Night bait, page 26
The only other person in the diner was a big black woman. She sat in the corner booth and shot Vickie a funky stare, probably wondering what that annoying beep had been. Vickie paid her no mind, for she knew that Dignazio more than likely had some bad news. She looked over at Chet, who was leaning against the wall, mouthing inaudible words into the telephone. Then he hung up and walked back to her. "We have to go right away. The Captain wants me at his office."
Vickie pushed her untouched coffee aside and stood up. "What's wrong? Did they ... find another body?"
"Nope, thank God. They think they found a good suspect. He wants me to help Dave look into it this morning. I'll take you home first."
"No," she pouted. "Let me go with you. I won't be a hassle. Besides, it's twenty minutes out of your way. Just go straight to headquarters. You'll save time."
"All right. Let's go."
When Chet had pulled the car away from the diner, Vickie asked, "What's this bit about a suspect? I thought there weren't any."
"Well, whenever something big like this happens, the administration of the police department forms what is known as a Major Case Squad. They make a big computerized background investigation on anyone who might have something to do with the given case. And I guess they've snagged onto something."
"So what's the story?"
"I don't know. He didn't tell me any of the details over the phone. Just said he wanted me to help bring someone in for questioning. We'll know in a minute."
The station wagon shimmied as Chet turned onto Indiana Avenue and pulled unevenly into one of the parking spaces. They rushed up the front steps. Chet nodded to the uniformed receptionist at the lobby desk; then they climbed the barren flight of stairs up to the second floor. Elliot and Dignazio were waiting for them in the dimly lit office.
"Here we are," Chet said. "I brought Vickie along to save time. What's up?"
Dignazio beckoned him with a curling finger. "Take a gander at this. I could kick myself for not noticing it earlier. This file was at the bottom of the heap."
"Who is it?"
"The guy's name is Michael M. Maurice."
Chet narrowed his eyes. "Never heard of him. Any record?"
"No, no yellow sheet. But listen to this. The guy was in the army for six years, a staff sergeant. In 1970, he changed his army MOS to infantry, and he volunteered for combat duty. He did three years in Nam. Got a fucking Bronze Star."
"Big deal."
Dignazio pointed a finger up. "But, when they pulled the last of the combat troops out, they sent Maurice stateside, and six weeks later, he had a complete mental breakdown. He spent four years on the psychiatric ward at the Veterans Hospital down on Irving Street. They diagnosed him as a paranoid schizoaffective schizophrenic. For a year, he had homicidal tendencies and auditory hallucinations, the works. He said the voice of his father would order him to kill. His father's been dead for ten years."
"Sounds pretty wild," said Chet. "But just because the guy was crazy for a while doesn't mean he's The Electrocutionist."
"Wait till you hear the clincher," Dignazio continued. "The fucker was a grunt for three years, but can you guess what his army occupational skill was before he joined the infantry?"
"What?"
"Thirty-four foxtrot twenty."
"What's that?"
"Electrician."
A few seconds of silence fell over the room. Chet nodded slowly. "Hmmm. Maybe this is something."
"Could be," Dignazio said. "Dave and his men finished checking out all the other suspects yesterday—all duds. Maurice is the last one. I want you and Dave to bring him in for questioning. And if he's not home, take a look around the place."
"We can't just barge into this guy's home like we own the place."
"That's why they invented search warrants, smart boy," Dignazio chided, and held up a white envelope. "We can do anything we want."
"How'd you get a warrant so quick?"
"It pays to be pals with the night judge. Maurice's address is in the file; he lives pretty close to you, right on New York Avenue. I'd go along with you, but I have to go to some fucking diddlyshit hearing at the courthouse at eight o'clock. That's where you can reach me if anything comes up."
"Right."
"Can I go too?" Vickie asked.
"Why don't you just wait here?" Dignazio suggested. "They won't be long. Chet can take you home when he gets back."
"Oh, come on," she prodded. "I won't get in the way. I'll wait in the car."
"Okay, okay. Just stay out of trouble." Dignazio got up and made for the door. "If Maurice is there, bring his ass in right away. I'll be back around ten."
Vickie, Chet, and Elliot left the building shortly after Dignazio, and they all piled into the station wagon. Vickie sat silently in the back seat, and she looked out the window as the car moved into the more seamy quarters of the city. Rowhouses, like the one Chet lived in, ran along the blocks as far as she could see, and the cracked sidewalks lay heaped with beer cans, stacks of old newspapers, and overturned shopping carts. It looked like a tornado had just torn through the area. They parked in front of a liquor store which hadn't opened yet.
"This is the place," Chet said. "Room 237, upstairs."
Vickie propped herself up and leaned over the bench seat. "Let me come with you guys—this is so exciting—I'll stay right behind you."
Chet looked over at Elliot and nodded. "All right," Elliot said. "But, look, if the man's home, you come straight back to the car. Understand?"
Vickie wagged her head affirmatively, and they all got out and embarked toward the entrance of a peaked building right next to the liquor store. Vickie immediately noticed that this particular rowhouse made the place Chet lived in look like a luxury palace. Garbage had been strewn all over the inside, and several steps on the stairs had been split down the middle. A thick stench of stale urine and vomit fumed in the air as they plodded up the stairwell.
The door to Room 237 had been painted black. Chet knocked, but it opened slightly after the first rap. Vickie then saw that it had no doorknob.
"Mr. Maurice?" Chet called through the crack.
"Anyone here?"
No answer.
Chet raised a hand to the door and pushed. It swooshed open without a sound, and they all filed into the first room.
The apartment was an absolute shambles, but it was obvious that someone still lived there. A small black and white television sat in the corner of the first room, and a tattered old recliner chair rested directly across from it. Unwashed dishes and cups filled the kitchen sink, and the faucet pinged with a regular drip.
"Don't touch anything," Elliot advised. "Let's check the rooms to make sure he's not home." While the two men commenced with their search, Vickie wandered around the cluttered confines of the apartment. A bare mattress lay plopped on the floor of the supposed bedroom where Chet was. He was stooping over a disheveled mound of dirty clothes. Amongst the pile was a pair of high heels, blue jeans, and a bra.
Vickie shuffled along the hall and peeked into the bathroom. Black lines of mildew ran between the cracks of the tile floor, and several glossy pornographic magazines lay sprawled and opened by the toilet. She poked her head in farther and noticed a strange metal box under the sink, with two rods sticking out of the top like a TV antenna. "Chet, come here."
"What is it?" he said, looking over her shoulder.
"What's that thing on the floor?"
He squeezed by her and turned on the light, then knelt down in front of the object. The box had a couple of knobs on it, and a meter of some kind. A wire was attached to each of the antennalike things, and each wire ran into the bathtub, which was filled with rank water. Elliot made his way into the room and looked closely at the machine.
"Any idea what it is?" Chet asked him.
"Yeah, I think it's called a Jacob's Ladder."
"What's that?" Vickie inquired.
"It's an electrical transformer. It changes household current into high-tension current."
Chet shook his head dismally. "Jesus... We've found him."
"You mean he used that thing to kill those girls?" Vickie murmured, her face going white.
"There's no question," said Elliot. "The cords lead right into the tub."
Chet said, "In the bedroom, I found a roll of strapping tape and a bunch of girl's clothes. It says in the file that Maurice isn't married." He stood up. "I don't believe it. It's all here. Maurice is our man."
"I'm going back to the car and radio the investigation team," Elliot told them, and rushed out of the room toward the front door.
"It's over," Chet said to Vickie in a faraway tone. "And it was all so easy."
"Maybe it was too easy," she returned. "You still haven't found him. He could be anywhere."
"He doesn't know we're looking for him. He's probably at work right now. We'll have him in an hour. I'm going to have another look around to see if I can find any pentothal vials or anything."
As Chet went back into the bedroom, Vickie slowly drifted into the room with the TV set. She had a hard time coping with the idea that the whole schmear was finished. It had all happened so simply and so fast. She stood in the middle of the room, her thoughts diffused, and she looked out into the hall through the front door. That's when she noticed that the front door was opened against a sidewall, and behind the door was another door that none of them had seen. It appeared to be a closet, and its door was opened a one-inch crack.
For one devastating second, she stood paralyzed.
A bloodshot eyeball looked at her from behind the crack of the closet door. It blinked once.
Her jaw seemed locked, frozen, but finally she screamed, "Chet! There's a man in the—" Before she could say another word, a hand snapped out of the closet and grabbed her by the throat, and a short, stocky man with matted black hair yanked her against him, keeping a tight grip around her waist with one arm. With his other hand, he held the whetted tip of an Exacto razor-knife to the flesh of her throat.
"Don't move," he whispered, "or I'll open you like a fish."
Vickie closed her eyes and gulped, feeling the edge of the razor poking her neck. Chet bolted into the room, and the man turned her toward him as if she were a shield. Wide-eyed, she looked at Chet in horror; he stood feet apart at the end of the room, both hands wrapped around a huge, nickel-plated revolver aimed right at the man's face. "Give it up, Maurice."
"I got nothin' to lose," the man grunted. "Throw your gun over here, or I'll cut her." Vickie could feel the man's foul breath wisp against her hair as he spoke.
"Man, are you out of your fucking mind?" Chet said. "There'll be a hundred cops here in about ninety seconds. You won't make it to the end of the street."
"I don't give a shit. Just throw your gun over here and keep your hands up, or I'm gonna start carving."
Chet opened a palm to Maurice. "Okay, I'll chuck the gun. Just don't hurt her." Keeping a finger in the triggerguard, Chet let the pistol turn upside-down, and very slowly, he lobbed it into the middle of the room, where it landed with a fat clunk.
Wasting no time, Maurice shoved Vickie to the floor and reached for Chet's revolver. But before he could pick it up, Chet had already whipped out a second gun, a snubnose, and he fired one round with an earsplitting pop! Maurice grimaced in pain; he caught the wadcutter slug in the chest and went reeling over the recliner, crashing into the TV set. He groaned in animal agony, and he slid his legs uselessly across the floor. A dark-red spot formed on his T-shirt and began to spread over his chest in a crimson circle.
Vickie lay limp where Maurice had thrown her, still dizzy from the explosive report of Chet's backup pistol. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Chet knelt down beside her and pushed her hair out of her eyes. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah."
"You sure? He didn't cut you, did he?"
She gulped again and shook her head.
Just then, Elliot stepped into the room, a black S & W automatic in one hand, and he looked over at the whimpering remains of Michael M. Maurice. Chet gently helped Vickie to her feet. "He was hiding in the closet," Chet said. "And he pulled a knife. I had to blow him away."
"He's still alive," Elliot observed.
"I'll call for an ambulance; I'm taking her down."
"Is she all right?"
"Yeah. Just shaken up."
"Better get her out of here quick. We don't want anyone from investigation to know she was with us. They'll be out in a few minutes."
Chet ushered Vickie out. In the station wagon, he radioed for an ambulance; then he squealed away from the liquor store. Vickie breathed heavily on the way home, finally getting her composure back. She brought her fingers to her temples. "I still can't believe what happened. I was so scared I almost wet myself."
"I would have, if some sick slob held a razor to my throat," Chet said, and smiled. "Are you absolutely sure you're all right?"
"Absolutely, positively. But it might take a few days for my heart to slow down to its normal pace. . . What's going to happen to that guy?"
"If he doesn't kick off, I imagine they'll ship him back to the laughing academy. But at least he's off the streets. The case is over. No more girls will die."
She hesitated. "Does—does it bother you that you just shot that man?"
"No. That man was going for the gun. I had no choice."
"But what if he dies?"
"If he dies, he dies. I don't care. He's a murderer, and he was holding a knife to your throat, remember?"
"Yeah... You know, it just hit me—you saved my life just now. I suppose I should say something like, 'how can I ever thank you?' "
"Don't bother. All in the line of duty, as they say. You'd have done the same for me."
Vickie lit a cigarette. "It's all over now, but I'm still scared shitless. Look at my hands shake."
"You'll calm down in a while. After what you've been through, who wouldn't be shook?"
A few minutes later, they arrived at Vickie's apartment. It seemd odd to her that this would be the last time he would drop her off. She'd grown used to it over the past week.
Chet came in to use the phone to get the latest details, and Vickie strayed out onto the porch as he did so. She gazed out over the urban clutter, that seemingly endless void of rooftops and factories which fanned across the crest of the horizon. And right in the middle of it all was the WSDT radio tower, standing immense and erect like one of the wonders of the modern world. The red light seemed to be flashing slower today, much slower than its usual accelerated pulse. She looked at the tower curiously and thought: What's to keep a good gust of wind from blowing that thing down? How could anyone possibly build something so high? They don't have cranes that big... And lately, why the hell have I become so goddamned obsessed with that silly tower? I must be going nuts.
Her knees felt lax and rubbery where she stood, and she rested her hands on the railing of the balcony, trying to keep her mind away from the close call she had had with Maurice. She thought that she could still feel the pressure where he had held the razor against her skin, and still smell the stink of his breath. Jaded ideas darted in and out of her mind, and she secretly thought that she wished he would die, slowly, horribly, in as much pain as possible. But even that would not be enough. The worst kind of death would be no consolation to all of the girls he had murdered and defiled. In fantasy, she wished that she could electrocute him in a bathtub full of stinking water. Try that on for size, you sick fucker.
"I just talked to Dignazio on the mobile phone," Chet said, coming up behind her. "He says Maurice is on his way to D.C. General, but it doesn't look like he's going to make it. They think one of his lungs is bleeding."
"Good. I hope..." She didn't say the rest. There was some silence, then she said, "I guess I'll never see you again, will I? Now that this bullshit is over with."
"I'll keep in touch. And I was thinking, we could go out someplace tonight, if you want. You know, kind of like a celebration."
She smiled warmly. "I'd like that. But—"
"But what?" He was looking right into her eyes. His lips were parted slightly, and a wave of hair fell over one eyebrow.
She turned around again, facing the tower, away from him. "I—I feel bad, you know? I could've been killed today, if it weren't for you. It was like a nightmare. I just don't want to be alone. . ."
He stepped up closer behind her and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. His voice was quiet. "I know what you mean. But the nightmare's over now." There was a long pause. "I think that when you get right down to it, we are two very repressed people. We don't say what we want or what we feel because we're too afraid of what the other might think . . . You say that you don't want to be alone. I can understand that. I don't want to be alone, either."
She was still facing away from him when he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. The touch of his lips on the side of her neck created a cool, tingly sensation. She hadn't been prepared for that, and her whole body went tense for a second. Until then, she would never have thought that he had it in him, that he could feel and display affection for her. But she smiled faintly to herself, knowing that she had been wrong. She turned around in his arms and returned his kisses, her own arms gradually encircling him, the small of her back leaning against the balcony railing. He seemed to envelop her, and she felt tiny and fragile being so close to him like that. His lips moved off hers, then coursed down along the front of her throat. In a receiving gesture, she arched her head back, eyes closed, her mouth slightly parted, and she could feel his warm gushes of breath on her skin. Then he concentrated his kisses on her mouth again. Her chest was pressed against his, and she thought she could feel his heart thumping, each beat seeming to lull away the fright and loneliness and the aftershock. She clung to him, and without knowing it, her grip around him tightened even more, as if there were really no railing to support her from behind. She was so tired, and she knew he was too, but her longing for him easily overcame her exhaustion. The horror of that day, the ghosts of her past, and everything bad that had ever happened to her faded into the back of her mind. She didn't want to say anything; the silence between them seemed the most beautiful thing she had ever experienced. She wished she could stay on the balcony with him forever, and just forget about the rest of the world.
