“Oh, my God,” Ben said. “And he’s still alive?”
“Just barely. The woman who walked in on them had the guts to call the police, even though she risked being picked up herself, and an ambulance took him to St. John’s. He’s still on a respirator and he hasn’t regained consciousness. There’s a chance he never will, or that when he does, he’ll have severe brain damage from oxygen deprivation.”
“Jesus.” Ben steadied himself against his chair. “Do you have any idea what he was doing? How he tracked down the killer?”
“He made some notes we found in his desk. They’re sketchy, but they’re better than nothing. Apparently Tomlinson recognized a tattoo on the second victim’s body and traced that back to a red-light district. We’re not sure which district, though Tomlinson used to work Eleventh Street, so I’d say that’s our best bet. Anyway, he started investigating and eventually deduced that all the victims were teenage prostitutes. He seemed to think there was a pattern to the killings, a connection other than the fact that the victims were hookers. Unfortunately, he doesn’t explain the connection in his notes. Like I said, they were very sketchy. All the last entry says is that he’s looking for someone named Trixie.”
“So you have a name? Great! Then all you need to do is round up every teen prostitute in town named Trixie.”
“Believe me, Ben, we’ve tried. We’ve systematically quizzed every streetwalker we could find. No one fesses up to being Trixie. In fact, no one will even admit to knowing someone named Trixie.”
“She must be hiding. She may have left town.”
“That’s possible, but I think it’s unlikely. We’ve been watching the traditional exits carefully, and besides, most teen hookers are on a very short leash. I think she’s still here. She’s just keeping a low profile.”
“Any idea why?”
“Only speculation. It’s not all that unusual for a teen prostitute to keep her distance from the police.”
“Good point.” But, Ben thought silently, it’s just possible someone not associated with the police might have better luck. His eyes met Mike’s. He could tell he wasn’t the only one in the room having the thought.
“Do we have a description of Trixie? Or the killer?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve been assuming the killer is a man—because the murders and mutilation required strength and because all the victims have been female prostitutes—but I could be wrong. And it could be a man working for someone else. Serial killers come in all shapes and sizes.”
“Are you sure it’s a serial killer?”
Mike hesitated for a moment, then cocked an eyebrow. “Funny you should ask that. Just between you and me?”
“I’m not likely to report to The New York Times.”
Mike glanced at Blackwell, then continued. “I’m certain all the murders were committed by the same person. The MOs are too similar; even an eyewitness couldn’t duplicate the crime with such perfection. The phrase serial killer suggests a loony tune—a psychotic, or sociopath, or sexual deviant. Someone who kills with no motive other than what his twisted mind may invent. But there’s something eminently…logical about this killer.”
“You find something logical in the mutilation of four helpless prostitutes?”
“That’s just it. Why the mutilation? It doesn’t seem to reflect gender hatred, or cannibalistic tendencies, or sexual obsessions, or any of the other traits you’ll find in the FBI profiles. And why no threats? Why no sexual assaults? Why no taunting letters to the police? It’s as if the killer is duplicating the eccentricities of a serial, killer, but lacks the core madness of a true psychotic.”
“If that’s true, Mike, then we’re looking for someone with—God forbid—a logical reason for committing these murders.”
Mike pursed his lips. “I’m aware of that. What’s more, I think Tomlinson was convinced of it.”
“Well, pardon me if I’m not convinced. Anyone who would commit crimes like this is a nutcase in my book, per se. Surely you’ll catch him soon if you continue this all-force full-court press.”
“I’d like to tell you we’re getting closer, Ben, but I’d be lying. This case is the living embodiment of the third law of thermodynamics: all things tend toward chaos. The harder we look, the less we find. The longer it takes, the more it gets away from us.”
“Well, thanks for the info, Mike. Let me know if you learn anything about the people on the Kindergarten list. I’ll be sure to call tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother,” Blackwell said. “I’ll be back here the second your week is up. The press are hungry for a suspect. And I’m going to give them one.”
“One way or another, huh?”
Blackwell stepped forward and stood so close that Ben could feel his hot unpleasant breath on his face. “That’s exactly right, Kincaid. One way or another.”
38
A FEW MINUTES AFTER Mike and Chief Blackwell left, Christina breezed into Ben’s office and seized her favorite chair. “Janice said you were looking for me.”
Ben bit his knuckle pensively. “Christina, I need your help.”
“Okay. Don’t look so distressed. Have I ever denied you anything?”
“There’s always a first time. I want to mount an undercover operation. Just you and me. Tonight.”
“Tonight? That’s not much advance warning. What if I have plans? What if I have a big date?”
“Then you need to cancel it. This can’t wait.”
“Why not?”
Ben tugged at his collar. “I just had a visit from Chief Blackwell.”
“That blowhard? Let him arrest you. He’ll never make it stick.”
“Oh? The police are experts at making charges stick, especially when they’re desperate, as you of all people should know. Besides, the arrest alone would kill my professional reputation, and if I’m behind bars how am I ever going to find out who killed Howard Hamel?”
“Okay, okay. How much time do you have?”
“Less than twenty-four hours.”
She gulped. “Tonight it is. Give me the précis.”
Ben recounted the new information that Mike had provided about Sergeant Tomlinson’s private investigation. “The knowledge that the victims are all teen prostitutes is the wedge we need to crack this case wide open. We’ve been pumping away at our suspects here in the office and coming up empty. Now I think we need to come at it from the other end—from the victims’ side of the mystery. Maybe we’ll uncover something that will tie this whole mess together.”
“Well…it’s worth a try. Especially since you’re desperate. So what do you want me to do?”
Ben hemmed a bit and traced the pleat in his slacks. “Like I said before…I want you to go undercover.”
“Where?”
“Eleventh and Cincinnati. Walking the streets.”
Christina drew herself up in the chair. “Now wait a minute, Ben. There’s no chance in—”
“It’s the only way.”
“There must be an alternative.”
“There isn’t.”
“I absolutely, positively refuse.”
“Why? I’ve gone along with your schemes in the past.”
“Never anything like this. Forget it, Ben. This is not going to happen.”
“Please, Christina. It’s important.”
“Ben, you’ve been watching too many Charlie’s Angels reruns. I am not going to masquerade as a prostitute.”
Ben frowned. “A prostitute? No, you misunderstand. I don’t want you to masquerade as a prostitute. I want you to masquerade as a customer.”