Ladykiller (7 page)

The layer of dirt over Times Square, invisible in the gaudy neon night,
was palpable in stark daylight. Ace kicked through it and talked to the
sidewalk: “I’ll show her — the bitch —”

He almost bumped into Martino and Blitzer.
“Talking to yourself is a sure sign of insanity, Ace,” Martino said.
Ace never understood why women became cops.This one was a

diesel dyke straight from the truck stop. “What?” Ace stammered.The
two cops had Finesse and Falstaff up against the wall, their arms and
legs spread.

“Let’s go, Ace,” Blitzer, the kid, said. Even the newest cops were
cocky. “You know the drill.”
Martino grabbed Ace by the collar and shoved him next to the
other two. He reluctantly assumed the position. “What’s this about?”
he asked as Martino frisked him.
“It seems,” said Falstaff, a fat ex-hippie with long, gray hair and an
even grayer beard who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of cheap
wine, “that there’s been another murder.”
“I can account for every second of my whereabouts,” Finesse
whined. “This is harassment.”
“So,” Ace said tauntingly over his shoulder while Martino worked
her hands up his thighs, “I guess this means you assholes don’t know
shit about these murders.”
The cop spun him around roughly and flattened him against the
wall. “And I suppose you know shit, wise guy?” she said.
“Maybe I do.”
“Christ, get a shower, Ace,” Martino said. “You smell almost as
bad as Falstaff here.”
“Maybe I do know about the murders,” Ace persisted.
“Maybe you’re the one we’re looking for, huh?” Blitzer the kid
said.
“Maybe I am.”
“Ace,” Martino broke in, “you hustle tourists.You pick pockets.
You roll bag ladies who can’t fight back. You’re scum, Ace. Not big
scum.You’re just scum.”
She finished patting down the other two. “Now, listen up,” she
said. “All of you. If you hear anything on the street, anything at all, let
us know.We’ll be coming down hard on you till we get this sucker. So
it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”
The men listened expressionlessly.The two cops strolled away.
Falstaff, the old wino, made a courtly bow to them. “Ladies,
gentlemen.”
Once the cops were out of earshot, Ace said, “Like hell. I’ll tell
them shit.”
“Yeah,” Finesse said, straightening the lapels of his green suit.
“Police can suck my dick.”
“You already suck their dicks, Finesse,” Ace said. “How much
they give you for snitching?”
“What you talkin’ about?” Finesse said indignantly. “Watch your
nasty mouth, boy. Don’t go dissin’ the man who buys you drinks.”
Finesse minced away with all the dignity he could muster.
“A drink?” Falstaff said, brightening. “Sounds lovely.”
Ace slunk after Falstaff as the wino retrieved a nearly empty bottle of Thunderbird from a recess beneath a loose grating. He followed
him to a doorway where Falstaff upended the dirty bottle into his
mouth.
“Fuck the police, huh?” Ace said excitedly. “Fuck them. I’ll fix
them.”
“Absolutely,” the wino said. “You’ll fix them, Ace, my friend.You
surely did throw a fright into them this time.”
Instantly furious, Ace shoved Falstaff against the door.The bottle
smashed to the pavement. Ace grabbed it and held the jagged glass to
the derelict’s fur-matted throat.
“Please — Ace, please,” the wino begged, terrified.
Ace smirked, satisfied. He threw the broken bottle to the sidewalk, where it shattered into a hundred pieces. “You’ll see. Some day,
I’ll surprise you.You’ll see.”
He sauntered toward the Deuce, remembering the night before.
Plotting how to take advantage.

Dave Dillon stepped through the open doorway of the West Side
Crisis Center into the ill-lit waiting room to hell. Tormented spirits,
their minds short-circuited by alcohol, drugs, or grief, wandered
about, apparently waiting to see the staff.A very old, very upset, black
man sat near the door having mild hysterics. At his side, almost lost in
the shadows, a striking-looking, dark-haired woman listened quietly.

“He was my brother,” the old man moaned. “It’s a bitter thing for
a man to lose his brother.”
“Why don’t we start from the beginning?” the attentive woman
said, calmly, totally in control.
Dave was reluctant to interrupt. He ventured farther into the
lobby.
A young Rastafarian walked past with a clothespin in his nose,
singing reggae: “Kill the white man. After he buy me record.”
A seedy, wild-eyed white man rushed up to Dave. “Where,” he
cried urgently. “Where? Where?”
“Uh, excuse me?” Dave tried to disengage but the man stayed
close, peering into Dave’s face.
“Where? Where are you from?”
Dave reached for his badge but hesitated. “Well, I represent—”
“Where? Where are you
from
? Where?”
The man was getting more and more agitated. “I’m sorry.Where
do I live?” Dave tried.
“Where are you from? Where? What
planet
?”
Two middle-aged women, linked arm in arm, stepped quickly
back and forth, careening into people, including the seeker after
extra-terrestrial life, who ignored them and stayed in close proximity
to Dave’s face.
“Where? Where?”
An extraordinarily pretty, slightly disheveled young woman hurried up to Dave and touched his arm. “You must be from the police.”
Dave pulled away, suspicious but fascinated, not knowing what to
expect.
“It’s okay,” she gave a ragged laugh and pushed back an errant
lock of strawberry blonde hair. “I work here.”
“Detective Dave Dillon,” he told her, hoping desperately that he
hadn’t offended her. “Could you direct me to Dr. Solomon?”
“Megan Morrison. Come this way.” She led him across the lobby,
pausing only to look back at the dark-haired staff person Dave had
passed on the way in.
Dave turned and looked, too.The dark-haired woman, as if sensing their eyes on her, turned her attention from the old man and
stared back.
“That’s Nita Bergstrom,” the young woman said simply. “She’s the
best we have.” Nita turned back to her client.
The seedy man had followed Dave and pushed his face close to
his again. “There’s no life on Uranus, you know.”
Dave caught Megan’s eyes and they both laughed. Miffed, the old
man turned away.
“What about you?” Dave asked her, quietly. “What planet are you
from?”
Megan held his eyes for a moment as the confusion of the lobby
swirled around them. Then she squared her shoulders and turned
away.
“You’re here about Reuben. Dr. Solomon is waiting.”
He could see that her eyes had filled with tears. She led him past
a glassed-in admitting desk, kindly but firmly fending off the clients.
“Good morning, Howie. No, this is a visitor. This is not your breakfast.”
Megan smiled and Dave gave a brief laugh as they passed the
large, disappointed man who rubbed his enormous belly. Megan
glanced at Dave. He was watching her with interest. She reached up
again to smooth her hair.
As they neared the stairs, Nita joined them. Megan introduced
them and Dave shook her slim, cool hand.
“Today is more difficult than usual,” Nita said. “They don’t know
what to make of Reuben’s death. They’re used to us being there for
them. It’s hard for them to grasp that we can have a crisis too.”
Megan drew back automatically and let Nita take the lead.
Dave smiled back at her before turning his attention to Nita. “I’m
sorry to be taking up your time,” he said. “We need to develop some
leads to find Mr. Silver’s killer.You were working with him last night?”
“Yes. Reuben and I were on the hotline.”

Megan sat anxiously checking out the reactions of the staff as they sat
around the staff lounge. Grief and bewilderment held sway. Rose was
sobbing softly. Tim looked scared. The other aides and part-time
counselors were numb or nervous. Nita alone had not let the shocking
news get to her. Megan admired her efforts this morning to soothe the
clients and keep the center operating. She stood by the door, alert and
vigilant, and, as always, coolly beautiful.

Dr. Solomon, more dazed than usual, had been saying, “Oh,
dear,” all morning to everyone. The good-looking detective was
waiting for him to open the meeting.

Finally, Dave spoke himself. He went over the bare facts of
Reuben’s murder, at first relating no more than had been released to
the media.

Then, when he had registered all their reactions, he leaned
forward. “Mr. Silver’s murder follows the pattern known as the
Ladykiller slayings. His death may be one of a random series. However, we have a hunch.This is merely a hunch, but worth pursuing. It
may be that the other four victims are linked to the crisis center, however remotely. If so, chances are the killer is too.”

“You know,” Megan said tentatively, “it’s funny, but Reuben sort
of suggested the same thing. It was a joke really. He said we should
start a counseling group for murders. Call it Assassins Anonymous or
something. He had a whole routine.”

After a moment of silence, Tim hooted with laughter, which he
stifled in embarrassment. Dave seemed very thoughtful.
“Reuben had a highly developed sense of humor,” Nita said. “But
he often went too far.”
“Reuben was a great kidder,” Tim agreed. “He could beat a dead
joke into the ground.” He guffawed, then realized this was a tactless
remark.
“Any observations about either Reuben or those he treated are
helpful to us,” Dave told Tim.
Megan noted with approval how Dave had deftly defused Tim’s
awkward comment. The detective was so broad-shouldered, strong,
and sure of himself, yet with a rare warmth and kindness she didn’t
think possible in someone this physical.
“People come to you with their problems,” Dave continued.
“Addicts, crazies, victims of various forms of abuse. You’re the experts, but I suspect sometimes it must be hard to tell whether someone is just a little unbalanced or whether he’s seriously psychotic.”
The staff glanced at one another, and Dave continued. “Dr.
Solomon has told me a little about how each of you work here. Each
of you leads one or more therapeutic groups for people with one type
of problem or another.You also counsel people on the hotline phones.
I’d like to show you some pictures of the other murder victims and
have you —”
“We read the papers, Detective Dillon,” Nita said mildly. “Don’t
you think that if our clients were being killed, we’d have noticed and
come forward?”
“I don’t know,”Tim said. “Anything around here that reduces the
caseload —” He failed to contain a hysterical giggle.
“Detective Dillon has asked us to cooperate and I’m asking all of
you to help,” Dr. Solomon said. “He’ll be around here for several days
looking at our files and —”
A storm of protest swept through the room. Amid the shouting,
Dr. Solomon gestured ineffectually to restore order.
“We can’t allow that,” Rose insisted. “Our work here is confidential. Our clients can’t be compromised.”
“He can’t do this,” Tim whined. “We promise them that our
records are strictly private. It’s outrageous.”
Megan had her mouth open to speak, but couldn’t find the words.
“If necessary,” Dave’s voice carried over the melee, “I can get a
court order. I’d rather do this with your help.”
Nita strode into the center of the room and spoke quietly but
with immense authority. Everyone fell silent at once.
“Perhaps if one of us goes through the records with him,” Nita
said, “we can help sift for whatever he needs without compromising
our responsibilities.”
“Yes,” Dr. Solomon said gratefully. “Thank you, Nita. Detective
Dillon, would that arrangement suit you?”
“Yes, doctor,” Dave said. “Thanks.”
“Nita,” Dr. Solomon said, “I’d like you and Megan both to assist
Detective Dillon in his examination of the files.”
Megan felt a blush spreading involuntarily across her face. She
turned to Nita, who watched her with narrowed eyes, unsmiling.
“Fine,” Dave said. “And I’ll also need help reinterviewing the
other victims’ loved ones and associates again. I think someone from
the crisis center would know what to look for.” He paused. “Perhaps
Ms. Morrison would also give me a hand with that.”
Surprised, Megan nodded at him dumbly.
“That wouldn’t be possible,” Nita said sharply. “We both have afternoon groups, detective. And we both work the phones at night.”
“I’ll take Megan’s groups myself for a few days,” Dr. Solomon said.
“If this terrible thing does have anything to do with our clients —” He
broke off helplessly.
“Poor Reuben,” Rose said to Dave. “Don’t you have any idea who
could have done it?”
“I’m afraid we have very few leads,” Dave said. “Whoever killed
Reuben killed four other people, seemingly at random.” He drew a
breath and went on forcefully. “I’m trying to determine if there is a
common element that links the five killings. I believe I’ll find it here at
the crisis center.”
A minute of shocked silence passed.
“We do get some lulus,”Tim said. “But a Son of Sam type? I don’t
know about that.”
“Our perpetrator may appear harmless,” Dave said. “But make no
mistake. He is a vicious killer. An animal. He glories in the taking of
human life. He is twisted and sick.”
Rose broke down again. Tim comforted her. Megan crossed the
room to put an arm around Rose. Nita stood by the door, arms
folded, thoughtful and aloof.
“If you’re concerned about your safety,” Dave said, “you should
know that I’m assigning a uniformed officer to be on duty at the center around the clock until further notice.”
As the meeting broke up, Dave approached Nita. “I need to talk
to you about last night.”
“Certainly, detective,” Nita said. “But I don’t have much to add to
what I told your colleagues.”
They sat down and Nita calmly answered questions. She took
Dave back to Dr. Solomon’s office and excused herself.
Dr. Solomon walked Dave out. “We’ll do all we can to help you,
Detective Dillon. Reuben may not have published regularly in the
Journal of American Sociology
, but he was a hard-working, decent man
who really wanted to help people. He didn’t deserve this.”

Dave spent the rest of the day canvassing the neighborhood, interviewing possible witnesses in the Reuben Silver killing. As usual, nobody had seen a thing. “Why can’t you catch this madman?” one
elderly woman indignantly asked him.

As he marched from door to door, the image of the young
woman at the crisis center kept returning to him. No woman had
affected him this way for a long time. And Megan couldn’t be more
different. He thought even his mother would approve of Megan.
“What the hell do you want?”
Dave jolted into alertness. A sour old man, all lips and eyes, had

answered his knock. Dave’s father would have said, “The last face I saw
that ugly had a hook in it.”
“Police, Mr.Tucker.We wonder if you—?”
“About time you got here. I been dialing 911 all day.They keep saying someone will be over. Busy wolfing down doughnuts, weren’t you?”
Dave wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t heard about Tucker calling
911. They were too busy with genuine emergencies to relay tips in
a timely fashion. “Sorry, sir. I’ve been trying to get to you.” Dave
attempted an apologetic grin.
“There were three of them.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Three of them on the street last night. I don’t sleep good,
nights. Never have. My wife, when she was alive, said it was because I
had a guilty conscience. What have I got to be guilty about? People
don’t like me, I say,‘Fuck ’em.’ Always have.”
“What did you see, Mr.Tucker?”
“We’re on the seventh floor now, remember.” He led Dave to the
window and pointed down to the taped-off murder scene diagonally
across the street and down a building. “That’s a ways down to the
street. And my eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, especially at
night. When I was working, I managed an office. Used to be able
to spot something wrong with someone desks and desks away. Old
Eagle-eye Tucker, they called me. I straightened them all out. If they
didn’t like it, fuck ’em.”
Dave nodded. “What did you see, sir?”
“Three people. One hit the other one, knocked him down. The
one hit ran off, yelling. I couldn’t hear what.The other two seemed to
be talking. I figured this was some drug deal.Then there’s this flash of
light and a gunshot. Took me a moment to understand. The guy with
the fists was shot.”
Two persons involved in the slaying of Reuben Silver? “Could
you identify any of them? Maybe pick out some kind of distinguishing
characteristics?”
“Hell, no. Don’t you listen? They were little dark stick figures
from my window. The people who used to work for me asked stupid
questions, like you do. I tried to fire them, every one of them. But
they got me first.The bastards.”
Dave nodded again. “The one who got hit, which direction did he
run?”
“West. The guy with the gun, he went back that way, too. Only,
he walked. Didn’t even hurry, the son of a bitch.”

At the task force meeting, Dave relayed Tucker’s information.
“So we have two Ladykillers on our hands?” Blake asked.
Dave shook his head, puzzled. “Reuben Silver hit one guy and the

other guy killed him. But we don’t know how the three of them fit in.”
Blake hadn’t changed his expression. “Why?”
“Well, it’s not that two-man teams of serial killers are unknown.

Remember the Hillside Stranglers out in California? Two guys who
committed murders together by strangling their female victims out of
sexual rage. Here, though, the killer wants to execute his victims
without touching them. A shooter is usually a loner.”

“This gets weirder,” said Jamie, who had spent the day interviewing Reuben Silver’s grief-stricken daughters from the suburbs.
“Two people involved could be a break for us,” Dave said. “Could
be that one of them will crack and come forward. Or it may be that
the guy who ran away is not an accomplice, but simply a witness too
scared to come to us.”
After the meeting broke up, Blake took Dave aside. “Mancuso is
convinced you leaked the right-eye stuff to your reporter friend.”
“Good for him,” Dave said. “I didn’t. Jimmy is my friend, but I’m
not about to do that, and Jimmy knows it.”
“Watch yourself. I’ll do the best I can for you. But we’ve got to
catch this bastard — or these bastards — and soon.”
Jamie came up to Dave. “A bunch of us are going over to
McSorley’s.Want to come?”
“Thanks. I can’t. Got some business to catch up on.”
She gave a small, disappointed smile.
Dave went to a pay phone on the street to call Jimmy Conlon.
Jimmy knew at once. “You’re in trouble, right?”
“They think I gave you that right-eye stuff.”
“Well, you didn’t. And don’t say that now every copycat killer
will do the same thing, so you won’t be able to tell the difference.You
guys have much more on the Ladykiller’s MO than the right eye.”
Jimmy was right. “I’m under a little pressure,” Dave said.
“Me too. Listen, we both work for scumbags, but we’ll come
out okay. I gotta go and finish my story. Chip wants to see it before
he leaves. He has a power squash game with the managing editor.
That’s following his power lunch with the executive editor. If the
story isn’t just right for him, he’ll give it over for a rewrite to his latest favorite, this new reporter who was his younger brother’s roomie
at Andover.”
Dave toyed with the idea of joining the others at the bar. But he
decided to go for a walk: along the route Reuben Silver must have
taken between the crisis center and the spot where he died.