He just needed to calm Tommy down.. He looked for the hypodermic he had prepared, found the milder dose of barbiturate and plunged this into Tommy's tied arm. It was enough of a dose to keep the other man lulled, until the blood-taking was complete. He didn't have time for games, not this time.
Afterward, he slashed the eyes, as he did with all his victims; not because he had an eye fetish, or because he didn't want the victim to see him, or as some shrink would have it, put out the eyes to save the poor victim from the sight of his own dying, but because it would confound police authorities.
With the same cold logic, with Tommy long dead now, he went to work on the genitals and limbs using his power tools. Once he was satisfied with this work, he looked into his case for the sable-hair paintbrush. To the sound of a light drizzle against the panes of the little house. Teach painted the bloodless open wounds, sucking in the odor of the blood as he dipped the brush into the jar and moved it across Tommy Fowler's throat.
It had become late by then, and he must get back to Chicago. But he mustn't rush too wildly. He mustn't leave anything of himself behind.
Now that Matisak was home from his Indiana run, he stared into a picture of Tommy Fowler, a photograph he had found in the young man's home. He smiled at the memories and placed the photo on a large board filled with the photos of his other victims on the wall in his old grandfather's and his father's den, which was now his den. He sat back and gazed into the faces of his victims, reliving the moments at the end that he had spent with each, the moment he literally held their lives in his hand.
Maybe a bath before turning in would be nice, he thought. He had enough blood now, for a while anyway. Yes, a bath would be refreshing. He allowed the dirty tools, for once, to sit.?
TWENTY
The following day Matthew Matisak was awakened by a telephone call, and assuming that it was Mr. Sarafian at the office, he let it ring several times before answering. But it wasn't Sarafian, it was Lowenthal. Maurice Lowenthal stirred him to consciousness with a jolt when he said, “I thought you ought to know, I sent in for the patent on the spigot mechanism. It was the only safe thing to do, Matisak; otherwise, if the idea is stolen from us, we have no recourse, and with you routinely showing it about, anyone could pirate the idea.”
Lowenthal was retired now, and with time on his hands he had drawn up sketches and explanations of the device that Matisak was using for his killing purposes.
“ When?” he asked. “When did you send the design in for the patent.”
“ These things take forever-”
“ When?”
“- the paperwork is impossible.”
“ When, damn you?”
“ Six months ago, right after I retired. Balue-Stork has no claim on my genius any longer.”
“ You can make no reference to me in the papers, Maurice. If you do, it becomes the property of Balue-Stork. Do you understand this?”
“ I couldn't use your name, so long as you're employed at the Medical Supply. It would leave us open to a lawsuit.”
“ Of course not.” And thank God, he thought. “You're still under contract to Balue-Stork. But they don't control me or my ideas any longer.”
“ You should have consulted with me first.”
“ I'm doing that now, partner.”
You fucking Jewish idiot, he wanted to say, but he instead stifled the urge, saying nothing.
“ What's wrong? I thought you would be pleased? Do you want someone to rip us off?”
There was nothing he could do about it at this point. It was done. He tried desperately to calm down. “When do you expect to hear back from the Patent Office?”
“ It's impossible to say. I was hoping that by now-”
“ All right.”
“ I'm really surprised at your attitude.”
He thought fast. “You just caught me off guard, Lowenthal.”
“ If you wish, I could call them, ask about the delay.”
“ No, no! You'd probably just anger them… seem pushy and they'd only delay it longer.”
“ Have you given any idea to how we will market our little fluid drainer?”
“ Through my usual accounts, at first, until we get word around.” Lowenthal must go, he was thinking as he spoke to the man. “Are you keeping an accurate record… of your dealings with the Patent Office? Your designs?”
“ Yes, yes, of course I am. And what about you?”
“ What do you mean?”
“ The prototype, of course!”
“ Oh, yes.”
“ So how is it performing? Any complaints from Dr.- what was his name in Indiana?”
“ Grubber.”
“ Ahhh, yes. Grabber. So?”
“ It has delighted Grabber to no end.”
“ Excellent. Then we do stand a chance to make some money, after all?”
“ Of course we do. Perhaps we should get together soon. say tonight, go over the details. I'd like to see what you've sent on to the patent people.”
“ I've sent a copy of the design, of course, and an explanation of the use. There's no reason whatever we shouldn't be granted the patent.”
“ I'd just like to see your file on it, okay, Maurice?”
“ Yes, well, of course. Tonight, about seven? You'll come here?”
“ I'll see you then.”
As he hung up, he reaffirmed his feelings. Lowenthal must go. But how to do it so as to cast no suspicion on himself, that was the important consideration, the one that would occupy Teach's brain all day.
Later in the day, he went into the corporate offices in suburban Elmhurst, Illinois, where he deposited new orders that he had taken in Indiana and Zion. His boss, Mr. Sarafian, caught sight of him as he was leaving with a handful of memos and orders that he must attend to. Sarafian asked after his health and told him that he looked quite pale, asked if the “road” was taking too much of a toll on him.
“ No, no, sir, I love my work,” he said, mustering as much enthusiasm as he could find.
“ You read about that poor woman in Zion, Matt?”
Matisak stared back, his face showing complete confusion. “Woman in Zion?”
“ Hell, you must've heard about it. It's on every radio station in Chicago. Sonofabitch hung her up by her heels and cut her throat and drained her of every ounce of blood, like she was a slaughter animal.”
“ I don't listen to the radio.”
“ Oh, yeah, tapes-symphonies, right. You told me before. But you must've seen the papers this morning.”
He had seen the Tribune, which was delivered to his doorstep, and he had read the stories, but he again feigned ignorance, his shoulders hunched.
Mr. Sarafian walked with him to the office shared by the salesmen who came and went. He asked Matisak, “You were in Zion, and you were at the same friggin' hospital where she worked, Matisak. You really ought to read the story. He plunked down a copy of the Sun-Times onto the desk where Matisak sat.
Matt Matisak perused the story while his boss stood over him.
“ Any chance you might've seen anything out there that night the cops'd be interested in, Matt?”
“ I… No, nothing. I didn't know the woman. Says here she was killed at her home.”
He glanced over Renee's photo, a picture of her in her white nurse's uniform.
“ Damned cops haven't got a clue. Brought in the FBI.”
