"Two young women who live alone are strangled a week apart. They have no known enemies, no common friends. Neither was robbed. The first may have had sex shortly before death, though it could have been a solo flight. The second victim clearly had sex in close proximity to death. Seminal fluid revealed an assailant or lover with blood type A, according to young Dr. Whitson."
"Assailant or lover?"
"No sign of a struggle," I said. "Other than the injury to the neck, no contusions. Also no skin under the fingernails and no torn clothing. It appears consensual."
"Unless it was postmortem."
"I hadn't thought of that."
"Well do, and please continue."
Charlie gets ornery if you overlook anything.
I said, "A message at the first scene echoed Jack the Ripper and taunted us. A message at the second scene reflected animosity toward women. Other than that, there is no apparent connection between the two murders, except…"
Charlie yanked on the cane pole and came up with a palm frond.
"Except," I continued, "both victims belonged to a sex-talk club. Both were frequent fliers on the computer wooing circuit, including the night each was killed."
"Anything else?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the rippling canal.
"Victim one was having a fling with the politically ambitious state attorney. Didn't seem too serious on either side. What the kids call a sport fuck."
Charlie scowled and flipped his sunglasses down from the bill of his cap like a shortstop under a pop-up. "Our language," he moaned, "In partibus infidelium. 'In the hands of infidels.'"
"She may have been poking into Fox's war record."
"I assume you haven't queried Fox whether she asked him about Vietnam."
I took a hit on the cold Grolsch. "Right. Too early. I try not to cross-examine a witness until I know at least as much as he does."
Charlie smiled. He had burned me from the witness stand more than once when my eagerness exceeded my experience.
"No one knows what Marsha was up to," I said. "The news director says she was working some investigation on her own, doesn't know what. She wouldn't tell him anything about it except she had a confidential source. He didn't take it too seriously. Didn't take Marsha too seriously, for that matter."
"Uh-huh," Charlie said. I thought the old wizard had come up with some revelation, but he was just pulling in a small blue-striped fish.
"Looks like a bream," I said.
"No. A damn tilapia. Belongs in somebody's den in an aquarium. Folks started dumping their exotic fish out here, now they've taken over the bedding areas. No wonder you can't find bluegill."
Charlie tossed the fish back, chose another night crawler, and baited his hook. "Maybe Nick Fox didn't take her seriously either. Maybe she was just a sport-I can't say it-to him until he found out she was onto something."
"But then there's Mary Rosedahl," I said.
"Yes, and unless you're willing to believe that Fox killed a second time to cover up the motive for the first…"
"Hold on, Charlie. We have no proof Fox had anything to do with the first. You can't take this kind of speculation to a grand jury."
Charlie smiled and scratched his beard. "Easy, Jake. We're just postulating. Covering all the possibilities. Stop thinking about probable cause and proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Be a scientist for a moment. Consider every happenstance, no matter how remote. When a person is killed, always ask, cui bono? 'Who stands to gain?'"
I drained the beer. It didn't help my powers of concentration. "That assumes a rational motive and not a crazed psychopath."
"And you assume we're dealing with a psychopath."
"Guys who leave nutty notes at murder scenes don't usually have rational motives, right?"
Charlie watched his line as little water bugs skittered across the surface. "Unless the messages are purposeful distractions…"
"That's what Pam Maxson said about the Ripper note."
"Or they could be the product of an irresistible urge to scorn, to goad the authorities."
I nodded. "Pamela Maxson said serial killers sometimes do that. They need thrills or something."
"Excitement," Charlie said. "Some psychopaths seek a whirlwind of excitement. Rather than seeking security, they crave risk."
I opened another beer. Before I could take a drink, Charlie chuckled and said, "You've been quoting Dr. Maxson a lot lately. What should I read into that?"
"My admiration for her…credentials."
"No doubt."
I allowed myself a long, cool swallow. I started drinking two a day when I learned the brew might be good for fighting cholesterol. At the same time I cut back to only an occasional bacon cheeseburger and chocolate shake. Now I only eat red meat when doubling the ration of beer. Somehow I've convinced myself the arterial arithmetic works out.
I tried thinking it through, but my head was spinning and not from the beer. "Charlie, best I can figure, we may have a crazed killer or a sane one, or two crazed killers or two sane ones, or one of each. And the Compu-Mate connection either ties the two killings together or not, depending on whether we're dealing with one nut or two, or two non-nuts, or one of each."
"Verus," Charlie agreed. "Anything is possible, but since the computer club is the only apparent connection, I suggest you pursue the computer business."
"Rodriguez is checking out each woman's calls," I said.
"You got the list?"
"From A to Z, or Android to Zorro, as the case may be. You wouldn't believe some of their handles."
I pulled out two lists that had been personally delivered to my office by Bobbie Blinderman the day before.
She had stopped traffic along the law-office corridors. Ushering the tall, sleek one into my office, Cindy had raised her eyebrows and said, "Love your shoes, honey."
It's hard to notice shoes when the red leather skirt stops a foot above the knees, but once you do, it's just as hard not to stare. The plastic see-through heels were filled with water and a goldfish swam in each one. The SPCA know about this?" I asked.
"It's a performing art," Bobbie Blinderman said. The fish only last a little while. Then they go limp and die." She paused long enough to smirk. "Just like most men."
"So you keep casting for bigger fish."
"Maybe I found one," she said, laughing, and running a hand through her dark, layered hair. She tossed an envelope onto my desk. "Here's the printout of callers to Miss Diamond." Then she flipped a second one at me. "And here's one for Miss Rosedahl."
I must have looked like a mule kicked me. "I read about it in the paper," she said quickly. "Some fucking maniac, huh?"
There was no mention of either one belonging to Compu-Mate. That's under wraps."
"I recognized Rosedahl's name. One of our regulars. Went by the handle 'Flying Bird.'"
"You're under no obligation to produce her calls," I said, sounding very much like the uptight lawyer who lurked deep inside.
She laughed again. "I know, but I was afraid you'd hit me with your big, bad subpoena."
Now I spread the lists on the wooden dock between the old man and the canal. On the night she was killed, Marsha Diamond computer-talked with four men.
BIGGUS DICKUS
BUSH WHACKER
ORAL ROBERT
PASSION PRINCE
Nine names turned up on Mary Rosedahl's list.
BIGGUS DICKUS
HARRY HARDWICK
HORNY TOAD
MUFF DIVER
PASSION PRINCE
ROCK HARD
SLAVE BOY
STUDLY DO-RIGHT
TOM CAT
Charlie tsk-tsked, as was his habit when witnessing the decline of civilization. "Those names. So…
"Sophomoric," I suggested.
"Crude," he said. "What on earth do the men say to the women after introductions like that?"