Broken Prey (10 page)

LUCAS LISTENED FOR ALMOST two hours, running the tape back and forth, made a few notes. Charlie Pope was afraid of big cities, he thought, and blacks and Latinos and Hmong. If he were hiding someplace, it would be in a small city or a town.

He would be looking for sex. The shrinks had been emphatic about it, and Lucas was convinced: sex seemed to soak through Charlie Pope’s view of the world. A note should be sent to all the law-enforcement agencies to warn the local hookers against him, and to circulate his photograph where hookers would see it. In most smaller cities, that would be one or two bars.

Pope would definitely go for a car, Lucas thought, or most likely, a truck, and almost certainly already had one. Unless . . .

Could he be hiding out in the countryside? Literally living in the woods? Did he have that capability? He’d been working as a garbageman and Lucas had known a couple of guys who’d lived on dumps, eating garbage and furnishing their hand-built hovels with whatever they could find on the piles of trash.

If not that, he must be disguised. At a minimum, he would have grown a beard. But what could he be doing? Stealing stuff to live on? How about just one holdup, where he scored a couple of grand, and continued to live on that? Lucas made a note to have the co-op guys check muggings and robberies by bearded men who fit Charlie’s physical form.

WHEN HE FINISHED with the tapes, Lucas thought he knew Charlie Pope. But where was he? A Charlie Pope didn’t hide well. Unless . . .

A second man or woman was hiding him. Was running him.

Or, maybe after the second killing he’d run so far that the news hadn’t caught up to him. Maybe he was working as a janitor or a garbageman or an assembly worker in backwoods Florida.

That was possible, but Charlie was rooted in the Upper Midwest. He was nuts, but he was a small-town boy. He was afraid to go to big places, afraid of the people he might meet. And he didn’t seem to be smart enough, or to have the will, to ignore those fears.

A village idiot.

Lucas sighed and put down his pen. A second man—or a woman. Something to lose sleep over.

10

RUFFE IGNACE WAS WORKING LATE. Not much to do, feet up on his desk, waiting for the paper to be put to bed. His latest triumph, the serial-killer story, cut no ice with the other reporters when it came to picking a replacement for the regular night man, when the night man went on vacation.

That occasion always started a newsroom dogfight. Ignace had been peremptorily ordered to take the job: “You have,” his team leader said, “the requisite skills. What am I supposed to do, have the music critic write about fires on deadline? And you’re single and you’re not dating anyone.”

“Is that why you asked me yesterday if I was dating anyone?” Ignace asked.

A muscle twitched in the team leader’s jaw. “Well . . . yeah.”

“You treacherous fuck.”

The “treacherous fuck” line didn’t do him any good, so here he was, eleven o’clock at night, waiting. He was the “just in case” guy. Just in case the president was assassinated, just in case terrorists took out the Target Center, just in case one of the Vikings was busted on cocaine charges. Nobody really wanted to tear up the paper when it was this close to the press turn.

SO IGNACE HAD HIS FEET UP, reading the
Idiot’s Guide to Etiquette,
which he’d lifted off another reporter’s desk. When the phone rang, he assumed it was the desk asking for a rewrite.

A voice in a harsh, rustling whisper inquired, “Is this, I don’t know how you pronounce it, I apologize, Rough Ignacy?”

“That would be Roo-fay Ig-Nas,” Ignace said. “Who is this?”

“This is old Charlie Pope, calling to thank you for the write-up.”

Now Ignace sat up. “Who is this really? Is this Jack, you shithead?”

A whispery laugh: “Nope, it’s me, old Charlie Pope.”

Ignace had a notebook and a pencil out: “Okay, old Charlie Pope. Tell me something about the murders that wasn’t in the newspaper.”

A pause, then, “Wasn’t in the newspapers that I cut Adam Rice’s dick off.”

“What?”

“I cut his dick off,” the whisperer said. “You didn’t put that in the paper.”

“The cops haven’t said anything about that—I don’t believe it happened.”

“Believe it, Ruffe.” The whisper turned cold, ragged.

“We didn’t say what you killed the kid with. What’d you kill him with?”

“He come down the stairs in his pajamas. I didn’t even know he was up there until he started running. There was an aluminum baseball bat in the corner and when the kid went running into the kitchen, I picked up the bat and caught him right by the door and whacked him. Then I went back and finished with Daddy.”

The ring of truth pushed Ignace back in his chair. “With a baseball bat.”

“That’s right. When I got outside, I wiped it down with Adam Rice’s undershirt, so it wouldn’t have no fingerprints on it. That’s before I knew they were gonna pick up on me so fast. I threw it into that field of whatever-it-is off to the side of the farmhouse. Right by the driveway going up the hill.”

“I’m going to check that.”

“Check your ass off, Ruffe. By the way, you got something wrong in your story. I didn’t have a straight razor to cut their throats. I used a box cutter. But. As soon as you wrote about the straight razor, I got a hard-on. I said, I gotta get me one of those things. Now I got one. Got an old leather strop to sharpen it up, and I’m learning how to do that. Next guy I do, I’m gonna do with the razor.”

“Jesus Christ.” Ignace swallowed.

“He’s not here. It’s just me, old Charlie Pope.”

“You gotta . . . let me, Jesus Christ.” Ignace was flabbergasted. He’d never been at a loss for words, and now he floundering. “Are you . . . why did you . . . uh . . .”

“What do I want?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Mostly I just want to talk to somebody. I liked your story. And I tell you, I got this goddamn woman is driving me crazy. I don’t know what to do about her. I don’t want her to stop, but every time she starts to howl, I see blood. I want to take her, but . . . then she’d be gone. I like it when she starts to howl. I mean, she does me up like nothin’ I’ve ever felt before. You know what I mean?”

“Not exactly.” Ignace was scribbling like mad, taking it all down in shorthand. “Are you saying that you can’t decide what you’re going to do? I mean, Jesus Christ, don’t hurt her. I mean how can you . . .”

“How can I do it?” The whispery laugh again, like a ripple of paper: “Because it feels good. I just ain’t right, Ruffe. My head is fucked up. I know that. Everybody knows that. But what everybody doesn’t know is how good it feels . . .”

“Jeez . . .”

“Hey, you ever see any of those terrorist guys on TV? Cuttin’ somebody’s head off or something? Everybody says it’s because they’re Moslems or something. I know better—I can tell by looking at them. They like it. They’re having a good old time. That’s what gets their rocks off—it ain’t Mohammed. They like killing people. They’re like me. They’re like lots of us. And if you look at it that way, how many people are like us, it’s really pretty normal.”

Ignace was calculating now. Didn’t Jimmy Breslin have something to do with the .44-caliber killer, the Son of Sam? Didn’t he get more famous because of it? “Look: if you come in, I can cut a deal for you. I could cut a deal that would get you nothing but treatment . . .”

“Uh-uh. I ain’t coming in, Ruffe. Never. I had treatment, remember? That fuckin’ treatment . . . anyway, ain’t you gonna ask me what I’m gonna do next?”

“Okay. What’re you gonna do next?” Ignace was taking it all down in Gregg, word for word, trying to get it precisely right, every
ain’t
and
nothin’
with a dropped
g.

“I’m gonna hunt somebody down. Gonna take her out someplace, I’m gonna give her a head start, and then I’m gonna hunt her down. A woman this time. Take her out to the Boundary Waters, strip her out of her clothes, then turn her loose and watch her run. Give her a hope. A forlorn hope.”

Ignace could feel the skin tighten at the back of his neck: there was no longer a question in his mind—he was talking to Charlie Pope.

“But what’s all this bulls . . . What’s all this stuff about hunting people? I mean, I’m sorry, but . . .”

“That’s nuts.” The whispery laugh again: “Of course it is. I
am
nuts. You seem to have a hard time getting over that. Write it down: N-U-T-S. The state says I’m nuts, and I’m nuts. What’d they think I was gonna do, lift garbage cans all the rest of my life? Fuck ’em.” He laughed then, his ragged voice sounding as though a piece of paper were being torn through.

Ignace was writing frantically. “How did this get started? You never . . . I mean, your reputation wasn’t for this kind of thing.”

“There were some Gods Down the Hall from me, at St. John’s. They made me see how much like God you can get to be, if you got the balls to go out and do it. I talked to them and they talked to me, and I can still hear their voices. They were right: it’s just like being God.”

“How are you staying ahead of the police?” A woman from the desk walked up, a piece of paper in her hand, and Ignace waved her away. She said, “We need . . .”

Ignace said into the phone, “Hang on just a second,” turned to the woman and barked, “Go away. Go away.”

She persisted. “We need . . .”

“Go the fuck away,” he shouted and, as she stepped backward, he went to the phone again. “I’m back.”

“Little trouble there, Ruffe?”

“I’m the night guy; they want me to do some horseshit. Listen, how’d you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t. I just kept calling your line every couple hours, until you answered.”

“I can’t hear you very well . . .”

Louder: “I said, I kept calling your line every couple of hours . . . that damn Rice tried to kick me, caught me one in the throat, I think he fucked me up. I can’t hardly eat nothin’.”

“You’re hurt?”

“Yeah, I’m hurt. Nobody said this was gonna be easy,” the whisperer said. “You can’t believe the shit I go through. I gotta plan, I gotta find the right person. I’m already watching two or three of these chicks, now I gotta decide which one to take. There are a lot of angles to figure out. You know, how much will they fight, will there be anybody around who might jump in to help them, maybe they got a gun, there’s all kinds of shit to figure out. Makes my head hurt. Hard work. But I’m gonna do it soon. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day.”

“What do you . . .”

“I gotta go. I can see a cop car on the next street. I don’t want him looking at me. Maybe I’ll call again, after I do the next one.”

“Wait, wait. If you’d like to talk to a doctor, or a lawyer . . .”

The whispery laughter, then, “Too late for that. But I do got one more thing for you, a message for the cops.
I ain’t gonna quit.
I’m gonna do twenty or thirty of them if I can. If they catch me, they better be ready for a fight, because I got me some guns and I know how to use them. They fucked with me all my life. Now I’m gonna fuck with everybody. I’m not going back to St. John’s. I’m not coming in alive.”

Click.

IGNACE PUSHED BACK from his desk, staring at the phone and his steno pad. A guy from the desk was coming his way, trying to assemble some authority, trailed by the woman Ignace had chased off: “Holy shit,” Ignace said. “Holy shit!”

SLOAN AND HIS WIFE were in bed. Sloan had come down with a bug, and his sinuses felt like overinflated basketballs; his wife was asleep, but Sloan was rolling around restlessly, fighting to breathe, when the phone rang. His wife said, “What?” and groaned. The phone never rang at that time of night unless it was trouble: Sloan rolled over and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Sloan, this is Ruffe Ignace. Charlie Pope just called me.”

“What?” Cobwebs.

“Charlie Pope just called me. I need you to call Davenport and have him call me back—I assume you don’t have jurisdiction in the Mankato kill.”

Sloan recognized Ignace’s voice. “Is this a joke?”

“This is no fuckin’ joke.” Ignace was shouting into the phone. “I need to talk to Davenport right now or we’re just gonna put this story in the paper raw and you can read it tomorrow morning when you get up.”

SLOAN WOKE UP LUCAS. “Give him my number,” Lucas said. Then he lay facedown on Weather’s side of the bed, in the faint lingering odor of her perfume, until the phone rang again: “This is Davenport.”

“Did the killer cut off Adam Rice’s penis?” Ignace asked without preamble.

“What?”

“The guy who called me—I assume Sloan told you I was called by a guy who said he was Charlie Pope—the guy said he cut off Adam Rice’s penis,” Ignace said.

“Ah, man, are you going to use that?”

“That’s negotiable—but did he? ’Cause if he did and if this was really Pope, I have some other information.”

“What information?”

“Did he cut off Adam Rice’s penis?”

Lucas thought for a moment, then said, “If you use that specific information, I will find some way to fuck you up. That’s not fair to any of the survivors.”

“So I was talking to Charlie Pope.”

“I don’t know, but that information is accurate,” Lucas said.

“All right. He said he killed the kid with an aluminum baseball bat, wiped it with Adam Rice’s undershirt, and then threw the bat into a field next to the house. Is that possible?”

“I don’t know. Of course, it’s possible,” Lucas said. “We’ll look tomorrow morning . . . Listen, I need to know exactly what this guy told you.”

“Then you can either come over here and I can give you a transcript, or I can read it to you . . . Hang on, hang on.”

Lucas could hear the phone being fumbled, then a woman’s voice said, “Lucas, this is Sharon White.”

“Hey, Sharon.”

“You better come over here. We don’t want to use anything that would mess anybody up or interfere with the investigation, but we’re going to run something, and I would like to discuss it with you. And Ruffe. If you can get here in like, fifteen or twenty minutes?”

“I’ll meet somebody at your door in fifteen,” Lucas said.

WHEN LUCAS TURNED the corner in downtown Minneapolis, Sloan was already standing in the street outside the
Star-Trib
building. Thin, gray, unshaven, with hair sticking sideways out over his ears, he looked like a bum; and his nose seemed to be swollen. Lucas dumped the Porsche behind Sloan’s Chevy, put a cop-on-duty sign on the dashboard—they were both parked in a no-parking zone—and got out.

“Gotta be the guy,” Sloan said. He held a handkerchief to his face and coughed into it. “Man. I’m sick.”

“What happened?” Lucas leaned away from him.

“I don’t know. I was fine at dinner, and now I’m all fucked up. I took four green Nyquils, and my nose keeps getting bigger.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, don’t sneeze on me.”

A YOUNG MAN WAS STANDING behind the
Strib
’s front doors. When Lucas and Sloan walked up, he lifted an eyebrow, and Sloan held up a badge case. The young man pushed the door open and said, “They’re waiting.”

They followed him into an elevator, then down through the cluttered newsroom to a cluster of people standing and sitting around a desk where Ruffe Ignace sat behind a computer, typing.

Lucas recognized Sharon White, the executive editor, and Phil Stone, the paper’s attorney. White nodded and said, “It’s a problem,” and Stone said, “You guys look like I feel.”

“I was sleeping like a baby,” Lucas said. “What’re we doing?”

“Ruffe is putting together the maximum story that we have,” White said. “You have no approval over it at all. We decide what goes in and what stays out. We’re telling you what we have in advance so we don’t
. . . mmm . . .
step on some aspect of the investigation.”

Lucas looked at Stone, who smiled the way an attorney smiles: with his lips.

“Good of you,” Lucas said. “Could we get Ruffe to give us a couple of printouts of what he has?”

Ignace looked at White, who nodded, and he hit a button on his keyboard. A printer started humming in the quiet background, and Ignace said, “Fifteen seconds.” The young man who’d brought them up said, “I’ll get them.” He headed for the printer.