"An original," she said. "Before they made him stop signing that way."
I nodded, keeping my face expressionless—it wasn't the first time I'd seen Serial Killer Chic proudly displayed by moral midgets. The thrill–killers themselves have a rigid pecking order: if you want to qualify for celebrity status, if you want freakish disciples memorizing your trial transcripts like they were religious tracts, if you want erotic mail and money orders too, it's not enough to have slaughtered a bunch of people, there's other qualifications you have to meet. First, it really helps to have three names, like Westley Alan Dowd or Henry Lee Lucas. Then you need a high body–count—preferably in several states, so you can have serial trials to go with your serial killings. If you can lead the cops to some buried bodies, that's always good for a few more fans. But the most important thing is what John Wayne Gacy lacked—the secret ingredient that rocketed Ted Bundy to high–status serial killer even without a middle name. If you want to be at the top, you've got to kill females, the younger the better. Holding victims captive is a plus. So is torture. But it's all for nothing if you don't do it to females—male–victim snuff films always do lousy box office.
Belinda spread her arms wide, like a rancher showing how much land he had. "This is a perfect place," she said. "All the other lofts are empty—the owner bought them out. He wants to convert the place to condos. This is the last one."
"Very nice," I said, still thinking about the Gacy painting.
She walked over and perched on a big white plastic cube—it must have been stronger than it looked. The only other seat was a leather director's chair, with "Jon" written in embroidered script across the back panel. I took it, settled in, waited.
Belinda leaned forward. "Did you…find out anything? I know it's early, but…"
"Yeah," I told her. "I found out some stuff. DNA."
"That isn't foolproof," she said so quickly that she must have known. "They only got that in Jersey, right? And the woman on University Place, George knew her, I told you. Before it happened, I mean. And there was no sperm in her anyway, remember? Just that red ribbon…"
"So he just caught a bad break, right?" I asked. "He had legit sex with her, then some maniac came along and wasted her before she got a chance to leave the apartment?"
"It's not the weirdest thing I've ever seen," she said. "One time, when I was working Vice, I—"
"Yeah. Okay, I got it—people are strange, sure. But here's the part that throws me—the woman on University Place, the other two victims, none of them had any sperm in them at all. How does that play with you?"
Belinda got up, started pacing in little circles. I noticed she was barefoot, her feet were tiny, too small for the rest of her. I watched her pace, not saying anything more. She walked over to me. Stopped and made a "come here" gesture. I got up. She put her finger to her lips, held out her hand. I took it, and she gently pulled me along a hall to a back room. A bedroom, it looked like, but only because there was a bed—the rest was all file cabinets and photography equipment.
"This isn't my place," she whispered into my ear. "But Jon lets me use it sometimes, when he's out on assignment. He's a video freak—I think he has the living room wired. There's something I have to tell you, but it's just for you, okay?"
I nodded Okay back, not saying anything.
"You want me to strip?" she asked. "So you can be sure there's no—"
"You're the only one talking," I reminded her.
"You sure you wouldn't want me to anyway?" she asked softly, more promise in her voice than in her eyes.
"Some other time," I said. "When I'm not working." And when you're not either, bitch, I thought.
"It's a date," she whispered.
I stepped past her, sat on the bed—there was no other place to sit in the little room. Belinda started her pacing again. Then she stopped, moved very close to me, bent down and whispered, "You don't have to talk. Just nod for Yes or No, okay?"
I nodded Yes.
"You looked at the autopsy reports, didn't you?"
I nodded Yes.
"And you saw…there was no sperm in any of the bodies, right? Not the one George went down for, not the ones that got killed after he was inside?"
I nodded Yes.
"So what does that tell you?"
I shrugged my shoulders, spread my hands wide in a "Who knows?" gesture.
"The killer…the real killer, I think he read the autopsy reports too. On the woman, the one George knew. I think he…the killer…figured it out. If he left any sperm inside the others, they'd know it wasn't George—the DNA would clear him. The way I figure it, he wore a condom."
I made a "So what?" gesture.
"I think the killer is crazy," she said. "Stark raving mad. And I think he killed those women, stuffed the red ribbons inside them…and then pulled them out of the dead bodies himself…later."
"When?" I asked her, tired of playing.
"When? What do you mean?" she said.
"I mean, when did he do it? What's so complicated? When would he get the chance?"
"Think about it," she said, no longer whispering.
I did. Inside myself, willing my face to go flat as my mind ripped through the possibilities.
Leaving only one.
"You're saying it's a—"
"Cop," Belinda finished my sentence. "Yes. And I think I know who it is."
I just looked at her—the name wasn't going to come out of my mouth. But I knew….
"Morales," she said. "Detective First Jorge Ortega Morales. He killed the woman on University Place. He killed them all."
I didn't argue with her—what was the point? As soon as she dropped her bombshell, she sat back on top of a two–drawer file cabinet, hugging herself, almost squirming in the embrace. The look on her face—I'd seen it before. In England, just before I went over to Africa and into a stupid war. I saw that same look on the hard face of a woman who called herself Colleen—a woman who planted bombs in department stores. Not for the revolution—that was just her excuse—for the thrill. Colleen always wanted to be close to her work—close enough to bask in the fallout.
That was Belinda, the way I saw her then—playing with fire, close enough to feel the heat…the only heat that really made her hot.
"Why am I in this?" I asked her. "You got all this stuff, what do you need me for?"
"Don't you understand?" she said, leaning forward, holding my eyes. "This isn't about the truth. If that's all it was, this would be easy—life would be easy. The way I figure it, you don't have many choices. Morales wants you. You know it and so do I. He's not the kind of man that'll stop. That's what gives him so much juice—he's insane. Out–of–his–fucking–mind insane. Most cops, they respect that. That's his rep—an Officer Down goes out over the box, Morales is gonna be the first one on the scene every single time. And if you're outside a door—a wood door—and you know a bad guy's inside—a nothing–to–lose killer—one of those crazy young don't–mind–dying gangbangers, probably got his Tec–9 stuffed with Teflon bullets so even your vest won't save you, okay? Well, Morales, he's going in, you can bet on it. He's been shot on the job. Twice. Couple of years ago, he caught a round in the chest taking down a dealer in Washington Heights. And he dropped the shooter…just blew him away He's got more CCRB complaints than anyone working—any detective, anyway—but they keep cutting him slack because he's a cops' cop, you know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I know," I told her. "He may have a screw or two loose, but nothing you said about him makes him into a sex psycho."
"There's more," she said. "You remember McGowan, his old partner? The guy who worked the pimp detail?"
"Sure."
"Well, let me tell you something you don't know. McGowan pulled the pin last year. Retired. That was the price."
"The price for what?"
"McGowan always hated pimps—specially the kiddie pimps. You knew that. Everybody knew that. Morales knew it the best of all. Anyway, McGowan got this little girl t
o talk. Not just to him, to a grand jury. They finally had enough to take out this guy named Remington. You ever hear of him?"
I shook my head No—another lie.
"Okay, anyway, they go to this hotel where Remington was staying. In Times Square. Nobody knows exactly what happened, but Remington took off. He made it down the back stairs, into an alley. That's where Morales shot him. In the head—he was dead before he hit the ground. And then Morales flaked him. With a throw–down piece—he always carries one. McGowan saw it all—he was standing right there. But he wouldn't testify against his partner. He didn't want to risk his pension either, not after so many years on the job. So he gave it up and went fishing."
"So Morales flaked a bad guy, so what? He's not the first, won't be the last. It don't make him—"
"Just listen to yourself," Belinda said. "You know McGowan how many years? A dozen? Twenty? Whatever, a long time, right? You ever know him to flake a perp? Even a live one? No. No you don't. 'Cause he never did it. But Morales, for him, that's a day at the office."
I knew that was true. I even heard Morales once threaten a pimp, telling the pimp that's what he was going to do if he didn't give up some information. That's what I was after too, so I told her, "I still don't get it," wanting to listen, not talk.
"The way I heard it, Remington had his hands up in the air," Belinda said, standing up and raising her own hands high enough to show me she wasn't wearing anything under the T–shirt. "Morales just walked up and smoked him. Cold–blooded murder. He put McGowan in a cross. The old man did the right thing—but Morales knows he made his own partner retire, and it's eating him up inside. He was always ready to go over the line—now he lives there."
Where I live too, I thought. "It doesn't add up," I said aloud. "Morales, he's a law–and–order freak, right enough—I can see him cutting some corners to make a case. But you got him doing the crimes without a—"
"Burke, I'm telling you, he's out of control. He's fucking nuts . That's why he's working solo now—nobody'll partner him. And I've got proof…."
"What proof?"
"After the shooting, he saw a shrink. A Department shrink. You have to—that's the rule. They call it a trauma screen—it's just to see if you're dealing with it okay. The shrink made a report. And I got a copy."
"How?"
Belinda ran her tongue over her lips—doing it slow, watching me from under her long eyelashes. Working undercover as a whore must have been a piece of cake for her.
"This report, it says he's the killer?" I asked her. "Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
"Read it for yourself," she said, getting up and walking over to a blue gym bag in the corner. She bent from the waist, held the unnecessary pose an extra beat, letting the T–shirt ride high, still working undercover, until she finally fished out a few sheets of paper. She straightened up and walked back over to me, holding the papers in her hands.
"Here," she said. "Take your time—I've got another copy."
I stuffed the papers in my jacket without looking at them. "I want to talk to him," I said.
"Morales?"
"No. Piersall. I want to talk to him."
"We can do that," she said quickly. "I'm going down to see him on—"
"You, me, and this reporter I know," I told her.
"I don't know. I—"
"There's no 'I don't know' in this," I said. "Either I talk to him—my way, the way I said—or I'll work out the week and keep the cash. You want more, you re gonna have to go the extra mile."
"Let me think about it," she said, calm now. "Can you call me on—?"
"You know where to find me," I told her. "And it's your call. But the clock's running."
The psych report. Rigid, obsessive–compulsive. Superstitious. Guilt–ridden. All black and white, no gray areas. Unmarried. No significant peer relationships.
Q: What if you lost your job?
A: I'd eat my fucking gun.
Calvinistic. Angry. Feels he must keep tight hold on his emotions or he'll crack. Doesn't smoke, drink.
I returned Belinda's call, standing on the corner of Van Dam so I'd see if she went into action right after. She grabbed it on the first ring.
"Hi," is all she said, as if she could see through the telephone.
"You called me," I said.
"It's…okay. For the visit, I mean. The way you want it. I don't have a car. I usually rent one to go down there, but—"
"You don't need to do that," I told her. "Just give me your address and we'll pick you up."
"Ah…no, that wouldn't work. I'm working a split shift. And Tuesdays are the best for visits—it's not so crowded then. You know the Zero One? On West Broadway, just this side of—"
"I know it," I said. I never heard of anyone calling the First Precinct the Zero One before—something about this woman, always about a half–note off.
"Can you make it around ten in the morning?" she asked. "From there, it's only a little jump into the Tunnel and we can—"
"I'll be there," I said, cutting the connection.
I waited almost two hours—she didn't come out.
"I can drive," Hauser told me. "It would be better, anyway—I got a lot of stuff I use in there, and—"
"I'll meet you on West Fourth. You know, where the basketball court—"
"What time?" he asked.
"Say about nine–forty–five? Tuesday morning. Okay?"
"Yeah. You found out anything yet?"
"Not yet," I lied. "See you then."
Doc scanned the psych report quickly, not even wasting a minute to comment on the blackout surgery I'd performed to convert every mention of Morales' name to a blank space. He snapped a gooseneck lamp into life and held the report in his lap. Doc never looked up. He grunted once in a while, checked off a couple of spots on the paper with a red marker. I blew smoke rings at the ceiling, not interrupting.
"Okay, hoss," he finally said, looking up. "What do you want to know?"
"Could this guy be a sex killer?" I asked.
Doc rubbed the back of his head, his mouth twisted into a grimace. "That's too big a question," he said. "Bottom line? If psychiatry could predict human behavior, the Parole Board wouldn't make so many mistakes."
"Come on," I said. "Don't you guys do that all the time? What's the standard for locking somebody up in Bellevue? Dangerous to self or others, right? How could that be anything but a guess?"
"Sure," he said. "That's the standard. But it's way too broad for what you're asking. You just want to know if this guy's dangerous, that's an easy one. Yes. Hell yes! He's as tight as a stretched strand of piano wire. He sees the world real clear—black and white, no grays. Violence is part of his personality. It's almost his only means of self–expression, the way an artist paints or a musician plays. He seems to process information differently too."
"What's that mean?"
"The brain's a computer," Doc said. "Data comes in, it gets analyzed—much faster than this," snapping his fingers, "messages go to the body, the body reacts. That's all processing is. This guy," he said, indicating the papers in his lap, "he gets the same data as everybody else, but he comes to different conclusions."
"Meaning he's crazy?"
"Not at all," Doc said, deciding to answer more than I asked, as usual. "Trauma of any kind can cause a processing change, especially if it's early enough. Or severe enough. There's this guy, Bruce Perry, he's down at Baylor, in Texas. He's just starting to publish now, so I can't evaluate his stuff completely yet. But it looks like he can actually document past trauma in current brain patterns…and in a sleep–state, no less. That would revolutionize every treatment modality in the world—there's nothing cultural about brain waves. He pulls that one off—and from what I've seen so far, I'm betting he does—he wins the Nobel Prize, no contest."
"So, what this guy Perry does, it's like a lie detector?" I asked.
"I don't quite follow that, hoss."
"Say somebody is all grown. An adult, okay
? Then they all of a sudden remember being abused as a kid. Like a flashback. It happens all the time. And there's the usual crap—How do you prove something like that? What kind of evidence would there be of incest that happened twenty years ago? This guy, Perry? It sounds like he could prove it."
Doc rubbed the back of his head again, thinking. I waited. "You know what, Burke? You might just be right. I mean, it wouldn't be that easy….You could maybe prove past trauma occurred, but not exactly what it was. But it's a start, sure enough."
"Okay, so this guy Perry's a fucking genius—what's that got to do with my man?"
"We already knew some stuff," Doc said, still ignoring my straight questions. "Even after they're grown, abused kids are different. A lot of them stay different too. Hyper–vigilant. Distrustful. The prisons are full of people like that, right?"
"Right," I answered, meeting his eyes, knowing who he was talking about.
"It doesn't mean they can't be good citizens, lead normal lives. Even accomplish great things. It's just that they'll always be…different."
"So, if this Perry guy could hook my man up to one of his machines, he could tell if there was some significant trauma in his background?" I asked, getting Doc off the track he wanted and back onto mine.
"Sure. But that wouldn't necessarily tell you much. This…person, he probably experienced trauma many times in his life. He's a hard man, working in a hard trade. It's not like TV. Most cops, they really can't turn it off and turn it on. They become suspicious. Aggressive, even hostile. It's the best way for them to function on the job. Some of them, they just can't go home, take off the badge and the gun, and turn into Ward Cleaver. The job has so many built–in stressors. What job gives you more broken marriages, more alcoholics? And there's temptations too—it's hard to work for wages when the people you arrest are making millions. There's always easy money lying around if you're a cop. And on top of everything else, you've got Internal Affairs snooping into your life. Dangerous? Hoss, most of them are."
Footsteps of the Hawk Page 14
