not asked for a special room. He had not asked for a room with a view or a room near an elevator or one of those new no-smoking rooms. He had not asked for a room with a king-sized bed or a queen-sized bed or two separate beds. And most of all Bruce Grey had not asked for a room on a high floor. For all he knew, he could have gotten a room on the ground level.
“Is there anything else, Lieutenant?”
“No, that’s it for now.”
Hector Rodriguez turned to leave and then stopped. “I saw your name in the
Max’s head shot up. “What did you say?”
“Cutting off a man’s balls. Pure loco, huh, Lieutenant?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“The evening edition. Front cover. What kind of a man does something like that? City’s full of sickos.”
Once again, Max rubbed his face and eyes with his right hand. The press. The mayor. The gay activists.
8
The ringing of the telephone jerked George out of his sleep. He awoke, as he always did, quickly, alert. He picked up the receiver before the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Did you read this morning’s paper?”
George sat up and checked his watch. The voice on the other end sounded different this time — still agitated and strained, but now there was something else. More fear. Maybe even anger. “No,” George replied. “Should I have?”
“According to the
“You sound upset.”
“They were supposed to die quickly, damn it! I never said anything about torture or mutilation.”
“If you’re unhappy with my work—”
“Unhappy? You’re a lunatic. I thought I was dealing with a professional, but you’re a goddamn psychopath.”
“I was following your orders,” George said. “The mutilation just speeds up the end result. It makes sense financially.”
There was stunned silence on the other end.
George continued. “I assume you also read that everything went smoothly with Jenkins’ murder. I dumped the body just where you wanted it.”
“Did… did you disfigure him?”
“He died from the first stab wound. The same with Whitherson.”
“You’re sure?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Then just promise me you won’t hurt any of the others.”
George almost smiled. “I am merely the executioner, the one who pulls the switch or drops the gas pellet. But you… you are the judge and jury. You are the one who ordered their deaths.”
“No,” the voice said slowly, “I am not.”
Again there was silence. Then the voice said, “Promise me, George. Promise me that no others will be needlessly tortured.”
George paused. “Okay. But I assure you it was for the best.”
There was a long release of breath and then the voice said, “The situation is different now. You’ll have to be more careful. The police are going to start watching.”
“Watching what?” George asked. “The police force can’t guard every faggot in Manhattan… unless there’s something else.”
“Something else? I don’t understand.”
“I think you do,” George said. “Listen, I don’t care who you are. I don’t care why you want these people killed. It’s not my concern. But I need to know what the police are thinking. I need to know what the real connection is between the victims so that I can prepare properly. Otherwise, mistakes can be made.”
Silence.
“Can I assume,” George continued, “that these men have more in common than being gay?”
“They’re all patients at an AIDS clinic,” the voice said.
“So that explains why you told me to wear the mask and gloves.”
“Yes.”
“And Dr. Grey worked at this clinic?”
“Yes.”
“So let me get this straight: Trian, Whitherson, and Jenkins were all AIDS patients at a clinic operated by Bruce Grey?”
“Yes.”
“And the police know this?”
“They know most of it. The rest they’ll figure out.”
“So they may look into Grey’s suicide again.”
“They might.”
George thought for a moment. “I have an idea, but it’ll cost you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll kill a couple of random faggots—”
“No!”
“Hear me out. I kill a couple of faggots who don’t have AIDS or aren’t being treated at this clinic. It’ll throw the cops off the track. Make it look even more like the work of a psychotic gay hater.”
“No!”
“Then I’ll change the way I kill the next few. I’ll make it look like an accident or, better yet, a suicide. If these guys have AIDS and are on death row anyway, a suicide might not be looked into too closely.”
“The police will be looking for something like that. You’ll never get away with it.”
“Worth a try.”
“No. I want you to use the same methods unless I say otherwise.”
George shrugged. “Your money.”
“And remember — the only people who are to be put to death are the ones I say.”
“Not put to death,” George said.
“Excuse me?”
“They’re not being ‘put to death,’ ” George continued. “They’re being murdered.”
“Do you eat here every day?” Sara asked.
“No,” Eric Blake replied. They both slid their trays along the hospital cafeteria girders. The room was packed with doctors, nurses, lab technicians — everyone dressed in white coats or blue hospital scrubs with the words “Property of Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center — Removal from Premises Prohibited” emblazoned across the chest. Everyone looked exhausted, the men unshaven, the women baggy-eyed. Working forty hour shifts can do that to a person.
Sara looked down at the hospital pizza and frowned. “Eric?”
“Yes?”
“Is mozzarella cheese supposed to be green?”
