“I’m wondering if we should talk to this guy ourselves,” McGowan said, “or let the detectives handle it.”
“Come on, McGowan. Let’s do it.”
“The detectives like to do the questioning on something like this.”
“But maybe we can break the case.”
“Who do you think you are, Dick Tracy?”
“I don’t want to be a patrolman for eighteen years like you, McGowan.”
McGowan’s eyes became icebergs. “I think we’ll call the detectives and let them handle it,” he said.
Chapter Ten
At four o’clock in the morning, Rackman double-parked his green Plymouth in front of 329 East Ninth Street. Sitting beside him was Detective Olivero, and in the back seat was Inspector Jenkins, a glum look on his face. They got out of the car and walked swiftly toward the building, a little tense, their hands close to their service revolvers. Climbing the stoop, they made their way through the downstairs hall and went up the stairs, with Rackman leading the way. When they neared the fifth floor they slowed down and moved stealthily, on their tiptoes. They crowded around the door and took out their revolvers. Rackman and Olivero put their shoulders against the door and Jenkins stood back a few feet.
Jenkins nodded, and Rackman and Olivero threw themselves against the door. It crackled but didn’t break. They hit it again and it shattered, the three detectives pushing and spilling into a dark smelly room. They crouched, pointed their guns, and listened, but there was no sound except the dripping of water. Taking out flashlights, they turned them on and saw a kitchen table piled with dirty dishes, a refrigerator, a sink, and a bathtub with a porcelain cover. Olivero found the light switch and flicked it.
Rackman led the way into a living room, their pistols still out, and they entered the bedroom. The bed wasn’t made and no one was in it. Rackman turned on the light, and the white sheets on the bed were gray with filth. A dark depression was in the center of the pillow. Strewn about on the dresser and floor were porno newspapers and magazines.
Jenkins dropped his revolver into his shoulder holster. “Looks like he ain’t here.”
Rackman looked into the closet. “He’s got some clothes here.” There was a shirt that only could fit a big fat man, the description of the Slasher.
Olivero went through the dresser. “There’s stuff in here, too.”
“I wonder where the scumbag is,” Jenkins said, wiping his mouth with his hand.
They returned to the living room, and Jenkins found the light switch, flipping it on, illuminating solid, old furniture that probably was nice once, but now was soiled and worn. A big upholstered chair was in the corner, its cushion crushed low to the floor. A floor lamp was beside it, and a hassock in front. Nearby against the wall was a stack of newspapers, and Rackman bent over to look at them. On top was a copy of the New York Review of Sex, and the headline said “Panties: The Ultimate Fetish.” Underneath was another copy of the New York Review of Sex and the headline was “Nooky with Nurses.”
Jenkins walked over, his heavy footsteps making the floorboards creak. “What you got there?”
“A stack of the New York Review of Sex,” Rackman replied, continuing to look through them. “Looks like he bought it every week.”
“Sick fucker,” Jenkins spat.
Rackman looked through the newspapers to see how far back they ran, and when he got to the bottom of the pile it was nearly a year and a half. Olivero returned from the front of the apartment. “There’s another bedroom up front, but it don’t look like it’s been slept in for years.”
“He used to live here with his parents,” Rackman said. “That must have been their room.”
“Well, he ain’t here,” Jenkins said, frowning.
Rackman stood up, a copy of the New York Review of Sex in his hand. “Maybe he works nights.”
“Yeah,” said Olivero. “His clothes are still here.”
Jenkins thought for a few moments. “I’ll call for a backup and we’ll stake the place out for the rest of the night. Son of a bitch, I thought we were going to get him while he was asleep.”
Rackman shrugged. “We don’t even know if he’s our man.”
“He’s the best suspect we’ve got so far,” Jenkins replied. “And he’s the only one we’ve got.”
Jenkins went downstairs to call for the backup, and Olivero went with him to watch the street. Rackman stayed in the apartment to see what he could find. First he went to the bedroom in front that hadn’t been slept in. Olivero had left the lamp on next to the double bed, and Rackman thought the room looked inviting and cozy, even though it smelled musty. He slapped his hand on the maroon bedspread and a billow of dust rose in the air. He ran his finger over the dresser and it made a deep line in the dust. No one had been in here for a long time. There weren’t even pictures on the dresser.
He went to the kitchen and smelled the stink of old food on dirty dishes in the sink and on the table. An ashtray was full of cigarettes, and he picked up one of the butts. It was an unfiltered Camel. Food stains were on three porno magazines littering the table along with empty cans of beans and soup. Evidently hygiene was not one of Kowalchuk’s strong points.
He returned to the living room. More porno magazines and newspapers were near the sofa, and an old black and white television faced the sofa and the easy chair. The rug was worn nearly through to the floor. Rackman figured Kowalchuk sat in his chair or laid on his sofa and read porno stuff or watched television. He was a lonely, horny man and didn’t care about cleanliness; but was he demented to the point where he’d slash the throats of women?
Rackman picked up a copy of the New York Review of Sex, and the pages fell open to an article called “Teenaged Sex Freaks.” Leafing through the paper, he saw reviews of current porno films, ratings of massage parlors, and classified ads in the back, placed by people of both sexes seeking sex. There were photographs of men and women having oral and ordinary sexual intercourse, and they turned Rackman on a little, but disgusted him at the same time. Rackman wasn’t very romantic about sex, but he didn’t like it to be degraded either.
There were footsteps out in the hall, and Rackman instinctively went for his gun. Yanking it out of his belt holster, he dashed across the living room and charged into the hall. A tall, bearded hippie in a denim jacket was there, a key in his hand. He looked at the gun and his eyes bulged out.
“What’s your name!” Rackman said.
“My name?” the hippie said, a little dazed.
“That’s right.” Rackman flipped out his shield.
“Hughes.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“Where?”
“That apartment over there.” Hughes pointed his key to the door next to Kowalchuk’s.
“Lemme see you open the door.”
Hughes walked over and inserted his key in the door and opened it. “See?”
Rackman holstered his revolver. “How long you been living there?”
“A little over three years.”
“You know Kowalchuk?”
“You mean the guy who lives in that apartment?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know him personally, but I’ve seen him around. He works nights like I do. I think he’s a cabdriver.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I saw him pull up in front of this building one night in a cab that he was driving.”
Rackman’s mind started racing. All cab drivers are photographed and fingerprinted by the Taxi Commission. He was going to bust this case wide open tonight.