lady cop looked surprised at his question.
"What? Oh, of course, you wouldn't know. Courtney Gilman is the only child of Thomas Gilman."
She waited, expecting some reaction from the Executioner. It was not forthcoming. His blank expression told her that she wasn't making herself understood.
"Tom Gilman is a senior state legislator," she said at last. "Street talk has it he may be our next governor. He's got all the marks."
"So we're talking about some sort of political arrangement," Bolan summarized.
"Possibly," Fran agreed. "Or blackmail — I don't know. At least it's an angle."
"It needs more checking, Fran. Where do I find this Gilman?"
"Gilman senior? Right here in St. Paul. I think he's originally from somewhere upstate, snow country. But we're the state capital here... where the action is, you know?"
"He's worked his way up from councilman to the legislature, and the word is he won't be satisfied short of the statehouse. If his son is our man..."
"
If
he is," Bolan cautioned.
"Okay, right," the lady said, nodding. "Mr. Gilman could lose everything if the media pegged him as the father of a murdering maniac. He might try to make a deal... something... with Fawcett, or someone higher up."
Bolan thought for a moment.
"We're flying blind now," he said. "I need more than speculation before I hang the mark of the beast on a man."
"We can check it out," Fran insisted. "Confront Gilman."
Bolan shook his head.
"Not we, Fran. This is my game. You don't even know the rules."
She bristled at once. She fought to keep her voice down as she answered.
"I'm a police officer. This town is my territory, not yours. Who do you think..."
Bolan cut her off, quietly but firmly.
"You already suspect Fawcett, and if you're right, he couldn't run a scam like this alone. Who do you turn to?"
This time her response was hesitant, halting.
"I have friends on the rape squad..."
"And if there is a cover-up, highly placed, they can't do any more than you can on your own," he finished for her. "Let it go, Fran."
Her face was set in an expression of grim determination.
"No way, buster. I'm not handing this over to you feds on a silver platter. The department can clean its own skirts."
"It's already been handed over," he said with finality. "I'm sorry, Fran, but you're out. Accept it."
Bolan sympathized with the lady, sure, and he let her know it.
"You've been of help," he offered. "Believe it. You can be of more."
"Name it."
"Teach me about rape," he said simply.
She looked at him, making no reply.
"What makes this headcase tick?" he continued. "I need to be inside his head, to see where he lives."
"Careful," she said, her voice softening, "it's dark in there."
"Why does he rape and kill?" Bolan prodded.
"Why not start fires, say, or rob gas stations? Why the sex angle?"
Fran leaned toward him, raising a slim index finger.
"Rape is a crime of violence, not sexuality," she said, secure, on familiar ground now. "Think of it as a personal assault, no different really from a shooting, or a beating."
Bolan nodded his awareness.
"But what comes
before
the fact?" he asked.
"Maybe rapists are inferiority complex types," she replied, "driven by the need to assert themselves and exercise control over a captive audience.
"That's one theory, anyway. That they perform not sexually, but emotionally. Each attack reaffirms their identity, makes them somebody to be reckoned with. For those few moments, they exist — they cannot be ignored."
"Do many rapists kill?"
"No. Maybe one in a thousand will deliberately kill his victim. We're dealing with a special breed of cat."
"A woman hater?"
"Possibly, but not necessarily. He probably hates everybody, and most of all himself. He ambushes women at night because he doesn't have the brains to build bombs or the nerve to climb a tower and shoot it out with the police."
"You read a lot from one sketch," Bolan said.
Fran smiled.
"Don't forget the M.O.," she said. "These crimes are not
"What? Oh, of course, you wouldn't know. Courtney Gilman is the only child of Thomas Gilman."
She waited, expecting some reaction from the Executioner. It was not forthcoming. His blank expression told her that she wasn't making herself understood.
"Tom Gilman is a senior state legislator," she said at last. "Street talk has it he may be our next governor. He's got all the marks."
"So we're talking about some sort of political arrangement," Bolan summarized.
"Possibly," Fran agreed. "Or blackmail — I don't know. At least it's an angle."
"It needs more checking, Fran. Where do I find this Gilman?"
"Gilman senior? Right here in St. Paul. I think he's originally from somewhere upstate, snow country. But we're the state capital here... where the action is, you know?"
"He's worked his way up from councilman to the legislature, and the word is he won't be satisfied short of the statehouse. If his son is our man..."
"
If
he is," Bolan cautioned.
"Okay, right," the lady said, nodding. "Mr. Gilman could lose everything if the media pegged him as the father of a murdering maniac. He might try to make a deal... something... with Fawcett, or someone higher up."
Bolan thought for a moment.
"We're flying blind now," he said. "I need more than speculation before I hang the mark of the beast on a man."
"We can check it out," Fran insisted. "Confront Gilman."
Bolan shook his head.
"Not we, Fran. This is my game. You don't even know the rules."
She bristled at once. She fought to keep her voice down as she answered.
"I'm a police officer. This town is my territory, not yours. Who do you think..."
Bolan cut her off, quietly but firmly.
"You already suspect Fawcett, and if you're right, he couldn't run a scam like this alone. Who do you turn to?"
This time her response was hesitant, halting.
"I have friends on the rape squad..."
"And if there is a cover-up, highly placed, they can't do any more than you can on your own," he finished for her. "Let it go, Fran."
Her face was set in an expression of grim determination.
"No way, buster. I'm not handing this over to you feds on a silver platter. The department can clean its own skirts."
"It's already been handed over," he said with finality. "I'm sorry, Fran, but you're out. Accept it."
Bolan sympathized with the lady, sure, and he let her know it.
"You've been of help," he offered. "Believe it. You can be of more."
"Name it."
"Teach me about rape," he said simply.
She looked at him, making no reply.
"What makes this headcase tick?" he continued. "I need to be inside his head, to see where he lives."
"Careful," she said, her voice softening, "it's dark in there."
"Why does he rape and kill?" Bolan prodded.
"Why not start fires, say, or rob gas stations? Why the sex angle?"
Fran leaned toward him, raising a slim index finger.
"Rape is a crime of violence, not sexuality," she said, secure, on familiar ground now. "Think of it as a personal assault, no different really from a shooting, or a beating."
Bolan nodded his awareness.
"But what comes
before
the fact?" he asked.
"Maybe rapists are inferiority complex types," she replied, "driven by the need to assert themselves and exercise control over a captive audience.
"That's one theory, anyway. That they perform not sexually, but emotionally. Each attack reaffirms their identity, makes them somebody to be reckoned with. For those few moments, they exist — they cannot be ignored."
"Do many rapists kill?"
"No. Maybe one in a thousand will deliberately kill his victim. We're dealing with a special breed of cat."
"A woman hater?"
"Possibly, but not necessarily. He probably hates everybody, and most of all himself. He ambushes women at night because he doesn't have the brains to build bombs or the nerve to climb a tower and shoot it out with the police."
"You read a lot from one sketch," Bolan said.
Fran smiled.
"Don't forget the M.O.," she said. "These crimes are not
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