Bleeding Out

Frank smiled happily, although her words were chillingly true. 'This is my life.'

After the first couple of girls he'd bought a used camcorder so he could remember them better once they were gone. He watched the tapes in his bedroom, learning and studying, planning how to make it even better the next time. Over and over he watched, remembering, reliving, refueling. The tapes satisfied him for a while, but eventually their appeal faded. When that happened, it was time to make a new one.

30

'Well?' Frank asked over her shoulder, backing out of the Delamores' driveway.

'I think you better feed me before I rip your head off and start suckin' on your insides.'

'I saw a guy do that once,' Frank said, matter-of-factly. 'Killed his mother and brother and an aunt. When we came in to arrest him he was sitting as calm as you please at the kitchen table with a big old pan of sauteed brains in front of him. Damned if they didn't smelled good.'

'After tonight, I don't know whether to believe you or not.'

'I was pretty good, huh?'

Kennedy had to laugh at Frank's unusual lack of modesty.

'Damn good,' she agreed deferentially.

'Well, Detective, I think it's been a very productive day. How about I buy you some sweetbreads so you don't have to rip my head off?'

'Deal.'

They went to Frank's favorite restaurant, where the waiter greeted her by name. Waiting for him to return with her wine, Frank took out her notebook.

'Okay. Tell me what you saw, what you thought, everything.'

Frank listened to the young detective, impressed by her observations. Mrs. Delamore had fallen easily for Frank's ingratiating charm and generously shown them her immaculate house. About halfway through the detectives' bogus inspection, Clancey had wandered downstairs, sleepy-eyed and bare-chested. They'd gone into his room, at his mother's insistence, and it was a mess. As if he weren't hulking behind her, she'd talked about what a slob her son was.

Kennedy asked, 'You saw the pile of porno mags by the bed and the economy size bottle of lotion? What do you reckon Mrs. D. thinks Junior does with all that hand cream?'

'I'm sure she just thinks her boy's got some mighty soft skin,' Frank smiled, borrowing Kennedy's twang.

'How 'bout the videos?'

Frank nodded. There had been no books or music in Clancey's room, only a twenty-four inch television with a VCR perched precariously atop it. A shelf of neatly aligned videos above the television contradicted the room's chaos. Frank had noticed that most of the titles on the spines were handwritten, and a brief scan of the commercial titles indicated most of them were skin flicks.

'And all those football trophies on the floor? I'll bet they used to be on that shelf where the videos are. It's the only shelf in the room. Now they're just layin' 'round under his dirty clothes while the videos are carefully stacked up there. Like maybe he's outgrown the trophies and they're just down on the floor with all the rest of his crap.'

'Hmm,' Frank murmured. 'I hadn't thought of that.'

'But then it's also kind of odd if football's behind him that he'd have a clean uniform hanging in his closet.'

Frank was picking at her antipasto. She froze. 'A what?'

'A uniform, like for football,' Kennedy gloated.

'Are you kidding me?' Frank drilled her young colleague.

'Big as life. Red and white. Number eighty-one.'

'No shit?'

'Absolute constipation. I peeked at it when ya'll were admiring his trophies. It was just cleaned, too.'

'How do you know that?'

'I smelled it. I think Mrs. D. uses Tide.'

'Son of a bitch,' Frank muttered incredulously. 'What else?'

Kennedy ticked off a few more things, then she sucked noisily on an ice cube. 'What about you?'

Frank waggled her eyebrows, pulling a wadded piece of tissue from her jacket. She dangled it before Kennedy.

'When I got the tissue to blow my nose I swiped the bottom of his shower.'

Frank carefully unfolded the Kleenex and together the two detectives peered by candlelight.

'There you have it,' Frank poked with her nail. 'Pubic hairs. We'll see if we can draw a match on them.'

She folded the tissue, pocketed it, then reached into her pants pocket. 'Did you notice how antsy they got when I asked about that locked door in the garage?'

'And that Junior has the only key.'

'Right. And when I spilled that jar of nails on the floor?'

Kennedy chortled, 'Yeah, spaz. Like to gave me a heart attack. I was lookin' at the tools on the wall and I thought Junior'd pulled a gat on you or somethin'.'

Eyes twinkling, Frank opened the palm of her hand. In it sat a hunk of green/gold carpet fiber.

Kennedy stared at it, then at Frank.

Frank deliberately ripped out a piece of note paper and folded it around the yarn. 'This was poking out from under the garage door. I dropped the nails so I could yank some out. Agoura and Peterson both had green carpet fibers on them.'

Kennedy's eyes narrowed admiringly. Frank sat back with a short, satisfied chuckle, unable, or unwilling, to hide her pleasure. Studying Frank, the younger detective shrewdly noted, 'You love this, don't you?'

Frank shrugged, obviously pleased.

Kennedy asked, 'How do you feel now that you've seen him?'

'Absolutely, 100 percent certain.'

'But you've got nothing but circumstantials on him. How can you be so sure?'

Frank smiled oddly and took on a thousand-yard stare. 'Oh, I'm sure,' she whispered. 'I know it. Seeing him, smelling him, looking at where he sleeps, where he fantasizes...'

Frank's mysterious smile widened, becoming almost cruel. She whispered reverently, 'I know him because I am him.'

She didn't see the golden hairs rising on Kennedy's arms.

By the time they finished a long dinner it was after ten o'clock. Both women were exhausted. Since the restaurant was closer to Frank's house, she invited Kennedy to spend the night. Once there, the younger woman crashed quickly and easily, but Frank was too wired to sleep.

She was elated at how closely Delamore matched her profile. If this were her case, she'd be slapping a search warrant in front of a sleepy judge right now, but as it was her hands were tied. It didn't matter that she had probable cause and a deep gut instinct. If she told RHD what she had, they'd probably lose or mishandle any solid evidence she found. Plus, once word got out, she'd face disciplinary action for taking on another division's case. That would raise enough jurisprudence questions for the case to get thrown out of court. Clancey would walk after all.

As much as it frustrated her, she had to go slowly. Frank settled in the den with soft music and a pad of paper, starting a list of things to follow through on. Gradually, her own thoughts and Astrud Gilberto's wistful yearnings lulled her to sleep.

When she twisted onto her side the clipboard fell against her chin. Frank woke up and saw Kennedy slumped on the floor beside her. She thought she was dreaming, then decided Kennedy's soft snoring was real. So was the rise and fall of her chest and the slight movement under her eyelids. Frank wondered what the hell she was doing there, then got distracted by the fiery auburn and russet strands gleaming in Kennedy's hair. Frank wanted to smooth the tousled hair, wondering if it would be as silky as she remembered from the hospital. She reached out, then drew her hand back.

Kennedy jerked awake as the clipboard clattered onto the floor. She gaped at Frank, petrified.