“Right where we found her.”
“Let’s take a look.”
The two men moved into the park, the taller, younger Carlisle leading the way. They walked down a cobblestone path, between starkly bare trees, until Carlisle left the cobblestones about a hundred yards into the park. Macauley followed him up the slight slope of a rolling hill. He could see flashbulbs popping on the other side of the rise as the police photographers went about their business.
The girl lay in a crumpled heap just on the other side of the hill. A portable floodlight lit the scene. Macauley stood and let his eyes move slowly, taking in the entire scene.
The girl’s skirt was hiked up over her thin legs and her coat was disheveled. Macauley could tell that she had put up a struggle. Her once-pretty face was battered and bruises were beginning to show on her neck.
Long, light blond hair was fanned out around her head. White teeth shone in the glare of the floodlight, because her lips were drawn back in a grimace that distorted her whole face.
In a hard voice, Macauley said to Carlisle, “Okay, finish up here. Who found her?”
“A drunk, looking for some place to sleep.” Carlisle tapped his notebook. “I’ve got his statement for what it’s worth. You want to talk to him?”
“No. I’m going home.”
For a moment, Carlisle forgot himself and said, “Going home?”
“She’ll still be dead in the morning.”
Macauley turned to walk away, then looked back over his shoulder and said in a voice that betrayed his weariness, “For God’s sake, put a blanket over her.”
It was still cold and overcast the next morning when Macauley entered the ugly grey building that had become his second home over the years. He went upstairs into the long, low-ceilinged room filled with desks and the clatter of typewriters. None of the men at the desks looked up from their hunt-and-pecking as Macauley crossed the room to his little cubbyhole of an office.
Carlisle was waiting in the office, sitting on a hard chair with three thick manila folders and one thin one in his lap. He put them on the desk as Macauley hung up his overcoat.
“I’ve got all the information for you, Lieutenant.”
Macauley sat down behind the desk without replying and opened the thin top folder. He scanned the flimsy sheets inside, then methodically read through the other three folders. Carlisle fidgeted while Macauley read.
When Macauley closed the last folder, Carlisle asked, “Any patterns there, Lieutenant?”
Macauley considered, then said, “All four girls were between eighteen and twenty, all were single, and they were all killed in the park. Two of them lived out in the suburbs with their parents, the other two lived by themselves in apartments here in the city.
“In fact, the first one, Jennifer Warren, lived in the building right across the street from the park. None of them had a police record. They were just pretty young girls who were killed in the park.”
“You think it’s a lunatic, then?”
“It looks like it, doesn’t it? Has anyone talked to the Murray girl’s parents?”
“Not yet. We notified them last night, of course, and told them a man would be out today. You want me to go?”
Macauley almost visibly shouldered the weight as he stood up. “No, I’ll talk to them. You check through those files again, make sure they’re complete and correct.”
Carlisle said, “Will do”, picked up the files and bustled out of the office. Macauley slipped back into his big coat. He hesitated at the door, then went back to his desk. He pulled a drawer open and stared at the bottle inside for a moment. Then he shook his head, slammed the drawer shut and went on out.
Calmont Avenue was lined with old two-story houses that had once been fashionable. Now the neighborhood had fallen on bad times, and the houses had been carelessly converted into apartments. Macauley spotted the correct number on one of the houses and pulled his car over against the cub.
A ramshackle fence surrounded the yard. Macauley pushed open the creaking gate and stepped over a toy fire truck on the cement walk. He could hear a television muttering somewhere in the house.
Just before he reached the porch, the front door of the house opened and a woman came out. They met on the steps, and Macauley automatically noted that she was tall and dark-haired. He nodded to her and went on up the steps.
Elizabeth Jean Murray had lived with her parents in a four-room apartment on the second floor. Macauley went up a flight of stairs that squeaked every time he put his weight down. A long hall led away from the landing, and he went down it to the last door.
A small faded woman about fifty answered his knock. Her eyes and nose were red from crying. Macauley said, “Mrs. Murray?”
She answered in a hushed voice, “Yes. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Lieutenant Macauley.” He held up the leather folder that contained his identification. “I hate to intrude on you at a time like this, but I’d like to ask you some questions if you don’t mind.”
“Come in. I don’t see how questions can help my Beth, though.”
The whole apartment was threadbare, from the rug to the furniture to the lives of the people who lived there. Macauley could feel the depression like a tangible thing.
Mrs. Murray sat on a ragged sofa, and Macauley selected an old brown armchair. He regretted the decision almost immediately, when a broken spring poked into him, but he did not get up. He pulled out his notebook and pen and said, “Do you know what Elizabeth was doing in town?”
Mrs. Murray twisted her hands in her lap. “N-no, she didn’t say. She left about six o’clock. She didn’t tell me where she was going. She never did.”
“Did she do that often — leave without telling you her plans?”
“Nearly every night. I suppose she was bored. She didn’t have a job, you know. She never could find one after she graduated from high school last year. She finally quit looking.”
“Did she have many friends?”
“Friends? No, not really. She was a shy girl. She could have had friends, she was a pretty girl. Have you seen her picture?”
Before Macauley could say anything, she got to her feet and plucked a small, framed photograph off of a table. He took it politely when she handed it to him. The girl in it was Elizabeth Jean Murray on a happier day, a smile on her thin well-formed face. He handed the picture back to Elizabeth’s mother.
Macauley looked down at his notebook and said, “Are any of these names familiar to you? Jennifer Warren? Linda Metcalf? Wanda Ansley?”
Mrs. Murray looked bewildered and said, “No, I don’t know them. Should I?”
“No, ma’am, we just thought you might have heard Elizabeth mention them.” He didn’t tell her that those were the other girls who had been murdered. “By the way, is Mr. Murray here?”
Mrs. Murray was looking at the picture, her eyes wet again. “No, he went to work. He didn’t want to stay here with me today. Do you need to talk to him? He works for the gas company.”
Macauley considered the information he had gotten from Elizabeth’s mother and decided that Elizabeth’s father would probably be no more helpful. “No, perhaps later, but not now.”
He closed the notebook and stood up, thankful to be off the broken spring. “We’ll be in touch with you if we find out anything or if we need any more information. We really are very, very sorry, Mrs. Murray.”
He started to turn away and leave, when something made him pause. Without really knowing why, he said, “There was a woman downstairs, leaving just as I got here. She had dark hair, probably in her mid-thirties. Do you know her?”
A look of apprehension replaced the sorrow on Mrs. Murray’s face. She stammered, “No-no, I... I don’t think so.”
Macauley knew then that she did. “Please, Mrs. Murray. You never know when something will be important in an investigation like this.”