The Assailant (27 page)

Maybe she would do that, and he wouldn't know what to say. He wouldn't know what to say to the bitch. He had learned to control himself over the years, learned to channel his gifts. But he wasn't ready to be so angry, so infuriated at her. He wasn't ready for it. He had to dart away from her, pretend that he hadn't seen her. He flushed with humiliation.

Control. He must control himself. The where and the when had to be up to him. He could not let external factors control it.

Now in his car, he looked down at the speedometer. He was going seventy miles per hour in a fifty zone. His heart skipped and he lifted his foot off the accelerator.

It was happening again. His anger was unchanneled. He was acting impulsively, and that was not acceptable. It was not smart. It was not adult. It was impetuous, and being impetuous was dangerous.
Like the time he was fifteen, when he had pushed that little girl off her bicycle. She was riding near him and he was on his bike and he . . . just had to . . . ride up next to her and push her down. Watch her fall and hit the pavement and cry out and oh, it was special, oh, it was fun to see that. But right away it got bad, the other kids from the neighborhood surrounding him and some of them wanting to hurt him for what he had done. And then the grown-ups showed up, and he had to produce some tears and swear to God that it had been an accident. He even had to tell the little slut he was sorry.

The grown-ups believed him. Yes, it was an accident. They had to believe him, and they wanted to believe him because who could believe that a teenage boy could be so callous, so cruel? So vicious. Who wanted to believe that?

He learned from that, though. Learned that he had to hide things. Learned not to show himself in daylight and open spaces.

You're not a child anymore, Raymond. Not a child, and who will believe that you accidentally pushed Helen Krans off the top of a building? Who will they seek out for questioning if she disappears?

He touched the hairpin in his pocket.

He touched it and turned it over and he felt better. And for the remainder of his drive home, he kept his speed within the lawful limits.

And when he got home, he took a long, hot shower and he felt even better. He felt calm. He began to put on his pajamas and dressing gown over it, but then changed his mind and put on a pair of jeans and a sweater and boots.

Maybe he would go out, he thought. Maybe he would pay a visit to Helen at her home. She wasn't going to leave town anytime soon. After all, he had told that fool Tassett that he would not switch shifts. Maybe she would be home, and if he rang her doorbell, she would probably let him in.

Maybe he didn't have to let her go.

It could still be done. Yes, of course it could. It just couldn't be done on impulse. It had to be thought out, planned like the rest. He had her hairpin. He had something of hers, and now it was something of his.

He thought about his Mercedes.

He could not drive it to her apartment. It might be seen. He would have to drive out to his private garage and switch vehicles and drive the Ford to her home.

He smiled at that.

Planning was the key. He was no rank amateur. He was a thinker. A problem solver. A cup of tea, he thought. A cup of tea and a couple of biscuits and his mind would be fresh.

He was in the kitchen preparing it when the doorbell rang.

He stopped.

Now that was strange. No one had ever rung the bell at his home.

He looked at his watch. Almost ten o'clock.

The doorbell rang again.

Damn. Whoever they were, they weren't going away.

He turned on the porch light before he opened the door. He
looked through the small window and saw a man in a tan raincoat standing on the step. He was holding a brown file under his arm.

Raymond opened the door. “Yes?”

“Dr. Sheffield?”

“Yes.”

The man showed his identification and said, “My name is Lieutenant George Hastings. I'm a detective with the St. Louis Police Department.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I'm investigating a homicide. A young lady named Reesa Woods. Dr. Zoller informed me that you were with him and her.”

“When?”

“A couple of weeks before her murder.”

“I don't remember that,” Raymond said.

“Her professional name was Ashley. She was at a wine-and-cheese party at the Adam's Mark Hotel with you and Dr. Zoller. That's all I wanted to ask you about. Just routine. May I come in? It won't take long.”

“It's rather late, Lieutenant.”

“I know. I'm very sorry to come at this hour. But I needed to get this out of the way. I'll make it short and then get out of your hair.”

“Okay.” Raymond sighed and he let the detective in.

•

The house had likely been built in the sixties and had been fashionable in the seventies. Large, quasi A-frame living room with a
stone fireplace and worn carpet. It was dated and drafty. Hastings suspected that Sheffield had not paid much for it. Or that he rented it.

He walked behind the doctor, his hands by his sides. He stepped away from him when they reached the living room.

Dr. Sheffield gestured to the couch, and Hastings took a seat. As he did this, Hastings kept a constant watch on him. His coat was still on, but it was open and his .38 snub was within quick reach.

Dr. Sheffield said, “Did I understand you to say that you spoke with Dr. Zoller?”

“Yes, sir. He was a colleague of yours?”

“Yes. He resigned. Now he works in private practice.”

“How long did you work together?”

“Not long. A few months.”

“I see. Would you say that he's a capable man?”

“I believe so. We're not close friends.”

“Just a professional relationship then?”

“Yes. He was, is, a good physician.”

This from a relatively young doctor, Hastings thought. He said, “In your opinion?”

“Yes, in my opinion.”

Hastings said, “Dr. Zoller informed me that you and he attended a wine-and-cheese party given by a pharmaceutical company approximately two weeks ago. There was a woman there called Ashley that Dr. Zoller . . . met. Do you remember meeting her?”

“I told you before, no.”

“You may not have remembered the name. But she was a young, attractive lady with brown hair. A little on the petite side.”

Raymond Sheffield shook his head. “I'm sorry. I don't remember.”

“Well, Dr. Zoller said you spoke with her.”

“I can't speak for what Dr. Zoller saw. Or what you claim he saw,” Sheffield said. “It was a party. I talked to a lot of people.”

“So it's possible you met this Ashley?”

“Yes, I suppose it's possible.”

“What did you talk to her about?”

“I didn't say that I talked with her. It's possible I did, though. If I did, I'm sure it was just small talk. ‘Where are you from? Do you go to school?' That sort of thing.”

“So she was young enough that you thought she might have been a student?”

The young doctor looked at the detective for a few seconds. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Hastings said, “You understand that she was killed?”

“I understand it now. Is it why you came to question me?”

“You didn't read about it in the newspaper?”

“No. I don't read the newspapers much.”

“Work a lot, do you?”

“Yes. I work a lot.”

“Are you an intern at St. Mary's?”

“No. I'm a full-time staff physician.”

“Did you go to school around here?”

“No. I went to Dartmouth medical school.”

“Oh. Well. So you're new to the area?”

“Yes.”

Hastings was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “How do you like it out here?”

“It's okay. The pace is a little slower.”

“Not for me,” Hastings said. “I moved here from a small town in Nebraska. But St. Louis is a nice place to live. A good place to raise your children. Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Are you married?”

“No. I'm divorced.”

“Oh.” Hastings flipped through some pages in his notebook. He said, “This situation is a bit delicate.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, to be frank, the nature of this investigation requires that I ask you questions about Dr. Zoller. And I think you may be uncomfortable with that.”

“Is Dr. Zoller a suspect?”

“No, sir. I did not say he was a suspect. Please don't misunderstand me.” Hastings bristled, as if he had inadvertently revealed something. He said, “But he was with Reesa—Ashley—he was with her as a customer. And I have to . . . check that out. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“You are aware that she was a prostitute?”

“No. I didn't know.”

“You met her and you didn't know?”

“Lieutenant—”

“Oh, that's right. You're not sure if you met her.”

“Correct.”

“Do you remember meeting any prostitutes?”

“. . . That night?”

“Yes.”

“No. I don't remember meeting any prostitutes.”

“It's okay if you did. There's no crime in talking to one.” Hastings smiled. “No crime in being with one, really.”

Raymond did not smile back.

Hastings said, “At least, it shouldn't be. They're in business just like anyone else. Right?”

“I suppose.”

Hastings removed a photograph from the file. He stood up and walked over to the doctor. “Do you recognize her?”

“No. I presume it's the woman you've been asking me about.”

“Yes.”

“The one Dr. Zoller was with.”

“Yes.”

Hastings stepped back to the couch. He put the photograph back in the file. Then he removed another one. This time, he held it up from the couch. “How about her?”

Raymond Sheffield studied it. Then he said, “No.”

“Her name is Adele Sayers. Do you recognize that name?”

“No.”

“She was killed too. We believe by the same person that killed Reesa Woods. There's a third victim. Her name was Marla Hilsheimer. Do you recognize that name?”

“No.”

“Did Dr. Zoller ever tell you about another girl who called herself Estelle?”

“No. He did not discuss his private life with me.”

“Did Dr. Zoller ever talk about a woman who sold real estate? A tall woman with red hair?”

“No. I told you—”

“I know what you told me, but I don't think you're being truthful.”

“If that's what you think, then we have—”

“Just a minute,” Hastings said. “Let me tell you what I think: I think you're a young physician who probably has a very good future ahead of him. And you believe that Dr. Zoller could not under any circumstances be capable of . . . well, you know. And you want to protect him. I understand that. But this is a homicide investigation. And whether it makes us uncomfortable or not, we have to cooperate.”

“I have been cooperating, Lieutenant.”

“I hope so, but I have not told you that Dr. Zoller is a suspect in the murders of these three ladies. Can we agree that I have not told you that?”

“Yes, we can agree that you have not said that.”

“And what I discuss with you is not something you should discuss with Dr. Zoller. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, I understand it. You don't want me to interfere with your investigation.”

“That's correct, thank you. Now, it's my understanding that you didn't know about these other two victims either. Correct?”

“That's correct. I didn't. I told you, I work long hours.”

“Okay. But surely you must have heard of this Springheel Jim character?”

“. . . Who?”

“Springheel Jim.”

“Who's that?”

“Oh, some loser wrote a letter to the paper claiming responsibility for the murders. He called himself Springheel Jim. It was obviously a fraud, but it got a lot of people upset. Myself included.”

For a moment, Raymond Sheffield did not say anything. Now he was studying the detective. Then he said, “Why would that upset you?”

“Because it's a distraction. Some punk wrote the letter to get a kick. We tried to get the press not to run it, but we don't have any control over them.”

“That's unfortunate.”

“What's unfortunate?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said that was unfortunate. What's unfortunate?”

“It's unfortunate that you can't control the press.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, we never can win with them. If we don't catch the guy, we're screw-ups. If we do, we get heat for not doing it sooner. Then they get into ‘what sort of man would do this' and all this armchair psychoanalysis. They expect us to
know
. They want us to know. But we don't have any answers. You know what I mean?”

“Not especially. I'm not a policeman.”

“Oh. Well, of course not. But I thought being a doctor, you might have some insight into the human condition.”

“Insight into the human condition,” Raymond repeated, as if the detective had said something that was out of his league. He smiled. “No. Not particularly.”

Hastings said, “I suppose the media just wants a good story. The usual homicide's pretty boring. Most of our work is just cleanup, really. I handled a case last month, two kids on a bus, one stabs the other to death. You know what it was about? A jacket. One kid wanted this other kid's jacket, and the other kid wouldn't give it to him. So he killed him. Stabbed him to death and took his jacket. If it's not that, it's a fight over what channel to watch on television or the wrong sort of look given on a street corner. Nine times out of ten these people know each other. Something stupid and pointless and meaningless. Not much mystery involved. We're just cleaning up the mess. I guess you clean up messes too.”