We spent the remainder of the ride trying to gross each other out, and by the time Herb dropped me off at home I’d decided to give up food forever.
Back in my apartment, Mr. Friskers ran away from me when I entered. Must have been the death smell. I checked for messages (none), and drew a bath into which I dumped every oil, salt, and soap I owned. I’d just climbed in, bubbles up to my ears, when the phone rang.
I let the machine get it.
“Jack, it’s Latham.”
I vaulted out of the tub, almost met my death slipping on the tile floor, and snatched up the phone, out of breath.
“Latham? Hi! I just got in.”
“Hi yourself. How are you doing?”
Stinky. Alone. Depressed. Freezing. “Great. I’m great. How about you?”
“Good. Job’s going well. I love the new condo. How’s your mom?”
“Still in a coma.”
“That’s awful. I’m sorry.”
“Can we get together?” I bit my lower lip. I was so cold, my knees were knocking together.
“Sure. That would be nice. The thing is, though, I’m seeing someone.”
If he’d cut my heart out of my chest with a cleaver it would have hurt less. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to sound upbeat.
“That’s great. What’s her name?”
“Maria.”
“Maria. Great. Great name. Is it serious?”
“We’ve been dating for a few months, and I just asked her to move in with me.”
Latham had asked me that same thing, but I turned him down, because I am the Queen of All Who Are Stupid.
“Well… that’s great. I’m happy for you.”
“I’d still like to see you, though. To catch up. Touch base.”
Screw me until I can’t stand up? Instead I said, “Yeah, that would be nice.”
“I’ll give you a call in a few days?”
“Yeah. Sure. Sounds good.”
“Bye-bye, Jack. Great talking to you.”
“Yeah. Same here.”
He hung up.
I stood there a moment, teeth chattering, and then moped back into the bathtub.
It was my fault that he was with Maria. Just like it was my fault my mother was in a coma. She’d been living with me, and a criminal I’d been chasing broke into my apartment and took his wrath for me out on her.
I wondered if Bud Kork had a branding iron that said fuckup.
After a long soak, which still didn’t get all of the stink out, I crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling, knowing I’d never be able to fall asleep.
So I didn’t even try.
CHAPTER 24
DR. MORTON TRIES to scream, but he can’t – his mouth is full.
CHAPTER 25
SLEEP NEVER CAME.
I crawled out of bed at six a.m., hacked up some black gunk from my lungs, forced myself through a hundred sit-ups, and showered. I’d spent all night watching the Weather Channel, and there was enough meteorological evidence to suggest that today would be partly cloudy, with a high of seventy-five.
I dressed in a gray Ralph Lauren pantsuit, a black short-sleeved blouse, and some two-inch heels I picked up at Payless. It would take me a while before I wore nice shoes to work again.
I also put on just a small spray of L’Air du Temps. I’m not a perfume kind of gal, but I wanted to cover up the smell of decay that still clung to me. I was supposed to meet up with Harry McGlade tonight. If I stank, he’d be vocal about it.
After feeding the cat, who still avoided me, I searched the pantry for foodstuffs and found some cranberry granola bars. Mom loved them. I hated them. But I was starving, so I forced one down.
I stuck another one in my pocket, disengaged the alarm, and opened my door to leave. As I did, a small package that had been leaning against the door fell inward.
Same brown envelope as the one delivered to me at work.
I tugged out my Colt, looked left, right, then hurried down the hallway to the stairwell.
There wasn’t anyone to chase.
I went back into my apartment, nudging the envelope in with my toe. Then I found some rubber gloves under the sink and carried the package over to the kitchen table. I slit it open with a bread knife and dumped out the obligatory unlabeled black VHS tape.
Such a small, harmless, everyday item. Yet it filled me with dread.
The first tape had been wiped clean of prints, but hope springs eternal, so I only held the video by the very edge in my gloved hand. I brought it into the bedroom, put it in the VCR, and let it play.
This one began with a close-up of a man’s bare chest. He was sitting on a chair with his hands behind him, probably tied or cuffed.
A black gloved hand, with a long black leather sleeve, used a box cutter to open him up from nipple to nipple. The screams were so loud they distorted the audio. Then the hand came back into frame with some pliers.
The granola bar jumped around in my stomach. I hit the Fast-forward button, watching this poor guy get his chest, then his back, peeled in triple time. When the atrocities finally ended with a deep slash across the carotid artery, the killer stepped behind the camera and zoomed out, revealing the man’s head.
No burlap bag this time. The victim’s face was clear. And worst of all, identifiable.
Dr. Francis Mulrooney. The eccentric, gentle handwriting expert. A man whom I considered a friend.
The tape ended, reverting to blue screen.
Anger came first. Then sadness. Then, like a slap, fear.
The killer had murdered Diane Kork and Francis Mulrooney, two people involved in the Gingerbread Man case. The killer also knew where I lived.
When I received the first tape, I took it to be a boast by the perp. Look what I can do, and you can’t catch me.
This second tape was more than a boast. It was an obvious threat. He was saying You’re next.
I placed the tape and the envelope into a fresh plastic garbage bag, and headed for Mulrooney’s office, keeping a careful eye on the rearview mirror. Why did it seem like every looney in Chicago knew where I lived? Did they give out my address at Serial Killer School?
The day was partly cloudy, I’d guess it at seventy-five degrees. Score one for the Weather Channel.
The graphologist’s office was on Fifty-ninth Street, at the University of Chicago’s Hyde Park campus. I took Lake Shore Drive south, a twenty-minute trip, exiting at the Museum of Science and Industry on Fifty-seventh, following Stony Island to Fifty-ninth. The campus area covered about five square blocks, wooded and peaceful and brimming with coffee shops and used bookstores and academic activity. But south of Stoney, and west of Drexel, the neighborhoods turned very bad very fast, with high crime rates and Emergency Stations every few blocks – phones that linked directly to 911.
I parked next to a hydrant and entered the old brownstone where Mulrooney worked. A fat security guard sat behind a round counter. He had a squashed appearance, with several chins, and resembled a bullfrog perched on a toadstool. I flashed my gold, my earlier anger and fear stored safely behind a cloak of cool professionalism.
“Where’s the office of Dr. Francis Mulrooney?”
“Second floor, last door.” His voice was high and whiny, ruining the frog motif he had going for himself.
“Is it locked?”
“Probably.”
“Can you open it?”
“Sure.”
We took the elevator, a small space that could carry five people, four if they were as rotund as my security guard friend. Someone had scratched some swear words into the stainless steel panel next to the buttons. Even our highly praised bastions of education weren’t immune from folks who thought “shit-breath” was high comedy. Why didn’t vandals ever quote Shakespeare? I’d love to see graffiti in iambic pentameter.
“Has Dr. Mulrooney had any visitors lately?”
“Students.”
“Any adults?”
“No.”