they’re trained to think in certain ways. To be defensive. To be cautious. To know how to handle people.”
“And you aren’t? You’re a sociology professor. Isn’t that the study of people?”
“In groups, yes, but…”
“You’ll be in a group. I just want you to find me the one in the group that stands out—the rotten apple. My men are fumbling around in the dark. They don’t know who or what they’re looking for. You could probably spot him on a dime. You’ve had psychology, too, I know. I read it in your records.”
Noel admitted that.
“So, you know what to look for. For you, this straw in the haystack will be bent a certain, unmistakable way, won’t it?”
“I suppose. Look, I really feel flattered. But I’ve got my teaching and all—”
“It won’t interfere with your teaching. I’m simply asking you to show up at a certain place for several hours a night. A bar off Christopher Street we’re certain Mr. X owns and frequents. All I want is for you to bartend a few nights.”
“But there must be dozens of homosexual bars in the city. Why that one?”
“Because this bar attracts the kind of homosexuals we believe he associates with. And because it’s the most popular one at the moment.”
“That’s still pretty hit or miss, no?”
“Maybe. But without knowing who Mr. X is, we still know a lot about him. We’re certain some of his victims were once his sexual partners. Others he’s set up in the bars as owners or managers fall into the same pattern. Let me show you.”
Loomis produced a manila envelope he’d been carrying in a side pocket of his coat, and pulled out a dozen eight-by-ten-inch photos.
The first seemed to be a typical male beefcake pose. A curly-haired, handsome young man, with a small dark mustache, large, light-colored eyes, and a muscular though not grotesquely overdeveloped body. He wore only a small bikini. His skin looked oiled.
“Bill Ames,” Loomis said. “One of the two men found in the burning apartment.”
The next photo was of a dancer in midleap, his body in profile, his head turned full face to the camera. His arms were akimbo and his handsomely boyish face was broken in a wide grin. Dark curly hair and light eyes. Not as heavily mustached as the first man, but of distinctly athletic build, highlighted by the closefitting tights.
“Rudy Brill,” Loomis said. “A friend of Landau’s. DOA. It looked like a drug overdose.”
The third man was a bit older. Also in superb physical shape, tanned, mustached, blue eyes, wavy jet hair, handsome. He was leaning against the railing of a beach house, the ocean in the background. “This is Landau,” Loomis said. “Now do you see?”
Noel sorted through the other, similar photos.
“Well, they certainly seem to fit a particular mold.”
“How tall are you,” Loomis said, “six feet?”
“Exactly.”
“Ames was six one. Landau a half inch taller. The others about the same. Care to look in the mirror and see the other similarities?”
“No, I get the idea.”
“You see, Mr. Cummings, you won’t really have to look for Mr. X. He’s going to find you!”
That gave Noel a chill. Trying to dissuade Loomis, he said, “What if he’s changed his type?”
“Unlikely.”
“It’s sort of hard thinking of myself as, well you know, fitting a certain physical description. As so much meat.”
“That’s exactly what you will be. A nice juicy piece of bait for Mr. X. As my grandma used to say, it takes honey, not vinegar to catch a bear. Come on, Noel, say you’ll do it. It won’t take much of your time. You’ll be well paid. You’ll be doing a service to the community. All you have to do is tend bar a few nights a week and wait until Mr. X comes along. Then we pounce on him. You’re perfect. The other operatives were too busy playing Kojak just to wait. You’ll never be suspected. Say you’ll do it.”
That Noel even considered the offer shocked him. He wasn’t a doer, he was a
“And you aren’t? You’re a sociology professor. Isn’t that the study of people?”
“In groups, yes, but…”
“You’ll be in a group. I just want you to find me the one in the group that stands out—the rotten apple. My men are fumbling around in the dark. They don’t know who or what they’re looking for. You could probably spot him on a dime. You’ve had psychology, too, I know. I read it in your records.”
Noel admitted that.
“So, you know what to look for. For you, this straw in the haystack will be bent a certain, unmistakable way, won’t it?”
“I suppose. Look, I really feel flattered. But I’ve got my teaching and all—”
“It won’t interfere with your teaching. I’m simply asking you to show up at a certain place for several hours a night. A bar off Christopher Street we’re certain Mr. X owns and frequents. All I want is for you to bartend a few nights.”
“But there must be dozens of homosexual bars in the city. Why that one?”
“Because this bar attracts the kind of homosexuals we believe he associates with. And because it’s the most popular one at the moment.”
“That’s still pretty hit or miss, no?”
“Maybe. But without knowing who Mr. X is, we still know a lot about him. We’re certain some of his victims were once his sexual partners. Others he’s set up in the bars as owners or managers fall into the same pattern. Let me show you.”
Loomis produced a manila envelope he’d been carrying in a side pocket of his coat, and pulled out a dozen eight-by-ten-inch photos.
The first seemed to be a typical male beefcake pose. A curly-haired, handsome young man, with a small dark mustache, large, light-colored eyes, and a muscular though not grotesquely overdeveloped body. He wore only a small bikini. His skin looked oiled.
“Bill Ames,” Loomis said. “One of the two men found in the burning apartment.”
The next photo was of a dancer in midleap, his body in profile, his head turned full face to the camera. His arms were akimbo and his handsomely boyish face was broken in a wide grin. Dark curly hair and light eyes. Not as heavily mustached as the first man, but of distinctly athletic build, highlighted by the closefitting tights.
“Rudy Brill,” Loomis said. “A friend of Landau’s. DOA. It looked like a drug overdose.”
The third man was a bit older. Also in superb physical shape, tanned, mustached, blue eyes, wavy jet hair, handsome. He was leaning against the railing of a beach house, the ocean in the background. “This is Landau,” Loomis said. “Now do you see?”
Noel sorted through the other, similar photos.
“Well, they certainly seem to fit a particular mold.”
“How tall are you,” Loomis said, “six feet?”
“Exactly.”
“Ames was six one. Landau a half inch taller. The others about the same. Care to look in the mirror and see the other similarities?”
“No, I get the idea.”
“You see, Mr. Cummings, you won’t really have to look for Mr. X. He’s going to find you!”
That gave Noel a chill. Trying to dissuade Loomis, he said, “What if he’s changed his type?”
“Unlikely.”
“It’s sort of hard thinking of myself as, well you know, fitting a certain physical description. As so much meat.”
“That’s exactly what you will be. A nice juicy piece of bait for Mr. X. As my grandma used to say, it takes honey, not vinegar to catch a bear. Come on, Noel, say you’ll do it. It won’t take much of your time. You’ll be well paid. You’ll be doing a service to the community. All you have to do is tend bar a few nights a week and wait until Mr. X comes along. Then we pounce on him. You’re perfect. The other operatives were too busy playing Kojak just to wait. You’ll never be suspected. Say you’ll do it.”
That Noel even considered the offer shocked him. He wasn’t a doer, he was a
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