Текст книги "Murder on the Run"

Автор книги: Medora Sale

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“Why not?” asked Eleanor. “It never occurred to me that I was that terrifying. No one else seems to find me even slightly alarming.” She leaned back in her chair, arm along the back, with her head resting on her hand and her fingers thrust through her untidy red curls. Her expression hovered halfway between amusement and hostility. “You’re not being wildly convincing.”

“Dammit, you know perfectly well that I’m not terrified of you. Can’t you understand the position I was in? You could credit me with some conscience at least.”

“Oh, really?” said Eleanor in polite disbelief. “That certainly wasn’t the impression that I got last summer. Isn’t tormented loyalty a new line? I wasn’t all that aware of it before.”

“Christ almighty, you can be exasperating. I’m not trying to say that I never looked at another woman. But the women I run into in my line of work are a pretty mixed bag”—he ran his fingers through his hair and looked perplexed—“and they’re not like you. You were—I don’t know—a problem.”

Eleanor shrugged and waved her hand dismissively. “What the hell. We can argue about that later. What are you doing now? Where are you living?”

He signaled the waitress for another round and sighed. “I sublet a one-bedroom apartment downtown for six months. It’s a strange sensation to walk in at night to an empty house. Sort of like the feeling you get after a toothache disappears—a feeling that something’s missing, but you’re not sure that you care. Anyway, I’m not really living anywhere, it feels like. Basically, I’m camping out behind my desk. We’re pretty busy most of the time, and now with King Kong out there—”

“King Kong?”

“Your local rapist. The one who kills them and then carries them around for a while before he dumps them somewhere. We’re going crazy. That’s two women in your area now.”

“Listen,” said Eleanor, “if someone else has already been attacked out in that ravine, why isn’t it filled with cops? How many women does it take before you start sending in patrols?”

“Patrols!” He choked into his beer glass. “We have so many guys in there the rummies are complaining about lack of space. We even have guys in old clothes, clutching wine bottles; armed to the teeth. He is obviously very cautious. He waits until there’s no one around—a patrol can’t be everywhere at once—and then attacks. For all we know, he goes out every day, checking four or five different areas. This guy is very mobile and, in his way, pretty smart.”

“Why don’t you let people know the ravines are being patrolled? Wouldn’t it make them feel better?”

“We don’t want them to feel better. We want them to stay the hell out of the way until we catch him. You may not believe it, but it’s turning me into a nervous wreck. When they called us to the ravine this morning I just sat in the car and let Dubinsky go in ahead. I didn’t want to walk in there and see a lot of red hair spread out on the ground. I’m beginning to lose my grip, I think.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” said Eleanor without a flicker of sympathy. “Everyone says that he likes them short. He probably couldn’t reach up high enough to hit me on the head. Besides, I told you, I’m so fast and strong now that I can handle anything. Look at that,” she said, flexing her right bicep.

Sanders laughed for the first time that afternoon. “Okay, Wonder Woman, show me.” He put his right elbow on the table, arm up, in classic stance. Eleanor solemnly moved the empty beer glasses out of the way and positioned herself to meet the challenge. Slowly their palms joined, and Eleanor started to push. For a second she gained ground, and then she felt her tortured muscles give slightly, and her arm being steadily dragged down from its position. Suddenly she noticed the waitress hovering over them, her tray heavy with filled glasses. Laughter robbed her of any remaining strength and she gave up just in time to avoid knocking over the next round.

“That’s no fair,” she said, as she caught her breath. “You’ve probably been sweating it out in some jock gym for cops for fifteen years, and I just started two weeks ago.”

“Naw,” he said, shaking his head. “Just my innate male superiority.” He ducked to avoid her fist. “No, really, I am just a bit bigger and stronger than you are. You’re not bad, though.” He picked up her hand again, almost absent-mindedly. “I wish you wouldn’t assume that this guy is a ninety-pound weakling. He can’t be that feeble, you know. It looks as though he might have carried some of those women a fair distance, while they were either dead or unconscious.” A new thought flickered across his mind, but he kept firm hold of her hand still. “Tell me something—why would a woman lift weights or run while she was pregnant? Wouldn’t she figure it was bad for her?”

“I’m not sure,” said Eleanor slowly. “I’ve known a couple of girls who kept up with their running while they were pregnant on the theory that it would keep them healthy. It seemed to work for them, anyway. But lifting weights—that sounds like another thing altogether. It puts quite a strain on your system, I think. But you shouldn’t ask me. I was the sort that just lay around and vegetated while I was carrying Heather. The guys at the health club probably know more about it than I do. Why do you want to know? I assure you I’m not pregnant.”

“Maybe not, but Jane Conway was. That’s why I was so surprised to hear that you had run into her at a weight-lifting establishment. But as far as I know, maybe all these places are filled with pregnant women bench-pressing three hundred pounds. I have trouble keeping up in some areas.”

“How pregnant was she? She didn’t look it to me, but then I didn’t examine her closely. Wasn’t she divorced or something? “

“Separated, according to the principal. And that doesn’t prevent women from getting pregnant, you know. Anyway, she was only two or three months along.” He took a long swallow of his beer. “We’d love to know who the father is, though. You’re pretty cosy with the teachers at the school. I don’t suppose you heard any gossip about who he might be?”

“I didn’t even know she was pregnant, remember? And I don’t see why you’re worrying about it. If she was killed by your King Kong, he wouldn’t care who got her pregnant, surely.”

“We can’t just assume that each one of these victims was killed by the same man—we still have to nose around and see what we can find. You wouldn’t like to keep those lovely ears open for any gossip, would you?” He looked up, and then shook his head. “God, but I’m stupid. Forget I said that. Thirty minutes ago you were barely speaking to me, and now I’m asking you to . . . I’m sorry. You must have things to do, and I’m keeping you here in ridiculous conversation.”

“Well,” she said, “I am pretty hungry. And if you aren’t going to go somewhere to dinner with me, I’ll have to go and get something to eat before I faint from starvation. It’s a long walk home on an empty stomach.”

Chapter 6

Friday, April 13, dawned before John Sanders’ day ended. He had spent a bleak and restless night, falling into profound slumber as the first light began to pick out the Toronto lakefront, the long-awaited sleep thus depriving him of a magnificent view from his downtown apartment. The alarm dragged him painfully to consciousness, and habit got him dressed and out of the door. By 8:45, as foul-tempered and foggy as the weather, he was facing Ed Dubinsky across their desks. He reached for the sheaf of papers on the Conway woman. His coffee spilled over two break-and-enters and some as yet unclassified mail. “Shit!” he muttered, looking wildly and haplessly around for something to mop the coffee up with. Dubinsky heaved himself out of his chair and disappeared, returning seconds later with a roll of paper towels.

“You don’t look all that bright this morning,” remarked Dubinsky. “Everything okay?” This was the closest he’d got to alluding to Sanders’ domestic imbroglios.

“Everything’s fine. I just didn’t get all that much sleep last night for some reason. Too much work, too much coffee—I don’t know.” He drank the half-inch left in the Styrofoam cup and threw it into the wastebasket. “Anyway, let’s see where we are, as of now. Any word on Parsons?”

“Collins was up there this morning.”

“And?”

“Nothing. She’s still unconscious. The neurologist thinks we’re wasting the taxpayers’ money keeping a man there.”

“So what in hell are we supposed to do? If she regains consciousness and there’s no one there to take a statement we’ll be in a helluva mess. Besides, she can probably identify him—and he must know that. And since he seems to be invisible, he could probably get in there and finish her off.”

“Okay,” said Dubinsky. “I never said she should be left alone.” He shook his head. “If she buys it, that’s five in four months. One guy. I can’t believe it.”

“If it is the same one. That’s what I find hard to believe.”

“This last one looks close enough,” said Dubinsky. “Everything was the same—except no knife marks and she still had her clothes on. He was probably interrupted again.”

“Yeah,” said Sanders, “But it just doesn’t have the same smell to it. I went through the newspaper accounts last night. Everything that was done to that woman has already been published in the papers. It could be a copycat.”

“You think we’ve got two rapists running around the ravines now?” He got to his feet again. “That’s really great, isn’t it? You want some more coffee?”

“Sure.” He looked down at the papers on his desk, spread them out a bit, and thought. Dubinsky put a fresh cup of coffee on his desk, out of range of his elbow, and sat down. “Thanks. We still don’t have anything positive on her background, do we? Did we get anywhere on next of kin?” He lifted his cup cautiously to his mouth. “You’d think she was some rubby or sailor on a spree. No one seems to know anything about her except her name.”

“Well, I did talk to one woman at the school who seemed to know her, but I haven’t been able to follow up on the details yet.” Once again he flipped slowly back through the pages of his notebook. “A Miss Madeleine O’Connor, part-time teacher of Russian and German. She said that she talked to her a fair amount because they had a spare period together every day. And that she felt sorry for her, because she was having a hell of a time with the kids and with the department head, and no one was really willing to help her. Then she went on about how teachers treat newcomers and so on. Pretty bitchy, if you ask me. And she never shut up. None of them did. I never heard anything like it.” He paused to shake his head. “Anyway, Conway’s husband is a graduate student at the University of Toronto, in the Department of Biology, and they’re separated; she and this O’Connor woman had a lot in common because they were really graduate students, not teachers like everyone else on the staff. Whatever that means. The husband’s name is Doug. And that’s all I got, except that they used to go out for a drink once in a while after work.” He sighed. “And if there are any other women at the school to interview, I wish you’d do it. They seem to be more your type than mine.”

“So all we know about her is her name, and her husband’s name, and where she worked. Great. Someone must have recommended her for the job—I have it here somewhere”—Sanders searched through his notebook—“Right. Recommended by Professor George Simmons of the Department of Physics, University of Toronto, who apparently said that she probably knew enough to teach high-school kids, as long as no one asked her too hard a question. Jesus. There’s a sweet guy.” He thought for a moment. “But we know more than that,” he said finally. “She used to work out at a gym near the school. They might know something about her there. Anyway, call the Department of Biology and see if you can locate Mr. Doug Conway, and then we’ll go through that apartment for whatever leads we can pick up. Otherwise off to the gym. Okay, let’s get moving.”

Dubinsky and Sanders stood at the entrance to Jane Conway’s apartment and looked around. It wasn’t quite ten o’clock; they had a promise they would be able to find the elusive husband at two o’clock in the Biology Department, and it was quite possible that it would take them the full, boring four-hour interval just to go through her papers, looking for background material. The apartment had a dreary, faded look with the spring rain trickling down the window panes. The furniture was dark and heavy; the rug an old, bleached-out red Persian. Dubinsky looked resigned, Sanders depressed. At last he turned and spoke. “Why don’t you start with the bedroom, and I’ll get going on that desk.” They moved off in separate directions and started in to work.

Sanders began with the brown leather briefcase leaning against the side of the desk. It contained two brutally large textbooks, which he flipped through. They appeared to be just that, but tarted up with more pictures than he remembered from his schooldays. Under them was a large red notebook, each page of which was dated and ruled off in eight or nine sections. The pages were filled with abbreviations and page numbers that meant nothing to Sanders, but were more likely to do with teaching than with her private life, he suspected. On the other hand, there might be something there—he put the book to one side, just in case he wanted to go over it with someone who could tell him how much of it referred to school. There was nothing else. On the desk he found a bundle of tests, partially marked, and the usual desk-top paraphernalia—telephone, notepad, Toronto phonebook, an electric typewriter, carefully covered, with nothing in it, and a little circular container filled with pencils and fine-line markers, with pictures on it of lambs gamboling among spring flowers. He picked it up in astonishment. It seemed so unlike anything else in that sober room. He noticed some laconic scribbles on the top piece of notepaper and picked it up carefully, stared at it a moment, and put it to one side.

He cleared everything off the top of the desk and started to go through each drawer, removing everything from the drawers so that they could be checked for odd bits of paper caught in corners. The top drawers were tidy and characterless, containing miscellaneous stationery, typing paper, pens, pencils, a stapler, a Dymo labeler, three sets of mathematical instruments, and an expensive-looking calculator. She certainly was neat. He thought of the chaos in his desk and shook his head. When he pulled the brass handle of the next drawer, he found a deep and capacious file drawer, legal size, filled with neatly labeled file folders. He yanked it out to its fullest extent, pulled the comfortable typing chair up to the desk, and started to go through the files, one by one. The eight folders in front were completely useless to him. They contained notes for courses she was teaching and from courses she had taken. After flipping through each one briefly he gave up. Her notes were neat and legible, however, much neater than anything he had ever taken down himself back during his brief fling as a student. There were only two folders behind them, and they seemed much more promising. One was marked “Van Loon and McHenry” and the other “Correspondence: Personal.” He pulled them both out and settled back to read them in comfort.

Van Loon and McHenry was a legal firm with offices on Church Street, not far from Rosedale, according to their letterhead. She had several pieces of correspondence from them, dating back to October: one pointing out that her new will was ready for signature, and the next one confirming the points discussed in a previous meeting and stating that she would have extreme difficulty in blocking her husband’s action for divorce, should he institute proceedings. Sandwiched in among these were a few bills, in which she was also charged for advice given by telephone. Sanders carefully put all these documents back and placed the file on top of the red notebook. The personal correspondence file was bumpy with bundles of letters tied together still in their envelopes. Some of them he didn’t bother to read—the postmarks were from years ago and the paper was yellowed. Two bundles had fairly recent letters on top, both sets postmarked Cobourg. He undid the first one. Those letters were all the same, each one page in length, neatly written, thanking her for something or other and talking about the farm, and signed, “Uncle Matt.” He put them to one side with the other things. He picked out a few from the large bundle in his hand. They were long, misspelled, and had a frenzied quality to them. They spoke of love, and eternity, and passion, all in appallingly banal terms. The dates went back five or six years; they were all signed “Mike.” Sanders sighed and put them to one side as well. A thought occurred to him. Maybe this guy was—when were the last letters written? He flipped quickly. There were none after January 10th. He took that one out and read it:

My darling Jane,

I was so happy to recieve your letter, I had almost given up hopeing that you would write me again. But I was very upset to hear how unhappy you are. You must not let people push you around that way, of course they are going to be mean to anyone as nice as you are. I was talking to my father about it and he says that I should come down to be with you. He doesn’t need me until the summer season starts again so I will be down as soon as I can get my bags packed. I will find someplace to stay, don’t worry, I know how you feel about people just dropping in.

All my love,

Mike

So Mike had come to Toronto in January—depending, of course, on how long it took him to pack his bags. That would cut things rather fine, if Melissa was right in her dates, but if he had scurried right down after writing that letter, he could have fathered the child. And what nasty things had she been complaining about to her gallant would-be protector? He would like to speak to Mike, whoever he was. That bundle joined the pile. The rest of the letters were loose and made no particular sense, but he took out the ones that had been written in the past six months and added them to his pile.

He looked up as Dubinsky came in. “Find anything interesting?”

“Some papers,” Dubinsky said. “And a bank book—savings account with the Royal Bank.” He handed it over. Sanders looked at the figures and whistled.

“That’s not a bad little nest egg for a girl to have tucked away, is it? How do you suppose she’s managed to salt away over a thousand a month since last summer?” He reached for the slip of notepaper. “And what do you make of this, Dubinsky?”

There were two notations: “M.—3—Tues.” and “G.—5—Tu.” They were written at different slopes, as if they had been jotted down at different times. Dubinsky shook his head. “She was going to meet someone at three o’clock on Tuesday—maybe her mother? Then someone else at five?”

“Sure—her grandfather this time. Or how about ‘M’ for Mike?” He handed Dubinsky the letter. “The trouble with that, though, is that she worked. How would she meet someone at three?” He took the slip back. “It might not mean a thing, or then again, maybe it’ll fit in with something else.” He stood up and began collecting the various papers she had set aside. “Here, this is her lawyers’ number. Give them a call and tell them we’ll be over to see them. I want to know what she discussed with them that doesn’t turn up in her file here. I’m going to take another look through the place.”

He wandered through the empty apartment into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator—not that he expected to find any serious evidence there, more from a mixture of curiosity and a professional desire to find out something, anything, about this woman. It was clear from the contents that she drank beer and orange juice and ate rye bread and mayonnaise. But, on the other end of the diet spectrum, she also seemed to consume tins of liquid diet food. There was something about this that depressed him and, after checking all the cupboards, he left the kitchen as quickly as he could. He sat down at an old-fashioned white-painted dressing table in the bedroom and began to open up the drawers, expecting to find make-up, jewelry, underwear, and the like. The top drawer was empty.

“Hey, Dubinsky,” he called. “Did you check this little table?”

“Yeah,” he said, coming into the bedroom. “That’s where I got the bank book and statements and things like that. The second drawer is full of paid bills and receipts, and the bottom drawer seems to be filled with tax stuff. Very neat. It was all locked, but the key was on her ring. I took out the stuff that might be interesting and left the rest for you. Anyway, about the lawyer—he left last weekend for a couple of weeks in Mexico. He won’t be back until after Easter. His secretary hasn’t the faintest idea how to reach him”—Dubinsky mimicked a high-pitched voice charged with great drama—“because he doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s on holiday.”

“Great,” muttered Sanders. “Just one more thing to make life easier. Anyway, did you find an appointment book or anything like that? Something that might explain what she was doing on Tuesday?” Dubinsky shook his head. “Did you check her purse?”

“Come on, what do you take me for? Of course I checked her purse, and every drawer of that white thing there, and the drawer in the night table. Also the cabinets in the bathroom, her dresser drawers, and her closet. She has lots of towels and underwear, but I didn’t see an appointment book. Are you sure it isn’t in the living room on her desk or something?”

Sanders glared at him. “Yes, I’m sure. And she doesn’t seem to have an address book or anything resembling one. Did you check her pockets?” As soon as he said that, he headed for the closet by the front door, opened it, and started to go through the pockets of all the coats and jackets hanging there. Nothing. He emerged again, shrugging his shoulders. “She might have left it at work. Let’s check back there before heading on to see the husband.”

Ginny sat perched on the edge of the chair in Dr. Rasmussen’s office, clutching her large purse tightly on her lap. She tried to cross her knees casually, and then uncrossed them again quickly as her legs began to tremble. The doctor swept in, the light bouncing off his bald head. His mouth beamed at her while his eyes flicked over her in rapid assessment.

“Well, now, Mrs. Morrison, so far so good. I don’t see anything really alarming at this point.” He read the sketchy details on the new chart in front of him. “I think that Dr. Smith mentioned that you were working? Could I ask what you do?”

The sympathy she read into this comment finished her. Tears spilled down her cheeks; she scrambled furiously for a Kleenex and hauled herself back together. “Yes. I’m an assistant manager at Austin’s—in the toy department. It’s a good job, and I really can’t afford to give it up. My husband was laid off last November, just before I realized I was pregnant. His unemployment insurance doesn’t go very far, and we’d be stuck if I quit.” She assumed her most mulish and independent glare.

“And that means you’re on your feet most of the time?” She nodded mutely, her eyes filling up again with tears. “It’s very premature to talk of quitting, Mrs. Morrison. It certainly hasn’t come to that, yet. But you get sick leave, don’t you? Even assistant managers can get sick. You must get off your feet and into bed. Rest is still the best way to stop the cramping and spotting. Ten days in bed, then come back and see me. Can your husband look after you?” Ginny stared, appalled. “Is your mother in town?” She nodded. “Then you should go to your mother’s and let her pamper you a bit. And tell her that I want you to gain some weight. You know, at 115 pounds you’re a bit thin even for a lady who isn’t pregnant. I’d like to see you closer to 135 or even 140 before this baby is born. Off to bed, now, and I’ll see you in ten days. Call me if things don’t improve by Monday.” He turned to her file and his notes as she fled the office in relief.

Ginny fished through her purse in fruitless pursuit of another quarter. Dammit, she muttered, I know I have one here somewhere. Ah, there it was—caught in the fold where the lining had ripped. She forced herself to calm down, breathe deeply, put the coin in the slot slowly and carefully, and then dial with deliberation. The phone rang and rang. He must be in that bloody garage again, she thought; she refused to hang up. Finally a slow, groggy voice answered her.

“Glenn? Where were you? Never mind. I just left the doctor’s. He says I’ll probably be okay, but I have to stay in bed for ten days.” A pause. “I don’t know why he said ten days. You can call him yourself and ask, if you want. That’s what he said. Anyway, he doesn’t want me doing anything so he said I should go to Mother’s. You can look after yourself for a couple of weeks, can’t you?” She held the receiver away from her ear slightly, with a look of exasperation on her face. “If you can’t figure out how to do your shirts, take them over to your mother’s. Anyway, I’ll go to the bank on the way home and then pack my stuff and drive myself over there.” She frowned. “Of course I’ll need the car. What would you need it for? You’ve got the—Well, if you think so, then you can drive me over to Mother’s and take the car home. Anyway, I’ll be back in about half an hour. Don’t go out. ’Bye.”

In the living room of the neat, multi-layered townhouse, he put the phone back on the hook and turned his gaze once more to the three daily papers spread out on the floor in front of him. “Terror Stalks City as Mad Rapist Strikes Again” screamed the headlines of the morning tabloid. “Another Victim in Metro Rape-Murders?” asked the sedate morning daily in a secondary headline, tucked under the latest international news. “Action Demanded in Toronto Deaths” cried the crusading voice of the afternoon paper. The stories, however, were all the same: a woman in her twenties was attacked and killed while out jogging in the Rosedale Ravine—identification withheld pending notification of next of kin. Metro police spokesman Daniel Kennedy agrees that it could be the work of the person who raped and killed three other woman and seriously injured another in the period of January to April this year and continues to advise caution for women out alone, especially in remote areas. He picked up each paper in turn and re-read the stories slowly and carefully, shook his head and smiled slightly, then neatly folded them and carried them out to the garage before his wife had time to come in the door.

Sanders and Dubinsky now stood in front of a plain door with four names tucked into little metal slots nailed to it. Their visit to the school had produced nothing but a welcome diversion to twenty-four giggling girls who watched, fascinated, as Sanders went through all the drawers in the physics lab. When he had produced the red notebook in order to ask Mrs. Antonini if there was anything in it that did not pertain to the school day, she had snatched it up with cries of glee and was most unwilling to give it back. She finally agreed to photocopy it and return it to him, saying most discouragingly as she flipped through it that it looked like a normal daybook to her, and that Jane’s replacement was going to need all the information in it. So much for that hope. Perhaps this visit would produce more.

Doug Conway was the first name in the alphabetized list of occupants. Sanders knocked, a casual voice called out, “Come in,” and the two men entered. The room was just barely large enough to hold four desks jutting out from opposing walls and to leave a narrow passageway through to a large window. The spaces on the walls not filled with desks were covered with utilitarian steel shelving, crammed with books, papers, and what appeared to Sanders to be junk. The desks themselves were piled to overflowing with books, coffee cups, plants, photographs, and computer read-outs in catholic disarray. There seemed to be only four chairs, one for each desk.

“Do come in. Sorry for the mess in here—it is awfully cramped—but just grab a couple of chairs. You’re not in my section, are you?” He gave them a puzzled glance.

Sanders returned the look and introduced himself. “I understood from your secretary out there that you were expecting us. I mean, she told us to come this afternoon at two. Apparently you didn’t get our message?”

“Oh, Lord,” he said. “Police. I’m sorry, but that girl is absolutely hopeless. She has discovered that the easiest thing to do with messages is to throw them out. This is when I have office hours; that’s why I’m here. Otherwise I’d be in the lab. I mean, we don’t really do much work in this office; that’s why it looks like this. We just store books and see students here. We’re all T.A.’s.”

“T.A.’s?”

“Teaching Assistants. Anyway, what can I do for you? Brian Jones over there is the one who deals with most of the forensic problems that get referred to us but I’ll do what I can.”

“Forensic problems?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here? I’m sorry, maybe we should start one more time from the beginning.” He smiled and settled back in his chair, his long frame perfectly relaxed, but his high forehead slightly crinkled, and his dark eyes fixed intently on the two men. Sanders began to feel like a specimen of some sort. He pulled over a chair and sat down. Dubinsky cautiously shoved aside a few papers on someone else’s desk and perched on the edge of it, notebook in hand, filling the office with his bulk.

“No, I’m afraid that what we came over here for is rather less pleasant. There has been a most unfortunate”—Sanders searched for a word. He hated this sort of thing anyway, and when a man is separated from his wife, one has no idea whether he’s going to be crushed or relieved at the news. Or perhaps, not at all surprised—“occurrence concerning—”

“Who—?” he said sharply, his face changing. “What’s happened?”