felt another kick behind his ear, and he began to slip into unconsciousness. Some remote part of his mind watched with a detached interest as the rest of him began to die. That small isolated piece of intelligence in his cerebellum continued to function, its impulses flashing out weakening patterns of thought. He reproached himself for not having come closer to the truth. He had expected the killer to be a dark, Latin type, and he was blond. He had been sure that the killer was not a homosexual, and he had been wrong. He had found his homicidal maniac, and now he was going to die for it.

He lost consciousness.

SOME DISTANT, remote part of his mind was trying to send him a message, trying to communicate something of cosmic importance, but the hammering deep inside his skull was so agonizing that he was unable to concentrate on anything else. Somewhere nearby, he could hear a high-pitched keening, like a wounded wild animal. Slowly, painfully, Judd opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed in a strange room. In a corner of the room, Bruce Boyd was weeping uncontrollably.

Judd started to sit up. The wracking pain in his body flooded his memory with recollection of what had happened to him, and he was suddenly filled with a wild, savage fury.

Boyd turned as he heard Judd stir. He walked over to the bed. “It’s your fault,” he whimpered. “If it hadn’t been for you, Johnny would still be safe with me.”

Without volition, propelled by some long-forgotten, deeply buried instinct for vengeance, Judd reached for Boyd’s throat, his fingers closing around his windpipe, squeezing with all their strength. Boyd made no move to protect himself. He stood there, tears streaming down his face.
Judd looked into his eyes, and it was like looking into a pool of hell. Slowly his hands dropped away.
My God,
he thought,
I’m a doctor. A sick man attacks me and I want to kill him.
He looked at Boyd, and he was looking at a destroyed, bewil dered child.

And suddenly he realized what his subconscious had been trying to tell him: Bruce Boyd was not Don Vinton. If he had been, Judd would not be alive now. Boyd was incapable of committing murder. So he had been right about him not fitting the identi-kit of the killer. There was a certain ironic consolation in that.

“If it weren’t for you, Johnny would be alive,” Boyd sobbed. “He’d be here with me and I could have protected him.”

“I didn’t ask John Hanson to leave you,” Judd said wearily. “It was his idea.”

“You’re a liar!”

“Things had been going wrong between you and John
before
he came to see me.”

There was a long silence. Then Boyd nodded. “Yes. We—we were quarreling all the time.”

“He was trying to find himself, and his instincts kept telling him that he wanted to go back to his wife and children. Deep down inside, John wanted to be heterosexual.”

“Yes,” whispered Boyd. “He used to talk about it all the time, and I thought it was just to punish me.” He looked up at Judd. “But one day he left me. He just—moved out. He stopped loving me.” There was despair in his voice.

“He didn’t stop loving you,” Judd said. “Not as a friend.”

Boyd was looking at him now, his eyes riveted on Judd’s face. “Will you help me?” His eyes were filled with desperation. “H-help me. You’ve got to help me!”

It was a cry of anguish. Judd looked at him a long moment. “Yes,” Judd said. “I’ll help you.”

“Will I be normal?”

“There’s no such thing as normal. Each person carries his own normality within him, and no two people are alike.”

“Can you make me heterosexual?”

“That depends on how much you really want to be. We can give you psychoanalysis.”

“And if it fails?”

“If we find that you’re meant to be homosexual, at least you’ll be better adjusted to it.”

“When can we start?” Boyd asked.

And Judd was jolted back to reality. He was sitting here talking about treating a patient when, for all he knew, he was going to be murdered within the next twenty-four hours. And he was still no closer to finding out who Don Vinton was. He had eliminated Teri and Boyd, the last suspects on his list. He knew no more now than when he had started. If his analysis of the killer was correct, by now he would have worked himself up to a murderous rage. The next attack would come very, very soon.

“Call me Monday,” he said.

As the taxi took him toward his apartment building, Judd tried to weigh his chances of survival. They looked bleak. What could he have that Don Vinton wanted so desperately? And who was Don Vinton? How could he have had no police record? Could he be using some other name? No. Moody had clearly said “Don Vinton.”

It was difficult to concentrate. Every movement of the taxi sent spasms of excruciating pain through his bruised body. Judd thought about the murders and attempted murders that had been committed so far, looking for some kind of pattern that made sense. A knifing, murder by torture, a hit-and-run “accident,” a bomb in his car, strangulation. There was no pattern that he could discern. Only a ruthless, maniacal
violence. He had no way of knowing how the next attempt would be made. Or by whom. His greatest vulnerability would be the office and his apartment. He remembered Angeli’s advice. He must have stronger locks put on the doors of the apartment. He would tell Mike, the doorman, and Eddie, the elevator operator, to keep their eyes open. He could trust them.

The taxi pulled up in front of his apartment house. The doorman opened the taxi door.

He was a total stranger.