John Lutz Bundle (69 page)

“Why?” Quinn asked simply.

Myrna stared at him as if he must be insane to ask the question. “He’s my own flesh and blood.”

“He’s also police business.”

“Blood’s much more important than business.”

“Not if that business is to keep more of it from being shed.”

“You are twisting my words, sir.”

She bowed her head and the tears came, dropping and leaving trailing marks on the front of her yellow blouse. Pearl wondered if Myrna could will herself to cry; Pearl had seen people who could.

Jeb moved over and stood close to his mother, making cooing sounds, and very near tears himself. The doting son. He lovingly put his arm around Myrna, then hugged her and rocked her gently.

Pearl remembered that same arm around her and shuddered.

Unmoved by the scene before him, Quinn wondered what the Butcher would think when he learned his mother was in town.

Nobody knew for sure how it should be handled, but they all knew where it was going.

They were in Renz’s office, sitting in front of Renz’s desk. Quinn and Pearl were in the chairs that were usually there. Two folding chairs had been brought in for Fedderman and the police profiler. Fedderman slouched in one of the tiny metal chairs as if numbed by exhaustion. The profiler, Helen Iman, ignored her chair and stood near the window so she was silhouetted in front of the open blind slats and was painful to look at.

She was a tall, lanky redheaded woman Quinn had worked with before, who looked more suited to beach volleyball than to police work. While still not a hearty advocate of profiling, Quinn had to admit that Helen was one of the best.

“They’re both staying at their respective hotels,” Quinn said of Jeb and Myrna. “Now they’re making noises like family members who have a right to all our information.”

“Where’s the media on this?” Renz asked.

Quinn thought he caught a whiff of burned tobacco and wondered if Renz had been secretly smoking cigars in his office again. “They know Jeb was released, and they’re still in the dark about Myrna.” Quinn glanced at Helen, squinting. “That’s why I requested this meeting.”

“You requested it because you want to use Mom as bait,” Renz said.

“Sharks aren’t often used for bait,” Helen said

“Move over a few feet so I can see you better,” Quinn asked her.

She did so, smiling. Her features were strong, bony, almost masculine. But Quinn knew of a dead cop who had loved her.

“You want to know if it will work,” she said in her throaty voice.

Renz laughed. “She’s got you profiled.”

“So what are the odds?” Quinn asked.

“I don’t usually quote odds,” Helen said, “but the Butcher is a killer who’s classic in that his victims are all, in his mind, his mother. She’s iconic to him.” She couldn’t suppress an eager grin. Lots of teeth. They all looked sharp. “It’s pure textbook. This is so rare. They usually don’t get a chance to kill the real thing, the archetype, the woman they know is behind their compulsion. She’s the fuel for his fire. Will he be tempted to kill her when he learns she’s in New York?” The grin widened. “The way a junkie who needs a fix is tempted by heroin. I’d say the odds are about even he’ll go for her.”

“Only even?” Quinn was disappointed.

“The variable in this is the exceptional intelligence of the killer. He’ll have read the literature and know that we know the real object of his deadly desires is his mother. He’ll almost surely suspect she’ll be used as bait.”

“If he does suspect that, will he still try for her?” Pearl asked.

“Maybe, but he’ll be very, very careful, as he is in all things.”

“If he knows it’s a trap,” Fedderman said, “why will he enter it?”

“If a rat’s starving, it will go for the bait in a trap,” Helen said.

Quinn said, “I think we should take a chance on this one.”

“Your call,” Renz said. “Your ass.”

“I’ll approach Myrna with the idea. She isn’t as educated as either of her sons, but my impression is she’s every bit as smart. If she goes for it—”

“She will,” Pearl said. “Smart’s got nothing to do with it.”

Helen nodded. “There’s a certain connection between killer and potential victim, almost a magnetism. Some even say that sometimes the victim is, in subconscious ways, complicit in her own murder. That might prove true in this case.”

Quinn wasn’t sure if he bought into that one.
Profilers.

“If she agrees,” he said to Renz, “you could set up a press conference, make sure a photo of Myrna gets to the papers and TV news. Use Mary Mulanphy for local cable. Give her a scoop.”

“Cindy Sellers for print media,” Renz said.
“City Beat.”

“How could we forget?” Quinn was amused by the notion that Renz thought he was using Sellers, when actually it was the other way around.

“Also use that old shot of the Swamp Boy,” Helen said. “The one taken in Florida right after he was found.”

“Great idea!” said Pearl.

“When he sees it side by side with Myrna’s photo,” Helen said, “it’ll take him back in time and tug at more than his heartstrings. Family photos do that.”

Quinn gave both women a look. The ladies were into it.

“Family’s the most powerful component in these murders,” Helen said. “Family’s what serial killers are almost always about.”

“What all of us are about in the end,” Fedderman said. Wisdom from a disjointed anti-fashion model.

Renz’s desk phone buzzed. He glanced at it in irritation, then snatched up the receiver and punched the glowing line button on the base unit. Said, “I thought—”

Then he shut up and the expression on his face became grimmer and grimmer.

He scribbled something on a piece of scratch paper, then replaced the receiver.

“We’ve got another Butcher victim. Lower East Side. Name’s Maria Cirillo. Neighbors noticed an unpleasant odor coming from her apartment and called the super. The ME’s already there, puts the time of death somewhere between five and midnight evening before last.”

“Evening before last?” Quinn said.

“You heard me right.”

“That’s when we had Jeb Kraft in custody,” Quinn said. “If he wasn’t cleared before, he is now.” He stood up to get the address Renz had scribbled on the slip of paper. He could hear Pearl and Fedderman standing up behind him. There was a clatter as one of them, probably Fedderman, knocked over one of the metal folding chairs.

Renz looked up at Quinn. “This is gonna make for a lively press conference.” There was a note of real trepidation beneath his mock enthusiasm.

“When we’re done at the crime scene,” Quinn said, “I’ll call and bring you up to speed, and then go talk to Myrna Kraft.”

Renz started drumming his fingertips, maybe having second thoughts.

“She’ll go for it,” Helen said. “Blood calling to blood.”

He was always alone.

He’d come into the Hungry U a few times before, pretending to listen to the music. Lauri had noticed him because he didn’t seem to actually like the music. There he’d sit, handsome in a pleasant sort of way, the kind of guy you didn’t notice unless you looked at him closely, and then what was there not to like? He had blond hair, was average height and weight, and looked good in clothes. Lauri thought he was probably a young executive of some sort, or maybe a high-tech wiz with his own company. He looked intelligent. And he looked vaguely familiar, but she didn’t know why. Another thing about him was he seemed interested in her.

She brought his second glass of milk over to his table.

“Lunch was delicious,” he said, smiling up at her, “but I have no idea what I ate.”

“At least you’re honest about it,” she said, liking his smile. It made him seem more familiar. Then suddenly she had it—he reminded her of Pearl’s friend Jeb. That was something Lauri counted in his favor. “Lots of our customers like the food and pretend they’re gourmets. Like they know more about food than our cook—chef.”

“I know what I like,” he said, aiming his smile at her in a way that left no doubt as to what he liked right now.

“People say that about art,” she said

He shrugged. “There are all kinds of art. Beautiful women are art.”

“I guess they can be.”

“You should have said ‘we can be.’”

Lauri felt her face flush. To the best of her recollection, Wormy had never referred to her as a woman—much less a beautiful one. Compliments didn’t trip off his tongue. “Baddest squeeze” was as close as he’d come.

She cautioned herself. This guy was definitely hot for her, but he was too old for her, possibly way into his thirties.
Look at those crinkly little lines just beginning at the corners of his brown eyes.
But maybe that was what appealed to her—his maturity. Maturity was something Wormy definitely lacked. Sometimes he was difficult to talk with, as if he were in another dimension. Maybe he was. Lauri knew she didn’t really understand musicians, didn’t hear exactly what they heard, or at least not in the same way. So possibly it wasn’t just Wormy’s lack of maturity; maybe he was as mature as he was going to get. And the man smiling up at her wasn’t
that
old. Crinkly little lines or not, he had nice eyes. They said he was a decent, compassionate person, and eyes didn’t lie.

“When you get off after the lunch crowd leaves, maybe we could go have a coffee somewhere.”

It took her a second to fully comprehend he was speaking to
her
.

“I, uh, don’t get off after lunch. We start getting ready right away for the dinner rush.”

“After dinner, then? Maybe a drink.”

Should she tell him she wasn’t of age, and she might get carded?

Lauri didn’t have to think long or hard about that one.
Jump in,
she told herself.
Swim!
Wasn’t that why’d she’d come to New York? And Wormy had a club date with the band in Tribeca. What he didn’t know wouldn’t make him sing off-key, and if he did somehow learn she went someplace after work and had a drink with a male friend, maybe it would do their relationship some good.

“I think I’d enjoy that,” she said. “I get off work at eleven. But I don’t even know your name.”

“You’re Lauri,” he said. “I’ve heard people call you that.”

She smiled. “I already knew
my
name.”

“My last name’s a little embarrassing,” he said. “It’s Hooker. I’m Joe Hooker.”

Lauri was careful not to smile. “I’ve heard lots more embarrassing names. I knew a girl named Ima Hore.”

Not true, but he’d never know. And if it made him feel better about his name, what was the harm?

He laughed. “Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t complain. My name happens to be famous, too. Joseph Hooker was a great Civil War general.”

“Then you oughta be proud of it.”

“Tell you true,” he said, “I am.”

The crime scene was, as Pearl saw it, exactly like the others as far as potential leads were concerned. The only real difference was the noxious stench of corruption. It was as if this victim had been dead for a long time.

When they got near the apartment, Fedderman paused and drew a small jar of mentholated chest rub from his pocket. He unscrewed the lid, got a dab of cream on his fingertip, and applied it beneath his nose. He handed the jar to Pearl, who did likewise. Quinn refused.

When they entered, Pearl understood the stench. The apartment was stifling, at least eighty-five degrees.

The techs swarming over the place wore white face masks to go with their white gloves, like movie bandits who were the good guys. Pearl envied them their masks.

When she and Quinn entered the blue-tiled bathroom, she was glad to inhale the menthol. She knew what had happened here. Like the other victims, this one, Maria Cirillo, had been bound and gagged with duct tape, drowned in her bathtub, then disassembled like a helpless doll, her body parts stacked in ritual order in the tub. There was the head resting on its side on top of the severed arms, sunken eyes closed, as if Maria were napping.

Nift was playing with the doll now. He’d removed his suit coat and had the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, but he was the only one in the apartment not sweating.

“Though you wouldn’t guess it now unless you had a trained eye,” he said, “this one was a real beauty.” He straightened up from where he was crouched froglike by the tub. “Best rack in the house, present company excepted.”

“You’re in the wrong end of the medical business,” Pearl said. “You should be a patient.”

Nift smiled, glad to be under her skin.

Standing beside Pearl, Quinn said, “Give us the particulars.”

Nift shrugged somehow without moving his shoulders, an illusion he managed to create just with his mouth and eyebrows. “Trauma wound to the head consistent with being knocked unconscious with a blunt object. Tape marks and adhesive traces on her arms and legs, and across her mouth. Death by drowning, then she was dissected with what my guess is were the same instruments—or similar ones—used on the previous Butcher victims. The killer then cleaned her body parts, making them more sterile than any cadaver I ever handled during medical training.” He motioned with his head and waved an arm to encompass the tiny blue-tiled bathroom. “It’s a wonder he didn’t melt her down with all that stuff.”

Or she didn’t melt away from the heat, Pearl thought.

Quinn glanced around at the cleaning agent containers lying capless and empty on the floor—a shampoo squeeze bottle, a box that had contained dishwasher detergent, bottled hand soap with a plunger, a spot remover bottle. There was an empty white plastic bleach jug on the floor, another upright on the porcelain top of the toilet tank.

“It’d smell good in here if it weren’t for Maria,” Nift said.

“Don’t you have the slightest respect for the dead?” Pearl asked.

“Never had any complaints.”

In the afterlife, asshole.

Nift must have read her thoughts. “When we all meet again in the great hereafter, we won’t take death so seriously.”

There was a sadness in the way he said it that threw Pearl. If violent death could become so matter-of-fact to a cop, how must it seem to a medical examiner? Was crossing the line between life and death more significant than stepping outside to flag a cab?

Pearl looked at the woman in the bathtub and told herself
she
hadn’t thought death mundane. Something precious and irrecoverable had been taken from Maria Cirillo. Stolen by a monster.

“Time of death,” Nift said, “was around seven
P.M.
evening before last, give or take a few hours.”

More or less what Renz had said.

“Why’s the odor so strong?” Quinn asked.

“The air conditioner was turned off, probably by the killer.”

“Jesus!” To Pearl: “Go out there and make sure the techs have examined it, then turn the damned thing back on.”

Pearl squeezed past him to leave the bathroom and made her way toward the living room.

“My guess is,” Nift said, “the killer wanted this body to be found earlier rather than later. They can be home alone for more than a week sometimes before anyone notices, if the conditions are right and the place is tight. So he switched off the air conditioner so Maria would get ripe faster and attract attention.”

Quinn’s guess was the same, but he merely nodded, then left the bathroom to join Pearl and Fedderman—if Feds was done talking to the uniforms and neighbors.

He wasn’t, so they waited for him out in the hall where the odor wasn’t so bad. Pearl peeled off her crime scene gloves and hoped Fedderman hadn’t used all his menthol cream.

He hadn’t, and when Fedderman arrived ten minutes later she dabbed some more beneath her nose.

The three of them walked another twenty feet down the narrow hall, toward some fire stairs, to be out of earshot of the uniform standing outside the apartment door.

“Neighbors saw and heard nothing,” Fedderman said. “Mrs. Avarian, old woman who lives in the adjoining apartment, smelled something, though, and notified the super. He let himself in, saw the victim, then backed out and tried not to touch anything. He upchucked on the carpet, though, about six feet inside the door.”

“I noticed that,” Pearl said, “and assumed it was one of the cops.”

“We’ll tell Nift to check it,” Quinn said, “just in case the victim or killer vomited.”

Pearl smiled. “I’ll tell him before we leave.”

“This victim’s the same type as the others, but she followed the last one more closely, and there was no note beforehand to challenge and antagonize us.”

“He’s changed his MO again,” Pearl said. “Even changed his timing.”

“More likely this one was a target of opportunity,” Fedderman said.

Pearl looked at him, thinking he was a good cop despite being a sartorial disaster. He could be surprising.

“The killer knew we had his brother in custody,” Quinn said, “and killed Maria Cirillo then switched off the air conditioner to make sure she’d be discovered soon. His way of letting us know Jeb wasn’t the Butcher. He didn’t have time to do much research on her. He might have simply latched onto her as she was walking along the sidewalk and followed her home, made sure she lived alone, then killed her.”

“Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Pearl said.

“And having the wrong hair color,” Fedderman added.

“And looking so much like Mom,” Quinn said.

“I don’t know,” Pearl said. “Maria’s such a good example of type, it could be that she was slated to be his next victim and he moved her time up.”

“Either way,” Quinn said, “the message is the same—set my brother free.”

“Sounds almost noble,” Fedderman said.

“Not even close,” Pearl told him. She borrowed Fedderman’s jar and rubbed more mentholated ointment beneath her nose. “I’m going back in and talk to Nift.”

Quinn thought Nift would probably tell her to instruct the SCU team to bag a sample of the vomit on the floor, then who knew how Pearl would react? She was on tilt already, after their visit with the late Maria Cirillo.

He told Fedderman he’d be right back, and then went inside the apartment so he could be there to extinguish any sparks between Pearl and Nift.

Looking out for Pearl was an old habit hard to break.