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Authors: Don Pendleton
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only identical, they carry the killer's personality. With practice, you can read a crime like a signature."
Bolan nodded. He understood that, sure, from the hard-won experience of his wars overseas and against the domestic Mafia cannibals. They left their marks, all right, like some sort of fingerprint.
"Go on," he urged.
"Okay." She paused, collecting her thoughts. "This freak rapes his victims, and then he kills them with a knife. He mutilates them, but never sexually."
"Explain, Fran."
Another pause, and then she continued.
"Ninety-odd years ago, Jack the Ripper tried to shut down London's red light district single-handed. He never raped his victims, but he indulged in extensive mutilation. More often than not, sex organs were removed, and never found. Now, that is a sex fiend."
"And our headcase is no Ripper?" Bolan asked.
Fran shook her head firmly.
"No way. Oh, superficially there's a similarity, sure. But our man stabs and hacks without any real direction, without any sexual aim. He defaces his victims, diminishes them. And, thereby, he somehow enlarges himself."
"Is he insane?"
She shrugged. "Medically? Of course. Legally, who knows?"
"What happens if he's arrested?"
"That depends. Of course, if there is some kind of plot to cover for him, he could be committed quietly — again. And he's already escaped three times."
"What if he goes to trial, Fran?"
"Maybe the same thing. A state hospital instead of some private institution, but those places have revolving doors. He could be 'cured' and released in a few years. Possibly months."
Bolan's voice was cool, determined.
"Okay," he said, "you've helped."
"That's it? End of lesson?"
He smiled. "School's out. And thanks."
"For what?"
"Some insight, some direction," he answered. "I can get inside him now."
When she spoke again, Fran Traynor's voice was almost pleading with him.
"They're not stupid, you know. Psychos, I mean. They get reckless sometimes, but underneath they're frequently as clever as they are vicious."
Bolan nodded. "Okay. I'll be careful."
He didn't need to be told how clever — and dangerous — a maniac with a self-imposed mission could be.
Bolan rested a warm hand on the lady cop's shoulder for a moment, left some change on the table for their coffees, then left her alone. As he hit the street in his rented sedan, the lady was already out of his mind, crowded from his thoughts by the multitude of things that remained to be done before the curtain could ring down on St. Paul's bloody stage.
First, he needed to touch base with the Politician and see what he had learned about the registration of the two crew wagons. He would have to follow that lead wherever it took him, before he could fit all the pieces together in their final mosaic.
And beyond that?
Somewhere out there, in the large city just stirring into life with the warming rays of the morning sun, there was waiting for him a young man with a blank face and a seriously deranged mind.
That young man, and perhaps several more besides, had an unscheduled appointment with the Executioner.
It was one appointment that Mack Bolan was grimly determined to keep.
10
Mack Bolan had come to St. Paul on what seemed a simple mission.
To help a friend.
To relieve the pain of a suffering comrade-in-arms.
But the nature of the Executioner's mission in the Twin Cities was rapidly shaping up into something else, something vastly different from what he had come to expect. The campaign had all the makings of a unique experience for Bolan in his home-front wars, and the very difference of the mission was what made it so desperate, so dangerous for all concerned.
For openers, Bolan had less solid information about his enemy — or enemies — than he had ever carried into battle before. In his previous campaigns, whether against the Cong, the Mafia, or the new breed of terrorists that John Phoenix had been resurrected to fight, he had always gone into combat with at least a general
Bolan nodded. He understood that, sure, from the hard-won experience of his wars overseas and against the domestic Mafia cannibals. They left their marks, all right, like some sort of fingerprint.
"Go on," he urged.
"Okay." She paused, collecting her thoughts. "This freak rapes his victims, and then he kills them with a knife. He mutilates them, but never sexually."
"Explain, Fran."
Another pause, and then she continued.
"Ninety-odd years ago, Jack the Ripper tried to shut down London's red light district single-handed. He never raped his victims, but he indulged in extensive mutilation. More often than not, sex organs were removed, and never found. Now, that is a sex fiend."
"And our headcase is no Ripper?" Bolan asked.
Fran shook her head firmly.
"No way. Oh, superficially there's a similarity, sure. But our man stabs and hacks without any real direction, without any sexual aim. He defaces his victims, diminishes them. And, thereby, he somehow enlarges himself."
"Is he insane?"
She shrugged. "Medically? Of course. Legally, who knows?"
"What happens if he's arrested?"
"That depends. Of course, if there is some kind of plot to cover for him, he could be committed quietly — again. And he's already escaped three times."
"What if he goes to trial, Fran?"
"Maybe the same thing. A state hospital instead of some private institution, but those places have revolving doors. He could be 'cured' and released in a few years. Possibly months."
Bolan's voice was cool, determined.
"Okay," he said, "you've helped."
"That's it? End of lesson?"
He smiled. "School's out. And thanks."
"For what?"
"Some insight, some direction," he answered. "I can get inside him now."
When she spoke again, Fran Traynor's voice was almost pleading with him.
"They're not stupid, you know. Psychos, I mean. They get reckless sometimes, but underneath they're frequently as clever as they are vicious."
Bolan nodded. "Okay. I'll be careful."
He didn't need to be told how clever — and dangerous — a maniac with a self-imposed mission could be.
Bolan rested a warm hand on the lady cop's shoulder for a moment, left some change on the table for their coffees, then left her alone. As he hit the street in his rented sedan, the lady was already out of his mind, crowded from his thoughts by the multitude of things that remained to be done before the curtain could ring down on St. Paul's bloody stage.
First, he needed to touch base with the Politician and see what he had learned about the registration of the two crew wagons. He would have to follow that lead wherever it took him, before he could fit all the pieces together in their final mosaic.
And beyond that?
Somewhere out there, in the large city just stirring into life with the warming rays of the morning sun, there was waiting for him a young man with a blank face and a seriously deranged mind.
That young man, and perhaps several more besides, had an unscheduled appointment with the Executioner.
It was one appointment that Mack Bolan was grimly determined to keep.
10
Mack Bolan had come to St. Paul on what seemed a simple mission.
To help a friend.
To relieve the pain of a suffering comrade-in-arms.
But the nature of the Executioner's mission in the Twin Cities was rapidly shaping up into something else, something vastly different from what he had come to expect. The campaign had all the makings of a unique experience for Bolan in his home-front wars, and the very difference of the mission was what made it so desperate, so dangerous for all concerned.
For openers, Bolan had less solid information about his enemy — or enemies — than he had ever carried into battle before. In his previous campaigns, whether against the Cong, the Mafia, or the new breed of terrorists that John Phoenix had been resurrected to fight, he had always gone into combat with at least a general
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