Whiskey Sour2 Page 19

  So far, all on the money.

  “His pressure and angularity are very extreme. Again, indicators of violent behavior and aggression. The d is the social self-image letter. His d”s are slanted to the right and clubbed. This usually means an inflated ego, along with a desire to control situations.“

  “Keep going, Doctor.”

  “He refers to himself in capital letters. I’d call that the mark of a grandiose narcissist. He refers to the police department in lowercase letters, minimizing your importance. That’s all I can get from a handwriting analysis, but I’m also a psychiatrist. From what he’s written, and from the little I know about the case, I can make some assumptions.”

  “Please do.”

  “You’re dealing with a sexual sadist. He’s a control freak, and mastery over life and death is the ultimate high. He’s got severe delusions of grandeur. I would guess that he may also be a sociopath, without remorse for his actions. He will be able to fake emotions, but won’t be able to truly feel them. Can you tell me anything about the case?”

  I ran it all down for him, from the discovery of the first Jane Doe until he showed up.

  “The idea that he’s punishing these women is a good one,” he said when I’d finished. “The amount of pain he inflicted on them would also indicate that he knew them personally, rather than just grabbed them at random.”

  “Why did he change his MO for the last one?” Herb pondered aloud.

  “Do you know the cause of death yet?” Mulrooney asked.

  I shook my head, and then I had it.

  “He didn’t change intentionally,” I realized. “Something went wrong. Maybe he gave her too much Seconal and she went into a coma. Or she tried to escape and he had to kill her. But her body didn’t show evidence of torture. I bet he wanted to torture her, but didn’t get a chance, so instead took his punishment out on her dead body.”

  Mulrooney eyed me. “You’d make a good shrink.”

  “Thanks. Any other insights?”

  “He’s killed before. Probably many times. This isn’t an amateur. He’s just decided to go public with it. There’s too much planning, preparation, and thought put into these crimes to make them his first. The only evidence he leaves is what he wants you to find. This is a game to him. But there must have been something that set him off on this spree. Some reason he’s decided to go public. Maybe he got divorced, or lost his job.”

  “The triggering event.”

  “Right. And there’s something else too. I’m sort of surprised you haven’t caught it yet, Lieutenant.”

  “Caught what?”

  “He’s sent you letters, broke into your apartment, called you on the phone, and now demands that you get fired.” Mulrooney gave me a pained look. “This man has a crush on you.”

  “A crush? He wants to kill me.”

  “Sociopaths can’t express emotions normally. In the letter to the Tribune, he even refers to you in capital letters, maximizing your importance. He’s a stalker. Now he’s fixated on you. Perversely fixated. I think all of this is his way of courting you.”

  Golly. Other guys just send flowers.

  “I have a surveillance team keeping an eye on me.”

  Mulrooney rubbed his mustache. “Do you know how hyenas find a carcass? They follow the flight patterns of vultures. The vultures lead them to the food.”

  “Christ,” Herb said. He was thinking the same thing I was.

  “The perp could be watching the watchers.”

  Chapter 33

  WE GOT A JEEP.“

  “Does the suspect fit the description?”

  “There’s some resemblance. No ID on him, but he’s mentioned your name.”

  I nodded at Herb. The dragnet had been his idea. We ordered six teams to sweep a ten-block radius around my surveillance tail. Trucks and vans were stopped. Parked cars were searched. People on foot were questioned.

  “We’re on our way in, Lieut. Where do you want him?”

  “Bring him to room C.” I hung up the phone and reached out my hand to Dr. Mulrooney. “Good suggestion. We may have our man. Thanks for all your input.”

  He shook and gave me his card. “I’m glad to be of help. Feel free to call if I can be of further assistance.”

  Herb and I took the elevator, conserving my energy. This was all a bit anticlimactic, but that was how most cases ended; with a whimper, rather than a bang. As long as we got the guy, I was happy.

  My hopes were dashed once I saw who was brought into the interrogation room.

  “Hello, Lieutenant.”

  Phineas Troutt sat down in the lone wooden chair and smiled patiently at me.

  Herb gave me a nudge. “This the guy that broke into your apartment?”

  I frowned. “No. His name is Phineas Troutt, two T”s. Pull his record.“

  I closed the door behind me and shook my head at the legion of cops sitting behind the one-way glass. Then I turned my attention to my pool partner. “What’s going on, Phin? Have you been following me?”

  “I saw you on the news. You’re purposely trying to get the Gingerbread Man to come after you.”

  “What does this have to do with you?”

  Phin shrugged. “I had some free time, thought I’d see what your setup was. You’ve got three teams of two guys, each pulling eight-hour shifts. They hang back no farther than two hundred feet, and couldn’t be more conspicuous if they tried.”

  The room smelled like smoke and sweat and desperation. Phin, however, seemed relaxed and even amused.

  “You still haven’t told me why you were following me.”

  “I figured the killer would make another try for you, but he’d see your surveillance just like I did. So I hung back to see if anyone was doing what I was doing and watching your surveillance team.”

  I still didn’t know his angle, but I felt a tingle of excitement.

  “Did you notice anything?”

  He nodded.

  “Two cars and four trucks, all with solitary male drivers. All acting suspicious. I wrote down the makes, models, and plates.”

  “Where did you write it down?”

  “We’re friends, right, Jack?”

  I frowned. Why did he suddenly get coy?

  “I’d like to think so, Phin.”

  “And friends do each other favors.”

  “So this is a favor?”

  “Sure. I don’t like seeing my friends get hurt. I’m sure you feel the same way.”

  Now it made perfect sense.

  “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Possession. Cocaine. Trial is coming up next month. I’ll do time.” Phin scratched his bald head, an obvious ploy to make me aware of his cancer. “And the time they want me to do, I don’t have left.”

  I didn’t answer. The silence dragged. I knew the DA, and the Gingerbread Man case was weighty enough that he’d trade his wife and mother for an arrest. But I disliked bargaining with criminals, even helpful ones who played pool with me.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I left the interrogation room and met up with Herb in the hall. He handed over Phin’s rap sheet.

  There were several charges for assault, two for attempted murder, one for manslaughter, and two for murder in the second degree. No convictions — in every case charges were dismissed, dropped, or he was acquitted.

  “You busted this guy once?”

  “Yeah. He was jumped by some gang-bangers. Killed two of them, put three more in the hospital. Self-defense. Phin wasn’t even armed.”

  The other victims of Phin’s crimes had case numbers after their names; they all had criminal records as well.

  The single nonviolent crime on his sheet was for the cocaine. This was recent, only five months old. The amount was substantial enough for the DA to charge him with dealing rather than straight possession.

  I went back into room C. Phin had his legs crossed and looked completely at ease.

  “What do you do for a living, Phin?
” I asked.

  “I get by.”

  “By selling drugs?”

  He made a face. “I don’t sell drugs.”

  “You were arrested with thirty grams of cocaine in your possession.”

  “I wasn’t selling it.”

  Herb snorted. “That was for personal use?”

  Phin sized up Herb. “Morphine makes you sloppy. The coke helps with the pain and I can still stay alert.”

  “Where’d you get the coke?” Herb asked.

  Phin ignored Herb and focused on me. “Are we helping each other, or are we going to keep pointing fingers?”

  I stared into Phin’s eyes. His personal life was none of my business, but I really disliked drugs, especially those who used them and sold them. On the other hand, he saved my ass back at Joe’s Pool Hall, and he also may have just given us our biggest break.

  And, even though I was a professional who never let personal feelings influence me, I kind of liked the guy.

  “Deal. I’ll get it squared with the DA.”

  “Can I get that in writing?”

  “You have my word.”

  He nodded, then handed over the notebook. The first entry was “White Jeep, Ice Cream Truck, F912 556.”

  “Herb, run these plates. This may be our guy.”

  Benedict disappeared with the notebook. Phin stood up and put his hands in his pockets.

  “I can go?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Thank you. I heard you got shot. Leg okay?”

  “I’ve got a spare.”

  He grinned.

  “You’re a pretty tough chick. Maybe I’ll see you around. We never got to finish that last game.”

  “I’ll check my social calendar.”

  “I’ll save a table for you.”

  He turned and left.

  I met up with Herb in his office. His expression told me everything I needed to know.

  “Plates belong to a Chrysler Voyager. Reported stolen six months ago.”

  I let out a deep breath. There wasn’t any way to trace stolen plates. At most, we could put out an APB and hope someone picked him up.

  “Did you run any of the others?”

  “In the process. In the meantime, we should keep going with the dragnet. The perp may still be watching our guys.”

  It was a long shot, but all we had for the time being.

  “Agreed. I’m going to my office to tune in.”

  The scanner on my desk let me follow the action. Short, staccato bursts of cop talk in between long stretches of static. Several other suspects were questioned, but none were brought in. After two hours of feeling like a spectator on my own case, I switched off the radio.

  Depression settled on me like a heavy blanket.

  “You hungry?” Herb popped in with a bag of BBQ pork rinds.

  “No, thanks.” I had no appetite at all. Even the prospect of a home-cooked meal held no appeal for me. I should probably call and cancel my date with Latham.

  “We’ll catch him, Jack.”

  “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life obsessing about the one that got away.”

  My friend sat across from me.

  “Then don’t obsess.”

  “It’s different with you, Herb.”

  “How so? I want to catch the guy too.”

  “But you have a life outside the force. This is all I have.”

  Herb set the bag down. You knew Benedict was serious about something when he pushed away food.

  “You’re the total of all the choices you’ve made in your life, Jack. This is what you have because this is what you chose.”

  I looked at him. “I’ve spent more than twenty years working hard at being a cop. I don’t have a social life. I ruined my marriage. All I can do is this job. But if I’m not good enough for this, then what the hell is the point of my life?”

  I bit my lower lip, my eyes welling up. I hated being weak, and I hated self-pity, but Herb’s words really hit home.

  I was here because this was the life I chose.

  But what if I’d made the wrong choice?

  My partner put his hand on my shoulder. “Jack, you’re the best cop I know. If anyone can catch this guy, it’s you.”

  I took a deep breath and held it, hoping in my heart of hearts that Herb was right.

  Chapter 34

  AFTER THE MAN LATHAM ANSWERS ALL of his questions, he ties him up with some extension cords and locks him in his own closet.

  A dating service. How mundane. But how convenient for him.

  Rather than try to circumvent Jack’s surveillance team, all he has to do is wait here at Latham’s house, and she will come to him.

  He closes his eyes and imagines Jack in her bathroom. Putting on lipstick. Picking out a sexy dress. Perhaps she’s even hoping to get laid tonight.

  He decides that she will, whether she wants it or not.

  The clock creeps up on eight o’clock.

  The spider sits in his web and waits.

  The fly will be here soon.

  Chapter 35

  BY SEVEN O’CLOCK I’D HAD MY fill of feeling sorry for myself. I stopped at the cleaners on the way home, but they hadn’t even begun my order. After yelling for five minutes at a man who probably didn’t deserve it, I got them to do a rush job on one of my pantsuits.

  In my book, yelling was always more therapeutic than crying.

  By the time I got home and showered, rebandaged my leg, and got dressed, I was late for my date. I called Latham on my cell to tell him.

  The line was busy. After putting on perfume, grabbing the bottle of wine I bought Don an eternity ago, and strapping on my gun, I tried again. Busy.

  Well, if his line was busy, then at least he was home. I informed my surveillance team of my destination and got on my way.

  I was kind of excited. A home-cooked meal with an attractive man was the perfect way to get my mind off things.

  After some torturous stop-and-go-stop-and-go, I made it to Latham’s home half an hour late. He lived in a charming two-story brownstone, not too far from Benedict’s house. I found a fire hydrant, parked the heap, and gave myself a final look-over in the rearview.

  Not bad. Maybe I could do with a rinse in the near future, but not bad.

  I grabbed the wine and hobbled up his porch. The doorbell rang with a Big Ben chime.

  “Come in!”

  I opened the door, assuming he was still on the phone. The house was dark, quiet. I sniffed the air, but couldn’t make out any cooking aromas.

  Next to me, on the foyer floor, a chair was overturned.

  Warning bells went off in my head. What if the killer had been following me, and saw me with Latham?

  What if the killer was here?

  I let go of my wine and reached for my gun — stopping when I noticed the one already being aimed at me.

  “Hi, Jack.” The Gingerbread Man stood at the foot of the staircase, several feet to my left. “Take out the gun, slowly, and toss it over here.”

  Fear swam up my spine, like a cold and clammy fish. My feet had frozen to the floor.

  “Where’s Latham?” I managed.

  “He doesn’t matter. The gun. Now.”

  The killer smiled and moved two steps closer. He looked vaguely like our composite picture, but more wolfish and grubby. A bandage covered most of his left profile, and his one black eye bored into me.

  “I won’t ask again. The gun.”

  But I wasn’t going to play by his rules. In one motion I dropped to my knees and yanked out my .38. My injury screamed at me, but I managed to squeeze off two rounds.

  My shots went wide, and the killer ducked into the next room. My leg felt like it had been snapped in half. I watched blood seep through the bandage, but saw no other holes in my body. Had he even fired?