Bleeding in the Eye of a Brainstorm

person I'm calling.'

'You told me earlier you weren't on a case.'

'I'm still not; I don't have a paying client. It's just something I got mixed up in, and now I think the police should act as quickly as possible. I'm not certain, but I have reason to believe that the name of the ice-pick killer could be Raymond Rogers. One possible way to confirm it is to check the victims' clothing, and even the crime scenes themselves, for any semen stains. There'll probably be a very low sperm count, but if it is Rogers, his prostate seems to be working serious overtime. You can get a detailed description of him by getting the state police to subpoena the records of an upstate New York mental hospital called Rivercliff. While they're at it, the state police might want to scope out that whole operation, because there may be some funny doings up there. Finally, I have reason to believe that if you perform an autopsy on the corpse of the man you found in the Carnegie Hall Dumpster you'll find some kind of toxic substance in the tissue. If that turns out to be the case, and if the police lab can identify the substance, I would appreciate it very much if you'd be kind enough to share that information with me.'

There was a rather prolonged silence, during which I could hear MacWhorter's hoarse breathing. When he finally spoke again, his voice sounded odd. 'Frederickson?'

'What?'

'I already have a description of Raymond Rogers.'

'What?! Who?!'

'You're the third person who's called me about this Rogers. The only difference is that the other two were dead certain the killer is Rogers. One even claimed to be an eyewitness to one of his murders.'

'Who were they, Chief?'

'Both women, and neither would give her name. The first sounded cool, matter-of-fact, professional. She just said the killer was Raymond Rogers, and hung up. The other one, the woman who said she'd watched him kill somebody, called herself 'the night owl.' Even described him-tall, rangy, dark hair and eyes.'

'Jesus Christ,' I breathed. My mouth was dry, my palms moist, and my thoughts were not only racing but stumbling over each other.

'Frederickson?'

'Yes, Chief?'

'You want to tell me now what this is all about?'

'I'm not sure what you're referring to by 'this,' Chief,' I said carefully. 'I picked up some information, and I passed it on to you. I don't have anything else to tell you.'

'Listen to me, you little shit,' MacWhorter said. His voice had risen only slightly, but the anger in his tone was naked and shining. 'This is the kind of crap you and your brother pull all the time, and it's exactly what I was talking about this morning. You're involved in something the police should know about, and you're in it right up to your eyeballs. This time I may just push you under and let you drown. You call me up and give me not only the name of this wacko but the name of the mental hospital he escaped from. Then you tell me what the M.E. is going to find if he does an autopsy on a body found two blocks from your home. Now, you may think you're going to catch this freak all on your own, get some more publicity, and make the police look like fools. If you think you can get away with withholding vital information from me, you're out of your mind. This is a serial killer you're playing with, Frederickson; not leveling with me could get people killed.'

'I'm not playing with a serial killer, Chief,' I said, leaning back in my swivel chair and rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. I was really sorry I'd made this call-or at least sorry I'd called MacWhorter. 'And I'm not withholding any information that could help you. It seems to me you should be thanking me for giving you the information I did. Were you this courteous to the two women who called to give you Rogers's name?'

'We still haven't found Mama Spit.'

'I told you that whatever happened to Mama Spit is a complete mystery to me.'

'She's a material witness to a murder.'

'No kidding? I seem to recall I was the one who told you that.'

'I think you know where she is.'

'You think what you like, but that's a pretty goofy idea.'

'Who's your client?'

'I keep telling you I don't have a-'

'Don't play word games with me, Frederickson. On whose behalf are you working? How did you happen to come up with all this information you've been giving me?'

'I'm not going to tell you that.'

'The nature of your investigations and what people tell you isn't privileged information.'

'I never claimed it was. I just said I wasn't going to tell you. That's what you get for calling me names and hurting my feelings.'

'All right, wise guy, I want you to get your ass in here right now.'

'Would you, really? Why? I've already told you all I'm going to tell you.'

'Then maybe you'll be sharing a cell with the rest of the scumbags we pick up around here. I want a written statement from you describing what matter you're currently investigating, and how you came up with the name of Raymond Rogers.'

'I always cooperate with the police, MacWhorter. I'd probably feel better about coming in to chat with you if I hadn't already done that once today and met with a less than friendly and respectful reception. Then you wanted to throw me out, and now you want me to come in. Make up your mind. If I make any written statement, it will be about how you've verbally abused me on two separate occasions when I tried to give you information concerning criminal activities.'

'If you're not here within the next two hours, Frederickson, I'm going to issue a warrant for your arrest on the grounds that you re a material witness in a murder case and you're withholding evidence. You want to play games with me, I'll have your license pulled.'

'MacWhorter,' I said in my mildest, friendliest tone, 'has anybody ever told you that you're a seriously stupid man? If I wanted any shit from you, I'd squeeze your head and it would come out your ears like toothpaste. Until and unless you do arrest me, this is the last conversation I ever intend to have with you. The next time I come across information I think the police should have, I guarantee I'll take it to a cop who's a lot smarter and more civil than you are, and that leaves me the choice of just about anybody else on the force. Stick your threats up your fat ass.'

So much for my public relations efforts with the local constabulary. I hung up the phone while MacWhorter was shouting at me, leaned forward in my chair and drummed the fingers of both hands on the desk. I had personal ties to enough ace attorneys to stock a law firm, so I wasn't going to waste time worrying about being hassled by the police captain when I had more important things to worry about, like winning a race against madness and death before Santa arrived.

Step Two.

If it was the CIA that was behind all the doings at Rivercliff, and I didn't harbor a lot of doubt, I thought it highly likely that the killers they had hired to work New York City were freelancers from a long ways out of town. It was past three in the afternoon, which meant it was well past the dinner hour at Interpol headquarters in Berne. But the man I wanted to speak to, Inspector Gerard Moliere, often liked to work late at night in his office, and so I thought calling him now was worth a try. I had met Moliere two years before, when Garth and I had been in Switzerland trailing a man by the name of Chant Sinclair, an infamous terrorist who had turned out to be not such a terrorist after all. I hoped the inspector remembered me, and that we were still on good terms. I thumbed through my Rolodex until I found the number I wanted, dialed it.

'Oui?'

'It's Robert Frederickson, Inspector. I'm sorry to be calling so late.'

'Mongo le Magnifique! How are you, my friend?!'

Well. It seemed Gerard Moliere did remember me, and we were still on good terms. 'I'm fine, Inspector. How about yourself?'

'I am well, my friend. It is so terrible, this thing that is happening in New York. So many people killed.'

'Yes, Inspector. It is terrible.'

'Garth dropped by last week to say hello. He and his wife are skiing in Zermatt through the holidays.'