Keough doubted that Huff would feel that way if he knew all the facts.
"Callin' 'cause you miss us?"
"I'm calling because I mailed something out before I left, and the answer is going to come back there, if it's not there already. Is there anything for me?"
"I'll check… No, nothing, Joe."
"When it comes, would you give me a call?"
"Sure. Want me to send it to you?"
"No, Pete, I want you to call me. I'll come and pick it up myself."
"Okay, okay, you got it. Hey, can you put in a good word for me up there?"
"I'll try."
Keough hung up, thinking that, to his mind, he was more "down" there than he was "up."
While most of the others were out of the office, including Slovecky, Keough was alone with Arthur Dolan. Dolan had avoided contact with him for most of the first week, and Keough decided to press the issue today.
"Hey, Sarge?"
Dolan looked up from his desk.
"What is it?"
"Can you show me how to work the Xerox machine?"
Dolan frowned. "I'm not really sure how to do it. Swann used to make all the copies."
"Does the lieutenant know how to work it?"
"I think so."
"Hey, tell me something. Do you know how Slovecky got this assignment?"
"Not really."
"Well, is he friends with the chief?"
"Hell no."
"Then someone must have recommended him for the position. Who has the chief's ear?"
"Pollard."
"Who?"
"Inspector Paul Pollard, the chief's right hand. If he was going to take a suggestion from anyone, that's who it would have been. Pollard and Slovecky know each other."
"What's Pollard's story?"
"He's a yes-man, good at what he does."
"Any skeletons?"
"There must be."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because he's too good to be true-married, churchgoing, the whole nine yards. You just know somebody like that's got something in their closet."
Dolan stood up then and said, "I'm going out for a while."
"When will you be back?"
"I don't know," the sergeant said. "I'll call in."
"Okay."
Keough figured Dolan was leaving rather than stay with him alone and answer more questions.
***
An hour later, he was still alone in the office when the phone rang again. He considered not answering it, but the morning was slipping by and he figured he should probably wait for Slovecky to come back and go out again before he started Xeroxing.
He answered.
"Keough, task force."
"Detective Keough, is it?"
"That's right."
"This is Lieutenant Skerrit, over in Brooklyn at the Six-Three Squad?"
Keough suddenly went cold from head to foot.
"Yes, sir?"
***
The latest Brooklyn victim had been found at the base of the stairs leading down to the subway station at the corner where Nostrand Avenue and Flatbush Avenue intersected. It was an area that was generally called "the Junction." It was a commercial area filled with small stores and restaurants. Also in that area was Brooklyn College.
The victim was not college age, however, but high school age. She was found lying at the base of the subway steps and, according to a preliminary ME's report at the scene, had been dead several hours. The body had been found by a token-booth clerk who was reporting to work.
The phone call from the Six-Three Squad commander was a courtesy notification that they had a case involving a dead girl and a rose-"Yeah, it's in her cunt"-and that they'd be forwarding a copy of the report forthwith.
***
Keough hung up the phone and covered his face with his hand. The Brooklyn killer had struck again, on the heels of the Lover, and he had no doubt that Slovecky would simply lump it in with the rest of the cases.
There was a television in the squad, a portable color set, and Keough turned it on. The lieutenant from the Six-Three said that the body had been found too late to make the newspapers but that some television reporters had made it to the scene.
Sure enough, as Keough changed channels, he came upon a special report by one of the stations. While he was watching it, Dolan and Samuelson came walking back in together. Obviously, they'd hooked up someplace outside.
"What's that?" Dolan asked.
"Another murder in Brooklyn," Keough said.
Dolan and Samuelson joined him by the set.
"Say anything about a rose?" Samuelson asked.
"Not yet," Keough said, "but I just got off the phone with the Six-Three commander. He said there was a rose involved."
"Shit!" Dolan said.
"A high school-age girl," Keough said, turning and looking at Dolan.
"Just like the other ones in Brooklyn," Dolan said defensively. "So our man likes Brooklyn girls high school age."
"That's funny, don't you think?" Samuelson asked.
"What's so funny about it?" Dolan demanded, looking at the man.
Samuelson backed off a few steps.
"Hey, I was just making a comment."
"You got some reason to believe that the Brooklyn girls aren't being killed by the same man?" Dolan demanded.
"Now that you mention it…"
"Save it," Dolan said. "If you got something to say, say it to the boss."
"Forget it," Samuelson said. "If he wants to lump all these murders together, it ain't no skin off of my nose."
"Is this a live feed?" Dolan asked Keough.
"Yeah."
"Come on, Eddie," Dolan said, "let's take a ride out to Brooklyn."
"Whatever you say, boss."
Dolan gave Samuelson a sour look, tossed an even more sour one to Keough, and the two men left.
So even Samuelson had noticed the discrepancies, huh? Keough thought. How many of the other detectives on the squad had noticed it and ignored it in the face of Slovecky's position?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Kopykat sat in front of the TV and watched as the pretty people talked about his handiwork-first the handsome man with the raincoat and microphone, then the pretty lady in the studio.
While he was watching, his mother came out of her room, scratching herself. She had come home with another man last night, thank God, and had left him alone. The man was still sleeping in the bedroom. Kopykat could hear him snoring.
"Whataya watchin'?" his mother demanded. "I wanna see Jane Whitney."
"Jane's not on, Ma."
"Whataya mean she ain't on? It's after twelve."
His mother went over to the TV to take a look.
"What's that?"
"A special report."
"About what? Oh, is that about another murder?"
"Well, yeah, Ma."
He stopped when she slapped him in the back of the head.
"Change that, damn it. I don't want you watchin' that stuff. Gimme that." She took the remote control from him and started switching channels. "Maybe Ricki's on, or what's'er name, that Rolanda? God, everybody's gettin' a talk show, these days. Even that blonde from Entertainment Tonight, uh, Leeza…"
Kopykat tuned his mother out as she kept talking. What would she think if she knew that those pretty newspeople were talking about something he'd done?
Wouldn't she just shit.
***
The Lover couldn't believe his eyes, but there it was on the television in the faculty lounge. Live from the scene in Brooklyn, they were talking about what "appeared to be" another murder by the Lover. But he hadn't even left his apartment last night.
He watched and listened with growing horror as they described the girl as "apparently" of high school age. The fiend! How could he bear to touch girls that young? And people were blaming it on him!
He became aware that someone was speaking to him, but he couldn't be bothered now with things like faculty meetings. He waved
the person away and staggered out into the hall, feeling sickened but knowing that he had to regain control. He had to do something so people would know this was not his handiwork.
He rushed down the hall to his office. He had tried a note; now he was going to have to do something more direct.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Keough was still watching the television when the phone rang.
"Detective Keough, task force."
"I sent a note."
"What?"
"I said, 'I sent a note.' " A man's voice, impatient, educated. "Didn't anyone read it?"
Keough felt a chill. Had a whole series of events taken place just to get him here, at this moment, alone, when the phone rang? To talk to him?
"What note would that be, sir?"
"I think you know what note, Officer."
"Detective."
"Who is in charge there?"
"At the moment, that would be me," Keough said, "as I'm the only one around."
"Did you see my note?"
"Uh, are we talking about the note about…"
"Please don't waste my time," the voice said. "You fellows are up there for one reason, and that is to catch me. That is your job. What other note would I be calling about?"
"If you'll excuse me, sir, you could be anybody calling up here. Somebody looking for attention."
"Well, of course I'm looking for attention, you idiot. Why else would I be… doing what I'm doing?"
No admission there.
"Besides," the man went on, "there has been nothing in the newspapers about the note, so how else would I know about it unless I wrote it?"
The man had a point there. Keough decided that he actually was talking to the Lover.
"Did you see the note?"
"I did."
"Then why wasn't it published?"
"My superior decided not to release it."
"If you had, I wouldn't be receiving the blame for what happened last night, would I? Have you heard?"
"Yes, sir, I've heard."
"And have you seen the television?"
"I have it on now."
"It's preposterous. I would never touch a girl of that age, never!"
"I believe you."
"What? Excellent! Then you are now operating with the knowledge that I have not killed anyone in Brooklyn?"
Keough's mind raced as he tried to figure out how to play this. The man seemed genuinely concerned that his "reputation" was being muddied. Keough decided to play to the man's ego.
"Well, actually, no."
"What do you mean 'no'?"
"Our people have decided to believe that you were using that note simply to throw us off the track."
"In what way?"
"The belief here is that you live in Brooklyn and do not want us looking for you."
The man expelled a disgusted breath.
"That's preposterous! I would not live in Brooklyn. It is filled with cretins!"
"Well, maybe"
"You must make them believe otherwise."
"I can't do that."
"And why not?"
"They wouldn't believe me," Keough said, making it all up as he went along. "You called while I was here alone. When the others come back and I tell them you called, they won't believe me."
"Why not?"
"I am not considered very reliable."
"And are you?"
Keough hesitated and then said, "I'm something of an oddity in the police department."
"In what way?"
"I care a little too much."
"And most policemen do not?"
"Most policemen these days," Keough said, "want to put their time in and retire with a nice pension."
The Lover sighed and said, "It is not so different in my profession."
Keough remained silent.
"You did not ask me what my profession was."
Keough laughed. "I don't think you'd be foolish enough to answer me correctly, so what would be the point?"
"Let me ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"What would you suggest I do now?"
"Well, you could call back and talk to my superior."
"Would you recommend that?"
At that point Keough got an idea.
"No."
"And what would you suggest I do?"
"Call a newspaperman."
"Really." The man sounded surprised. "Wouldn't your department rather keep this matter out of the press?"
"Definitely."
A chuckle filtered through the phone.
"What is your name, Detective?"
"Keough, Detective Joe Keough."
"Mr. Keough, let me ask you something." The man's tone was that of a teacher addressing a student. In fact, that had been the attitude Keough detected from the beginning of the conversation.
"Go ahead?"
"Do you believe I killed those girls in Brooklyn?"
"I do not," Keough replied, "but I am a minority of one."
"I see, and you are in a position where the majority rules."
"That's correct."
"So you are saying that unless I announce in the newspaper that I did not kill those girls, I will continue to be thought responsible?"
"That's correct." Keough was aware that his own speech pattern had become more and more proper during the phone call.
"I see."
The man fell silent, but Keough could still hear him breathing. He decided to wait and let the man make the next move.
"I should think about this," the killer finally said, "but tell me, Mr. Keough, what newspaperman would you suggest I call?"
***
After hanging up on the man who claimed to be the Lover, Keough sat back and waited for his heart to slow down. He'd never spoken to a serial killer on the phone. The voice had been so calm, so cool, and he knew that his voice had sounded the same way. Were the killer's palms, then, sweating the way his were at the moment?
Although the man had never admitted to anything, Keough was absolutely certain that he had spoken to the killer. He also believed the man when he said that he had not killed the girls in Brooklyn and that he did not live in Brooklyn. Lastly, he knew that Slovecky was not going to believe that he had spoken to the killer on the phone. Neither would Dolan. He didn't know about the other detectives in the task force, but he decided not to tell any of them. In fact, he wasn't going to tell anyone else who was on the job.
There was only one person he was going to talk about it to.
He dialed the phone and when it was answered, he asked for his party.
"Mike O'Donnell, please."
When O'Donnell came on, Keough said, "We've got to have dinner."
"Why?"
"Have I got a story for you."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
When Mike O'Donnell walked into Brendan's, Keough was already seated at a back booth. He'd gone straight to Brendan's from the task force office, after a brief discussion with Slovecky.
"You managed to stay out of my way the first week, Keough," Slovecky had said at the end of the shift. "That's good."
"It's not going to do your filing any good to keep me on clerical, Lieutenant," Keough had said. "You'd be better off putting me on the streets."
"So you can muddle the picture with hogwash about a second killer? No, I think you'll stay inside, where you can do the least damage."
"Suit yourself," Keough said, and left, secretly pleased that Slovecky was going to keep him inside, where he could stay in contact with the Lover-if the killer ever called him again.
When O'Donnell appeared, Keough waved him to the booth. O'Donnell stopped at the bar for an Irish coffee and carried it to where Keough was sitting, nursing a beer.
"What's this story you've got for me?" he asked. "Have you broken the serial killer case?"
"Not yet."
"Then why the urgent summons to dinner-and when is dinner, by the way?" He picked up a menu from the table and turned to lo
ok for a waitress.
"Let's eat after we talk, Mike."
"Okay," O'Donnell said, "then talk."
"You should be getting a phone call this week-a very important phone call."
"Oh yeah? From whom?"
Keough hesitated, then said, "The Lover."
O'Donnell stared at him.
"The Lover?"
"That's right."
"The serial killer Lover? With the roses? That one?"
"That's the one."
O'Donnell stared at Keough for a few moments, then said, "Joe, if this is a joke…"
"No joke, Mike. It's on the level."
At that moment, a waitress came.
"Would you like to order dinner?"
"Not yet," Keough said.
"Honey," O'Donnell said, putting his hand on her arm to stop her from leaving, "would you bring me an Irish whiskey-make it a double?"
"Sure, Mr. O'Donnell."
As she went off to get it, the newspaperman turned back to Keough and asked, "How did you manage this? And why is he calling me? What the hell is going on, Joe?"
"If you'll quiet down for a minute, I'll explain it all to you," Keough said.
"Okay," O'Donnell said, "I'm quiet. Give."
Keough told O'Donnell again about his belief that there were two separate killers. He told him about working with Swann, about Swann's death, and about being transferred to the task force so that Slovecky could keep an eye on him and keep him quiet. He did not tell O'Donnell that he suspected Slovecky of killing Swann. That would be putting too much temptation in the way of the newspaperman. Keough only paused when the waitress came back with O'Donnell's drink.
"The killer in Brooklyn is using different roses, and he's using them with the thorns still on the stems," he went on. "Also, he's hitting high school girls, while the Lover is killing women."
"And the task force doesn't know this?" O'Donnell asked.
"The commander of the task force is covering it up," Keough said. "He wants the Lover's reputation to be that much bigger when he catches him."
"And he'll let another killer go to do it?"
Alone with the Dead Page 14
