Hendriks said, “Would you please repeat that last part.”
“He tells people to do things. And they do them.”
“Now think very clearly, Lieutenant Nicholas, before answering what I’m about to ask. Bernard Phillips, is he a creature from outer space? Or, as you have suggested, a god?”
“Possibly both.”
Jordan wanted to reach out and grab Nicholas and physically force the man into silence.
“I am not saying he is God. His victims believe he is. I tell you we must find out the answers. Learn the truth before . . . before . . . before we are all destroyed.”
The Deputy Commissioner motioned the stenographer and witness to leave the office. He licked his lips and devoted time to a long pause.
“Lieutenant, I’m afraid I must order you to take a leave.”
“Am I on suspension?”
“You are ordered to go home and remain there until you hear from me.”
“I remind the Deputy Commissioner. There must be a departmental hearing before I can be suspended.”
Hendriks stood. He braced himself on his arms and leaned toward Nicholas, his head bobbing in short nods, his voice terse, his thin nose looking like a beak tearing flesh.
“Enough! If you wish to surrender your weapon and work the Bow and Arrow, you may so do. I will arrange a hearing for sometime in the next forty-eight hours.”
“I refuse to work the Bow and Arrow squad. I won’t give up my gun. I am not an alcoholic cop. I am rational!”
Hendriks turned to Jordan.
“Escort the lieutenant out of here. Escort him all the way home, or so far as you deem necessary for his health and safety. Then return here immediately.”
Outside in the corridor Peter Nicholas made a fist and smashed it hard against the wall. The pain he gave himself caused him to bend over, holding his hand and cursing. When he straightened he seemed calm.
Jordan said, “Look, buddy. How about if I drive you home?”
Instead of answering the question, Nicholas said, “Now I’m on my own. Can do it my way.”
“Sure, buddy.”
Jordan figured Nicholas probably had a car parked somewhere, but what the hell, the guy could pick it up in the morning. He lightly grasped Nicholas’s elbow and, as he had done with hundreds of suspects during the course of his career, began to lead him.
It was, thought Jordan, likely the last ride he would ever take with Peter Nicholas. He wondered if Nicholas was aware of how neatly he had been wrapped in a box by the Deputy Commissioner. If the guy had only kept his mouth shut in front of the damned stenographer. There was still a maybe. A long shot that maybe after an extended leave of absence, because of the guy’s past record, he might be allowed back to work. Probably not on the street, but they might let him have a desk.
It was a quiet ride. The single time Nicholas spoke was when Jordan was nearing where he thought his colleague lived. The lieutenant’s voice rattled like a machine gun as he blurted that he no longer lived here. Jordan asked for new directions. And didn’t question the odd address of Eighth Avenue and a West Side cross street.
When they arrived at their destination Jordan reached across the seat and slapped Nicholas on the leg. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of words that wouldn’t sound phony. After a moment he reached across again and lightly hit the man’s arm.
Jordan waited in the car and watched, stunned, while Peter Nicholas entered a seedy hotel. A place so notorious for prostitution and drugs that the vice squad left it alone. Robbery sometimes went there on a complaint. Homicide on an investigation. Otherwise the police left the hotel alone, as it provided a convenient pocket to hold the worst dregs of the city.
Jordan smoked a cigarette and watched the entrance of the hotel. A few minutes later, he entered the lobby. Showed the desk clerk his shield and asked questions about a tall, dark-haired man with badly scarred features. He learned that Nicholas was a resident. And he had signed the registry, P. Phillips.
Hendriks blew his nose and pretended to examine the handkerchief before saying, “You took your time, Jordan.”
“Had to take him home, sir.”
“How long have you been aware of the state of his mind?”
“Only recently did I begin to notice anything.”
“You’re a liar. You’ve been a liar your whole time in the department. I’ve seen men fall under mental stress, but never like Nicholas. I don’t claim to be a religious person. But when he started ranting about God and spaceships, I curdled. He didn’t turn into a heretical, insane wreck overnight, Jordan. You were supposed to be my eyes. Had you come to me when you saw what was happening, I believe we might have helped the man.”
“I’ve been giving you regular reports.”
Hendriks blew his nose again.
“There will have to be some sort of hearing about this affair. I’ll be listening closely to what you have to say.”
Jordan shrugged and grinned slightly. “I’ll tell them the truth, sir.”
“Get out of my sight, Jordan.”
After Jordan had gone, the Deputy Commissioner took the tape he had recorded earlier and the pages of Nicholas’s statement which his secretary had typed. He locked that evidence in a metal box. He locked the box in a desk drawer. He unlocked a filing cabinet and removed every bit of written material Nicholas and Jordan had ever presented him. He left his office and went to a different area of the headquarters building—to where there was a paper shredder.
TWELVE
When the weather is clear, on the sidewalk and plaza outside the building which houses America’s largest daily newspaper, there are always groups of men who wear funny round paper hats and have hands stained dark from inks and solvents. The men are from the printing plant, the hats are fashioned from newsprint. They take their breaks here, away from the heat and noise of the presses, the clanging, ear-punishing noise which gives them the habit of speaking loudly at all times. They speak in the raucous street rhythms of hard-working men who are in a hurry to enjoy their minutes of idle time. They make sexually provocative comments to attractive women. Snide, often cruel remarks are flung at men who appear strange. A person with a badly scarred face wearing rumpled clothing would normally receive a comment. But as Peter Nicholas made his way past them, the men glanced at one another and silently decided this was someone they should leave alone.
Nicholas approached a cluster of three men and bluntly stated a name: “Emile Lukas.”
One of the cluster told him, “Just ask for the science desk.” After the scarred man was safely out of earshot, the men chuckled and winked at each other, and one commented, “Does that look like what Emile, calls rough trade?”
Popular myth says a newspaperman’s desk is a cluttered and messy thing. Emile Lukas, a man who enjoyed maintaining what he termed “a flamboyant distance between oneself and one’s colleagues,” kept a clean desk, though the floor around his desk was littered with crumpled tissues. When a stranger approached his desk, Lukas would tilt far back in his chair, push his glasses onto his forehead, and feign an expression of mild interest. A science editor is regularly visited by weird characters and the position in which Emile Lukas sat served a purpose. Since he was the most nearsighted of men, it saved him from actually having to look into the often crazed, sometimes frightening features of the latest person to have talked with the little people, the most recent inventor of a gasoline substitute, the newest discoverer of a government plot involving food additives.
Peter Nicholas sounded neither more nor less sane than the average person who approached Lukas. Because Nicholas had introduced himself by showing a police shield, the editor waited a bit longer than usual before interrupting.
“Lieutenant, are you still on the force?”
“Yes.”
“Suspended?”
“No.”
He let his glasses slide momentarily onto the bridge of his nose. “Your appearance is somewhat outré, is it not? Even for
what I believe is called undercover.”
“I’m on a temporary leave of absence.”
“I see.” He removed his glasses, blew on the lenses, and with utmost care began to polish them with a tissue. “Unfortunately, sir, I am not a police reporter.”
“This has been an outbreak. An epidemic of unpremeditated mass homicides.”
“Homicides. Not science.”
“The murderer in each case insisted he was told to commit the crime by God.”
“Ahhh! then we do have premeditation, don’t we?” He flipped a crumpled tissue over his shoulder. “Alas, this is not the religious desk, either.”
“Religion is abstract. I’m speaking of cold, hard facts. The stuff you deal in.”
Lukas placed his glasses on the desk. He pretended interest in his fingernails. Sometimes, not often but sometimes, they went away if you ignored them long enough.
“Look, in an odd way it’s as if I was meant to come to you. Twice during my investigation your name has come up.”
“Yes, well, I like to imagine my name as a Household word constantly being mentioned. Like Windex. Or the Pill.”
“The first killer. Harold Gorman told me he liked to read your column.”
“I certainly didn’t tell him to climb a tower and shoot—”
“Years ago you worked for the Times.”
“Hardly a sin. I merely decided to leave the position of status of that particular journal for my less acclaimed but much better salaried position.”
“On November 13, 1954, your name appeared under a story concerning a woman in New Jersey.”
Nicholas continued to talk, retelling the Judith Phillips incident. Emile Lukas barely remembered the story but now his interest was perked. Rarely did a crank do the homework Nicholas had obviously done. The detective finished relating the story and then went on to tell more of his strange investigation. Lukas put on his glasses and peered at the man. He was clearly overwrought and near the edge, but there was a certain direction to the man’s words. He didn’t change subjects or try to connect the unconnectable.
“Very well, Lieutenant. You’ve piqued my curiosity, though you’ve yet to suspend my disbelief. However, when I was a child I was curious by what caused the end of a firefly to light up. I’ve learned the accepted theory on that, though I’ve yet to learn what makes a baby’s heart start to beat.”
“God does.”
“What makes you think I’ll print a story that the Being who starts a baby’s heart is also in the mass murder business?”
“You’ve printed theories about God being an ancient astronaut.”
“I’ve run a few such items, yes. Also, I’ve done stories on the Devil’s Triangle and black holes in space. And in my Sunday features, which are my witty deep-think pieces, I’ve made clear my belief that all such theories are crap.”
Lukas went silent for a few minutes. Each time the detective tried to speak, the editor made a gesture which quieted the other man. Eventually Lukas asked, “What do you think would happen if the public, our constantly misinformed, ill-educated public, the same folks who buy conspiracy theories, pet rocks, and vaginal deodorants, what would happen if they began to believe you. Actually believed God was exercising His will directly on the street?”
“They’d be frightened.”
Lukas chuckled. “My, you are naive. They’d be more than frightened. They’d go into a panic.”
Lukas rolled a piece of paper into a typewriter. A pleased expression crossed Nicholas’s face. Until now he’d been sure the science editor would not use the story. He still had a doubt, which he expressed, “Can you get this story past your boss.”
“If I use the big words he doesn’t understand. Before I ask you to repeat everything you’ve said—a question: How does it feel being a press agent for God?”
Nicholas didn’t understand. “What?”
“I shall explain, Lieutenant. You say God is directing a series of mass murders. Therefore, He must have a purpose. Plus, He’s allowing Himself to be identified. Ergo, He must want it known. And you have been chosen to act as press agent. Any ideas why?”
“I don’t know why me. But I believe He wants us to acknowledge Him. Maybe the killings will continue until He is acknowledged.”
“You really do believe. You are truly a believer in the Judeo-Christian myth.” Lukas shook his head and softly laughed. “While I’m not a devotee of the crime reportage which is more photographed in this newspaper than are vaginas in Playboy, I have heard of you in the past, Lieutenant Nicholas. Your exploits and derring-do. I’ve heard also that you are considered something of a loner. Which raises a point. Aristotle, a Greek boy of whom I’m sure you’ve heard, once said something to the effect that the man who is a loner, who casts himself in the role of outsider, does so because he is either a brute or because he thinks of himself as God.”
“That’s a lot of crap. I’m tired of your attitude. If you’re not interested in . . .”
Lukas threw up his hands.
“Ah! but I’m very interested. Shall I tell you why? Because I once, too, believed in something. People took that belief from me. I’ve never forgiven them. I’m rather bitter about their theft. My belief was called pure science. Perhaps it was more conceit than true faith. However, it was harmless enough until mankind invented an object called the Bomb. You’ve given me a chance for revenge, Nicholas. Because if people take your theory seriously, it will destroy them. They’ll tear down every church, every sanctuary. There will be chaos.”
“You’re wrong.”
“We shall see. Unless you’ve second thoughts?”
“No,”
“Very well, my resolute policeman. But I warn you. I shan’t run this story as, shall we say, the Gospel truth. I’ll write about an obsessed cop, his crackpot theory, and mass hallucinations. I’ll have a picture taken of you before you leave tonight. By this time tomorrow you’re liable to have been assassinated yourself. By a Jesus freak. Now don’t, pray tell, expect a front page. First time out, you’ll be in the second section, bottom of the page. A rather hidden piece. However, fear not. Approximately two hundred people will object before the final edition hits the street. And in response, I shall write more. I’ll write bigger. More objections will pour in and so it will go. Within a week you will be more popular than Sirhan Sirhan.”
A moderate-sized article appeared in the following night’s paper. It began:
MURDER SUSPECTS HEAR GOD
Police Lieutenant charges confessions hushed up.
Link connecting senseless slaying may be mass hypnosis.
No other papers picked up the story that first day. It was mentioned on a few late-night radio talk shows. There was enough noise for Emile Lukas to have his following night’s article printed on page three of the first section. He also ran a photograph of Peter Nicholas, and following his lead-in paragraph he wrote a history of Nicholas’s police record. The article was headed:
FIVE MURDERERS—ONE VOICE
The “Voice of God”
Theologians may at last be able to prove the existence of God without having to resort to rhetoric or argument. Unfortunately, they might not care for the proof.
After the appearance of the second story the other papers couldn’t afford to ignore it. TV and radio news shows also commented on it, while the radio talk shows received an increasing number of calls on the subject.
Lukas knew how to bleed a story. In his third article he mentioned little about Nicholas. Instead, he wrote about the unexplained scientific phenomena of recent years.
That same day, the city’s only major afternoon paper printed an article which began:
Police Dept. officials today labeled all reports of so-called Voice of God slayings a hoax.
Emile Lukas had been waiting for a departmental denial. He next ran a story on the five murderers, complete with pictures of all five men. The story was now hot enough for Lukas to demand a full page. The pictures crossed the top of the page
. Beneath them was a bold-type headline:
KILLERS? SAINTS? HOAXERS?
Reporters from all the media tried to search out Peter Nicholas for an interview. He couldn’t be found.
THIRTEEN
The Deputy Commissioner stepped from behind his desk and graciously went to greet the woman who entered his office.
“I appreciate your coming here, Miss Forster.”
Casey responded coolly. “Did I have any choice.”
Hendriks attempted a smile. “You’re not under arrest. Surely you didn’t think that. You’re free to leave. Everything said here will be strictly off the record.”
“Has Peter been hurt?”
“I assure you, we are as interested in Lieutenant Nicholas’s well-being as are you.”
“Which is not what I asked.”
“Frankly, we have no idea where the man is. Please, won’t you sit down, Miss Forster. May I offer you coffee, tea?”
She shook her head at the offer of a beverage but sat down. She had planned to remain aloof, to keep a distance between herself and the person Peter once described as being more politician than cop. Despite her wishes, she found herself looking with interest around the Deputy Commissioner’s office. The bookcases, filing cabinets, unscarred desk, comfortable chairs large enough to take the bulk of the heaviest person. Peter had told her that policemen’s quarters were always depressing and grim, but this was far more comfortable than anything she was accustomed to at the Welfare Center where she worked. She looked into the thin face of the Deputy Commissioner. She wasn’t sure why she’d been summoned here, and hoped her curiosity didn’t show. Hendriks’ static gaze told her nothing, but something a little too smooth about the man warned her, reminded her not to relax or let down her guard.
She suddenly needed a cigarette. She fumbled one out of her purse, but before she could find matches Hendriks was leaning over his desk with a lighter. She bent forward, took hold of his wrist, and directed the flame to her cigarette.
God Told Me To Page 10
