by John Lutz
“Hot enough for you?” Wilcoxen said.
“Hot enough for me to do what?”
Both men smiled, recognizing that neither believed in embellishing what they had to say with small talk.
“I read the Times here a while back, ’bout those Lady Liberty murders?” Apparently Wilcoxen was one of those people who ended some of their declarative sentences with question marks. “I didn’t think much of it at first?”
“And then?”
“Then I knew that if I didn’t do somethin’ about what was ticklin’ the back of my mind, I might never forgive myself?” He smiled thinly, as if holding high cards. “You ever had that problem?”
“Often enough,” Quinn said.
Wilcoxen drew a small cigar from his shirt’s breast pocket and held it up. “You mind?”
“I don’t,” Quinn said, “but that detective over there might shoot it out of your mouth.”
Wilcoxen shifted in his chair and stared across the office at Pearl. Shifted back. “Yep. She looks like she might.” Back in the pocket went the cigar. “She a good cop?”
“Yes.”
“I thought as much.”
Pearl seemed to sense she was being talked about, fixed her gaze on Wilcoxen, and stared him down.
“God almighty,” Wilcoxen said.
“No,” Quinn said, “just Pearl Kasner.”
Wilcoxen and Quinn both chuckled. Pearl gave them both a look.
“Anyways,” Wilcoxen said, “I been followin’ those Lady Liberty killings an’ my memory got itself jogged? They’re sorta similar to something that happened in Missouri some years back.”
“Similar how?”
“Young lady was found with her belly cut open, just like your victims here? Didn’t take us long to find out she’d been more’n eight months pregnant. Didn’t make any headway with the case for some time? Then it turned out—or at least it seems—a woman name of Mildred Gant had cut her open and stole her child right outta the womb. Musta done it almost on a whim. But suspicion ain’t evidence, ’specially in some parts of the country, so Gant was let alone. Didn’t hurt her either that she was scary as hell.”
“We’re not getting actual extreme C-section births here. So far, none of the victims was pregnant.”
“Oh, yeah. I know. Anyways, we never found out what happened for a long while? I was in on the investigation because it was a possible kidnappin’, makin’ it a federal offense? Never did find out for sure what occurred, though. Nothin’ much in the way of a clue. Just like it happened all of a sudden between strangers—an’ maybe it did. Anyways, this Mildred Gant was arrested a few years ago for swindling an antique dealer out of some money, got herself a spell in prison? I still got connections with the feds. Seems Mildred had a son, name of Dred—D-R-E-D—and there’s no birth record. Plenty of people seen ’em together, though, over the years? We learned he was a super smart kid, educated mostly at home. Then a truck driver that dealt in antiques took a shine to him, taught him all about the business? So much so, Dred impressed some big-time dealers, who hired him. Rumor is he quit them after a while an’ made himself rich.”
Quinn had been taking notes. “We need to talk to this Dred Gant.”
“I looked up the truck driver that knew him? He was killed in 2005 when his truck ran off the road in an ice storm? Woman he lived with said that from time to time he mentioned Dred. He did say the boy was smart as they come, and real gentle.”
“I think we’ve both seen gentle people do some very ungentle things,” Quinn said.
“Yep. Some smart ones, too. Especially if they been beat down over time when they were a kid?”
Wilcoxen was actually defending the killer, or at least making excuses for him. He must feel strongly about this case. Strongly enough to be in New York sitting and talking with Quinn.
“Is it your feeling the truck driver’s partner told the truth?” Quinn asked.
“It is. Dred disappeared some years back? He’d be pushing thirty now.”
“You mean he just disappeared?”
“Completely. Like a man runnin’ away from his life an’ lookin’ for another. An’ maybe he found one? Last anyone seen of him, he broke probation an’ left everything behind in some shit-hole apartment in Kansas City.”
“Probation for what?” Quinn asked.
“He visited his mother in a Missouri state prison in Chillicothe, an’ in a conversation room commenced trying to kill her with a jigsaw blade. A guard pulled him off just in time? Disfigured the woman somethin’ terrible, though. Hell of a way to treat dear ol’ Mom.”
“I’ll say. And for this he was only put on probation?”
“Judge heard what his mother done to him over the years, felt like saw whippin’ the woman himself, and showed a little mercy?”
“Was Mildred that much of a monster?”
“Yep. Near as I can tell.”
“Where exactly is the monster incarcerated? We need to talk with her.”
“Too late for that,” Wilcoxen said. “That’s what prompted me to come talk to you. Six days ago she knocked her cellmate unconscious? She didn’t have any kinda blade, so she yanked most of the woman’s long hair clear outta her head, then braided it to make a short rope and hanged herself dead.”
“Good Christ!” Quinn said.
“They tried to get hold of the son but couldn’t find him?” Wilcoxen pulled his cigar halfway out of his pocket without thinking about it, then slid it back in. “I doubt he’d have laid claim to the body anyways, an’ he sure wouldn’t have been interested in a funeral.”
“So nobody knows where Dred is?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Wilcoxen said. He shook his head. “An’ we sure as hell can’t ask his mother. Usin’ your cellmate’s hair like that . . . Mildred Gant was a resourceful sort. We gotta give her that.”
“I give her nothing,” Quinn said.
“Yeah,” Wilcoxen said. “I can see why you might have such feelin’s.” He placed gnarled hands on both knees and stood up. “I guess that’s all I can tell you for now? Mildred Gant is dead, an’ her son is in the wind, so I don’t know if I been any help to you at all.”
“You know how it works. We might not know for a while.”
“Yep. I do know. But I’m curious about this one? Have been for a long time.”
“I’ll let you know where things stand,” Quinn said.
Wilcoxen nodded and turned to leave. “An’ I’ll let you know, ’specially if I hear anything new on Dred Gant.” He shrugged. “Might be somethin’; might be nothin’.”
“Wait up,” Quinn said. He reached in a desk drawer and drew out a wrapped cigar. He stood and handed it across the desk to Wilcoxen. “They’re Cubans, and damned good. Just make sure you’re in a safe place before you light up.”
“Much thanks to you,” Wilcoxen said. As he slid the cigar into his pocket next to the other, he and Quinn both glanced over at Pearl, then at each other, and smiled.
Pearl shook her head as if having witnessed clueless boys at play, then went on with whatever it was she was doing.
At his desk, Quinn decided that treating Wilcoxen’s information as something had little downside. Gant was a violent and dangerous criminal who had broken probation and disappeared. If he objected to being the prime suspect and presumed Lady Liberty Killer, let him come forward. A lesser crime would be solved, a lesser criminal brought to justice.
Meanwhile, Dred Gant was in the wind.
And Quinn would test the wind.
“Hanged herself with her cellmate’s braided hair,” Pearl said, later that night in bed. “My God, what a world!”
They had both brought books to read in bed, mystery novels of the sort so divorced from reality that they provided a welcome change. Pearl’s novel wasn’t exactly a book. It was on an electronic reader she’d recently purchased. The print was enlarged so it was easier for her to read. She’d gotten used to the enlarged print, then dependent on it.
�
�Imagine the cellmate,” Quinn said.
Pearl shivered. “I’d rather not imagine.” She lay back and let her gaze roam around the brownstone’s spacious bedroom, with its high ceiling and ornate crown molding, the tall windows, the furniture they’d bought to match the period. She felt safe here, and safe next to a man who loved her.
How lucky she was, and how tenuous it all could be for her and for Quinn. Considering the people they dealt with, almost anything could happen. How terrible it was, the swamps good people could wander into, and the things that occupied those swamps.
She set her electronic reader aside, leaned over, and kissed Quinn.
He kissed her back, harder, using his tongue.
She waited until he’d placed his book on the nightstand and turned off his lamp, and then she came at him like a fury.
37
Helen had taken to her occasional appearances on Minnie Miner ASAP. She had her hair done, wore girly clothes, and on television looked feminine and smaller than she was. Always she kept in mind that perhaps the most ardent of the show’s followers was the Lady Liberty Killer. That was the reason she had to be extremely careful. Serial killers often sought their own end in spectacular fashion. Even though they prized and needed anonymity, it was fame and recognition they craved. All the more so toward the end, when they knew the only escape from themselves was death.
And for this killer, a singular event might well mark in his mind the total futility of his quest.
“You’re saying,” Minnie Miner was telling Helen, “that the killer, murdering—in his mind—his mother over and over, was being driven mad because he couldn’t get at his own mother, because she was in prison?”
“Correct,” Helen said. “Alleged killer. He—”
“So for the Lady Liberty Killer, prison was a fortified castle keeping him out, wherein his mother lived sheltered and protected from him.”
“Exactly. He was frustrated because he had no way to get at the much despised woman who raised him,” Helen said, “so he killed substitutes instead. At least that’s one theory.”
“It certainly seems the most accurate one. It’s like a dark fairy tale that gets more and more menacing.”
“I’m not sure—” Helen began.
“I am sure this animal needs to be stopped.”
“Of course he does. But I—”
“It’s fascinating that an amazing event occurred that made things not better but worse for the murderer. His mother committed a crime and went to a place even more remote from him, where he could never reach her. That must have driven him mad.”
“He was already mad,” Helen reminded Minnie and the audience. “And we can’t be sure—”
“So now, his compulsion and sense of defeat and frustration all the stronger and more overwhelming, this killer still walks our streets. If he was irrational and random in his choice of victims before, he might be even more so now.”
“Count on it,” Helen said. “Though I wouldn’t say he chooses his victims entirely at random.”
“The killer has become more deranged, and much more dangerous.” Minnie said. “No woman in this city is safe.”
“You could say that,” Helen said.
Say anything you want—you will anyway.
“It certainly must send chills down every woman’s spine . . .” Minnie was saying. She gave a slight shiver.
Helen was listening to her just attentively enough to be able to answer without making a fool of herself.
Minnie was locked in now, holding her audience’s attention in one sweaty little palm. “The real target of his hate and fear—yes, fear—has escaped this grisly killer’s grasp by going where he can’t reach her even if he follows. Yes, I said her. His mother, if you can believe it! How desperate and cheated he must feel! How betrayed and useless, now that his reason to exist no longer herself exists. The proxies he chooses as his victims now will be mere shadows of a shade, not representatives of a live and malevolent being taunting and living safely behind stone walls and iron bars, where he couldn’t get at her no matter how hard he tried.”
Helen thought that maybe her theory was correct and Quinn had been right in asking her to go on TV and stir the pot. To increase the pressure on the killer to act to reduce the angst he must be suffering. Minnie Miner was certainly stirring.
“The thing he wanted to kill has herself denied him that satisfaction,” Minnie said. “Incredible!”
Helen nodded sagely. “All the cruelty and pain the monster visited upon him can no longer be avenged. It’s as if she removed herself from the board while the game was still in progress. It isn’t fair—at least in the alleged killer’s mind. It isn’t fair to cheat him out of despising her, blaming her, and eventually killing her.”
“Yes!” Minnie said. “I can imagine him feeling exactly that way!”
“What he might be thinking now,” Helen said, “is that somebody has to pay. His other victims, all of them, were only prelude.”
Minnie gave one of her mock shivers. “It’s creepy that you’re so into this killer’s mind.”
“My job,” Helen said.
She heard Minnie mention a commercial break and thank her for coming. Helen made nice. She was glad this television appearance was almost over. For a while, anyway, she’d be back in the real world. She wanted to get out of the studio and go home, where she could change into her sweats and joggers and kick off these high heels.
Only prelude . . .
The killer was mesmerized by Helen’s concise and, for the most part, accurate analysis of his mental processes. At least in so much as he could determine them. She was by far the most interesting and intelligent guest he’d seen interviewed on Minnie Miner ASAP.
And she was close to his adversary, Quinn. Maybe even his lover. (Alleged lover. Why couldn’t the killer also let his imagination serve him?) The thoughts she voiced had to be much like the thoughts harbored by Quinn. Listening to Helen gave the killer rare insight into the mind of his pursuer. It confirmed what the killer had known all along: Quinn would never give up.
After the commercial break (in which a lot of beautiful people laughed heartily and allegedly drank the same brand of beer) Minnie Miner talked in glowing terms about Helen and alerted viewers that her very special guest was scheduled to be on again tomorrow.
The killer made a note of that.
38
Rapunzel, let down your hair....
The killer had his dream again.
The one he’d had every night since learning his mother died.
But the fairy tale had it backward. It was Rapunzel who was kept prisoner in the tower prison. And she let down her incredibly long hair so her lover could use it to scale the tower wall and propose marriage.
It hadn’t worked out well in the fairy tale, either. The lover climbed into the tower and encountered the witch.
There were several interpretations of the fairy tale, but in none of them did Rapunzel dangle by a hair noose from the tower with her eyes bulging, an evil smile on her face even with her distended tongue.
Rapunzel!
He awoke with a start.
Another dream within a dream . . .
But why stop with two dreams?
The killer poured his third cup of morning coffee and sat down on the sofa, watching the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.
Minnie Miner ASAP came on as scheduled. Minnie wore a lightweight gray suit with a fluffy white blouse and very high heels. She would be standing up when she introduced Helen and didn’t want to be dwarfed. A few fans had e-mailed that they hadn’t known Minnie was so small, not knowing that Helen was a goddamned jolly ungreen giant.
An enthusiastic Minnie announced that after the commercial, police profiler Helen Iman would be on to talk more about the Lady Liberty Killer.
The studio audience matched her enthusiasm with its applause.
But Minnie didn’t say immediately after the commercial.
The killer had to sit and s
ip his rapidly cooling coffee while a young actress talked about how her fourth trip to rehab had saved her life. (For now, the killer thought.) After the actress came a recently fired newscaster who was angry as a hornet about the direction of news in America and was going to write a book. Both the actress and the former anchorman vowed never to quit their personal crusades.
The killer thought these people were obsessive, and not very plausible.
Finally, after the angry anchorman and a blast of short commercials, Helen Iman was introduced. The killer paused in his sipping as he regarded her towering height and beanpole figure. Wrong color hair. Definitely not his type. Lucky for her.
Helen had talked with Quinn about today’s interview, and they’d decided they didn’t want the killer to enjoy his publicity too much. He mustn’t mistake public fascination for public support.
“Do you or the police think it’s possible this killer has what we would consider a normal personal life?” Minnie asked, once she and Helen were settled into their chairs, Helen trying to figure out what was different, then realized her chair’s legs had been shortened.
“Is ‘normal’ code for sexual?” Helen asked.
Minnie grinned. Maybe Helen knew what ratings were made of. “More or less.”
“What we would consider a normal sex life isn’t likely,” Helen said, “unless he’s playing at a normal relationship with a woman. That would be in order to enhance the camouflage that these sick people need in order not to be noticeable for their madness.”
“Maybe the killer himself will call and set us straight,” Minnie said. “He’s called ASAP before. And I might add he’s not so crazy that he stayed on the line long enough for his call to be traced.” She winked. “For those of you who were wondering.”
