One-third of all murderers end up as suicides, as a matter of fact...'
'But you have a theory.' He was still standing before her as she sat, still exhausted from her ordeal, on the motel bed.
'I believe the intervals between crimes occur when the killer is interrupted, probably by arrest on other charges, or by commitment to an institution,' she explained. 'Now, the intervals seem too short and irregular for normal sentencing and parole, so...'
'An escapee,' Bolan finished for her. The old tightness was back in his gut.
'Exactly,' she said, almost shouting it out. 'If I can find a man who was locked up during the relevant periods but escaped in time to commit each of the murders... I've got him!'
'What's your progress?' the Executioner asked.
She looked downcast again, losing some of the exhilaration.
'Negative on all local jail records,' she said. 'I was just starting acanvass of mental institutions when I got kicked upstairs. But from the rapist's M.O. — as far as he got, that is — I believe it is the same man who got Toni Blancanales, and I believe that Toni is the only living eyewitness.'
'Who is in charge of the Blancanales investigation now?' he asked.
'Well... Lieutenant Fawcett has indirect authority, in conjunction with someone from the rape unit.'
'How does Homicide inherit a rape case?'
She smiled dryly. 'R.H.I.P., mister. Rank hath its privileges.'
'So what happens to your pet theory, Fran?'
'I still have my friends on the unit,' she said. 'A transfer doesn't change that. Between us, we'll finish the canvass of sanitariums sooner or later.'
'Make it sooner,' Bolan advised sternly.
The lady cop bristled visibly at that.
'You don't rank me, mister. I don't know why I'm spilling my guts to you anyway, when I don't even know your interest in all this.'
'I told you, I'm interested in justice,' Bolan said. 'And if your theory proves out, there's more to all this than a sex freak on the prowl. I'll need a copy of that suspect sketch, and any pertinent data from your canvass.'
The lady cop stiffened.
'You ask a lot, La Mancha. You won't get me to hurt the department.'
'I haven't asked you to. But if there is a cover-up, then those responsible are spoiling every decent thing a lawman stands for. You owe them nothing.'
There was another long pause. 'I'll have to think this over,' she said.
Bolan nodded.
'You know the numbers,' he said softly. 'Our man missed with Toni, so he's still hungry. How long have we got?'
'Give me time to think, dammit!' she snapped. There was more worry than anger in her voice.
Bolan wrote a telephone number, Pol's answering service, on a card and then rose to leave.
'You can reach me through this number when you make up your mind. And you might watch your step today.'
'Bet on it,' she told him, smiling again. 'And thanks... for happening by. You know, I should report what happened.'
'I recommend you don't for now,' said Bolan. 'See if anybody acts surprised. I'll direct Lieutenant Fawcett to your visitors when I see him.'
And with that he left her, passing back into the early-morning darkness that was already tinged with fault traces of gray on the eastern horizon. He had spent more time with the lady cop than he had planned — but he felt that the time had been well spent.
Even so, he had damned little to work with and, possibly, even less time to seek his handle on the situation. If Fran Traynor's theory proved out... and if there was a smoke-screen being laid downtown...
Too damned many
Still, he could project areas of caution and concern, even with the small amount of solid data available.
Item: Someone had definitely called out the guns, and unless they played industrial espionage for keeps in the Twin Cities, that meant someone was vitally interested in Toni's case.
Item: By logical extension, and if Fran was right about Toni being the only living witness to a mass killer's identity, then the shadowy someone just might want Blancanales's sister taken out of the picture permanently.
And finally, Item: By all indications, the human savage that Bolan had come to St. Paul to eliminate was still out there, hungry and waiting for his next chance to strike. And if the lady cop was correct in her surmising, he was not only a rapist, but a five-time murderer as well.
7
Lieutenant Jack Fawcett was tired and exasperated, and he didn't care who knew it.
He didn't like being roused from sleep in the predawn hours to drive across town and stand above the remains of two leaking stiffs, even though the assignment was nothing new or extraordinary for a lieutenant in homicide division. It was still a drag, even after fourteen years on the job. It would always be a drag.
He watched the uniformed officers moving listlessly as they herded the little clutch of sleepy residents back from the crime scene and onto the sidewalk. All around the little cul-de-sac, people in bathrobes and slippers were sprinkled across lawns and sidewalks, gawking morbidly at the silent residue of violent death.
Behind Fawcett, to the east, the sky was showing the faintest line of pink along the horizon. On the little residential street it was still dark, however, the scene lit eerily by the flashing lights of black and white police units and the city tow truck he had ordered up.
If Jack Fawcett couldn't sleep, hell, nobody would sleep.
The tow truck had just finished winching the long sedan over and onto its tires again from its previous inverted position. The medical examiner's two orderlies were removing a limp body from the driver's seat, laying it out on the street for preliminary examination. To Fawcett's right, in the middle of the street, a second prone figure lay shrouded in linen.
A young junior-grade detective approached Fawcett. His youthful face was already hardened around the eyes and mouth from exposure to violent death. He carried a large manila envelope, the contents jingling, and popped it open to show Fawcett a glittering pile of shell casings inside.
'Nine millimeter,' the young detective said. 'We picked up a couple dozen back there.' He jerked his thumb over one shoulder to indicate the middle of the cul-de-sac.
Fawcett grunted in reply, unwilling to waste words on the obvious.
The young detective wouldn't be put off. He was anxious to display his knowledge and professionalism for the ranking officer on the scene.
'Probably an Uzi,' he began, 'or a Smith and Wesson M-79. Of course, it could have been...'
'What about the D.O.A.'s?' Fawcett interrupted gruffly. 'Were they packing?''
The young cop faltered, breaking his verbal stride, finally nodding.
'Uh, that's affirmative,' he said. 'We found a silenced .380 back where the vehicle started its roll, and the driver's wearing a .45. The .380's been fired recently.'
Fawcett allowed himself a small, sardonic grin.
'Turkey shoot,' he said softly to himself.
'How's that?'
Fawcett scowled, scanning the crime scene with narrowed eyes and a pointing index finger.
'See for yourself,' he said. 'These cocks came barreling in here, hell for leather and ready to rip. Only they weren't ready enough.'
