Night bait, page 15
"Judas J. Priest," he said aloud when he finally realized what was inside of the bundle.
Perched upright behind his desk, Dignazio scanned Thursday's edition of The Washington Star. He tried to remember the last time he had read something good in the paper. There was certainly nothing good in it today. A tenent in South East had burned down and twelve people had burned with it; fire officials said that they probably could have extinguished the blaze with no deaths, but there was no water pressure in the fire hydrants. A retired school teacher stood on the ledge of a ten-story apartment building for two hours last night, bickering with the two cops who tried to talk him down; at the end of the second hour, one of the cops stepped out onto the ledge, and the school teacher thumbed his nose, said "What the hell?" and jumped. The skeleton of a human baby was found in another tenement; health authorities reported that the infant was more than likely devoured by rats. Police in New York discovered a human torso wrapped in a blanket, lying between two parked cars in front of an all-night donut shop—it was just a torso: no arms, no legs, no head. A New Canaan woman with a history of psychiatric disorders placed her six-month-old son in a trash compactor and pressed the power button; when the arresting officers asked her why she did it, she replied, "The kid cries all day long. It drives me nuts, you know? I can't stand all the whining. I had to shut him up." A Chicago businessman came home unexpectedly to find his wife in bed with the mailman; he shot the mailman in the head five times with a revolver hidden in a bookshelf; then he tied his wife to the bed and ran a hot iron over her face and chest. Danny Kingston, a ten-year-old Montgomery County youngster, was walking home from school when an unknown person in a yellow Volkswagen pulled up beside him and offered him a bottle of 7-Up; Danny took the bottle, chugged half of it in one gulp, and died five minutes later; the bottle contained several ounces of liquid drain cleaner. After seeing the film adaptation of The Dead Zone, a happily married Cleveland couple returned to their car to discover three unidentified blacks under the hood of the car, stealing the battery; when the owner confronted them, the thieves beat his head in with the Sears Diehard, gang-raped the man's wife in the backseat, then jogged away, laughing.
Laughing, Dignazio thought with intolerant, narrowed eyes. They were laughing. Has the world gone nuts, or is it me? They might as well change the name of this paper to The Washington Horror. It seemed that every page contained some undeniable example of madness, each article more brutal than the previous. But none of the things he had just read really bothered him; he had seen it all before. These articles were unimportant, otherwise they would be on the front page, not the second or third. Random murders did not affect Dignazio.
The front page was what bothered him.
ELECTROCUTIONIST CLAIMS SIXTH VICTIM.
He didn't go to the trouble of reading it again; he had already done that several times. Before, he was flustered about it, but now he was mad. They were doing everything they could, even more now that Chet and Vickie were on the street. But still no results. And the fact that murder number six had been a 14th Street hooker made him even more infuriated. That meant that The Electrocutionist had been on the block during the same time Chet and Vickie had been. The killer wasn't taking their bait; Chet said that they hadn't seen anyone close to the description they had. And Mullins had had the gall to call Dignazio up to his office, bawl him out about the incident, and in the same breath tell him that Major Case as still working on some leads. It was like yelling at a blind man for walking into a wall, then telling him that his white cane was still on order.
And this one was the same as all the others. Another Jane Doe whore, same physical build, same cause of death. Tennis ball in the mouth, puncture wound on the right side of the neck, sodium pentothal in the blood, and evidence of sexual penetration after death, all wrapped up in a nice nifty plastic package. The only difference was that this body had been discovered on the other side of the district line, rather than in D.C. itself. Some town police chief had found her at a cemetery entrance. If the killer's reason for dropping the corpse off outside of D.C. meant anything, Dignazio sure didn't know what it was.
For a befogged moment, Dignazio felt himself losing faith in his clandestine decoy project with Vickie Anderson. He knew full well that the entire operation was grossly illegal. If the brass ever found out that he was paying an ex-prostitute with confiscated cash to act as bait for The Electrocutionist, he would lose his job, and maybe go to jail. But the consequences didn't matter anymore. There was no professional order of approach in catching a psycho killer; decoys were his greatest hope, but since Mullins had ordered all police decoys off the street, what was Dignazio to do? He knew that in order to save lives, he would have to risk some, and he admitted to himself that he had no qualms about laying his own job on the line for the sake of a chance. If throwing his job away was the only way to stop The Electrocutionist, then Dignazio would do it without thinking twice. He saw the lives of future victims—even though they would probably be prostitutes—far more important than his own position.
Maybe one's not enough, he thought. He entertained the idea of recruiting more girls for the operation, but, in the first place it would be next to impossible to find another girl like Vickie Anderson willing to do the same thing, and the more people who knew what he was doing behind the department's back increased the chances of Mullins or Internal Affairs finding out. Then everything would be ruined.
Shit, he told himself, the girl's only been out on the street for two nights. I can't expect instant miracles. I'll just have to give it some time. And who knows? Maybe Mullins will latch onto something from the investigations in another day or two. But until then, Dignazio realized he would have to lie low and keep his fingers crossed for Chet and Vickie.
For face value, the ploy with Vickie Anderson was a good idea. There were none of the topical hangups which plagued police decoys. Who could pass herself off as a whore better than someone who once was a whore? No matter how well-trained a woman vice cop was, there was always something which crippled her believability: her voice, what she said, the way she walked or dressed, how she stood. But that problem didn't exist for Vickie; she knew all that, because she had learned it the hard way. And no police training in the world could match the real thing. No, Vickie's authenticity wasn't in question. He had confidence in her, but he saw now that other problems might arise. Like that run-in last night with the other hookers. It was damn lucky that Chet had smelled a rat and had gone in there. Another couple of minutes, and those whores would have kicked Vickie Anderson into a six-foot hole. Chet had rushed in there just in time, and he had done a good job of working the girls over. All of the three girls who had attacked Vickie were in the hospital, one with a hairline skull fracture, one with a serious concussion, and the third, an Oriental girl, with internal bleeding from a ruptured blood vessel in the pelvis. By the looks of things, those three would be in the hospital for a while, so they wouldn't be able to start anymore shit with Vickie. Dignazio considered himself very fortunate that Vickie hadn't been injured in the brawl. She had managed to get out of there with only a few cuts and bruises. They hadn't screwed up her face, so at least she still looked good. His main concern now rested in the hope that none of the other hookers on the street tried to pull the same thing. Now, Chet would have to keep his eyes open for anyone who looks like The Electrocutionist, plus pimps and whores who might try to hurt Vickie. It had been a close call, and Dignazio didn't need another one. He had seen whores fight before; they were as mean as mad dogs, and they held no regard for the lives of anyone but themselves. He would have to do everything in his power to keep them away from Vickie in the future.
He folded the newspaper up into thirds and dropped it into the wastebasket. It was five in the afternoon, almost dark. There was no guess as to when The Electrocutionist would strike next. In a way, he almost hoped that the killer would go after another girl again tonight, because for every day he went out to hunt some girl down, their chances of running into him grew larger. It was a sick trust, but the more girls The Electrocutionist killed, the more times he would have exposed himself on the street. His past victims verified that he preferred hookers, so sooner or later he would go after Vickie. Then, they would have him.
He called up the investigation section and asked if they had identified the sixth girl. He wasn't surprised when the clerk told him no. They would probably never identify her. Jane Doe, another nameless face who had left her identity behind when she had started hustling. But what good is a name to someone whose only resource is her body? Hookers are the most depersonified people in the world, he thought. Their names are insignificant; no one cares who they are, just what they are. And when they die, no one cares either. There's always another Jane Doe to fill the empty slot.
He wondered how many vacancies there would be before The Electrocutionist Case was over with.
When Vickie woke up on Thursday afternoon, she felt like she had just been run over by a Peterbilt truck. Whenever she shifted her position in bed, her legs, her chest, and her groin seethed with pain. Those fucking whores really kicked the shit out of me, she thought with a pain-contorted face. Fuckers.
She threw the covers off, then very slowly climbed out of bed. At least she could walk with no trouble, but she knew it would be a while before the hurting stopped. After opening the shades and walking a few blunted circles around the bedroom to get her circulation going, she stood in front of her closet mirror and pulled her white nightgown up to her shoulders. Her slim physique looked like it had been used for Sylvester Stallone's punching bag. There were so many bruises on her stomach that they appeared to be one big bruise. The ugly blue marks thinned out as they spread over her ribs and around her side. It amazed her that none of her ribs had been cracked during the volley of kicks. Her groin looked a little better. Not so many bruises there, but they hurt more, especially the ones on the insides of her thighs and directly above her fluff of pubic hair. She didn't bother to turn around and look at her buttocks. She knew how bad that was every time she sat down. Those girls had literally kicked her ass.
Her nightgown dropped back to her knees, and she bent forward to inspect her face. There were no marks.
Her seemingly feeble efforts to protect her had worked. All in all, when dressed, her body would show almost no signs of the beating she had taken. Her face remained untouched, and the only mark that would show was a scrape on the underside of her forearm.
Her joints were still a little stiff when she walked out to the kitchen and got herself a bottle of Tab. For a fleeting moment, she expected to see Jennifer walk out of the bathroom, smiling and wrapping a towel around her head. But the red light on the WSDT radio tower flashing through the kitchen window reminded her that Jennifer was gone.
Since her roommate's death, the cheerful apartment they had shared had taken on a lifeless characteristic. It now possessed all the charm of a funeral parlor, dark, sullen, totally silent. It was like a doll's house, where she was the doll. The silence bothered her most. At times, she would think that she was the only person alive, that her universe was confined to the bleak walls of the cell-like apartment. The only sounds were mechanical sounds: the tick of the clock, the drone of the refrigerator, the intermittent swoosh of the heating system. Besides herself, there was no evidence of other people.
Without a preceding knock, the front door opened. Chet stuck his head in and looked through the entrance of the kitchen. "Mind if I come in?"
"It's only five o'clock," said Vickie. "You're not supposed to pick me up till six."
Chet walked in. "Captain Dignazio wants us out early tonight—say, you should keep your front door locked."
"Yeah, to keep bad guys like you from sneaking in while I'm in my nightgown. If my fiance walked in, he'd love that. How come Dignazio wants us out early?"
"We have to relocate ourselves on the other side of the block. We found out that the hooker who was killed last night worked that side of the street. I want you to be familiar with the set-up before it gets really dark." He set a carton of Salem Lights down on the kitchen table. "I bought you some smokes so you won't have anymore nic fits and get into anymore fights."
"Very funny... Thanks."
"How do you feel?"
"Well, my whole body hurts like hell, but other than that, I feel fabulous."
That was the first time she had seen Chet smile.
"You know that Chinese girl you clouted last night?" he asked, and took off his army jacket.
"Yeah."
"You really did a job on her. Busted some blood vessels. She'll be in the hospital for weeks."
Vickie shrugged. "I wish I could say I feel sorry for her. That bitch had it coming."
"How long will it take you to get ready?"
"Give me twenty minutes. You can watch TV while you wait. I think 'The Three Stooges' are on." She got up and padded off to the bedroom.
The hot shower made her feel a lot better. She dried her hair with Jennifer's hair dryer, stepped into her jeans, crawled into her tube top, and began her ceremony of cosmetics. That always seemed to take forever. By the time she had finished brushing, dabbing, and painting her face, she looked like a lust-hungry ghoul.
Chet drove immediately to the block. This time, he took her around to the other side, to Vermont Avenue. It would be more difficult because that side of the block was poorly lighted, and there were no convenient parking lots where Chet could situate himself. He instructed Vickie to post herself on the corner of Vermont and Κ Street. A streetlight on the opposite corner would provide enough light to get a decent look at anyone who might proposition her. Chet would park at the curb of Κ Street, on the other side of Vermont. He went over instructions with her twice, and then continued driving.
"Where are we going?" Vickie asked, and looked at him questioningly.
"I have to go home for a second. I want to give you something to protect yourself with. I forgot to bring it with me."
She perked up in her seat. "What? What is it? A gun?"
"No, not a gun. Just something to help you out if you get into another scrap."
"Where do you live?"
"Down the road a ways, on New York Avenue. It's not far."
"Won't your wife ask questions when she sees you strolling in with the Soiled Sister of Babylon?"
"I'm not married."
"Oh." Vickie could feel her curiosity about Chet gnawing at her again. "Do you have a girl?"
"No. Girls think I'm strange. I live alone."
Before she could ask anymore questions, the car stopped. Vickie looked around in slack disbelief. They were parked in front of a dilapidated rowhouse. Some of the windows had been planked over, and half of the shingles on the oddly peaked roof were missing.
"Come on in," Chet said.
She groped for words. "You—you mean you live ... here?"
"Yes."
"No offense, Chet," she said as she got out, "but this place looks like a-a tenement."
"It's not really a tenement. It's just run down. A lot of cops live here cheap. Some of the rich people in Washington are buying up all the rowhouses to keep the blacks out."
She followed him through the entrance and up a narrow, wooden staircase that groaned with every step. Wall paper hung in torn rolls. The lightbulb on the second-floor landing had been broken off at the socket, and the bannister leading to the third floor was gone.
Chet unlocked three deadbolts on the second door to the left, then entered the room, sliding his hand along the inside wall to flick on the light. Vickie peeked in, almost afraid of what the inside might look like. The apartment consisted of only a bathroom, a den, and a cubbyhole for a bedroom. She supposed the den was nice, except for a strange, singularly ugly bronze statue in the corner. She had no idea what it was a statue of. Dark wood bookshelves lined two of the walls top to bottom. "There must have been hundreds of books in the room.
"Jesus, Chet," she said. "You didn't tell me you lived in a library."
"I read a lot."
She took notice of a framed document on the wall with a bunch of Latin letters on it. "What's this?"
"That's my B.A. degree in English Literature."
"You went to college and majored in English?"
"That's right."
"How come you're a cop instead of an English teacher?"
"No market for English teachers right now. Couldn't find a teaching job, so I joined the police force. It gives me a chance to put some of my philosophies into action."
Vickie raised a brow, but said nothing. Chet went into the bedroom, and returned a second later with something in his hand. "Here's what I wanted to give you," he said. "It's a mace can."
"Oh, like that stuff mailmen use on dogs."
"Not quite. A faceful of this stuff will bring down the biggest of men." He held up the black container. "Here's how it works. When somebody's giving you a hard time, you slide this white knob back as far as it will go, aim it at the person's face, and push the cap down with your thumb." He lifted the window by his desk, held his arm out and discharged a burst of mace, then closed the window, all in the same motion. The way he did it made her laugh. It was like watching a Red Skelton pantomime.
"If you do that," he continued, "your foe will be digging his fingernails into the floor before he can say hi." He handed her the canister after moving the cap back. "Keep it in your purse, and always remember to keep this white button pushed back all the way. Otherwise, it could go off accidently. You wouldn't want to tear gas your wallet and cigarettes."
Nodding, she slipped the canister into her purse. "Sounds easy enough. I just hope I don't have to use it and wind up spraying it into my own face."
"You'd have to be pretty drunk to do that."
