Night Victims

“I’m a working cop,” she said. “I plan on being one a year from now. That’s about as far ahead as I want to look.” So here I am, sitting around with a guy who wants to squat in front of a hole in the ice and another one who wants to catch a fish with a sword on its nose. Is this a wise career move?

Horn sipped his drink, then rested the glass on his knee, holding it with the middle finger and thumb of his left hand. “I’ve read the murder files on all three dead women, as I’m sure you have. I don’t think I have to ask if there’s any disagreement on whether we have a serial killer at work here.”

“You don’t,” Bickerstaff said.

Horn looked at Paula, who nodded.

“I also see by your records that neither of you ever did any rock or mountain climbing. Neither have I. But it seems a certain degree of skill had to be involved for our perp to reach those bedroom windows. That’s something that needs looking into. He’s also got some skill with a glass cutter and masking tape. Two of the windows were locked, and he silently-almost had to be silently-cut a crescent in the glass at the latch, using tape so the section removed wouldn’t fall to the outside sill or ground. And it looks like some kind of wax or oil was put on the tracks before he raised the windows so they’d move easily and without making much noise.”

“An experienced B-and-E man,” Bickerstaff suggested.

“Cat burglar,” Paula said. “They climb.”

“Don’t usually kill,” Horn said. “Our man has a rare combination of skills.”

“The autopsy reports suggest he knows anatomy and how to use a knife,” Paula said. “He kept his victims alive so they’d suffer as long as possible.”

“Medical background, you think?”

“Maybe. But the postmortems suggest he doesn’t have skills at that level. More like a butcher or simple torturer with experience.”

“A cruel bastard!” Horn said, with a vehemence that surprised Paula.

“Which brings us to kinky sex,” Bickerstaff said. “You think the victims mighta known their killer? That they mighta wanted to be wrapped in their sheets that way for some kinda S-and-M thing, then he surprised them by going too far?”

“There’s nothing in their backgrounds to suggest that,” Horn said. “So for now, we can rule it out.”

Good enough for Paula.

Horn looked from her to Bickerstaff. “You two have got a few days on me when it comes to this case. Is there anything else you think might be worth mentioning?”

“The footprint in Sally Bridge’s bedroom,” Paula said. “The lab brought it out more. Looks like a man’s bare right foot, medium-sized. Not as good in court as a handprint, but a match might help build a case if we catch this guy. When we catch him.”

Horn sat back and lifted his glass of scotch but didn’t sip. He simply stared at it while he rotated the glass and made the light change in the amber liquid. “Yes, he apparently climbs barefoot.”

“Or, more likely, undresses before he kills so he doesn’t get bloody,” Bickerstaff said.

“I’d agree,” Horn said, “except there doesn’t figure to be much spurting or flowing blood, the way he shrouds his victims in their bedsheets before going to work with the knife. Aside from method, that single partial footprint is the only thing remotely like a substantial clue at any of the three murder scenes.” He took a sip of scotch. “Still, we don’t want to form too many preconceived notions at this point. We’re not dealing with someone who thinks logically in the ways that we do, which is why we need to get inside his mind, gain some idea of his particular and peculiar logic.” He smiled.

“You know, they don’t all murder their mothers over and over.”

“But plenty do,” Bickerstaff said.

“Plenty.” Horn shrugged. “Maybe even this barefoot, rock-climbing, glass-cutting, sheet-winding killer with a sound knowledge of human anatomy.”

“He sounds more individual,” Bickerstaff said, “when you put it that way.”

“Oh, he’s individual, all right. Unique and dangerous.”

And that’s why he interests you, Paula thought, looking at the expression on Horn’s set features. Maybe you belong in that hunting catalog after all.

“As far as we’re concerned,” Horn said, “this investigation enters a new phase tomorrow. I want you two to pore over and collate the information on all three cases, do some follow-up interviews of the people who discovered the bodies; the family, friends or neighbors who knew the victims. Sometimes people have fresh recollections after days or weeks have passed. Don’t just look for something new- look for combinations of information that might mean something new. Don’t toss aside anything. We can get together and decide among us whether it’s important. Meanwhile, I’m going to visit the crime scenes, starting with the Sally Bridge murder. A new perspective sometimes turns up something meaningful.”

He motioned for both of them to remain seated but stood up and went to one of the bookshelves with doors beneath it. From inside one of the doors he retrieved two cell phones; he gave one to Paula and the other to Bickerstaff. “Pertinent phone numbers are already in the data banks. I have a cell phone of my own. That’s primarily how we’ll stay in touch. You two will report only to me and be pretty much on your own. We meet back here at the same time, two days from now, and compare notes.”

Paula and Bickerstaff took that as a signal that the meeting was over. They stood up, Bickerstaff wheezing as he struggled out of the grasp of the deep sofa cushions.

“Needless to say,” Horn told them, “we keep all this from the media. They’ll catch up to it sooner or later, but maybe we can choose when and be able to use them in some way.”

“That would be nice for a change,” Paula said, slipping her cell phone into her blazer pocket.

As Horn ushered them into the foyer, a tall blond woman came down the stairs. Her hair was piled gracefully on her head and she was wearing jeans and a bleached-out blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She looked fresh and clean as only certain blond women could. Late forties, Paula thought, maybe early fifties. The older blond woman in the mantel photo.

“My wife, Anne,” Horn said, and introduced everyone as the woman walked the rest of the way down the stairs. Paula had the impression she’d timed this casual meeting so she could get a look at them, see what her husband was getting into.

Anne smiled graciously and said she was sorry they were leaving. Horn told her not to worry, they’d all be seeing plenty of each other. Paula noticed that Anne smelled subtly of perfumed soap or shampoo and wondered what the scent was. She wouldn’t mind smelling that way.

The handsome, mature couple stood with the door open as Paula and Bickerstaff left and climbed into the unmarked.

“You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you,” Paula said to Bickerstaff. Not a question. Maybe an accusation.

Bickerstaff shrugged as he buckled his seat belt. “We’re gonna do it, Paula. It’s our choice whether we enjoy our work.”

When the car had driven away and the front door was closed, Horn said to his wife, “I thought you might want to take their measure. What do you think?”

“The man looks like he shouldn’t climb stairs; the woman doesn’t look big enough to open an olive jar. I don’t like the idea of you having to depend on them, maybe for your life.”

“The man’s a good cop with a lot left in him.”

“He looks like he should use what remaining energy he has to work out in a gym and try to lose some weight.”

“He’s about to retire.”

Anne shook her head. “Don’t you know what always happens in crime novels and movies to cops who are about to retire?”

“If this were a book or movie,” Horn said, “I’d be chief.”

She frowned. The parallel lines again, deeper with each year, with each new worry in her life. Her cop husband, her job, the lawsuit against the hospital, and now her pensioned-off husband’s involvement in a murder case. “I really don’t like the feel of this, Thomas. You sure they’re going to be okay?”

“They’ll do just fine,” Horn said, grinning to show his confidence. “A wheezy fat man with savvy, and a feisty Cajun. I could do a lot worse.”