Authors: Joe R. Lansdale
"Why do you think a raincoat button was in the gal's belly?"
"Maybe like Warren said, it could be a nut's
reason ... or maybe ..."
"Maybe what?"
"Maybe he was wearing the raincoat. That makes more sense."
"No rain that day."
"True," Hanson said slowly.
"You've got a theory. Right?"
"Sort of. The more I think about it the more it grows."
"How about the more you talk about it?" Clark said eagerly.
"All right. Try this on for size."
"I'm listening."
"The guy, The Hacker, was wearing a raincoat even though it wasn't raining that night. Correct?"
"Correct."
"See any sense in that, Joe?"
"Not really . . . Maybe the guy's some kind of fetish nut ... A flasher even."
"Maybe. But this guy seems to have some kind of sense about what he's doing. I mean he has been careful so far. Wearing a raincoat would be a bit obvious . . . Unless he just puts it on at certain times."
"Just for the murders?"
"Yeah."
"So he's got a controlled fetish. So what?"
"No. That isn't what I'm getting at ... I mean you can't rule out anything with nuts, but I'm saying this guy has a practical side. Think about it."
"The blood!"
"Uh huh."
"Of course. It splatters on the raincoat instead of him."
"That way," Hanson said leaning back in his chair, "he can just slip off the raincoat, wrap it around the murder weapon—sword, bayonet, whatever, and . . . well, in this case, the victim's heart, and presto . . ."
"He's not covered with blood," Clark added.
"A little package under his arm wouldn't draw attention."
"Off he strolls into the night, easy as you please . . . But one thing?"
"Yeah."
"According to the autopsy report, the girl was raped like the last. Raped after death to be exact. Messy business raping a corpse in that kind of condition."
"No problem. The raincoat again. He just unbuttons a couple of buttons, slips out his dick and goes to it."
"Ahhhh. That's how the button came off."
"Yep."
"Sherlock," Clark said. "You outdid yourself."
"Thank you, Watson. Elementary, really."
Clark rubbed his chin. "So all he's got to do is wipe himself off on a sheet or the girl's clothes and he's tidy as a butler. Up comes the pants, off comes the raincoat. He wraps up his gear and gets."
"Yeah. But his days are numbered."
"Another lead?"
"No. Just a promise," Hanson said solemnly.
"Here we go again."
Hanson darted Clark with his eyes. "Yeah, here we go again."
Clark sighed. "Taking this awful damn personal, aren't you?"
"It's always personal with me, Joe. You know that. Usually you too, man. What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing . . . It's just . . . Well, I hate to see you so worked up over this guy. This is more than personal . . . It's an obsession. I'm sort of afraid you'll do something foolish. I don't want to lose you off the force."
"Oh come on."
"Dead serious. You're really wrapped up in this one." Clark smiled thinly. "I mean, hell, man. Now that I'm broke in I'd rather keep working with you. After your training ain't nobody else going to have me anyway."
Hanson was touched. He smiled. "You've got a point there."
"Damn right."
No longer smiling. "But I'm going to get him, Joe. Ain't no way that bastard's going to get away. No way."
"All right. I'll go with that. But let the system handle him. Don't do something foolish."
"You like the way tne system handles things, Joe?"
"No. But you
can't ..."
"No buts! That insane bastard is going to be dead if I catch him."
"Lower your voice," Clark said nervously.
"And you know what, Joe?" Hanson said in a lower tone.
"What?"
"Another hunch. I think the bastard just might be a cop."
"You're kiddin'."
"Do I look like I'm kiddin'?"
Clark shook his head.
"It's bad enough that the whole goddamned police force stinks with corruption, but if this guy is a cop, then what? How's that going to look? If he's a cop I want him worse than ever."
"What makes you think a cop?"
"The notes. Right under our cop noses. Remember?"
"Yeah, I remember."
"He's taunting us, telling us consciously or unconsciously."
"Maybe he means it figuratively."
"Maybe. And maybe that's the way he knows what goes on here, how he knows to cover up evidence."
"But why would some guy just suddenly flip out?"
"It happens. Remember Charles Whitman and the U.T. tower?"
Clark
nodded. "Okay ...
I can buy that."
"Then can you buy me tellin' you he's a dead sucker?"
"Gorilla, I've worked with you awhile now. This don't sound like you. The tactics you're talking about are not dissimilar to those we're supposed to be against. Like I said before, getting rough now and then, or running a bluff is one thing, but you're talking about coldblooded murder."
"In this guy's case I can make an exception."
"There should be no exceptions."
"None for cruelty. None for abusing justice. None for personal gain. But for eliminating a cancer from society . . . isn't that what we're here for?"
"Very self-righteous, but it just doesn't wash."
"Doesn't it . . . We are here for justice, correct?"
"Yes, but we're not the judge and the jury."
Hanson shook his head. "That's the way it is, Joe. I'm going to do the world a favor. I promise."
Clark grew silent. He believed Hanson wasn't just blowing. He meant exactly what he said. And that worried him.
WEDNESDAY . . . 7:15
p.m.
Rachel's dinner was fine, but Hanson's palate was dead. It all tasted the same to him, bland. He stirred the food on his plate with his fork and said not a word.
Rachel and Jo Ann a gave each other a look.
JoAnna said, "Daddy, what's the matter?"
Hanson tried to smile. "Not feeling well."
"Again," Rachel said softly.
"Yeah. Again," Hanson said.
"You ought to see a doctor, daddy."
"This is something he can't help with, I'm afraid." Hanson stood up from the table. "Excuse me girls, but I sort of need to be alone." He said the last sentence timidly, as though he were afraid of insulting them.”
"It's all right," Rachel said. "I understand." "Just take a short drive," he said. "Maybe stop off at a magazine rack and look around . . . something . . . just need to clear the head."
"We understand, honey," Rachel said. Hanson started for the door. "Daddy," JoAnna said, "I hope you feel better."
"Me too, baby," Hanson said, "me too."
WEDNESDAY ... 8:15
p.m.
The room was a head, the window was a murky eye.
He stood before the window that looked down into the filthy street. It seemed there was always garbage, no matter how often the garbage men came. Somehow, he found that pleasing.
He opened the window. Up with the lid of the eye.
The city drifted in. It was as if he could smell the women. Out there, waiting for him, not with anticipation, but with fear. Pleasing, that thought, very pleasing.
He placed his hands on the window sill and looked at them. Strong, hard hands; hands sometimes dipped in red. It vaguely reminded him of a quotation.
Who said it? How did it go?"
Oh yes . . . Was Aristotle . . . and the quote was, God . . . No. Not God. It was, "Nature has made the hand of man the principal organ and instrument of man's body."
He held up his hands and clenched them in front of his face.
True enough, true enough.
WEDNESDAY . . . 9:45
p.m.
The drive had done him little, if any, good.
Hanson came in quietly, closed the door softly.
"It's all right," Rachel said from the stairs. "I'm still awake."
Hanson looked at her shadowed form sitting at the top of the steps. "Waiting on me?"
"I don't mind." Rachel stood up and came down the staircase.
"JoAnna asleep?"
"Finishing up her homework. She made a C in English last time, you know?"
"Yeah, I know," Hanson said dryly. "She could make whatever grades she wanted to."
Rachel came to his arms, they embraced and kissed. When they came apart Rachel said, "What's bothering you, baby? What's wrong?"
"The Hacker. It's eating me up
inside ... I
even said some
cra2y
things to Joe today , . . That wasn't the first time."
"You need to get off this case, Marve."
"I can't. I can't do that. No matter what, I can't. I think what I need is to get out of this goddamned job, that's what I think."
"Then you should. You used to enjoy being a cop. It's eating you alive now."
"I got Jo Anna's college to worry about."
"There are other jobs. Just a minute." She moved away from him, went upstairs and returned after less than a minute. There was an envelope in her hand. "This came from Zulean today. They're hiring policemen in Tyler. With your experience you could get a job easy."
Hanson sat down on the floor with his back against the door. Rachel sat down beside him. He put his arm around her.
"That's very tempting," Hanson said.
"Then be tempted."
"After this case, I just might."
"Forget it, Marve."
"I can't," he suddenly snapped.
Rachel's features fell.
"I'm sorry," Hanson said. "I didn't mean to yell at you."
"It's all right," she said weakly, and she stood up.
"I am sorry, truly."
"I believe you, Marve. I'm just going to bed. I can't talk any sense into you, so I'm going to bed. Got to go to work tomorrow, remember. You should go to bed, too."
"I'll be up in a little bit."
"Goodnight, Marve."
"Goodnight."
Feeling like a heel, Hanson watched her go. He knew she was hurt even if she wasn't saying so. Nothing beyond repair, nothing a night's sleep wouldn't cure, but his outburst had been stupid. She was only trying to help, only concerned.
All of this has got to stop, got to find that sonofabitch, got to put an end to his insanity . . . But how do you catch a creature like that? A beast-man of night and deceit.
An idea occurred to him. Warren was interested in necrophilia. Said that himself. Maybe . . .
Hanson got up and went to the telephone. He looked at his watch. It was after ten, a little late for an old man who worked all hours, but . . . Hell, he'd try it. He had to. He looked up Warren's number and dialed.
Warren answered on the third ring.
"Did I wake you?" Hanson said.
"No. Who is this?"
"Lieutenant Hanson."
"Oh, Lieutenant. How are you?"
"Fine . . . listen, could you do me a favor?"
"Well, I can try. What's the favor?"
"I need to see you. I want to talk to you about this Hacker guy."
"Me?"
"You said it was your hobby."
"Sure . . . but the psychiatrist ..."
"Hasn't been worth a hill of beans," Hanson filled in quickly.
"You know I'd be glad to help, Hanson, but I couldn't know anything the psychiatrist doesn't know. I'm a medical examin—"
"You might know something I need. The shrinks are too tied up with their own theories. I just want some straight goods on necrophilia, the nature of it, not some formal doctor's scribbling. I need something that can help me learn how the bastard thinks."
"Very well . . . but tomorrow night after work. Is that all right with you. I mean I could talk to you tomorrow at work, but this might take some time and I've got to saw a lot of brains up tomorrow, run some specimens ..."
"Not tonight?"
"Oh. Well I don't know . . . Tell you what. I'm going to be up, oh say another hour . . ."
"Fine, I'll come over."
"Wait a minute. Let me finish. I'm going to be up another hour, and in that hour I'll go through some of my books and files, and tomorrow night I'll be ready for you."
Hanson was suddenly assaulted by his impoliteness. "Sure, Doc. I'm sorry. I seem to be running on dinghy fuel here lately."
"Quite all right . . . Now I'll talk to you tomorrow at work, but we might have to compress it all
into ..."
"No. That's fine. Tomorrow night, around eight?"
"Make it seven."
"Good, seven then."