Without Mercy by Len Levinson, Leonard Jordan Page B

sitting. “Just about everybody who was working here.”
    “Where’s the body?”
    Rackman led him and the other two detectives down the corridor to the cubicle, where the photo and fingerprint units were at work.
    “Got anything?” Jenkins asked one of the fingerprint technicians.
    “Lots of them, all different.”
    Jenkins looked down at the bloody body. “Didn’t anybody hear her holler for help?”
    “Nobody heard anything,” Rackman replied. “Evidently the killer cut her down before she knew what was happening.”
    Jenkins looked at the detectives around him. “Dancy, you take those bar people downtown and get a composite drawing made up of the killer. Rackman, find out where this victim lived and determine whether or not she knew Cynthia Doyle. Peterson, go see Cynthia Doyle’s boyfriend and find out whether he ever heard of this Rene LeDoux.”
    The detectives dispersed on their various missions. Rackman went with Dancy to speak with Pancaldo once more. Rackman asked Pancaldo where the girls kept their street clothes and belongings, and Pancaldo led him to a small office in back of the cubicles. It had a wooden desk covered with small pieces of paper and some old metal lockers leaning against a wall. Rene LeDoux’s locker had a padlock on it, and Rackman opened it with one of his picks. Pancaldo left with Detective Dancy, and Rackman removed Rene LeDoux’s clothes and purse. He sat at the desk and emptied the contents of the purse onto it. The only identification was a Quebec driver’s license that listed her occupation as an entertainer. There were fifty-five dollars in her wallet, and her clothes were chintzy. She couldn’t have been a very successful hooker.
    On his way out of the Lounge, Rackman paused to watch Inspector Jenkins give a news conference to an assembly of reporters and television cameramen in front of the bar.
    “Do you believe that the same killer is responsible for the murders of Cynthia Doyle and Rene LeDoux?” an attractive lady reporter asked.
    “At this time I have no reason to believe that both murders are linked together,”Jenkins replied.
    “But they were killed in an identical manner.”
    “That doesn’t mean they were killed by the identical person.”
    A male reporter with the face of a matinee idol nearly jabbed his microphone through Jenkins’ teeth. “Can you tell us what progress you’ve made so far, Inspector Jenkins?”
    Jenkins smiled as he pushed the microphone back a few inches. “We are proceeding with a thorough investigation. However I’m not at liberty to reveal any details at this time.”
    “Do you have a suspect yet, sir?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that at this time.”
    The sidewalk was crammed with onlookers held back by a small army of patrolmen. There was a massive traffic jam on Eighth Avenue that extended downtown for fifteen blocks, and two patrolmen were trying to move the cars through an open lane on the west side of the street. Rackman elbowed through the crowd to his car, got in, managed to turn it around, and drove uptown to the Albemarle Hotel on Fifty-first Street between Eighth Avenue and Broadway.
    It was a seedy old building occupied by people on welfare, hookers, and lowlifes. The rusty fire escape hanging from its facade looked like it might fall to the street at any moment. Rackman entered the lobby, where denizens of the hotel sat on collapsing furniture around a black and white television set. A black man in his mid-twenties was behind the check-in desk. Rackman showed him his shield. “What room does Rene LeDoux live in?”
    “Who?”
    “Rene LeDoux.”
    The black man shrugged. “Never heard of her.”
    “Don’t you keep a record of who lives here?”
    “Uh huh.”
    “Check it.”
    The black man reached under the counter and took out a big blue notebook stenciled with Register across the front in black ink. He leafed through the notebook while Rackman took out a Lucky and lit up.
    “I don’t see no