university say his work is top-notch,” Swanson said. “I talked to some people in his department. ‘Ground-breaking,’ is what they say . . . .”
“You know what bothers me?” Lucas said. “In this letter, Loverboy says she was on her back in a pool of blood, dead. I saw the pictures, and she was facedown next to the wall. He doesn’t mention a handprint. I think he left her there alive . . . .”
“He did,” Swanson said, nodding. “She died just about the time the paramedics got there—they even gave her some kind of heart shot, trying to get it going again. Nothing happened, but she hadn’t been dead very long, and the blood under her head was fresh. The blood on the floor, though, the blood bythe sink, had already started to coagulate. They figure she was alive for fifteen or twenty minutes after the attack. Her brain was all fucked up—who knows what she could have told us? But if Loverboy had called nine-one-one, she might still be around.”
“Fucker,” Sloan said. “Does that make him an accomplice?”
Swanson shrugged. “You’d have to ask a lawyer about that.”
“How about this doctor, the guy she talked with at parties . . .” Lucas asked.
“That’s under way,” Daniel said.
“You doing it?” Lucas asked Sloan.
“No. Andy Shearson.”
“Shit, Shearson? He couldn’t find his own asshole with both hands and a pair of searchlights,” Lucas said in disbelief.
“He’s what we’ve got and he’s not that bad,” Daniel said. He stuck the end of the cigar in his mouth, nipped it off, took the butt end from his mouth, examined it and then tossed it into a wastebasket. “We’re getting a little more TV on this one—random-killer bullshit. I’d hate to see it get any bigger.”
“The story’ll be gone in a week. Sooner, if we get a decent dope killing,” Sloan said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Daniel said. “Stephanie Bekker was white and upper middle class. Reporters identify with that kind of woman. They could keep it going for a while.”
“We’ll push,” Swanson said. “Talk to Bekker some more. We’re doing the neighborhood. Checking parking tickets in the area, talking to Stephanie Bekker’s friends. The main thing is, find the boyfriend. Either he did it or he saw it.”
“He says the killer looks like a goblin,” Lucas said, reading through the letter. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Fuck if I know,” said Swanson.
“Ugly,” said Daniel. “Barrel-chested . . .”
“Do we know for sure that the goblin’s not Bekker? That Bekker was actually in San Francisco?” Lucas asked.
“Yeah, we do,” Swanson said. “We wired a photo out, had the San Francisco cops show it to the desk people at Bekker’s hotel. He was there, no mistake.”
“Hmph,” Lucas grunted. He stood up, slipped his hands in his pockets and wandered over to Daniel’s wall of trophy photos. Jimmy Carter’s smiling face looked back at him. “We’re leaning the wrong way with the media. If Bekker hired a killer, the best handle we’ve got is the boyfriend. The witness . . .”
“Loverboy,” said Sloan.
“Loverboy,” said Lucas. “He’s got some kind of conscience, because he called and he wrote the letter. He could’ve walked out and we might never have suspected . . .”
“We would have known,” Swanson said. “The M.E. found that she’d had intercourse not too long before she was killed. And he did leave her to die.”
“Maybe he really thought she was dead,” Lucas said.
“Anyway, he’s got some kind of conscience. We ought to make a public appeal to him. TV, the papers. That does two things: it might bring him out of the woodwork, and it might put pressure on the killer, or Bekker, to make a move.”
“No other options?” asked Daniel.
“Not if you want to catch the guy,” Lucas said. “We could let it go: I’d say right now that the chance of convicting Bekker is about zero. We’ll only get him one way—the witness
“You know what bothers me?” Lucas said. “In this letter, Loverboy says she was on her back in a pool of blood, dead. I saw the pictures, and she was facedown next to the wall. He doesn’t mention a handprint. I think he left her there alive . . . .”
“He did,” Swanson said, nodding. “She died just about the time the paramedics got there—they even gave her some kind of heart shot, trying to get it going again. Nothing happened, but she hadn’t been dead very long, and the blood under her head was fresh. The blood on the floor, though, the blood bythe sink, had already started to coagulate. They figure she was alive for fifteen or twenty minutes after the attack. Her brain was all fucked up—who knows what she could have told us? But if Loverboy had called nine-one-one, she might still be around.”
“Fucker,” Sloan said. “Does that make him an accomplice?”
Swanson shrugged. “You’d have to ask a lawyer about that.”
“How about this doctor, the guy she talked with at parties . . .” Lucas asked.
“That’s under way,” Daniel said.
“You doing it?” Lucas asked Sloan.
“No. Andy Shearson.”
“Shit, Shearson? He couldn’t find his own asshole with both hands and a pair of searchlights,” Lucas said in disbelief.
“He’s what we’ve got and he’s not that bad,” Daniel said. He stuck the end of the cigar in his mouth, nipped it off, took the butt end from his mouth, examined it and then tossed it into a wastebasket. “We’re getting a little more TV on this one—random-killer bullshit. I’d hate to see it get any bigger.”
“The story’ll be gone in a week. Sooner, if we get a decent dope killing,” Sloan said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Daniel said. “Stephanie Bekker was white and upper middle class. Reporters identify with that kind of woman. They could keep it going for a while.”
“We’ll push,” Swanson said. “Talk to Bekker some more. We’re doing the neighborhood. Checking parking tickets in the area, talking to Stephanie Bekker’s friends. The main thing is, find the boyfriend. Either he did it or he saw it.”
“He says the killer looks like a goblin,” Lucas said, reading through the letter. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Fuck if I know,” said Swanson.
“Ugly,” said Daniel. “Barrel-chested . . .”
“Do we know for sure that the goblin’s not Bekker? That Bekker was actually in San Francisco?” Lucas asked.
“Yeah, we do,” Swanson said. “We wired a photo out, had the San Francisco cops show it to the desk people at Bekker’s hotel. He was there, no mistake.”
“Hmph,” Lucas grunted. He stood up, slipped his hands in his pockets and wandered over to Daniel’s wall of trophy photos. Jimmy Carter’s smiling face looked back at him. “We’re leaning the wrong way with the media. If Bekker hired a killer, the best handle we’ve got is the boyfriend. The witness . . .”
“Loverboy,” said Sloan.
“Loverboy,” said Lucas. “He’s got some kind of conscience, because he called and he wrote the letter. He could’ve walked out and we might never have suspected . . .”
“We would have known,” Swanson said. “The M.E. found that she’d had intercourse not too long before she was killed. And he did leave her to die.”
“Maybe he really thought she was dead,” Lucas said.
“Anyway, he’s got some kind of conscience. We ought to make a public appeal to him. TV, the papers. That does two things: it might bring him out of the woodwork, and it might put pressure on the killer, or Bekker, to make a move.”
“No other options?” asked Daniel.
“Not if you want to catch the guy,” Lucas said. “We could let it go: I’d say right now that the chance of convicting Bekker is about zero. We’ll only get him one way—the witness
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