Footsteps of the Hawk

'In Camden? So what? Maybe he just likes the home–town doctors.'

'I don't think so,' Hauser said quietly. 'I went down there myself. The next morning, after the fight. It wasn't a hernia operation he had in that hospital— it was a vasectomy.'

'Okay. So?'

'So it was in 1982. After he was out of the Army— did you know he was an MP there?— and while he was on the cops. If it was an old hernia, the VA would have paid for it. And the cops damn sure would have— NYPD's got the best health–insurance plan in the world. So why would he go all the way down there?'

'Just to keep it a secret?' I asked him, puzzled. 'What's the big deal about a vasectomy? I had one myself. It only takes a few— '

'He's a Catholic, Burke,' Hauser said again, impatience showing around the edges of his voice. 'A practicing Catholic. A vasectomy, that's birth control big–time. Permanent. Probably a Mortal fucking Sin, for all I know.'

'So he's playing hide–and–seek with the church,' I said. 'How does that connect to what we— ?'

'How could he be gay?' Hauser asked, a tight urgency to his voice. 'If he's not having sex with women, why would he worry about pregnancy? A vasectomy would stop him from making babies— it wouldn't have anything to do with protecting yourself against AIDS. There's no other reason to have one, right?'

Okay, so much for that brilliant theory, I thought to myself. 'That's real interesting,' I said out loud. 'But I don't…'

'There was no DNA in the bodies of the murdered women, right?' Hauser said, excited now, his volume knob cranked up toward the high end. 'And we figured, Piersall probably wore a condom…for the one on University Place. But the others, while he was in jail, there was no sperm in any of them either. A vasectomy would do that.'

'You mean…?'

'DNA only works on nucleated material,' Hauser said. 'I checked it out. Blood, sperm, skin tissue— that'd all do it. But there's no DNA in seminal fluid, understand? Even with a vasectomy, you still discharge, don't you?'

'Sure,' I said. 'You just shoot blanks.'

'And they can't get DNA from that. So…it could be she's right. It could be that Morales is our guy.'

'Our guy for the other murders?'

'Our guy for this one,' Hauser said, tossing a copy of the Sunday News at me. I looked down at the headline he'd circled in red:

The headline said something about a 'Society Murder' but I didn't linger on it, just flashed down to the facts. Loretta Barclay, wife of shipping magnate Robert Barclay, was found in the pool house of her Scarsdale mansion by the maintenance man early Saturday morning. She'd been killed sometime late the night before, while her husband was in Bermuda, finalizing some international deal. She'd been stabbed repeatedly, well past what it would have taken to kill her. There were 'signs consistent with a sexual assault,' according to the cop they quoted. Nothing of value had been taken from the house or grounds. The police had no suspects.

'What makes you think Morales— '

'I got a friend up there in Westchester. A friend, not a source, understand? A state trooper. They think it was someone from the woman's past…something about another identity. But that's a blind alley, I think. There's something they found— something that didn't make the papers.'

He stepped closer to me, dropping his voice almost to a whisper. 'They found a red ribbon,' he said. 'Inside the body.'

I ran back to my cave, double–backing twice, making certain–sure I wasn't followed. Pansy could tell something was wrong. I spent a few minutes gentling her down— I wanted to work in quiet.

I should have figured it— Hauser is notorious for persistence. I know he ran a marathon once— no training, just did it. Took him almost five hours to finish, and a hell of a lot more time before the chiropractor was finished with him …but he did it. I had the right horse for the course, but my hand wasn't holding the reins— Hauser was going to run wherever he wanted. And as fast.

That's what I needed to do too— run. No matter how strong your backup, true surviving is always a do–it– yourself project.

I did the same thing I used to do when I was a locked–up kid— ran away in my mind. Not to Ludar— I was never that crazy— but to a place where they couldn't hurt me. I would look at a spot on the wall until it was all I could see. It would get bigger and bigger, then it would go deep, like it was three– dimensional. The first bunch of times I did that, it was like diving into a clear, deep pool, but one I could breathe in. As long as I stayed down, they couldn't hurt me. After a while, I realized I could do things down there. Think–things, mostly I could hold a question in my hands before I dived into the pool. Sometimes, when I came up, I had the answer.

Morales couldn't have done the murder up in Westchester County. He was watching the fights in Atlantic City. Watching me. He said he was my alibi— that he had watched the wrong man. So he must be thinking I was in on it, somehow. Maybe my job was to draw him away…get him off the scent?

No, that was stupid— I didn't know he was following me. And I damn sure couldn't rely on it.

So maybe Morales was telling me I was off the hook. He knew I couldn't have done the killing— he was right there with me— the timing couldn't work.

Was he doing me a favor, warning me off?

Why would he?

It didn't make sense— didn't add up.

Unless…?

I sat in front of a mirror, looking into the red circle I'd painted on it years ago. The spot widened, got deeper. I took that Unless in my hands and dived in.

The answer came— so fast and hard that it knocked me right back to the surface.

Unless Morales had never been in Atlantic City at all.

Unless he was sharper than I ever thought— planting the lie deep.

Unless I was his alibi.

I took the subway to within a few blocks of a taxi garage in the Village. Luck was with me— the dispatcher I usually deal with was on duty. I showed him my Juan Rodriguez hack license. He nodded, not saying a word. I handed him four fifties— he handed me an off–the–books cab. The deal was always the same: I'd keep the cab for twenty–four hours or less. When I returned it, I'd also hand over whatever was on –the meter. The dispatcher would keep that, plus the two bills. An expensive rental, but a perfectly anonymous, untraceable one— in this city, a yellow cab is invisible.

I pulled out of the garage and was waved down almost immediately. A guy and his girl wanted to go to an address in the East Nineties. I dropped them off, said 'Thank you, sir,' for the nice tip, and grabbed the FDR for the Willis Avenue Bridge.

Soon as I hit the Bronx, I flicked the 'Off Duty' overhead lights on. That wouldn't surprise anyone— a Yellow Cab might…sometimes…take a fare to the South Bronx, but it would never pick one up there. If you were a Yellow Cab driver, getting back into Manhattan was all you thought about— the Bronx was for gypsy cabs.

I parked in front of the gym, locked it up and went inside.

'Greetings, my friend,' Clarence said, peacocking in a tangerine linen jacket over an emerald green silk shirt.

'The Prof inside?' I asked him.

'Only temporarily, mahn. The workout is over. We will all be leaving soon.'

'I'll wait out here,' I said.

'You are troubled?' the young man asked. 'Can I— ?'

'No, it's okay, Clarence. I just need to ask the Prof something.'

'If it is a question, my father will have the answer,' he said confidently.

I heard the Prof before I saw him, rattling on about the next fight. When he spotted me, he dropped the rhyme–time patter, closing the space between us quickly.

'What is it, Burke?'