by Rick R. Reed
"Drink up," he shouted. "We're going to my place."
"Can't we stay for a little while? They're fun." She nodded toward the stage.
"If I really believed you, I'd stay. C'mon, let's go." Nick drained his beer in one swallow and stood.
"Some date," Anne mouthed, putting down her beer and standing. Nick helped her put her coat on.
They were quiet on the ride to Evanston. Anne stared out the window, not wanting to talk, and Nick concentrated on his driving.
'This is nice, Nick," Anne said, touring his large studio. She seemed surprised to find it so neat and well decorated: rough-hewn pine and shades of navy and light blue made the room manly, but clean-looking, spare.
Nick switched on a lamp in the corner of the room.
"What? Think I've got no taste?" Nick smiled at her. "Sit down," he said, indicating the couch. "Can I get you something to drink? I think there's some Molson's in the fridge."
"That would be great," Anne said. Anything to delay talking about Joe. She leaned back against the cotton upholstery of the couch and closed her eyes, listening to Nick in the kitchen: the clink of glasses being taken from a cupboard, the refrigerator door opening and closing, the beer being poured.
She opened her eyes when he sat down beside her and handed her a glass.
They each took a sip. Nick leaned against her and kissed her, transferring some of the beer in his mouth to hers.
He set his glass on the table in front of them. "Okay, let's talk."
Anne shook her head. "I don't see why we have to."
"Yes, you do. Now, I know this isn't easy, but Joe—let's face it—he's insane. Everything in his journal points to it. It would be different if the journals were all like they were in his younger years. But you and I both read them. For years they were normal. The day-to-day thoughts and activities of a young man. True, what happened to him when he was growing up was awful, but even when he wrote about that it didn't seem like the ravings of a lunatic."
"He's not a lunatic."
"Anne, you can't deny that in the last few years those journals got crazier and crazier. A psychiatrist would have a field day with just a few of those pages."
"Maybe it's just creative writing. He is a writer, you know."
"Do you remember what he wrote about his sister?"
"Margo."
"Do you think that was just creative writing?" He didn't give her a chance to answer. "I know you don't. You said you didn't so don't deny it now."
She stared down at the floor. "Okay, so he's written some crazy things. That's private. It's no reason to suspect him of murder. Maybe he just needs some help."
"What about the other night? When he was downstairs, singing to you through the intercom?"
Anne hugged herself; she felt cold all of a sudden. She started to say something, then stopped.
"Weren't you afraid? Aren't you scared right now? Did his voice sound like the voice of a sane person?"
After a while she said, "You're right. But that still doesn't mean he's about to hurt me or anyone else."
"What about the Knife in the bathroom? The one you said was covered with dried blood?"
"So? Maybe he cut himself. He said so himself."
"And you said so yourself: There was too much blood on that knife for a little finger cut." Nick thought for a moment. "And remember later, when you went back? The knife was gone from the wastebasket. He had taken it out of there and hid it in just the few seconds you were gone."
"I don't know!" Anne hadn't meant to shout; she covered her mouth with her hand. She spoke very softly. "Maybe he just saw it in the wastebasket and didn't want it thrown out."
"Then why hide it? Why not just put it back on the sink where it was?"
"You remember every little detail, don't you?"
"It's my business. And I also remember you telling me how nervous he was when you asked him about it."
Anne stared down at the hardwood floor.
"Don't you see, Anne? All the reports say that the victims of the slasher were killed with an extremely sharp instrument, like a razor. An X-Acto knife fits the bill perfectly."
"So does a razor blade. So does somebody else's X-Acto."
"You keep comforting yourself," Nick said. "I'll be right back."
She listened to the bathroom door close. She covered her face with her hands, trying to block out the uncomfortable thoughts that were trying to invade. She didn't want to listen to Nick, but she had to.
When he came back he smiled at her. "I'm not doing this to make it hard on you." He sat down next to her and put his arms around her, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "It's because I care about you."
"I know," she said, looking into his pale gray eyes. She picked up her glass. "Some more?"
When he had returned with new glasses for both of them, Nick said, "I think the fact that he's dropped off the face of the earth looks bad for him too. Why hide? He could have stayed at the Y."
"Maybe he ran out of money?"
"Don't you have a joint bank account? Couldn't he have taken some money out of there?"
"I guess so."
"Of course he could have. He's hiding. People hide for a reason. Usually because they're afraid of something."
"I suppose you're right. In a way, he was missing long before we split up," Anne said. "All those times I told you about . . . when he was gone without any explanation or at least a good explanation. And I know one of those times might correspond with one of the killings. I'm not sure."
"I think you're sure."
"Not enough to go to the police or anything."
Nick rolled his eyes. "What about his relationship with Pat Young? Would that make you more sure?"
"That is confusing."
"It's more than confusing. It's suspicious. That woman knows something, and she's not telling. I haven't been a private detective for six years not to have developed some pretty reliable instincts."
"Well, we need more than instincts to take to the police."
Nick shook his head. "Sometimes I don't believe you. We have a lot more than instincts to go on." He touched her face when he saw how hurt and confused she looked. "I'm sorry, babe."
They were quiet for a while, sipping beer and looking at each other. Nick finally spoke. "Anne, remember that Pat Young lives right across the street from Maggie Mazursky, one of the victims. She could have easily seen the killer come and
go."
"Then why doesn't she come forward?"
"That I can't answer. I have a hunch she's protecting Joe. Why else deny knowing him when I spoke to her that one day? I know Joe went to her apartment. I saw it."
Anne stood up, placing her glass on the coffee table as she stood. Wandering over to the window, she parted the blinds and looked out. There was a full moon; the courtyard apartment building across the street looked silvery. The snow was melting. Spring was close.
"What are you thinking about?"
Anne laughed. "What do you think?" She let the blind fall back into place and turned to him. 'Tm thinking that you're right. There is something wrong with Joe." She went over and sat down, arranging his arms around her. "There's a little part of me that's holding out for the theory that Joe is just sick and not a killer, but a larger part is telling me I'm stupid to go on denying it."
"Then I can go to the police with what we have?"
She sat up suddenly, stiffening. "No!" She started breathing more rapidly, looking at him like he had just suggested organizing a lynch mob for Joe. "We can't do that. I don't want him hunted down and shot. That's what they'll do. Have you read the papers? This whole city is against him. We have to find him ourselves. Convince him to turn himself in. It'll be safer that way and Joe will stand a better chance in the courts."
Nick was shaking his head. "Anne, we can't do that. For one, I'm afraid of what he might do to you. I know you don't want to face it, but Joe might hurt or even kill you."
"He'd never . . ."
"You don't
know that! And don't argue with me about it. That just leaves me to look for him. If the police's task force know who they're looking for, we'll stand a much better chance of finding him. I can't do it alone. Besides, we can't withhold this information."
"Please, Nick. I don't want the publicity. They'll kill him."
Nick's mouth dropped open. "They'll kill him? Anne, what's wrong with you? You've seen how many people have died already. For the love of Christ, you have to know this is going to happen again and again and again." Nick searched her eyes for some clue to what she was feeling. "Think of the potential victims out there."
Anne lowered her head, letting her hair fall down over her face. Nick could see she was trembling. My God, he thought, what a place for her to be. He put his arms around her.
"No," she whispered, shrugging his arms away. She continued to stare at the floor. When she spoke, her voice carried no emotion. "You're just like everyone else. You have no understanding. I thought you were different, but you're not. You want to see him hunted down like an animal." She looked up at him, her face wet with tears. "Don't you?"
He tried to reach out to brush away some of the dark hair that had adhered to her face. She slapped his hand away—hard. "I don't want you to touch me."
They sat back against the couch then. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Nick turned off the light, thinking maybe the darkness would help them speak. Finally he said, "What? What can we do if we don't go to the police? Do you want another murder on your conscience?"
She turned to him and, even in the darkness, he felt her stare, "We don't know that Joe is anything more than disturbed. We don't know he's a killer."
I do, Nick thought, but knew that speaking those words would send her right out the door.
And out of his life. He imagined her walking out, the click of the door closing behind her. He reached down and took her hand, gripping, not letting go.
She whispered, "I have to talk to him."
He looked at her, saw the desperation in her face. Something inside him stirred. "Listen, Anne, I'll give it one more week. I'll try my best to find him. But if anything happens in that time, I go right to the police. And God help us ... if he should hurt you I don't know what I'd do."
She put her arms around him. "One week," she whispered. "That's fair."
"I mean it, Anne, just seven days. I shouldn't even be doing this much for you."
Anne parked the car and got out. She stretched. The shoot, for Lord & Taylor, had been endless. Now, as she looked around the parking garage, she wished she had let Nick meet her, as he wanted to do. But she insisted he keep on in his search for Joe.
The lights seemed dimmer than usual, although she was sure her imagination was just working overtime. It often did when she was tired. She started to walk to the elevator when she heard footsteps behind her. When she stopped, the parking garage was silent. She listened for a long time; the sudden honk of a horn made her jump and scream. A car was coming up through the tiers.
She heard a sound like a person bumping into a car.
She turned and looked into the shadows, not seeing anything. Hurrying to the elevator, she caught it just before the doors closed.
Once inside her apartment Anne switched on all the lights, trying to dispel her fear. She put an Oscar Peterson tape on. Sitting down at the kitchen table, she told herself not to be afraid. She was safe in her own apartment now and there was probably no one in the garage.
Turning off the lights as she headed back toward her bedroom, she debated whether she should call Nick. If he was in she knew he would be glad to come and spend the night with her, as he had for the past three nights. But as she turned off the stereo she thought she was just tired enough tonight to have no trouble sleeping.
Once the music was gone, silence, like white noise, filled the apartment. Somewhere above her a toilet flushed. Anne was grateful for the sound and the footsteps above her.
"You gotta let me in, asshole. I know you've got a key."
The doorman, Alec Rooney, stared back at Joe, nonplussed. No way was he letting that bum in this building. Called himself Joe MacAree. No way. Joe MacAree was a nice-lookin' fella, polite.
"Look, Anne's up there, asleep. I just don't want to wake her up. I just had a little bad luck, that's why I look like this."
Rooney sighed. "You got some ID?"
Joe patted at his pocket. No wallet. "Come on, man. It's late. Just gimme the passkey."
"No can do. You can try to call Ms. MacAree on the phone right over there; she can buzz you in. Simple, huh?" Rooney turned away from Joe to stare at the bank of monitors behind him.
"Son of a bitch," Joe mouthed through clenched teeth. Without even looking around he brought out the X-Acto and slashed at the back of the man's neck. Rooney gasped in surprise. Joe grabbed his dark ponytail, pulling his head back. Quick and deep, he slashed Rooney's throat. Blood arced out and splattered a stack of reports on the desk in front of him.
And then Joe bent to cover the wound, sucking up the hot, coppery warmth as it pumped into his mouth, giving him sustenance and the strength to hold the struggling man down while he drank.
Rooney's struggling ebbed away. Joe looked around. There was no one. He knew there was a janitor's closet right behind the desk. He snatched up the blood-stained papers with one hand and with the other arm lifted Rooney from his seat. He dragged the doorman back to the closet and put him inside, throwing his night's work on top of him.
Joe rubbed his bloodstained hands on his pants. "There, you bastard," he said to the lifeless form. "That'll teach you a little deference, something a man in your position oughta have." Joe giggled.
* * *
Her eyes were closed and she felt herself drifting off to sleep when she heard the click.
She sat up in bed, instantly recognizing the sound and, at the same time, telling herself it had to be something else.
The sound of a key being fitted into a lock. Turning.
She felt sweat breaking out on her forehead, felt her heart pounding.
The door opened and closed. Softly. Silence.
A bang . . . the sound of a leg hitting a coffee table.
A whispered giggle.
Anne pulled at her nightgown, her palms sweating. There were some creaks in the floor as she heard him making his way to the back of the apartment.
Getting closer.
Anne looked about in the darkness, hardly able to breathe. Her instincts told her to curl into a little ball, offering some kind of animal protection that was no protection at all.
Almost without thinking, she slid from beneath the bedclothes and stood. She tiptoed to the closet and opened the door, praying it wouldn't creak. Inside, she stooped and closed the door behind her. In the back of the closet she curled up and pulled one of Joe's old ski parkas over her.
She listened and waited.
Finally she heard him in the bedroom. He was humming and laughing to himself.
"Annie . . . Annie," he said, "come out, come out wherever you are."
She heard him walk to the adjoining bathroom.
Then she heard him come back . . . toward the closet. He was giggling.
The giggling sounded so foreign to her that she questioned for a moment if this even was Joe. She wished she could make herself believe it was someone else. Even a random psychopath would be better than having the man you loved kill you.
The closet door swung open and Anne stopped breathing.
"Come to Papa, Annie. I have a surprise for you." More laughter.
He kicked over some boots, groping in the shadows of the closet.
The door closed and Anne bit her lower lip, tasting blood. She listened and heard a ripping sound, followed by others. Joe breathed heavily as he worked. Anne listened for what seemed like hours, wondering what the ripping noise was.
Finally she heard him say, "You bitch. I'll get you." His breathing was ragged, as if he had just sprinted a mile.
She heard his footst
eps receding as he walked to the front of the apartment. He slammed the front door.
A trick? Anne didn't want to come out. She curled up even tighter, peering out from under the parka until the wan light of dawn came through the crack at the bottom of the closet.
When she emerged, all the bedclothes, the mattress, and four pillows had been shredded. Feathers were everywhere; all that remained were tattered strips of cloth.
Anne remembered the ripping noise and knew Joe must have added a bigger knife to his arsenal.
She picked up the phone and dialed Nick's number. "Please be home," she whispered.
" 'Lo?" He sounded sleepy.
Anne didn't care. "Nick, please come over right away. We have to contact the police."
From Joe MacAree's journal (undated):
A doorman's blood is different. Perhaps a little hotter, a little sweeter. One supposes that heat and sweetness come from the lack of use of the brain. He deserved to die. But I was sloppy, careless. I have to watch that. The story's plastered all over the Tribune this morning.
I should have taken Annie though. She was the one I came for. That poor, stupid son of a bitch just got in my way. Slowed me down, threw off my timing. But Annie, dear sweet Annie . . .
Ill get you next time.
Nick sat at his desk, hunched over the portable Underwood he'd had since graduating from Loyola Academy nine years ago. He concentrated on the outline he was preparing. He had an appointment to see Detective Pete McGrew at
eleven and wanted to be sure the homicide detective had no doubts about placing this subject high on a priority list. Nick had grown up with Pete and knew he'd take the time to listen. It also didn't hurt that Pete McGrew was one of the leading members of the police department's task force on the Chicago Slasher.
As Nick tried to put facts to paper, though, he grew discouraged. Although it seemed clear the killer could be no one else but Joe when Nick was convincing Anne, the information he had was, at best, circumstantial. He took a sip of his coffee and glanced down at the erasable bond paper in his typewriter. One of the first things he had listed in his outlifte was the journals. True, no one would argue that Joe was a very sick man, but where was anything that pointed to his killing anyone? Anne suggested that the entries describing the killings were probably with Joe, wherever he was hiding. That didn't do him much good.
