“That and the letters she sent me. He was just like I thought he was — jealous and clingy and all-around weird.”
“Do you have any of these letters?”
“Not now I don’t. I threw ’em out a long time ago.”
Aren’t you the sentimental bitch? “So all you have against Welch is hearsay? What about Dimke?”
She tensed again. “I suppose you’d say that was hearsay too, specially since she never said nothin’ right out. But a sister knows. You just go out there — he lives out in Flat Rock — and take a look at that wife of his. He coulda done that to her, he coulda done this to Lucy.”
“Good point.” He thought it best not to mention having already done so and coming to the same conclusion, or seeking someone much deadlier than Welch or Dimke.
Or that he was now drawing an unflattering caricature of the mayor of Detroit.
Lieutenant Peyton was obviously uneasy the next few days. He finally told Jimmy why over lunch. “Remember the last time I was after this guy; and I came in one night, real nervous, and glanced over my shoulder like I thought someone was following me; and you and your mother wanted to know why?”
Jimmy searched his memory, then shook his head. “But now that you mention it, was someone following you?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. That was after Tracy Huggins disappeared. Her folks came to headquarters, raised hell. Said I should’ve told the papers about that first note. Then, they would’ve known. Then, they could’ve done something. Stuff like that.
“Heard they hung around the rest of the day, still pretty steamed up. Made me kind of paranoid.”
“What did they do when her body was found?”
“I got a phone call the next day. They just said, ‘Satisfied?’ then hung up. I could tell it was Huggins.”
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Did she bring it all back?” The old man’s brows twitched. “I’ve seen her in the halls.”
He was referring to Judy Franklin.
Jimmy brought Dr. Larsen up to date. From Judy Franklin’s mouth to the doctor’s ear, the story was naturally mangled. But one point survived. And finally someone saw its significance.
“She won’t leave us alone,” said Jimmy. “She won’t let us do our job.”
“Well,” said Dr. Larsen, “she gave you information that, on the face of it, was worth checking out; and as far as she can see, you didn’t; and you won’t explain why.”
“The commissioner wants to keep a lid on it. He thinks this guy might be a copycat. Says he never heard of a psychopath starting up again, years later, in the same area.”
“Tell the commissioner for me that, if psychos obeyed rules, they wouldn’t be psychos. Unless he had reasons he didn’t want to talk about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. The point is you don’t seem to be satisfied with knowing you’re doing the best you can. The victim’s sister’s got to see it. I mean, if you desperately need to have everybody approve of you, how the hell are you ever going to arrest anybody?” He glanced at his watch. “Which might be a good thing to think about until next week.”
Jimmy counted out Dr. Larsen’s fee. “I guess Mephistopheles has become kind of our obsession.”
“Then, my bet’s on him.”
“Why?”
“Obsessed people can’t think straight. Try some relaxation when you get to your desk in the morning.”
Jimmy hesitated as he laid a five-dollar bill on the pile. “I noticed you became thoughtful when I told you what she said, like something’d occurred to you.”
“You’ll never give up trying to turn me into a consultant.”
“Did something occur to you?”
“Okay. If I tell you, will you remember it was your idea?”
“Sure.”
“And this is the last time you ask me for advice?”
“Agreed.”
“Then here it is…”
Jimmy went looking for a certain book of photographs, which he found after two difficult days.
That night, he took the book to a certain bar. Helen Dunn s boss scanned the page in which Jimmy was interested and, without prompting, singled out the right man. “This guy. I know I seen him hangin’ around here, botherin’ Helen, not long before it happened.” He scanned the rest of the page. “I recognize some of these other people too; but if you’re lookin’ for someone who was botherin’ her — this guy.”
The rest were dead ends.
The Hugginses slammed the door at the mention of his name.
The owner of the singles bar stared at him. “Seven years ago! I can’t even remember who the hell was here last night.”
Julie McKinnon’s acquaintances were far away by now.
He was wasting time.
Time enough for Patti Bukowski to leave her East Detroit home and her husband of three years, Gil, because things were getting too crazy. Time enough for her to move to a downtown Detroit apartment building to experience being answerable to no one.
She spent the first evening in Hart Plaza on the great, terraced stone structure that overlooked the darkness of the Detroit River.
She was too absorbed in the solitude and the glow of the Windsor skyline at sunset to notice him until he sat beside her.
Patti gave up two and a half weeks later, only partly because she missed Gil.
She was afraid of a man who had seemed so nice at Hart Plaza.
Gil had suggested she wait until tomorrow; but what could be the harm of going home tonight?
“Patti.”
She turned, feeling as if she had just stepped off a thousand-foot cliff. “Oh. Hi.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“You’re going back to him, aren’t you?”
She looked for her car key. If she ignored him, he would most likely get the hint.
She did not see him reach into his pocket, take out a small chain, welded to a sinker and two slugs, and raise it over his head.
“Patti,” he cooed.
“What!”
“Hold it right there.” A figure emerged from the shadows, waving a gun at the man. “Up against the car and spread the feet.”
Jimmy Peyton showed her his credentials, read the suspect his rights, and patted him down. He found a switchblade knife, on which flecks of blood were later discovered, and an envelope addressed to Lieutenant Peyton. (It contained a hand-printed note: “Gil Bukowski’s waiting for his wife to come home. He’ll have a long wait. Mephistopheles.”)
“I know this guy,” said Patti.
“So do we. George Welch.”
“I decided,” said Jimmy at his next session with Dr. Larsen, “I’d gotten as far as I could with Welch’s yearbook; and if he was really killing them ’cause they rejected him, like you said, I’d better just shadow him till he made his next move.” He shook his head. “Dad must’ve asked seven years ago about guys they were having trouble with.”
“Pretty girls don’t comment on every guy who gets too persistent; there’s just too many of them. And I doubt Welch’s victims realized how sick he was.”
“But how did you know it was him?”
Dr. Larsen’s face soured. “I didn’t know diddly. I just made some good guesses.
“Like he lied about what he was doing at the scene of the crime, which I hear you cops have a way of considering suspicious. I mean, we’re supposed to believe she was dressed the way you say she was because she expected the kind of guy you say Welch was? Come now.
“And it would answer your father’s question — you know, why would Lucy Welch let Mephistopheles walk right up to her in her own bedroom? — if until recently it’d been his bedroom too.
“But the closest I came to a brilliant deduction like William Powell and Warner Oland and Basil Rathbone in all those old movies was: seven years ago in June, the Mephistopheles murders mysteriously stopped. One month later, Welch turns up at a Fourth of July party, engaged to Lucy. And no sooner does Lucy dump Welch than Mephistopheles comes out of retirement and makes her his next victim. I mean, I wouldn’t hang anybody on that; but it does bear checking out.