Without Mercy (13 page)

“I’m not with any other girls when I’m not with you. I’m either at work or I’m here alone sleeping.’’

She pouted. “I don’t believe you.”

“How can you love me when you think I’m a liar?”

“Sometimes I wonder myself.”

“But it’s all right for you to sleep with other men,” he said, leaning toward her.

“What do you mean?”

“Donald and God knows who else?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Why can’t I have other boyfriends? We’re not married.”

“Then why can’t I have other girlfriends?”

She pointed her finger at him. “I knew you had other girlfriends.”

“I don’t, but you have no right to be jealous.”

“I do too.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand this conversation.”

She placed her hand on his. “Let’s get married, Danny.”

“I thought you were going to marry Donald.”

“I won’t marry him if you marry me.”

“I thought women didn’t want to get married anymore.”

“We don’t.”

“Then why do you want to marry me?”

“Because I want to, but we can live together if you like. I just don’t want to be alone anymore, Danny. I’m tired of going on dates. I want to have just one man.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

“You will?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “You really will?”

“I told you I will. I’m getting tired of going out on dates too.”

She frowned. “Who are you going out on dates with?”

“I’m not going out on dates with anybody.”

“Then why did you say you were?”

“It’s just a way of saying that I’m getting tired of screwing around.”

“Who are you screwing around with?”

“Nobody. I’m talking about the concept of being single.”

“Oh.”

He looked at his watch. “You know, I really ought to go to work.”

“But Danny,” she protested, “I hardly ever see you. Just a few more minutes.”

“Okay.”

“I thought we were going to go to bed together,” she said unhappily. “We haven’t been to bed together for weeks.”

“Okay, let’s go now.” He stood up.

She looked at him. “Just like that?”

“What am I supposed to do—stand on my head?”

“You could be a little romantic.”

“I’ll be romantic in the bedroom.”

She got up and they went into the bedroom. He took off his bathrobe and hung it over the bedpost, while she unbuttoned her dress. She pulled it over her head and then bent over and rolled down her pantyhose. He looked at her, so lithe and graceful, such a lovely body, so utterly desirable. Moving toward her, he clasped her tightly against him, kissing her neck. He felt her hands on his back as she strained against him. Their lips fastened together and tongues intertwined. He was getting very excited. Picking her up, he laid her down on the bed, pulling down her underpants, which was all she was wearing now. He touched his hand to her fluff, and she sucked in air through her teeth, wrapping her fingers around his dong, squeezing it. They kissed again and he caressed her groove, making it hot and moist. His blood was boiling and his ears pounded with lust. He laid on top of her, got into position, and slid it in.

“Ooohhhhhh,” she whispered as it filled her up.

Suddenly he froze. “Did you put your diaphragm in?” he asked.

“I put it in before I came over,” she said,

“Good girl,” he replied, beginning to work her.

Chapter Thirteen

It was two o’clock in the morning and Rackman lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Francie was cuddled up next to him, fast asleep, and he wondered what to do with her. He didn’t think he was in love with her, but he liked her an awful lot. He certainly enjoyed screwing her once in a while, but after it was over he always felt disgusted with sex and wished he was alone. It wasn’t just Francie—he was like this with other women too. He lusted after them like a horny old billy goat, and then after he had them he was overcome with revulsion.

He’d been wondering about this for a long time, and had come to the conclusion that he wouldn’t feel such revulsion if he liked the women more as people and less as his little sex bunnies. If he could admire and respect them he thought he wouldn’t be so prone to disgust and loathing after lovemaking, but Francie could be an awful pain in the ass, and so had most women he’d ever been mixed up with. He needed a woman he could love more completely, but where was she? That airline stewardess who’d been his second wife was the absolute worst. She was screwing other guys after they’d been married only three months.

The phone rang. He rolled over and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“I hope I’m not disturbing anything,” said Inspector Jenkins on the other end. His voice sounded sleepy.

“You’re not disturbing anything. What’s going on?”

Francie had awakened and was trying to bring her ear closer to the receiver. Rackman made room for her so she could listen and know it wasn’t another girl.

“It’s the Slasher again,” Jenkins said. “He killed a girl on West Ninety-fifth Street. Can you meet me at the morgue?”

“Sure thing.”

“You’d better shave if you haven’t recently. The Commissioner will be there and the mayor might even try to get into the act.”

“Is she another massage parlor girl?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m home and I just got the call. I’m assuming that the detectives on the scene will determine that by the time we get downtown.”

Rackman hung up the phone and rolled out of bed, groaning.

“Where are you going?” Francie asked.

“To the morgue.’’

“Now?”

“Yes.”

He lumbered to the bathroom to get cleaned up, and she followed him, tiptoeing naked over the floor.

“What happened?” she asked, her arms crossed over her breasts.

He began brushing his teeth. “The Slasher killed another girl.”

“My goodness!” She watched him for a few moments. “How come you have to go to the morgue?”

“Because I’m working on the case,” he said through the suds.

“You mean they can’t get along without you?”

“They can get along fine without me, but I ought to be there because I’m working on the case.” He rinsed out his mouth. “In fact, I blew the case wide open yesterday.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I found out who the Slasher is.”

“Who is he?”

“Some crazy cabdriver.”

“Why doesn’t somebody arrest him?”

“Because nobody knows where he is.”

“Oh shit,” she said, annoyed. “This would have to happen on the one night we were going to spend together.”

“Don’t be so sentimental. We can sleep just as well alone.”

“Maybe you can, but I can’t.”

Rackman dried his face and returned to the bedroom to get dressed. Francie took his bathrobe off the bedpost and put it on, then lit a cigarette and sat cross-legged on the bed. Rackman took his gray slacks and blue blazer combination out of the closet.

“You have to get all dressed up to go to the morgue?’’ Francie asked.

“Shut up, will you?” he said, pulling on the pants. “I’m trying to think.”

He saw the hurt on her face and regretted telling her to shut up. Women can drive you crazy. “I didn’t mean that,” he said.

“I’m used to remarks like that from you,” she replied.

They make you mad, then make you feel guilty for getting mad. Rackman took a fresh shirt out of the drawer and put it on.

“I really shouldn’t see you anymore,” she said.

“I don’t know what to tell you Francie.”

“You really don’t give me very much.”

“Maybe I don’t have very much to give.”

“Maybe you don’t.”

Rackman tied his necktie and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like a nice clean-cut detective, the kind the Commissioner liked.

“I guess you’ll stay here,” he said to her reflection in the mirror.

“Do you mind?”

“No. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator.” He put on his blue blazer and put a fresh pack of Luckies in the inner pocket. “Well, I’m sorry that I’ve got to go, but I’ve got to go.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “I’ll call you.”

“’Bye Danny,” she said.

Chapter Fourteen

She was a black girl in her mid-twenties and she lay very still on the slab in the morgue, her eyes closed. Her windpipe was sliced in two and another big cut was on the side of her neck. She had a nice figure, somewhat on the heavy side, and had bruises on her face.

Rackman looked at her and felt helpless because the Slasher still was on the loose and probably would kill another woman before they caught him. He might even kill a few more. In the Forties, a killer in Buffalo had decapitated twenty-two victims and hadn’t been caught.

Rackman stood between Jenkins and Johnny Olivero. On the other side of the slab was Police Commissioner Hurley, who had a pointed nose and wavy black hair, and First Deputy Harnick, who wore a vested suit that made him look like a banker. The medical examiner had told them that the victim had been cut first from the side, and then from the front. She’d been dragged from the sidewalk down the stairs beside a brownstone to the basement entrance. The Slasher had kicked and punched her, and also urinated on her. She’d been found by a musician returning home from a gig.

So far they knew her name was Barbara Collins and that she lived with another girl in an apartment farther down the block. She worked as a performer in a live sex show establishment near Times Square and had given three performances that night. The Slasher had left his fingerprints on her pocketbook. The fingerprints matched those of Frank Kowalchuk’s on his hack license application.

Commissioner Hurley looked at Jenkins. “I want you to put everybody you’ve got on this case.”

“Yes sir,” replied Jenkins.

“The Chief of Detectives is on his way here now. I’m putting him directly in charge, and hereafter it will be the first priority of this department. This thing is going to be all over the papers tomorrow, and the people of New York will want results. We’ve got to get this guy, and that’s all there is to it.”

“We know who he is,” Jenkins said. “It’s just a matter of time before we track him down.”

“It’d better not be too much time,” Commissioner Hurley said.

“We’ll do our best, sir.”

“You’d better.”

Commissioner Hurley looked at the first deputy, and both of them walked out of the room. Jenkins, Rackman, and Olivero relaxed, shuffling their feet and putting their hands in their pockets.

“This is going to be a big thing in the press tomorrow,” Jenkins said grimly. “The shit will really hit the fan. One murder like this is an isolated incident, two are a problem, but three are a fucking epidemic.”

Rackman nodded. “When you talk to the chief of detectives, maybe you should suggest saturating the Times Square area with plainclothes cops who have Kowalchuk’s picture with them.”

“I already thought of that. Tell me something new.”

“He might be living in one of those hotels around lower Madison Avenue where a lot of cabdrivers stay. We should check them out.”

“I thought of that too. Midtown South will take care of it, and we’ll go through the hotels up our way. We’ll check cafeterias and sleazy bars, even the YMCA. The Chief of Patrol will comb the sidewalks for the fucker. If he stays in New York, we’ll get him.”

Olivero cleared his throat. “We should check every taxi garage in the city because he might change garages.”

“Don’t worry about it. From now until we catch
him, cabdrivers won’t be able to move without bumping into cops.”

Rackman left the morgue and got into his car, driving uptown. He puffed a cigarette as he passed the quiet nighttime sidewalks and isolated drunks staggering along. Everything was closed for the night except for a sandwich shop or deli every several blocks. Rackman wondered where Kowalchuk was and what he was doing.

He knew that Kowalchuk was somewhere out there right now, maybe asleep or even walking the streets. He might be that drunk sprawled in the doorway over there. No, that drunk was too skinny. Kowalchuk was a big fat guy.

Rackman remembered Kowalchuk’s face on his hack license application. That face, an average face, was the face of a killer. What kind of man was he? What was driving the sick son of a bitch?

Rackman figured Kowalchuk must hate women a lot, that that must be his principal motivation. Maybe a woman had shit on him, or maybe he was sexually frustrated and that had turned to resentment, hatred, and finally murder. Certainly sexual craziness must have something to do with it, in view of all the porno stuff in his apartment and the fact that his victims were porno girls. The poor bastard couldn’t deal with women and was freaking out.

He sounds a little like me, Rackman thought, and then a chill passed over him as that insight wormed through his brain. He realized that he and Kowalchuk both had difficulties with women, and that Kowalchuk was only a more extreme version of himself. But they were brothers under the skin. If I’d been pushed a little harder, Rackman thought, maybe I would have become a Slasher and the police would be looking for me, who knows?

Rackman chewed his lower lip as he realized that in pursuing the Slasher he also was pursuing the dark side of his own nature. The part that was irrational and wild. The part that could kill if it ever was squeezed hard enough.

“I’ve got to get him,” Rackman whispered through his clenched teeth as he drove toward Midtown North.

Part Two – The Slasher

Chapter One

It was eleven o’clock at night on Times Square. The gaunt-faced hawker on the street corner rustled the small leaflets in his hands. “Beautiful girls—check ‘em out!” he said, thrusting a leaflet toward the gut of the fat man.

The fat man took the leaflet and looked at it as crowds of pedestrians passed him by:

Private Sessions

Dozens of Lovely Girls to Choose From

Complete Satisfaction and

Complete Privacy