stuff, she said to me when she was a month deep in his work. How can you collect the man without ever reading what he’s written? In fact, I had read him, years ago: I never could get the viewpoints straight in
My apartment looked like an adjunct of the Denver Public Library. There were wall-to-wall books in every room. Carol had never asked the Big Dumb Question that people always ask when they come into a place like this:
I’ve been collecting books for a long time. Once I killed two men in the same day, and this room had an almost immediate healing effect.
I’ve missed my calling, I thought. But now was probably years too late to be thinking about it.
Time to go.
“Cliff?”
Her eyes were still closed, but she was not quite asleep.
“I’m leaving now,” I said.
“You going out to see Jackie Newton?”
“If this is what it looks like, you better believe it.”
“Have Neal watch your flank. And both of you be careful.”
I went over and kissed her on the temple. Two minutes later I was in my car, gliding through the cool Denver night.
I crossed the police line and walked into the alley. The body was about thirty yards in. Strobe lights had been set up and pictures taken. The lights were still on for the benefit of the sketcher, and the narrow canyon was ablaze. The sketcher stood at the edge of things, working with a pencil and clipboard while two assistants checked measurements with a tape. The coroner had arrived only a short time before me, but an assistant coroner had been there for more than an hour. The two men stood over the body talking. I didn’t interrupt: just hung back and watched. Hennessey appeared out of the gloom with two cups of coffee. I took mine and he filled me in on what little he knew. Police had responded to an anonymous call at 1:32 a.m.: report of a dead man, which checked out affirmative. Officers arrived at 1:37: homicide detectives had been sent over and the crime lab summoned. Then, because the case strongly resembled a series of such apparently random derelict murders, Hennessey had been called. Hennessey was my partner, and he called me. We had been working that chain of cases for two years: if this one fit the pattern, it would become ours.
There had been no one to interview at the scene. The caller, who was described by the dispatcher as a white- sounding male, probably under fifty, had hung up when asked for his name. Later we’d want to listen to a tape of that conversation, but I didn’t have much hope for it. Chances were we’d never find the guy because, chances were, he was just someone who had stumbled over the body and didn’t want to get involved.
The scene itself wasn’t a good bet for evidence. The alley was narrow and paved. On one side was an old department store; on the other, an old hotel. The walls of the hotel were red brick, worn smooth by many years. The department store had a fake marble facade, which continued into the alley to just about the place where the body lay. Orange powder had been dusted on both sides, and it looked like they’d come up with some prints. In all probability they’d turn out to be everyone but the mayor of Denver and the guy we wanted.
That was all we had. That was all we ever had. The first murdered bum had been found in an alley much like this one two years and two months ago, April 1984. His head had been kicked in. There had been three more that year and two the next, all the same general method of operation: a helluva beating, then death. The guy’s hatred for street people, winos, and the homeless seemed compulsive. Hennessey thought he might be a skinhead, one of those jerks with a brownshirt mentality and an irresistible need to take out society’s lower elements. I thought his motives were simpler. He was a sadist: he didn’t care who he killed, as long as he got his little shot of violence when he needed it. Street people were easy marks, so he did street people. If you murder women and children, society will try to track you down, but the best effort society gives the killer of a bum is a quick shuffle. Time is fleeting and manpower limited: we do what we can, and sometimes a killer gets away because we can’t do enough.
It turned out Neal and I were both right. The guy we’d fingered for all these jobs was Jackie Newton, ex-con, refugee from the coast, a real sweetheart in anybody’s book. Jackie wasn’t a skinhead but he might as well have been: his mind Worked the same way. We now knew all about his sadistic streak. Jackie hated everybody who didn’t think, act, and look just like him. He particularly hated people whose personal, racial, or intellectual characteristics could be summed up in one cruel gutteral word. Queers, freaks, spies, shines, gooks, dopes—Jackie hated them all, twenty-four hours a day. And let us not forget cops. Pigs. Jackie was a product of the sixties, and pigs were the group he hated most of all.
The feeling was absolutely mutual on my part. There’s something in the book, I know, about a cop keeping his feelings out of his work. If detection is a science, which I believe, it should probably be done with unfettered intellect, but God damn it, I wanted Jackie Newton dead or locked away forever. Don’t tell me it shouldn’t be personal: we were way beyond that little phase of drawing room etiquette, Jackie and I. I had been working on him two years and was no closer to putting him away than I was when I first heard his name, almost three years ago.
