limo?"
"Last night. Are you going to tell me what's
going on?"
" I want you to write down everything you know
about this Raleigh Ward: when you picked him up, where all you took
him, and who else was with him. Do it now while it's still fresh, I'm
going to be sending out a detective to interview you." She gave
him the information he'd requested. "You going to be home for
the next couple of hours?"
" You're going to send someone else?"
"I'll send Detective Cassiletti. You remember
him, don't you?"
" I remember everything. How's your dad, by the
way? Are you still living in that train car? I drive by there every
once in a while, but I never see anyone home. What's Mrs. St. John
doing?"
" I'm right in the middle of something right
now," he said. "I can't talk. We'll make some time later on
and catch up, all right?"
" Yeah, sure we will."
Mace rubbed his eyes. He seemed to have a knack for
disappointing the women in his life. "No, really, I've been
meaning to give you a call," he said.
" Sounds great,"
she said without enthusiasm, and hung up.
* * *
" What was that all about?" Cassiletti
asked.
"Just one of those small-world things,"
Mace said, hoping that was the truth. He peeled off the page with her
address on it and handed it to Cassiletti. "When we're finished
here, go on over to her house and find out everything she knows with
a connection to our deceased." Mace flipped to a fresh page in
his notebook. "Let's go check out the one in the bedroom."
The two detectives walked into the second death
scene. Again, there was a notable absence of blood. Floodlights
illuminated the corpse of the second woman and the odd postmortem
field dressings. She was faceup, lying on a queen-size bed with a
wrought-iron headboard. The bedspread beneath her was strangely
unwrinkled. Her right arm was bent so that her palm was pressed to
her chest. Similar white X's of tape crisscrossed her abdomen and
chest. Conscience or trademark? Mace wondered.
The Band-Aid Killer had evolved. Bringing his own
supplies to the scene showed forethought—organization. Whatever
else this act signified, it also informed the detectives that these
murders had not been a spontaneous act. The killer must have come
with a plan. How else could he have subdued two victims with so few
signs of disturbance? And where had he done his killing? In the
bathtub?
Mace remembered how, back in December, a reporter had
asked him to comment on the nature of the brutal Westwood slaying.
The guy had asked if the murderer was a serial or a spree killer.
Mace's reply had been picked up by the wire services
and broadcast across the country. He'd said then what was still true.
" Call it what you want," he told them. "I'm
not interested in the latest pop-psychology term. I don't have
college degree upon college degree. I don't know if this guy wet his
bed or how he felt about his mother. I do know one thing. He'll kill
again."
Mace looked down at the
corpse, feeling no satisfaction at the accuracy of his call.
* * *
When Raleigh's phone had rung at eight o'clock that
morning, he'd answered with a groan. Victor Draicu, code name
Gameboy, wanted to drive to Tijuana for the day. Though what the guy
expected to find there, Raleigh didn't understand at first. He'd
tried to explain that there'd be no mariachi bands greeting them or
señoritas in twirling skirts clicking castanets. The border towns
were depressing. Nothing but dirt roads and abject poverty. Was he
homesick? Tijuana was where one went to buy fireworks, horseshit
cigarettes, and cheap pottery. Was he interested in any of those
things?
Victor wanted to see a donkey fuck a woman, he said.
Take him to one of those places.
Raleigh called in to his supervisor for approval.
Document everything he was told, but keep the guy happy. He said,
yeah, he knew the drill. Victor was an Eastern Bloc celebrity—a
former gold-medal winner and currently a minor bureaucrat in charge
of the Romanian Olympic gymnastic team, which
"Last night. Are you going to tell me what's
going on?"
" I want you to write down everything you know
about this Raleigh Ward: when you picked him up, where all you took
him, and who else was with him. Do it now while it's still fresh, I'm
going to be sending out a detective to interview you." She gave
him the information he'd requested. "You going to be home for
the next couple of hours?"
" You're going to send someone else?"
"I'll send Detective Cassiletti. You remember
him, don't you?"
" I remember everything. How's your dad, by the
way? Are you still living in that train car? I drive by there every
once in a while, but I never see anyone home. What's Mrs. St. John
doing?"
" I'm right in the middle of something right
now," he said. "I can't talk. We'll make some time later on
and catch up, all right?"
" Yeah, sure we will."
Mace rubbed his eyes. He seemed to have a knack for
disappointing the women in his life. "No, really, I've been
meaning to give you a call," he said.
" Sounds great,"
she said without enthusiasm, and hung up.
* * *
" What was that all about?" Cassiletti
asked.
"Just one of those small-world things,"
Mace said, hoping that was the truth. He peeled off the page with her
address on it and handed it to Cassiletti. "When we're finished
here, go on over to her house and find out everything she knows with
a connection to our deceased." Mace flipped to a fresh page in
his notebook. "Let's go check out the one in the bedroom."
The two detectives walked into the second death
scene. Again, there was a notable absence of blood. Floodlights
illuminated the corpse of the second woman and the odd postmortem
field dressings. She was faceup, lying on a queen-size bed with a
wrought-iron headboard. The bedspread beneath her was strangely
unwrinkled. Her right arm was bent so that her palm was pressed to
her chest. Similar white X's of tape crisscrossed her abdomen and
chest. Conscience or trademark? Mace wondered.
The Band-Aid Killer had evolved. Bringing his own
supplies to the scene showed forethought—organization. Whatever
else this act signified, it also informed the detectives that these
murders had not been a spontaneous act. The killer must have come
with a plan. How else could he have subdued two victims with so few
signs of disturbance? And where had he done his killing? In the
bathtub?
Mace remembered how, back in December, a reporter had
asked him to comment on the nature of the brutal Westwood slaying.
The guy had asked if the murderer was a serial or a spree killer.
Mace's reply had been picked up by the wire services
and broadcast across the country. He'd said then what was still true.
" Call it what you want," he told them. "I'm
not interested in the latest pop-psychology term. I don't have
college degree upon college degree. I don't know if this guy wet his
bed or how he felt about his mother. I do know one thing. He'll kill
again."
Mace looked down at the
corpse, feeling no satisfaction at the accuracy of his call.
* * *
When Raleigh's phone had rung at eight o'clock that
morning, he'd answered with a groan. Victor Draicu, code name
Gameboy, wanted to drive to Tijuana for the day. Though what the guy
expected to find there, Raleigh didn't understand at first. He'd
tried to explain that there'd be no mariachi bands greeting them or
señoritas in twirling skirts clicking castanets. The border towns
were depressing. Nothing but dirt roads and abject poverty. Was he
homesick? Tijuana was where one went to buy fireworks, horseshit
cigarettes, and cheap pottery. Was he interested in any of those
things?
Victor wanted to see a donkey fuck a woman, he said.
Take him to one of those places.
Raleigh called in to his supervisor for approval.
Document everything he was told, but keep the guy happy. He said,
yeah, he knew the drill. Victor was an Eastern Bloc celebrity—a
former gold-medal winner and currently a minor bureaucrat in charge
of the Romanian Olympic gymnastic team, which
Similar Books
