Full Frontal Murder

by Barbara Paul

  His captor looked irritated. “First of all, I’m no criminal. Do you think I do this sort of thing for a living? And second, you had better pray you’re wrong, because the possibility of getting the case closed is all that’s keeping you alive. And third, only one member of the police knows you’re missing, one person with the authority to close the case. I sent the tape to your lady lieutenant.”

  Holland kept his face impassive. Fairchild didn’t know Murtaugh was clued in and had set up a stakeout at Coney Island. And he sure as hell didn’t know Marian. “What have you done with my shoes?”

  “Taken them, and you’re not going to get them back. You tried to kick my camera!” Accusingly.

  “What a pity I missed.” Holland looked the other man straight in the eye. “Of course, I do understand why you’re so afraid to come any closer.”

  Fairchild glared at him. “You’re an arrogant S.O.B., aren’t you? Well, I’ve got something here that’ll take that insolence out of you.” He disappeared into the darkness behind the lanterns and returned carrying a bullwhip. Fairchild held the whip out so Holland could have a good look. Then he snickered. “Absurd, isn’t it? I had to go into one of those dreadful places around Times Square to get it. But your ladylove hasn’t cooperated—the case is still open. We’re going to give her a little incentive.”

  He was going to be whipped? What kind of stupid melodrama was this? But the other man raised his arms and Holland tightened his muscles. When the whip came shooting out he jerked his arms up to shield his face; the lash cut into his chest, deflected slightly by the chain. The second blow fell lower, slicing his midriff. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Holland started dodging and weaving; he didn’t have to be a stationary target. But the next lash caught his raised arms and one ear, setting his head to ringing. He could feel the blood running down his chest, working its way inside his trousers.

  Fairchild got in a few more blows … then Holland lunged for the whip with his left hand, the right still gripping the bottle cap. The whip flicked harmlessly away.

  “Oh well,” Fairchild said easily, “I suppose that’s enough.” He examined Holland closely. “Yes, that looks good. Bloody ear and arms as well as torso.” He put the whip down and picked up his camcorder. “Now you just stand there and bleed prettily.”

  Holland immediately turned his back and hunkered down into a fetal position, hiding his wounds from the lens.

  “Get up!” Fairchild yelled. “You pigheaded fool! Don’t you know you can’t win? Get up!” The whip lashed out again.

  Holland took six more blows across his back before he passed out.

  When he came to a few minutes later, the first thing he saw was the nozzle of a gun.

  “How long do you think you can resist a bullet, Pretty Boy?” Fairchild said, enjoying himself. “Come on, now. On your feet.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” Holland said thickly.

  “Oh, do try.”

  The effort to get up made him dizzy. Holland leaned a shoulder against the wall to keep from falling over. When he’d steadied a bit, he kicked out with his right foot.

  But his movements were sluggish and Fairchild saw it coming. He danced nimbly out of the way and laughed. “Pigheaded.”

  When the camcorder light came on, something in Holland snapped. His pride was wounded almost as much as his body, to be photographed in such a condition, bleeding and helpless. He roared out a stream of curses, straining toward the camera. “I’d like to tear your throat out with my bare teeth, Fairchild!”

  His captor stopped taping. “Oh, that was naughty. Mustn’t mention names.”

  Fairchild rewound the tape and started over, impervious to Holland’s roaring. After a few minutes the light went out. “That was very good,” Fairchild said, amused. “I’m sure your Marian will love it.” He put down the camera and picked up the whip again, hefting its weight in his hand. “I was never into the S-M scene. It always seemed ridiculous to me. But now I have to admit I’m beginning to see the attraction.” His moist eyes gleamed in the yellow light.

  Holland tensed. When the whip came snaking out, he made a grab for it and got his left hand around the lash. In spite of his surprise, Fairchild didn’t let go of the handle. Holland jerked hard, pulling his tormenter in close. Holland quickly dropped the whip and raised his manacled hands to slash at Fairchild’s face with the bottle cap.

  Fairchild screamed and jumped back out of reach. “You’ve cut my face!” he cried. “You’ve cut my face!”

  “I missed again,” Holland panted. “I was going for your eyes.”

  “What was that? What did you cut me with?”

  “A rusty bottle cap.” Holland smiled slowly. “You’ll need a tetanus shot.”

  Fairchild swore and paced back and forth behind the lanterns, one hand to his cheek and his other trailing the whip. “You think you aren’t going to pay for this? You think you won’t pay?”

  Something about the scene struck Holland as comical. He leaned back against the wall and began to laugh. And laugh.

  “What’s so goddam funny?”

  Holland let his laughter die down. “You. You are funny. Here I’ve been knocked unconscious, abducted, chained to a wall, drugged, and flogged—and you’re whining about a scratch on the cheek. I find that hilarious.”

  Fairchild blew up. “Well, let’s see if you find this hilarious!” He disappeared into the darkness and came back with a new plastic bucket which he set on the ground. He squatted down beside it and pulled out a bottle of Evian water. “Never been opened—untampered with.” He unscrewed the top and took a long swallow. “See? No drugs.” Then he pulled out a sandwich. “Roast beef.” Next he took out an apple. “I even brought you a piece of fruit.” He put everything back in the bucket and stood up. He swung the bucket by its handle a few times and sent it sailing off into the darkness. “Now, go hungry. Go thirsty.”

  Holland sank to the ground. He didn’t even watch as the glow of Fairchild’s flashlight grew smaller in the distance.

  23

  The building manager was a smallish man with a stiff military bearing; he introduced himself as Major Saurian. He marched Marian into his office on the first floor of the West Side office building where Alex Fairchild maintained his studio. Once he had Marian squared away in a straight-back chair, he stood at parade rest and politely inquired what he could do for her.

  The lieutenant asked the major if he had ever employed Nickie Atlay as a janitor in the building.

  The major frowned. “Yes, until recently. I’m afraid I’m greatly disappointed in Nickie.”

  Bingo.

  Quieting her excitement, she asked, “Disappointed? How?”

  “He proved unreliable. Simply stopped coming to work. No notice, nothing. It was quite a surprise, really. He’d been a steady worker up until then. I took a chance in hiring him … Nickie’s not quite bright, you know. But he could handle menial chores.”

  “Major, do you know if Nickie ever ran errands for any of the tenants here? Outside his regular janitorial duties, I mean.”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. I had no objection, so long as he confined his errand running to his own time. Since our cleaning crew works late at night, there was no conflict.”

  “Did he ever perform chores for Alex Fairchild?”

  “Mr. Fairchild?” He frowned. “I believe so, but I can’t be certain. Why not ask Mr. Fairchild?”

  Because he would deny it. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but the reason Nickie stopped coming to work is that he died. He was murdered.”

  The major looked disbelieving. “Nickie? Someone murdered Nickie? Good god. Excuse me, Lieutenant, but are you sure it’s murder?”

  “Two bullet holes in the chest, body tossed into the East River.”

  He nodded slowly. “Forgive me for questioning you, but it’s incomprehensible to me why anyone should want to kill Nickie. He was the most harmless fellow I believe I’ve ever met.”

  Marian sighed. �
�Nickie knew something that made him a threat. He didn’t know he was a threat, but the killer wasn’t taking any chances.”

  The major sighed too. “I’m sorry. Nickie wasn’t a bad fellow. He just couldn’t keep up with the world around him.”

  And that, Marian thought, was a pretty good epitaph for poor, dim-witted Nickie Atlay. “Well, thank you for your help, Major.”

  She raced back to Midtown South, hoping to catch Murtaugh before he left. He was just coming out of his office when she got there.

  “We have a suspect,” Marian said.

  Holland wasn’t even aware that Fairchild was back until a bottle of Evian water rolled to a stop against his thigh. He uncapped the bottle and forced himself to drink in small swallows. The bottle was still half full when he replaced the cap.

  “Oh my, such instinct for self-preservation,” Fairchild mocked. “You must be dehydrated but you’re still thinking ahead.”

  What Holland had been thinking was that the plastic bottle would make a good weapon—not against Fairchild, but against the rats. “How long?” he asked huskily.

  “Since the last time I was here? Fourteen hours.” Fairchild was wearing a bandage on his cheek. “Before that, about ten hours. And since you missed your last meal, we’ll just say you’ve been fasting for twenty-four hours.” He slid a brown paper bag toward Holland. “Make it last. I’d love to stay and chat, but I want to be home in time for the news. Let’s see if your ladylove takes the hint this time.” He started to walk away.

  “Bring …”

  Fairchild stopped. “What?”

  “Bring something for rat bite,” Holland said hoarsely. “It’s the blood. It attracts them.”

  Fairchild stared at him a long moment, and then turned and left without speaking.

  O’Toole was the last to arrive at Captain Murtaugh’s office. He’d been hurrying and was short of breath. “What’s up? Has something happened?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” Perlmutter replied lazily. “Just that while we were all crawling through dilapidated buildings in Brooklyn, Lieutenant Larch figured out who the killer is, that’s all.”

  “That’s all? Well? Who is it, for chrissake?”

  “Alex Fairchild,” Murtaugh told him. “We still don’t have any hard evidence, but Fairchild kept a studio in the building where Nick Atlay worked as a janitor.”

  “The brother?” O’Toole was stunned. “He did all that to his own sister? But why?”

  “He had to be after the Galloway money. Whoever controls young Bobby Galloway controls the money. And at this moment Bobby is living with Fairchild. Right from the beginning, Fairchild was out to discredit both parents.”

  “How’d the lieutenant finger him?”

  “She checked with the building manager where Fairchild keeps a studio. Nickie Atlay was working there at the time of his death.”

  O’Toole looked at Perlmutter. “We never thought to check Fairchild’s building. He wasn’t a suspect.”

  Perlmutter spread his hands. “That’s why she’s a lieutenant and we but lowly toilers in the vineyard.”

  Sergeant Campos was frowning. “Bobby’s grandfather might have something to say about all that. He’s not going to let Bobby be brought up by the brother of the woman who shot his son.”

  “Walter Galloway is old and in poor health,” the captain said. “When he dies, Alex Fairchild will be the boy’s only remaining relative, since Rita is out of the picture. Fairchild will be in a perfect position to plunder the Galloway fortune at his leisure.”

  “Where’s Lieutenant Larch?” O’Toole asked.

  “She went to her place to see if another videotape had been delivered.”

  Walker spoke for the first time. “Say we nail Fairchild, and then Walter Galloway dies in a couple of years. Who’s going to take care of Bobby then?”

  No one had an answer to that.

  Ten minutes later Marian came in, clutching a mailing bag. “Another one.”

  Murtaugh loaded the tape into the VCR and worked the remote. The tape began to roll.

  Marian cried out and the men all gasped. Holland’s wounds were still fresh enough that they could see the blood running down his body. His right ear was a mess, the whip cuts in his body appeared deep, even his feet were bloody.

  “Good god in heaven,” Murtaugh muttered. “Are we back in the Middle Ages?”

  O’Toole yelled, “The son of a bitch! Let’s pick him up right now!”

  “And what would happen to Holland then?” the captain asked sharply. “Fairchild would leave him to die there before he’d admit to anything.”

  Marian had both hands pressed against her mouth to keep from screaming. She felt a couple of comforting hands on her shoulders but didn’t know whose they were because she couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. Bleeding, lacking the energy he’d shown in the first tape, and none too steady on his feet—Holland was still raging at the camera, still defiant.

  The tape was short. The poster board at the end said only: It can get worse than this.

  Marian was afraid, more afraid than she’d ever been in her life. More afraid than the times when she was still in uniform and chasing dangerous perps down dark streets. Holland was in the hands of a madman, a sadist, a ruthless and conscienceless man. And if the police made even one false step … Holland would be gone.

  They watched the tape one more time. Marian ached for Holland, feeling every one of his cuts, bleeding with him. The fact that he was being tortured as a way to get to her was salt in the wounds. And for a man as proud as Holland, the ordeal he was going through must be doubly difficult.

  “We can’t announce the case is closed,” Campos said gruffly. “That would kill ’im for sure.”

  The captain agreed. “Tail job—that’s the only way. Fairchild has to go to wherever he has Holland hidden to take those pictures.”

  Walker suddenly said, “That wobbly camera—he was doing that deliberately! So we’d think the guy handling the camcorder was an amateur.”

  “Hmm, yes, I suppose so. Campos, set up a surveillance schedule,” Murtaugh said. “Two-man teams, around the clock. And for god’s sake, don’t let him make you. I don’t know how long Holland can hold out, but our only chance of finding him is to let Fairchild lead us to him.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “And make sure your teams are made up of people Fairchild doesn’t know. That lets out the lieutenant, and Perlmutter, and …?” He looked at O’Toole.

  “Never met him.”

  “Okay. Get a team on him now, Campos.”

  “Right.” The four detectives filed out.

  Murtaugh looked at Marian. “Try not to worry,” he said gently. “They’ll find him.”

  “I’m sure they will,” she said.

  A polite lie.

  Holland poured the antiseptic over his wounds, welcoming the sting. One place on his chest looked as if it were already infected; he pinched off the crusted blood and reopened the cut, dousing it thoroughly. There wasn’t much he could do about his back. He poured the antiseptic back over his shoulders and hoped for the best.

  Fairchild had returned about an hour after Holland had told him about the rat bites. He’d brought a big bag filled with various kinds of antiseptic medicines, and plenty of them. There was one patent medicine “to combat infection,” according to the label. Holland swallowed a couple of the tablets without expecting much; what he needed were antibiotics.

  Fairchild had also added three more bottles of Evian water and a box of cheese crackers. Evidently he’d just gone into the first drugstore he came to and grabbed up whatever was available.

  But if that was the case, why had it taken him an hour? There were drugstores everywhere in New York; you never had to go more than a couple of blocks to find one. How far did Fairchild have to walk from here to get back to civilization anyway? Just where the hell was he?

  Or maybe it hadn’t really been a full hour. Holland could no longer trust his sense of tim
e in this place.

  He finished the first bottle of water Fairchild had brought and hefted the empty plastic container in his hand. Not much weight, but it would give him something to hit with the next time he opened his eyes to see a rat sitting on his chest.

  Abby James took one look at Marian and poured her a drink.

  Marian found herself being steered into Abby’s big kitchen, where she slumped down at the table, vaguely aware of the aroma of something good simmering on the stove. Her body felt so heavy she could barely keep her head up. She stared at the ice melting in her glass and remembered to take a swallow.

  After a few minutes Abby reached across the table and touched her arm. Hesitantly, she asked, “Is he dead?”

  Marian looked up at Abby and shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Oh!” Abby let out the breath she’d been holding. “From the way you look, I thought … I thought …”

  “There’s been another tape.”

  Marian described what was on the tape, in detail. Abby’s eyes teared up and she kept saying Oh … Oh while Marian talked. “My god, that’s … that’s medieval.”

  Marian nodded; that’s what Jim Murtaugh had said too. “Our killer’s enjoying what he’s doing. He’s been enjoying all the manipulating and the creating of misunderstanding, all the things he’s been doing. And now he’s enjoying torturing Holland.”

  “And you still don’t know who he is?”

  “Yes,” Marian said dully. “Now we do.”

  Abby knew better than to ask a question Marian couldn’t answer. “Have you arrested him?”

  Marian shook her head. “He’d just refuse to talk. If we let him run loose, he ought to lead us to where he has Holland hidden.”

  “So he’s being watched?”

  “Around the clock.”

  Abby was silent for a long moment. “You know, don’t you, that Holland isn’t the only one this man is torturing? You’re the one he really wants.”