Iceman

North Buckhead

“Gosh,” the small woman said, her face scrunched up at Eichord's. “This makes the third time I've had to go through all this. The fourth, if you count the press. No! Five times is how many times, counting television. You know they came out from Chan—"

“I understand, Mizz Wright. Just a couple more questions and I won't bother you anymore.” He spoke soothingly, a look of genuine concern on his face. He knew what it was to go over the same ground endlessly.

“It's not that you're bothering me, but, you know, I've just told it so many times I don't have anything to add."

“Sure.” He shook his head sympathetically. “I understand. But if you could just make a couple of comments, maybe you'll hit on some seemingly insignificant fact you haven't remembered before."

“Okay. Sure.” She had a face like a tiny bird. Just on the borderline from being one of the little people. Very tiny bones. The features chiseled like a sculpture's face. She wasn't pretty but she made him think of movie stars and a case he'd worked on in Southern California. He'd seen some of the familiar faces from the silver screen. Tiny people with little shrunken images made well known by the celluloid pictures. Some of them disappointing up close. Smaller than life, as it were.

“You're sure of the time."

“I really am. She'd just ... Ms Hoyt had just given her talk and we were standing right there"—she pointed—"and I was telling her how effective she'd been. And she thanked me. And she walked over there and got into her car and pulled out."

“Did you happen to notice if anyone had pulled out after she did. Somebody else leaving or pulling out of the parking lot about that same time?"

“No. And I would have seen them. I was standing right over there by her car with her and I stood there a while watching her car pull out. And then I went back inside. Nobody else pulled out of the lot during that time."

“If you were to describe her mood, what was her mood when she was leaving?"

“Her mood?” She acted as if the word was one she'd never heard before.

“Was she frightened? Anxious? Relaxed? Worried? You know. How did she seem to be when she left.” The man talking to her softly. Drawing her out.

“Hurried. I would have to say she seemed businesslike. Pleasant. In a hurry."

“Mizz Wright, I know you're active in the women's movement. How was Tina Hoyt regarded within the movement?"

“Highly. That much I can tell you. Everybody thought highly of her. She was vitally important to the movement."

“Might someone have conceivably reasoned that they could strike a serious blow at the movement by hurting Tina Hoyt?"

“Sure. I suppose that's possible."

“Did she ever speak of having any threats? Or any enemies or someone who had expressed animosity toward her?"

“Not that I ever heard of, huh-uh. No. I'm sure she hadn't. I think she was well liked by everyone and respected even by most of the people whose opinions differed from hers. I never heard of anyone expressing any sort of serious hostility. The reverse, in fact: her adversaries admired her, um, strong, iconoclastic positions."

Eichord nodded but automatically saw the Greek word derivation: one who breaks images. What a name for a Greek gasoline. Ikonoclas, the Gas with Class. He was trying to read Ms. Wright as she responded to his questions. Something a hair off-center.

“Did she comment on why she was so hurried when she left here?"

“Yes. I believe she made some comment about running late. Or she had to give a speech at this church, which was quite a long drive from here—maybe forty-five minutes away. And I know I felt guilty talking to her, taking so much of her time, but I wanted to tell her how important her speech was, you know?"

I know. He nodded slowly tilting his head back another eighth of an inch.

“Important to all of us. How much we appreciated her. But I could sense she was in a hurry and I tried to be succinct."

“Okay. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to do her harm? Any speculation at all?"

“None whatsoever.” The small woman shook her head at Eichord. “It was a total shock to all of us."

It was a total shock to Tina too, baby, he thought. He thanked her and got back in the car. Turned the key and headed back toward the station.

He thought about the place she'd been found in. The look of her with the dress in a small pool of muddy water. Dirt on her shapely, pantyhosed legs. The hair and the skin-fiber reports. The extra time they'd taken with this one: the fingernails, rectum, under the eyelids, the soil-deposit trace, the forensic analysis, the whole fine nine that Earl Rich at the police lab had summed up in two syllables: “Nada."

MacTuff's guys in the white coats hadn't been able to add a shred of anything to what Earl's boys and the old redneck Buckhead M.E. had handed him. They did have some lab work on the possible weapon.

Not necessarily an icepick. PROBABLY an icepick. Could be one of the old, long, wooden-handled type. Could be a sharpened awl or a homemade job: any steel weapon ground down to that particular configuration. A group of examples included various antique and contemporary sword canes and umbrellas. Jack remembered his grandmother had still used an icebox in the late 50s. They'd had to come in and replace it with a fridge while she was asleep. She never did get use to that “'Frigerator” but at least she wouldn't be stabbing herself to death with the mean, needle-sharp pick that she kept stabbed into the butcher's block beside the door.

Back at the station he picked up the phone, twirling his Rolodex until he saw the number he wanted and began dialing.

“Yes. Is Letty there, please?” He waited, tapping a felt-tipped pen on the desk.

“HI! Letty, it's Jack Eichord.” She said something friendly. He smiled, responding, “Do you recall a serial killer you ran a story on some years back? This must date back close to fourteen, fifteen years or more. The Icepick Killer?"

“My God,” she said, “you sure have some memory there, Jack.” She paused for a second. “No. Not offhand. I don't."

“It's important, hon. Guy was killing women, and I don't think they ever caught him. The Icepick Murders? Something like that?"

“Oh, hell. Sure! The Iceman."

“Yeah."

“Yeah. That's it, eh? The Iceman. Yeah. Um hmm. I remember the stories vaguely. Whatcha need?"

“I need every scrap, kid. I would be very grateful if you can dig it all out for me. Every bit you have on it."

“Okay. We can do."

“And I need it last week. But if you can't get it here that soon, yesterday will do."