The priest shook his head no.
“Is... is she hurt?”
The priest shook his head no.
Norma Keenan knew what that meant. She stared at nothing for several long moments. Then she looked up again, but the eyes were cloudy now. “Did they...” She began again. “Was she... disfigured?”
The priest swallowed.
I said, “No she wasn’t, Mrs. Keenan.”
Somebody had to have the decency to lie to the woman.
“Thank God,” Norma Keenan said. “Thank God.”
She began to sob, and her husband hugged her desperately.
6
Just before ten that night, a plainclothes team found JoAnn’s left leg in another catch basin. Less than half an hour later, the same team checked a manhole nearby and found her right leg in a shopping bag.
Not long after, the torso turned up — in a sewer gutter, bundled in a fifty-pound cloth sugar bag.
Word of these discoveries rocketed back to the Keenan apartment, which had begun to fill with mucky-mucks — the Police Commissioner, the Chief of Detectives and his Deputy Chief, the head of the homicide detail, the Coroner and, briefly, the Mayor. The State’s Attorney and his right-hand investigator, Captain Daniel “Tubbo” Gilbert, came and stayed.
The big shots showing didn’t surprise me, with a headline-bound crime like this. But the arrival of Tubbo Gilbert, who was Outfit all the way, was unsettling — considering Bob Keenan’s early concerns about mob involvement.
“Heller,” well-dressed Tubbo said amiably, “what rock did you crawl out from under?”
Tubbo looked exactly like his name sounded.
“Excuse me,” I said, and brushed past him.
It was time for me to fade.
I went to Bob to say my good-byes. He was seated on the couch, talking to several FBI men; his wife was upstairs, at the neighbors again, under sedation.
“Nate,” Keenan said, standing, patting the air with one hand, his bloodshot eyes beseeching me, “before you go... I need a word. Please.”
“Sure.”
We ducked into the bathroom. He shut the door. My eyes caught a child’s yellow rubber duck on the edge of the claw-footed tub.
“I want you to stay on the job,” Keenan said.
“Bob, every cop in town is going to be on this case. The last thing you need, or they want, is a private detective in the way.”
“Did you see who was out there?”
“A lot of people. Some very good people, mostly.”
“That fellow Tubbo Gilbert. I know about him. I was warned about him. They call him ‘the Richest Cop in Chicago,’ don’t they?”
“That’s true.” And that was saying something, in Chicago.
Keenan’s eyes narrowed. “He’s in with the gangsters.”
“He’s in with a lot of people, Bob, but...”
“I’ll write you a check...” And he withdrew a checkbook from his pants pocket and knelt at the toilet and began filling a check out, frantically, using the lid as a writing table.
This was as embarrassing as it was sad. “Bob... please don’t do this...”
He stood and handed me a check for one thousand dollars. The ink glistened wetly.
“It’s a retainer,” he said. “All I want from you is to keep an eye on the case. Keep these Chicago cops honest.”
That was a contradiction of terms, but I let it pass.
“Okay,” I said, and folded the check up and slipped it in my pocket, smearing the ink, probably. I didn’t think I’d be keeping it, but the best thing to do right now was just take it.
He pumped my hand and his smile was an awful thing. “Thank you, Nate. God bless you, Nate. Thank you for everything, Nate.”
We exited the bathroom and everybody eyed us strangely, as if wondering if we were perverts. Many of these cops didn’t like me much, and were glad to see me go.
Outside, several reporters recognized me and called out. I ignored them as I moved toward my parked Plymouth; I hoped I wasn’t blocked in. Hal Davis of the News, a small man with a big head, bright-eyed and boyish despite his fifty-some years, tagged along.
“You want to make an easy C-note?” Davis said.
“Why I’m fine, Hal. How are you?”
“I hear you were the one that fished the kid’s noggin outa the shit soup.”
“That’s touching, Hal. Sometimes I wonder why you haven’t won a Pulitzer yet, with your way with words.”
“I want the exclusive interview.”
I walked faster. “Fuck you.”
“Two C’s.”
I stopped. “Five.”
“Christ! Success has gone to your head, Heller.”
“I might do better elsewhere. What’s the hell’s that all about?”
In the alley behind the Keenan house, some cops were holding reporters back while a crime-scene photographer faced a wooden fence, flashbulbs popping, making little explosions in the night.
“Damned if I know,” Davis said, and was right behind me as I moved quickly closer.
The cops kept us back, but we could see it, all right. Written on the fence, in crude red lettering, were the words: “Stop me before I kill more.”
“Jesus Christ,” Davis said, all banjo-eyed. “Is that who did this? The goddamn lipstick Killer?”
“The Lipstick Killer,” I repeated numbly.
Was that who did this?
7
The Lipstick Killer, as the press had termed him, had hit the headlines for the first time last January.
Mrs. Caroline Williams, an attractive forty-year-old widow with a somewhat shady past, was found nude and dead in bed in her modest North Side apartment. A red skirt and a nylon stocking were tied tightly around the throat of the voluptuous brunette corpse. There had been a struggle, apparently — the room was topsy-turvy. Mrs. Williams had been beaten, her face bruised, battered.
She’d bled to death from a slashed throat, and the bed was soaked red; but she was oddly clean. Underneath the tightly tied red dress and nylon, the coroner found an adhesive bandage over the neck wound.
The tub in the bathroom was filled with bloody water and the victim’s clothing, as if wash were soaking.
A suspect — an armed robber who was the widow’s latest gentleman friend — was promptly cleared. Caroline Williams had been married three times, leaving two divorced husbands and one dead one. Her ex-husbands had unshakable alibis, particularly the latter.
The case faded from the papers, and dead-ended for the cops.
Then just a little over a month ago, a similar crime — apparently, even obviously, committed by the same hand — had rattled the city’s cage. Mrs. Williams, who’d gotten around after all, had seemed the victim of a crime of passion. But when Margaret Johnson met a disturbingly similar fate, Chicago knew it had a madman at large.
Margaret Johnson — her friends called her Peggy (my wife’s nickname) — was twenty-nine years old and a beauty. A well-liked, churchgoing small-town girl, she’d just completed three years of war service with the Waves to go to work in the office of a business machine company in the Loop. She was found nude and dead in her small flat in a North Side residential hotel.
When a hotel maid found her, Miss Johnson was slumped, kneeling, at the bathtub, head over the tub. Her hair was wrapped turban-like in a towel, her pajama top tied loosely around her neck, through which a bread knife had been driven with enough force to go in one side and poke out the other.
She’d also been shot — once in the head, again in the arm. Her palms were cut, presumably from trying to wrest the knife from the killer’s hand.
The blood had been washed from the ex-Wave’s body. Damp, bloody towels were scattered about the bathroom floor. The outer room of the small apartment was a shambles, bloodstains everywhere. Most significantly, fairly high up on the wall, in letters three to six inches tall, printed in red with the victim’s lipstick, were the words: