I thought I knew what was happening and it made me incredibly angry. Sampson and I were “suspects.” Why were we suspects? Because we were a couple of black males riding on the side streets of Chapel Hill at ten o’clock in the goddamn morning.
I could tell that Sampson was furious, too, but he was angry in his own way. He was smiling thinly and shaking his head back and forth. “This is rich,” he said. “This is the best yet.”
Another Chapel Hill detective appeared to assist his partner. They were tough-looking studs, in their late twenties. Longish hair. Full mustaches. Hard, muscular bodies from workout central. Nick Ruskin and Davey Sikes in training.
“You think this is funny?” The second officer’s voice was disembodied, so low I could barely hear the words. “You think you’re a laugh riot, Home?” he asked Sampson. He had a lead sap out and was holding it close to his hip, ready to strike.
“Best I could come up,” Sampson said, keeping his smile turned on low. He wasn’t afraid of saps.
My scalp was crawling and sweat dribbled slowly down my back. I couldn’t remember being rousted recently, and I didn’t like it one bit. Everything bad I had felt since I’d been here fell into place. Not that rousting black males is peculiar to North Carolina or the South anymore.
I started to tell the cops who we were. “My name is—”
“Shut the fuck up, asshole!” One of them popped me in the small of the back before I could finish. Not hard enough to leave a bruise, but it stung like a good rabbit punch. It hurt in a couple of ways, actually.
“This one looks fucked up to me. Eyes are bloodshot,” the low-voiced patrolman said to his partner. “This one is high.” He was talking about me.
“I’m Alex Cross. I’m a police detective, you motherfucker!” I suddenly yelled at him. “I’m part of the Casanova investigation. Call detectives Ruskin and Sikes right now! Call Kyle Craig from the FBI!”
At the same time, I spun around fast and hit the closest one in the throat. He dropped to the ground like a stone. His partner jumped forward, but Sampson had him on the sidewalk before he could do anything too dumb. I took away the first stud’s revolver easier than I could disarm a fourteen-year-old hugger-mugger in D.C.
“Assume the position?” Sampson said to his “suspect.” There was no merriment in his deep voice. “How many brothers you pull that shit on? How many young men you call ‘homes’ and humiliate like that?—like you might fuckin’ understand what their life is about. Makes me sick.”
“You know damn well the serial killer Casanova isn’t a black man,” I said to the two disarmed Chapel Hill cops. “You haven’t heard the last of this particular incident, gentlemen. Believe me on that one.”
“There been a lot of robberies in this neighborhood,” the deep-voiced one said. He was contrite all of a sudden, doing the Corporate America step’n’fetchit, the old two-step backstep.
“Save the sorry bullshit!” Sampson said, jabbing out with his own gun, letting the two detectives feel a little humiliation of their own.
Sampson and I got back into our car. We kept the detectives’ guns. Souvenirs of our day. Let them explain it to their bosses back at police headquarters.
“Son of a bitch!” Sampson said as we pulled away. I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my palm. I hit it a second time. The bad scene had shaken me more than I had realized, or maybe I was just too ragged and frayed right then.
“On the other hand,” Sampson said, “we did take those boys down like snap. Little bullshit racism gets my adrenaline flowing, blood boiling. Gets the demons going. That’s good. I have the proper edge now.”
“It’s nice to see your ugly face again,” I said to Sampson. I had to smile, finally. We both did. Then we were both laughing out loud in the car.
“Nice to see you, too, Brown Sugar. You’ll be happy to know you’ve still got your looks. Strain’s not showing too bad. Let’s go to work. You know, I pity the poor psycho if we catch him today—which is likely, I might add.”
Sampson and I were twinning, too. It felt as good as ever.
Chapter 88
SAMPSON AND I found Dean Browning Lowell working out at the new faculty gym in Allen Hall on the Duke campus. The gym was filled with the latest and greatest muscle-building and toning equipment: shiny new rowing machines, StairMasters, treadmills, Gravitrons.
Dean Lowell was working with free weights. We needed to talk to him about Wick Sachs, doctor of pornography.
Sampson and I watched Browning Lowell do a tough set of lateral raises, then some leg curls and presses. It was an impressive workout, even by the standards of two dedicated gym rats like ourselves. Lowell was quite a physical specimen.
“So this is what an Olympian god looks like up close,” I said as we finally strolled across the gym floor toward him. Whitney Houston was playing from speakers in the gym’s walls. Whitney was getting all the professor types pumped up to the max.
“You’re walkin’ with an Olympian god,” Sampson reminded me.
“It’s easy to forget in the presence of the great, yet humble, ones,” I said and grinned.
Dean Lowell looked as he heard our street shoes tatooing on the gymnasium floor. His smile was friendly and welcoming. That nice guy Browning Lowell. Actually, he did seem like a nice man. He went out of his way to create that impression.
I needed as much insider’s detail as I could get from him in a hurry. Somewhere in North Carolina there had to be a missing puzzle piece that would begin to make sense out of all this murder and intrigue. I introduced Sampson and we skipped the polite small talk. I asked Lowell what he knew about Wick Sachs.
The dean was extremely cooperative, as he’d been on our first meeting. “Sachs is our campus skell, has been for a decade. Every university seems to have at least one,” Dean Lowell said and frowned deeply. I noticed that even his frown lines had muscles.
“Sachs is widely known as ‘Doctor Dirt.’ He’s got tenure, though, and he’s never been caught at anything completely untoward. I guess I should give Dr. Sachs the benefit of the doubt, but I won’t.”
“You ever hear about an exotic book and film collection that he owns, keeps at his house? Pornography masquerading as erotica?” Sampson decided to ask my next question for me.
Lowell stopped his vigorous exercises. He looked at both of us for a long moment before he spoke again. “Is Dr. Sachs a serious suspect in the disappearances of these young women?”
“There are a lot of suspects, Dean Lowell. I can’t say any more than that right now.” I told him the truth.
Lowell nodded. “I respect your judgment, Alex. Let me tell you some things about Sachs that might be important,” he said. He had stopped exercising by now. He began toweling off his thick neck and shoulders. His body looked like polished rock.
Lowell continued to talk as he dried himself meticulously. “Let me start at the beginning: There was an infamous murder of a young couple here a while back. This was in nineteen eighty-one. Wick Sachs was an undergrad at the time, a liberal arts student, very brilliant mind. I was in the graduate school then. When I became dean, I learned that Sachs had actually been one of the suspects in the murder investigation, but he was definitely cleared. There wasn’t any evidence that he was involved in any way. I don’t know every detail, but you can check it for yourself with the Durham police. It was in the spring of ’eighty-one. The murdered students were Roe Tierney and Tom Hutchinson. It was a huge scandal, I remember. In those days, a single murder case could still actually shock a community. Thing is, the case was never solved.”
“Why didn’t you bring this up before?” I asked Lowell.
“The FBI knew all about it, Alex. I told them myself. I know that they talked to Dr. Sachs several weeks ago. It was my impression that he wasn’t under suspicion, and that they had decided there was no connection with the earlier murder case. I’m absolutely sure of it.”
“Fair enough,” I said to the dean. I asked him for another big favor.
Could he dredge up everything on Dr. Sachs that the FBI had originally requested? I also wanted to see the Duke yearbooks from the time when Sachs and Will Rudolph had both been students. I needed to do some important homework on the class of ’81.
Around seven that night, Sampson and I met with the Durham police again. Detectives Ruskin and Sikes showed up, among others. They were feeling heavy-duty pressure, too.
They pulled us aside before the update on the Casanova investigation. The stress had gotten to them, cooled their jets a little.
“Listen, you two have worked big, bad cases like this before,” Ruskin said. As usual, he was doing most of the talking. Davey Sikes didn’t seem to like us any better now than he had the first day we met.
“I know that my partner and I got a little territorial at first. I want you to know, though, all we want to do is stop the killing now.”
Sikes nodded his large, blocklike head. “We want to nail Sachs. Trouble is, our brass has us chasing our tails as usual.”
Ruskin smiled, and finally so did I. We all understood departmental politics. I still didn’t trust the Durham homicide detectives. I was certain they wanted to use Sampson and me or at least keep us out of the way.
Also, I had the feeling they were still holding evidence back.
The Durham homicide detectives told us they were mired in an investigation of medical doctors in the Research Triangle, doctors with any kind of criminal record or associations. Wick Sachs was the chief suspect, but not the only one.
There was still a strong chance that Casanova would turn out to be someone we hadn’t even heard of. That was the way it often worked with repeat-killer cases. He was out there—but we might have no idea who he really was. That was the scariest part of all, the most frustrating, too.
Nick Ruskin and Sikes took Sampson and me over to the suspects board that had been put up. There were seventeen names on it at this point. Five were doctors. Kate had originally believed that Casanova was a doctor, and Kyle Craig did, too.
I read off the doctors’ names.
Dr. Stefan Romm
Dr. Francis Constantini
Dr. Richard Dilallo
Dr. Miguel Fesco
Dr. Kelly Clark
I wondered again if several people could somehow be involved with the house of horror. Or was Wick Sachs our man? Was he Casanova?
“You’re the big guru,” Davey Sikes was suddenly leaning over my shoulder. “Who is he, my man? Help us local yokels out. Catch the bogeyman, Dr. Cross.”
Chapter 89
LATE THAT night, Casanova was on the move again. He was hunting again. He had missed the thrill these last few days, but this was going to be an important night.
He easily penetrated the security of the sprawling Duke University Medical Center complex through a little-used gray-metal door in the private parking area reserved for doctors. On the way to his appointed destination, he passed several chirping nurses and serious-faced young doctors. Some of the doctors and nurses nodded, and even smiled at him.
As always, Casanova fit in perfectly with the surroundings. He could go anywhere—and he usually did.
As he hurried down the sterile white hospital corridors, his head was busy figuring out complicated, important calculations about his future. He’d had a hugely successful run here in the Research Triangle area and the Southeast, but it was definitely drawing to an end. Starting tonight.
Alex Cross and the other dreary plodders were getting too close to him. Even the Durham police were becoming dangerous. He was a “territorial rec.” He knew their inadequate terminology for him. Eventually, someone would find the house. Or worse, someone would probably find him through dumb luck.
Yes, it was time to move on. Maybe he and Will Rudolph should go to New York City, he thought. Or sunny Florida, which had drawn Ted Bundy? Arizona might be pleasant. Spend the fall season in Tempe or Tucson… bustling college towns filled to bursting with prey. Or maybe they could settle in near one of the huge campuses in Texas. Austin was supposed to be nice. Or Urbana, Illinois? Madison, Wisconsin? Columbus, Ohio?
He was leaning toward Europe actually, either London, Munich, or Paris. His version of the grand tour. Maybe that was the right concept for the times. A truly grand tour for the whiz kids. Who needed to go watch Dracula when there were real monsters roaming the countryside day and night?
Casanova wondered if anyone had managed to follow him into the Medical Center maze. How about Alex Cross? It was a possibility. Dr. Cross had relatively impressive staying power. He had bested that unimaginative child molester, that garden-variety psycho killer, up in D.C. Cross had to be eliminated before he and Will Rudolph left the area for bigger and better things. Otherwise, Cross would follow them to hell and back.
Casanova passed into Building Two of the Byzantine hospital maze. This was the way to the hospital morgue and maintenance, so the foot traffic was usually lighter.
He peered down the long, off-white corridor behind him. No followers. No one willing to lead in this gutless, witless age, either.
Maybe they didn’t know about him yet. Maybe they hadn’t figured anything out. But they would eventually. There were clues. It could all be traced back to Roe Tierney and Tom Hutchinson. The unsolved golden couple murder. The very beginning for him and Will Rudolph. God, he was glad his friend was back. Rudolph always made him feel better when he was around. Rudolph truly understood desire, and ultimately, freedom. Rudolph understood him as no one else ever had.
Casanova began to jog down a brightly polished corridor in Building Two of the Medical Center.
As he quickened his pace, the sound of his slapping footsteps echoed in the empty halls. In a few minutes he was in Building Four, all the way over on the northwest side of the hospital.
He looked back one more time.
Nobody had followed. Nobody had guessed right yet. Maybe they never would.
Casanova came out into the brightly lit, almost orangish, parking area. A black jeep was parked close to the building, and he nonchalantly climbed inside.
The vehicle had MD plates, state of North Carolina. Yet another of his masks.
He was feeling strong and sure of himself again. He felt wonderfully free and alive tonight. This was exhilarating; it could be one of his finest hours, actually. He felt as if he could fly through the silky black night.
He took off to claim his victim.
Dr. Kate McTiernan was next again.
He missed her so much.
He loved her.
Chapter 90
THE GENTLEMAN Caller was on the move. Dr. Will Rudolph passed inexorably through the night toward his unsuspecting prey. His juices were surging. Sloshing. He was going to make a house call, as an outstanding doctor should, at least a doctor who really cared.
Casanova didn’t want him out roaming the streets of Durham or Chapel Hill. He’d forbidden it, in fact. Understandable enough, admirable, but not possible. They were working together again. Besides, the danger was minimal at night and the rewards far exceeded the risks.
This next scene in the drama had to be done just right, and he was the one to do it. Will Rudolph was certain of that. He had no emotional baggage. No Achilles’ heel. Casanova did… Her name was Kate McTiernan.
In a strange way, he thought, she had become his competition. Casanova had bonded with her in a special way. She was very close to the “lover” he claimed to be obsessively searching for. As such, she was dangerous to his own special relationship with Casanova.
As he drove into Chapel Hill, he thought about his “friend.” Something was different and even more satisfying between them now. Being torn apart for almost a year made him appreciate the strange relationship. It was more powerful than ever. There was no one else he could talk to, not one person.
How very sad, Rudolph thought.
How droll.
During his year in California, Will Rudolph had remembered all too well the searing loneliness he had experienced as a boy. He’d gr
own up at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, then in Asheville. He was a bird colonel’s boy, an army brat, a true son of the South. Right from the beginning, he had been clever enough to keep up a façade: honor student; polite, helpful, social graces to beat all. The perfect gentleman. No one had guessed the truth about his desires and needs… which was exactly why the loneliness had been so unbearable.
He knew when the loneliness had ended. Exactly when and where. He remembered the first dizzying meeting with Casanova. It had taken place right on the Duke campus, and it was a dangerous meeting for both of them.
The Gentleman remembered the scene so well. He had a small room, like any other student on campus. Casanova had shown up one night well past midnight, closer to two. Scared the shit out of him.
He seemed so sure of himself when Rudolph opened the door and saw him there. There was a theatrical suspense movie called Rope. The scene reminded him of the movie.
“You going to invite me in? I don’t think you want what I have to say broadcast out here in a public hallway.”
Rudolph had let him in. Shut the door. His heart was thundering.
“What do you want? It’s almost two in the morning. Christ.”
The smile again. So cocksure. Knowing. “You killed Roe Tierney and Thomas Hutchinson. You were stalking her for over a year. You have a loving remembrance of Roe right here in this room. Her tongue, I believe.”
It was the most dramatic moment in Will Rudolph’s life. Someone actually knew who he was. Someone had found him out.
“Don’t be frightened. I also know there’s no way they’ll ever prove you committed the murders. You committed perfect crimes. Well, near perfect. Congratulations.”
Acting as well as he could under the circumstances, Rudolph had laughed in his accuser’s face. “You’re completely out of your mind. I’d like you to leave now. That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yes, it is,” the accuser said, “but you’ve been waiting to hear it all your life… Let me tell you something else you’ve wanted to hear. I understand what you did and why. I’ve done it myself. I’m a lot like you, Will.”
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