Alone with the Dead

by Robert J. Randisi

  He put the newspaper down and walked to the window of the run-down house he shared with his mother. He looked out at the street. From where he was, he could clearly see the young mothers in their shorts and sleeveless tops-some of them halter tops-walking their kids to or from summer school. Some of them even looked younger than they were because he couldn't see their faces, only their firm, tanned bodies.

  Up close, though, he knew they would be older-too old for him.

  His mother was out now, probably sitting in some bar trying to line up her "date" for the evening. In fact, he even could have guessed which two or three bars she'd be hitting. He knew that she wouldn't find someone until it was late. It took her longer these days because years of drinking and rutting had taken their toll on her face and her body. Guys had to be pretty drunk and near the end of the day to consider scoring her. She didn't mind, though. He knew she liked sitting in the bars, drinking and sizing guys up, and it didn't matter to her why they came home with her at the end of the day, as long as they did.

  It was too bad, he thought, that the Lover didn't like older women.

  ***

  The Lover left his office, telling his teaching assistant he'd be back shortly.

  "You have a six o'clock appointment, Professor," she told him.

  "Yes, yes," he said impatiently, "I'll be back in time. I'm just going to get a newspaper-and a bottle of Evian."

  "I could get it for…" she started, but he was out the door and gone.

  Down on the street, he crossed over to the newsstand and picked up a copy of the Post's late edition. He knew that his nocturnal doings wouldn't have made the morning papers, but there it was on the cover of the paper now.

  LOVER STRIKES AGAIN.

  Couldn't they be more imaginative than that? He demanded imagination from his students, above everything else. You could have all the talent in the world, but it would be totally useless without imagination.

  Funny, he thought as he went inside and took a bottle of Evian out of the refrigerator, that his note wasn't on the front page, as well. He had envisioned it that way, the note reproduced right on the cover. Maybe the News or Newsday would have it tomorrow.

  He paid for the paper and water and went back across the street. He waited until he was on the other side to study the paper more closely.

  The story began on the front page and was continued on page three, but even as he read on, he could find nothing about the note. Here he had taken the trouble of writing it, to clear himself of the Brooklyn murders, and they hadn't even bothered to put it in the newspapers?

  Angrily, he crumpled the newspaper in his hands, tossed it away, then whirled and threw the bottle of Evian. It struck the wall of the building, bounced off, and rolled into the gutter. He ignored it and stormed back into the building.

  A homeless man hurried over from the other side of the street, barely avoiding being hit by a passing car, and grabbed up the unopened bottle of Evian. He tucked his treasure inside his dirty coat and then picked up the "clean" newspaper. Clutching his treasures, he scurried off down the street to find someplace private to enjoy them.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The next morning, Keough was drinking coffee in the Daily Caffe, in the McGraw Hill Building on Sixth Avenue, not far from Rockefeller Center. He had called Len Swann, who also remembered him from the Academy, that morning to suggest a meeting.

  "I've got some information I think the task force should know about."

  "Like what, Joe?"

  "I don't want to go over that on the phone. We should meet somewhere."

  "Can you put it in writing?"

  "I don't think so."

  "What are you being so mysterious about?"

  Keough hesitated, then said, "Len, I think there are two different killers."

  "Joe," Swann said, "don't say another word. Let's meet."

  That was when they talked about a location.

  "We shouldn't be seen together," Swann said.

  There was something in Swann's voice that told Keough that he had found the right man.

  They agreed on the Daily Caffe, which was far from the task force office.

  Keough had gone to bed early last night-that is, early for him. Usually, when he worked a four-to-twelve, it took him some time to unwind after work, and he'd hit the sack about 3:00 A.M. Since he hadn't slept much the night before, though, he'd turned in as soon as he got home.

  That morning, he had caught Cindy Valentine leaving for summer school. She had a friend in the building who was in the same class, and that girl's mother usually took them to school. It made it easier for Nancy to get herself ready for work and then get to work on time.

  The other mother waited patiently while Cindy excitedly told Keough about her play and how good she'd been in it.

  "Of course," Cindy added, looking at her friend, "Lisa was real good, too."

  "I'm sure you were both great, honey," Keough said, smiling up from his crouched position at Lisa's mother. She gave him a wan smile in return.

  "And I understand why you couldn't come, Joe," Cindy said. "Your work is important."

  "Thanks, honey."

  He stood up and watched Cindy, Lisa, and Lisa's mother head for the front door.

  "If Joe was in charge, I bet he'd find that nasty Lover," Cindy told her friend Lisa proudly.

  "We don't talk about that, Cindy…"

  Not that Keough could blame Lisa's mother for not wanting the kids to talk about some sick serial killer who was stalking the streets of New York, but it just showed how much newspaper and TV coverage the case was getting when even children on their way to school were discussing it. He felt even more foolish for not having followed it closely himself and for not knowing about the color of the roses.

  Also, the confidence with which Cindy had spoken tugged at his heart and made him feel guilty for not having done something up to now. It wasn't so much that he could help catch the Lover, but he felt sure there was a killer in Brooklyn who might get off scot-free, with the murders being attributed to the Lover.

  He had decided that he just couldn't see letting that happen.

  ***

  Len Swann told the whip that he was taking a "personal" to take care of some pressing business.

  "I've already sorted the morning reports," he said as he entered the whips' office, "and here are your copies."

  "Fine," Slovecky said without looking up.

  "I'll be back in a couple of hours, Lieutenant."

  Slovecky looked up and said, "Just don't jam me up by being away half the day, Swann."

  "No, sir," Swann said, "I won't."

  Swann went to his desk and picked up his leather briefcase, which had been a gift from his wife. He barely used it, so it still had that scent of new leather even though it was a couple of years old. Today, it had some very important papers inside-papers that could cost him his job if he got caught taking them out of the office.

  Trying to appear casual and not clutch the briefcase to him as if it was filled with gold, he left the office and caught a cab for his meeting with Det. Joe Keough.

  He remembered Keough from the Academy. Although they had gone through training together, Keough was several years older than Swann and most of the other cadets. They had gotten along well while not becoming particularly close, and after their initial assignments, they had lost touch over the years. In fact, he had not thought about Joe Keough in a long time, until he saw his name on the reports from the Six-Seven Precinct on the first Brooklyn murder. He was surprised to hear the man's voice on the phone and even more surprised to hear what he had to say.

  He was anxious to find out how a cop he hadn't seen since the Academy-and had not talked to in all those years-had come to the same conclusion he had.

  ***

  The Daily Caffe was a tiny shop in the basement of the McGraw-Hill Building. The only seating was a counter with four or five stools against the wall. On the counter were copies of that day's newspapers. Keough wa
s studying the stories on the Lover's latest victim when Len Swann entered. The man was holding a leather briefcase underneath his arm as if it held a bomb.

  "Bad body language," he said to Swann as the man approached.

  Swann frowned, then looked down at himself and abruptly pulled the briefcase away from his body.

  "Coffee?" Keough asked.

  "Yeah, sure," Swann said, "black."

  Keough went to the counter and ordered two black coffees.

  "What kind?" the girl asked.

  "What?"

  "What kind of coffee?" she said. "We have several different types."

  "Just coffee," Keough said as patiently as he could, "regular black coffee, in containers, not cups." Just in case Swann preferred to walk and talk.

  The girl looked at him as if he had no imagination or adventure in his soul and gave him two containers of coffee.

  He went back to the newspaper counter and sat next to Swann.

  "How've you been, Len?" he asked.

  "I've been better, Joe," Swann said.

  "What have you been doing?"

  "Clerical."

  "As I remember," Keough said, "you had clerical skills already when we went through the Academy."

  "My curse," Swann said. "That's all they been letting me do since I got on the job, clerical, roll call, payrollI tell you, Joe, I wanted to quit more times than I can remember. I mean, I can do that kind of work outside for a lot more money."

  "I bet you could."

  "The thing is, I don't want to do that kind of work," Swann said, "I want to be a cop."

  "Hey," Keough said, "you made detective, didn't you?"

  "They gave me a gold shield," Swann said, "but they won't let me be a detective-that's why this is so important to me."

  "This?" Keough said, looking at the briefcase.

  "Joe," Swann said, leaning closer, "tell me why you think there are two killers?"

  So Keough told him about finding the first girl and about all of the discrepancies he'd found in the case.

  "Unfortunately," he said, "the brass in my precinct are worried about their stats, and were only too happy to pass the case on to your people."

  "And the other Brooklyn killing?"

  "Same thing," Keough said. "It's just easier for the precinct to pass it along to the task force."

  "But tell me what specifically makes you believe there are two killers?"

  "There are too many inconsistencies," Keough explained, "but two stand out to me."

  "What two?" Swann asked.

  "First, the Brooklyn victims are girls, not women," Keough said. "Neither of the Brooklyn girls was over eighteen, and none of the Manhattan women who have been killed have been under twenty. Second, in one of the Brooklyn cases the rose was striped."

  Swann said nothing, and Keough went on.

  "And the other was red."

  He waited for Swann to say something and when he didn't, he said, "Well, Swannie? What color were the roses on the Manhattan victims? Were they red? Or something else? Any striped?"

  "No," Swann said. "I see all the reports. There were no striped roses."

  "What were they?"

  "Red," Swann said, "they were all red."

  Keough could see that it wasn't easy for Swann to talk about the case to someone outside the task force. He was going to have to pull it out of him.

  "Okay, so why a striped one in Brooklyn?" Keough asked. "On just one girl, why striped?"

  "I don't know…" Swann said thoughtfully.

  "Did early accounts actually mention that the roses were found in their vaginas?"

  "Yes."

  "That, too."

  "What's going on, Swannie?" Keough said, falling back on the old nickname. "Why are we meeting here? Jesus, we're underground, you know?"

  "Joe," Swann said, touching the other man's arm tentatively, "I agree with you. I don't think the Lover did the Brooklyn killings."

  Keough sat back and breathed a sigh of relief.

  "You mean the task force is working them as separate cases?" he asked. "That's a relief, Swannie"

  "No, that's just it," Swann said, shaking his head. "The whip won't entertain the possibility that the cases aren't related."

  Keough frowned. "Who's the whip, again? Uh, Lieutenant Dravecky?"

  "Slovecky," Swann said.

  "What's his story?"

  "Made lieutenant quickly and got stuck," Swann said "He hates everyone above him in rank, and below him. He wants this case to make him a captain."

  "And he can't see the differences between the Brooklyn and Manhattan murders?"

  "He won't see the differences," Swann said. "That is, he won't let anyone else see them. See, the bigger the Lover's rep when he catches him, the better he's going to look. At least that's how I read him."

  Keough frowned and said, "He's padding the Lover's record? I don't know why this should surprise me. Typical brass way of thinking. He cares more about making captain than about catching a sick killer-and while he's at it, he'll let another killer go completely free."

  "Basically," Swann said, "that's it."

  "So tell me why do you think there are two killers?"

  "The main reason," Swann said, "is the note."

  Keough frowned. "What note?"

  Swann looked around to make sure they were alone, then said, "This note." He slid a piece of paper from his briefcase and handed it to Keough.

  Keough saw that it was a Xerox of a note, written in a scrawling handwriting.

  "Jesus," Keough said, "where'd this come from?"

  "They found it on Julie Hansen," Swann said, "the latest victim."

  "Well, Jesus Christ," Keough said, shaking his head in disbelief, "the Lover himself is saying he didn't kill the Brooklyn girls!"

  "That's what our second whip, Artie Dolan said."

  "And what did Slovecky say?"

  "He said that maybe the killer just didn't want us looking for him in Brooklyn."

  "That's crazy," Keough said.

  "Slovecky is devious, Joe," Swann said, taking the note and putting it back in the briefcase.

  "What else have you got in there, Len?"

  Swann looked nervous.

  "Joe, I've been Xeroxing all of the reports on the Lover victims," he said, "and when those Brooklyn cases came in, I made copies of those, too."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" Swann repeated. "Because I want out, that's why. I want to get out of the office and into the street. I was figuring that maybe this case would be my ticket out. I don't think that I ever really expected that it would, though."

  Keough stared at Swann, who seemed fairly desperate about this. How, Keough, wondered, did this make Swann any different from Slovecky? They both wanted this case to advance their careers. No, that wasn't fair. At least Swann wasn't lying and twisting the facts to suit him.

  "Okay," Keough said. "Okay, so who do we go to with this?"

  "What do you mean?" Swann asked.

  "Len, we have to do something about this, or a killer is going to go free."

  "You mean… go over Slovecky's head?"

  "What else?" Keough said. "We can't go to him. He'll cover it up, right?"

  "Well…"

  "And he'll probably transfer you to the boonies."

  Swann hesitated, then said, "That's true…"

  "We've got to bring this to someone's attention."

  "But… who?"

  Keough stared at Swann, then said, "The C of D."

  "The chief?"

  Keough nodded.

  "We send him a written report, signed by both of us, with our conclusions," Keough said. "We're covered, and we let him take it from there."

  "Jesus," Swann said, "we'd be sticking our necks way out there, Joe. Christ, if Slovecky found out about this, he'd kill me!"

  "I know," Keough said, "but I don't think either one of us has that much to lose, Len. I'm not where I want to be, and neither are you. Look, if you want, I'll send the report with ju
st my signature on it."

  "No!" Swann said. "No, that wouldn't be fair… to you."

  "Okay," Keough said, "so we write it up and send it to the chief's office."

  Swann stroked his jaw with one hand and kept the other one on the briefcase, which was lying flat on the counter, next to his coffee.

  "I'll write it," he said finally.

  "All right," Keough said, since he hated writing and Swann had a knack for it. "Maybe," he added, "it'll be the last report you ever write."

  Swann gave him a funny look, and for a moment Keough didn't realize that the last thing he'd said could have been taken two ways.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Marcia Swann had never seen her husband, Len, so worked up before. Oh, she had seen him angry, especially when he talked about being consigned for life to the "Palace Guard." But this was different. Len was not angry; he was not disappointed; he was not upset. He was… agitated, and she didn't like it one bit.

  Although Swann had explained to his wife that Joe Keough was someone he had gone through the Academy with, and even though Marcia and Len Swann were married back then, she didn't remember Keough. Still, she agreed to having him as a guest for dinner and was polite to him before, during, and after. She also noticed that Keough and her husband were constantly exchanging glances she could only think of as furtive. She wanted to ask what was going on but decided against it. She had always trusted her husband, and she trusted him now to tell her what was going on… eventually.

  For now, she would just get the kids off to sleep-Billy, eight, and Jennifer, thirteen-and then get out of the way herself and let the two detectives talk.

  Sometimes, though, she wished she didn't trust Len so much. Sometimes she just wanted to ask questions…

  ***

  It was after hours and Lt. Dan Slovecky was the only one still left in the task force office. There was one light left on, and that was the desk lamp on Det. Len Swann's desk. Slovecky laughed derisively to himself. Detective! The man was nothing more than a glorified clerical.