by Peter Sacco
“Why did you wait so long before coming in?”
Simone pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it glancing briefly at the no smoking sign on the office door. O’Connell did not try to stop her. The way she held the cigarette caused further arousal.
“I work steady nights and when I get off from work, I’m dead to the world.
All I can think of is my bed.”
“What do you do for a living, Simone?”
Simone took a deep drag and slowly exhaled.
“I’m a dancer.”
“A dancer?”
Simone smiled at O’Connell. “I take my clothes off for a living,” she said, then paused. “And after I’m done for the night, around three in the morning, I get stuck cleaning the place up.”
The thought of where he might of met her clicked on like a light. He snickered under his breath with, “I told you so” sarcasm. He was your typical detective, couldn’t get a glazed honey cruller past his napping beak without him waking. He was always on the ball placing names with faces and faces with names. If you’ve seen one dancer, you’ve seen ‘em all, he thought to himself.
“What club do you work for?”
“Pot of Gold.”
“Do you like your job?”
“It’s a job.” Simone rubbed her bloodshot eyes and sighed. “Do you like your job, Detective?”
“It’s a job,” answered O’Connell, with a half smile.
O’Connell glanced over a report on his desk and cleared his throat. “So what are your hours at the club, Simone?”
“I start at eleven and leave at five in the morning.”
“Do you usually go straight home?”
“Where is there to go at five in the morning?”
O’Connell cleared his throat as he realized her impatience. Perhaps she was just in a bad mood having just awakened. He was no angel himself in the morning when he awoke. On the other hand, she might have just been tugging his chain. Maybe she didn’t know a hell of a lot, or was like the other women of Tarrenwall, afraid. The feeling he had was beginning to dissipate with her credibility.
“What makes you think you may have seen the killer?”
Simone flicked the ashes off the butt between her index and middle finger. “The last two murders have been close to the club. One of the ladies murdered was a waitress who worked a few doors down. The body you found the night before was three blocks away. A strange looking man with dark eyes has been coming into the club frequently the last couple of weeks. I hadn’t noticed him until one of the waitresses pointed him out. He looked evil.”
“Evil?”
“Yes. He always wears the same black leather jacket and black dress trousers. He also wears very expensive shoes.”
“Ma’am, just because the guy dresses like most of the males in the area does not make him evil, nor a murderer.”
Simone looked away from him as if he had offended her with that last comment.
“He was waiting outside in his black car the night the waitress was murdered. I went outside for fresh air and saw him sitting there, very still. When I walked toward his car he drove away. An hour later, I peeked outside and he was back. At first I thought he was stalking me. However, after reading about the murders in this area, it could have been any woman he was stalking. He wasn’t around the club last night or the night following the murder.”
“Let me try to comprehend this. You are saying you and several other women have been aware of this guy hanging around, and you’ve suspected for some time now he has been stalking women? Given all the shit that has been going on around this city, wouldn’t you have thought it wise to tell us sooner? Why the hell did you wait so long?”
“I had to be sure.”
“And what makes you sure?”
“Well, the reason he was not at the club the night before is he was sitting across the street from where I live when I got home. I live in the basement of an older house which has been converted into apartments. My landlord goes about his business and I go about mine. We rarely see one another. That morning, however, he was awake when I got home. He’s got a little mutt he lets out in the morning. Usually not that early. He asked me if I had any visitors during the night. When I asked him why, he told me someone had been trying to get into my apartment from the back door. His mutt started yapping and probably scared him off. Rather than leave, the fool waited across the street in his car until I got home.”
“Then what?” asked O’Connell, leaning in his chair.
“As I stood on the porch talking to Haines, the landlord, the guy drove off.”
“Did Haines do anything?”
“No. He chooses not to get involved in anything. Also, I did not want Haines to think I was bringing trouble around his house. He almost choked when he found out I was a stripper. If the wife ever found out, surely I’d be ass over tea kettle out of the building.”
“Can you describe the man for one of our sketch artists?”
“Oh yes, that’s no problem. I’ll never forget his evil eyes. He was parked across the road from my place this evening.”
“You saw him?”
“Vaguely, but I was pre-occupied with the weight of his stare upon my body. I think he wants to kill me. He is stalking me. I am his prey. He wants me to be his next victim,” she said, frowning in concentration.
“Do you drive?”
“Yes.”
“You drove alone tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Before you go, I am going to assign a detective to ensure you get to and from work safely.”
“Are you going to bring this guy in? “ she asked, her hands trembling.
“We’re going to try our best. I’m going to introduce you to our sketch artist and see what you come up with. Is that okay with you?”
“That’s fine with me, Detective. First I should call my boss and tell him I’ll be a little late for work,” she said, rubbing her eyes.
“Okay. We’ll get you a hot coffee,” he replied.
Simone spied his gaze before exhaling a deep sigh. “Please don’t let him hurt me.”
O’Connell offered her a tiny, but reassuring smile. “We’ll make sure he doesn’t come anywhere near you.”
***
The sketch Simone gave the police was very helpful. The computer search showed their man went by an alias, John Winston. There was a file on the guy, however, it too was very sketchy. It seems he had been brought in previously after a woman reported he was hanging around her house.
As for his real name, no one had a clue as to what it might be. Winston, or whatever his real name was, probably used a fake I.D. when he was brought in. His address was probably some vacant lot as well. After checking with the license bureau, there were three John Winston’s in the city and O’Connell’s guess was their man wasn’t any of them. While leads would be followed for the three Winstons, O’Connell decided any productivity he might entertain would come by way of hanging around the strip club.
O’Connell could not help but pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. It had to break somewhere, and perhaps the time had come. Surely it must. There was, however, something eating at him. He wasn’t sure what it was. Sure he had hoped for a lead, but this was falling into place too easily.
There was also something about the dame he didn’t like. He had been a cop long enough to know when he was getting railroaded and now felt like one of those times. Yet, he had nothing else to go on and he had the bosses upstairs breathing down the back of his neck to come up with something. Perhaps he had been so frustrated with the failings of this case thus far to appreciate a real break. It had bitten him right on the ass and he wanted to doubt it. What else did he have to go on? A big fat zero. Something felt wrong. It just wasn’t kosher.
The neon
from the Pot of Gold sign harshly broke through the hazy night sky. O’Connell had to refrain from staring directly into the light as burning tears flooded from the corners of his eyes like carbolic acid. O’Connell had needed glasses for some time, by pretending he could see just fine he truly believed he was preserving what was left of his youthful conception. His night vision was deteriorating the fastest and the damn neon was doing nothing to maintain whatever glory his retinas were demanding.
O’Connell peeled back his overcoat and removed a candy bar from his coat pocket. After squinting at the candy bar’s nutritional value on the wrapper, he grimaced and ripped the wrapper off. He devoured the bar in three massive bites. His car was parked a hundred yards from the night club. A street light shone fifty yards on the other side of the street in front of a shoe repair shop. All of the shops on the street were darkened. The neon from the club was the only true sign of life on the entire block. O’Connell had been there just over an hour and there had been nothing. There had been the typical rowdies going in and out of the place, but no loiterers. The club had been very quiet. O’Connell wondered who in their right mind wanted to hang around a strip club on a Tuesday night at half past twelve? Sure as hell not him. He wanted to get home and catch what was left of the World Series game. Now there was an idea!
Simone had arrived at the club just past eleven. The detective who had been assigned to her had informed O’Connell. O’Connell himself, never saw hide nor hair of her that evening. He figured she was in there peeling her life away for a few horny wannabees who left their wives and kids at home while they were reaffirming their own masculinity. O’Connell had not set foot in one of these places in years. He thought they were the lowest form of entertainment on the planet. He had been called to investigate a domestic dispute at the club ten years ago, and that was the last time he saw the inside of one of these joints.
Just as O’Connell was about to wipe his mouth with his handkerchief, a dark-colored older Riviera pulled up in front of the club. O’Connell was really begging his eyesight for one last hurrah. Slouched in his seat, O’Connell observed no one getting out of the car. Twenty minutes passed before a tall, dark-haired man in a black leather jacket stepped out. He peered around before heading into the club. O’Connell had not even finished calling in when the man stepped out of the club. He glanced around once more before stepping into the car. O’Connell’s cellular beeped. It was headquarters. The guy was their man. The undercover inside the bar confirmed the ID. It was show time!
***
O’Connell tailed Winston for what seemed like miles. At first O’Connell believed Winston was on to him and he was trying to lose him. It was not the case. If Winston had been trying to lose him, then why the hell was he headed directly for Simone’s place? After realizing Winston was going to stop across the road from Simone’s apartment, O’Connell killed his lights and pulled into the parking lot of an old vacated shopping plaza. O’Connell ducked down and called headquarters. His back-up was right on his behind. Headquarters informed O’Connell they had called Haines and his wife but there was no answer. Either they were heavy sleepers, or they had been out for the evening. Hopefully, the latter was the case, and they would not be sitting ducks if things got out of hand.
The house was completely dark. There was not the slightest indication of life anywhere about. Simone told them Haines had a dog. She also told them Haines’ wife insisted they leave the night light on. There was no night light. And as their man crept alongside the house, there was no barking.
O’Connell pondered the notion of climbing out of his vehicle and getting closer. His decision was nullified when a tapping sound at the window startled him, almost causing him to choke on his over-chewed gum. It was his backup. After comparing notes, extremely briefly, O’Connell and one of the men proceeded towards the house while the other two searched the Riviera.
From a hundred yards away, O’Connell lost Winston disappearing through a window he managed to force open. O’Connell’s short loping strides now became brisk walking. Suddenly, the chattering bark of the dog began. O’Connell and his partner arrived at the side of the house, camouflaged by the darkness. The darkness of the night was eerily frightening. O’Connell could feel his pulse beginning to race. The vein in his temple began to beat uncontrollably. Licking his lips, he could taste his salt. This was what he loved so much about being a cop, the pursuit. From this point, this was better than any sudden death sport he ever witnessed. There was no greater rush than the chase. There was nothing greater in life that made him get his rocks off. There was the professionalism of being a police officer. And then there was the fringe benefit of the sport. The game within the game.
As they crept alongside the house, the men slowly approached them from the Riviera. One of the men softly cleared his throat to get O’Connell’s attention. O’Connell did not appreciate the sound, but had a change of heart when he saw what the detective was holding. O’Connell shook his head in shock. Their man Winston was probably the stalker they had been looking for. The detective shone a flashlight and displayed several calf length iron stakes and a steel mallet. The other detective showed O’Connell a wooden crucifix and a Star of David. The detective also held up a small pipe saw, along with a long transparent rubber tube.
O’Connell grasped the bridge of his nose and sighed. Their man was a homicidal maniac who believed he was some kind of demon hunter or vampire killer. Before O’Connell could even finish his thought, he imagined what the local media would have to say. They would be in a damn frenzy over this.
O’Connell motioned to the detectives to cover the house. Slowly they positioned themselves at the front of the house and at the back. Hesitantly, O’Connell proceeded into the open window. The house was deathly quiet. The room was very dark. Gingerly, he crept across the floor so as not to make any of the old wooden floor boards creak. Through the open window, in the distance, he could hear the sound of sirens. He swore under his breath and prayed his men would shut them off as they came closer. Outside the room, there was a long hallway. One end appeared to lead to the downstairs. The other end appeared to lead to the front door.
He contemplated walking in the direction of the front door and unlocking it for his men. Just as he was about to take his first step, he heard a clicking sound and a light towards the downstairs broke the darkened silence. As he slowly peered in the direction of the light, his hand stuck to the wall as he tried to maintain his balance. Pulling his hand off the wall and putting it to his nose, he could smell something tinny. O’Connell held his fingers against his digital watch as he suppressed the light switch. Just as he thought blood! From the minimal amount of light the walls of the hallway were able to capture, he guessed the trail of blood probably began at the front of the house. Slowly and cautiously, he crept to the front. There, O’Connell almost tripped over a bundle on the floor.
Fortunately, he was able to keep his balance and lean against the wall. O’Connell pulled the drape on the window of the front door aside and moonlight faintly shone in through the glass. One of his detectives also peered in through the glass. After taking a deep breath, O’Connell quietly pulled the dead bolt from the front door and let his detective in. As the opened door added more light, the two saw something shine at the base of O’Connell’s left foot. It was the bundle he had almost tripped over. Only it was not a bundle. The shine was the teeth of a dog. Bending down, O’Connell observed the mutt had been skewered right through the heart with an iron spike. O’Connell turned to the detective and shook his head.
“They must be home. The door was bolted.”
“They could have gone out the back door,” whispered the detective.
“I don’t think so. They’re probably asleep,” sighed O’Connell.
O’Connell had made that last statement under the pretense of some wishful thinking. They turned and proceeded towards the light. Their man Winston was in the room. As the
y neared the lit room, they could hear the sound of objects being moved around. O’Connell had been so pre-occupied with the light he did not even think to have his detective search out the house for the Haines. Something inside told him it would be a senseless search all the same. They were probably to be found in the light with Winston.
The walk was a long one. The beat of O’Connell’s temple reminded him of the drums from native villages portrayed in Gilligan’s Island, a show he loved watching as a child. If something did not happen fast, he was sure the beating was going to cause his head to explode. With each step, their breaths became more shallow and less pronounced. Their creeping was now becoming a crawl. Any moment now, they would be at the corner and closer to the light.
As they arrived at the corner, O’Connell motioned the detective back. He would assume the lead. Gently, O’Connell placed the barrel of his pistol against the corner of the wall. He could feel gravity pulling on his pistol as his sweat weakened his grasp. O’Connell hated like hell drawing first, let alone using the damn thing. However, if it was a matter of life and death, it would be his life that he was going to put first. After swallowing a deep breath, O’Connell peered around the corner. He noticed the light was coming from a room on the other side of another set of doors. The large, thick door that was propped open had a chain lock hanging from its side. There was also a room to the right of the door. It appeared to be a sitting room. O’Connell could see a television screen shine off to the far side of the room. The light from the room created an outline around two indistinct forms on the chesterfield across from the television. O’Connell motioned to his detective to go and check out what was in the room. In the meantime, he would see what Winston was doing.
Slithering in through the opened door, O’Connell noticed the room had been trashed. O’Connell recognized the clothing Simone had been wearing the night she came down to headquarters. This was definitely her room. As he peered to the right of the room, he noticed Winston was tearing at the paneled walls with one of his stakes. Feverishly, he kept thrusting the stakes into the walls. The pounding and cracking echoed throughout the room.
