If they were right about reformers, Bible-thumpers, and gay-bashers, were they right about serial killers?
And weren’t serial killers supposed to be his area of expertise?
65
Renz had Quinn, Pearl, Fedderman, and Helen the profiler in his office. The door was locked, and Renz had left word not to be disturbed unless it was urgent.
When everyone was more or less settled, Renz sat down behind his waxed and uncluttered desk. “I have an idea,” he said.
Quinn was seated in one of the chairs facing the desk. He could think of several things to say to Renz’s statement, but he chose the relatively safe, “And you want to try it out on us.”
“Exactly,” Renz said. “I will say before I go into it that Helen approves.”
“I think it might work,” Helen said.
“Helen thinks, and I think,” Renz said to Quinn, “that the killer sees you, even wants you, as his opponent. The bond that sometimes forms between serial killers and the lead detectives who pursue them is strong here. We think we can take advantage of it. We want to place a letter from you to the killer in the newspapers- City Beat first, of course-in which you taunt the killer. I think we know how he’ll react.” Renz glanced at Helen, as if they’d rehearsed this and she’d missed her cue.
“We think he’ll challenge you,” Helen said. “And in some manner give himself away.”
“And if he doesn’t give anything away?” Pearl asked.
“Then it’s up to Quinn whether to accept the challenge.”
“If the killer’s smart,” Quinn said, “he’ll simply ignore the letter.”
“He’s smart and mentally ill,” Helen said.
“When do you want this letter?” Quinn asked.
Renz leaned over his desk, a folded slip of paper extended in his right hand. “With Helen’s help, I’ve already written it.”
Quinn accepted the paper and looked at it.
To the one who kills from shadows and secrecy:
It is time for honorable men to stop the wave of murder that is washing over the city. But there is only one man who-if honorable and a man-can stop it. The. 25-Caliber Killer must come forward. The fact that he cooperated will be considered in his sentencing. If he ignores this opportunity, when my hunt for him ends as it must, he will feel the full weight of the law.
Captain Frank Quinn
“It’s not so much a taunt,” Quinn said, “as an offer of a deal.”
“Believe me,” Helen said, “he’ll consider it a taunt, and he’ll respond as he must. There’s always the chance that unforeseen circumstances might interfere with this plan, but the psychology of it is sound.”
“And if he doesn’t respond,” Renz said, “we’ve lost nothing. Those are the kind of odds I like.”
“You’re not the one taunting a maniac with a gun,” Pearl said.
Quinn gave her a look that was obviously meant as a caution signal, but Pearl saw green lights where others saw red.
“The letter doesn’t mention the Slicer,” Quinn said.
“We’re trying to appeal only to the hunter side of the killer,” Helen said. “The sportsman with a code. That’s the part of him that will respond to the letter.”
“It isn’t in our contract with the city that we fight duels,” Pearl said.
“It would be more like a hunt,” Helen said. “That’s the point.”
“And hunting is in your contract,” Renz said, “however it might be phrased. Hunting is what we do.”
“We?” Pearl asked.
“I’ll do it,” Quinn said, before Renz could answer Pearl. He smiled at Renz. “It’s true that we have nothing to lose if the killer doesn’t respond.”
“We knew you’d want to do it,” Helen said.
Pearl gave her a dark look. Helen seemed unimpressed.
Renz took the letter back from Quinn. “I’ll fax this to Cindy Sellers at City Beat,” he said. “Give them a shot at a special edition. The other papers won’t be far behind.”
“They’ll all be behind the Internet and cable news,” Fedderman said. They all knew how newspaper offices, as well as the NYPD, sprang leaks.
Renz shrugged. “That’s the plight of print journalism. Sellers will have to understand it.”
“I hope the killer doesn’t respond,” Pearl said, as they were standing up to leave the office.
Renz began to fume. His jowls actually shook.
Quinn raised a hand before Renz could speak. “Let’s all keep this running smoothly,” he said, looking at everyone but Renz.
“Helen knows the mind of the killer,” Renz said, as they were filing out.
“It will work,” Helen added.
Quinn turned to look at her. “Do you guarantee it?”
“No,” Helen said. “There are no guarantees in what we do. This is more like an extended warranty.”
“My new idea for some fresh material,” Mitzi said. “Two serial killers, married to each other.”
Mitzi and Jackie Jameson had run through their routines and were killing time sitting and sipping cold drinks in what passed for Say What?’s green room. It was a twelve-foot-square windowless room with a few old easy chairs and recliners, some gray steel folding chairs, mirrors and more mirrors, and an old refrigerator. Nothing in it was green. The two comics faced each other in opposite threadbare easy chairs. Jackie was drinking a Coke in intermittent gulps. Mitzie, one Levied leg thrown over a chair arm, sipped bottled water.
“It could be funny, Mitz,” Jackie said. “But keeping a marriage like that together could be murder.”
“In sickness and in health,” Mitzi said.
Jackie grimaced.
“See what I mean?” Mitzi said. “Possibilities. Grim, so probably funny. And I could recycle some of the old husband-and-wife jokes in a new context and they’d seem fresh.”
“I dunno, though,” Jackie said. “Considering what’s going on out there these days, will people think you oughta be joking about serial killers?”
“I’m not sure. Whaddya think?”
“Yeah, it might go over okay. Take it from a guy who’s got no taste.”
“That’s why I sought your advice.”
“If you do decide to go in that direction, maybe you oughta learn some more about serial killers, give your material more edge.”
“Talk to a few serial killers?”
“Might be easier to talk to a guy named Quinn,” Jackie said. “He’s-
“I know who he is,” Mitzi said. “I read the papers every day for material. Oh, that Middle East.”
“So give him a call. He might help you out.”
“In his spare time,” Mitzi said.
Jackie grinned at her. “You scared to call him?”
“He’s a scary guy.”
“He’d be awed to hear from a celebrity like you.”
“I could tell him I’m Whoopi Goldberg.”
Jackie dug his cell phone from one of his pockets and tossed it over so it landed on what there was of Mitzi’s lap, the way she was sprawled in the chair.
“So call him,” he said, and threw back his head to drain the rest of his Coke. He bent a kink in the empty can and tossed it into a plastic-lined trash receptacle.
