Lightning

11

It was still raining when the man from the D.A.’s office arrived at the 87th Precinct. He did not get there till six the next morning, by which time Ollie and Carella had already searched — armed with a magistrate’s warrant this time — Henry Lytell’s premises at 843 Holmes Street. Several articles they had found in the apartment were on the desk in Lieutenant Byrnes’s office when the assistant DA arrived. A stenographer recorded the presence of Lieutenant Byrnes, Detectives Carella and Weeks, and Assistant District Attorney Ralph Jenkins. The stenographer also recorded the date, Friday, October 21, and the time the interrogation took place, 6:05 A.M. Jenkins read Lytell his rights. Lytell said he understood them, and further stated that he did not wish his own attorney present during the questioning. Jenkins began the Q and A.

Q: May I have your full name, please?

A: Henry Lewis Lytell.

Q: And your address, Mr. Ly—

A: You probably know me as Lightning Lytell. That’s what the reporters used to call me. Back then.

Q: Yes. Mr. Lytell, may I have your address, please?

A: 843 Holmes Street.

Q: Here in Isola?

A: Yes, sir.

Q: Are you employed, Mr. Lytell?

A: Yes, sir, I am.

Q: In what line of work?

A: You understand, don’t you, that I’m a runner. I mean, that’s what I am. How I earn my living has nothing to do with what I really am.

Q: How do you earn your living, Mr. Lytell?

A: I’m a researcher.

Q: For whom? What sort of research?

A: A freelance researcher. For advertising agencies, writers, anybody needing information about any particular subject or subjects.

Q: And your place of business is where?

A: At home. I work out of my apartment.

Q: Do you set your own hours, Mr. Lytell?

A: Yes. That’s the only good thing about the job, the freedom it gives me. To do other things. I try to run every day for at least—

Q: Mr. Lytell, can you tell me where you were and what you were doing on the night of October sixth? That would have been a Thursday night, two weeks ago.

A: Yes, sir. I was with a runner from Ramsey University. A girl on the track team.

Q: Her name, please.

A: Marcia Schaffer.

Q: When you say you were with her...

A: I was with her first in her apartment where I represented myself as a man named Corey McIntyre of Sports USA magazine. Then—

Q: You told Miss Schaffer you were someone named Corey McIntyre?

A: Yes, sir.

Q: How did you come upon this name?

A: I got it from the masthead of the magazine.

Q: And Miss Schaffer accepted you as a person from the magazine?

A: I had an I.D. card.

Q: Where did you get an I.D. card?

A: I made it. I used to work for an advertising agency. This was, oh, eight, nine years ago, after all the hullaballoo was dying down. I learned a lot in the art department, I know how to do these things.

Q: What things?

A: Making up a card that looks legitimate. Getting it laminated.

Q: You were working in the art department of an advertising agency?

A: No, no. But I knew art directors, I was always hanging around with them. I was working directly with one of the creative assistants, you see. Trying to dream up campaigns involving sports, you see. That’s why I was hired in the first place. Because of my athletic expertise.

Q: As I understand this, then, you were working at an advertising agency some eight or nine years ago...

A: Yes.

Q: When did you begin doing independent research, Mr. Lytell?

A: Three years ago.

Q: And you’ve been so employed since?

A: Running is what I really do.

Q: Yes, but to earn a living...

A: Yes, I do research work.

Q: Getting back to the night of October sixth. You went to Miss Schaffer’s apartment and represented yourself as an employee of Sports USA—

A: A writer-reporter for Sports USA.

Q: A writer-reporter, yes. And then what?

A: I told her we were preparing an article on promising young runners.

Q: She accepted this?

A: Well, I know all about running, that’s what I am, a runner. So naturally, I knew what I was talking about. Yes, she accepted me.

Q: And then what?

A: I asked her if she’d like to have dinner with me. To do the interview.

Q: Did you, in fact, have dinner with Miss Schaffer that night?

A: Yes. At a seafood place near her apartment. There’re lots of good restaurants in that neighborhood, we just picked one at random.

Q: What time was this, Mr. Lytell?

A: Early. Six o’clock, I think. Early.

Q: You took her to dinner at six o’clock?

A: Yes. So I could do the interview. She was very excited about the interview.

Q: What happened then?

A: What do you want me to say?

Q: Whatever you wish to say. Tell me what happened after dinner.

A: I killed her. I already told that to the detectives here.

Q: Where did you kill her?

A: In my apartment. I told her I wanted to continue the interview, and I suggested that we finish it over a cognac in my apartment. She said she didn’t want a cognac — she was in training, you know, runners have a very strict training regimen — but she said if I had a Coke or something, that would be fine.

Q: What time did you get to your apartment?

A: Seven-thirty?

Q: And then what happened?

A: She was — I think she was looking at a painting I have hanging in the living room, it’s a painting of a male runner — and I came up behind her and applied a full nelson. I used to do some wrestling before I got interested in track. There’s no comparison, you know. Wrestling is a sweaty form of one-on-one combat, whereas running...

Q: You killed her by applying a full nelson?

A: Yes. To break her neck.

Q: At what time was this, Mr. Lytell?

A: A little before eight, I guess.

Q: Lieutenant Byrnes, the medical examiner’s estimate of the post mortem interval puts the time of death at approximately 7:00 P.M., doesn’t it?

A: (Byrnes) Yes, sir.

Q: Mr. Lytell, what did you do then?

A: I watched some television.

Q: You...

A: I wanted to wait till the streets got deserted. So I could carry her down to the car. The rope was already in the trunk, I’d put it in the trunk earlier that day.

Q: How long did you watch television?

A: Until about two in the morning.

Q: Then what?

A: I carried her down to the car. I checked the street from the window first, my living room faces the street. I didn’t see anybody around, so I carried her down, and put her in the front seat. She looked like she was sleeping. I mean, sitting there in the car.

Q: What did you do next?

A: I drove her up here.

Q: By up here...

A: The neighborhood up here.

Q: Why up here?

A: I didn’t pick it specifically. I was looking for a deserted place. I found this construction site with a row of abandoned buildings on the other side of the street, and I thought it would be a good place.

Q: A good place for what?

A: To hang her.

Q: Why did you hang her, Mr. Lytell?

A: It seemed a good way.

Q: A good way?

A: Yes.

Q: To do what?

A: Just a good way.

Q: Mr. Lytell... did you also kill a young woman named Nancy Annunziato?

A: Yes, sir.

Q: Can you give me the details of that?

A: It was the same as the first one. I told her I was with Sports USA, I took her to dinner, I...

Q: When was this, Mr. Lytell?

A: On the night of October thirteenth. I met her for dinner at Marino’s, that’s a midtown restaurant, very nice. She lived all the way out in Calm’s Point, you see, she agreed to meet me at the restaurant. Eight o’clock. I made the reservation for eight o’clock. We did most of the interview during dinner, and then we went back to my apartment, same as the last one, same as the Schaffer girl. We talked some more — she was a big talker, Nancy — and then I... well... you know.

Q: You killed her.

A: Yes. I used a full nelson again.

Q: What time was this?

A: Ten-thirty, eleven.

Q: Lieutenant Byrnes, does that jibe with the medical examiner’s estimate?

A: (Byrnes) Yes, sir.

Q: What did you do then, Mr. Lytell?

A: Same as the other one. Took her down to the car, drove around looking for a deserted place to hang her. I didn’t want to do it up here again. I’d already tried to help the detectives up here...

Q: Help them?

A: Yes. By sending them Marcia’s handbag. I took the keys out first, though. I threw away the keys to her apartment.

Q: Why did you do that?

A: To help them.

Q: Help them with what?

A: Well, just to help them.

Q: You thought throwing away her keys would help...

A: No, no, I did that so it wouldn’t be too easy for them. What I mean was I sent them the handbag. So they could identify her, you see?

Q: Why did you want to help them?

A: Well, I just did. But they seemed... excuse me, gentlemen... they seemed to be moving very slowly on it, you know? So I didn’t want to hang Nancy’s body up here again, I figured I’d try my luck with another precinct.

Q: Lieutenant Byrnes, where was the second victim found?

A: (Byrnes) In west Riverhead, sir. The Hundred and First Precinct.

Q: Is that where you took Nancy Annunziato, Mr. Lytell?

A: I guess so. I mean, I didn’t know the number of the precinct or anything. It was in Riverhead, though, where all the burned-out buildings are. That part of Riverhead.

Q: West Riverhead.

A: I guess that’s what it’s called.

Q: Mr. Lytell, did you hang Nancy Annunziato’s body from a lamppost in West Riverhead?

A: Yes, I did.

Q: At what time was that?

A: Sometime in the middle of the night.

Q: Can you give me an approximate time?

A: Three in the morning? I guess it was around then.

Q: Lieutenant Byrnes, would you know at what time the Hundred and First Precinct received notification of discovery?

A: (Byrnes) Steve?

A: (Carella) Detective Broughan clocked the call in at 6:04 A.M.

A: (Lytell) I left her wallet under the lamppost.

Q: Why did you do that?

A: Help them out, you know. I was hoping maybe the cops there were a little smarter than the ones in this precinct — excuse me.

Q: Why did you want the cops to be smart?

A: Well, you know.

Q: No, I don’t. Can you explain that to me?

A: Help them out a little, you know?

Q: Why are you smiling, Mr. Lytell?

A: I don’t know.

Q: Do you realize you’re smiling?

A: I guess I’m smiling.

Q: Tell me about Darcy Welles. Did you kill her, too?

A: Yes, I did.

Q: When?

A: Wednesday night.

Q: October nineteenth?

A: I guess that was the date.

Q: Well, here’s a calendar, and here’s Wednesday night. Was it October nineteenth?

A: Yes, October nineteenth.

Q: Can you tell me about that?

A: Look, I can go on all night here, but the important thing...

Q: Yes, what’s the important thing, Mr. Lytell?

A: I killed her the same as the others, okay? Exactly the same. The restaurant, the interview... well, not exactly. I didn’t take Darcy to my apartment. I was getting scared of doing that, afraid someone might see me and...

Q: But you told us earlier that you wanted to help the cops, you wanted the cops to...

A: Well, yes. But I didn’t want my neighbors thinking I was molesting young girls or anything. So I took her to this park further uptown, the Bridge Street Park.

Q: And killed her there?

A: Yes.

Q: Again applying a full nelson?

A: Yes.

Q: And where did you take her afterward, Mr. Lytell?

A: To Diamondback. I was really scared up there, I’ve got to tell you. Everybody’s black up there, you know. But it worked out okay. I got her up on the lamppost all right.

Q: What time was this, Mr. Lytell?

A: Oh, I don’t know. Twenty to eleven, a quarter to eleven?

Q: Mr. Lytell, did you attempt to kill a girl named Luella Scott last night?

A: Yes, sir, I did. I attempted to kill her.

Q: If you had succeeded in your attempt, would you later have hanged Miss Scott as well?

A: Yes, sir, that was my plan.

Q: Why?

A: I don’t understand your question.

Q: Why did you hang these young girls, Mr. Lytell? What was the purpose of that?

A: To make them visible.

Q: Visible?

A: To attract attention to them.

Q: Why did you want attention attracted to them?

A: Well, you know.

Q: I don’t know.

A: So everybody would realize.

Q: Realize what?

A: About them.

Q: What about them?

A: That they were murdered by the same person.

Q: You.

A: Yes.

Q: You wanted everyone to know that you had murdered them?

A: No, no.

Q: Then what did you want everyone to know?

A: I don’t know what I wanted them to know, damn it!

Q: Mr. Lytell, I’m trying to understand...

A: What the hell is it you don’t understand? I’ve already told you...

Q: Yes, but hanging these girls...

A: That was the idea.

Q: What was the idea?

A: Jesus, I don’t know how to make it any plainer.

Q: You say you hanged them to attract attention to them...

A: Yes.

Q: ...to make everyone realize they’d been murdered by the same person.

A: Yes.

Q: Why, Mr. Lytell?

A: Are we finished here? Because if we are...

Q: We told you earlier that you can end this whenever you want to. All you have to do is tell us you don’t want to answer any further questions.

A: I don’t mind answering questions. It’s just that you’re asking all the wrong questions.

Q: What questions would you like me to ask, Mr. Lytell?

A: How about the gold sitting there? Doesn’t that interest you at all?

Q: By the gold, are you referring to these medals Detectives Weeks and Carella found in your apartment?

A: I don’t know who found them there.

Q: But they’re yours, are they not?

A: Well, whose do you think they are?

Q: These are Olympic medals, are they not?

A: Olympic gold medals. You’re not looking at bronze there, mister.

Q: Did you win these medals, Mr. Lytell?

A: Come on, don’t be ridiculous. Were you living on Mars?

Q: Sir?

A: How old are you, anyway?

Q: I’m thirty-seven, sir.

A: So where were you fifteen years ago? You were twenty-two years old, am I right? Didn’t you watch television? Didn’t you know what the hell was going on in the world?

Q: You won these medals fifteen years ago, is that what you’re saying?

A: Listen to the guy, will you? Three gold medals, he’s acting as if it never happened!

Q: I’m not a sports fan, Mr. Lytell. Perhaps you can tell me a little more about it.

A: Sure, that’s the whole damn trouble. People forget, that’s the trouble. Three gold medals — I was on the Johnny Carson show, for Christ’s sake. Lightning Lytell, that’s how he introduced me, Lightning Lytell. That’s what they all called me. That’s what the reporters covering the games started calling me. I was on the cover of every important sports magazine in this country, I couldn’t go anyplace without people stopping me on the street, “Hey, Lightning!” “How ya doin’, Lightning?” I was famous!

We did a thing, Johnny and me, where we pretended to have a race, you know, just a short sprint across the stage, and he did that famous take of his, Johnny, his take, you know his take? ’Cause I was halfway across the stage before he even heard the starting gun. Reaction time is very important, you know. Jesse Owens used to favor a bunch start, used to set his front block eight inches from the line, the rear block twelve inches behind that. You have to set your blocks for what feels right for you, it’s a personal thing. Bobby Morrow — he was triple gold winner in the 1956 games — he used to set his front block twenty-one inches from the line, and his rear block back fourteen inches from that. It varies. The first guy who ran the metric short sprint in ten seconds flat — this was Armin Hary — he used to set his blocks at twenty-three and thirty-three. You have to explode out of the blocks — that’s a common expression you hear all the time in running, you explode out of the blocks. Just moving out of them fast isn’t the way you win races. You have to explode out of those blocks like a rocket coming out of a silo.

When I won the triple gold — this was fifteen years back, I was only twenty-four years old, man, I was off like lightning... well, that’s where I got the nickname. Lightning. Talk about exploding! It was lightning and thunder, boom, out of the blocks and no stopping me! Well, hell, three gold medals! The one-hundred, the two-hundred, and the relay! I was anchor in the relay. At the handoff, we were five yards behind Italy, running third in the race! Jimmy was coming in really fast, man, he was stepping, but I was ready to explode the second I got that baton! Boom! I ran that last hundred meters in eight-six! Incredible! I made up all that lost distance and won going away! Hell, I won them all in my day. You name them, I won them. High school, college, AAU, NCAA, invitationals, Olympic trials — all of them, you name them.

You know what it means to be a winner? You know what it means to be the best at what you do? Do you have any concept of what that means? Do you know anything at all about the sheer exuberance of running to win? When you get out there, you not only want to beat the other guy, you want to murder him, do you know what I mean? You want to run him right into the ground, you want him to collapse behind you and start vomiting up his guts, you want him to know he has met his match, man, and he has succumbed, he has lost! You get out there, you’re behind that starting line there, and the world funnels down to just the track, the whole world becomes that turf or cinder and you’re already streaking down it like lightning in your mind, you’re already hitting the string even though the race hasn’t started yet. And you do your little dance in your shoes, your shoes tickle the cinder or the turf, tap-tap-tap, and you hear the starter’s whistle, and you keep doing your little jig, sucking in great big gulps of oxygen, and everything inside you is boiling up, ready to boil over, ready to explode when you hear that call to the marks, crouching into the blocks, waiting for the gun — and the gold.

But they forget, don’t they? They forget what you did, what you were. All those commercials I made — God, the money was pouring in — everybody wanted Lightning Lytell to endorse his product. Shit, I was signed by William Morris, have you ever heard of William Morris? They’re a talent agency in New York and L.A., they’ve got offices all over the world, they were going to make me a movie star! Damn well on the way to doing it, too, all those commercials, you couldn’t turn on your television set without seeing me on the screen holding up a product, Lightning Lytell — “You think I’m fast? Wait’ll you see how fast this razor shaves you” — all of it, everything from orange juice to vitamin capsules, I was all over the screen, I was a household word, Lightning Lytell. But then it... you know... it falls apart somehow. You stop getting offers, they told me it was overexposure, they told me people were getting too used to seeing my face on the screen. And suddenly you’re not a movie star, you’re not even a television pitchman, you’re just Henry Lewis Lytell again, and nobody knows who the hell you are.

They forget.

You... want to remind them, you know what I mean?

You want to remind them.

Q: Is that why you committed these murders, Mr. Lytell? To remind them?

A: No, no.

Q: Is that why you hanged these young women? To create a sensation that would—

A: No, no. Hey, no.

Q: —remind people you were still around?

A: I’m the fastest human being on earth!

Q: Is that why?

A: The fastest human being.

The detectives were all staring at him now. Lytell was looking at the three gold medals on Lieutenant Byrnes’s desk. Assistant District Attorney Jenkins picked up one of the medals, held it on the palm of his hand and stared at it thoughtfully. When he looked up at Lytell again, Lytell seemed lost in reverie, listening perhaps to the distant sound of a starting gun, the roar of a stadium crowd as he thundered down the track.

“Is there anything you’d like to add to this?” Jenkins asked.

Lytell shook his head.

“Anything you’d like to change or delete?”

Lytell shook his head again.

Jenkins looked at the stenographer.

“That’s it then,” he said.

At eleven o’clock that morning, Eileen called Annie Rawles to ask her how she thought she should proceed that night. Should she stay home, or should she go out? It was still raining; the rain might dissuade their man. It was Annie’s opinion that he wouldn’t try coming into the apartment again. He undoubtedly knew the last rape had been reported to the police, and he couldn’t risk the possibility that the apartment was staked out. Annie thought he would try to hit Eileen on the street if he could, and only try the apartment as a last resort.

“So you want me to go out, huh?” Eileen asked. “In the rain.”

“Supposed to get worse tonight,” Annie said. “So far, it’s trickled off to a nice steady drizzle.”

“What’s so nice about a steady drizzle?” Eileen asked.

“Better than lightning and thunder, no?”

“Is that what we’re supposed to get?”

“According to the forecast.”

“I’m afraid of lightning,” Eileen said.

“Wear rubber-soled shoes.”

“Sure. Where do you think I should go? Another movie? I went to a movie Wednesday night.”

“How about a disco?”

“Not Mary’s style.”

“He may think that’s odd, two movies in the same week. Why don’t you go out for an early dinner? If he’s as eager to get to you as we think he is, he may make his move as soon as it’s dark.”

“Ever try getting raped on a full stomach?” Eileen said.

Annie laughed.

“Get back to me later, okay?” she said. “Let me know what you plan.”

“I will,” Eileen said.

“That it?”

“One other thing. What’s A.I.M.?”

“This is a riddle, right?”

“No, this is something Mary contributed to three times this year. Total of two hundred bucks, all of them marked in her checkbook as contributions. I was thinking... if it’s some kind of nutty handgun organization...”

“Yeah, I follow. Let me run it through the computer, okay?”

“They’ve got an office right here in the city,” Eileen said. “Get back to me, will you? I’m curious.”

Annie got back to her at a little before one o’clock.

“Well,” she said, “you want to hear this list?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s a long one.”

“I don’t have anyplace to go till six-thirty.”

“Oh? What’d you decide?”

“Dinner at a place called Ocho Rios, three blocks from here. Mexican joint.”

“You like Mexican food?”

“I like the idea that it’s only three blocks from here. That means I can walk it. A taxi might scare him off. I’ll tell you, Annie, I hope he makes his play on the street, I don’t want him coming here to the apartment. More room to swing outside, you follow me?”

“However you want it.”

“I’ll pace out the terrain this afternoon, get the feel of it. I don’t want him jumping out of some alley I don’t know exists.”

“Good,” Annie said. “Here’s this A.I.M. stuff, the list is as long as my arm, don’t bother to write it down. What we have... are you listening? We have an organization called Accuracy In Media, and another one called Advance in Medicine. We’ve got the American Institute for Microminiaturization, and the Asian Institute of Management. We’ve got the American Indian Movement, the American Institute of Musicology, the Association for the Integration of Management, the Australian Institute of Management...”

“These are all real?”

“Honest to God. Plus the Australian Institute of Metals, the American Institute of Man, and an organization called Adventure In Movement for the Handicapped.”

“Which of them is on Hall Avenue?” Eileen asked.

“I was saving that for last. 832 Hall, is that the address you have?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, it’s something called Against Infant Murder.”

“Against Infant Murder, huh?”

“Yep. 832 Hall Avenue.”

“What is it? Some kind of antiabortion group?”

“They didn’t define it as such when I called them. They said they were simply pro-life.”

“Uh-huh. Any connection with Right to Life?”

“None that I can see. They’re strictly local.”

There was a long silence on the line.

“You think any of the other victims made contributions to this group?” Eileen asked.

“I’ll be talking to all of them this afternoon, either on the phone or in person. If it turns out they did...”

“Yeah, it may be a thread.”

“It may be more than that. All the victims were Catholics, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yeah. And Catholics aren’t supposed to use artificial means of birth control.”

“Only the rhythm method, right. Some Catholics.”

“Most, I thought. Are you Catholic?”

“You have to ask? With a name like Burke?”

“What do you use?”

“I’m on the pill.”

“So am I.”

“What is it you’re thinking, Annie?”

“I don’t know yet, I want to see how this checks out with the victims. But if all of them did contribute to A.I.M...”

“Uh-huh,” Eileen said.

There was another long silence on the line.

“I almost hope...”

“Yeah?”

“I hope they didn’t,” Annie said. “I hope Mary Hollings was the only one, a wild card.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise it’s too damn ghoulish,” Annie said.

Teddy’s appointment at the law offices was for three that afternoon. She arrived at twenty minutes to, and waited downstairs until two-fifty, not wanting to seem too eager by arriving early. She really wanted the job; the job sounded perfect to her. She was dressed in what she considered a sedate but not drab manner, wearing a smart suit over a blouse with a stock tie, pantyhose color-coordinated with the nubby brown fabric of the suit, brown shoes with French heels. The lobby of the building was suffocatingly hot after the dank drizzle outdoors, and so she took off her raincoat before she got on the elevator. At precisely 3:00 p.m. sharp, she presented herself to the receptionist at Franklin, Logan, Gibson and Knowles and showed her the letter she had received from Phillip Logan. The receptionist told her Mr. Logan would see her in a few moments. At ten minutes past three, the receptionist picked up the phone receiver — it must have buzzed, but Teddy had not heard it — and then said Mr. Logan would see her now. Reading the girl’s lips, Teddy nodded.

“First doorway down the hall on your right,” the girl said.

Teddy went down the hallway and knocked on the door.

She waited a few seconds, allowing time for Logan inside to have said, “Come in,” and then turned the doorknob and went into the office. The office was spacious, furnished with a large desk, several easy chairs, a coffee table, and banks of bookcases on three walls. The fourth wall was fashioned almost entirely of glass that offered a splendid view of the city’s towering buildings. Rain slithered down the glass panels. A shaded lamp cast a glow of yellow illumination on the desktop.

Logan rose from behind the desk the moment she entered the room. He was a tall man wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a striped tie. His eyes were a shade lighter than the suit. His hair was graying. Teddy guessed he was somewhere in his early fifties.

“Ah, Miss Carella,” he said, “how kind of you to come. Please sit down.”

She sat in one of the easy chairs facing his desk. He sat behind the desk again and smiled at her. His eyes looked warm and friendly.

“I assume you can... uh... read my lips,” he said. “Your letter...”

She nodded.

“It was very straightforward of you to describe your disability in advance,” Logan said. “In your letter, I mean. Very frank and honest.”

Teddy nodded again, although the word disability rankled.

“You are... uh... you do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

She nodded, and then motioned to the pad and pencil on his desk.

“What?” he said. “Oh. Yes, of course, how silly of me.”

He handed the pad and pencil across to her.

On the pad, she wrote: I can understand you completely.

He took the pad again, read what she’d written, and said, “Wonderful, good.” He hesitated. “Uh... perhaps we should move that chair around here,” he said, “don’t you think? So we won’t have to be passing this thing back and forth.”

He rose quickly and came to where she was sitting. Teddy got up, and he shoved the easy chair closer to the desk and to the side of it. She sat again, folding her raincoat over her lap.

“There, that’s better,” he said. “Now we can talk a bit more easily. Oh, excuse me, was my back to you? Did you get all of that?”

Teddy nodded, and smiled.

“This is all very new to me, you see,” he said. “So. Where shall we begin? You understand, don’t you, that the job calls for an expert typist... I see in your letter that you can do sixty words a minute...”

I may be a little rusty just now, Teddy wrote on the pad.

“Well, that all comes back to you, doesn’t it? It’s like roller skating, I would guess.”

Teddy nodded, although she did not think typing was like roller skating.

“And you do take steno...”

She nodded again.

“And, of course, the filing is a routine matter, so I’m sure you can handle that.”

She looked at him expectantly.

“We like attractive people in our offices, Miss Carella,” Logan said, and smiled. “You’re a very beautiful woman.”

She nodded her thanks — modestly, she hoped — and then wrote: It’s Mrs. Carella.

“Of course, forgive me,” he said. “Theodora, is it?”

She wrote: Most people call me Teddy.

“Teddy? That’s charming. Teddy. It suits you. You’re extraordinarily beautiful, Teddy. I suppose you’ve heard that a thousand times...”

She shook her head.

“...but I find that most compliments bear repeating, don’t you? Extraordinarily beautiful,” he said, and his eyes met hers. He held contact for longer than was comfortable. She lowered her eyes to the pad. When she looked up again, he was still staring at her. She shifted her weight in the chair. He was still watching her.

“So,” he said. “Hours are nine to five, the job pays two and a quarter to start, can you begin Monday morning? Or will you need a little time to get your affairs in order?”

Her eyes opened wide. She had not for a moment believed it would be this simple. She was speechless, literally so, but speechless beyond that — as if her mind had suddenly gone blank, her ability to communicate frozen somewhere inside her head.

“You do want the job, don’t you?” he said, and smiled again.

Oh, yes, she thought, oh God, yes! She nodded, her eyes flashing happiness, her hands unconsciously starting to convey her appreciation, and then falling empty of words into her lap when she realized he could not possibly read them.

“Will Monday morning be all right?” he asked.

She nodded yes.

“Good then,” he said, “I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

He leaned toward her.

“I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” he said, and suddenly, without warning, he slid his hand under her skirt. She sat bolt upright, her eyes opening wide, too shocked to move for an instant. His fingers tightened on her thigh.

“Don’t you think so, Miss Car...?”

She slapped him hard, as hard as she could, and then rose at once from her chair, and moved toward him, her teeth bared, her hand drawn back to hit him again. He was nursing his jaw, his blue eyes looking hurt and a trifle bewildered. Words welled up inside her, words she could not speak. She stood there trembling with fury, her hand still poised to strike.

“That’s it, you know,” he said, and smiled.

She was turning away from him, tears welling into her eyes, when she saw more words forming on his lips.

“You just blew it, dummy.”

And the last word pained her more than he possibly could have known, the last word went through her like a knife.

She was still crying when she came out of the building into the falling rain.

Annie had been unable to reach three of the victims by telephone, but the five she did manage to contact told her they had been contributors to A.I.M. She spent the rest of the afternoon trying the addresses she had for the remaining three victims. Two of them were still out when she got there, but Angela Ferrari informed her that she was a pro-life supporter and had contributed not only to A.I.M. but to Right to Life as well. It was almost six when she rang Janet Reilly’s doorbell. Janet was the most recent of the serial rape victims, and — at only nineteen — the youngest of them. A college student, she lived at home with her parents, and had just got there from a meeting of the Newman Club when Annie arrived.

Her parents were not happy to see Annie. They were both working people, and they’d got home just before their daughter, only to answer the door a few minutes later on the Rape Squad again. Their daughter had been raped for the first time on September 13. They thought she’d gone through enough horror then to have lasted her a lifetime, but it had happened to her again on October 11, the horror escalating, the terror a constant thing now. They did not want her to answer any further questions from the police. All they wanted was to be left alone. They all but closed the door in Annie’s face until she promised this would be the very last question.

Janet Reilly answered the question positively.

She had indeed made a small contribution to a pro-life organization called A.I.M.

Annie left the apartment at ten minutes past six. From a pay phone on the corner, she tried to reach Vivienne Chabrun, the only victim she had not yet spoken to. Again, there was no answer at her apartment. She now knew for certain, however, that eight of the nine victims had made contributions in varying amounts to A.I.M., and it seemed to her that this information would be valuable to Eileen. She deposited the coin again, and dialed the number at Mary Hollings’s apartment. She let the phone ring ten times. There was no answer.

Eileen was already on her way to dinner.

A musician roamed from table to table, strumming his guitar and singing Mexican songs. When he got to Eileen’s table, he played “Cielito Lindo” for her, optimistically, she thought; the sky outside had been bloated with threatening black clouds when she’d entered the restaurant. The rain had stopped entirely at about four in the afternoon, but the clouds had begun building again at dusk, piling up massively and ominously overhead. By six-fifteen, when she’d left the apartment to walk here, she could already hear the sound of distant thunder in the next state, beyond the river.

She was having her coffee — the wall clock read twenty minutes past seven — when the first lightning flash came, illuminating the curtained window facing the street. The following boom of thunder was ear-shattering; she hunched her shoulders in anticipation, and even so its volume shocked her. The rain came then, unleashed in fury, enforced by a keening wind, battering the window and pelting the sidewalk outside. She lighted a cigarette and smoked it while she finished her coffee. It was almost seven-thirty when she paid her bill and went to the checkroom for the raincoat and umbrella she’d left there.

The raincoat was Mary’s. It fit her a bit too snugly, but she thought it might be recognizable to him, and if the rain came — as it most certainly had — visibility might be poor; she did not want to lose him because he couldn’t see her. The umbrella was Mary’s, too, a delicate little red plaid thing that was more stylish than protective, especially against what was raging outside just now. The rain boots were Eileen’s. Rubber with floppy tops. She had chosen them exactly because the tops were floppy. Strapped to her ankle inside the right boot was a holster containing a lightweight Browning .380 automatic pistol, her spare. Her regulation pistol was a .38 Detective’s Special, and she was carrying that in a shoulder bag slung over her left shoulder for an easy cross-body draw.

She tipped the checkroom girl a dollar (wondering if this was too much), put on the raincoat, reslung the shoulder bag, and then walked out into the small entry alcove. A pair of glass doors, with the word Ocho engraved on one and Rios on the other, faced the street outside, lashed with rain now. Lightning flashed as she pushed open one of the doors. She backed inside again, waited for the boom of thunder to fade, and then stepped out into the rain, opening the umbrella.

A gust of wind almost tore the umbrella from her grasp. She turned into the wind, fighting it, refusing to allow it to turn the umbrella inside it. Angling it over her face and shoulders, using it as a shield to bully her way through the driving rain, she started for the corner. The route she had traced out this afternoon would take her one block west on a brightly lighted avenue — deserted now because of the storm — and then two blocks north on less well-lighted streets to Mary’s apartment. She did not expect him to make his move while she was on the avenue. But on that two-block walk to the apartment—

She suddenly wished she’d asked for a backup.

Stupid, playing it this way.

And yet, if she’d planted her backups, say, on the other side of the street, one walking fifty feet ahead of her, the other fifty feet behind, he’d be sure to spot them, wouldn’t he? Three woman walking out here in the rain in the classic triangle pattern? Sure to spot them. Or suppose she’d planted them in any one of the darkened doorways or alleyways along the route she’d walked this afternoon, and suppose he checked out that same route, saw two ladies lurking in doorways — not many hookers up here, and certainly none on the side streets where there wasn’t any business — no, he’d tip, he’d run, they’d lose him. Better without any backups. And still, she wished she had one.

She took a deep breath as she turned the corner off the avenue.

The blocks would be longer now.

Your side streets were always longer than your streets on the avenue. Maybe twice as long. Plenty of opportunity for him in there. Two long blocks.

It was raining inside the floppy tops of the boots. She could feel the backup pistol inside the right boot, the butt cold against the nylon of her pantyhose. She was wearing panties under the pantyhose, great protection against a knife, oh, sure, great big chastity belt he could slash open in a minute. She was holding the umbrella with both hands now, trying to keep it from being carried away by the wind. She wondered suddenly if she shouldn’t just throw the damn thing away, put her right hand onto the butt of the .38 in her bag — He pulls that knife, don’t ask questions, just blow him away. Annie’s advice. Not that she needed it.

Alley coming up on her right. Narrow space between two of the buildings, stacked with garbage cans when she’d passed it this afternoon. Too narrow for action? The guy wasn’t looking to dance, he was looking to rape, and the width of the alley seemed to preclude the space for that. Ever get raped on top of a garbage can? she asked herself. Don’t ask questions, just blow him away. Dark doorway in the building beyond the alley. Lights in the next building and the one after that. Lamppost on the corner. The sky suddenly split by a streak of lightning. Thunder booming on the night. A gust of wind turned the umbrella inside out. She threw it into the garbage can on the corner and felt the immediate onslaught of the rain on her naked head. Should have worn a hat, she thought. Or one of those plastic things you tie under your chin. Her hand found the butt of the .38 in her shoulder bag.

She crossed the street.

Another lamppost on the corner opposite.

Darkness beyond that.

An alley coming up, she knew. Wider than the first had been, a car’s width across, at least. Nice place to tango. Plenty of room. Her hand tightened on the gun butt. Nothing. Nobody in the alley that she could see, no footsteps behind her after she passed it. Lighted buildings ahead now, looking potbelly warm in the rain. Another alley way up ahead, two buildings down from Mary’s. What if they’d been wrong? What if he didn’t plan to hit tonight? She kept walking, her hand on the gun butt. She skirted a puddle on the sidewalk. More lightning, she winced; more thunder, she winced again. Passing the only other alley now, dark and wide, but not as wide as the last one had been. Garbage cans. A scraggly wet cat sitting on one of the cans, peering out at the falling rain. Cat would’ve bolted if somebody was in there, no? She was passing the alley when he grabbed her.

He grabbed her from behind, his left arm looping around her neck and yanking her off her feet. She fell back against him, her right hand already yanking the pistol out of her bag. The cat shrieked and leaped off the garbage can, skittering underfoot as it streaked out into the rain.

“Hello, Mary,” he whispered, and she pulled the gun free.

“This is a knife, Mary,” he said, and his right hand came up suddenly, and she felt the sharp tip of the blade against her ribs, just below her heart.

“Just drop the gun, Mary,” he said. “You still have the gun, huh, Mary? Same as last time. Well, just drop it, nice and easy, drop it on the ground, Mary.”

He prodded her with the knife. The tip poked at the lightweight raincoat, poked at the thin fabric of her blouse beneath it, poked at her ribs. His left arm was still looped around her neck, holding her tight in the crook of his elbow. The pistol was in her hand, but he was behind her, and powerless in his grip, and the pressure of the knife blade was more insistent now.

“Do it!” he said urgently, and she dropped the pistol.

It clattered to the alleyway floor. Lightning shattered the night. There was an enormous boom of thunder. He dragged her deeper into the alley, into the darkness, past the garbage cans to where a loading platform was set in the wall some three feet above the floor. A pair of rusted iron doors were behind the platform. He threw her onto the platform, and her hand went immediately into the top of her floppy rubber boot, groping for the butt of the Browning.

“Don’t force me to cut you,” he said.

She yanked the pistol out of its holster.

She was bringing it up into firing position, when he slashed her.

She dropped the gun at once, her hand going up to her face where sudden fire blazed a trail across her cheek. Her hand came away wet, she thought it was the rain at first, but the wet was sticky and thick, and she knew it was blood — he had cut her cheek, she was bleeding from the cheek! And suddenly she was overcome by a fear she had never before known in her life.

“Good girl,” he said.

There was another flash of lightning, more thunder. The knife was under her dress now, she dared not move, he was picking at the nylon of the pantyhose with the knife, catching at it, plucking at it; she winced below, tightened there in horrified reaction, afraid of the knife, fearful he would use it again where she was infinitely more vulnerable. The tip of the blade caught the fabric, held. There was the sound of the nylon ripping, the whisper of the knife as it opened the pantyhose over her crotch and the panties underneath. He laughed when he realized she was also wearing panties.

“Expecting a rape?” he asked, still laughing, and then slashed the panties, too, and now she was open to the cold of the night, her legs spread and trembling, the rain beating down on her face and mingling there with the blood, washing the blood from her cheek burning hot where the gash crossed it, her eyes widening in terror when he placed the cold flat of the knife against her vagina and said, “Want me to cut you here, too, Mary?”

She shook her head, No, please. Mumbled the words incoherently. Said them aloud at last, “No, please,” trembling beneath him as he moved between her legs and put the knife to her throat again. “Please,” she said. “Don’t... cut me again. Please.”

“Want me to fuck you instead?” he asked.

She shook her head again. No! she thought. But she said instead, “Don’t cut me again.”

“You want to get fucked instead, isn’t that right, Mary?”

No! she thought. “Yes,” she said. Don’t cut me, she thought. Please.

“Say it, Mary.”

“Don’t cut me,” she said.

“Say it, Mary!”

“Fuck me in... instead,” she said.

“You want my baby, don’t you, Mary?”

Oh, God, no, she thought, oh, God, that’s it! “Yes,” she said, “I want your baby.”

“The hell you do,” he said, and laughed.

Lightning tore the night close by. Thunder boomed into the alleyway, immediately overhead, echoing.

She knew all the things to do, knew all about going for the eyes, clawing at the jelly of the eyes, blinding the bastard, she knew all about that. She knew what to do if he forced you to blow him, knew all about fondling his balls and taking him in your mouth, and then biting down hard on his cock and squeezing his balls tight at the same time, knew all about how to send a rapist shrieking into the night in pain. But a knife was at her throat.

The tip of the sharp blade was in the hollow of her throat where a tiny pulse beat wildly. He had slashed her face, she could still feel the slow steady ooze of blood from the cut, fire blazing along the length of the cut from one end to the other. The rain pelted her face and her legs, her skirt up around her thighs, the cold, wet concrete of the platform beneath her, the rusted iron doors behind her. And then — suddenly — she felt the rigid thrust of him below, against her unreceptive lips, and thought he would tear her with the force of his penetration, rip her as if with the knife itself, still at her throat, poised to cut.

She trembled in fear, and in shame, and in helpless desperation, suffering his pounding below, sobbing now, repeatedly begging him to stop, afraid of screaming lest the knife pierce the flesh of her throat as surely as he himself was piercing her flesh below. And when he shuddered convulsively — the knife tip trembling against her throat — and then lay motionless upon her for several moments, she could only think It’s over, he’s done, and the shame washed over her again, the utter sense of degradation caused by his invasion, and she sobbed more scathingly. And realized in that instant that this was not a working cop here in a dark alley, her underwear torn, her legs spread, a stranger’s sperm inside her. No. This was a frightened victim, a helpless violated woman. And she closed her eyes against the rain and the tears and the pain.

“Now go get your abortion,” he said.

He rolled off her.

She wondered where her gun was. Her guns.

She heard him running out of the alley on the patter of the rain.

She lay there in pain, above and below, her eyes closed tight.

She lay there for a very long while.

Then she stumbled out of the alley, and found the nearest patrol box, and called in the crime.

And fainted as lightning flashed again, and did not hear the following boom of thunder.