“And the other is the Jack the Ripper breed.”
“Right. What the textbooks called a serial mass murderer. A ruthless psychopath who blends into his surroundings like a chameleon-he may be a scout master or a grocer or even a preacher. But he’s slowly building a body count. The kind of guy whose backyard turns up an interesting crop, if you go digging.”
“Well, I appreciate the lecture, pal, but tell me something I don’t know.”
He pointed at me with the remaining third of his pastry. “How about this, Mike? A serial mass murderer likes to take trophies. The Ripper took female innards.” He raised an eyebrow to make his point, then interrupted himself with another bite of Danish, which he chewed as he said, “The missing clothes may be a trophy this killer collects.”
“A trophy?”
“A souvenir. Something he can take out and look at and re-live a memorable experience.”
“Find the clothes and I find the killer?”
“I don’t guarantee it, but keep that in mind.”
Something was nibbling at my mind the way Pat was at that pastry. “You said a serial mass murderer can be somebody that fits into a community, scout master, preacher. Could it be a woman?”
“Not impossible. But I’ve read book after book on this subject, Mike, and there just aren’t a lot of female mass murderers of either stripe.”
“Okay. But what about a police officer?”
“Well, sure. What better place to hide than behind a badge? It works for bent cops. It could work for a psychopathic one just as well. And a cop is somebody to whom violence is anything but foreign.”
“Maybe that’s how this ties up.”
“What do you mean, Mike?”
“I mean our pal Dekkert. We know he’s a sadistic son of a bitch. He’s got a badge and can go anywhere in or around Sidon with goddamn impunity.”
Pat was squinting at that, shaking his head. “Well, I don’t know. Dekkert’s time on the New York PD was all about money. Graft. And he had a reputation as a big, good-looking mug who never had trouble attracting the ladies.”
“Maybe so, but you remember Billy Ruston’s sister, Marion?”
“Sure. Cute kid.”
“Cuter than that. She’s all grown up and in all the right places. I ran into her at Louie Marone’s last night, and she told me about a couple trips she made out to Sharron Wesley’s gambling den.”
He shrugged his eyebrows. “No kidding. I didn’t know she was old enough to vote.”
“She’s old enough to do a lot of things. Anyway, seems Dekkert put the make on her, and I don’t mean brought her flowers and candy. He dragged her off into the bushes and if she hadn’t kneed him where babies begin, the bastard might well have raped her.”
He gave me a skeptical smirk. “I suppose anything is possible. But trying to force yourself on some dolly you bought drinks for at a casino isn’t the same as stringing up coeds by their ankles in a barn.”
“No. No, it isn’t.”
“And anyway, Mike, there’s no sexual assault in any of the four murders. This particular serial mass murderer may not be capable of normal sexual activity.”
“Not even an abnormal activity like rape?”
“Not even that. He probably gets his sexual charge out of the violence he takes out on these girls. Those trophies he takes, he may use them in pleasuring himself.”
“Sick bastard. This just keeps getting nastier and nastier.” I sighed and slugged down some coffee. “Cripes. Maybe I’m trying too hard.”
“Too hard to what?”
“To connect these murders up. Pat, I don’t know whether I’m getting closer, or if what Dave Miles told me is a distraction-throwing me off.”
Pat leaned forward, so close I could have brushed the crumbs off his mouth. But I didn’t.
“Look,” Pat said, “I may be able to help you out on this thing, this serial mass murder aspect, I mean… even without a direct New York City tie-in.”
“That would be swell, Pat. What do you have in mind?”
He sipped coffee and gave up a tiny shrug. “I’ve got a friend with the state police, a Sergeant Price. I’ll fill him in about these murders, and suggest that he may have a killer in his jurisdiction who may be trying to fall between the cracks by spreading his nasty games among various small-town, small-time law enforcement agencies.”
“You mean, you may be able to convince Price this is a statewide matter?”
“Yeah. Sometimes a task force can be mounted, joining elements of the involved departments, with state cops overseeing and directing. And they are real cops, Mike. Anyway, I can give it a shot.”
“Man, that would be terrific. That keeps me from getting sidetracked.”
“You mean, from looking for Sharron Wesley’s silent partner?”
I nodded, and dunked my Danish. I was getting my appetite back.
Pat was smiling. “Mike, I may have something for you on that score, too. According to my informants, both Bill Evans and Miami Bull are still in town.”
“Damn! That’s great. Where?”
“That I don’t know. Word is, there’s a big poker game going on, very high stakes, into its third day. They take an hour break every five hours to rest, eat, and hit the head. Then back at it.”
“Three days. May be winding down.”
“May be. I’d get right on this. If I hear something else, where can I get a hold of you?”
I gobbled the rest of the Danish, threw the coffee down, and got to my feet. “I’m heading to Louie Marone’s joint. After that, I have no idea. Can you catch the check? Next time’ll be my turn.”
“Sure,” he said wryly. “Like the last three times. Shoo, fly, shoo. My God, you go out to Long Island on vacation and I see more of you around town than I have for the last six months…”
But I was halfway to the door already. I looked back, tossed him a grin and a little salute, and he just shook his head and took one last bite of Danish.
Louie was having a chat with his bartender when I came in. Business was so so, but the real business here was the gambling upstairs, and this was late afternoon. Too early for that kind of action.
Today the big genial Italian in the ancient tux didn’t seem his usual happy self. He was damn near glum as he guided me to one end of the bar and we sat on two stools like any other patrons.
“I am a glad to see you, Mike.”
“Yeah, I’m glad to see you, too, Louie. Always.”
He frowned, almost as if he were suffering. “What happen between you and little Marion the other night? No, no, I don’t mean to pry a into your business, Mike. But she is a nice girl, and she seems so sad today. What’s it they say? Out of sorts.”
I waved that off. “I just taught her that some men are immune to her charms. She better get used to it. She was bound to run into a grown-up sooner or later.”
“She’s a nice girl, Mike. She’s a nice to have around.”
“You got a crush on her yourself, Louie?”
That big mustached pan of his blushed like a school girl. “Mike… I’m a old enough to be her papa.”
“Yeah, but you’re not her papa. If she’s such a nice girl, why let her hang here like a glorified B-girl? She’s gonna get herself raped one of these days. Then see how ‘out of sorts’ she is.”
He shrugged elaborately. “What can I do? She’s my bookkeeper!”
“Not in the kind of dress I saw her in last night. She’d bust a seam taking a ledger down off a shelf. Look, I know that kid makes nice window dressing for you around this joint. But if you really value her, get her an eyeshade and some nice gray mannish business suit, have her pin her hair back, and stick her in a back room with a pencil.”