Twist (16 page)

“S
o who’s this Jesse Trummel?” Jody asked Carlie, as they had breakfasts of bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee in a diner on Amsterdam. Someone in the kitchen had screwed up and burned some bacon, or maybe they’d done it as a ploy to increase customer appetites. If so, some genius had then put onions on the grill.

Carlie swallowed a bite of toast. “I assume you got his name from the Q&A case file.”

“Yeah. Quinn asked me about him. I know he’s a draftsman at Bold Designs. But I mean
who
is he?”

“A bit of a nerd, but not a bad guy.”

“Does he have the hots for you?”

“I’d have to say yes,” Carlie said. “For a while, he had it in his mind he was going to be my silent and secret protector.”

“Maybe jump out of the shadows and beat up your attacker, then you two could go from there directly to bed.”

Carlie smiled. “Something like that.”

Jody nibbled on a charred twist of bacon and studied her. “You like this guy?”

“I don’t hate him. But like I said, he’s sort of nerdy.”

“Nerdy can be sexy.”

“So the nerds would have us believe.” Carlie sipped coffee and checked the time on her smartphone. She’d have to get out of here in about ten minutes if she was going to be at work on time.

“Did you ever do anything to encourage him?” Jody asked.

Carlie sputtered and coughed, dribbling coffee but catching most of it with her wadded paper napkin. “Not a chance!”

“I think his photos make him look like a reasonably handsome guy.”

“Jesse? I don’t think so.”

Jody was grinning.

Carlie shrugged. “It’s an office crush, that’s all. You must’ve had that kind of experience. You see a guy as a friend, but he sees everything you do together as the beginning of a love affair right out of
Casablanca
.”

“My guys are more like out of
Night of the Living Dead
,” Jody said.

Carlie checked the time again on her phone, which she’d left lying on the table next to her water glass. “Whatever Jesse Trummel does, or however he feels, I’m gonna do this assignment for Bold Designs, then probably head back to California. The nutcases there are more at street level and not stacked up in tall buildings. I like it better that way.”

They had that same thought simultaneously, but neither woman voiced it.

“Does Trummel pretty much keep the same hours you do?” Jody asked.

“Yeah. It’s a nine-to-five job, occasionally with overtime.”

Jody thumbed through the notes she’d brought with her. She squinted rather than put on her reading glasses.

“I’ve already got his home address,” she said.

“Jesse’s?”

“Jesse’s. While the rest of Q&A is keeping tabs on you, I’m going to make myself useful by watching him.”

“Why?”

“To make sure he’s not still watching you.”

“I don’t think it’s a problem. He’s been warned.”

“So has the Lady Liberty Killer,” Jody said. “He gets warned every day.”

 

 

Four hours later, Fedderman approached Quinn, who was seated at his desk battling paperwork.

Quinn sensed Feds’s looming, unkempt presence and looked up. “Something?”

“I was keeping a loose tail on Carlie,” Fedderman said, “and found myself also tailing Jody.”

Quinn sighed, laid flat the paper he’d been about to read, and sat back in his chair. “Why does it have to get so complicated?”

“People,” Fedderman said. “They’re the problem.”

“Jody knows the plan, and knows we’ve got Carlie covered. So why is she following her?”

“She isn’t following Carlie. She’s following Jesse Trummel.”

“That kid who works at Bold Designs?”

“Yep. She followed him from Bold Designs to a Peruvian restaurant, where he ate alone. From there he walked south, into the Village. Went to a sex shop.”

Quinn was interested. “What kind of sex?”

“All kinds, really. He seemed particularly interested in leather bondage equipment.”

“For males or females?”

Fedderman rubbed his chin. “That’s kinda hard to say.”

“So what’d he buy?”

“Nothing. Just browsed for about fifteen minutes, then left. Went straight back to work.”

“Jody take all this in?”

“Yeah. She didn’t spot me. I kept an eye on her, though. Soon as Jesse left, Jody went into the shop and asked the clerk if he’d bought anything. A few minutes later she scrammed out of there and caught up with Trummel walking up Broadway. Timed it just right, and didn’t do anything that’d draw attention to herself. She’s pretty good, for somebody who’s never been trained to tail.”

“A born huntress,” Quinn said.

Fedderman said, “Well, yeah.” Maybe thinking of Pearl and the genetic pool. “Sal and Harold took over the watch on Carlie when I took off after Jody and Trummel. They’re still on it.”

“Good. This sicko has to be feeling the pressure.”

“According to Helen, anyway.”

“Helen knows pressure.”

But Fedderman wondered if she did. There weren’t too many cases of profilers being shot or stabbed in the course of an investigation.

“I been thinking,” Fedderman said. “Well, Penny’s been thinking, actually. She came up with an idea.”

Fedderman’s wife, Penny. Quinn thought that was just what this case needed, another wily female.

“So what’s Penny’s idea?” he asked.

Fedderman smiled, knowing what Quinn must be thinking. Leave the detection to the pros. If the normal tension between a cop and his or her spouse became too much of a burden, then the people involved had to learn to deal with their problems, or walk away from the relationship.

But Fedderman didn’t spout nonsense, and he didn’t launch into a long explanation of why his wife wanted him to go into some other business. One that didn’t involve guns and knives and the people who used them.

“We know why Carlie is the particular victim the killer wants,” Fedderman said. “She belongs to you, and in the killer’s mind, he and you are engaged in a deadly chess game for the championship of the universe.”

“More or less,” Quinn said.

“Penny thinks that maybe Helen should ask to be a guest on
ASAP again
. Minnie Miner would probably salivate at the chance to do another lopsided interview with her. Helen could twist the knife in the wound. That’s if we really want to yank this guy’s chain.”

“Which we do,” Quinn said, not at all minding the dueling metaphors.

Quinn thought it was a pretty good idea. He was wondering about the way to get the most out of it. Timing would be important.

“Tell Penny thanks,” Quinn said.

“Something else,” Fedderman said.

“Always, Feds.”

“I went back to that sex shop and talked to the clerk. When Jody was in there earlier, she bought a dog collar that was displayed with the S and M merchandise. Big black leather one, with spikes. She got a dog?”

“Cat,” Quinn said.

“Oh.”

Quinn thought,
Good Lord!

H
elen said, “Quinn sent me.”

She was in the
Minnie Miner ASAP
studio reception room with a wooden table and chairs on one side, and matching green armchairs and a walnut coffee table on the other. The air was cool but didn’t smell good, as if there were crossed electric wires sizzling somewhere. There were
People
magazines on the coffee table. On the walls were framed photographs of Minnie Miner smiling and interviewing famous guests on her show, or smiling and bracing herself against a stiff wind that had blown years ago, when she did the weather for one of the major networks. Or smiling and standing in front of fires or crime scenes or damage from earthquakes or tornadoes, when she was doing local news in the Midwest. Or simply smiling.

Minnie seemed pleased, but slightly suspicious.

“Why Quinn sent me,” Helen said, “is he wants to make sure you understand a few things before I go on with you again, or before the killer calls you again. He thought I might be the best person to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“To the degree that it’s possible, I understand serial killers.”

“You’re awfully tall. You sure you never played basketball?”

“I’d remember,” Helen said. She was sprawled lanky and lean in one of the armchairs, smiling.

“I often ask people off-the-cuff questions like that,” Minnie said. “It surprises them. You never know what’s going to pop out.”

“Well, you’ve found out I can’t make free throws.”

“So what don’t I understand about serial killers?” Minnie asked.

“What the rest of us don’t understand. Why they kill.”

“I thought we’d settled that last time you were here. Their mothers mistreated them, right? So they’re killing substitute mothers over and over.”

“Often that’s the reason, and it seems to be with this killer. But at this point we can’t be sure. I’ve done this kind of thing before,” Helen said. “When he calls again, sort of let the killer determine where the conversation goes. He’ll forget that he needs to be cautious. He’ll make a slip. That one slip could mean the end of him.”

“Why don’t they simply kill their actual mothers?”

“Sometimes they do. Sometimes the actual mother reaches such iconic proportions that they’re afraid to try to kill her. She’s achieved, in their minds, immortality.”

“Or she’s already dead.”

“That, too,” Helen said. “You’ve done your research like a good journalist, but the knowledge we have isn’t always precise. The Lady Liberty statuettes, the manner in which those women were killed, do point to a maternal fixation. Why that is, we won’t know until we catch the killer. Or maybe we’ll never know. At a certain point, they often choose the violent way out. Suicide seems to them a logical conclusion, the completion of a dramatic arc.”

“As if they’re in a play.”

“They are in a play,” Helen said, “and now you’re in it, too.”

“You’re saying I’m in danger?”

“Oh, yes. The thing about this play is, he’s the director.”

“Listen, Helen, I’ve been in danger plenty of times. You don’t reach the level I have in the news business without risking your hide. I have my own security, and even if they’re not around, I know how to handle myself.”

“We know that,” Helen said. “What we want to know is whether you’ll cooperate if we ask for your help. You’re in a unique position to influence the killer.”

“Of course I’ll help to catch a serial killer.”

“Incidentally,” Helen said, “was the killer’s mention of his ‘Freedom to Kill’ message something you’d heard anywhere before?”

“No, that was the first I heard of it, during our on-air interview. He sprang it on me just like he sprang it on you guys.”

“He’ll probably call again. When he does, put him on. He’ll try to forge a bond with you. And because of your efforts to gain his trust, you might feel that helping us to apprehend him is a form of betrayal. It would be only human.”

“Human? What the hell is that? I’ve seen the world without its makeup, Helen.”

“Then you know the face of betrayal can be pretty ugly. You might not want it to be yours.”

Minnie smiled like an ingénue and said, “Helen, I’m not gonna form any bond of friendship with a serial killer. I’ll throw him under the bus and personally back over him. We don’t have enough toes and fingers between us to count all the people I’ve betrayed in order to get a story.”

“That’s reassuring,” Helen said dryly.

“It should be. I’m glad you came by the studio, because we need to understand each other. The killer’s trying to use me, and I’m using him. That’s what’s happening here, and nothing more. I’m on the side of God and sunshine and the law.”

Helen nodded and stood up. “That’s what we had to make sure of, Minnie.”

“Be sure.”

“These guys get by in the world by becoming charmers. He’ll try to make you fall for him.”

“He can believe I’ve been charmed, if he likes. If he keeps talking. That’s my method, Helen. Keep them talking until the mouth runs faster than the brain. That’s when the truth spills out.
Oops!
You can see it in their eyes. ‘I’ve said too much.’ That’s a sweet moment.”

“You and I,” Helen said, “we’re pretty much in the same business.” She stood up.

“No need to run,” Minnie said, looking up at her. “Hang around. Do some more Q and A.”

“No,” Helen said. “I’m afraid I might say too much.”

The wasps were stinging him, again and again. They were getting larger, too. Now they were as large as flying roaches.

He peeked out between the boards of the outhouse, rattled the door, screamed for help. The heat and the stench were overwhelming. The stench. The pain. He banged on the rough wooden door. Saw nothing outside but darkness. The wasps were even larger, brushing against his legs, crawling along the back of his neck. Flying hard into him.

God! If only he could fly out of here!

He crushed his face against the splintered door, peering through the crack, watching for her, watching for her . . .

She must come soon, with her lamp.

The Lady Liberty Killer woke listening to the trailing noise of his own frightened gasp.

Awareness and relief rushed in.

He was safe in his sweat-soaked bed.

He opened his eyes and stared around at a darkness that wasn’t complete. He could see hulking, shadowed forms of furniture, make out a rectangle of moonlight marking the edges of a window shade. A larger, darker rectangle that was the door to the hall, bathroom, and living room.

Familiar objects.

He was in his apartment. Not in Missouri. In New York. In the now and not the then. He mentally reached out and felt cool iron bars, rough concrete and brick, a lock, a knob.

Another door. A small window in it, with iron bars.

This one he wanted to open, not to get out,
but to get in
. He gripped the bars and tried without success to rattle them. He screamed and begged to be let in.

He wanted in!

He wanted in!

He woke up all the way and lay breathing hard, staring at a pale ceiling that was a tilting plane miles above him.

The thought filled him with dread and he hurriedly reached into the darkness and found the bedside lamp, its switch.

With a familiar click, the light came on, a hundred watts to chase away the shadows and demons of his dreams.

Outside, the city stirred restlessly in the night. Distant car horns blared. A siren like the wail of something woeful sounded far away in the dark. There was a muffled shout, a muted clang of metal. A bus or truck roared and rumbled down in the street.

Still, with every breath, with every heartbeat—fully awake and in the actual and coherent world—he wanted in.