Did he sound like Lyndon Johnson?
At his apartment, the maddog looked in the freezer, took out a microwave dinner, set the timer on the oven, and punched the Start button. His face was reflected in the window of the microwave. Lips like red worms. His hand slipped into his coat pocket and encountered the flier. He took it out and read through it again.
The victims, it said, were a type. Dark eyes, dark hair. Attractive. Young to middle-aged.
He thought about it. They were right, of course. Maybe he should take a blonde. But blondes didn’t appeal. The pale skin, the pale hair. Cold-blooded people. And he didn’t want anyone old. That was distasteful. Old women would know too much about their own deaths. His women should be confronting the prospect for the first time.
I won’t change, he thought. No need to, really. There were better than a million women in the Twin Cities. Probably a quarter of a million fit his “type.” A quarter-million prospective Chosen women. From that point of view, the description of a “type” was meaningless. The police wouldn’t have a chance. He felt a surge of confidence: the whole thing was meaningless. Having been fought off by one woman, having been seen at the Brown killing by another witness, he realized the police had less than he had expected. If they were telling everything.
The microwave beeped at him and he took the dinner out and carried it to the table. If they catch me, he thought as he ate the lonely meal, I could use the microwave defense. Like the guy who claimed he was driven crazy by excess sugar from an overdose of Twinkies. The Twinkie defense; his would be the Tater-Tot defense. He speared one of the potato nubbins and peered at it, popped it in his mouth.
Tonight, he thought. I can’t wait any longer.
He called the cripple’s house a little after six but there was no answer. He called again at seven. No answer. At eight there was an answer.
“Phyllis?” he asked in his highest-pitched voice.
“You must have the wrong number.” It was the first time he’d heard her voice. It was low and musical.
“Oh, dear,” he said. He sounded dainty in his own ears; like anything but a killer. He gave her a number with one digit different from her own.
“That’s the wrong number,” she said. “I’m five-four- seven-six.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” he said, and hung up. She was home.
He prepared carefully, the excitement growing but under control. A hunter’s excitement, a hunter’s joy. He would wear his best tweed sport coat, the black cashmere overcoat, with black loafers. Snap-brim felt hat.
The overcoat had big pockets. They would take the potato—the potato had worked so well last time. He went to the closet, took a Kotex pad out of the box he’d bought three months before. Tape. Latex gloves under his leather driver’s gloves. A scarf would partially cover the bottom of his face, giving him more protection against recognition: this was new, after all, a collection in his own neighborhood. Had to be ready to abort, he thought. If anyone sees me outside her door, forget it.
Knife? No. She’d have one.
When he was ready, he went through the side door into the attached garage, got in the car, punched the button on the remote garage-door opener, backed into the street, closed the garage, drove two blocks, and parked the car. He reached into the back seat and got a brown business envelope, opened the flap, and looked inside. A half-dozen forms, procured from a bin on the first floor of the Government Center. Applications for employment.
As he walked down to the door, the excitement became almost unbearable. I am coming, he prayed, I am coming for the Chosen; the One is coming. He felt the cold wind on his face and exulted in it, the smell of the Northwest, the expectant winter.
He walked briskly to her house, a businessman on business, and without breaking step turned down her sidewalk. The door had four small panes set in the center, just at head height, partly covered by a small curtain. He looked into her kitchen. She was not in sight. The maddog rapped on the door.
And waited. Rapped again. A noise? Then he saw her, rolling down the linoleum floor in her wheelchair. Not a wealthy woman, but such a face; such a fresh face, for one who had been so badly injured. An optimist.
She half-opened the inner door, left the outer one closed.
“Yes?”
“Miss Wheatcroft? I am Louis Vullion, an attorney with Felsen-Gore. I’m on the Minnesota Bar Association scholarship committee.” He reached under his coat, took out a business card, opened the outer door, and handed it to her. She looked at it and said, curiously, “Yes?”
He held up the brown envelope. “I was just talking to Dean Jensen at the law school. Actually, I was over there picking up applications for the Felsen Legal Residencies and Dean Jensen said you must have neglected to submit yours. Either that, or it was lost?” He waved the brown envelope at her, started to fumble out the white application forms.
“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I never heard of them.”
“Never heard of them?” The maddog was puzzled. How could she not have heard of them? “I’m sorry, I assumed all the top students knew about the residencies. They pay so well, and, you know, you probably get more experience in top-level personal injury and tort. They’re at least as sought after as the clerkships, especially since they pay so well.”
She hesitated, looked at his face, his clothes, the brown envelope, the business card. “Maybe you better come in, Mr . . . .”
“Vullion,” he said, stepping inside. “Louis Vullion. Nasty night, isn’t it?”
This one was different. Comfortable, almost. He took almost twenty minutes to kill her, lying nude beside her on her bed, the rubber firmly protecting him from seminal disclosures. He needed it. He came once as he worked on her and again when he finally slipped the knife under her breastbone and her back arched and she left him.
And he felt sleepy, looking at her, and laid his head upon her breast.
Cold. Stiff. He sat up, looked around. My God, he had been asleep. Panic gripped him and he looked down at her cooling body and then wildly around the room. How long? How long? He glanced at his watch. Nine-forty-five.
He stood, tore off the rubber, flushed it. His body was covered with blood. He stepped into the tiny bathroom, turned on the shower, and rinsed himself. He kept the latex gloves on; he didn’t want to leave prints. Not now. Not in his finest hour so far.
When he’d cleaned off most of the blood, he stepped out of the shower but left it to run. If he’d lost any hair in the shower, the water might wash it down the drain. He picked up a towel, then put it down. Hair again. He dried himself with his undershirt, and when he was reasonably dry, he stuffed the shirt in his coat pocket. Thinking about hair had made him paranoid. He had continued shaving his pubic hair, but he feared the loss of hair from his chest or head. He got his roll of tape, made a loop around his hand, and blotted the bed where he’d been lying. When he was finished, he looked at the tape; there were small hairlike filaments stuck to it, and what might have been one or two black pubic hairs, the woman’s. Nothing red, nothing of his. He stuffed the tape in his coat pocket with the damp shirt, stepped into the bathroom, turned off the shower, and dressed.
When he was ready, he looked around, took stock. Still wearing the latex gloves. Sport coat, overcoat, hat, scarf, driving gloves. Was he forgetting anything? The business card. He found it on the floor. That was everything. Leave the sock and potato on the floor. Drop the note on her chest: Isolate yourself from random discovery. Ready. He patted her on the tummy and left.
He stepped out, walked down the sidewalk and around the house, stripping off the latex gloves as he walked. The old woman’s apartment was dark. There was a light upstairs, in the third apartment, but nobody at the window. He walked briskly down the sidewalk, and, as he passed under a streetlight, noticed a dark stain on the back of one hand. He hesitated, looking at it. Blood? He touched it to his tongue. Blood. Sweet. He passed no one on the street on the way to his car. He opened it, climbed in, and drove.
Out to I-94. Pressure behind his eyes. He was going to do it. Telephone on a pole, outside a Laundromat. One guy inside, reading a newspaper while his clothes went around in the dryer. It was a mistake before, it would be a mistake again. But he needed it. He needed it like he needed the women. Someone to talk to. Someone who might understand. The maddog pulled in to the Laundromat phone, dialed Davenport’s house.