“I didn’t come here to hear your confession, you know.”
“Right. Business before pleasure. Let’s go, honey.”
She led the way up to the second floor. Her apartment was at the head of the stairs. She unlocked the door and they entered.
It wasn’t quite an efficiency. The most prominent article of furniture was the less-than-sanitary bed. There were a couple of chairs and a coat rack, a minuscule kitchenette, and a small table. He correctly concluded that this was only her workplace, not her residence.
She removed her coat and dress and hung them on the rack and sat on the bed. She kicked off her shoes and began removing her pantyhose, then stopped. “Aren’t you gonna get comfortable, honey?”
“Sure. I want to watch you first.”
“Whatever turns you on.”
She continued taking off her pantyhose. Something about him made her nervous. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something . . . For one thing, he hadn’t even taken off his gloves. You’d think he’d at least take off his gloves. The room was plenty warm. She fought periodic battles with the landlord over the heat. Today, at least, it was working fine. But he hadn’t taken anything off.
There was something about his expression, too. He would not take his eyes off her. And there was something very hard about his expression. She began to have misgivings. But it was too late to call things off now. Best get on and get it over with. At very least, she promised herself, this would be the last one today. She would gather up Arlene and go someplace nice for a good warm dinner.
But first, she’d have to get through this one.
“Come on, honey.” She’d almost said, “Father.” “You just got to get into the spirit of things. Why don’t you get rid of those clothes?”
“You’re right,” he said. He removed his hat and coat and placed them on one of the chairs. He took off his jacket, placed it on a hanger and hung it on the rack.
“Oh, it hasn’t got any back,” she exclaimed.
“Huh?”
“That thing with your collar on it: It hasn’t got any back.”
“This? It’s called a clerical vest.” He unsnapped the catch that joined the two bottom edges of the vest at his waist. Then he undid the collar at the nape and removed the vest.
“All this time,” she said, “I always wondered who buttoned your shirts up the back.”
“Now you know: nobody.” He removed the belt from his trousers. “Come on, now; your turn.”
She seemed dubious. “What about your gloves?”
“I’ve got Raynaud’s. It’s a syndrome. Hands get cold and stay cold. It’s not important. Until we get down to it, the gloves are more comfortable. I’ll take ’em off in a minute.”
She shrugged.
She rose and turned her back to him. Perfect.
She unsnapped her bra and let it drop to the bed. He fitted the end of his belt through the buckle. She slipped down her panties. He noticed that the skin of her buttocks sagged, betraying her age.
It was only a momentary impression. As she stood on one leg, slipping the other out of her panties, he acted. He let his belt, now formed into a noose, fall over her head. She started, but as it reached her throat, he yanked . . . tight. She tried to suck in air as he pushed her face down onto the bed. He knelt on her back as he pulled the belt as tight as he could. She clawed at it. There was no way she could reach him. She struggled for a few minutes. He had expected that. But he held on implacably, sweating profusely. Then it was over. She was still.
He took a small mirror from her purse and held it before her mouth, her nose. No sign of breath.
He took the belt from around the dead woman’s neck, reinserted it through his trouser loops and buckled it at his waist.
He donned his hat and coat and returned to his car, checking to make sure there were no witnesses. He saw none. He expected none. On a cold Sunday in this neighborhood, one could reasonably expect empty corridors and near-deserted streets.
He removed an object from the car, inserted it in his coat pocket, and returned to the apartment. He turned on a stove burner and placed the object on it.
He dragged the body into the adjoining bathroom and placed it in the tub. He then returned to the stove. With tongs he took from his coat pocket, he affixed the now red-hot object to a small wooden handle, and carried it into the bathroom, where he branded the body.
He then took a large knife from his pants pocket. With it, he opened an incision from just above her navel to her crotch.
He turned on the water tap, rinsed the knife and cooled the branding instrument, and returned the items to one coat pocket, stuffing the folded clerical vest in the other.
From beginning to end, he had not removed his gloves.
He surveyed the apartment. All seemed as he wished.
He pulled his coat collar up around his neck and exited.
Once again, he checked the staircase and hallway, then the street. Once again, all seemed deserted. With a sense of resigned satisfaction, he left the scene.
2
It was about three hours later, just a little after eight o’clock that evening, that Arlene found Louise.
Arlene had returned to Third and Willis about thirty minutes after Louise had departed on what turned out to be the final assignation of her life. Arlene sensed that she had just missed her friend. She waited with growing impatience. There were no more tricks for her and it was getting colder by the hour. After giving up the idea there might be more business that day, she adjourned to a small nearby eatery, where she kept vigil for Louise.
At last, perturbed, she walked to the apartment Louise used.
The door was unlocked. It should not have been. She found Louise in the tub. After vomiting, she went in search of a phone and called 911.
In a matter of minutes, two uniformed officers arrived. Neither had a doubt about what to do. One secured the apartment and began questioning Arlene; the other called homicide.
Since it was just after eight o’clock in the evening, only five officers were on duty: a lieutenant, a sergeant, two investigators, and a P.O. (police officer). The sergeant and one of the investigators were out, responding to a call. The lieutenant decided he’d take this one himself, along with the P.O., who was a recent addition to the division. The lieutenant didn’t want two relatively inexperienced officers making up a response team.
It took only a few minutes to reach the apartment. After a briefing by the uniforms, the newcomers began their own investigation. They went immediately to the bathroom. Barely bigger than a closet, it was hardly large enough for the two men. P.O. Mangiapane stood in the doorway.
Arlene had mopped up after her nausea; otherwise nothing had been touched.
“Good God, wouldja look at that!” said Mangiapane. “Somebody tore out her guts. Looks like some sicko, eh, Zoo?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Nearly everyone called Alonzo Tully “Zoo.” Five-feet-eleven, slim, black, and reflective, Tully had twenty-one years in the department, twelve of them in homicide. He gave little thought to the prospect of retirement in four years.
He pulled off his unshaped Irish tweed hat and stuffed it in a pocket of his overcoat. His close-cropped hair was flecked with gray.
Mangiapane turned and gave the apartment a quick glance. “Don’t see any blood around. I guess he cut her in the tub. Considerate of him.”
Tully bent closer to the body. “Probably dead already when he cut her.”
“Oh?”
“The bruises on her neck. Strangled. If she was alive when he cut her, blood’d be all over. She had to be dead at least a little while. When you’re strangled, you quit breathing, but your heart keeps pumping for a bit. Her heart was gone when she was cut.”