“He’s the doer, Rosato.” Needleman’s mouth set in a firm little line that Bennie was beginning to think he should patent.
“When will the tests come back?”
“Some of them, day or so.”
Bennie nodded. So that meant they had fibers and maybe a print or two. Stuff they could test here, in the Roundhouse. DNA, as in blood, had to be sent to Maryland for testing, which took weeks. “What’s Mr. Johnson have to say?”
“Nothing. He’s not talking until his lawyer gets here. But I’ll tell you what you’re gonna see on the TV news, only because one of the witnesses went live at five. Johnson bragged to a couple guys in a bar on Juniper that he was on a one-man campaign to ‘clean up America.’ Admitted out loud that he killed Chiamel, and St. Amien, too. Said he was gonna get himself an A-rab next. And he wasn’t even drinking. Three witnesses heard it, and they’re all willing to testify.”
“So you got a tip.”
“Yes.”
Bennie considered it. “Did Johnson give you an alibi on Chiamel or St. Amien before he clammed up?”
“No, he wanted a lawyer from the jump.”
Bennie was trying to keep an open mind. “You really think he’s the doer in both murders?”
“Yes.”
“The MO is the same?”
“Identical.”
“Why don’t you fill me in? Convince me.” Bennie glanced around the room. “Come on, everybody’s too busy to care if we actually get along. Maybe we can help each other. We both want the same thing. You tell me stuff, and I tell you stuff.”
Needleman stepped closer. “Okay, I’ll bite. Here’s the MO. Victim is taken from behind, at the mouth of an alley. Same time of night, same type of vic. Older man, well dressed, foreign, speaks with an accent. Stabbed in the back with a common knife, dragged into an alley, turned over and knifed until subdued. Ten to twelve stab wounds, indicative of rage. Robbed and left for dead.”
Poor Robert. Bennie was so glad she’d talked Julien out of coming. It was tough even for her to hear. Detectives were usually present at autopsies and heard the findings. Needleman was essentially telling her what was in the autopsy report.
“Also, Johnson lives a few blocks from both scenes, in Center City. Twice divorced. Lives with mom, she works at night. You know the profile, the skinhead type. Impulsive, angry, underachiever. Badly socialized, a loner. Can’t hold a job or a marriage. Blames his problems on everybody else. A victim.”
Bennie’s eyes narrowed. “But this killer should be a planner, if your theory is true. He follows tourists around and systematically kills them. He’s cleaning up America. It’s part of a plan.”
“Not that well organized a plan. Opportunistic.”
“So he’s a planner, but a bad one. Like me,” Bennie said, and they both laughed. “Detective, I’m trying to believe, but it just isn’t working, partly because the other possibilities make so much more sense to me. And if you would investigate them, maybe we’d find the aforementioned ample physical evidence. But you’re not looking, and now you think you got your man.” Bennie wanted so badly to persuade him. “What if Johnson didn’t kill St. Amien, only Chiamel? They’re similar victims, you’re right, but they’re still two different men. St. Amien was involved in a very contentious lawsuit, worth millions of dollars, and he was represented by a woman with a very nasty twin.”
Needleman laughed again. “Okay, tell me what you know, Nancy.”
“Brace yourself,” Bennie began, and she filled the detective in on her history with Alice, telling him the details of the night at the river and the break-in at her house. Detective Needleman listened politely, which Bennie regarded as progress. “Well, whaddaya think?” she asked when she had finished.
“I’m trying to believe, but it just doesn’t work for me,” Detective Needleman answered, with a hint of sarcasm.
“Why not? We know my twin is trying to get me.”
“Rosato, if your twin is out to get you, why wouldn’t she just get you? Why kill your client?”
“She’s toying with me, Detective. She’s closing in. By killing someone I care about, who is important to my business, she hurts me. She’s saying, I can take you anytime. Then she makes her move.”
Needleman frowned with genuine concern. “If you think this, you should have security.”
“I do. Thanks. And I’m getting a TRO against her, for what that’s worth. Look, even if it’s not Alice, there are suspects far more likely than some skinhead.” Bennie launched into telling him about Bill Linette and his whereabouts last night, taking him through her interview with the waiter he had missed and about the steak knife and Mort Abrams. “Well?”
“I have to tell you, I listened to you, I really did, but I just think we got the bad guy, right in there.” The detective nodded at the door behind him. “I been in this business too long, and I like this guy. I really like him.” Bennie knew the term was detective-speak for he’s a killer, but didn’t remark on the irony. “He’s the type of scumbag we’re looking for. Not some broad who’s got a grudge against her sister, or some fat-cat lawyer or his client. The two murders, back to back, it is too clear a pattern, especially in Center City, which never gets this kind of action.” Detective Needleman nodded, more convinced as he went on. Bennie knew the syndrome. She did the same thing. “My hunches come out of thirty years’ experience on the job. I wouldn’t have told the brother unless I was sure. Johnson is the guy who killed both men.”
“Why do you dismiss the others so easily?”
“I don’t dismiss them, and I didn’t. But right now I got the doer in Chiamel, and when the tests come back, we’ll see what they tell us on St. Amien. If it doesn’t pan out, it doesn’t pan out.” Needleman touched her shoulder, in a comforting way. “I know you care about your client, and I know you’ve been under a lot of strain. Why don’t you just do your thing, and let us do ours, with Johnson.”
“So you’re not gonna buy it, are you,” Bennie said. It was a statement of fact, not a question.
“Sorry.”
“Me, too.”
Needleman inclined his head. “You gonna lay off now?”
“Me?” Bennie didn’t have to think twice. “Never.”
Bennie hit the parking lot outside and threaded her way through the umpteenth gauntlet of reporters. They had the scent of a big story about to break and it had sent them circling and barking. They shouted questions in her ears. Shoved cameras in her face. Flew boom mikes on metal poles at her. She shot forward, pressing ahead, through the crazed reporters and out to the street. And to David. But he wasn’t there.
Relax, you just don’t see him.
Bennie hustled through the press. A cameraman jostled her, making her drop her briefcase. She bent to pick it up and was almost knocked over from the other side. Suddenly, it was a mob scene. Reporters surged toward her, screaming questions. Blocking her in. She couldn’t go forward, she couldn’t go back. She couldn’t see the street over the cameras. She was trapped. Vulnerable. Unprotected. Was Alice in this crowd? Where was David?
“Get out of my way!” Bennie yelled, swinging her briefcase. The reporters kept shouting. The motor drives kept clicking, the videocameras filming. She had to get free, free of all of it. She had to save herself. She had to go.
She broke into a jog out of the parking lot, then accelerated to a run even in her pumps, ignoring the shock each time her foot hit the pavement. She didn’t know where David was and she didn’t care anymore. Her cell phone began ringing but she didn’t answer it. She kept running, panting hard, her heart pumping like the athlete’s heart it was, and she paid no mind to the stares of the people on the street or to the perspiration soaking her blouse and suit or to the pain in her lungs and ache in her knees. She took the pounding like the punishment she deserved, for getting Robert killed, and for causing so much pain to Julien and Georges. And part of her took the punishment for Alice, too.