Act of Love (10 page)

THURSDAY . . . 9:05
a.m.

"Captain wants to see you."

"All right," Hanson said into the phone. "Thanks."

He hung up and rose from his chair. Clark was snipping out Barlowe's column again this morning, and this time it was blasting the police. He had
The Post
and
The Chronicle
by his chair and he had already stated that even the conservative papers were starting to sound like lurid tabloids where The Hacker was concerned. Hanson didn't quite agree with that, but it was true that the killer, and
The Bugle,
were setting an odd and discomforting tone.

"I'll be back. Think the Captain wants to gnaw my ear for something."

"Uh oh," Clark said.

"Uh oh is right."

Hanson went to the Captain's office.

"Take a chair," Captain Fredricks said. Fredricks was a lean, fiftyish man with a perpetual five o'clock shadow. His jaw looked as if it were made of granite, his nose was a beak. He looked a lot like Dick Tracy with light brown hair.

Hanson sat down uncomfortably in one of the smooth black leather chairs that graced the carpet in front of Fredricks' desk.

Fredricks stood up from his chair, clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the window overlooking the parking lot. Hanson noticed that his dark blue shirt and darker blue slacks looked as if they had just come off the rack. Which they hadn't. Hanson had seen him in that outfit at least a hundred times. Fredricks was always immaculate. His shoes even looked brand new and spit polished. Some people are like that, thought Hanson. His own body seemed to excrete some sort of acid that ate and wrinkled the clothes he wore in less than twenty-four hours. No matter what he wore and how much time he took to get ready, he always had a slept-in look.

Fredricks turned away from the window, kept his arms behind him, rested his hands on the window sill. The overhead light hit his broad maroon and blue striped tie. It appeared to shimmer.

"How long have you been on this police force, Hanson?"

Uh oh, thought Hanson, here it comes. "About twenty years, sir."

"That's a long time."

"Yes, sir . . . Sir?"

Fredricks said, "Yes?"

"You've got something to say, sir, say it. No offense. But that's a line for rookies."

Fredricks smiled. His teeth all looked capped. What made Hanson mad was the fact that he knew they weren't capped. "Sometimes a veteran acts like a rookie."

"I'm wounded to the core," Hanson said dryly.

Fredricks didn't lose his smile. "Very well. You know what this is about?"

"The incident in Evans' office at
The Bugle."

"Well. It's good to know your actions there aren't so commonplace that you're having a hard time remembering what you're on the carpet for."

"No sir. No problem remembering. I did shoot a couple of pedestrians this morning, but since they weren't in the crosswalk ..."

"That'll be enough Lieutenant. I'm convinced you're a wit." Hanson was surprised to note that there still wasn't any anger in Fredricks' voice.

"Evans call this in?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Barlowe?"

"I said, it doesn't matter. Now I'm trying to be lenient with this, so shut up. Got me?"

"Yes sir."

"A man of your age and skill should know better than to perform such an outburst."

"Captain

"I'm not finished. It's bad for the force. It's bad for me, and worse yet, and of more immediate concern to you, it's bad for one Lieutenant Marvin Hanson. Is any of this soaking into your thick skull?"

"Yes sir, but—"

"And when things get bad for me on account of you . . . Well now, guess what? I get rid of you." Fredricks walked over to his desk and sat down. "No roughing up the innocent bystanders, Lieutenant. Remember. We aren't even supposed to be mean to the bad guys anymore. We are to be so squeaky clean and nice it'll make your stomach turn over. You got that, Lieutenant?"

"I do."

"That's good. That's real good. You can go now."

Hanson got up and started for the door.

"One thing, Lieutenant."

Hanson stopped with his hand resting on the doorknob. "I understand you're taking this awful personal. That's bad. Real bad. Another outburst of any kind and you're off the case. Another incident like the one at
The Bugle
and you're off the force. I hope my meaning is clear."

"Crystal clear," Hanson said.

"That's good."

Hanson half opened the door.

"And Lieutenant ..."

"Yes sir."

"Unofficially, I wish you'd slammed Bar- lowe one in the mouth and let him digest his teeth."

Hanson smiled.

"You're a good cop," Fredricks said. "Now get out of here."

THURSDAY . . . 6:30
p.m.

Hating the light, he drove slowly wishing night would fall with the suddenness of thought. The night was his security. His blanket of warmth and power. As time went on, the day became more and more of a nuisance. He often wished that during those hours he could do as the movie vampires do, and crawl into a nice, damp, dirt-and death- smelling coffin to sleep. Sleep until night wove its fine dark patterns. And then from that coffin he could rise and hunt.

Cops everywhere, or not, he could wait no longer. This coming night he felt he must find a woman to love with his blade. Find her now, follow her into the darkness and deliver her the well-deserved doom that was the only cure for feminine evil.

But first, before tagging tonight's lamb, he had things to do.

THURSDAY ... 7
p.m.

Milo jerked his head at the sound of the opening door. Joe Clark stood framed in the doorway.

"Frightened me, Joe."

Clark flipped on the lights. "That little desk lamp isn't much to work by. Didn't know they kept it on the Xerox machine these days."

"Yeah . . . Well, I was Xeroxing a little something."

"I see that. Can I have a look?"

"Well . . . Yeah, I guess so."

Clark walked over to the Xerox machine and stood next to Milo. He lifted up the light shield cover, picked up the piece of paper there and turned it over.

"Interesting," Clark said. "An update on our progress with The Hacker."

"A duplicate for the files," Milo said. "Think maybe you should cut that
light ... I
mean I don't need all that light for what I'm doing. Conservation and all."

Clark looked at Milo with an expression that said, "Don't make me laugh."

"You're sweating, Milo. Doesn't seem that hot in here to me. Why don't you take off your jacket?"

"That's a good idea." Milo pulled off his sports coat and draped it over the edge of the machine. He watched as Clark took the paper over to the file cabinet.

"Drawer's still unlocked," Clark said. He opened it and thumbed through the folders. His long fingers came to rest on one. He pulled it out and flipped it open. "Well, I'll be damned."

"What's that?" Milo asked a bit too urgently. His eyes darted first to Joe then to the door.

"You're not going to believe this, Milo."

"Believe what?"

"Why there's a copy already in here, just like there's supposed to be."

"That right?"

"Uh huh. One for evidence and one for the morgue file here. Unless special authorization is cleared, that's the exact number that there's supposed to be. Funny how these things get by you, huh, Milo?"

"Funny."

"You want to see? Come take a look."

"No. I'll take your word for it."

"You must be overworking, Milo. Forget a little thing like that." Clark looked at his watch. "Why, Milo. It's way past hours for you."

"Yeah, I guess so. Got sorta wrapped up."

Clark nodded pleasantly. "Well, I'll just slip this back into the file here." Clark did that as he spoke, closed the cabinet drawer, "and you won't have to worry about that sucker. Right?"

"Right. I guess I forgot."

"I guess so. But a copy each, plus a carbon is all you need. And since that was the carbon on the machine. Well, no need to go into that. You're all through for the night. Let's go, Milo."

"Go where?" Milo was sweating B.B.'s now.

"Home, of course. Where else?" Clark smiled broadly.

"You're not . . ."

"Going to turn you in? No. I don't think so. Listen, Milo. We don't need the newspaper working on this case along with us, you know."

"Just a few dollars. That's all I was taking, Joe. I wasn't givin' him much."

"Don't care if it was for free. Let's get out of here before I do turn you in."

"Maybe it's good with the paper printing this stuff and all. Fires us up. Maybe the paper comes up with some new leads and angles."

"Milo," Clark said calmly.

"Yes." Milo's voice was as thin as a communion wafer.

"Shut up. If it wasn't for your kid I'd turn you over so fast it'd make your head swim. I've a big urge just to send you home across your saddle, and believe me, if Gorilla knew you were the one—and I'm sure he suspectssince he's no fool—he'd snap you in half like a fortune cookie."

Milo put his coat on.

"Git!" Clark said.

"How'd you know?"

"Why I'm a trained detective, Milo. Hunches, observation. If Gorilla wasn't so rattled these days he'd already have nabbed you. Thank the Lord for his preoccupation. And Milo, you look guilty as hell. You look about as calm these days as a blood-soaked rat in a cage full of hungry cats. In other words—you do not have a poker face. Go!"

"About locking up?"

Clark held out his hand. "Toss me the keys. I'll do it for you."

"It's my job. I'm not supposed to . . ."

"You're kidding. You're not supposed to pass out evidence either."

"But . . ."

"Give me the goddamned keys, Milo, 'cause if you don't, I'm gonna see you in one hell of a fine mess." Clark bobbed his open palm up and down. "Come on. I'll give them back in the morning . . . Maybe. That's if I don't decide to turn you in. Right now I trust my locking up better than yours. I've got a key, but somehow I'll sleep better knowing you don't."

Milo took the keys from his pocket and tossed them to Clark. He said. "Thanks for not saying anything, Joe."

"Isn't for you, Milo. It's for your boy. Now get the hell out . . . And Milo—if you want to be sneaky, don't act so sneaky. Know
why
I'm not worried about the light? It's because I went down to evidence and signed in as soon as I saw you go in here. I signed in to look at The Hacker material."

"I didn't want my name on the register after hours."

"It's more stupid to come in here with your pass key, not signed in and after hours." Clark made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Stupid, Milo. Real stupid. Now go."

Milo went.

When he was gone, Clark began to look through the files on The Hacker again.

THURSDAY . . . 7:05
p.m.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Hanson said.

"Just five minutes," Doc Warren said opening the door wider. "Come in, come in."

Warren's house was warm and comfortable looking. The furniture was expensive, but it didn't have a show room look. The place looked lived in.

"I hope this little appointment isn't disturbing anything," Hanson said.

"Not at all, Lieutenant, not at all. I live alone and company's nice for a change.

Haven't had much of that since Juanita died."

"Sorry."

"Quite all right. Been three years now. Come, this way into the study. I've marked a few things that might interest you."

"Thank you . . . And call me Marvin or Hanson, but not Lieutenant."

"Very well, Marvin." Warren opened a door before them, held it to allow Hanson to enter first. It was a room full of books. The carpet was rust colored and matched well with the redwood bookshelves. There was a large desk in front of a window at one end, an old, battered typing chair drawn up before it, and in the middle of the room was a huge wire spool that had been turned into a table. Two comfortable and fairly worn chairs were drawn up to
it.
The spool was littered with old moisture rings from glasses and bottles. An ashtray full of ash and cigar butts was on the table.

"Juanita gave me this room to do as I pleased," Warren said. "I pleased to keep it a mess. Pardon the old furniture."

"Not at all," Hanson said. "I like the hell out of it. I have a den, not private, but it's a place to relax. This looks like a hell of a fine place to relax."

"Sit
down ...
Or look at the books . . . You a book man, Marvin?"

"Very."

"Good. That's good. A man that loves books—or a woman—is the salt of the earth.

If they don't love books then they aren't worth knowing." Warren smiled. "You may quote me on that. I'm getting so I babble."

Hanson smiled. "I'll look at the books."

"Good, good. Right back . . . Miller beer okay?"

"Wouldn't have any other if I had a choice."

"All the better." Warren went out and closed the door.

Hanson walked down the rows of books. They went from a shelf height of six-feet to floor level. The majority of the books were on crime, violent crime. There were also a few novels by Hemingway, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald. There was a six-foot-long shelf full of Eighty-seventh Precinct mysteries.

"Ah, good man," Hanson said aloud as his eyes came to rest on a favorite of his, Raymond Chandler's
The Big Sleep,
and here was John Ball's
In the Heat of the Night.
He took that one down and flipped it open.

The door opened and Warren came in with the beers, both held in one hand between fingers. He walked over to Hanson, looked at the book he held, handed the detective a beer. "Ball," he said. "I like his stuff."

"Me too," Hanson said. "This book especially. It seems a bit more hardboiled than the later ones in the series."

"Agreed," Warren said. "The character changes a bit, becomes more Sherlockian. But I like that too. I think he might have been trying for a more serious tone in the first one."

Hanson slipped the book back into place, then twisted the top off his beer.

"Let's sit," Warren said. "Cigar?"

"That would be nice," Hanson said. Hanson sat down in one of the comfortable chairs, put his beer on the spool table.

Warren set his down and went over to his desk. He came back with a few books under his arm and a box full of cigars. "Not the most expensive cigars in the world, certainly they're not the kind you roll around in your fingers next to your ear and listen for the crispness, but they're tasty and smoke good."

"I used to smoke grapevines, so what do I know about cigars. They're tobacco. That's enough. I like one occasionally."

Warren set the books on the table, lifted the lid on the cigar box, selected two long, brown cigars. He gave Hanson one and himself one. He took a book of matches from the corner of the cigar box and once the detective had the cigar unwrapped and in his mouth, lit Hanson's. He lit his own with the same match.

"Now," Warren said, "let's get down to business."

"Tell me about this guy, about necrophilia."

Warren swigged his beer, puffed his cigar, then pursed his lips. After a moment of thought he repeated the performance, one, two, three. Then: "Well, Marvin. I think this guy is more than a necrophiliac. If what hesaid in his note about frying the breast is true, he shows cannibalistic tendencies as well. Not to mention a horde of other symptoms. His is the most exaggerated form of necrophilia. You see, the real purpose behind necrophilous killers is not to kill, but to dismember the body. Of course, to do that the victim must die. With this killer, however, I feel he is an odd and uncomfortable mixture of necro- philiac and sadist. He enjoys his crimes. He taunts the police with notes. He writes the newspapers. This man is no fool, he's sick, sick, sick . . . You're
frowning ..."

"Sorry. Just to me sickness means something else. I don't want to help the guy ... I want to catch him, not because he's sick, but because he's a coldblooded murderer."

"I understand fully," Warren said. "Another beer?"

"No. Go on."

"I'd say this man is one that has recently gone over the edge."

"Someone that has carried these urges with him for a long time?" Hanson asked.

"Correct. He . . . right off let me say I'm not a psychiatrist and don't claim knowledge in that area . . . but he may well be a split personality. That sort of thing doesn't happen as often as you think. The movies and books we read sometimes lead us to believe otherwise, but it's just not true. It does happen occasionally however, and this just might be a classic case. If he is a split personality, a true split. He may not even be aware of what he does when he's not The Hacker. He could be anybody. You. Me."

"Not me. This guy's white."

Warren leaned back in his chair and smoked his cigar. "Oh."

"The greasepaint we found. His references to niggers in his notes. A black
man
wouldn't need a greasepaint disguise, and we feel certain that's what that was, and he wouldn't refer to his own kind as niggers . . . not likely anyway, least not in the context of the notes."

"I don't know," Warren said. "You see, if this guy is a true split personality, he might well be a black man with a separate white existence."

"Come again."