“Okay.” Lucas turned off his recorder. “We want you back in the Cities, Sparky. You can run your girls. Nobody will hassle you until we get this turkey. When we locate him, we’d like you around to take a look. Just in case.”
“You ain’t gonna roust me?”
“Not if you stay cool.”
“All right. How about this bullshit charge here?”
MacElreney shook his head. “We can process you out in ten minutes if Minneapolis doesn’t want you.”
“We don’t want him,” Lucas said. He turned back to Sparks. “But we do want you back in the Cities. If you start trolling the other Iowa cities on your route, we’ll roust you out of every one of them. Get back up to Minneapolis.”
“Sure. Be a relief. Too much corn down here for the likes of me.” He glanced at MacElreney. “No offense.”
MacElreney looked offended.
Lucas had unlocked the door of the rental car when MacElreney shouted at him from the steps of the police station. Sparks was right behind him and they walked down the sidewalk together.
“I thought of what was weird about that dude,” Sparks said. “It was his haircut.”
“His haircut?”
“Yeah. Like, when they walked away from me toward the motel, he took his hat off. I couldn’t see his face or anything, only the back of his head. But I remember thinking he didn’t have a farmer haircut. You know how farmers always got their ears stickin’ out? Either that, or it looks like their old lady cut their hair with a bowl? Well, this guy’s hair was like styled. Like yours, or like a businessman or a lawyer or doctor or something. Slick. Not like a farmer. Never seen a farmer like that.”
Lucas nodded. “Okay. Blond guy, right?”
Sparks’ forehead wrinkled. “Why, no. No, he was a dark-haired dude.”
Lucas leaned closer. “Sparky, are you sure? Could you make a mistake?”
“No, no. Dark-haired dude.”
“Shit.” Lucas thought it over. It didn’t fit. “Anything else?” he asked finally.
Sparks shook his head. “Nothin’ except you’re getting old. I remember when I first knew you, when you beat up Bald Peterson. You had this nice smooth face like a baby’s ass. You gettin’ some heavy miles.”
“Thanks, Sparks,” Lucas said. “I needed that.”
“We all be gettin’ old.”
“Sure. And I’m sorry about your lady, by the way.”
Sparks shrugged. “Women do get killed. And it ain’t like there’s no shortage of whores.”
The drive back took the rest of the day. After a stop near the Iowa line for a cheeseburger and fries, Lucas put the cruise control on seventy-five and rolled across the Minnesota River into Minneapolis a little after eight o’clock. He dropped the rental car at the airport and took a taxi home, feeling grimy and tight from the trip. A scalding shower straightened out his bent back. When he was dressed again, he got beer from the refrigerator, went down to the spare bedroom, put the beer can on the floor next to the bed, and lay back, looking at the five charts pinned to the wall.
Bell, Morris, Ruiz, and Lewis. The maddog. The dates. Personal characteristics. He read through them, sighed, got up, pinned a sixth sheet of paper to the wall, and wrote “Brown” at the top with his Magic Marker.
Hooker. Young. Dark hair and eyes. The physical description was right. But she was killed in a motel, after being picked up on the street. All the others had been attacked in private places, their homes or apartments, or, in Lewis’ case, the empty house she was trying to sell.
He reviewed the other features of the Brown murder, including her appearance in court. Could the maddog be a lawyer? Or even a judge? A court reporter? How about a bailiff or one of the other court personnel? There were dozens of them. And he noted the knife. The maddog brought it with him for this killing. Chicago Cutlery was an expensive brand, and it was widely sold around the Twin Cities in the best department and specialty stores. Could he be some kind of gourmet? A cooking freak? Was it possible that he bought the knife recently and that a check of stores would turn up somebody who’d sold a single blade to a pudgy white guy?
Lucas looked at the notes on the maddog chart. That he was well-off, that he could be new to the area. Up from the Southwest. Office job. Sparks had confirmed that he was fair-skinned. The business about the dark hair was a problem; Carla was sure that he was very fair, and that suggested lighter hair. There were some black-haired Irish, and some Finns would fit the bill, but that seemed to be stretching. Lucas shook his head, added “dark hair?” At the end of the list he wrote “Expensive haircut. Dark hair? Wig? Wears disguises (farmer). Gourmet?”
He lay back again, his head propped up on a pillow, took a sip of beer, held the can on his chest, and read through the lists again.
Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. Cop.
He glanced at his watch. Nine-forty-five. He got off the bed, the beer still in his hand, walked back to the workroom, and picked up the telephone. After a moment’s hesitation he punched in the number for Channel Eight.
“Tell her it’s Red Horse,” he said. McGowan was on the line fifteen seconds later.
“Red Horse?”
“Yeah. Listen, Annie, this is exclusive. There was a witness on the street near the Brown killing. He actually saw the maddog. Says he looked like a farmer. He was wearing one of those hats with the bills on them, like seed hats? So it’s possible that he’s driving in from the countryside.”
“A commuter killer?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“Like he commutes to the Twin Cities to murder these women, then goes back home, where he’s just another farmer picking potatoes or whatever?”
“Well, uh, we think maybe he’s a pig farmer. This guy, the witness, brushed past him, wondered what this farmer-looking dude was doing with a chick like Brown. Anyway, he said there was a kind of odor hanging about him, you know?”
“You mean . . . pig shit?”
“Uh, pig manure, yes. That kind of confirms what we thought before.”
“That’s good, Red Horse. Is there any chance we can get this guy on camera?”
“No. No chance. If something happens to change that, we’ll let you know, but we’re keeping his identity a secret for now. If the maddog found out who he is, he might go after him.”
“Okay. Let me know if that changes. Anything else?”
“No. That’s it.”
“Thanks, Red Horse. I mean, I really, really appreciate this.”
There was a moment of silence, of pressure. Lucas fought it.
“Uh, yeah,” he said. “See you.”
CHAPTER
16
A pig farmer?
The maddog raged through his apartment. They said he was a pig farmer. They said he smelled like pig shit.
He had trouble focusing.
The real issue. He had to remember the real issue: somebody had seen him and remembered the way he dressed. Had they seen his face? Was an artist working on circulars? Would they be plastered around the courthouse in the morning? He gnawed on a thumbnail, pacing. Pain flashed through his hand. He looked down and found he had ripped a chunk of nail out, peeling it away from the lobster-pink underskin. Blood surged into the tear. Cursing, he stumbled to the bathroom, found a clipper, tried to trim the nail, his hand shaking. When it was done, his thumb still throbbing, he wrapped it with a plastic bandage and went back to the television.
Sports. He ran the videotape back and watched Annie McGowan deliver her scoop. Pig farmer, she said. Commuter killer. Smells of pig manure, may explain his inability to attract women. He punched the sound and watched only the picture, her black hair with the bangs curled over her forehead, her deep, dark eyes.
Now she stirred him. She looked like . . . who? Somebody a long time ago. He stopped the tape, rewound it, ran it again, with the sound muted. She was Chosen.
McGowan.
Research would be needed, but he had time. She was a good choice for several reasons. She would be satisfying; and she would teach a lesson. He was not One to laugh at. He was not One to be called a pig farmer. The Cities would be horrified; nobody would laugh. They would know the power. Everybody: they would know it. He paced rapidly, circling the living room, watching McGowan’s face, running the tape back, watching again. A fantasy. A lesson.