"Don't get up, Chief," he said quickly, when Smalley made no move to do so. "I can let myself out."
"Goodbye, Jack. And remember stay cool."
When Fawcett had gone, the commissioner snared the ornate telephone receiver from its cradle at his elbow. He listened to the droning dial tone for a long moment, thinking.
Fawcett was in a sweat, no doubt about that. Smalley didn't know yet whether his concern was justified, but he had every intention of playing it safe. The federal angle was a puzzler, and coming on top of the shootings that morning, it could mean trouble, but Roger Smalley was not about to panic before he had exhausted all logical possibilities.
He would make some calls. You didn't get to be the assistant P.C. in a city the size of St. Paul without making some high-level contacts at Justice. And if La Mancha or whoever the hell he was was working in Smalley's backyard, someone would know about it.
And finally, saving the best for last, he would call the Man.
Roger Smalley smiled at the thought, his first open, genuine smile of the day as he began dialing the telephone.
Hell yes, he told himself, there was already plenty of sweat to go around on that warm summer morning. And who better to do the sweating than the man who had started the whole frigging mess in the first place?
Roger Smalley's face froze in the smile. It was the grin of a predatory animal, carved in stone.
9
The scheduled meeting place was one of those plasticized restaurants, part of a chain, that always look and smell the same no matter where you find them. Bolan took a corner booth away from the broad front window and sat facing the doors. He was working on his first cup of mediocre coffee when Fran Traynor entered.
She glanced around the cafe, then spotted Bolan and crossed quickly to his booth. She slid in opposite him, and they sat quietly until a waitress delivered Fran's coffee.
She sipped at it and finally spoke.
"I've been thinking about what you said," she told him.
"What did you decide?"
She hesitated. "At first, nothing, but I wanted to keep digging on my own. Now... well... I'm thinking that you may be right."
Bolan was curious. "What changed your mind?"
Bolan noticed the slightest tremble in her hands as she set her cup down.
"After you left," she began, "I put through a call to a friend of mine on the rape squad. She really helped me get the unit started in the first place. She told me that all the eyewitness sketches of our Blancanales rape suspect have been withdrawn."
Bolan's frown was deep with anger.
"You have an idea who's behind this?"
The lady cop was nodding energetically.
"Jack Fawcett," she snapped, "it has to be. But I can't prove it right now. I know it sounds foolish. Women's intuition, and all that..."
"Not necessarily," Bolan said. "How much trouble would it be to have another sketch made?''
"No need," she said, flashing him a conspiratorial smile, and with a flourish she pulled a small rectangular card from her handbag, sliding it across the Formica table top to Bolan.
He examined the sketch closely, taking in the portrait of a long-faced young man, eyes set wide apart on either side of an aquiline nose, the mouth a narrow, almost lipless slit. The entire face was framed by hair worn fashionably long, hiding the ears.
There were no distinguishing marks or scars of any kind. Nothing to set that face apart from any of several thousand others on the streets of St. Paul and neighboring communities.
Bolan stared long and hard at the facsimile face, trying to see inside and behind it, to get a feel of its owner, but there was nothing there. The lifeless face stared blankly back at him.
Fran Traynor seemed to read his secret thoughts.
"Not a lot, is it?" she said.
"Not much."
"Except," she said, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, "I think I may have narrowed it down a bit."
Bolan stared at her.
"I have a friend on the unit who's been trying to call me since about the time you... that we went to the motel. The canvass of local sanitariums was completed last night ahead of schedule."
Bolan felt excitement growing in him.
"We have four possibilities," she revealed, "all of them committed to institutions within the past two years and escaped during the relevant periods."
"I wouldn't have thought that many." Bolan frowned.
"Wait a second," she continued. "We can narrow it further. One of the four is dead, and two others are back inside. That leaves one."
She looked pleased with herself. Fran sat back in the booth and drained her cup.
Bolan kept his tone deliberate and cautious.
"You're assuming the Blancanales rapist and your lady-killer are one and the same," he said. "But if that assumption is wrong, the two survivors still inside stay on the suspect list. Without a positive tie-in, either one could be your murderer."
Fran shook her head in a firm negative.
"No chance, La Mancha," she said stubbornly. "I know this is our man."
"All right, let's have it."
She gave him the recitation without consulting her notebook, holding his eyes with hers as she reeled off the facts from memory, chapter and verse.
"Courtney Gilman, age twenty-three, originally committed by his family two and a half years ago. That's soon after the first murder. He took a walk eleven months later just before the second and third killings. Within a month he was back inside, for another eighteen months. He escaped again, and we had murders four and five before the family brought him back."
"Where is he now?" Bolan asked, certain he already knew the answer.
"Nobody knows," Fran told him. "He decked an attendant and hit the streets eleven days ago. That's one week before the attack on Toni Blancanales."
"Okay," Bolan said. "This does sound promising. But it's still from a circumstantial viewpoint. What would Fawcett or anyone else have to gain by covering for your suspect?"
The lady cop looked surprised at his question.
"What? Oh, of course, you wouldn't know. Courtney Gilman is the only child of Thomas Gilman."
She waited, expecting some reaction from the Executioner. It was not forthcoming. His blank expression told her that she wasn't making herself understood.
"Tom Gilman is a senior state legislator," she said at last. "Street talk has it he may be our next governor. He's got all the marks."
"So we're talking about some sort of political arrangement," Bolan summarized.
"Possibly," Fran agreed. "Or blackmail I don't know. At least it's an angle."
"It needs more checking, Fran. Where do I find this Gilman?"
"Gilman senior? Right here in St. Paul. I think he's originally from somewhere upstate, snow country. But we're the state capital here... where the action is, you know?"
"He's worked his way up from councilman to the legislature, and the word is he won't be satisfied short of the statehouse. If his son is our man..."
"If he is," Bolan cautioned.
"Okay, right," the lady said, nodding. "Mr. Gilman could lose everything if the media pegged him as the father of a murdering maniac. He might try to make a deal... something... with Fawcett, or someone higher up."
Bolan thought for a moment.
"We're flying blind now," he said. "I need more than speculation before I hang the mark of the beast on a man."
"We can check it out," Fran insisted. "Confront Gilman."