Obsessed

by Rick R. Reed

  Pete didn't answer; he led them back to his office. After they sat down he said, "Because you're a friend, Nick, and because Mrs. MacAree here is worried, I'm going to tell you something. I'm sure I can trust both of you, so I won't even ask you to keep this under your hats. I know you will."

  Anne and Nick looked at him, their faces expectant. "You can trust us," Nick said.

  "We got a lead in the other morning that makes us pretty sure the guy has been seen."

  Both Nick and Anne leaned forward.

  "There's a guy in Cook County Hospital right now with a mutilated penis and stab wounds to the neck. Sorry, Mrs. MacAree. He saw the guy who did it to him; he saw the weapon. It was an X-Acto knife."

  Anne closed her eyes and gripped the arms of her chair.

  "There was also a black guy who ran into the washroom where the attack took place and scared the guy off. But he got a good look at him. Our artists have made up a composite based on their descriptions."

  Pete opened his desk and took out a photocopied drawing. They stared down at the grizzled, dirty face of a killer. Anne stared at the drawing for a long time. She traced the shape of the face with her finger.

  "Anne? You okay?" Nick asked.

  'This looks a lot like Joe," she whispered. She looked up at McGrew. "But there's something wrong with the nose. Joe's isn't that wide. I couldn't say for sure."

  Pete smiled at her. "These sketches are usually off-base. Witnesses' descriptions always vary, and time plays tricks with what they remember. They could have seen your husband and this could be a pretty good likeness. On the other hand, what they remember could be way off and it's a coincidence that this looks like your husband. Hell, in the Son of Sam case, there was a police officer who was suspected because he looked like he sat for the police artist's sketch."

  Nick stared at the drawing. "It does look like him though, Pete."

  Pete nodded. "Right. And that's one more reason we're putting this guy in our number one priority."

  "You're not giving us the runaround, are you?"

  Pete shook his head. "Nick, you're from the neighborhood. I hope you don't really want me to answer that."

  "I guess not."

  "What happens now?" Anne asked.

  "You go home. I'll have a car pass by your place every once in a while. We'll put a tap on your line. If he calls keep him on as long as you can. But don't do anything stupid like inviting him over. If he really is the killer you may not live to testify."

  Anne looked scared and Nick put his arm around her.

  "Can I help?" Nick asked. There was hope in his voice; in his short career of investigating marital infidelity and office pilfering, he longed to get involved with something big like this.

  "The best thing you can do, buddy, is see that this lady here is kept safe and stay out of our way. I know you're good, but just let us work. We don't want anything to fuck this up."

  Nick tried to conceal his disappointment by smiling. "Sure. I got you." He stood. "Maybe you should be getting back to work, Anne. I'll drop you off."

  She looked down at her watch. "You're right." She was deadpan.

  Nick extended his hand to Pete. "Thanks for taking the time."

  'Thank you," Pete said, shaking Nick's hand. "Keep us posted."

  "We will."

  Pete watched the two of them leave. Pretty lady, he thought to himself, how the hell did you get mixed up with a nut case like your husband?

  Upstairs, Detective Pete McGrew wrote the name Joe MacAree on a card, jotting down the vital facts. He placed the card in a file and put it in a drawer marked priority one. There the file joined about a half-dozen others. Later the task force would go over any new leads they had gotten, and Pete would push for surveillance and possible arrest.

  He hadn't wanted to frighten Anne, but this sounded like the guy.

  25

  Detective A1 Schulty and criminal reporter for The Chicago News Beth Allison had a symbiotic relationship. Neither of them would have admitted it. Each would have claimed love, or at least lust, for the other. But deep down they both knew they didn't much like each other. Beth got good leads for stories, now and then an exclusive, and A1 got good sex.

  The motel room they were in was hot. They had just fucked, and Beth had a light sheen of sweat on her face and in the valley between her breasts. Al was panting, turned away from Beth and staring at the hunting scene depicted on one wall. Beth ran her hand down his thigh and caressed his half-hard penis, still wet from their activity. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "I love fucking you."

  Al turned to look at her, his dark eyes searching her blue ones, taking in the mane of light

  brown frosted hair curling around her face. Ten minutes ago, when they were in the act, he would have loved her comment; it would have turned him on even more. But now it seemed crude. He wished she hadn't said it.

  She bit his lip and stuck her tongue in his ear. "Don't you just love fucking me?"

  He smiled and laughed. "Yeah. But I wish you wouldn't talk that way."

  She stroked the well-defined muscles in his chest, letting her hand roam down over his washboard stomach. "Don't talk . . . just do?"

  "Right." He kissed her, hoping to end the conversation, ease gracefully out of bed, and begin getting ready to go bade to work. He sat up and put his feet on the floor.

  "Where you goin' so fast?" She tickled him and laughed.

  "Bathroom." He got up quickly and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He looked at his face in the mirror, how his black hair curled around his forehead from sweat. Shit, he thought, I don't even like her that much. He stood over the toilet and pissed. But she's the best fuck I ever had, probably ever will have. He thought of the tame couplings he had with his fiancee: the extra care she made him take, the constant instructions to do this, touch that, kiss there. She made him feel like a machine. But Beth was all action, ready to go even before he was, and able to go all night if he could keep up. She wrung him dry. He wondered if he'd be able to give her up once he married in the spring. Every time he saw her he planned to tell her how he felt, that this couldn't go on. She knew he was engaged and admitted it didn't bother her. He looked in the mirror once more, ran his fingers through his hair, and went back to the bedroom.

  He slipped his white oxford-cloth shirt on and began buttoning it.

  "That looks so sexy," Beth said, staring at him. "That big cock just peeking out at the bottom of that shirt. Come here."

  "No, Beth. I really gotta get goin'. I'm supposed to meet with McGrew in about fifteen minutes."

  She sat up, looking petulant. "Big break in the slasher case?"

  He grinned. "You know I can't tell you about that."

  She got up and came to him. She grabbed his cock and began rubbing it against her wet sex. "What can you talk about, big boy?" she whispered in his ear and then bit it.

  In spite of himself, he was getting aroused again. He tried to break away, but she was strong. She held on tight, kissing his neck and working her way down his chest, then his stomach. She took his cock in her mouth and got him fully aroused. Then she broke away from him.

  "I gotta go too!" she said brightly. "Gotta be getting down to that courthouse. Davidson's trial starts today," she said, referring to a rapist.

  "You can't do this to me," he said, looking down at his penis, which was engorged and red, waiting. He felt like he did back in high school when all of his girlfriends were "saving it" for marriage.

  "We both have work to do," she said, smiling at him. "I'm gonna hop in the shower."

  Just as she was closing the door, he put out an arm to block it. "No, you don't," he whispered, his voice hoarse with wanting. He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the bathroom. He lifted her, took her to the bed, and threw her down.

  "You bastard," she said, but she was grinning. "This is going to cost, you know." She opened her legs and pulled her lips open. "This will cost plenty."

  After it was ove
r she said, "Now tell me about the break in the slasher case."

  "What break?"

  "Don't try to kid me. I've been around. I know something's up." She grabbed his face. "I can see it in your sexy face."

  He smiled. "I shouldn't tell you. Protect your source."

  "I always do."

  "Well, it's not concrete, but something just happened to make one suspect look real good. . . ."

  The late-afternoon edition of The Chicago News screamed the headline: suspect being

  sought in connection with slasher killings. There was a subhead that told readers, "Task Force Believes This is the One." The story, with a Beth Allison byline, went on to tell how several pieces of evidence had been amassed, all pointing a very strong finger to Joseph MacAree, who had recently left his Lake Shore address and disappeared. The story was an exclusive, and the

  News saw its circulation jump that day from 158,000 to 380,000 readers.

  Randy Mazursky was one of the 380,000 people who bought the News that day, over his usual Sun Times. When he saw the headline on the newsstand his hands began shaking; it was hard for him to get the change out of his pocket and hand it to the magazine-stand vendor.

  He had been wandering around his old neighborhood (the one he had shared with Maggie) trying to plan his next move in finding Joe when he saw the headlines and the newspapers spread out over the usual pornographic magazines.

  "Ain't that somethin'?" the guy behind the counter at the newsstand said, taking a puff on his cigarette. "They should string that fucker up by his balls."

  "Right," Randy said, walking away. He sat down on the curb, not feeling the wet, dirty snow being sopped up by his jeans. He read the story three times, finding it hard to believe the police task force had come up with the same suspect Pat Young had given him weeks ago.

  He looked up at the pearl gray sky; a warm breeze rustled his hair. Spring was coming.

  And Randy didn't want the police to get hold of Joe MacAree. He didn't want to see the bastard get off on an insanity plea, like all the other pricks who killed without thinking. He didn't want to be a victim anymore.

  Randy was due at work in fifteen minutes to work the later afternoon-evening shift. He had missed more days in the past two months than he had in his entire employment with the restaurant. His district manager was trying to be understanding, but Randy knew his patience was wearing thin. Randy also knew that once he found MacAree there would no longer be any need for a job.

  He got in his car, forgetting about his job and heading for the Lake Shore Drive address where he hoped to find MacAree's wife.

  Anne stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a gray towel. She wiped the steam away from the mirror with the palm of her hand. The circles under her eyes were dark; she had begged off of two modeling assignments because she didn't want anyone to see her looking the way she did. She picked up a comb.

  The buzzer sounded in the living room. Anne pulled her robe from the back of the bathroom door and hurried to quiet it. It rang two more times before she spoke through the intercom.

  "Who is it?"

  "Randy Mazursky."

  "I don't know anyone by that name."

  "I know, Mrs. MacAree. But I need to talk to you." He paused. "It's about your husband."

  Anne put a hand to her forehead, feeling a headache begin. She had seen the News. "Okay," she said, and pulled on a pair of jeans and navy blue turtleneck sweater. She pulled her hair back with a rubber band. By the time she was slipping into her Nikes, she heard a knock at the door.

  "Coming," she shouted, wondering where she got the strength to speak. When would all this be over? She opened the door and looked at the man standing in the hallway. He was younger than she had expected, with sandy hair and a lanky frame. He was wearing cords and a beige sweater, boots. She was wondering what the connection could be between this young man and her husband.

  "Can I come in?"

  "I guess so." Anne stepped back to admit him, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Then it clicked: the name. Mazursky. One of the women who had been killed had been named Mazursky. Anne felt chilled. Had he come here to even up the score? A wife for a wife?

  Why had she let him in?

  "What do you want?" she asked, her voice growing trembly with fear.

  He smiled at her, knowing she probably had nothing to do with her husband's problems. He wanted to reassure her. "Mrs. MacAree, please don't worry. I saw the look on your face when you realized who I was. Can I sit down?"

  She gestured toward a chair, then sat down on the couch across from him.

  He opened his hands in front of him. "Very simply, the reason I'm here is because I want to find your husband."

  "So you can kill him?"

  Randy smiled. "Of course not, Mrs. MacAree. Of course not. I just want to see him apprehended before he puts someone else through what I've gone through since I lost Maggie. I'm trying to assist the police. The Berwyn force knows I'm here. Do you have any idea where he might be?"

  Anne shook her head, staring at the floor. "I'm sorry about your wife." She looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears.

  "If you're really sorry," Randy said slowly, "you'll tell me how I can find him. You must have some idea where he might go. I know it's hard, but he has to be caught."

  Anne looked at his face for a long time, wondering if there was any truth to what he was saying. What kind of police force would put a crime victim in charge of helping them find a suspect? She realized though, and the realization made her wonder about herself and her true feelings, she might help him if she could. "I'm sorry, but I've been searching for him myself. I've hired a private investigator. I have no idea where Joe might be. The last place he was staying was the Lawson YMCA on Chicago Avenue. But he hasn't been there for a long time. I think he's hiding."

  "Surely you must know something."

  "No."

  Randy sighed and wrung his hands. "Listen, I know it's your husband, and I know he's probably very sick. You don't want to see anything bad happen to him. And you probably don't feel much for his victims. After all, they're impersonal to you, people you don't even know. Nameless."

  Anne stared at him. "Don't you tell me what I feel. I was almost a victim myself! Don't you dare try to tell me how I feel!" She was sobbing.

  "Hey ... I'm sorry."

  "Forget it. I think it's time for you to go."

  "Listen, could you just hook me up with that private investigator of yours?" Randy was already thinking ahead, picturing himself following the investigator, finding out where Joe was.

  "No," Anne said, struggling to rein in her emotions. "I can't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "I just can't! Now, please, go away."

  Randy could see she was too upset to reason with. He doubted she bought his story anyway.

  "Okay, okay. I'm leaving. Could I just use your bathroom first?" Randy also doubted she'd let him.

  She surprised him. "It's right in there, through the bedroom."

  Randy followed her pointing finger and went into the bedroom. He looked quickly around the room. On the dresser was a round brass frame containing a picture of Mrs. MacAree and the man who could only be Joe. He picked it up quickly and stuck it under his sweater, then hurried into the bathroom.

  When he came out he heard water running in the kitchen. He went in and saw her leaning over the sink, rinsing out a cup.

  "I'm going now. I'm sorry I had to bother you."

  "Are you planning on taking that photograph with you?"

  Randy stopped, feeling a cold sweat break out on his forehead. "What?"

  "The photo you took from the bedroom. I can see the frame's outline under your sweater."

  Randy felt nauseated as he took the photograph out from under his sweater. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Anne's mouth was set in a line.

  The two stared at one another for a long time. It seemed to Randy that Anne was trying to make a decision. She turned and glanced out the
kitchen window, knuckles white on the counter-top. Finally she turned back to him. She took a deep breath and said, "Listen, I think you should keep it. I want you to have it. To do . . . whatever you need to do with it." Randy saw tears standing in her eyes. She turned away.

  "Are you sure? Look, you can have it back."

  Anne didn't say anything. She didn't look at him.

  Randy sat in the front seat of his car, sweating in spite of the cold. Hfs stomach felt like a fist: doubled tight, white hot. He wondered how long it would be before the police and/or the press coaxed a photograph out of her to publish in the papers.

  He looked down at the picture in its brass frame. This man, with his arm around a beautiful woman, looked normal. Randy expected a monster. He expected to see something in his eyes that would show how crazy he was. There should be some trace, Randy thought. How could this man have killed the only person that really mattered to Randy and look normal?

  The traffic rushed by on Lake Shore Drive. Randy looked down once more at the picture in its brass frame. He noticed that his hands were shaking, and the glass in the frame reflected, off and on, the dull afternoon sunlight. With a shaking finger he forced himself to touch the likeness of Joe MacAree. He wondered what he would be like, how Maggie had felt when she'd opened the door to him. What had he said to her? Had she let him in? He remembered there had been no signs of forcible entry. His eyes brimming with tears, he asked Maggie, Why? Why did you let him in? But he remembered why he had loved her: She always believed in the good that existed in people. She left cars unlocked, gave bums change when they begged. She was the kind of person who would let a stranger in if he asked to use the telephone.

  Was that what he had said? Had it been something as flimsy as that? Randy didn't want to think so; he preferred thinking MacAree had forced his way in once Maggie opened the door. That way she would have no responsibility for her death. Not that she did anyway.

  For a moment, Randy felt as if he had left his car. The sound around him ceased. Then he looked down and noticed he had poked through the glass of the frame. Blood trickled across the photograph.

  Once again his mother was crying.