Night Work Page 11

  “What about the ones you can’t keep out?” Rhine-hart said. “The ones you shouldn’t keep out?”

  “If they violate their probation, they get sent up. You know that. What are you getting at?”

  “You’ve been around the criminal mind,” Rhine-hart said. “That’s all I meant. That’s how I was hoping you could help us.”

  He took out another photograph. Another big, eight-by-ten color shot. Another crime scene. This one I recognized immediately. It was Marlene, lying in the weeds, the black band across her throat. The light from the camera’s flash made her skin look bleached out and unreal.

  “So what do you think?” Rhinehart said. “What kind of person would do this?”

  “An absolute raving maniac,” I said.

  “Granted. But it’s too easy to say that and not go any further. Insanity doesn’t mean you stop thinking. Don’t you think that an insane mind can still be quite organized?”

  “Sure.”

  “So what do you think might have been going through this person’s head when he did this to these women?”

  “I can’t answer that. I can’t even begin to go there.”

  “Just try. Help us out here. Do you have any kind of gut feeling on this guy?”

  I thought about it.

  “He’s conflicted,” I said. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but somehow it sounded right to me. “He killed them, but then he had regrets about it. So instead of just leaving them in a heap, he poses them like this. Like he wants them to look like they’re at peace.”

  Shea started writing in his notebook again. Rhine-hart just kept looking at me.

  “Like they’re at peace,” Rhinehart said. “That’s an interesting insight.”

  Then he opened up his notebook one more time and took out another photograph. He put it down on the table, next to the first two. I was expecting another shot of either Marlene or Sandra. A different angle, maybe. Or a close-up.

  It was something else. Some kind of strange camera trick, I thought, because now everything looked different. The woman in the picture was on a bed now … in a room that was vaguely familiar to me … the same pose, hands folded over her stomach …

  Something different stretched across her neck. Something bright yellow.

  It wasn’t Marlene. It wasn’t Sandra.

  It was Laurel.

  God in heaven, it was my Laurel.

  I doubled over, hung halfway over the chair, gagging and coughing until a long line of spit started to move down slowly to the floor like a spider on a web. I didn’t throw up, but I stayed folded over like that for an eternity, seeing nothing but the green carpet on the floor of the interview room. The horrible, ugly green carpet.

  “Joe.” A voice from somewhere far away.

  Her bedroom. The yellow across her throat … I knew exactly what it was. It was one of the scarves she used to tie back her curtains.

  “Joe, are you okay?”

  Laurel lying in her old bed. The same bed she had slept in when she was a little girl. When she was a teenager.

  “Joe …”

  I wiped my mouth on my sleeve. “Why did you do that?”

  “You’ve seen this before,” Rhinehart said, “haven’t you?”

  “No. I never saw it.”

  “I was assuming you had.”

  I sat up and pushed all three pictures away, using every ounce of my willpower to avoid looking at them again. “Why would I have ever wanted to see that? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I owe you an apology,” Rhinehart said, his tone of voice giving me anything but. “I can’t believe the police down in Westchester didn’t show you this before.”

  “I had the opportunity,” I said. “I think. It’s hard to remember. In any case, I sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted to see it.”

  “They didn’t even describe what had happened to her?”

  I had to close my eyes again. I had to take several seconds to breathe, not thinking about anything else except drawing air into my lungs and letting it out.

  “Yes, Detective,” I finally said. “Of course they did. The fact that she was …” Steady, I thought. Hold yourself together. “The fact that she was strangled was mentioned.”

  Just saying that word. Strangled. The violence of it.

  “Again, I apologize,” Rhinehart said. “But now that you’ve seen it, you can understand why we feel there must be a connection.”

  I kept looking at Shea, but he was letting his partner run the show now.

  “You’re saying it really wasn’t about her at all,” I said. “It wasn’t some man who tracked her down because of the work she did at the women’s shelter. Like we’ve been thinking all this time …”

  “In light of what’s happened this week, I believe you’d have to reevaluate that.”

  “So why would he wait two years to kill again? And then kill two more people so close together?”

  Rhinehart shook his head. “It’s not classic serial killer behavior, if that’s what you’re getting at. Not to mention the break in the pattern with Miss Frost.”

  “What break is that?”

  “Your fiancée, and now Mrs. Barron … Both were murdered and left indoors, at the actual crime scene. Miss Frost, on the other hand …”

  “She got taken outside,” I said, “and left there.”

  “It’s a much greater risk on the killer’s part. Remove the body from the scene, transport it somewhere …”

  “It makes no sense, you’re saying.”

  “Unless there was some special reason for it.”

  “Okay, so let me ask you,” I said. “Before we go any further … I know how this whole thing must look on paper right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Detective. I know how this process works. I’m the only guy you can even talk to right now.”

  “If you know the process,” Rhinehart said, “then you know that eliminating you from suspicion would naturally be our first priority.”

  “We already covered this,” Shea said, finally chipping in again. “Like I said earlier today, you’re a known commodity around here. Even the chief can vouch for you. There’s no reasonable motive, nothing at all to suggest you’d be capable of something like this.”

  “We were only talking about Marlene,” I said. “Now we’ve got a bigger picture, and I’m the only obvious connection. All three of these women had absolutely nothing in common, except for some kind of contact with me. Even if, in Sandra’s case, it was just a few minutes trying to help her.”

  “Whoever did this …” Shea said. He seemed to struggle for a moment to find the right words. “Is a monster. That’s who we’re looking for, Joe. A monster. If you’re connected to all three of these women, that just means that you’re the best person to help us find him.”

  “Exactly right,” Rhinehart said. “You’re our best hope.”

  “So tell me what to do,” I said. “We have to find this person, whoever it is.”

  “We were talking about the possibility of this person maybe being someone you’ve dealt with on the job,” Shea said. “Remember? Now that we’ve got three murders … I think it’s still a good idea to explore.”

  “We’d appreciate it if you could give that some serious thought,” Rhinehart said. “Perhaps you might even have a list of all your former probationers?”

  “That would be one huge list.”

  “But if you narrow it down to only those people you’ve had to violate,” Shea said, “and only those people from at least two years ago …”

  “That would make it more manageable,” I said, “but still … If someone goes to prison and I’m somehow the person they hold responsible … Okay, but instead of coming after me, they kill Laurel?”

  “It’s a hell of a way to get back at you,” Shea said. “If they kill you, it’s all over. But by taking away the woman you love?”

  “Then what about Marlene and Sandra?”

  “
Well, Marlene was the first woman you went out with in the past two years, right?”

  “Yes …”

  “So whoever this person is, it’s like they’re saying, ‘You can’t be close to anybody, ever again. If you even try, I’ll kill her.’”

  “What about Sandra? I only spent a few minutes trying to help her.”

  “She came to the gym to see you,” Shea said. “If this person was watching you …”

  “There’s no way,” I said. “How could this person even know she was coming to see me? Unless … Wait a minute.”

  I played the whole thing back in my head. Sandra walking into the gym, me talking to her, her running out onto the street.

  “What is it?” Shea said.

  “I chased her down Broadway,” I said. “She tried to leave.”

  “You didn’t say anything about that.”

  “I just remembered. She was upset. I could tell she was conflicted about whether she even wanted me to help her. When she ran out, I chased after her. I ended up … Let me see, I think I got in front of her—you know, tried to stop her.”

  “Did you touch her?”

  “Yes, but it was just … I put my hands out. Like this …”

  I tried to imitate the motion, raising both hands as if I were about to catch someone.

  “If somebody was watching you,” Shea said, “he could reasonably assume you were having a little spat with someone very close to you. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I put my hands down. I could see the whole scene now, the way it must have looked. Come back inside, the man says, let’s talk this over. Let’s give it one more chance.

  “He’d have to be really watching me,” I said. “He’d have to be watching me pretty much all the time.”

  “Have you been aware of anything suspicious lately?” Shea said. “Any feeling that someone’s been following you around?”

  “No.”

  “You might want to be aware of it now,” Shea said. “It should be a lot harder for whoever’s watching you if you’re keeping a sharp eye.”

  Keeping a sharp eye, I thought. For some kind of homicidal maniac who’s watching me at all times, waiting to kill any woman I come in contact with.

  “I live up the hill, right on Broadway,” I said. “There are cars going up and down all the time, people walking …”

  “Make a note of who’s around at any given time,” Shea said. “Which cars are parked on the street. Check again an hour later, then again after another hour. You might even want to write down all the license plates.”

  “We could ask Chief Brenner to put an unmarked vehicle on the street,” Rhinehart said. “Have an extra set of eyes on the scene at all times.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Shea said. “Let’s go talk to him.”

  “I think we’re about done here,” Rhinehart said to me. “We appreciate your help.”

  I sat there for a long moment, not sure what to do or say next. We appreciate your help, he says. Like I held the ladder for them while they painted the barn.

  No, I’m the reason you’re here. I’m the reason why two women are lying in the morgue tonight. Apparently, God help me, I’m the reason my Laurel never got to see her thirtieth birthday.

  “We’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Shea said. “Do you need a ride home?”

  “No, Howie’s probably still around here somewhere.”

  “Detective Borello. Very good.” If there really was bad blood between them, he wasn’t letting it show.

  I stood up and shook their hands, first Shea, then Rhinehart. My own hands were still bandaged, but neither of them said anything about it. I left them there in the interview room, went down the hallway to the chief’s office. The door was closed. I could hear voices inside. I didn’t want to knock, and I didn’t feel like waiting.

  I walked out of the station, into the night. The air was finally cooling off. I took a few deep breaths, thinking maybe this would help me somehow, make me feel like myself again.

  It didn’t.

  I started walking. I wasn’t sure where I was going. Gravity seemed to be taking me down the hill, toward the water, where most of the lights were still on, most of the people still eating or drinking or walking hand in hand. I walked right through them, feeling invisible.

  I was moving toward Sandra’s house now. Like I wanted to make sure it had really happened. Like I wanted to see her body lying in the center of her living room, wanted to touch her cold flesh with my fingertips.

  A police car roared by, sirens on, lights flashing. It broke whatever spell I was under, stopped me dead in my tracks. I changed my direction, left the sidewalk, and walked down toward the docks instead.

  The wooden planks rocked beneath my feet as I made my way to the end. There were a dozen boats bobbing slowly in their slips, each one wrapped up tight. I walked past them, hearing my own hollow footsteps. When I couldn’t take another step, I looked down into the dark water, saw the moon and the lights from the other shore reflected there, breaking into a thousand pieces.

  This is how it must have looked to Albert Ayler, I thought. Staring into the East River, on a lonely night in 1970, deciding if he really wanted to keep on living in this world. If I’d ever doubted that he could have jumped in voluntarily, that he could have given himself up to the cold black water, tonight I didn’t have to wonder.

  I turned around and looked at the people up on the sidewalk. Nobody was looking at me. Nobody would even notice if I took this last step off the end of the dock.

  Then I saw him.

  He was standing by the last building on the block, where the sidewalk ends and a footpath heads up the hill toward Abeel Street. I couldn’t see his face. I couldn’t see anything at all but the dark outline of his body.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t turn his head. I would have bet everything I owned that he was watching me.

  I let a few seconds go by, waiting to see him step forward into the light from the buildings, waiting to see him prove me wrong. He didn’t. I took a deep breath, counted down, three, two, one. Then I was off.

  It took me a dozen steps to clear the dock, each one making the whole thing shake and slap against the water. By the time I hit the concrete embankment, I could see that he was scrambling up the hill. I was in a full run now, flying up the wide steps to the sidewalk two at a time. I barely missed running over a couple emerging from one of the restaurants, regained my speed, and ran to where the man had been standing. I was plunged into darkness as I made my way up the path, feeling the sumac branches whipping me in the face. I looked up, thought I saw someone at the top of the path, tripped on something and just about broke my neck right there, got up and kept going.

  When I made it to the top, I looked both ways on Abeel Street. There, to the left, a hundred yards from me … I could see his back just as he made the turn. I took off after him, telling myself: you can catch this guy. You’re in shape. You run almost every day. All the hard work you’ve done, this is where it pays off. You run and you catch him and you drive his head right into the ground.

  I ran past the Armadillo restaurant, Laurel’s old favorite. The people by the window would look up from their food and see me flying by at full speed, my arms pumping like I was driving down the back stretch toward the finish line. Get around the corner, I told myself, and he’ll be right in front of you. He’ll be so close you’ll hear him panting.

  I turned the corner, barely slowing down. I didn’t see him at first. I kept running, looking at each side of the street, at every house. Most of them were dark. Small houses with small porches, cars parked in short driveways. A dog was barking.

  “Where are you?” I said, my breath ragged. “Show yourself, you son of a bitch.”

  I looked up the long hill, thought I saw someone way up ahead, impossibly far away. It couldn’t be, I thought. He couldn’t be that much faster than I am.

  I ran hard again. “Stop him!” I yelled. “Stop that man!” But there was nobody to hear me. There
was a darkened church of gray stone, a tall steeple looming over me. I kept running, pounding the hard street, feeling the impact all the way up through my legs to my hips to my gut. My lungs were burning now. It was a long, long uphill run, and there was no way he could be beating me so badly, but there he was, far ahead of me, getting smaller and smaller until he disappeared altogether.

  I had to slow down, had to pace myself now before I gave out entirely. I reached into my pocket, felt nothing there, then flashed on the sight of my cell phone sitting in my car, hooked up to the charger. Brilliant timing on my part. I kept running, hoping against hope that I’d catch up to him again. Maybe he’s even more tired than you are, I thought. Maybe he’s completely out of gas.

  At the end of the street, I took the right onto McEntee, toward home. I was still going uphill, but I kept running. I was going so slow now, it felt like I was barely moving.

  “You son of a bitch,” I kept saying out loud, barely able to form the words. “You goddamned son of a bitch.”

  I kept running as McEntee hit Broadway and everything got brighter. The streetlamps burned above me now, and the headlights shone in my face. Someone honked, and I moved up onto the sidewalk. As I ran past the Burger King, a group of teenage boys parted to let me through.

  “Did you see him?” I said to them. “Did you see another man running this way?”

  I got a few blank stares, finally somebody shaking his head.

  “I need a cell phone,” I said. “Who’s got one?”

  “You’re that probation officer guy,” one of them said. “I seen you in school.”

  “Give me a phone. Please, right now.”

  They all reached into their pockets at once. I grabbed the first phone I saw, dialed 911, and told the dispatcher to contact the Kingston police station and to relay my message to the chief that I was chasing a suspect up Broadway. I gave the phone back to the kid and turned up the street.

  Chasing a suspect, I thought as I ran. Some chase.

  I ran past the hospital, past the high school and City Hall, feeling myself slowing with every stride. By the time I got within sight of the gym, I was walking, then couldn’t even manage that and ended up doubled over, feeling yet one more time that night like I was about to lose everything in my stomach.