Tully had almost drifted off into a brown study. Her narration was so particularized and repetitive that his attention had wandered. So he hadn’t been prepared for that Hitchcockian final statement: “. . . that musta been why he didn’t see me.”
Tully knew, without further explanation, exactly what she was talking about. “What happened then, Ruby ... I mean when he didn’t see you?”
“That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you, Zoo. Here I am, makin’ my way down Michigan Avenue. And even if I’m duckin’ into any protected space I can find, I’m payin’ attention to where I’m goin’. So, when I get near Central, this building right here, I notice this guy’s head peekin’ ’round the corner of the entrance to this very building.
“Now that don’t look at all right to me. Why would this guy be peekin’ ’round the doorway? Like in some spy movie or somethin’. So I started payin’ attention to this dude. I didn’t figure he could be up to no good. But with all his peekin’ ’round, I guess he just didn’t see me . . . what with me stayin’ so close to the buildings and all. In fact, when I seen this guy actin’ so nervous and all, I just kep’ myself even closer to the buildings. Then, what with him pokin’ his head in and out, and me slippin’ in and out and next to the walls, I was almost on top of him when he finally left the building and went out to his car.”
“Where was the car?”
“Right outside the doorway. Right at the curb, right opposite the entrance to this very building.”
“What kind of car?”
“Ford, a black Ford. Escort, looked to be a few years old.”
“What did he do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did he get in? Drive away?”
“Oh, no, Zoo. He just hurried out there to his car, unlocked the door, got somethin’ outta the back seat, and hurried back into the building.”
“Did you get a look at what he got out of the car?”
“Not to speak of. He just pulled whatever it was out of the back seat—on the floor it was, actually—and he tucked it inside his coat.”
Damn! It had to be the branding instrument. So he kept it in the car. He’d strangle the victim, go get the iron, then bring it back to the room and heat it. No wonder the victims were dead so long before he cut them. “You sure you didn’t get any idea at all of what the thing was that he got out of the car?”
“No, not really, Zoo. But you’re keepin’ me from what I ’specially wanted to tell you.”
“What?”
“He was a preacher man.”
“What!”
“A preacher man.”
“How’d you know that?”
“When he opened his coat to hide that thing he took out of the back seat, I saw his collar for just a second.”
“And?”
“It was one of them little white things preacher men stick in their collars.”
“Wait a minute. Let’s get this straight: The guy opened his coat—what color was it?”
“Black. Black coat, black hat, black shoes, black suit of clothes under the coat. But at the collar, this piece of white.”
“And the guy was white?”
“With blond hair. I could see the sides and back under his hat.”
“Did you ever see that kind of collar before?”
“Sure. Some of our preacher men wears ’em.”
“But not many?”
“No, I guess not . . . leastways not out on the street.”
“Ever see that collar anywhere else?”
“Hmmm. Well, yeah, on TV once in a while.”
“Who wears them on TV?”
“Usually the priests. Yeah, that’s right, priests.”
“Catholic priests?”
“Yeah, that must be what it was ... a white man dressed like that . . . it musta been a priest.”
“Or,” Tully grew more restrained and thoughtful, “somebody dressed up to look like a priest.” He paused a moment. “Ruby, how good a look did you get at this guy?”
“I was almost as close to him as I am to you.”
“He saw you?”
“When he was goin’ back into the apartment, yeah. He seemed real surprised to see me . . . I mean, real surprised.”
“I’ll just bet he was. You’d know him if you saw him again?”
“Sure. I was so surprised when I saw him, I don’t think I’ll ever forget him. I thought somebody was in trouble here. Maybe dyin’. Then, when I met Adelle and told her what I saw, we started comparin’ notes. Then we got real scared that somethin’ bad had happened to Nance. That’s when we hightailed it back here and found poor Nance. Then we called the cops.”
“But,” Adelle interrupted, “we didn’t want to take a chance talkin’ to the other cops. You know how they feel about us. Always hasslin’. We figured them other cops could make a lot of trouble for us. So when we found out you were comin’, we decided we’d talk to you and nobody else.” There was a determined and self-justified tilt to her chin as she concluded.
“Okay,” Tully said. “You did good. Now, another officer is gonna get statements from you. It’s okay to talk to him. I’ll see everything is all right. We’ll go down to the station. Then we’ll have you look at some pictures. And you give a description of the guy to our police artists. But—and this is important—don’t tell anybody else, especially the news media—the reporters—any more than we tell you to tell them. Cooperate with us, now. We gotta catch this guy. He’s killin’ good women.”
The two seemed impressed.
Adrenalin was pumping. He was going to be on this well into the night. Then he’d have to get to headquarters early tomorrow.
He phoned Alice. She understood, assured him that she would get something to eat, and go to bed at a decent hour whether he got home or not.
She was a good scout. He definitely did not want to ruin this relationship with marriage.
14
Lieutenant Tully felt as if he were replaying last week’s scenario.
It was just last Monday, one week ago to the day, that he was seeing Inspector Koznicki to lay claim to the case of a murdered prostitute. Tully even scheduled himself, as he had last week, to go directly to the woman’s autopsy after his meeting with Koznicki.
However, there were two major differences. He was no longer working under the assumption that El Bonner was killed because of some connection with him. While that had been an interesting and most peculiar hypothesis, it had been proven false by the murder yesterday of one Nancy Freel.
Without doubt, both murders were committed by the same individual. But while Bonner had been one of Tully’s snitches, he hadn’t known Freel at all. So he had wasted valuable time pursuing an avenue of investigation that, in retrospect, was a predetermined dead end. He regretted the time lost, but was grateful to be on the right track now. It was much like getting rid of excess baggage. He felt freer and better able to move ahead and solve the puzzle.
The other major difference was the good fortune of chancing upon two witnesses, at least one of whom thought she could identify the perpetrator if she ever saw him again. He had sent Mangiapane off to obtain a copy of the Pictorial Directory of Detroit Priests. It was a thousand-to-one chance, he thought. Many of the directory photos were years—some, decades—old; in some cases the quality and/or the likeness was such that not even the subject’s mother could have recognized him.
But one never could tell; they might just strike it lucky.
They did have a composite sketch—admittedly seldom of much practical help. By the time the police artist moved multiple-choice mouths, noses, chins, etc. around, the finished sketch could resemble any number of people, or no one. But it could have an effect on the perpetrator. It could tell him they were gaining on him, getting a little closer all the time.