 | Do you mind if I take my jacket off? It's very hot today. Tonight'll be a boiler too, I can tell. No moon either, if I'm not mistaken.
It seems like these hot, dark nights are when I always get my worst cases. Maybe I should say, 'best' cases; after all, the wild ones are what we all dream of when we first want to become a private eye. We listen to the radio and dream of shootouts with the bank-robbers, of victoriously handing the crooks over to the cops. This case, though, went past any of that. I mean, forget the Shadow - this was more like the Twilight Zone.
I was killing time in my office on a night like this one, playing darts with an advertisement for a politician I had my disagreements with - in my business, you get to know the bad apples from the good, a vital skill here in the Big Apple itself. On my desk, I had the day's paper spread out. The story that had caught my eye was a headline below the fold: "Police Still Seek Killer of Three Women ('Serial killer a possibility,' says Chief). Seems some person or persons had murdered three girls in the bad part of town. The first murder was just minutes from my office, and I'd taken an interest in the story. Of course, I wasn't doing any investigation; I leave that to the law 'til the check clears.
I saw a silhouette approaching my door and hid my drinking partner, Mr. Daniels, along with my darts. After all, I wouldn't want to lose a job over my political expression. The guy looked pretty well-built, and I had already started to count the people I had offended when he knocked.
"Come on in, the door's open," I called out, adjusting my treasured fedora and checking my Colt revolver under my vest - just in case.
The guy came in, looking like Marlon Brando in 'On the Waterfront.' He was either a dock worker or an Olympic weight-lifter - same thing, just one gets a medal afterwards. "Mr. Tagnerelli?" he asked politely, removing his hat as he closed the door behind him.
"S'what the door says. And you are?" I like to think the gruff manner impresses potential clients.
"David. David Fusco. I'd like to hire ya for a case."
"Couldja be a little more specific, Davy m'boy? I like to know what the case is before I hit the streets." His name rang a bell somewhere and I started working on it. A detective has to remember everything he sees, after all.
He sat down awkwardly in the chair across my desk. I lit a cigarette and waited. I'm good at that.
"It's ... it's about these murders, see," he began. That's when I placed him: the second girl killed left a husband behind. Her name was Julie Fusco. I decided to impress him with my deductive reasoning technique.
"Lemme guess, Davy. You want me to catch the guy what offed your wife, right?"
The Waterfront Kid blinked a little, then nodded. "Yeah. How'd you know that?"
"In my profession, y'gotta learn to spot things like that." I took a drag on my cig and dramatically exhaled a smoke ring. It's all about image: for the clients, you're Mr. Cool, but to the suspects you're so low on the radar they never know who turned 'em in. "You know, the rates for that kind of thing are pretty high. I mean, I never take this kinda case for less than..." I named a random figure that seemed reasonable.
Brando Boy looked a little crestfallen. I hate when people don't think about my fees beforehand. That's probably because half my cases are just messy divorces and lost cats. Believe me, I have enough trouble eating without taking time on a charity case. If I could get Captain Union here to pony up my bill, however, maybe I could afford some new bullets for my revolver.
"Tell ya what," I said to the poor oaf sitting in my good office chair, "why don't you talk to the others' families, get a pool going. If you can meet that price, I'll take you on. Does that sound fair?" Boy Genius lit up like a Christmas tree, the rosy gleam of "gee, thanks mister!" splattered on his face like a stockbroker uncle of mine was on the street in 1929.
"Gee, thanks mister Tagnerelli! You sure are a swell guy!" I swear, he really said that. Well, it takes all kinds.
He shook my hand and rushed out of my office, almost knocking over my good chair. I figured I'd never see the Coney Island Wonder again.
A few days later, my associate Mr. Daniels and I were noting the headline, "Fourth Dead in Horrible Killing Spree" when a large silhouette rapped on the door. I slipped my business partner into my pocket and called out, "Door's open, come right in." To my surprise, it was Tall, Dark and Clumsy, this time with a well-dressed and slightly nervous man in tow who was probably thanking God that he'd taken a taxi instead of driving his Rolls into this part of town.
"I did it," the Boy Wonder stated right off. "This is Mr. Logan."
Mr. Logan shook my hand. "My daughter was the fourth killed," he explained. "What she was doing out here, I may never know; what's important now is to find this man before he kills another father's child." How touching. "I know that the police are at work already, but Mr. Fusco informs me that they can be... less than thorough. I want you to work with them to assure that this man is off the streets as soon as possible."
"This is how I work: any official help is golden. At the end, I hand the creep over to the cops. In the meantime, I do as I please. So, if you want me I can start when you meet my figure. Capice?"
Mr. Logan handed me the check.
"Great," I replied. "So, this and another when we nail him, right?"
He nodded. I could tell this was going to be a mutually beneficial arrangement.
After the check cleared, I went to visit my buddy at the police department. He owed me a few favors after I caught him in a little indiscretion, and I could always count on him for a little official information to get me going. Although he didn't have any big news, he filled in some details and got me a few treats, like the girls' descriptions and photos. I took my new toys back too the office for a little game of connect-the-dots.
At first, the girls didn't seem to have much in common besides having been young and pretty in front of the wrong serial killer. They were all about the same age, but so were any number of others. My job was to find the link; it's never that he just hasn't gotten to the others. There's always something special.
I looked over the pictures, assessed their features. One a blond, one a brunette... their eyes looked brown from the pictures, though one's were hazel. They all had such a sweet look to them that I started growing attached to them just from their photos. Then it all came together for me. It was the lovable, sweet cherub he looked for, the girls who found a place in your heart just by walking by you. The families' descriptions matched my thoughts: one girl might be outgoing and amiable, another shy and polite, but everyone held them in a special place in their hearts. I hate guys like this.
They're so hard to lure out.
I felt confident with my diagnosis; next, to apply the cure. I hoped I would be able to draw this killer out, set him up and watch him fall for me before he struck again. Unfortunately, that would be easier said than done. Have you ever tried to find an angel on short notice? It's especially hard to find an innocent, lovable girl willing to pose for a known murderer - Hell, it's even worse when you don't know the guy's face! Luckily, I had a cousin who might fit the bill; she was a drama major at NYU. I realize that many of you will be shaking a finger at my methodology, but Carol was quite the independent woman. I went to see her at her dorm room.
When I got there, the door was open, and I could see her inside fussing around with some books. "Hey, kid," I said, leaning against the door frame. "You busy?"
She glanced up long enough to confirm the voice's owner. "Yeah, Mike, I'm afraid I don't have time to go save Mary-Jane from the Aztec cannibal priests. Maybe next week?"
"Oh, it's nothing like that this time. I just have a little acting job."
She sighed and put the books down firmly on the table. "Look, Mike, I'm meeting my friends tonight over coffee and Ferlinghetti. Can it wait?"
"Ooh, sorry, hon. I didn't mean to interrupt your stimulating intellectual lifestyle. It's not as if anyone's life is on the line - oh, wait, my mistake. Nix that last bit."
She sighed and rolled her eyes in that way that women do when they're totally exasperated but know that you've already won. "Okay, I'll bite. What's going on?"
After a brief and clandestine stop at the costume department, (after all, I was working on a limited budget!) we went back to my office and I clued her in. The concept was pretty simple: she goes into the Danger Zone while I observe. She plays Little Miss Help-me to bring out our boy, me waiting in the wings with Mr. Colt; then when things get rough, I come in and bust him red-handed. Or just before getting red-handed, if all goes well. I even made sure she had her own girl's best friend in her purse, just in case; like I said, she knew how to take care of herself.
Id looked over the places the girls had been, where we thought theyd been picked up, and had picked a good spot for the stake-out. Carol walked down and I drove, timing it so that I passed her halfway and kept her in sight without following her obviously. I parked my Oldsmobile and took out my newspaper.
Carol stood around doing her lost puppy routine for a while. Each time some guy came up to her, Id signal from my seat; turn the page forward for a rejection, turn back if its a go. It was another hot summer night, and I didnt see too many likelies. It was about three oclock before anything beyond the mundanely creepy happened. Even that late, the pavement was still ready for eggs. My sweaty clothes stuck to me all over and the seat was getting uncomfortable.
Seeing a suspicious, dark personage making his way down the street, I shook my paper. Carol, catching the signal, sat down on the steps to an old brownstone there and started to cry. Coming within range of her sobs, the guy stopped. I could see him express some sort of concern; she looked up at him and replied, glancing at me for a signal.
The guy was old-school fashionable. I mean, he had the black coat, the cane, even the goddamn top-hat. He was like Dickens in tall, pale and handsome mode. Maybe he was some high-class businessman; I mean, in a dark alley, something conservative looks like more like something out of a novel.
This guy screamed Jack the Ripper in point 72 font. I folded back a page.
He said something and she nodded. She stood up and walked with him back up the street towards wherever he came from. Following them in my admittedly unsubtle whale of a car, I slid out of the parking spot and coasted down the street to the mouth of an alley. I could still see their silhouettes heading for the street on the other side. I got out of the car and walked quietly behind them, my hand near the Colt.
He led her into a tight alley, politely letting her enter first. What a gentleman. By the time she rounded the corner and saw what I assumed was a dead end, he had scanned the street and slipped into the darkness after her.
I drew the revolver and ducked into the alley, my first sight confirming my suspicions. He had Carol in a tight grip. He glanced up and met my eyes with the grimmest stare I have ever seen. A man sentenced to death by a hostile court knows less of doom than someone who looks into those eyes. I know I don't always sound like it, but I take all my cases seriously; with a job as serious as mine, you have to take every joke you can or you kill yourself. There aren't any more jokes in this story.
He held her in front of himself, one arm holding her hands down and the other wrapped around her upper arms, looking at me over her shoulder. The three of us stood in the alley, my eyes locked on theirs and my arm out, revolver aimed at the pair of them like Clint Eastwood's.
"Don't move," I said. "I'll shoot."
Nobody moved. Carol's eyes met mine; they were wide and afraid. Her eyes flashed real fear at mine, she had left her character at the mouth of the alley.
I told him, "Let her go. Just raise your arms slowly and let her walk away. Don't try anything funny, we've got you covered." Like I said before, it's all about keeping up appearances. Why should he know that I was alone, that I had a gun pointed at my cousin and the man who wanted to kill her and there was no-one, no-one waiting in the car or at my house to notice if I didn't come home tonight or if Carol didn't show up tomorrow in a lecture hall full of a hundred other drama students?
Can you give me a minute?
Thanks.
He didn't move. I could hear Carol breathing now, her ragged breath crying out from behind her trembling lips. She was so pale so beautiful. I don't think I had really realized how beautiful she was before that. Her brown hair hung limp in front of his face, a few strands moving in the wind from her mouth.
I took a cautious step forward, so I could see his face better. I needed to be able to hit him if he didn't let her go, and there was nowhere else I could aim without hitting Carol. He wanted her to be dead, why would he care if I did it? "Let her go or I'm going to kill you now."
He didn't move. I raised the gun with a shaky arm and wished I had taken more lessons. Carol cried out and tried to hide her head. He didn't even shift his grip, just held on to her like his arms were iron bars. "I'm serious," I told him. "Let her go or I'm going to shoot, and you know as well as I where I'm aiming. Let her go and you're going to live."
He smiled then. He smiled! Can you believe that? I couldn't. I first thought it was something else, maybe, the guy was in pain maybe, but it was a smile. He smiled down at the dirty ground, so dark you couldn't even see his shadow, and the grin spread across his face like a knife wound, like blood would come dripping out of that slit. Maybe Carol's blood.
He didn't let go of her; she just cringed and tried to make herself as small as she could be, hid her face in his jacket. He looked up at me and that smile was worse than his stare could ever be. It was like running from Death all your life and coming in one day to see he'd taken your job at the office. He smiled when I shot him too, when I finally had to and the red came out of him and went all over Carol like she was the sidewalk he dove onto. She shuddered and started to cry.
I lowered the hot gun and shuddered a little myself. I could hear a low noise in the edge of my mind, something deep and rhythmic. I looked around for the source, and it took a while before I saw that his body was still standing. His mouth was open in a great, wide grin and he was laughing through the red that ran down his face and into his eyes, into his mouth. I could see his teeth, long, sharp teeth. He opened his mouth wide, laughing, and he bit down into Carol's neck.
She screamed and he closed his evil eyes. She struggled and tried to pull away, reached for the gun in the purse that dangled uselessly from her bound arm, but couldn't move in his grip. He had a death-grip on her. Then he tossed her to the ground and turned towards me, his blood and hers together running down his chin. The bullet-hole in his forehead drew itself together and closed.
He grinned at me again. I shot him in the chest and saw the bullets hit the wall behind him, saw the holes open in his body as he rocked back with the impact. He reeled, but drew himself back up and faced me with his horrible face. He stepped forward. I ran.
I went all the way back to the car at full speed, then put the keys in and drove away, drove across the Brooklyn bridge, drove anywhere I could think of until the sun had come up and I thought it could be safe to go home. When I did get home, I was exhausted, but I lay on the bed without even taking off my vest and stared at the sunlit ceiling. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his bloodstained face grinning its devil's grin. I saw his teeth glint in the air before me. I thought I could feel their blood coating me, the stickiness under my clothes and the sickly-sweet taste in my mouth. I kept running my tongue over my canines.
I don't want to tell you about having to tell David and Mr. Logan that I was dropping the case. I don't want to tell you that I know the police will never catch this man, or that I hope that they don't find him. I don't want to tell you about the dreams I have, or about the fact that Carol's parents still don't know. I came to you first because I thought that would be easier somehow, even though I know you won't believe me. I wouldn't believe me if I didn't know better, if the evidence weren't burned into the backs of my eyelids. All I want to tell you is that I'm sorry I can't give you the man who killed your daughter - if he is a man. There are more things in this world than we have any need or right to know, and I can't do much in the face of something like that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another family to visit before evening. My condolences on your loss.
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