Incinerator sg-4

by Timothy Hallinan

  “The guy you shot,” I said, “whatever his name was, he was wearing a rubber trench coat. What about the coat?”

  “It’s a specialty item,” said a new voice. I looked up to see Willick bending over his notes. “Something like that, you have to order special.” Willick looked up, feeling the speculative gaze of the entire room, and blushed scarlet to the roots of his receding hair. “I checked this last week,” he said. “Just working a hunch.” He was redder than Finch.

  “Where did it come from?” Captain Finch rapped out.

  “Place on Santa Monica,” Willick said, going from red to pale green without so much as a transition. “The Pleasure Closet.”

  “Hammond,” Finch said, “it would seem we’ve underestimated your protege.”

  “Who gives a shit?” I said rudely. “Who ordered them?”

  “Somebody named Festus,” Willick said.

  “Great,” Finch said. “Festus. Nobody is named Festus.”

  “There was that guy on Gunsmoke,” Willick said helpfully.

  Finch took a long breath before he said, in a regretful tone, “I knew your dad.” He blew the breath out. “Expensive?”

  “Three hundred bucks a pop,” Willick said, reassured to be on familiar ground at last.

  “And they never asked for his last name?” I said. “He ordered a few three-hundred-dollar coats, and they never asked for his address?”

  “Oh, no.” Willick said.“He paid in full, in cash, in advance.”

  “How many?” I asked, when the silence made it clear that Willick had been abandoned, rubber-coated, on his desert isle. “How many coats did Festus order?”

  “Three,” Willick offered humbly. “He ordered three.”

  “When?”

  “Two years ago, the first one. The others he ordered on May twelfth.”

  “What did he look like?” I asked Willick.

  “Like everybody,” Willick said. “Middle thirties, short brown hair-not blond-thin, no notable scars or birthmarks.”

  “Where’d Dennis Thorpe’s wig come from?” That was Hammond, so he was awake after all.

  “We don’t know yet,” Finch said, “but it’s just a cheap Halloween wig. Sold all over the place.”

  “Prints in the Doopermart?” Hammond again.

  “All over the place,” Finch said. “Hundreds of them, from dozens of people. The place has been empty for years.”

  “Then he probably did the setup yesterday,” Hammond said. “If there are people in and out, he couldn’t have left it there without someone accidentally triggering it.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Finch said with some asperity. “And, yes, we’re already talking to people in the area to see if anyone saw anything.”

  “Captain,” Hammond said, sounding something like his old self, “would you like me to leave the room? Dr. Schultz just suggested that the clown could have rigged it any time in the past few days. Well, he couldn’t, could he?”

  “None of this,” Annabelle Winston said, rapping the table with her knuckles. “I’ll have none of this. If you withhold information one more time, we’re going public with the reward.”

  “He wasn’t withholding anything,” Hammond said, staring at his knuckles. “He just hadn’t figured it out.” From the look Finch gave him, Hammond’s future with the LAPD wasn’t going to be a happy one.

  “It’s going to be hard to find him through UCLA,” I said, just to ease the tension. “Especially since he’s probably not blond.” I summarized the conversation with Dr. Blinkins.

  “We’ll work that end, then,” Schultz said. “Talk to all the teachers, all the graduate students.”

  “Suppose he’s still there?” Fred the lawyer said.

  “He already knows we’re looking for him,” Schultz said calmly. “It may push him into doing something stupid.”

  “Like burning another woman,” Annabelle Winston said. “We’ve seen what he does when the police give him a push.”

  A uniformed patrolman came in and handed Finch a note. Finch read it and handed it back. “No calls,” he said.

  “He didn’t know she was a woman,” Schultz said as the patrolman left. “She was wearing a man’s coat.”

  The floor rippled and heaved beneath me. “Oh, no,” I said.

  People stared at me. “Was she wearing a skirt?” I asked. “Nylons rolled down on her calves?”

  Schultz looked at Finch, and Annabelle Winston rapped the table again and said, “Now.”

  “Yes,” Schultz said, searching for something to look at.

  I shook my head. Something sharp and hot had pushed its way up into my throat, and I wasn’t sure I could speak.

  “He talked to a woman last night,” Hammond said. “The one who wanted a bath. Remember?” Schultz didn’t reply.

  “She wanted to die clean,” I finally said.

  Schultz exhaled in a thin hiss. “He couldn’t have been watching,” he said uncertainly. “He was in position by then. That was the last stop.”

  “Stick it up your nose, Schultz,” I said. “When was the last time you were right? I’ll bet you’ve got it marked on your calendar. Not this year’s calendar, probably one from some year with a six in front of it.” Schultz started to say something, but I found myself standing, holding on to the edge of the table with both hands. “You stupid son of a bitch, you heard me talking to her last night, you heard it all, and this is the first time you’ve even asked your highly trained self whether he didn’t burn his first woman on purpose? Whether she might be a message to me?”

  “Sit down,” Annabelle Winston said quietly.

  “You’re right,” Schultz said quietly to me.

  “I’ll sit down when and where I feel like it, and I already know I’m right. I don’t need positive reinforcement from some overeducated household appliance with thirty initials after his name. In case I’m not making myself clear, Dr. Schultz, I think you’re a brass-plated, steel-riveted asshole.”

  “You’re right,” Schultz said again. He was looking at his lap.

  “Thank you,” I said, “I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

  “I fucked up,” Schultz said, looking squarely at me. “We knew it was the same woman. We just didn’t tell you.”

  “That’s it,” Annabelle Winston said.

  “You should have followed her,” I said.

  “It’s even worse than that,” Schultz said, without taking his eyes off me. “We wouldn’t have had to follow her.”

  “You’re joking,” I said, appalled.

  “He burned her on the bench,” Schltz said. Then he looked down at his stomach, very quickly, and sat still for a moment. “Right where you talked to her,” he said.

  Then he put both of his hands, very empty hands, on the table.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Simeon,” Hammond said into the embarrassed silence.

  “I don’t want to hear from you,” I said.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Dr. Schultz said to me. “I should have known. I should have anticipated it. I’ll go to my grave-”

  “Not soon enough,” I said.

  “-knowing I should have anticipated it. I ask you to believe that.” He raised his head slowly and sat forward. “But look. He’s still trying to talk to you.”

  “Wonderful,” I said.

  “Even after, after what happened last night. He backtracked to that woman because he wanted to do something that would reach you. He was…” Schultz said, looking up at me. He stopped and licked his lips again. “This is only an opinion, okay? Nobody has to take notes or anything. He was making a statement. He felt betrayed, and he was showing Mr. Grist what would happen if he was betrayed again.”

  “A statement,” Annabelle Winston said flatly.

  “If he wants to make a statement,” I said, “he knows how to make one that would finish me, and I don’t mean by lighting fire to me.”

  Annabelle Winston gave me the look again.

>   “I have to talk to him,” I said.

  “The press conference.” It was the first thing Bobby Grant had said all morning.

  “No fucking way,” Captain Finch said.

  “You’re not exactly in a position to insist, Captain,” Fred the lawyer said.

  “Shut up,” I said. To my surprise, they did. “I need to think.

  “I need a way to tell him,” I said, feeling my way, “that I had nothing to do with what happened last night. He has to believe that I’ve cut all ties with the police. At the same time, I need the police. I need them to watch the person I need them to watch. Hammond knows who she is. In fact,” I said, gaining a degree of confidence, “I need Hammond assigned to watch her. And he reports to no one. No one, is that clear? He knows her and likes her, and I won’t have him reporting to anyone who might decide to use the lady as bait the way I was used.” Hammond still hadn’t looked at me.

  “It’s not usual,” Finch said lamely.

  “Would you prefer the press conference?” Annabelle Winston asked.

  “No press conference,” I said. Bobby Grant groaned. “The print media can get it wrong, and TV will give me a minute, maybe the wrong minute. Also, I don’t want him to know that I’m still working for you,” I said to Annabelle Winston. “I will be, but I don’t want him to know it. I want him to think that I’m out there on my own, solo, scared, sorry as hell, and waiting for him to talk to me.”

  “You want to go one-on-one with him?” Schultz said. “He’ll burn you. Honest to God, he’ll burn you. As you said, I could be useful.” He spread his hands apologetically. “At least, that’s my opinion.”

  “What’s the problem with one-on-one?” I asked. “It hasn’t been so great to be on the big team.”

  “Like me or not,” Schultz said very quietly, “and I’ll understand if you hate my guts, I know him better than anyone else here.”

  “And the cops buy your lunch.”

  “Not necessarily,” Schultz said.

  “He’s on our payroll,” Finch said promptly.

  “I’ve got a practice, too,” Schultz said, bridling. “Mr. Grist could become a private patient.” Finch looked as if he wished the entire room were an antacid.

  “Information privileged?” I asked.

  “Absolutely.” Schultz avoided looking at Captain Finch.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But Schultz, the first time I think you’re shucking me, I’ll kill you.”

  “I’d almost deserve it,” Schultz said.

  I held his gaze for what felt like an hour and then gave it up. “I’ll need everything your guys turn up,” I said to Finch, “either on the phone or by regular mail. Call me the day after you send me anything. If I haven’t got it by the following day, if I think it might have been snatched out of my mailbox, I’ll call. And no surveillance on my street.”

  “That’s dumb,” Hammond said without glancing at me.

  “He’ll spot it,” I said, “and then we’ll be back to nowhere.”

  “How are you going to talk to him?” Annabelle Winston said.

  “The press conference,” Bobby Grant said again, seeing his future written in the skies.

  “No,” I said. “I need more control. Captain Finch,” I said, but Finch was looking up at the same uniformed patrolman. The patrolman looked nervous.

  “Captain,” he said, “there’s this guy on the phone…”

  “I said no calls,” Finch said curtly, “and I meant it. What do you think, my jaws need exercise?”

  “He’s called five times this morning,” the uniform said, “and he’s threatening to call the chief. Needs to talk to someone on the Incinerator investigation. Says he knows the chief personally. Says he’s a-”

  “Tell him to fold, spindle, and mutilate himself,” Finch interrupted.

  “-television producer,” the uniform plowed along. “Norman something.”

  I got up again. “I’ll talk to him,” I said.

  PART THREE

  CONFLAGRATION

  12

  Live and in Color

  This is what it said: You made me break a rule.

  You don’t know how important the rules are.

  If I have my way, I’d do five a night, every night of the week, every week of the year. The rules save lives. And you made me break one.

  You’ll be sorry. When I kill the others, you’ll be sorry. When I liberate your phlogiston and leave nothing behind but calx, you’ll be sorry.

  This one had been written in a hurry: same gold pen, same inexorably straight margins, but no picture at the bottom, no fancy first initial at the top. Like the dance card, it had been messengered. Same approach, different service, no lead. We could have been friends. I used to think we were friends. I hoped we could be friends again.

  You didn’t recognize my voice. Well, keep an eye over your shoulder. If you don’t recognize me before I throw the match, you’ll be sorry. Of course, you’ll be sorry either way.

  You saw what I did to your girlfriend. She made a lovely light.

  Tell your other girlfriend to be careful too. And, by the way, I don’t think much of the guy she’s fooling around with. Real drop in quality there.

  I’d attempted, but failed, to prevent them from showing that part. As it flashed onto the screen I wanted to perspire, but the makeup they’d caked on my face wouldn’t let me. I just tried to penetrate the glare of light pouring down on me to locate a friendly face. No deal there, either.

  I tried, the note continued. I really tried. But you’re an *******, just like all the others. So you’ll burn.

  The note hadn’t said******* of course. It had used a much more descriptive term, which had been covered, for today’s purposes only, with asterisks. This was, after all, family entertainment.

  “That’s a letter from a man who has burned thirteen people to death in Los Angeles,” Velez Caputo said, bright as a silver quarter, into the nearest camera. “We’re coming to you live today to bring you this amazing story. The show that was scheduled for this hour, ‘Transvestites and the Women Who Love Them,’ will be shown tomorrow. And we’ll talk with the man the killer sent that letter to after this commercial message.”

  The lights on the set went out, and the television monitors facing the set went dark. The sound track to a commercial for disposable diapers boomed through the speakers, preternaturally loud, as though mothers and babies were universally hard of hearing. “Relax for sixty seconds,” Velez Caputo said to me with a smile that had probably sent her dentist’s kids through college. “I love live TV.”

  I smiled back, feeling the makeup stiff on my cheeks. I didn’t love live TV, but at least I could see again.

  It was Tuesday afternoon. Two days had passed, and the Incinerator had burned three people, two of them out in the Valley, in Van Nuys. Another departure from established procedure. The one in Van Nuys and one of the L.A. victims had been women, which had the effect of making things more urgent. The media were howling.

  Stillman had agreed to my insistence on the telephone that we do the show live rather than waiting the usual two weeks between taping and airing, and had even bought full-page ads in both the Times and the Daily News. Velez Caputo had come into the studio on Sunday afternoon to tape radio and television commercials, and they’d been on the air by Sunday night. Only in the L.A. market, of course. Norman wasn’t going to spend any money he didn’t absolutely have to spend.

  So the Incinerator was probably watching. I’d guessed that he followed the media, if only to see what they were saying about him. Maybe I’d been wrong. Schultz, for whatever it was worth, was positive that he did. Now that he wasn’t Captain Omnipotent, Schultz and I were getting along better.

  Schultz smiled at me.

  He was sitting rigidly in what I’d been told was called the Number Two Seat. I was in the Hot Seat. A couple of people I didn’t know filled seats Three and Four. No one had rushed forward to tell me who they were, but Schultz had vouched for the one in N
umber Three. Behind the cameras and the lights a sort of Peanut Gallery rose in tiers, people packed shoulder to shoulder in narrow, uncomfortable-looking chairs. Their clothes marked most of them as out-of-towners, and the way they gaped at me-those of them who could tear their eyes off Velez Caputo-reminded me of the old adage about fools’ faces. Few places were as conspicuously public as this.

  “Fifteen seconds,” said a man wearing a headset. The man had a nervous tic that effectively deprived him of control over the lids of his left eye. Velez Caputo smoothed her dress and licked her lips. Velez Caputo had wonderful lips, and no tics to speak of.

  There were, I’d been told, eighty people sitting out front in the Peanut Gallery. Among them were Eleanor, whom I’d been unable to talk out of attending, Hammond, and three of his boys. They’d followed her in, at a presumably discreet distance, when she absolutely refused to stay home. In exchange for coming, she’d accepted the deal: She had to leave early. In case the Incinerator was waiting outside.

  Velez Caputo gave her microphone cord a tug. It was attached to an oversized spool, like the one that lawn maniacs use to keep their garden hoses tidy. An anxious-looking man presided over it as though it were the only responsibility worth shouldering in the entire world.

  The lights came on. “Five seconds,” said the man with the headset and the tic. His eye was firing off random squints. “Four, three,” and then he held up a hand and counted down, two, one. He pointed a discreet index finger in the general direction of Velez Caputo. No one pointed directly at Velez Caputo. The little red light on the camera closest to her winked on.

  “They call him the Incinerator,” Velez Caputo said immediately. “He’s the latest and most sensational member of a breed that’s become only too common in this decade, the serial killer.

  “Where do these people come from?” She stopped smiling and assumed an expression of High Episcopal Seriousness. “What goes through their minds? Why do they walk among us? And what is it like to know that one of them has targeted you?