tangle of downtown St. Paul. Bolan registered with a sleepy, disinterested desk clerk, signing the registry for Mr. and Mrs. Frank La Mancha. It was a name he would be using to significant effect in the events to come. Bolan then parked his rented sedan in front of a room at the far end of the motel's east wing.
He locked the door behind them and turned to find the lady cop standing beside the double bed, facing him, digging something out of her purse.
He sighed. 'I thought we'd gotten beyond the gun.'
Her cheeks colored as she produced a leather billfold and snapped it open, flashing her gold detective's shield into view.
'I want you to know who you're dealing with,' she said.
'I know who you are, Fran. I told you.'
She looked attractive as she very promptly became flustered.
'Well... damn!' was the best she could manage. She sat down on the edge of the bed.
Bolan spoke after a long pause. He was looking at her intently. 'There are some questions I have to ask you.'
'Not so fast, handsome.' She raised a cautioning hand. 'I've got about a zillion questions of my own, starting with who you are, and I am not in the best of health and humor, in case you hadn't noticed.'
Bolan appreciated her spirit as much as her good looks. She was plucky enough to endure a deadly and humiliating ordeal, and then play cop. She was strong inside.
'The name I used to register will do for now,' he told her. 'Let's just say that our paths crossed at an opportune moment.'
'Opportune for me,' she said. 'Why for you?'
Bolan shrugged, dropping into a chair beside the bed.
'If you're dead, you can't answer those questions,' he said simply.
'I may not answer anyway.'
'You haven't heard them yet.'
'Okay.'
Bolan paused briefly.
'I need some information on one of your cases, 'he began.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
'Which case?' she asked stiffly.
'The Blancanales rape.'
It was as if he had slapped her across the face. She tried to regain her composure at once, but the effect of his words was obvious.
'What's your interest?' she asked finally. She was going to stall.
'Let's say I'm interested in justice.'
'You must know I can't divulge information in a rape case,' she said. Her voice had become confidential, even though they were clearly alone. 'You're wasting your time.'
'I don't want the lurid stuff,' he said. 'I'm not interested in it. My interest lies in what's being done to close the case.'
It took her some moments to consider what he had just said. She averted her eyes as she answered.
'A rape can be one of the hardest cases to break, especially where the perpetrator is a stranger to the victim.'
'Or when someone upstairs is running interference?'
He had timed that bomb deliberately. He watched her face closely. He saw what he was looking for — angry fire in her eyes... and something more, deep down, when her head snapped up to meet his cool gaze directly.
'What? Now, look, I don't think we should continue...'
'Why were you dumped from the rape squad, Fran?' He asked it softly. 'Why now, instead of last month or next year?'
She was stunned.
'Listen, Mr. Whoever, I wasn't...'
She paused in mid-sentence. Then her shoulders seemed to sag, as if she was tired from carrying the weight of the world.
'So, okay,' she said. 'I was dumped.'
'Why?'
She shook her head firmly, sending her barely dry blonde curls into shimmering motion around her face.
'No. You're asking me to reveal department business for a civilian who won't even give me his name.'
Bolan fished a nondescript Justice Department ID card out of a breast pocket and skimmed it across to her. It carried the La Mancha alias and was one of the many traveling papers prepared for him by the machinery housed at Stony Man Farm. The card would confirm an identity and official position for him. It was as crucial a device, in many ways, as any weapon in his armory of hardware.
'I'm not a curiosity seeker,' he said firmly.
Fran examined the card, then looked at him quizzically.
'What's the federal interest in Toni Blancanales?' she asked.
'None. We were talking about police suppression of evidence.''
The worried look returned.
'Well...' the lady cop began, 'I never said that. Don't put words in my mouth, okay?'
'Why were you transferred, Fran?'
'I'm not sure. They called it a promotion, of course, increased departmental status and so on. Goodbye rape unit. I was put into public relations.'
Bolan cocked an eyebrow. 'You didn't request the move?'
She shook her head, a firm negative.
'They told me about their great need for women in the upper echelons, et cetera, all for the good of the department, you know? And look at the trouble it's got me into already,' she added, holding herself to avoid involuntary shivers.
'Who's they?'
'What? Oh, Jack Fawcett, mainly. That's Lieutenant Fawcett, homicide division.'
'Does he normally hand out promotions and transfers?'
'The promotion came from upstairs.'
'How high?' Bolan asked.
'Sorry. No idea.'
'What were you working on when the transfer came down?'
Fran Traynor hesitated. She was obviously reluctant to answer further questions. But looking into his eyes, she found something there that encouraged her to open up.
'I have this theory about... well, in the past thirty months or so, there have been five identical rape- murders here in St. Paul.'
It was Bolan's turn to show surprise.
'Identical?'
She nodded animatedly.
'Virtually,' she confirmed. 'Of course, I'm the only one who seems to think so. But I swear, the M.O.'s are carbon copy. All five victims were found nude, multiple assaults, their throats slashed, and... well, other mutilations.'
'And Homicide sees no similarity?'
'Oh, Lieutenant Fawcett will admit certain common elements,' she answered, 'but he insists that the time factor rules out a single perpetrator.'
'How's that?'
'Well, the first killing came eleven months before the next two, and then eighteen months went by before the final pair. Once they start killing, your headcaches normally go at it nonstop until they burn out or take the fall.
