Footsteps of the Hawk

'I don't quite follow that, hoss.'

'Say somebody is all grown. An adult, okay? Then they all of a sudden remember being abused as a kid. Like a flashback. It happens all the time. And there's the usual crap— How do you prove something like that? What kind of evidence would there be of incest that happened twenty years ago? This guy, Perry? It sounds like he could prove it.'

Doc rubbed the back of his head again, thinking. I waited. 'You know what, Burke? You might just be right. I mean, it wouldn't be that easy….You could maybe prove past trauma occurred, but not exactly what it was. But it's a start, sure enough.'

'Okay, so this guy Perry's a fucking genius— what's that got to do with my man?'

'We already knew some stuff,' Doc said, still ignoring my straight questions. 'Even after they're grown, abused kids are different. A lot of them stay different too. Hyper–vigilant. Distrustful. The prisons are full of people like that, right?'

'Right,' I answered, meeting his eyes, knowing who he was talking about.

'It doesn't mean they can't be good citizens, lead normal lives. Even accomplish great things. It's just that they'll always be…different.'

'So, if this Perry guy could hook my man up to one of his machines, he could tell if there was some significant trauma in his background?' I asked, getting Doc off the track he wanted and back onto mine.

'Sure. But that wouldn't necessarily tell you much. This…person, he probably experienced trauma many times in his life. He's a hard man, working in a hard trade. It's not like TV. Most cops, they really can't turn it off and turn it on. They become suspicious. Aggressive, even hostile. It's the best way for them to function on the job. Some of them, they just can't go home, take off the badge and the gun, and turn into Ward Cleaver. The job has so many built–in stressors. What job gives you more broken marriages, more alcoholics? And there's temptations too— it's hard to work for wages when the people you arrest are making millions. There's always easy money lying around if you're a cop. And on top of everything else, you've got Internal Affairs snooping into your life. Dangerous? Hoss, most of them are.'

'Doc, I appreciate all that. But…okay, just tell me this: could my man do it?'

'Sex murders? Yeah. Yeah, he could. His definitions of right and wrong, they could be skewed that bad. He doesn't smoke, doesn't drink….I wonder if he uses foul language— '

'Every other word,' I told him.

Doc took a short breath, went on like he hadn't heard me. 'His kind of rigid, Calvinistic personality structure could easily lead him into a hatred of what he sees as impure women. And if you combine that with impotence— ?'

'What makes you think he— ?'

'I don't. Necessarily. But you'll notice he doesn't seem to have any regular relationship with a woman. He's thirty–eight years old. Never married.'

'Plenty of guys never get married,' I said.

He gave me a look. I ignored it. 'Here's what doesn't fit,' Doc said. 'There's no iron–clad rule, but when you find a serial killer with this sort of rage against women, they usually target victims who fit their fantasy of 'bad' women, understand? The most likely targets are strippers, topless dancers, prostitutes…like that. And, from what you tell me, none of the victims were in the business.'

I smoked another cigarette in silence, tracking it through. 'Doc,' I said. 'What if he's gay? Wouldn't that account for it? I mean, if he's gay and doesn't want to deal with it— can't deal with it? That'd make him all those things it said in the report, right?'

'Ummm,' Doc mused. 'It could…especially if he believes homosexuality is morally wrong. If he repressed it strongly enough, you'd see the kind of overmacho behavior this guy exhibits. But those types, if they turn to violence, it's almost always against gay men. Still…'

'Thanks, Doc,' I said, getting up to leave, holding out my hand. He gave me the psych report. 'If there's any way I could talk to him— even for a few minutes— maybe I could…'

'We'll see,' I lied.

The basketball court on West Fourth is one of the city's major arenas, almost on a par with Rucker Playground uptown. The freelance guys who work the top courts are as professional as any in the NBA— when it comes to the city game, maybe better. The city game is all about styling and profiling. Flash is the hallmark, but they still count the points at the end…where heavy money always changes hands.

Some of the playground names are still legend— Helicopter, Connie, The Goat— their feats magnified by time. I know a guy who claims he once saw The Goat soar above the rim, jam one down with his right hand, catch it coming out the bottom of the net with his left, and slam it home again with that hand before he touched down.

The city game is way past rough— anytime they call a foul, they call the paramedics too. Once I was watching a football game on cable— Australian Rules, the announcer said. None of the players wore helmets or pads, but they threw themselves at each other like they were armor–plated. An Aussie was in the same bar, and we struck up a conversation. He was in town to do a deal with someone— it was that kind of joint. He tried to explain the action to me, but I wasn't following all of it. I saw one player use a judo move to throw an opponent to the ground, then dive on him head–first. I could almost hear the ribs crack. 'What do they have to do to have a foul called?' I asked the Aussie.

He thought about it for a moment, obviously puzzled. Then he said, 'Well, if they were to use a weapon…'

That hour of the morning, the court was being used by stay–in–shape amateurs. The game was so weak there was no betting going on. I leaned my back against the chain–link fence, looking down Sixth Avenue, waiting for Hauser. I heard a double–honk of a horn, looked at the source and saw a window going down in an electric–blue Ford Explorer four–by. Hauser's face showed in the window. I walked over, got into the passenger seat. He hit the gas and lurched out into traffic.

'Very subtle ride you got here,' I said.

'Yeah!' Hauser replied, taking it as a compliment. 'And the boys really love it.'

'Take the next right,' I told him, then gave him directions to where Belinda would be waiting.

'Check this out,' Hauser said, his face animated as he pushed the eject button on his radio. A cassette tape popped into view, still in the slot. I thought he was going to put in a new one, make me listen to some lame music, but he just left it there.

'What's it supposed to do?' I asked him.

Hauser grinned, pushed a button on the radio. No music came out. He waited a couple of seconds, then pushed another. 'What's it supposed to do?' came out of the speakers. In my voice.

'The whole truck is wired,' he said. 'I've got other stuff too. Even a minicam in the back. I could sit back there for hours. I can see out, but nobody can see in. It's just perfect for surveillance.'

'What if somebody wants to listen to the radio?' I asked him.

'As long as the tape cassette is in the slot, it works,' Hauser said. 'I can play the tapes too— all I have to do is push it in.'

'This must have cost a fortune,' I said.

'Not so much,' he said, a slightly defensive tone in his voice.

'It's awesome,' I assured him.

'It's great in bad weather too,' he said, still not satisfied.

'I sure wish I had one,' I said. That seemed to calm him down. Which was a good thing. I quickly discovered Hauser wasn't one of those guys who could talk and drive at the same time— he almost splattered a pedestrian because he was so busy talking. Apparently, he couldn't talk without making eye contact. I made up my mind to ride in the back seat on the way to Jersey.

Belinda was right in front of the precinct. She was wearing jeans tucked into mid–calf black boots, her upper body covered in a white turtleneck, a jacket over one shoulder. When we pulled up, I got out, opened the passenger door for her. She climbed inside, and I slid into the back seat.