Night Victims n-3

by John Lutz

  Still smiling just to be in his presence, she took the paper bag from his hand and set it on the coffee table. He noticed the hurried switch of her broad hips beneath the robe as she went into the kitchen for a couple of glasses.

  Rosanne Turner was an alcoholic. Will liked that. It was her vulnerability that had interested him when he first saw her practically drooling in a liquor store. He’d judged her accurately, picking her up right there using a bottle of scotch for bait. Later he’d found out she wouldn’t drink anything but Southern Comfort, unless there was no Southern Comfort around. Bobby was right; it wasn’t Will’s drink. But he’d made it his drink the second time he’d met Roz.

  The first night, they’d walked and talked and he’d convinced her he was a gentleman and acknowledged she was a lady. He commiserated with her about the lost daughter her bastard of a husband had talked the court into placing in his custody during the divorce. Fucking injustice was everywhere! He agreed with her that her idiot boss at an insurance company had been wrong to fire her and assured her that her infrequent work as an office temp would inevitably lead to steady employment. How could they not hire somebody like her? Not everybody in the world was too stupid or blind to see what she had to offer.

  When they’d reached her house, he hadn’t tried to talk his way inside. Instead, he’d left her the bottle they’d both only taken a few sips from, a little nudge to help her tumble off the wagon and onto her back with her legs spread.

  Their next date, about halfway into the Southern Comfort, she was wildly enjoying her second addiction.

  Roz was back with two juice glasses, both full. His had ice in it, the way he liked it, or could stand it, anyway. Usually he was a straight Bud man.

  “Before we drink these,” she said, “I want to show you something.”

  Will followed her into the spare bedroom.

  There on a table in the center of the room was one of his smaller works, Blue Mourning, a surrealistic bronze of a sobbing man seated on a box.

  “I bought it at that gallery in the Village. Three hundred dollars.”

  He didn’t know what to think. Maybe he was angry. He couldn’t be sure. “I’m. . uh, flattered,” he said. “But you shouldn’t have spent the money.”

  “I wanted to. You’re going to be famous someday, so it’s an investment.”

  Will knew it was an investment she was making in him personally. He didn’t like that. They had an unspoken agreement about their affair, and he intended to keep his part of it.

  She handed him his glass, kissing him again on the lips.

  “You love me?” she asked, backing up a step.

  “You know I don’t,” he said, “and you don’t give a fuck.”

  She downed half her glass and grinned in a way that showed most of her teeth. “I’m gonna show you how wrong you are about that last part.”

  Fifteen minutes later she was smiling down at him, seated on his bare chest with her thighs spread wide. He could smell her sex and feel her heat and wetness against his skin. A drop of perspiration clung to her left breast as if reluctant to leave it and then plummeted to land on his neck.

  “Any place you’d rather be?” she asked.

  “Can’t think of one.”

  “You home?”

  “Home,” he said.

  Thinking this was about as far away from home as he could get.

  And when he returned home, it would be as if he’d never left.

  Linnert looked slightly disheveled the morning after Paula had talked to him. He’d still been in bed when Paula, who’d detoured on her way to pick up Bickerstaff, buzzed from downstairs. His hair was flat on one side, and he was wearing a white T-shirt, brown slippers, and the same pleated pants he’d had on yesterday. She thought he didn’t look bad a little messy.

  Occasionally, Paula dropped in unexpectedly for a brief follow-up interview to catch a suspect off guard. Sometimes they contradicted themselves, or came up with a piece of information even they didn’t know they possessed or was important. Sometimes it gave her a new and completely different view of a suspect. That could be valuable for a lot of reasons.

  “I came back because it occurred to me you might provide some insight,” she said, as he stepped back to invite her inside.

  He grinned as he sat slumped in a chair across from her. She’d noted that he limped getting there. “I’m plenty insightful,” he said. He wasn’t smiling, but it was in his voice. She amused him. It kind of pissed her off.

  “You were SSF yourself. If the Night Spider has a background like yours, what do you think might make him assume he can get away with it?”

  “Arrogance, plain and simple. Taking the kinds of risks we did, an ungodly amount of arrogance was required.”

  “Oh? Are you still arrogant?” Hah!

  “Yes.” He smiled. “A guilty suspect wouldn’t tell you that, would he?”

  Playing with me. “An arrogant one would. Why are you arrogant?”

  “Because it is justified. Besides, women find arrogance attractive.”

  “Some do.”

  “You, Officer Paula.”

  “Detective Ramboquette,” she said, standing up and thanking Linnert for his time. Abrupt, but what the hell? He had a way of taking the play away from her, turning her in on herself, and she couldn’t quite cope with it-with him.

  “Hey! You don’t have to leave again so soon.”

  But she knew she did and that he understood why. Insightful bastard.

  Not to mention arrogant.

  “Have you had breakfast, Paula?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “Paula.”

  His voice stopped her at the door.

  “You forgot your umbrella again.”

  29

  There was no record that Aaron Mandle had ever had trouble with the law. His last known address was three years old and in St. Louis, in a neighborhood where it was dangerous to grow up or to grow old. He’d lived in a six-family apartment building long ago torn down to make room for a highway exit ramp.

  Horn had checked with the St. Louis police and was told Mandle didn’t have a record there, either. VICAP and NCIC had nothing on him. The man seemed to no longer exist.

  But he’d definitely existed in St. Louis. The detective Horn talked to, a guy named Homolka, recalled a four-year-old unsolved homicide: a woman wrapped in her bedsheets and stabbed to death.

  The next morning, Horn said, “We’re catching his act after he perfected it on the road,” as if Mandle were someone who’d recently opened on Broadway.

  “Then we don’t know how many women he’s killed,” Paula said. “There might be dozens more, in other cities.”

  “Not that I could find, other than the probable in St. Louis. But it’s still being checked out.”

  “Wouldn’t he have been in the military around that time?” Paula asked.

  “Maybe,” Horn said. “But if he was in the States, he’d have occasional leave.”

  “The army should have his fingerprints,” Bickerstaff said.

  “Should, but they don’t.”

  They’d been in the Home Away for more than an hour, trying to figure out what to do with what seemed to be their best lead. Horn was finished with his corn muffins, and Paula and Bickerstaff had sneaked a stop at a Krispy Kreme and told him they were skipping breakfast today. Horn had congratulated them on their dietary virtuousness, then pointed out the doughnut crumbs on their clothes. There were only three coffee cups and saucers, a small cream pitcher, and sugar packets on the table now. Everyone knew where everyone else stood culinary-wise.

  Horn said, “I didn’t want to drag Kray into this any further, so I contacted Altman and asked him about Mandle. Should have known it was a waste of time. Far as the government’s concerned, the SSF and its roster don’t exist and never did.”

  “Not even to catch a killer?” Paula asked.

  “Alleged killer. And according to Altman, SSF members’ military records are expunged t
o prevent any possible compromise even after they become civilians. He said he couldn’t help me if he tried.”

  “And we know we can believe him,” Bickerstaff said disgustedly.

  “Did he ask how we found out about Mandle?” Paula said. “Altman must know he wasn’t a name on the original list of SSF members.”

  “The phony list,” Bickerstaff said.

  “Useless, anyway,” Horn said. “And no, Altman didn’t ask. And I didn’t exactly use Mandle’s real name anyway. Sometimes it’s best to cast a lie to a liar.”

  Paula stared at him. Fibbing to the Feds. You’re just like

  Altman. Now and then Horn would do something that jolted her into realizing anew how devious and relentless he was. How he was so much more than a simple, by-the-book cop who’d put in his time, kissed ass, and gotten ahead in the department. She suspected Altman seriously underestimated him.

  “Since we’re not even sure Mandle’s his real name,” Horn said, “we weren’t exactly lying to the federal government.”

  “Good moral point,” Paula said with a smile. “And a relief to hear. If I were Catholic, I’d have an easier time going to confession Sunday.”

  Horn looked at Bickerstaff.

  “Botox for my brow, too,” Bickerstaff said.

  “A unit like the SSF,” Paula said, “do you think the military might even have purged Mandle’s civilian criminal record?”

  “I doubt it,” Horn said, “though it’s possible. I think we can work on the assumption that Mandle never had any brushes with the law.”

  “Then why’s he so damned hard to find?” Bickerstaff asked.

  “Running from family problems, maybe,” Paula suggested, burning her tongue on the coffee Marla the waitress had just topped off. “Ex-wife, child support, that kind of thing.”

  Bickerstaff chewed on the inside of his cheek. A thinking gesture, Paula knew. More chewing. “Maybe he’s got an alias.”

  Paula poured in more cream and cautiously tried her coffee again. Much better. “Or maybe Aaron Mandle’s an alias.”

  “He has a Social Security number,” Horn told them. “Of course, by now he might have another, or one for every occasion.”

  Paula looked across the table at Horn, trying to read him. It was like trying to read slate. “You really convinced Mandle’s our Night Spider?”

  “He looks good for it to me.”

  “We’ve gotta find this prick and shut him down,” Bickerstaff said. “If for no other reason than so I can go fishing.”

  Paula didn’t comment. Trying to get a rise out of me.

  “I told Larkin what we have,” Horn said. “He was thrilled, but he’s skeptical.”

  “Can you be both those things at the same?” Paula asked.

  Horn smiled. “It’s the very juggling act that gets you ahead in the NYPD.” He finished his coffee and rested the empty cup on the white paper napkin he’d folded and placed in his saucer. “Time to do the drone work,” he said. “Make more use of the department computers. I’m told nobody can walk, talk, and breathe on the planet these days without leaving a trail of some sort. We have to find that trail, then follow it.”

  Bickerstaff had already stood up. Paula dabbed at her lips with her napkin and slid out of the booth. They’d learned that the emphatic draining of the coffee cup was Horn’s signal that strategy meetings at the Home Away were over.

  As they strode from the diner, Bickerstaff waved goodbye to Marla, who was busy behind the counter. She gave him a smile and a nod. Friendly but not too personal. Paula thought that if Bickerstaff had any designs on Marla, he’d better go back to thinking about ice fishing.

  Outside in the first clear morning in several days, Bickerstaff said, “You notice that waitress isn’t a bad-looking woman?”

  “I’ve noticed,” Paula said. “Though not like you, I’m sure.” And Horn’s noticed.

  Horn had drawn an El Laquito Especial cigar from his pocket when Marla approached the booth.

  He smiled. “I’m not going to smoke this here. Just unwrapping it so I can enjoy it on the walk home.”

  She was carrying a towel, drying her hands on it though they didn’t need drying. He waited for her to warn him about the evils, perils, and addiction of smoking, but she didn’t. “How’s the Night Spider case going?” she asked.

  “You seem particularly interested in this one.”

  “Sure. I guess I’m hooked.”

  Horn found himself hoping that was a double entendre.

  “Any closer to catching the creep?” Marla asked.

  He could smell the fine Cuban cigar and felt like lighting it while he was right there in the booth. “As a psychologist, I would have thought you’d regard the killer as sick. Dangerous, but still a product of society’s ills.”

  “Creep fits all right. And I’m speaking personally, not professionally. What I am now’s a professional food server.”

  The strategy meeting had started late that morning, probably because of Paula and Bickerstaff stopping for doughnuts, so it had broken up late. The last of the breakfast crowd had left, and Horn and Marla were alone now, except for the cook and whoever else might be in back beyond the swinging doors to the kitchen.

  “You don’t trust me, Horn?”

  “You know better.”

  He filled Marla in on the case’s progress, while she stood by the booth listening. As he talked, she absently wound the dry dish towel around one of her hands, as if she’d suffered a wound.

  “Aaron Mandle,” she said, when Horn was finished. “So your suspect has a name.”

  “It might not be his real name. And if it is, he’s very successfully erased any sign of himself and gone into hiding. Knowing a name he’s used is one thing. Finding him is quite another.”

  “You’ll probably never find him.”

  Horn put the unlit cigar back in his shirt pocket. He was surprised by such a definite statement from her, and he sensed there was something more coming. “The police are better at finding people than a lot of folks think, or do you have an insight you might want to share?”

  “I do. Aside from what you’ve just told me, I’ve done a lot of reading on this case, given it a lot of thought and formed some opinions.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re involved. If something happened to you, what would we do with our year’s supply of corn muffins?”

  “Enough about me and my vices,” Horn said, hoping he wasn’t revealing how pleased he was with the reason for her interest in the case. “Why do you say the killer will be so hard to find?”

  “He’s a sadistic perfectionist,” Marla said, “who murders as an erotic art. And I don’t think that’s putting it too strongly. My assumption is he’s also that careful and detail-oriented in other matters, such as concealing his whereabouts.”

  “For a careful man, he’s found himself a pretty risky pastime.”

  “It’s not a pastime for him. I’m sure he sees it as his calling. Convincing himself that what he’s doing is his destiny helps him to rationalize it, to reconcile it with the normal side of the self he shows to the world. His facade.”

  “We talking split personality?”

  “I don’t think so. Not even bipolar. I’d say your killer’s a sadistic, capable son of a bitch all the time. Only sometimes he acts differently, charms people so he can use them. But he’s probably quite conscious of doing that. Not like.. say, a Son of Sam type who hears voices or messages in a dog’s barking.”

  “Any thoughts about motivation?”

  She smiled sadly. “That could be a lot more complicated. Almost certainly he hates women, but that could be for a number of reasons. Possibly there was a formative traumatic event early on, something an important woman in his life did to him. A mother, sister. . But the reasons can also be cumulative, the turning point some seemingly insignificant act whose importance the perpetrator herself is unaware of. The profundity of these things can be entirely in the mind of the afflicted.”


  Profundity. “You’re some hash slinger.”

  “You’re some cop.”

  “You’ve given me a lot to mull over. I thought you weren’t into profiling.”

  She unwound the towel from her hand and smiled at him. “Just for friends,” she said. “And because I think it might help.”

  Horn removed the cigar from his pocket again and examined it, rotating it with thumb and forefinger to check the tightness of the wrapper leaf. “It would help a lot more,” he said, “if you told me how to find him.”

  “You probably won’t find him.”

  “Oh?”

  “But even though my opinions are based on estimation, I think I can tell you his vulnerability. He has a sick mind, but one you can get inside of. To a certain extent, you can know how he thinks.”

  “That’s his vulnerability?”

  “Not entirely. Everything in his actions suggests he’s built for risk. He can’t ignore a dare. You might be able to make him come to you.”

  The bell above the door tinkled. A woman and three preschool children entered the diner in a rush of noise and motion.

  Marla excused herself. She glanced back at Horn as she hurried around behind the counter. The woman and her charges were climbing onto stools. First up was the largest kid, a grinning blond girl about four who began to revolve.

  Horn laid some bills on the table, then slid out of the booth and walked from the diner, the unlit cigar in his hand. As he left, Marla gave him a smile he’d never seen before.

  One he didn’t understand.

  Outside the diner, Horn stood near a doorway and fired up his cigar. He was strolling along the sidewalk, smoking and enjoying the fact that the sun was paying a visit this morning, when his cell phone chirped.

  He dug the phone out of his jacket pocket, then removed the cigar from his mouth and watched the morning breeze claim the smoke he’d exhaled. With his free hand, the unimpaired left one, he held the small plastic phone to his ear. “Horn.”

  “Captain Horn, this is Nina. Nina Count.”

  “Am I going to be glad it is?”

  “I didn’t call to give you any bullshit, Horn. I’m scared.”