Without Mercy (19 page)

Randazzo unfolded the paper. “This is a Master Charge receipt. It was found in the jacket pocket of a man who was killed in a Bowery hotel early this morning, and
it’s
got your name and Master Charge number on it.” He handed the receipt to Rackman. “Do you remember it?”

Rackman looked at the receipt and recognized the address of the men’s store on the Bowery. “I remember it,” he said, his voice a few octaves lower. “It’s for a wool jacket I bought for a bum named Jackie Doolan. He gave me some information in the Slasher case.”

Randazzo blinked his eyes twice and thought for a few moments. “That’s very interesting,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because the victim was found in the toilet with his throat cut just like the Slasher’s victims.”

“Did you see the victim yourself?”

“Yes I did.”

“Was he about five-four, real skinny, in his late fifties, sandy hair turning gray?”

“That’s the one.”

“Let me get dressed,” Rackman said. “I’ll go downtown with you.”

Chapter Three

Kowalchuk awoke under a bush in Central Park near the Seventy-second Street Transverse Road. His hair and beard had become quite long, effectively obscuring his features, and he’d lost thirty pounds since he’d moved out of East Ninth Street. He wore sneakers, jeans, and his blue bomber jacket, all filthy. Standing and stretching, yawning softly so as not to attract attention, he put on his gray cap and walked toward the path that led out of the park.

He took out a cigarette and lit it with a match. Passing two joggers on the Seventy-second Street road, he felt a rumble of hunger in his stomach. He headed west, toward the cheap restaurants on Broadway, where he could get the most for the four dollars he had in his pocket.

He bought a
Daily News
near the subway stop on Seventy-second Street and Central Park West and stopped beside an apartment building to glance through it. On page four near the bottom he found what he was looking for. “Derelict Found Stabbed in Bowery Hotel.”

He read the item and was pleased that the police hadn’t linked the killing of the bum to the Slasher, because he wanted to make his reputation for killing women, not bums. Tucking the newspaper under his arm, he whistled a tune and made his way through the early morning crowds to Broadway, and decided to have breakfast at the McDonalds on Seventy-first Street. He passed two cops on their beat but they didn’t take any special notice of him. He didn’t look like the picture of Kowalchuk that they’d put in the paper. They’d never get him now.

Entering the McDonald’s, he walked to the counter and got in line. People looked at his filthy clothes and he realized he smelled a little bad, but to hell with them. If they didn’t like it they could kiss his ass. He came to the head of the line and ordered his breakfast from a skinny little black girl, and he thought that this was a decent girl who worked for her living in a decent way, unlike the Times Square porno girls who were disgusting. He paid her three dollars and a quarter for the meal and carried his tray to an empty table, sitting down and digging in.

He had to do something about his money situation, he realized as he chewed on sausage. He didn’t even have enough for a pack of cigarettes. He couldn’t drive a cab or get any other kind of job because they had his Social Security number. This meant he’d have to steal some money, and he didn’t have a gun for a hold-up. Besides, he didn’t like the idea of a hold-up. He was the Slasher and he was at war against women. The best thing would be to kill another porno girl and take whatever money she had with her.

But what porno girl? He didn’t want to go to Times Square because it was crawling with cops looking for him, and he didn’t have any money to go in peep shows and places like that. He couldn’t even afford to buy a copy of the
New York Review of Sex
to find out what the whores were doing. He was in a tight spot, that was for sure. But he’d get out of it somehow. If he’d outsmarted the whole New York Police Department for as long as he had, he should be able to get together a few hundred bucks from some filthy bitch someplace.

He thought about the famous porno girls who acted in hardcore movies, but didn’t know how to go about finding where one lived. He didn’t dare to try and pick up one of the street corner whores because he was too famous for that now. His victim would have to be somebody easy to get to who deserved to be killed and robbed. Some really rotten bitch. Someone who deserved to die.

Shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth he racked his brain but could only come up with famous porno actresses or faceless whores, all of whom were too dangerous for him to go near. He’d have to think of somebody in a different walk of life, someone completely unexpected.

And then her face materialized out of the remaining bits of food on his plate, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of her right off. He’d given her thousands of dollars in gifts and cash, and she never gave him any pussy. He found out she was sleeping with a sanitation worker. Kowalchuk had been in love with Evelyn Ditchik and she’d taken advantage of him like all the others, only worse.

He smiled as he sipped his coffee. He thought he’d enjoy killing her more than any of the others, because of what she’d done to him. His heart beat faster and he felt lightheaded.
Evelyn Ditchik, are you gonna be surprised when you see me again.

Chapter Four

Rackman walked into Jenkins’ office, a newspaper folded under his arm. “Anything new?” he asked.

Jenkins glanced up from some correspondence. “Relative to what?”

“The Slasher.”

“Some bums at the Crandon Hotel told detectives that Jackie Doolan was bragging about helping the cops identify the Slasher on the night he was killed.”

Rackman sat down slowly. “Wow.”

Jenkins nodded. “Looks like the Slasher was a guest in the Crandon that night, but the Crandon had eighty-four guests and none of the ones we talked to saw anybody who looked like our picture of Kowalchuk.”

“He must have changed his appearance somehow.”

“Yeah. Downtown detectives have combed the Bowery for him but haven’t come up with anything. Looks like he got away with another one.”

Rackman pinched his lips together. “That poor fucking Jackie Doolan.”

“He should’ve kept his mouth shut.”

Rackman took the newspaper from underneath his arm and unfolded it. It was the latest copy of the
New York Review of Sex
and the headline read, “Balling the Blind”.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “You ever read one of these?”

“No.”

“I’ve been reading them lately because I know the Slasher reads them, and I—”

Jenkins interrupted him. “You’ve been reading them because you want to pull your prick, you bastard.”

“Not true, and anyway, I got an idea from the damn thing. There are classified ads in the back from people who want to get laid, and I thought maybe we should put an ad in ourselves and hope to hook the Slasher with it.”

Jenkins thought for a few moments, then held out his hand. “Lemme see.”

Rackman handed over the paper and Jenkins turned to the “Puerile Personals” in the back. He put on his half-moon reading glasses and bent over the page.

Foxy Bi Female, 24, will share her lovely body with other bi’s. I’m for real, sincere, and horny.

Send photo and phone number to P.O.B. 813 Waterbury, CT 06720.

Swinging Beautician Seeks men for French, Greek, English. New York City area. Write Martha, Box 21, 219 West 42nd Street, New York, N.Y. 10036.

Smell My Nectar

I’m a sweet, hot & juicy young surfer girl with love-soaked panties. Guaranteed strong scent. Send $10 check/m.o. to: Cindy, Box 2005, Laguna Beach, CA 92021.

Nympho Chinese Girl seeks white men for fun and games.

Send $1 for my photo, name, address, phone no. Cum Ling, Box 4732, NYC, 10019.

Jenkins looked up over his half-moon reading glasses. “This is some sick shit here.”

“I know, but we’re dealing with a sick guy. He used to read this paper every week and probably still does. If we put in the right ad, he might respond to it.”

Jenkins bent over the page again.

Attractive 19-Year Old Male wants attr. W/F age 18-22 for companionship. No pros. Write: P.O.B. 321, Radio City Station, New York, N.Y. 10019.

White Male, 44, sincerely wants to meet dominant females that enjoy wearing garters, stockings and high heel shoes. P.O.B. 4379, Bklyn, N.Y. 11201.

Jenkins took off his eyeglasses and looked at Rackman. “Does anybody answer these ads?”

“They must, otherwise there wouldn’t be four full pages of them.”

“I guess it’s worth a try. Who’s gonna write the ad, you?”

“I thought I’d get one of those reporters to do it.”

“Good idea. They’re all a bunch of sex degenerates.”

Chapter Five

Kowalchuk returned to the Ukrainian neighborhood in the East Village for the first time since he had left a few weeks before. He walked straight down St. Marks Place, and at the corner of Second Avenue he picked up the receiver of a public telephone attached to the side of the Gem Spa. He dialed a number and listened to it ring a few times. It was seven-thirty in the morning and he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast the morning before.

The phone was answered on the other end. “Hello?” said a woman’s voice.

Kowalchuk hung up and turned the corner, walking south on Second Avenue. This was his old stomping ground but he looked different now and didn’t think anybody would recognize him. He had to take the chance because he needed money badly and he was intoxicated by the thought of seeing Evelyn again. He’d just found out she was home. In the old days she used to work in an office uptown and he assumed she still did. She’d be shocked to see him.

He turned east on Seventh Street, walking along with his hands in his pockets, looking like a typical middle-aged East Village hippie. He passed the little store where his mother used to send him to buy fresh eggs from New Jersey, and looked in the window at old Mister Rabinowitz behind the counter. Crossing First Avenue, he came to the block where Evelyn lived and felt his blood grow hot with anticipation. Evelyn used to humiliate him in front of other people, but still she took his money and gifts. She used to let him kiss her when they were alone, but that was all. He couldn’t understand why he never thought of beating her ass before. It was so easy once you got into the swing of it.

Walking down the block, he wondered if the police had spoken to Evelyn yet about him. They probably had, but she couldn’t tell them anything. She hadn’t seen him for about five years, but he’d kept track of her. She’d gone out with a few guys but none had ever married her. If she was smart she would have married him, but she wasn’t smart.

He approached the door of her building. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw no one behind him, and ahead was just an old man about thirty feet away. Entering the vestibule of her building, he pressed all the buttons next to the names except hers, and waited, taking a roll of tape out of his pocket. Sure enough somebody in the building was waiting for somebody, and the buzzer in the door went off. Kowalchuk pushed it open, taped the latch, and let it close again. Then he turned and left the hallway, walking nonchalantly to First Avenue. Whoever had buzzed the door would be waiting to see who was coming up the stairs, but soon he’d give up and go back to his apartment. Then Kowalchuk could enter the building and move about pretty much at will.

He walked to First Avenue, turned around, and went back. It was possible that somebody might come downstairs right now, see the tape on the door, and remove it, and he hoped that wouldn’t happen because then he’d have to do the whole thing over again, and that might make people suspicious. He wondered what Evelyn was doing right now. Probably sitting in her slip drinking that black Cuban coffee she used to like. What a day this was going to be for her.

A young hippie guy came out of her building and walked the other way. Kowalchuk ground his back teeth together and cursed, because he hoped the hippie didn’t notice the tape. Kowalchuk entered the hallway and pushed the door. It opened up for him, and he smiled as he entered the downstairs corridor. Those damned hippies are so spaced out they don’t know what the hell’s going on. If the door was off the hinges they wouldn’t notice.

Kowalchuk stealthily climbed the stairs. This was the tricky part, and he’d have to be careful. He’d also have to be lucky. But he wanted to see Evelyn’s dirty blood and take her money, and he was hungry as hell. His stomach had been growling all night and he had a headache. But it was good to miss meals because that would make him lose weight so he could fool the police.

Up the stairs he went. Evelyn lived on the top floor in back, and he passed her floor, climbing the section of stairs that led to the roof. Halfway up, he stopped and sat down. He’d sit down there and wait until she came out of her apartment, then go down and have a little chat with her.

A door opened several floors down, and someone descended the stairs, but it was too many floors down to be Evelyn. He hoped nobody would come up to where he was, but if someone did he’d pretend to be a drunk asleep on the stairs. It was common in the East Village to find bums asleep on the section of stairs between the roof and the top floor of apartments. On East Ninth Street he’d heard that a bum had once spent an entire winter on that section of stairs in the building next door. The building had been full of hippies and none of them had the heart to throw the bum out, but if Kowalchuk had been living in that building he would have thrown the son of a bitch off the roof. He’d never liked bums, and after his weeks on the Bowery, hated them even more, especially since one of them had tipped off the cops to his identity. But that old buzzard had paid for it. Kowalchuk had followed him to the toilet and cut his throat while he was taking a piss. The fucking bum didn’t know what hit him.