Footsteps of the Hawk

'Very nice,' I said, still thinking about the Gacy painting.

She walked over and perched on a big white plastic cube— it must have been stronger than it looked. The only other seat was a leather director's chair, with 'Jon' written in embroidered script across the back panel. I took it, settled in, waited.

Belinda leaned forward. 'Did you…find out anything? I know it's early, but…'

'Yeah,' I told her. 'I found out some stuff. DNA.'

'That isn't foolproof,' she said so quickly that she must have known. 'They only got that in Jersey, right? And the woman on University Place, George knew her, I told you. Before it happened, I mean. And there was no sperm in her anyway, remember? Just that red ribbon…'

'So he just caught a bad break, right?' I asked. 'He had legit sex with her, then some maniac came along and wasted her before she got a chance to leave the apartment?'

'It's not the weirdest thing I've ever seen,' she said. 'One time, when I was working Vice, I— '

'Yeah. Okay, I got it— people are strange, sure. But here's the part that throws me— the woman on University Place, the other two victims, none of them had any sperm in them at all. How does that play with you?'

Belinda got up, started pacing in little circles. I noticed she was barefoot, her feet were tiny, too small for the rest of her. I watched her pace, not saying anything more. She walked over to me. Stopped and made a 'come here' gesture. I got up. She put her finger to her lips, held out her hand. I took it, and she gently pulled me along a hall to a back room. A bedroom, it looked like, but only because there was a bed— the rest was all file cabinets and photography equipment.

'This isn't my place,' she whispered into my ear. 'But Jon lets me use it sometimes, when he's out on assignment. He's a video freak— I think he has the living room wired. There's something I have to tell you, but it's just for you, okay?'

I nodded Okay back, not saying anything.

'You want me to strip?' she asked. 'So you can be sure there's no— '

'You're the only one talking,' I reminded her.

'You sure you wouldn't want me to anyway?' she asked softly, more promise in her voice than in her eyes.

'Some other time,' I said. 'When I'm not working.'

And when you're not either, bitch, I thought.

'It's a date,' she whispered.

I stepped past her, sat on the bed— there was no other place to sit in the little room. Belinda started her pacing again. Then she stopped, moved very close to me, bent down and whispered, 'You don't have to talk. Just nod for Yes or No, okay?'

I nodded Yes.

'You looked at the autopsy reports, didn't you?'

I nodded Yes.

'And you saw…there was no sperm in any of the bodies, right? Not the one George went down for, not the ones that got killed after he was inside?'

I nodded Yes.

'So what does that tell you?'

I shrugged my shoulders, spread my hands wide in a 'Who knows?' gesture.

'The killer…the real killer, I think he read the autopsy reports too. On the woman, the one George knew. I think he…the killer…figured it out. If he left any sperm inside the others, they'd know it wasn't George— the DNA would clear him. The way I figure it, he wore a condom.'

I made a 'So what?' gesture.

'I think the killer is crazy,' she said. 'Stark raving mad. And I think he killed those women, stuffed the red ribbons inside them…and then pulled them out of the dead bodies himself…later.'

'When?' I asked her, tired of playing.

'When? What do you mean?' she said.

'I mean, when did he do it? What's so complicated? When would he get the chance?'

'Think about it,' she said, no longer whispering.

I did. Inside myself, willing my face to go flat as my mind ripped through the possibilities.

Leaving only one.

'You're saying it's a— '

'Cop,' Belinda finished my sentence. 'Yes. And I think I know who it is.'

I just looked at her— the name wasn't going to come out of my mouth. But I knew….

'Morales,' she said. 'Detective First Jorge Ortega Morales. He killed the woman on University Place. He killed them all.'

I didn't argue with her— what was the point? As soon as she dropped her bombshell, she sat back on top of a two–drawer file cabinet, hugging herself, almost squirming in the embrace. The look on her face— I'd seen it before. In England, just before I went over to Africa and into a stupid war. I saw that same look on the hard face of a woman who called herself Colleen— a woman who planted bombs in department stores. Not for the revolution— that was just her excuse— for the thrill. Colleen always wanted to be close to her work— close enough to bask in the fallout.

That was Belinda, the way I saw her then— playing with fire, close enough to feel the heat…the only heat that really made her hot.

'Why am I in this?' I asked her. 'You got all this stuff, what do you need me for?'

'Don't you understand?' she said, leaning forward, holding my eyes. 'This isn't about the truth. If that's all it was, this would be easy— life would be easy. The way I figure it, you don't have many choices. Morales wants you. You know it and so do I. He's not the kind of man that'll stop. That's what gives him so much juice— he's insane. Out–of–his–fucking–mind insane. Most cops, they respect that. That's his rep— an Officer Down goes out over the box, Morales is gonna be the first one on the scene every single time. And if you're outside a door— a wood door— and you know a bad guy's inside— a nothing–to–lose killer— one of those crazy young don't–mind–dying gangbangers, probably got his Tec–9 stuffed with Teflon bullets so even your vest won't save you, okay? Well, Morales, he's going in, you can bet on it. He's been shot on the job. Twice. Couple of years ago, he caught a round in the chest taking down a dealer in Washington Heights. And he dropped the shooter…just blew him away He's got more CCRB complaints than anyone working— any detective, anyway— but they keep cutting him slack because he's a cops' cop, you know what I mean?'

'Yeah, I know,' I told her. 'He may have a screw or two loose, but nothing you said about him makes him into a sex psycho.'

'There's more,' she said. 'You remember McGowan, his old partner? The guy who worked the pimp detail?'

'Sure.'

'Well, let me tell you something you don't know. McGowan pulled the pin last year. Retired. That was the price.'

'The price for what?'

'McGowan always hated pimps— specially the kiddie pimps. You knew that. Everybody knew that. Morales knew it the best of all. Anyway, McGowan got this little girl to talk. Not just to him, to a grand jury. They finally had enough to take out this guy named Remington. You ever hear of him?'

I shook my head No— another lie.

'Okay, anyway, they go to this hotel where Remington was staying. In Times Square. Nobody knows exactly what happened, but Remington took off. He made it down the back stairs, into an alley. That's where Morales shot him. In the head— he was dead before he hit the ground. And then Morales flaked him. With a throw–down piece— he always carries one. McGowan saw it all— he was standing right there. But he wouldn't testify against his partner. He didn't want to risk his pension either, not after so many years on the job. So he gave it up and went fishing.'