Marked for Murder Page 13

  “We could be. How about tomorrow night?”

  “Well, sure.” Why not? “What did you have in mind?”

  “I dunno. A show, maybe? A movie?”

  “We could go where I always go to see movies.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The Tel-Ex Cinema at Telegraph and Ten Mile.”

  “Tel-Ex? I never heard of it . . . it ain’t one of those Triple-X porno houses, is it?”

  “No, no; no way.” Not that Bush did not indulge in an occasional hard-core porno flick. But only occasionally: They were so expensive.

  “This is a legit movie house. But the movies only cost one buck admission.”

  “All times?”

  “All times.”

  Now, Agnes recalled seeing listings in the newspaper movie guide for the Tel-Ex. Four screens, as she recalled, with first-rate films. You just had to be patient until every other area theater had shown the movies to their satisfaction. Eventually, many of the better ones trickled down to the “Dollar Cinema.” It made sense to her: Why waste all that money on a show, when, if you waited long enough, you could see it for a buck. And if it turned out to be rotten, you hadn’t wasted four or five dollars. Another point in Arnie’s favor: sensibly abstemious.

  “Done,” said Agnes. And they made their arrangements.

  At 6:30 Friday evening, Arnold called for Agnes at her apartment. She appreciated promptness. She also liked the economy-consciousness of his simple black Ford Escort. Two more pluses for Arnold Bush.

  They arrived comfortably early for the 7:15 screening. The movie was “Rambo VII.” Agnes found irresistible the similarity between Sly Stallone on the screen and Arnold Bush seated next to her. Stallone appeared to be steroidally rounded, while Bush’s strength was more muted. But, no doubt: Both were strong men. And even though Stallone was given to interminable perorations toward the wind-up of each of his movies, both he and Arnold generally let their strength speak for itself.

  After the movie, they repaired to the nearby Elias Bros. Big Boy. Each ate generously from the buffet and salad bar. But then, each was a fair-sized person. After dessert there was an awkward moment. What now?

  “Well,” Bush said, with a tone of finality.

  “Well.” The word took on a little life coming from Agnes. “Well, the evening’s young.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was thinking maybe we could go to your place.”

  Most of the other men at the morgue would have given their severance pay for such an open-ended invitation from “Jugs.” But Bush was uncertain. There were all those pictures on his walls. What would Aggie think of that? And besides . . . “My place ain’t very much.”

  “I kind of figured that, Arnie. You go to economy movies. You drive an economy car. I figured you’d live in an economy flat. But I like that.”

  Well, then, to hell with the pictures! “Okay, let’s go.”

  The drive to Bush’s apartment took only about twenty minutes. When they arrived, Agnes had to admit that she hadn’t been mistaken. A lesser woman would have phrased it that her worst fears were realized. But, somehow, Agnes was able to view the largely deserted area as an economy neighborhood. She said as much. Arnold was pleased.

  He led the way up the rickety stairs and hesitated only a moment before he unlocked and opened the door. He knew this was the moment of truth—an inevitable moment.

  He entered the room, turned on the single overhead light, and stood aside. Agnes entered, smiling at the room’s spartan dimensions. Then she saw the walls. “Arnie, the pictures!” she shrieked.

  “I was afraid of this.”

  After her initial shock, she took a closer look. “Why, Arnie, they’re the two prostitutes that we had in . . . the serial killings.”

  “Uh-huh.” He feared the worst.

  She stepped closer to examine the pictures more carefully, moving from wall to wall. All in all, she did not find the pictures as distasteful as almost anyone else would have. After all, she had seen the corpses in the flesh. If anything, she appreciated the photographer’s technical excellence. However, one anomaly puzzled her. “Arnie, how come you got pictures of the whores on three walls and holy pictures on the other wall? I mean, how does the Blessed Mother figure in this?”

  “Are you a Catholic?”

  “No . . . why?”

  “You knew it was the Blessed Mother.”

  “Good God, Arnie, everybody knows that.”

  “I suppose.” That Agnes was not a Catholic was not an earth-shattering revelation. But it would have been nice had they shared the same faith.

  “So,” Agnes returned, “how come you got all these pictures on your walls?”

  “No special reason. Some of it is my work. And the rest of it is my religion.”

  “Oh.” Agnes would have pursued the subject a bit further but there was a more pressing matter. She looked around. “Arnie, where’s your bathroom?”

  “At the end of the hall.” He went to the doorway and pointed to the open door at the end of the corridor. “Nobody’s using it now.”

  Agnes smiled valiantly and, purse in hand, traveled the short distance to the floor’s one and only bathroom. She admired economy, but there was a limit. She equated separate facilities with the more primitive outhouse. She did not care for either.

  Beyond responding to the call of nature, she inserted her personally prescribed diaphragm. One never knew how these evenings might end, and Agnes knew better than to trust a man to have a supply of condoms. However, what with the herpes and AIDS epidemic, she also came prepared with condoms to supply any prospective partner. Better safe than sorry, she reminded herself regularly.

  She returned to the room to find Arnold standing uncertainly near the only window. He looked as if he felt trapped and was more comfortable near one of the room’s two exits.

  Agnes sat on the bed and patted the space next to her, an invitation to Arnold to join her.

  Instead, he took one of the two straightback chairs. He did not know what to make of her. At least she did not complain about his cigarettes. He had been smoking all evening. Although she did not join in, neither did she shrink from the clouds of smoke that had permeated the atmosphere around them. There was something to be said, he thought, for a woman who did not object to another person’s smoking these days.

  But this invitation to join her on the bed? Confusing. All evening he had scrupulously treated her with all the respect due a good woman. Just as he’d been taught by all those nuns and priests in Catholic schools.

  Agnes did not seem upset that Arnold had disregarded her invitation. She appeared gratified with what she took to be his naiveté.

  “That’s nice,” Agnes said.

  “What’s nice?”

  “That you think so much of your religion . . . that you’ve got all these religious pictures on your wall. You don’t find many men like this these days.”

  “I suppose. I never thought about it.”

  “That’s another nice thing: that it comes to you so natural. You don’t even have to think about it.”

  Bush shrugged. He was still trying to figure out what she was up to and where all this was leading.

  “I also liked the way you took such special care of those two women.” She indicated the photos of the two mutilated corpses.

  “You did?” This genuinely surprised Bush.

  “Yes. Not everybody would have done that. Oh, I heard the dirty jokes some of the guys were telling about those poor women. It turned my stomach.” She indicated the turned area. Then she moved her hand up her body, accentuating the already clearly defined area of her breasts.

  Bush felt sexual stirrings.

  “But,” Agnes continued, “you protected them, even in death. I saw how you tended to them. Wouldn’t let anyone else handle them. Even fought for them! That’s when I really began to wonder about you, Arnie. I’ll bet you took good care of your mother, didn’t you? A woman can tell that sort of thing.”


  “I didn’t know my mother,” Bush said flatly.

  “Didn’t know your mother! You poor thing. And yet your heart can go out to these poor creatures who were so badly treated. So brutally murdered. All that and you didn’t even have a chance to know your own mother. You really are one in a million, Arnie Bush.” Agnes rose from the bed and moved just behind Arnold’s chair. She began to knead his shoulders.

  Bush was thoroughly confused.

  “They say you’re not married . . . that right?”

  He nodded.

  “Ever been married?”

  He shook his head.

  “Ever had a girl?”

  He shrugged.

  “Any girl’d be proud to have you for her fella, Arnie.”

  He sat motionless.

  She stopped kneading his shoulders. What was she doing? He could hear some sound but he couldn’t identify it.

  Suddenly she stepped in front of him. She was only inches away. She had removed her dress, revealing a black lace bra and half-slip, and a lot of body. Agnes was proud of her body. She had reason to be.

  “Well, Arnie?”

  Bush gasped. He was immobilized. He didn’t know what to do. He was used to being in charge of things. This was one of those rare times when events seemed to be beyond his control. Obviously, the next move was up to him. But what? The evening had begun with his taking out a woman whom he reverenced as he would have the Blessed Mother. He had treated her, as far as he knew, as a gentleman should.

  But there she stood, half-naked. Her dishabille was self-effected. It was a statement of some sort. The next move was up to him. The ball, as they say, was in his court. He should do something. But what?

  He hit her.

  Not as hard as he could, by any means. Just hard enough to topple her onto the bed.

  Her eyes opened wide. She had not expected that. On the other hand, she was not displeased. This show of controlled violence excited her.

  He leaped on the bed, straddling her. He grasped the bra at the point between her breasts and yanked. The clasp gave way with a small popping sound.

  Everything was hers. Truth in advertising. No falsies, no padding, no artificial uplift. Her breasts were truly magnificent.

  As soon as he saw her flesh, the erect nipples, the large dark aureole, he saw not Agnes Blondell but all the whores he’d grown up among. They never cared how little clothing they wore. Lolling around the parlor, frequently their breasts were exposed. No one seemed to care.

  But Arnold Bush had cared.

  The whores were the antithesis of the Blessed Virgin. They were “The Enemy.” But he couldn’t do anything to right their wrong. Not then—he had been just a child. But now!

  “Arnie! Arnie! You’re hurting me! Stop! Arnie!”

  He was fascinated by the white marks his fingers were making in her breasts. As he dug deeply into the unexpectedly firm flesh, the white marks quickly turned to red as bruises began to form.

  “Arnie! Arnie!” Now she was frightened . . . terrified. This had gotten completely out of control and she didn’t know how to put a halt to it. She could not possibly combat his strength. She knew it was fruitless to scream; she remembered thinking as they entered the building that even if anyone else lived here there was no indication anyone else was home.

  His hands slid up around her throat. They began to squeeze ever more tightly.

  Agnes was losing consciousness. In a little while, she knew, she would be dead.

  She summoned up every vestige of strength she had left and struck his nose with the flat of her hand.

  It was as solid a blow as he’d ever felt. He shook his head and relaxed his grip on her throat. Slapping him seemed to him like the act of a virtuous woman. Again, he was confused. Was she actually a virtuous woman? Might she even be a virgin?

  He removed his hands from her throat and sat back, still straddling her.

  She choked and coughed and concentrated on not vomiting. With him atop her, she couldn’t turn over. If she were to vomit now, she feared she might be asphyxiated by her own sickness. She massaged her injured throat.

  After a few moments, she was able to moan, “Get off, Arnie. Get off.”

  Slowly, still confused, he dismounted.

  She was grateful to be alive, and furious with him. The two emotions were not mutually exclusive. Both somehow filled her being. She glanced at her throbbing breasts. Tomorrow they would be one large painful bruise. That was the bad news. The good news was that there would be a tomorrow.

  She glanced at her bra. It was beyond repair. She did not bother picking it off the floor. She slipped into her dress and buttoned it, picked up her purse, and headed for the door.

  It occurred to Bush that she had no transportation. “I’ll drive . . .”

  She waved him off. No possible way would she spend another moment with this madman. A street mugger would be a welcome relief compared with what she had just gone through. “Taxi,” she whispered, and pointed to his phone.

  He called for a taxi, giving directions to his apartment. Hanging up the phone, he turned to her. “I . . .”

  Again she waved him off, and left the apartment to await the taxi in the comparative security of that high-crime neighborhood.

  As she rode home, she had to wonder how she could have been so mistaken. She was a careful woman. Or at least experience had made her careful. Never had she been so deceived. The strong, silent type—good-looking, too. Never made a pass at her—or at any other woman at work. A perfect gentleman on the date. The pictures on the wall, proving the special care he had taken with those poor mutilated women. And the holy pictures! What was it: You can never tell a book by its cover? Whoever first said that sure could have been thinking of Arnold Bush.

  One thing was certain: She would tell the other girls at work, first thing in the morning, about her near-fatal encounter with Arnold Bush. In the ladies’ room she would show them her abused breasts. It was important that none of the others ever make the mistake of getting close to this maniac. She would swear the girls to secrecy. No point in telling the men.

  She was grateful to have escaped tonight’s plight alive. Ordinarily not a prayerful person, now Agnes Blondell felt prayer was appropriate. Tonight—for the first time since she was a child—she would say her night prayers.

  So would Arnold Bush. Except that, for Bush, prayer was a daily habit. And tonight he had a lot to talk to God about. He was confused. How could everything have become so jumbled?

  His mistake—if the fault were, indeed, his—was in letting a woman into his life. He knew he never had been able to understand them. He assumed there must be good women around somewhere. There was the Blessed Virgin Mary. There were nuns. There were faithful mothers of families. But he never seemed to meet any of these good women. Why was he forever playing Adam to somebody else’s Eve?

  Agnes was a case in point.

  She seemed to be good. They’d had a nice time this evening. The movie was entertaining. They had plenty to eat. She seemed to completely understand his picture gallery. Everything was going so smoothly. Then she had to get fresh. She had to play the harlot.

  Probably it began badly when she was the one who made the overture for a date. Men were supposed to do that. Yes, he should have tumbled when she proposed they go out together. He’d have to be more careful in the future.

  Well, the main thing was to put tonight behind him. He had more important things to take care of. More important things to plan. He was inordinately proud of what he was doing. The instrument of God’s justice. Of that he could be justly proud. Forget tonight. Plan the present and the future.

  19

  Mangiapane talked too much—much too much. But he was a good cop. And, in time, he would make a first-rate homicide detective.

  He had an inquisitive mind. That was good. And he seemed to catch on to homicide work instinctively. The whole thing was in solving the puzzle. And he liked the mysteries as opposed to the platters.

&nb
sp; Some guys just wanted the closed folder. Some guys and gals—Alonzo Tully corrected himself. He mustn’t overlook the women in the division. Some of them were damn good. Especially when they advanced in grade. A female sergeant or lieutenant generally was ten times as good as the equivalent man. And, as Mangiapane had pointed out not ten minutes ago, women, even women cops, smelled good.

  God, surveillance was dull.

  He had no one to blame but himself; it had been his idea. As a matter of fact, quite a few other cops were, at this very moment, blaming him for their being staked out in uncomfortable cars on a dreary Sunday afternoon in late January when they could have been installed in front of a nice TV set, armed with snacks and beer, watching the Pro Bowl. The last of football for this season.

  But dammit, Tully didn’t care. This was part of being a cop: 98 percent going up blind alleys, only once in a while guessing right or getting an unexpected break. And that’s what this afternoon was—a guess. Only time would show whether or not it was an inspired guess.

  The first of the prostitute mutilation murders had taken place two weeks ago on a late Sunday afternoon. The second, one week ago on a late Sunday afternoon. Both murders had occurred in threadbare sections of the city, sections notorious for a thriving prostitution business. But sections where, due largely to the poverty of the area, there was little likelihood of finding either high-class or high-priced women. Both victims had been, for prostitutes, comparatively elderly. And both were white.

  Even with the beefed-up squad Koznicki had given him, this week’s investigation had turned up nothing new or helpful. There had been the usual parade of confessors—people under some weird compulsion to confess to any well-publicized crime. But each had to be checked out, even if only in a cursory manner.

  Then, as a result of publicizing that composite likeness of the perp, a whole bunch of people had turned in their friends, relatives, and enemies—anyone who bore the slightest resemblance to the drawing. Those too had to be checked out. Someplace in that pile there could have been a lucky break. But there wasn’t.

  Adelle and Ruby had looked through police mug shots of killers, with special emphasis on those connected in any way with prostitutes. Nothing. Then, in a move Tully considered unique in the annals of the Detroit Police Department, the women were given the Archdiocese of Detroit Pictorial Directory to study.