by Dane Hartman
Owens, Owens the cop at any rate, was maybe thirty-two, thirty-three years old; the man he had transformed himself into looked to be close to sixty, but a prematurely aged sixty. A beard straggled gray and limp from his chin, his eyes seemed rheumy, unfocused, his cheeks were ruddy as though from years and years of alcohol consumption, his lips were gray and chapped, his brow was gnarled. To complete the effect, he wore a hairpiece that sprawled wildly, tangled and dirty, on his scalp, sending loose strands over his ears where already graying tufts stuck out.
And his walk had altered; he shambled, a bit hunched over, dragging one leg slightly behind the other as though he’d never quite recovered from an old wound in that limb. Saying nothing, he extracted a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, dug out the last remaining cigarette, which was bent in the middle, and parked it between his lips. No sooner had he managed to light it than he started a dreadful hacking cough that persisted long enough to nearly double him up.
Harry watched all this with astonishment. The cough itself was incredible. He nearly believed that the real-life Owens was suffering from some terrible bronchial disorder, TB maybe. But no, suddenly Owens stopped his coughing, smiling broadly under his unruly mustache. “Well, what do you think?”
Harry shook his head in wonder. “I’m impressed.”
Mary Beth stood alongside Owens, proud at how well he had mastered the art of deception.
“You should see me when I play the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
“This will do fine. Jesus, you make a better bum than the bums do themselves.”
“Comes with practice,” Owens laughed, consulting his watch, a Seiko well hidden under his shirtsleeve, then checking his .38 which was tucked safely out of sight beneath the waistband of his coveralls. “Everything where it should be,” he declared.
Mary Beth kissed him—on the cheek so that she would not ruin the lipstick he’d employed to make his lips look so pallid. “You take good care of him, you hear,” she told Harry.
“I certainly will do my best.”
“And any time you feel like a home cooked meal, you know where to come.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Harry told her, “you’ll never see the end of me.”
C H A P T E R
F o u r
In the past five and a half months the Mission Street Knifer had struck at several locations in the vicinity of the Greyhound Bus Station, on Market and Seventh, on Sixth and Mission, on Fourth, proximate to the Santa Fe and Western Pacific Depot, on the corner of Fulton, and farther south on Howard. The last time he had attacked was the fourth of October at quarter past two in the morning. His victim had been an elderly black of indeterminate age; he could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty-five. He was evidently sleeping on a bench inside the Greyhound terminal itself. The Knifer ended his life quickly enough, gouging out his throat immediately below the Adam’s apple, but in keeping with his notorious reputation, he had not stopped there but had proceeded to slash open the man’s chest possibly with the intention of tearing out the heart—a favorite habit of his—but had failed to do this, perhaps because he feared interruption. The results had been messy enough regardless, and the supervisory staff of the terminal was thankful that if this sort of mayhem had had to occur it was done at an hour when no one else was around to suffer the spectacle or, worse, the knife thrusts of the psychopath who regularly stalked those who were most helpless and beaten down.
The Mission Street Knifer was talented, if that’s the word for it. He left no clues behind. Moreover, the victims he chose, even if they survived his deadly assaults, were often drunks, people whose minds were so generally befuddled or riddled with holes that they made for the most unreliable witnesses conceivable.
With nothing to go on, lacking first-person reports of what their knifer might possibly look like, Harry had no special strategy to implement in apprehending him. He asked Owens if he’d done something like this before.
“Well, not with a murderer, no, but I’ve worked as a decoy on cases involving muggers, pickpockets, prostitutes, that sort of thing.”
“So you’ve worked in this area before?”
“Oh yeah, sure. I could give guided tours, though who’d want to take a guided tour in this district I don’t know.”
Harry gave him a pocket radio. “There may be times we’ll be out of eye contact. Anybody gives you any trouble, even if you just sense some son of a bitch is going to give you trouble, signal me. We don’t know what we’re looking for. I suspect we’ll catch a lot of fish and have to throw most of them back in before we find our man.”
Though Owens took what he said at face value—that it was the Mission Street Knifer he was referring to—Harry actually meant not him so much as the murderer from the Tocador Hotel. Still, ridding the streets of the Mission Street Knifer would not be the least accomplishment of his career.
To complement the butt-end of a cigarette that dangled from his lips, Owens added a pint bottle of Wild Turkey. “It helps to look as vulnerable as you can,” he said. He swallowed a bit of it so that his mouth would smell of the alcohol, spilled out another half to make it seem as if he’d been drinking for a while, then slipped it back into his jacket pocket. His jacket was as torn and frayed and stained as what he wore underneath it.
Harry drove him to a spot on the corner of Geary and Market. Then unfolding a map of the city he indicated the area that he wanted covered, which comprised approximately four square blocks.
“Don’t wander farther afield, I want to be able to get to you fast if necessary.”
Owens nodded, then when no one was nearby, quickly got out of the car and began his shuffling walk in the direction of Third.
Harry watched him until he was out of sight. Then he, too, emerged from his car, lackadaisically proceeding the same way. He wanted Owens to get the feel of the place without being distracted. His was a role for an audience other than his partner.
While the Mission Street Knifer generally kept late hours, timing his attacks for when there were few people on the streets save the derelicts who had no home to go to, it was not unknown for him to perform his gruesome business earlier in the evening, just so long as it was dark, just so long as his victims were alone.
Owens had the actor’s knack of becoming what he was playing. One part of him, of course, remained the undercover police officer, cautious, constantly scrutinizing those he passed in the streets, ever prepared to react to danger if it should present itself, but the other part was a bum, drunk and stumbling, looking for a handout. No question that Owens had mastered his role. From time to time he muttered under his breath, cursing mindlessly, jettisoning great gobs of phlegm from his mouth.
There were others doing the same thing, but they were doing it for real. They were so lost in their own beleaguered worlds that they scarcely gave him a glance. He obviously had no money to give them. Once or twice, however, one would come up to him and entreat him for some of his bourbon.
Owens willingly would have given them some—his heart went out to these people whose bleak lives he was attempting to duplicate for a few hours—but that might mean becoming trapped in a conversation. These derelicts were often as hungry for talk, for any sort of companionship, as they were for booze or money. So he refused them all, acting like a cantankerous, embittered man too far gone on alcohol to endure the society of his fellow man.
He had to keep himself isolated. The Mission Street Knifer would not risk taking on more than one at a time, at least that was what his M.O. had thus far revealed.
“Hey, daddy,” someone called to him.
He grumbled, kept right on going.
The man who’d just addressed him was a strapping fellow, maybe nineteen or in his early twenties, too handsome and cocky for his own good, with black hair slicked down with an oily lotion that made it glimmer in the pale light from the streetlamp overhead. He was wearing a leather jacket and jeans.
Trouble, Owens concluded.
The man strode up to him. Roughly, he nudged Owens’ shoulder with his hand, forcing him off the sidewalk.
“I was talking to you, daddy. Whaddya say?”
Owens glared at him, muttering, “Fuck outta way,” and continued to walk.
The young man was not about to let him get away. His mouth was working hard as he chewed his gum. “You got a little scratch on you, whaddya say? You got a little scratch? I know all about you fuckers, you make like you’re poor when you’re rolling in it, right? Am I right or what? Suckers feel sorry for you, they lay all this bread on you.” He pushed Owens harder this time, almost toppling him over. “I know what your game is, I know your little act.”
While he correctly guessed that it was an act Owens was performing, he had entirely mistaken its nature. Now he positioned himself directly in front of Owens, blocking his way. Owens was by temperament a patient man, so he resisted the impulse to do anything rash. Besides, if he was going to have to make an arrest he wanted the charge to stick. Accosting a police decoy and pushing him off the curb was hardly likely to cause a judge to slap much of a fine on the man. He’d probably be let off with a reprimand. So Owens merely tried to circle around him.
This strategy did not work. The man, with surprising speed, roughly threw Owens to the ground, kicking him twice in the ribs. Still Owens didn’t do anything. He was waiting until the man stole from him which would add robbery to the assault and battery charges he was already liable for. Despite the pain that the kicks had produced, Owens looked forward with pleasure to making this arrest.
Now the man, thinking that he had this derelict adequately subdued, bent down and began rummaging through Owens’ jacket pocket, coming up with a few pennies and one dime. He regarded them disdainfully, and flung them to the ground. “Fuckhead, you got more, fuckhead. I know you do.”
He had just started his search through another pocket, though because it was so shredded it wouldn’t have held anything in the first place, when he felt the cold barrel of a .356 Magnum pressed up against his temple.
In a voice that was distinctly unlike the boozy wavering voice he’d used a minute ago, Owens said, “Game’s over now. Hands over your head.”
“Now wait a—” But the would-be robber was too stunned to complete the sentence. Grudgingly but quickly, he did as he was commanded. Owens lifted himself from the gutter, maintaining his gun on his assailant.
“You are under arrest.”
“Arrest?”
Owens dug his badge out of an inside pocket. “Police officer,” he added gratuitously.
“Aw shit,” the man muttered, aghast that his luck should have turned out so badly tonight.
Owens, out of the corner of his eye, spotted Harry who now came rushing toward him from up the block.
“What’ve you got?” he asked.
“Assault and battery, malicious mischief, robbery,” Owens replied matter-of-factly. “Not the Mission Street Knifer but what the hell?”
Harry handcuffed the man. “Read him his rights,” he instructed Owens, weary of having to go through the routine again himself. “We’ll lock him up in the car, let him stew in his own juices for a while. Otherwise, we’ll be running a shuttle to the station all night long.”
Once they had installed the misguided assailant in the back of their car, they returned to the streets. Harry, unlike Owens, did not act remotely pleased by their catch. He had the feeling that this sort of thing was going to keep on happening and that by the end of the night they’d have a vanload’s equivalent of perps but no Mission Street Knifer. And the trend might continue for several weeks’ running until they had every vandal, every nickel-and-dime mugger and pickpocket, cleaned up from the Mission and Market Street area. That might be a nice civic accomplishment, but it would annoy the hell out of the overworked night judges who’d keep having to book these clowns and deal with them. And it wouldn’t for a moment stop the murders and mutilations the Knifer was responsible for. About the best it would do would be to keep the Knifer off the streets for a while or induce him to find an area of the city less favored by police decoys.
For Owens, however, a catch was a catch. Bruised ribs were worth the price of admission. There were times when Owens missed his old acting career. This activity gave him an opportunity to relive those days in Los Angeles when he had been obliged to recite idiotic lines from stupid scripts. Here, at least, all the lines were his.
Two uneventful hours passed with Owens wandering back and forth along the same dark, mournful streets in an apparent alcoholic daze. Periodically, he would sight Harry but would proceed on his way, completely ignoring him. Now and then he would slump down on a bench of curbstone and pretend to guzzle his pint bottle of Wild Turkey.
Buses continued to pull out and into the Greyhound depot with monotonous frequency, filling the air with exhaust fumes. People who’d just debarked wandered out onto Market, overburdened with luggage, trying to shake off the trance you get from hours and hours of traveling America’s expressways.
Then, as though on cue, the activity subsided; fewer buses came and went, and there were many less people to be sighted on the streets in the depot’s vicinity. The October night had become chillier, clouds scudded across a nearly full moon which soon dipped below the horizon, eliminating one very important source of light.
Way in the distance, Owens detected the sound of voices, boisterous and assertive. Three figures came into view, swaggering, for at this gray desolate hour they knew they had control over the streets, and they were determined to assert that control to anyone with whom they came into contact.
In keeping with the plan of operation, Owens was alone, a solitary bum who stood revealed in the harsh glare of a parking lot’s solar lights.
Three black youths this time, jobless probably, bored no question, looking for a thrill to pass the time. Owens realized that he was about to become that thrill.
This time he was more apprehensive; it was not one-on-one as it had been before. He could not allow these three to gain too much of an advantage or he might be deprived of a chance to get at his gun.
Of course, it was always possible that they’d simply abuse him verbally and pass him by. But Owens had an instinct for these things, and he didn’t believe there was much likelihood of that.
“Hey, baby, what’ve we got here?” the middle one asked.
“Looks to me like we got one unhappy sucker,” another replied.
“Hey, sport, how you doin’? You gonna do a little jig for us?” the third addressed Owens.
“Sport, sport, I’m talkin’ to you!” he said when Owens failed to respond. “You gonna give us a drink of your Wild Turkey?”
They were close to him now, forming a semicircle around him, their eyes mocking, their mouths curled into wide gleaming smiles.
The tallest of the three—he was maybe six-five—reached out to take hold of the bottle Owens held hugged to his chest. Owens, mumbling to himself, turned away, rebuffing him.
“Sport,” he said, “that’s not being polite. We all gotta share in this life. Ain’t that right?”
“That’s right, bro,” his companions agreed.
The tallest took a step forward, grabbing hold of Owens’ arm in an attempt to force the bottle from his hand. Owens decided to let him have it. But this was obviously not going to satisfy the trio. After taking a long swig of the Wild Turkey, the youth did not then offer it to his companions but rather tipped it upside down so that it splattered on Owens, getting in his hair and dribbling down his face. Owens nearly retched at the overpowering smell of the booze and had to rub his eyes, into which it had leaked. Even so they stung furiously.
“Hey, sport, what’s wrong with you? You sure do look a sight.”
This was sufficient provocation for even the ordinarily patient officer. He staggered as far from them as he could get, which wasn’t very far since they continued to hound him in an ever diminishing circle.
Then he struggled to get his gun
free.
“Hey, sport, what are you doin’, you lookin’ for your pecker?”
The laugh was derisive and far too loud.
One of his friends, obviously the moderate among them, looked a bit disgusted with the proceedings. “Hey, Sam, that’s enough, fuck him, let’s get out of here.”
The man he’d called Sam, however, obviously had no intention of abandoning his prey. “You quittin’ on me, Amos?”
Owens, while this exchange was taking place, managed to lay his hand on his Magnum, but he had yet to expose it to view, thinking that Amos might prevail on Sam to abandon his attack. If so, he’d let them go. He gave the third member of the party a searching look, trying to determine where he stood. Couldn’t tell though; he was probably undecided, waiting to see the outcome of this dispute.
“I ain’t quittin’ on you, I just don’t think we got to waste more time with this dude, that’s all.”
Suddenly Sam draped his right arm over Owens’ shoulder, proclaiming with evident mockery, “This here is my good friend, ain’t you my friend now?”
He shoved his face directly into Owens’, his eyes gleaming with strange fascination. The question wasn’t whether he was on drugs, the question was which drugs he was on.
“Hey, sport, what’s wrong with you, you dumb piece of shit, you ain’t answering my question.”
Owens pulled away from him. Sam didn’t like that. He pulled out a switchblade. The click as the knife flashed into the open was decisive. “You wanna find your pecker I’ll find your pecker for you. I’ll hand it to you on a platter.”
“Ah shit, man,” Amos said, deciding that this was nothing he wanted any part of. “You are a dumb motherfucker.” He began walking away.
Sam was far too exhilarated by the thought of what he was about to do to Owens to do more than upbraid Amos for his desertion. He made no effort at retrieving him. The other youth that was left seemed to have made his decision: he was just going to stay where he was and watch. He looked like he anticipated a good show.
