Killer Heat

THIRTY

Mercer was on top of Jimmy Dylan, slamming his body across a desk and pinning him in place while Mike and Frankie checked on Kiernan. I could see that a gash had been opened on the back of his head, and I called down to the patrol sergeant to send someone upstairs with paper towels and Band-Aids

Get Jimmy out of here, Mercer," Mike said. "Make sure they know not to let him back in."

Now the father was trying to apologize to Kiernan.

Mike was having none of it. "I treat your son with kid gloves, Dylan. Don't put him in cuffs, don't stick him in the holding pen behind bars, feed him, and make him comfortable. I hear one question from the judge about whether the hole in his head is a result of police brutality, you'll all be sorry we've ever met."

"Save it for later, Mr. Dylan," Frankie said. "I'm a witness, Chapman. Let it go."

"If I were you, Mr. D.," Mike said, "I'd be calling that legal hotline so you can give me someone to talk to on your behalf. 1-800-SHYSTER. That's one of your rights, too, pal. Spend as much money as you'd like for the tackiest lawyer you can find. Be sure and tell him you took a whack at your own flesh and blood."

Mercer steered Dylan out the door, while Frankie Shea made an effort at cleaning up his client's head wound and getting him to his feet.

When Mercer came back upstairs, he told me that two of the cops were standing by to drive me home.

"What about you?"

"Mike's got the collar to deal with. And I'll sleep here on one of the cots. I've got to cover that muster on Governors Island in a few hours. It's Sunday, remember?"

"I feel awful that you have to work today. There's nothing I'm up to doing except going to sleep."

"Rest up, Alex. The papers will be full of stories about the murders. This may be the only day off you'll have for a while. The pressure will really be on to solve this."

He walked me downstairs to the front desk, where one of the officers was waiting for me. I got in the backseat of the car and leaned my head against the window, telling the driver where I lived. The night with Luc had been so full of tender exchanges that it was hard to absorb the brutal events of the last few hours.

It was after six thirty in the morning, and although the sky was lightening, there was still a gray mist falling across the city. We followed Broadway downtown under the elevated tracks from 133rd Street and turned east on Ninety-sixth Street, crossing through Central Park.

At the entrance to my apartment, Vinny opened the car door for me and I thanked the cops for the ride.

"Don't you get a night off this weekend?"

"Nah. Covering for Oscar. He's got a cold. How about you, Ms. Cooper? You almost beat the newspaper delivery."

"The papers go upstairs yet?"

"Yeah. Yours is in front of your door. I got a Post, if you want to see it," Vinny said, heading for his marble-topped stand in the middle of the lobby. "Here I thought you were out having a good time the other night, and instead you're chasing a serial killer."

He handed the paper to me-a thick Sunday edition, full of extra ads and inserts. The large graphic was a map, with red arrows pointing to the locations at which each of the three bodies had been found.

I didn't know whether Commissioner Scully had come up with a compelling name for his task force, but the tabloids were starting a frenzy about the mysterious military connection of this sexual sadist: SEARCH FOR SERIAL KILLER: SON OF UNCLE SAM?