“Dennis Thorpe could have been the Incinerator,” Schultz maintained stoutly.
“He still might be,” she said. “Except that the miracle of modern psychology tells us he's not. And then, of course, there's the man. And the woman.”
What does she need a lawyer for? I thought.
“You know,” she said, “a million dollars isn't much to me. I think maybe Bobby should hold his press conference.”
All hell broke loose. Finch slapped his hands on the table, Hammond grunted, Schultz said a sentence that contained many polysyllabic words. Cops conferred.
“Hold it,” I said. To my amazement, everybody held it.
“Um,” I said into the silence.
“He's being polite,” Fred the lawyer cut in. “You'll all go home tonight and tuck in your wives and children,” he said into the silence, “and Mr. Grist will go home and wonder where the fire is going to come from. Gentlemen,” Fred the lawyer said, leaning forward against the mass of his buttons, “why shouldn't my client offer the reward and also offer Mr. Grist the security of anonymity? Surely he's earned it.”
“It's not just me,” I said, and Schultz said over me, “He's the thread.”
“It's not just me,” I said again. I looked at Hammond, who was still avoiding my eyes. “He sent me a timetable of my movements. He knows,” I said, “where I've been and who I've seen. It's possible that he knows who I love.” Hammond turned his wristwatch down toward his palm with a violent gesture, but he didn't look at me.
“I'm vulnerable,” I said to the room at large, “unless she's safe.”
“Can you make her safe?” Annabelle Winston said to Finch, giving me a glance I didn't quite understand, “As safe as he was?”
“We'll put five men on her,” Finch said. Nobody said anything. “Six,” he said, budgeting into the silence.
“Satisfy Mr. Grist,” Annabelle Winston said, turning away from me at last, “or it's the press conference and the reward.”
“I don't know,” I said, “satisfied or not, I don't know. And I may not decide today. Tell me about the messenger who brought the dance card.” I felt very old and very tired.
“Zip,” Finch said. “A loose call, not a regular account. Paid cash. Told the dispatcher to pick up at Hollywood and Vine.”
“Description?” I asked.
“Street person,” Finch said. “A woman wearing plastic trash bags. A cutout.”
“Did she describe him?” Finch wasn't going to volunteer much of anything.
“Yeah,” Finch said grudgingly. “She said he looked like an angel. Said he had wonderful manners.”
“That's it?”
“That's it,” Finch said. He touched a stubby finger to his temple. “Nothing there,” he said.
“The special effects in the building,” I said. “In fact, the building.”
Schultz stepped in. “It hasn't been used for years,” he said smoothly. “No surveillance. The strings touched off timing devices, rather sophisticated, actually. Stopwatches and cute little mercury fuses. Everything timed to the split second.”
“Mercury fuses?” I asked.
Schultz spread his hands apologetically. “Boy's had education,” he said.
“So have I, but I don't know anything about mercury fuses.”
“You said it last time around,” Schultz said. “This freak knows everything there is to know about fire.” He'd been the one who said it, but he was being a psychologist.
“You know,” I said to him, “if you and I could ever wind up on the same side, you might be useful.”
“We are on the same side,” he said, treating me to a forced version of the amber grin.
“I think we can dispense with etiquette,” I said. Schultz fiddled with an unopened pack of Dunhills and looked longingly at Annabelle Winston.
“How long would it have taken him to set it up?” I asked.
“A few hours,” Schultz said. “There are holes in the roof, that's how the birds got in. He could have done it during daylight, any day this week.”
“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.”
“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
I just wondered how it would feel to shoot Grandma.
>
—Serial murderer Emil Kemper
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.”
Incinerator Page 14
