Alone with the Dead

by Robert J. Randisi

  "Somehow I doubt that."

  "Oh? Why?"

  "Because nobody will want to believe that there are two killers loose in New York-especially when the police aren't admitting it."

  "I find that… disturbing."

  Keough decided to take a shot.

  "So I guess everyone will just go on thinking that sometimes you just get a craving for high school girls."

  There was a pause and then the killer said, "I resent that."

  "Resent what?"

  "Your attempt to manipulate me. You know, Detective Keough, I had thought that you would be someone I could talk to from time to time, but now I am not so sure."

  "Listen, I…"

  "I am not at all sure that I shall ever call you again."

  "Hey, come on…" but he was talking to a dead line.

  He hung up the phone and cursed. It had been going well, and he had had to push it. Now he might never hear from the guy again. Contact with the killer was the only thing he had going for him. If the man was so concerned about people thinking he was a pervert-instead of simply a killer-he might have been able to talk him into giving himself up. Maybe he could convince him that this was the only way to get people to believe him.

  And what was that business about being interested in justice? Did he somehow equate killing all these girls with some misguided sense of justice?

  How many cops, he wondered, actually had the opportunity to talk with a serial killer before he was caught, while he was still active? Had he been given this opportunity through an unbelievable series of events, only to blow it?

  Nah, he thought. He'll call back. He had to call back. This was the only chance Keough had of solving this thing. If he could talk to the man long enough, he was sure he could convince him to turn himself in. True, the man was well educated, but he thought the killer might just be underestimating the power of street smarts.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Later in the evening, Keough was cleaning up after a frozen dinner when there was a knock at the door. He was surprised at whom he found standing in the hall.

  "Are you going to ask me in?" Truxton Lewis asked.

  "Captain Lewis."

  "I thought I told you to call me Tru."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Standing in the hall," Lewis said, "and I don't like it."

  "I'm sorry," Keough said, "come in."

  He allowed Lewis to enter, then closed the door and turned to face the man. Lewis was wearing an unzipped leather jacket with a checked-pattern shirt underneath and blue jeans. There were minute specs of sawdust on the pant legs, and he smelled like freshcut wood.

  "It was just a surprise to see you," Keough said. "How did you find out where I live?"

  "I made a phone call, son," Lewis said, removing his jacket. "Have you got a beer anywhere?"

  "Sure," Keough said, still puzzled by the man's appearance. "Have a seat and I'll get you one."

  Keough went into the kitchen, took a John Courage out of the refrigerator for the retired captain, then took a second out for himself.

  "I saw the column in the paper today," Lewis said as Keough handed him the beer. "You know the department is not gonna like you taking your problems public."

  "I know it, but it wasn't me who took them public. O'Donnell did that on his own."

  "You and O'Donnell are friends?"

  "That's right."

  "I've read his books," Lewis said. "He's good. Is this serial killer business gonna be his next one?"

  "He hopes."

  "Well, it's got everything he needs to be a bestseller, doesn't it?"

  "Except for the end."

  "Well," Lewis said, "maybe I can help you with that."

  "You? How? You're out of the loop, so to speak."

  "I'm retired," Lewis said, "but I'm not dead. I've still got some friends in the department."

  Which must have been how he got Keough's address from his file. First the Lover, now Lewis. Pretty soon everyone was going to have either his number or his address.

  "Have a seat, Tru, and tell me how you think you can help me."

  Lewis sat down on the sofa. Keough reversed the wooden chair, set in front of the desk, and straddled it, holding his beer bottle by the neck.

  "I think I can get you an audience."

  "With who?"

  Lewis smiled and said, "With Chief LaGrange."

  "You know the chief of detectives?"

  Lewis nodded. "We went through the Academy together."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "Many years," Lewis said. "True, we went our separate ways after that. I was never good at politics, so I made it to captain and stalled there. He went on to become chief of detectives-but I think I know him as well as you knew your friend from the Academy… Swann?"

  Keough nodded. "Len Swann. So you can just call him and get me in to see him?"

  "I think I can."

  "Then what?"

  "Then you make your case," Lewis said. "Convince him that Slovecky screwed up the investigation. Convince him that there are two serial killers, not one. And then prove to him that Slovecky killed Len Swann."

  "That'll take a lot of convincing."

  "I'll call Robert tomorrow," Lewis said. "He's probably planning on talking to you, anyway, but maybe I can get him into a different frame of mind."

  "Tru, do you know Inspector Paul Pollard?"

  Lewis laughed. "Oh, yes, Mr. Clean."

  "Is he?"

  "What?"

  "Clean?"

  "Nobody is as clean as he claims to be."

  "I was told that it was likely that Slovecky was given this assignment on Pollard's recommendation."

  Lewis thought a moment, then said, "It makes sense. I don't know why, but Robert always seemed to like having Pollard at his elbow. Maybe it was because Pollard is the perfect yes-man."

  "But would he take Pollard's suggestion, then? If he's just a yes-man?"

  "You get used to having someone around, someone to talk to, to rely on for menial tasks, and little by little you give them more and more to do-and more credit than they deserve."

  "Okay," Keough said, "so suppose Pollard is not as clean as he's supposed to be. Slovecky's good at digging up dirt, right?"

  "I see where you're going with this. You might be right. Slovecky might have blackmailed Pollard into giving him the nod with LaGrange."

  "Tru, I sent a memo to Chief LaGrange about my theory of there being two serial killers. Would that memo have to go through Pollard?"

  "It sure would."

  "Shit! No wonder I haven't gotten an answer."

  "LaGrange never saw it. Did you keep a copy?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "Too bad."

  "But wait a minute."

  "What?"

  "It would probably still be in Swann's computer. All I'd have to do is get his wife to print me a copy."

  "Good. When you go and see LaGrange, take it with you, and whatever other evidence you have."

  "Tru," Keough said, turning and looking at the man, "I don't have all that much evidence."

  "Well, you've got about two days to come up with some. That's probably how long it will take me to set this up. Two days to make sure that two-and maybe three-killers are brought to justice, and maybe you'll save your job at the same time."

  Lewis walked over to the coffee table and put his empty John Courage bottle down on it.

  "Time for me to head home."

  "I appreciate you stopping by."

  Keough walked the man to the door, where they shook hands.

  "Tell me something, Tru?"

  "What?"

  "Why are you doing this?"

  Lewis shrugged. "I like you, I don't like Slovecky, and maybe I can save my old friend Robert LaGrange's butt in the bargain, too. I'll call you tomorrow, Joe, after I've talked with the chief."

  "Thanks, Tru. Thanks a lot."

  The older man waved away Keough's gratitude and walked down t
o the elevator.

  Keough went inside and checked his watch. It was after 8:00 P.M., but he didn't think it was too late to call Marcia Swann.

  "Yes, I know how to work the computer, Joe," she said in reply to his request. "Is this going to help you find Len's killer?"

  "It might, Marcia."

  "I'll make a copy tonight. How do you want me to get it to you?"

  "I'll come by and pick it up."

  "When?"

  "I'll call first."

  "I'll have it ready."

  He hung up, made a pot of coffee, and spent the rest of the evening going through the files on the victims. Finally, he was so tired, he had to stop. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The Lover was concerned.

  He'd been thinking all day about his conversation with Detective Keough.

  He was sitting in his living room, in his favorite chair, wearing a blue silk bathrobe. The curtains were open so that he could stare out at the view of the New York skyline while he drank his second martini of the evening. Tonight he did not have a young female student waiting for him in his bed, waiting to earn an A in philosophy. Tonight he wanted to be alone, to ponder his future.

  He enjoyed teaching, he enjoyed the lecturing he did, both in his own university and on the road. He also enjoyed the killing. He realized that he could stop the killing and continue to do the other things he enjoyed. However, there would always be that stigma of the public thinking he was some pervert who preyed on high school girls.

  Granted, they did not know that it was he. They thought it was this Lover character, as the press had named him. Still, he knew that he would never stoop to having sexual contact with a high school girl, and he didn't like anyone thinking otherwise-not even if it was under a nom de plume.

  The dilemma had a very interesting solution, one he did not know if he was quite ready to explore. He found that he was also quite angry at this second killer. The man was keeping these girls from moving on to college, where they might have become students of his, benefiting greatly from his knowledge. The man should pay for that, but there was no way he would unless he could convince people there actually was a second killer.

  He decided to have a third martini before he pondered the problem further.

  ***

  Kopykat had been upset.

  There it was in black and white in the Post. His idol was denying him. All Kopykat had ever wanted to do was be like his idol, add to his idol's reputation. And now to know the Lover was telling everyone on the newspaper that he did not kill the girls in Brooklyn, that he would not touch high school girls! He said that obviously whoever was killing the gifts in Brooklyn was a pervert and he wasn't.

  A pervert!

  Kopykat became distraught. He had lain around the house all day yesterday after reading the article, and his mother had yelled at him.

  "Goddamn it, I keep tellin' you you're too big to just lay around here. God, you stink. Take a shower. Go out and do something. Don't you have to work today?"

  "I called in sick."

  "Again? Jesus, why don't they fire you. You call in sick all a time."

  In the end, it was his mother who went out, and when she came back that night, she had a man with her.

  Now this morning, he was more angry than upset, because it was clear to him that the Lover was jealous of him. Yeah, that was it. His murders were better than the Lover's, and his idol-his former idol-was jealous.

  It was clear to him that he now had to make his own presence known.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  When the phone rang the next morning, it woke and startled Keough.

  "Hello?"

  "Detective Keough," the Lover said, "I think I have a solution to my problem."

  "Really?" Keough asked, leaning back. "Why don't you tell me about it."

  ***

  When Mike O'Donnell looked up from his desk and saw the man standing in the doorway of his office, he was at first surprised, then pleased.

  "Well, well, what brings you into my neck of the woods, Detective?"

  "I've got a story for you," Keough said, "and it's going to knock your socks off."

  O'Donnell stood up, grabbed his coat, and asked, "Brendan's?"

  ***

  Once they were settled into a booth at Brendan's with a beer each, Keough told his story.

  "I had the most amazing phone call today."

  "From him?"

  Keough nodded, his eyes bright with excitement.

  "Jesus, Mike, I was waiting for the guy to call so I could try to talk him into surrendering."

  "And?"

  "He told me he was surrendering."

  "Christ! To whom?"

  Keough grinned. "Well, thanks to me, he's giving himself up to you and me."

  O'Donnell sat back in his booth, stunned.

  "The royalty checks on this book are gonna be phenomenal," was the first thing he said.

  "If you think your book is going to be phenomenal, wait until his comes out."

  "What?"

  "The slick son of a bitch says he's going to write a book."

  "Wait a minute," O'Donnell said, taking out his notebook, "give me this from the beginning."

  Keough related his conversation with the Lover…

  ***

  "I wish to give myself up."

  "Why?"

  "I thought you would be thrilled," the killer said. "My reign of terror will come to an end, thanks to you."

  "To me?"

  "Well, I intend to give myself up to you."

  "And then what?"

  "Well, there will certainly be months, perhaps years of psychiatric evaluations before there is even a trial. During that time, I intend to write a book."

  "You won't be able to benefit financially from the book." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

  "That is quite all right. The point of the book will be to clear my name."

  Keough hesitated for a moment, frowning, then realized what the man was talking about.

  "Oh, of the Brooklyn murders."

  "Well, of course. After all, I will be surrendering, so I will naturally be confessing to the Manhattan murders."

  "That's decent of you."

  "Exactly." The killer did not recognize the sarcasm in Keough's voice. "And the point of the book will be to tell once and for all, in my own words, how my reputation was tarnished by this madman who is killing young girls in Brooklyn. So all we need do is work out the arrangements of my surrender. Of course, I will need an attorney…"

  "Do you need a recommendation?"

  "Oh, no. No, I think I can manage that on my own."

  "Well, then, get your attorney and let him arrange the surrender."

  "I see. Yes, that makes sense."

  "Here's something else that might make sense."

  "And what is that?"

  "Make sure the newspapers know about this, so they're on hand when you surrender."

  The killer hesitated a moment, then said, "That is a good idea. In fact… your friend Mr. O'Donnell, doesn't he write books such as the one we're discussing?"

  "True crime, yes."

  "Wonderful, then we can make sure that he is present when I surrender to you."

  Keough had a thought.

  "Television coverage might not be such a bad idea, either."

  Why not get himself some publicity out of this? He'd be the man who brought in the Lover, plus he'd be involved in O'Donnell's book. The newspaperman was right: He could parlay this into some money, because he knew that after he brought in the Lover and as soon as there was another murder while this killer was in custody, the department was going to have egg on its face, and he was going to be blamed.

  "Excellent idea. Would you be kind enough to take care of that for me?"

  "It would be my pleasure."

  "You know," the killer said, "this will do you almost as much good as it does me."

&
nbsp; Keough smiled grimly and said, "I've already thought of that…"

  ***

  "Jesus," O'Donnell said. "You know, me boyo, you and I are likely to get filthy rich off of this."

  "I can handle that."

  "What about this Brooklyn killer?" O'Donnell asked. "Think you can get him to surrender, too?"

  "I'd have to find him first."

  "What do you think will happen when you bring in the Lover?"

  "A media circus, I imagine."

  "Well, your Lieutenant Slovecky won't be able to take credit for it, that's for sure. What do you think the chief of detectives will think?"

  "You know," Keough said, "maybe I'll ask him beforehand."

  "You mean tell him about the surrender?"

  "Mmmm… not right away. I'm supposed to have a meeting with him. Maybe I'll make a deal."

  "You know, you're getting crafty in your old age. You'll make him a 'what if I can deliver' deal."

  "Right."

  "When I was a kid, my sister and I would sometimes race to see who could get into their pajamas first at night. One night, I put the bottoms on, and then we said, 'Ready, set, go.' I thought I'd beat her, but she jumped out of her room right away. She had put both the top and the bottom of hers on, so we both cheated."

  Keough stared at O'Donnell and asked, "why are you telling me this?"

  O'Donnell frowned. "I don't know. It seemed appropriate when I thought of it."

  Both men shook their heads.

  "Okay, so when does this surrender take place?"

  "He's got to get himself a lawyer, but he doesn't anticipate any problem with that."

  "Huh, I guess not. Any lawyer would give his eye-teeth for the exposure this case is gonna give him."

  "Once he's got his representation, he'll call me and I'll set it up. I say inside a week."

  "That'll give you time to make your deal with the chief."

  "Right."

  "How are you gonna get in to see him?"