“Hard to say,” Jennings said. “It wasn’t because the gore turned his stomach, that’s for sure. This guy likes the smell of blood.”
“What did he take from the victims?”
“Some jewelry Connie’s sister says they always wore. But that’s one of the details we’re holding back.”
Mulligan reached for his cup of coffee and discovered it was cold. Jennings fetched another round.
“Got any suspects?” Mulligan asked.
“Not yet.”
“So now what?”
“We’re interviewing everybody who knew the Stuarts and the Medeiroses to see who might have had contact with both families.”
“Neighbors, meter readers, trash collectors, landscapers?” Mulligan asked. “Gas station attendants, checkout clerks, hairdressers, teachers, PTA members?”
“All that and more.”
“Sounds like a lot of people.”
“Yeah, but I’m betting only one of them has a knife wound and size thirteen feet.”
“Size thirteen?” Mulligan said. “Wait a minute. Didn’t Becky Medeiros’s killer wear size twelves?”
“So maybe he gained some weight. There’s no doubt it’s the same guy.”
Mulligan shuddered and took a sip from his cup. “Why would someone do this?” he asked.
Jennings turned and looked out the window. It was nearly a minute before he turned back.
“Off the record?”
“Sure.”
“Because I don’t want to see this in the paper.”
“Then you won’t, Andy.”
“This was a sex crime.”
“They were raped?”
“Not exactly. After he killed them, he masturbated on the bodies.”
Mulligan felt bile rise in his throat. “Did he jerk off over Becky Medeiros and her daughter, too?”
“He did.”
“At least you’ve got his DNA.”
“Yeah. From the blood on the towel, too. But with all the prints he left, no way we’re gonna need it to convict him.”
A couple of days after filing his story, Mulligan met his best friend at Hopes. This time, it wasn’t just the men whose admiring eyes followed Rosie as she strode to her bar stool.
“How’s your mom?” Rosie asked.
“Holding her own for now.”
“I should go see her.”
“She’d like that. She thinks the world of you, Rosie.”
They ordered Buds, and Rosie dropped a twenty on the bar. Mulligan picked it up, pressed it into her palm, and told her to put it back in her purse.
“No way you’re paying for anything tonight after what you did yesterday.”
“In that case, I’ll have champagne,” Rosie said.
“The closest you can get to that here is Miller High Life, the champagne of bottled beers.”
“Then I’ll stick with Budweiser.”
“Did Hardcastle get the story right?” Mulligan asked.
“Yeah, but I thought the headline was a bit much.”
It had been the lead story on the metro page:
Heroic Lady Firefighter
Rescues Two Children
From Locust St. Blaze
“Tell me how it happened.”
“Why? You already read about it.”
“I want to hear you tell it.”
“I will if you put out that cigar. It stinks.”
So he did.
“When we rolled up, flames were jumping in one of the second-floor windows. Someone was screaming about two little boys trapped up there. Eddie Silvia and I pulled a ladder off the pumper and propped it under a window that didn’t have flames in it yet. I was the first one up. I smashed the window and sash with a fire ax and climbed inside.
“Lucky for me, the kids were right there, choking on smoke that was seeping through the bottom of their bedroom door. I grabbed the nearest one and handed him to Eddie, who was right behind me at the top of the ladder. Then I grabbed the other one and carried him down. Nothing much to it, really.”
“Tell that to their mother when she names her next born after you.”
Rosie smiled at that.
“What was it like?” Mulligan asked.
“Better than the day I dropped thirty-two points on Tennessee.”
“I’ll bet. Think I’ve got what it takes to be a firefighter?”
“You serious?”
“Serious?… No, I guess not.”
“What is it, then?”
“I’m starting to hate my job.”
“What you’re doing is important, Mulligan.”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is. There’s a serial killer on the loose, and the police are having a hard time catching him. People need to know about that.”
“I guess. But it’s such an ugly story, Rosie. I just wish I weren’t the one telling them.”
September 1991
The lock on the antique steamer trunk in his father’s bedroom closet is easy to pick. Inside, the boy finds two dozen videotapes, each still in its original cardboard sleeve. He sorts through them, studying the glossy cover photos of naked women named Sheri St. Clair, Angel Kelley, Stacy Donovan, Christie Canyon, and Candie Evans. He stops when he comes to the one with a slim blonde named Ginger Lynn holding a large black penis in her small fist.
He returns the other tapes to the trunk, takes his selection downstairs to the living room, and slides it into the family VCR. Then he stretches out on the couch and unzips his fly. His parents are at work. His brother has football practice. His sister is at her dance lesson. The boy has the house to himself.
In the opening scene, the blonde strips and begins playing with the cocks of two scrawny white guys. The boy watches for a couple of minutes, then fast-forwards until he reaches the part with the brother. He has bulging biceps, six-pack abs, and a penis so huge that the blonde looks a little scared.
The boy reaches down and plays with himself. Nothing happens. After fifteen minutes of frustration, he gets up and pops the tape out of the VCR. He goes back upstairs and returns the video to the trunk. Then he enters his bedroom, fetches one of his tapes from the shoebox under his bed, and carries it downstairs.
When the movie reaches the part where Jason Voorhees stabs Alice in the head with an ice pick, the boy’s dick is iron.
9
July 1994
“The chief’s on a rampage,” Jennings said. “If you don’t watch your ass, you’re gonna get hauled in.”
“Hauled in?” Mulligan said. “What the hell for?”
“Interfering with a police investigation. Half the people we interview say they’ve already been questioned by you.”
“That’s gotta be an exaggeration. You’ve got thirty people working this. There’s only one of me.”
“Okay, so maybe it’s just a quarter. That’s not the point. What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, Mulligan? You’re not a cop.”
“Heck, Andy. I’m not even much of a reporter.”
“So?”
“So I was thinking maybe I could help out a little. Some of the punks who talk to me would never spill anything to the cops.”
Jennings fixed a hard eye on Mulligan, then took a sip from his cup of Dunkin’.
“I don’t suppose you’ve learned anything useful, have you?”
“Not yet.”
Jennings sighed, then rested his head in his hands. He was a lot grayer than when they’d first met two years ago. This case was tearing some life out of him.
“We’re under a lot of pressure to solve this thing,” the detective said. “The whole state’s in a panic. Alarm systems are selling out. Folks who never considered owning a firearm before have stripped the local gun shops bare. People are installing dead bolts and outside floodlights.”
“Some are even nailing their windows shut,” Mulligan said.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
They went back to their coffee, each adrift in his own thoughts.