Footsteps of the Hawk

'About what?' Hauser replied.

'About serial killers. Like George said, the one thing you have plenty of time to do in there is read.'

'I've read that stuff too,' Hauser said. 'It sounds like a motley collection of guesswork.'

'But what about the part…where he said the killer would have to keep doing it?'

'Even if that is right, how's that going to help?' Hauser asked her. 'According to you, the police already know there's a maniac out there. And they haven't charged Piersall with any of the crimes.'

'That's just the point,' she said. 'They know if they charged him they'd look stupid. What better alibi could a man have than to be in prison when it happened?'

'And it's not a copycat either,' Hauser said. 'There was nothing in the papers about that 'signature' thing. Nothing.'

'But you know about it,' Belinda said. 'And once you print it, the pressure's gonna be on.'

'I don't know about it,' Hauser said. 'Don't get me wrong— I'm not saying it wasn't like that. But I can't print a rumor— that's for guys with their own columns. Or the ones who take pipe jobs from friendly cops. I'm going to poke around on my own, see if I can find someone to corroborate your information.'

'But you're gonna stay on it…?'

'To the end,' Hauser promised.

'What about you?' Belinda asked, looking right at me. 'Till the end of the week,' I said. 'Like we agreed.'

Belinda wanted to be dropped off at the courthouse on Centre. We did that, then headed uptown.

'Something's real wrong,' Hauser said suddenly.

'Pull over somewhere,' I told him, seeing how tense he was, not wanting to wait to hear it.

Hauser found a spot just past Canal. He docked the four–by in one sweet smooth sweep. Parallel parking in a rig like that was no easy feat— I guess he could drive good enough when he wasn't talking.

I hit my window switch, lit a smoke. 'Go,' I said.

'I think she's involved with him,' Hauser said. 'I think it's personal.'

'Because…?'

'Just little things, at first. The way she looked at him, certain things they said….like it was a coded language. And she wanted some time alone, at the end.'

'So?'

'So I hung around. They went into the Conference Room— the one she was telling us about, for lawyers.'

'And…?'

'And I got to talking with one of the guards. About this profile of corrections officers I'm planning to do for People magazine.'

'That's a nice assignment,' I said.

'Yeah.' Hauser smiled. 'Wish I had it. Anyway, I got a nice look inside that Conference Room. There was only the two of them in there…and they were going at it pretty hot and heavy'

'Hot and heavy— that means different things to different folks. Maybe they were just kissing goodbye.'

'They were kissing all right,' Hauser said. 'And her hand was inside his pants. Somebody paid the guard….At least that's the way it looked. The one who let me take a look— he knew what I was going to see.'

'There's a couple of ways that scans,' I told him. 'Maybe she started out working, then got herself all excited. Serial killers turn some women's cranks. Most of those freaks get more fan mail than rock stars. Ted Bundy, he got married on Death Row. Even that slime, the one who tortured kids to death out in Washington State, he had some women all worked up. You see it all the time— prison bars make some people hot. Cops fall for a suspect, guards risk their jobs for a prisoner. It happens.'

'And the other way is…?' Hauser asked.

'That she knew him before, on the quiet.'

'Either way— '

'Yeah,' I interrupted. 'Either way, she could be the one.'

'Doing the… killings?'

'It wouldn't be a first,' I told him. 'Remember that guy Bianchi? He was half of a team— the Hillside Strangler, right? Wasn't there some crazy woman who tried a copycat murder to spring him?'

'Jesus.'

'Yeah. Jesus. Me, I don't know. But it adds up, right? What do you think?'

'I think it's still a great story,' Hauser said, his mouth set in a grim flat line.

'There's another player in the game,' I told him. 'When you get time, look through this.' I handed him the copy of Morales' psych report.

He scanned it quickly. 'This is…?'

'The cop who's been dogging my steps ever since I got on this one.'

'You think…?'

'Read it for yourself,' I told him, opening the door to get out.

When I called in late that afternoon, Mama told me Fortunato was looking for me. I didn't bother with telephones— it was easier to go over there. I grabbed the subway at Canal. My legendary luck held— a derelict was planted in one corner of the car I boarded, doing a great imitation of a time–release stench bomb. Every time he shifted position, a new wave of sickening odors wafted over everybody else. Everybody changed cars at the next stop, preferring the cattle–car crowding to the alternative. I went them one better— I changed trains.

Waiting for the F train at the West Fourth Street station is a group activity around rush hour. I drifted down toward the end of the platform, figuring I'd get a newspaper. The newsstand had a vast collection of porno magazines on display behind some yellowing Plexiglas. I looked them over, thinking that maybe Vyra was right. The magazines weren't about women at all, they were about body parts—Juggs, Big Butt, Gash — reminded me of those charts of cows they have in butcher shops, the ones with dotted lines separating brisket from tenderloin.

Because I didn't give a damn how long I waited, the F train rolled through smoothly, precisely on time, dropping me off at Forty–second and Sixth. I spent the ride admiring a new look— a black man with a perfectly sculpted short natural was wearing a robin's–egg blue tuxedo jacket over a pleated–front white shirt and knife– edged jeans, but that wasn't what was attracting all the attention. Instead of laces, his gleaming black shoes were held together by a row of gold collar bars— he just threaded them through the eyelets and screwed on each individual cap. Half a dozen teenagers were scoping the man's style. By tonight, avant–garde would be five minutes ago.

I climbed out of the subway and walked over to Fortunato's office, still taking my time. The receptionist took my name, picked up the phone, and buzzed me in a few seconds later.

Fortunato was at his big desk, a cigar already in his hand. I walked in, sat down. 'You're looking for me?' I said.

'Yes. I wanted to…straighten some things out. Between us, I mean.'

'What things?'

'Look, you may have gotten the wrong impression from our last conversation. Or I may have spoken out of turn. If I did…or if you took it that way, I apologize. I just wanted you to know that Julio always spoke highly of you. And when I said we knew who…was responsible for his death, I was speaking generically.'

'What's that mean?' I asked, playing my role.

'It means we know where it came from, that's all. The direction it came from, not the actual person. And that's old business. Old, finished business. Are you following me?'

'I don't follow people unless I get paid,' I told him. 'And I don't like them following me.'

He took a puff on his cigar. His hand was shaking, just a shade past a tremor, but easy enough to see— if you were looking for it. 'I'd like you to stay on the case,' he said. 'George likes you. I do too. You've only got friends here, understand?

'Uh–huh.'