Marked for Murder Page 9

  Nobody lived here. This apartment, like Bonner’s, was a place of work—hooker’s work, but work nonetheless. Each woman lived somewhere else. This place, the one last week, just a place of work.

  Odd.

  “How’s the canvass goin’?” Tully asked.

  “Pretty good,” Salvia answered. “We’ve pretty well covered this building. We should get a good bite out of the neighborhood before tonight.”

  “Zoo,” Mangiapane said, “there’s a couple of hookers say they know something about this. But they won’t talk to anyone but you.”

  “Oh, great!” One of the last things Tully wanted was to be the “only” one anyone would talk to. Enough people decide there is only one person in the universe they can trust, then all you do is listen to an endless line of people. He sighed. “Okay, where are they?”

  “Just down the hall. One of ’em’s got a room here.”

  “Okay, let’s go.” Tully hoped the one with the nearby room might be the dead woman’s buddy. It would simplify things and God knows they needed a break.

  Mangiapane led Tully to the room. As soon as they entered and the two women saw Tully, their faces brightened. “Zoo!”

  Tully recognized them immediately. He had never expected that his years on the vice squad would serve him so well after he transferred to homicide.

  “Adelle, Ruby . . .” Mangiapane left the room, closing the door behind him. “How the hell are you, anyway?”

  “Good.”

  “Fine.”

  “It’s been a while.” Tully sat at the table across from Adelle. Ruby was seated on the bed. “Which one of you gals owns this place?”

  “I rent it,” Adelle said. She was white. Ruby was black. “But I don’t live here.”

  Tully looked around. Another “work” place. Easy to believe no one lived here.

  “Then,” he addressed Adelle, “you knew the . . . uh . . . deceased woman down the hall?”

  “We were buddies.” Adelle’s lip trembled.

  Luck knocks, thought Tully. He took out a notepad and pen and began taking notes. “What was her name?”

  “Nancy Freel.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Oh . . . wait a minute ... I think she was . . . oh, in her late thirties, early forties, something like that.”

  Adelle sensed Tully’s surprise. “I know she looked a lot older. She had a tough life.”

  She would get no argument from Tully. The figure he’d just seen in the tub looked to be well in her fifties.

  Obviously, they could get most, if not all, the personal data about the victim from Adelle at any time. For now, Tully was most interested in what these women wanted to tell that they would relate to no one but him.

  “The other officer told me you both had some information you wanted to give me.” He looked at one, then the other.

  “You go first,” said Ruby.

  “Yeah, I guess I should,” Adelle said. “See, Zoo, it’s like this: Nance and me was buddies. You know how that works.”

  Tully nodded.

  “We been workin’ together for a long time now.”

  Something in Tully’s expression told Adelle to hurry along. She picked up the pace, but not much. “Well, this afternoon, we was workin’ over by Springwells and Michigan, just a couple blocks from here. Not much doin’ today. Don’t know why. Maybe the weather.”

  Tully laid his pen on the pad. Obviously, Adelle would move at her own set speed.

  “Anyway, there was this car circled the block two, maybe three times.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Ford, I think, all black. No whitewalls or nothin’.”

  So far so good.

  “I guess I wouldn’t have paid much attention,” Adelle continued, “except there was so little traffic today.” She looked at her colleague. “Why do you ’spose that was, Ruby? Even for a Sunday in January, things were really slow today.”

  “How ’bout that football game?” Ruby suggested.

  “Oh, yeah, that Super Bowl. That must be it. Anyway,” she returned her gaze to Tully, “this car was cruisin’ real slow. Well, it went slow every time it got to us, anyway. So, finally, on the second or third pass—maybe it was the fourth—the guy stops and rolls down the window on the passenger side. So Nancy goes up to the car and talks business to the guy. Then she opened the door and got in. And he drove away.”

  “Did you get a look at the guy?”

  “Well, yes and no. I can tell you he was wearin’ black. All black. Hat and coat. That’s how I could tell he was blond: ’cause his hair stood out against all that black.”

  Still on course, Tully thought. Black Ford. Guy dressed in black. For the first time, a definite indication the guy has blond hair.

  “How come,” Tully asked Adelle, “you didn’t get a better look at him? You couldn’t have been that far away.”

  “No, it wasn’t that I was far away. It was where I was—in a doorway. I don’t think the guy even knew I was there. It was so goddam cold that Nance and me took turns workin’ out on the street. The rest of the time, one of us got to huddle back in the doorway. So I don’t think the guy ever saw me. And I didn’t get a helluva good look at him.”

  “Did you get the license?”

  “No. Damn, I wish I hadda got it! We could nail the guy with that, couldn’t we, Zoo?”

  “Uh-huh; it’d help a whole lot.”

  “Most of the time, I do get the number. And Nance’d get it for me. That way we can check for each other better. But a couple of things: I was back in that doorway, like I said. By the time I got out on the sidewalk, he’d already pulled away and I couldn’t make it out. And, also, I wasn’t too worried. Nance and me had a signal when we thought there might be trouble. But Nance didn’t give no signal at all. She just got in, like she either knew the guy or thought she could trust him. So, like a damn fool, I relaxed for just a minute.”

  “You say she acted like maybe she knew him?”

  “Yeah . . . either that or she figured she could trust him. She just hopped right into the car. Didn’t hesitate at all.”

  So far so good in making a connection between last week and today. The guy dresses in black, drives a black car.

  But why does he case the block so carefully? He circles it two, three times, maybe more. Is he looking for a specific woman? A specific kind of woman? Is he trying to make sure she doesn’t have a buddy who might make him? Tully might have dismissed that last question since today the victim did indeed have a buddy—Adelle. But, according to Adelle, the guy most likely didn’t see her. So, as far as the perp was concerned, Nancy Freel appeared to be alone, unprotected as well as unaccompanied.

  So maybe he wants to make sure that there will be no witnesses. That makes sense. And, as far as he’s concerned, neither last week nor today did his victim have any back-up protection.

  But what about the other question? Was he looking for a specific hooker? A specific kind of hooker? Both the victims were white. Both were of advanced age for whores. At least both appeared to be. It was a puzzle to be solved.

  And the other puzzle: Neither woman had shown the slightest hesitation in taking on the customer. Yet both were very experienced hookers. El, particularly, knew her buddy wasn’t around. There must be something about this guy that instills trust or confidence. At least there certainly is nothing about him that alarmed them or caused any apprehension. Both women readily climbed into his car and rode off to their deaths. Interesting. Another puzzle to be solved.

  “Okay,” Tully said. “That’s as much as you saw, eh, Adelle? Nancy got in the guy’s car and they drove off . . . right?”

  “That’s it, Zoo.”

  “Would you recognize him? If we looked through some mug shots?”

  “Geez, I don’t know, Zoo. Maybe if I saw him in real life again. But I don’t think I could make him with just a picture. I don’t think so.”

  Tully sighed. You couldn’t have everything.

 
; “Maybe Ruby . . .” Adelle offered.

  “Ruby!” Tully had been concentrating so intensely on Adelle, he had almost forgotten the other woman. “Ruby, where do you fit into this? Adelle saw the pickup. You saw the delivery? When they arrived here at the apartment?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh. Okay, you tell it.”

  “Well, I wasn’t in any hurry to get out on the street today. It wasn’t the kinda day there’d be many Johns out shoppin’. Just a gray, cold day in January. Plus I remembered the football game. That’d keep a lot of Johns home. Parties and all.”

  Tully sat back. He wished he could play this recital at a faster pace. But, better they recount what happened at their own pace. That way there was less chance they might omit what could prove to be important.

  “So, like I said, I took my sweet ol’ time gettin’ out. In fact, when I left my place, it was colder out than I figured on. Bad wind—what do they call it?”

  “Wind-chill factor,” Adelle supplied.

  “Yeah, that’s it: wind-chill factor. God, it was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. I couldn’t imagine any John payin’ for no blow job less’n I turned on the hot air.” Ruby grinned, then continued.

  “Well, anyway, since it was so cold out and I wasn’t dressed all that warm, I was sort of huggin’ the buildings. Two or so times I almost turned ’round and give up on this Sunday. But, for some reason or other, I decided to give it a try. But I couldn’t stand that wind-chill thing for more’n a few minutes at a time. So, like I say, I was huggin’ the buildings . . . you know what I mean?”

  Tully nodded.

  Ruby explained anyway. Evidently she thought it important that he understand. “I mean I was stayin’ close to the buildings so’s I could keep out of that wind’s way. Often as I could, I’d duck into doorways, entrances, whatever, to get out of that cold. That musta been why he didn’t see me.”

  Tully had almost drifted off into a brown study. Her narration was so particularized and repetitive that his attention had wandered. So he hadn’t been prepared for that Hitchcockian final statement: “. . . that musta been why he didn’t see me.”

  Tully knew, without further explanation, exactly what she was talking about. “What happened then, Ruby ... I mean when he didn’t see you?”

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you, Zoo. Here I am, makin’ my way down Michigan Avenue. And even if I’m duckin’ into any protected space I can find, I’m payin’ attention to where I’m goin’. So, when I get near Central, this building right here, I notice this guy’s head peekin’ ’round the corner of the entrance to this very building.

  “Now that don’t look at all right to me. Why would this guy be peekin’ ’round the doorway? Like in some spy movie or somethin’. So I started payin’ attention to this dude. I didn’t figure he could be up to no good. But with all his peekin’ ’round, I guess he just didn’t see me . . . what with me stayin’ so close to the buildings and all. In fact, when I seen this guy actin’ so nervous and all, I just kep’ myself even closer to the buildings. Then, what with him pokin’ his head in and out, and me slippin’ in and out and next to the walls, I was almost on top of him when he finally left the building and went out to his car.”

  “Where was the car?”

  “Right outside the doorway. Right at the curb, right opposite the entrance to this very building.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Ford, a black Ford. Escort, looked to be a few years old.”

  “What did he do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he get in? Drive away?”

  “Oh, no, Zoo. He just hurried out there to his car, unlocked the door, got somethin’ outta the back seat, and hurried back into the building.”

  “Did you get a look at what he got out of the car?”

  “Not to speak of. He just pulled whatever it was out of the back seat—on the floor it was, actually—and he tucked it inside his coat.”

  Damn! It had to be the branding instrument. So he kept it in the car. He’d strangle the victim, go get the iron, then bring it back to the room and heat it. No wonder the victims were dead so long before he cut them. “You sure you didn’t get any idea at all of what the thing was that he got out of the car?”

  “No, not really, Zoo. But you’re keepin’ me from what I ’specially wanted to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “He was a preacher man.”

  “What!”

  “A preacher man.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “When he opened his coat to hide that thing he took out of the back seat, I saw his collar for just a second.”

  “And?”

  “It was one of them little white things preacher men stick in their collars.”

  “Wait a minute. Let’s get this straight: The guy opened his coat—what color was it?”

  “Black. Black coat, black hat, black shoes, black suit of clothes under the coat. But at the collar, this piece of white.”

  “And the guy was white?”

  “With blond hair. I could see the sides and back under his hat.”

  “Did you ever see that kind of collar before?”

  “Sure. Some of our preacher men wears ’em.”

  “But not many?”

  “No, I guess not . . . leastways not out on the street.”

  “Ever see that collar anywhere else?”

  “Hmmm. Well, yeah, on TV once in a while.”

  “Who wears them on TV?”

  “Usually the priests. Yeah, that’s right, priests.”

  “Catholic priests?”

  “Yeah, that must be what it was ... a white man dressed like that . . . it musta been a priest.”

  “Or,” Tully grew more restrained and thoughtful, “somebody dressed up to look like a priest.” He paused a moment. “Ruby, how good a look did you get at this guy?”

  “I was almost as close to him as I am to you.”

  “He saw you?”

  “When he was goin’ back into the apartment, yeah. He seemed real surprised to see me . . . I mean, real surprised.”

  “I’ll just bet he was. You’d know him if you saw him again?”

  “Sure. I was so surprised when I saw him, I don’t think I’ll ever forget him. I thought somebody was in trouble here. Maybe dyin’. Then, when I met Adelle and told her what I saw, we started comparin’ notes. Then we got real scared that somethin’ bad had happened to Nance. That’s when we hightailed it back here and found poor Nance. Then we called the cops.”

  “But,” Adelle interrupted, “we didn’t want to take a chance talkin’ to the other cops. You know how they feel about us. Always hasslin’. We figured them other cops could make a lot of trouble for us. So when we found out you were comin’, we decided we’d talk to you and nobody else.” There was a determined and self-justified tilt to her chin as she concluded.

  “Okay,” Tully said. “You did good. Now, another officer is gonna get statements from you. It’s okay to talk to him. I’ll see everything is all right. We’ll go down to the station. Then we’ll have you look at some pictures. And you give a description of the guy to our police artists. But—and this is important—don’t tell anybody else, especially the news media—the reporters—any more than we tell you to tell them. Cooperate with us, now. We gotta catch this guy. He’s killin’ good women.”

  The two seemed impressed.

  Adrenalin was pumping. He was going to be on this well into the night. Then he’d have to get to headquarters early tomorrow.

  He phoned Alice. She understood, assured him that she would get something to eat, and go to bed at a decent hour whether he got home or not.

  She was a good scout. He definitely did not want to ruin this relationship with marriage.

  14

  Lieutenant Tully felt as if he were replaying last week’s scenario.

  It was just last Monday, one week ago to the day, that he was seeing In
spector Koznicki to lay claim to the case of a murdered prostitute. Tully even scheduled himself, as he had last week, to go directly to the woman’s autopsy after his meeting with Koznicki.

  However, there were two major differences. He was no longer working under the assumption that El Bonner was killed because of some connection with him. While that had been an interesting and most peculiar hypothesis, it had been proven false by the murder yesterday of one Nancy Freel.

  Without doubt, both murders were committed by the same individual. But while Bonner had been one of Tully’s snitches, he hadn’t known Freel at all. So he had wasted valuable time pursuing an avenue of investigation that, in retrospect, was a predetermined dead end. He regretted the time lost, but was grateful to be on the right track now. It was much like getting rid of excess baggage. He felt freer and better able to move ahead and solve the puzzle.

  The other major difference was the good fortune of chancing upon two witnesses, at least one of whom thought she could identify the perpetrator if she ever saw him again. He had sent Mangiapane off to obtain a copy of the Pictorial Directory of Detroit Priests. It was a thousand-to-one chance, he thought. Many of the directory photos were years—some, decades—old; in some cases the quality and/or the likeness was such that not even the subject’s mother could have recognized him.

  But one never could tell; they might just strike it lucky.

  They did have a composite sketch—admittedly seldom of much practical help. By the time the police artist moved multiple-choice mouths, noses, chins, etc. around, the finished sketch could resemble any number of people, or no one. But it could have an effect on the perpetrator. It could tell him they were gaining on him, getting a little closer all the time.

  And, finally, they had that singular detail of the clerical clothing. It might be a priest. It might be a minister. It might be anybody pretending to be a clergyman. But it was interesting.

  It also added fuel to Tully’s special, perhaps personal, pique over this case. Bonner and Freel, according to witnesses, had gone off with the killer without the slightest hesitation, even though they were very experienced women. Why not? Doubtless they had been surprised to find a clergyman John. Either or both may have served clergymen in the past. But it must have been a surprise nonetheless; it would have to be rare in any case that a cleric would be wearing his religious garb when he propositioned the women.