Joe R Lansdale Read online

  That was a key sentence, and Evans, from past experience knew it. He took out his wallet, fingered out two twenties and a ten. "Here. Give this to our Deep Throat. That is his usual fee?"

  "That's it," Barlowe said, taking the money. "I think I can get him to Xerox the note for me. He works in the evidence department."

  "Good deal. You play up this sicko good. And don't worry. We're probably helping the police. Negative publicity for the police will get them off their lard butts."

  "I'm beginning to wonder if we are dealing with a sicko."

  "Huh?"

  "I mean, not in the usual sense." Barlowe finished off his coffee. "Maybe this guy is one of those types that doesn't remember he's The Hacker—blacks out, has amnesia afterwards, that sort of thing—but I don't think so. His notes are too damn calculating, taunting. I think maybe he's a new breed of man. A sort of social mutant."

  Evans finished off the rest of his ham sandwich, rubbed his hands together dusting off the crumbs. "I'm not sure I follow you," he said.

  "He's a product of our society. I think he knows exactly what he's doing. He has no remorse. He is not deranged. He is a modern man; a man that can survive in our technological, no-feel society."

  "Interesting angle."

  "The man behind those notes is cunning and dangerous. A sort of criminal genius, a blood-thirsty Moriarty."

  "Genius! I don't think I'd go that far."

  "Why not? He plans perfectly. He taunts the police. He leaves notes on our newsdesk, for heaven's sake. I mean that's some kind of gall."

  "Gall doesn't make him a genius . . . but it does make him scary."

  "True enough. Just a feeling I've got about the guy."

  "That's what I like about you, Phil. Feelings. It goes into your work. A good second sense. That's what makes a good newspaperman; someone who can smell the shit beneath the perfume. It isn't made. You're born with it or you aren't."

  "Thanks."

  Evans threw up his hands in a "nothing to it gesture." Then: "The cops, bumbling or not, will catch him. A guy like this will go too far eventually. He's too eager to satisfy his lust. He'll fuck up, and when he does, they'll nab him."

  "I hope you're right."

  "Sure I am."

  "Somehow I feel this guy's going to be another Jack the Ripper. He'll pull his crimes and quit without a trace."

  "Bet Jack didn't just quit. Something happened to the old boy to stop him. He died, was killed or moved on, something like that. No, once these dingos start they don't quit. They can't quit. Whatever got them going in the first place is still with them, gnawing like a parasite, never stopping until it totally consumes the nut . . .No. He won't just quit."

  "Let's hope not. And speaking of cops," Barlowe looked at his watch, "I've got a little meeting with one of the unholy order in about an hour."

  "Well," Evans said rising, "no rest for the wicked."

  Barlowe pushed back his chair as he stood. "And the good don't need any."

  WEDNESDAY . . . 12:45 p.m.

  Hanson's stomach was doing its wild tiger imitation for the umpteenth time in the last fifteen minutes.

  Hanson looked at his watch. Clark had gone for pizza half an hour ago. Christ! The place was just on the corner. Nothing was fast and efficient anymore . . . not even his stomach. It moaned and it churned and it cursed and it flipped and it flopped. But worse yet, when he finished the pizza he would suffer indigestion and heartburn. The price of getting old, he thought. But what the hell. I'll go down with a pepperoni clenched in my teeth.

  It was while Hanson was contemplating the condition of his stomach that James Milo from Evidence came up to his desk.

  "Milo," Hanson said in way of greeting.

  Milo laid a sheet of paper on Hanson's desk.

  "A note from Warren. He asked me to drop it off to you since he's out for the rest of the afternoon. I meant to give it to you earlier, forgot."

  "No sweat. Haven't been here much today anyway. This and that."

  "Well, see you later. I'm going out for lunch."

  "And it looks like I'm doing without."

  When Milo had departed, Hanson picked up the note and read it:

  Hanson,

  Have made an examination of Evelyn DeMarka's body. Autopsy report available any time. Work of same man, of course. One thing—clue. Found a button in her split abdomen. It appears to be from something like a raincoat. It's vinyl. Since there are threads still connected to the button, I assume that it came off during the attack on the already dead and ripped corpse. Or perhaps it was placed there on purpose. No telling in a crime like this. I have turned the button into evidence. Oh yes, the bloody bastard took her heart. But all this is in the report. I just thought the stuff about the button might interest you without having to wade through all the technical bullshit.

  Warren

  Hanson folded the note and pushed it under the edge of his typewriter. He thought, a button, huh, a raincoat button. He let the thought circulate, and slowly he began to form a theory.

  WEDNESDAY . . . 1:00 p.m.

  Sergeant James Milo had an hour for lunch. He didn't intend to eat. He wasn't on a diet. He was on the take. Fifty dollars seemed a better deal to him than a tuna fish sandwich. He could eat later. Right now it was necessary that he meet Barlowe.

  The meeting was scheduled at Galleria Mall, inside a busy bookstore. Each meeting was in a different place. Milo insisted on that to avoid a pattern.

  Milo browsed the books, unconsciously plucked one from the shelf and pretended to look at it. The book was a quality paperback titled Vampires. The cover painting was of a lean, cadaverous man in black, the paleness of his face accented by the blood-red of his lips. Gore leaked from the corner of his mouth and his bloodshot eyes were glazed and extended with lust. A very striking cover. Milo didn't even notice. He flipped through the pages without seeing.

  James Milo had been on the Houston Police Force for ten years. If anyone had ever told him that he'd eventually get dirty he would have punched them.

  Not anymore.

  He began taking graft two years ago. He tried to reconcile that it was due to the fact that his boy was sick. Cerebral palsy was the sort of disease that required considerable medical attention, as well as considerable money. The latter being something he had very little of.

  He first got dirty with the prostitutes. A few dollars here and there not to squeal on the whores. And what was wrong with that? They were a public service, were they not? Besides, after an arrest they'd be back on the streets in twenty-four hours, so what did it matter?

  Then it was gambling. A few dollars not to mention some of the joints, the ones that paid the best. Gambling wasn't any big deal. It took place right in the heart of the city. Some of the biggest names in Houston were customers to the tables. Hell! Somebody ought to legalize it anyway.

  And then there was Barlowe. All he had to do for the reporter was slip him information from time to time out of Evidence. Nothing really major, stuff that didn't make any difference anyway. Besides, Barlowe and his paper paid good money for it. As much as fifty dollars for the smallest of hearsay crumbs.

  Since The Hacker, Barlowe had been a veritable gold mine.

  But Hanson worried him. That guy was suspicious. He hadn't said anything, but Milo knew the guy. He could see it in his eyes. He may not suspect him, just yet, but he did suspect, and eventually it could lead back to him ". . . the bad news. It was all getting too warm for comfort, much too warm . . .

  "James."

  "Wha . . .!" Milo nearly dropped the book. "Barlowe. You scared the shit out of me."

  Barlowe looked at the book Milo was holding. "I can imagine, reading that stuff."

  Milo grinned lopsided. When he grinned his near-bald head seemed to sag forward. "I wasn't reading. Just flipping the pages. Waiting."

  Barlowe pushed his hair out of his eyes, a constant, and to Milo, irritating gesture of his. "Well," the reporter said, "are we going to stand here and try
to look casual, or get on with it?"

  Milo replaced the book, moved down the row a bit. Barlowe, playing his game, strolled casually behind him. The reporter had a rolling walk, sort of predatory stride. He passed Milo and stopped opposite him.

  "You're not making this look much like chance," Milo whispered.

  "Shit. Isn't this a bit James Bondy?"

  "It's not your job that's on the line . . . You got the money?"

  "Like always."

  Barlowe fingered his wallet out of his sports coat pocket, held it down close in front of him and slipped out the two twenties and the ten that Evans had given him. He put the wallet back, creased the money and slipped it to Milo. Milo took it, pushed it in his pants pocket.

  "The latest," Milo said, "is they're saying it's a cop."

  "That's it? I've had that idea myself, remember?"

  "No. That's not it. I'm just saying it's a pretty damn steady thought these days."

  "All right. What else?"

  "They found a button."

  Barlowe was quiet a moment. He looked at Milo steadily. "A button?"

  "I don't stutter. A button."

  "What about a button? What kind of button? What's that got to do with anything?"

  "We . . . They think it's off The Hacker's clothes. It's vinyl, like a raincoat button. I've got it in the lab."

  "Get anything off the analysis?"

  "Not really. Blood. The girl's blood. They know that the killer's blood is type O from the sperm slides taken from both women's bodies."

  "They can tell his blood type from sperm?"

  "Yeah. Doesn't mean much. Every bozo on the street is damn near O type."

  Barlowe rubbed his chin. "A raincoat button, huh?"

  "That's right. They're trying to connect it somehow."

  "What's the nigger think of all this?"

  Milo cringed at the word "nigger." He might be an informer these days, but he thought Hanson was a good cop, a black cop, not a nigger. He didn't say anything to that effect. He just said, "You mean Lieutenant Hanson?"

  "Yeah, Lieutenant Hanson."

  "I don't know yet. Right now he probably doesn't make anymore of it than I do."

  "And what do you make of it, Sergeant Milo?"

  "Not much. It's just a button. But I know this much. It wasn't raining the day of the DeMarka murder."

  "Interesting," Barlowe said, "damn interesting."

  "That's all. That's all I've got for you."

  "All right, but listen: I want you to get a copy of the note that came to the paper this morning. You know about that don't you?"

  "Hanson and Clark brought it in . . . Why a copy?"

  "Doesn't matter why. You get a copy and I slip you another fifty."

  Milo licked his lips. "This is all getting warm about the ears, Barlowe."

  "All right, sixty bucks, and that's more than it's worth. I can damn near remember the thing word by word. I just need a copy to be safe."

  Milo massaged his face nervously with his fingers.

  "Well?" Barlowe said.

  "Okay. But this is it, the last time."

  "You're getting out of the informer business, huh?"

  Milo nodded slowly. "At least for awhile. Hanson's really hot on this case."

  "You're telling me," Barlowe said. "He damn near slung me around the paper this morning. Big, ugly nigger."

  "I wish he had," Milo said flatly.

  "Don't wish too much. I might just let slip who my source is . . . and Hanson and your Captain. What's that old bastard's name?"

  Milo didn't answer.

  "Fredricks, isn't it? Well, Fredricks and Hanson might love to hear about all the nice favors you've been doing me, and about all the nice, green bills I've been slipping you."

  "You sonofabitch."

  "Exactly. Now you get me that note and whatever else I need."

  Milo looked at Barlowe firmly. "The note and that's it. You can do whatever the hell you want to after that. You can't blackmail me. It would get you in as much hot water as I am."

  Barlowe smiled. Milo thought the teeth looked predatory sharp. "Very well. We both got each other by the balls. You make this the last one . . . but make it quick. Remember. You've got more to lose than I have. Ain't me

  138

  with a jellyfish for a kid."

  "You sonof . . ." Milo's hand shot out and grabbed Barlowe by the collar. A young woman browsing in the children's section turned to look at them. Her eyes were wide, her lips slack.

  "Temper, temper," Barlowe said, and he moved Milo's hand aside. "Very un-James Bond like, very uncool. No use in secret meetings when you draw attention to yourself, Mr. Tough Plain Clothes, Bargaining Detective."

  Milo let go of Barlowe.

  "That's better," Barlowe said straightening his shirt. He was smiling his sharp-toothed smile again.

  "I'm sorry . . . You shouldn't have said that."

  "Yeah," Barlowe said. There didn't seem to be much conviction in his voice. "You're a pretty tough dude, aren't you?"

  "Not nearly as tough as Hanson's going to be on the both of us when he finds out, and he just might. He's like a bulldog. Once he locks into something he doesn't let go."

  "A tough guy, huh?"

  "They don't come any tougher," Milo said.

  Barlowe nodded. "So long, Sergeant Milo . . . and get that note to me. Just mail it to the paper ... I mean if it's good enough for The Hacker it's good enough for you . . . Right?"

  Milo didn't answer.

  Barlowe turned to walk away.

  Milo noticed that the woman in the children's section had moved across the store, but she was still throwing looks his way. Oh the hell with it, he thought.

  He turned to watch Barlowe going out the door, making with that odd, predatory stride.

  WEDNESDAY ... 1:25 p.m.

  Clark belched.

  "Jesus," Hanson said.

  "Emily Post doesn't eat at my house," Clark said.

  "Or here at the station either, I see."

  "Correct. Did you know that in some places, a belch is the polite compliment to a tasty meal."

  "You call a pepperoni pizza that tasted like cardboard and leather a culinary delight . . . and cold yet?"

  "You still harping about how long it took me?"

  "Well, you did just go down to the corner, not all the way to Italy . . . although considering the temperature of the thing, Italy might well be within the realm of reality."

  "This act won't get you on the late show. Ain't funny enough . . . Didn't you say you had something to tell me after we finished our lovely repast."

  "I did."

  "Spring it on me."

  Hanson pulled the note Warren had written from beneath the edge of his typewriter. "Tell me what you make of this?"

  Clark took the note, sipped his Coke and winced. "Too much fuckin' ice in these things, taste like cistern water." He sat the Coke down and read the note.

  When he was finished he looked up at Hanson.

  "Damn nice of him to go to all that trouble. How come you're suddenly on Warren's hit parade. He's usually about as exciting and concerned as one of his fellow corpses."

  Hanson smiled. "He's not that bad. I think these murders have hit a cord with him . . . It's his interest, his secret passion, he told us so himself."

  Clark nodded. "A button, huh?"

  "Uh huh," Hanson parked his elbows on the desk.

  "Why do you think a raincoat button was in the gal's belly?"

  "Maybe like Warren said, it could be a nut's reason ... or maybe ..."

  "Maybe what?"

  "Maybe he was wearing the raincoat. That makes more sense."

  "No rain that day."

  "True," Hanson said slowly.

  "You've got a theory. Right?"

  "Sort of. The more I think about it the more it grows."

  "How about the more you talk about it?" Clark said eagerly.

  "All right. Try this on for size."

  "I'm l
istening."

  "The guy, The Hacker, was wearing a raincoat even though it wasn't raining that night. Correct?"

  "Correct."

  "See any sense in that, Joe?"

  "Not really . . . Maybe the guy's some kind of fetish nut ... A flasher even."

  "Maybe. But this guy seems to have some kind of sense about what he's doing. I mean he has been careful so far. Wearing a raincoat would be a bit obvious . . . Unless he just puts it on at certain times."

  "Just for the murders?"

  "Yeah."

  "So he's got a controlled fetish. So what?"

  "No. That isn't what I'm getting at ... I mean you can't rule out anything with nuts, but I'm saying this guy has a practical side. Think about it."

  "The blood!"

  "Uh huh."

  "Of course. It splatters on the raincoat instead of him."

  "That way," Hanson said leaning back in his chair, "he can just slip off the raincoat, wrap it around the murder weapon—sword, bayonet, whatever, and . . . well, in this case, the victim's heart, and presto . . ."

  "He's not covered with blood," Clark added.

  "A little package under his arm wouldn't draw attention."

  "Off he strolls into the night, easy as you please . . . But one thing?"

  "Yeah."

  "According to the autopsy report, the girl was raped like the last. Raped after death to be exact. Messy business raping a corpse in that kind of condition."

  "No problem. The raincoat again. He just unbuttons a couple of buttons, slips out his dick and goes to it."

  "Ahhhh. That's how the button came off."

  "Yep."

  "Sherlock," Clark said. "You outdid yourself."

  "Thank you, Watson. Elementary, really."

  Clark rubbed his chin. "So all he's got to do is wipe himself off on a sheet or the girl's clothes and he's tidy as a butler. Up comes the pants, off comes the raincoat. He wraps up his gear and gets."

  "Yeah. But his days are numbered."

  "Another lead?"