Without Mercy (11 page)

“I wouldn’t do that to you, copper.”

“If I find out you’ve been fucking me around, I’m going to throw you in the East River.”

“I ain’t lyin’, because you been good to me. Better’n anybody in my whole life.” Doolan started blubbering.

Rackman patted him on the shoulder. “Okay Doolan, I believe you. You want that other pint of wine now?”

“That’d be real nice.”

Rackman walked back to the car, pulled the bottle out from beneath the front seat, returned to Doolan, and gave it to him. “Here you go, champ. Don’t drink it all in the same place.”

“I’ll drink it right over there.” He chinned toward a stoop next to the newsstand and unscrewed the cap.

Rackman reached into his pocket and took out a ten-dollar bill. “Go get yourself a hot meal.”

“Thanks copper.”

Doolan slouched toward the stoop, sat down, and started sucking the bottle like a baby at its mother’s breast. Rackman watched for a few moments, wondering what catastrophes had broken that man. Then he returned to his car and drove to Midtown North.

Chapter Nine

Patrolmen McGowan and Holland were one of the eight teams of cops in the East Village knocking on doors inquiring about the Slasher. They spoke to stoned hippies, old-country Ukrainians, and emaciated artists. After four hours of inquiries, they hadn’t found anyone who knew him.

McGowan was a black-haired Irishman who’d been with the NYPD for eighteen years; Holland was a rookie who had only recently graduated from the Police Academy. McGowan had a beer barrel belly; Holland was slim as a rail. They were referred to as Laurel and Hardy at the Ninth Precinct on East Fifth Street.

In the vestibule of 329 East Ninth Street, they looked at the mailboxes and found that the super’s name was Ihor Martienko of apartment 1-C.

“I hope this bird speaks English for a change,” McGowan muttered as he opened the inner door and entered the downstairs corridor.

They walked along looking at the numbers on doors, and at the end near the stairs was apartment 1-C. McGowan nodded to Holland, then knocked on the door. There were shuffling footsteps on the other side. A woman’s voice said something in Ukrainian.

“Anybody there speak English?” McGowan asked.

“Who you are?” the voice asked.

“Police. We want to talk to you.”

“Why for?”

“I’ve got to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“Open the door.”

McGowan winked at Holland, who put his hand on his gun. You never knew who might come out of these goddamn apartments.

The door opened a crack, held back by a brass chain. “Yes?” asked a dark-haired woman in her fifties.

“You the super?” McGowan asked.

“My husband is.”

“Is he home?”

“He is at work right now. Why do you want to see him?”

McGowan took the composite picture of the Slasher out of the big manila envelope he was carrying. “Have you ever seen this man?”

“That is the face of the man in the newspaper, the man who kills women, yes?”

“That’s right. Do you know anybody who looks like this?’’

The woman shrugged. “I am sure many people look like this.”

“Anybody in this building look like this?”

She smiled. “I do not want to make any trouble for anybody.”

McGowan and Holland exchanged glances.

“You’re making trouble for yourself if you don’t cooperate with the police, ma’am,” McGowan said with a hint of threat in his voice. “I asked you if anybody in this building looks like this.”

The old woman swallowed. “Well, Mr. Kowalchuk on the fifth floor looks something like this.”

“What apartment?”

“Five-A, it is in the front.”

“Do you know if he wears a red and black wool jacket?”

She pursed her lips and thought for a few moments. Then she unlatched the chain on the door and opened it wide. “Would it come down to here?” she asked, pointing to her hip.

“It would.”

“Mister Kowalchuk has a jacket like that.”

McGowan and Holland looked at each other again.

The old woman shook her head. “Mr. Kowalchuk could not be that person. He only looks like him a little bit, that is all. A lot of people must look like that I am sure.”

“How long has this Kowalchuk been living in this building?”

She looked at the ceiling and moved her lips as she counted. “Oh, twenty years at least. He lived here with his mother and father but they are dead now and he is all alone. He is a very nice man. Never makes trouble. It could not be him you are looking for.”

McGowan tipped his hat. “You’re probably right, but we have to check on these things anyway. Thanks very much for the information.”

McGowan and Holland stepped back, and the woman closed the door. The two patrolmen walked to the stairs and stopped, searching each other’s faces.

“I’m wondering if we should talk to this guy ourselves,” McGowan said, “or let the detectives handle it.”

“Come on, McGowan. Let’s do it.”

“The detectives like to do the questioning on something like this.”

“But maybe we can break the case.”

“Who do you think you are, Dick Tracy?”

“I don’t want to be a patrolman for eighteen years like you, McGowan.”

McGowan’s eyes became icebergs. “I think we’ll call the detectives and let them handle it,” he said.

Chapter Ten

At four o’clock in the morning, Rackman double-parked his green Plymouth in front of 329 East Ninth Street. Sitting beside him was Detective Olivero, and in the back seat was Inspector Jenkins, a glum look on his face. They got out of the car and walked swiftly toward the building, a little tense, their hands close to their service revolvers. Climbing the stoop, they made their way through the downstairs hall and went up the stairs, with Rackman leading the way. When they neared the fifth floor they slowed down and moved stealthily, on their tiptoes. They crowded around the door and took out their revolvers. Rackman and Olivero put their shoulders against the door and Jenkins stood back a few feet.

Jenkins nodded, and Rackman and Olivero threw themselves against the door. It crackled but didn’t break. They hit it again and it shattered, the three detectives pushing and spilling into a dark smelly room. They crouched, pointed their guns, and listened, but there was no sound except the dripping of water. Taking out flashlights, they turned them on and saw a kitchen table piled with dirty dishes, a refrigerator, a sink, and a bathtub with a porcelain cover. Olivero found the light switch and flicked it.

Rackman led the way into a living room, their pistols still out, and they entered the bedroom. The bed wasn’t made and no one was in it. Rackman turned on the light, and the white sheets on the bed were gray with filth. A dark depression was in the center of the pillow. Strewn about on the dresser and floor were porno newspapers and magazines.

Jenkins dropped his revolver into his shoulder holster. “Looks like he ain’t here.”

Rackman looked into the closet. “He’s got some clothes here.” There was a shirt that only could fit a big fat man, the description of the Slasher.

Olivero went through the dresser. “There’s stuff in here, too.”

“I wonder where the scumbag is,” Jenkins said, wiping his mouth with his hand.

They returned to the living room, and Jenkins found the light switch, flipping it on, illuminating solid, old furniture that probably was nice once, but now was soiled and worn. A big upholstered chair was in the corner, its cushion crushed low to the floor. A floor lamp was beside it, and a hassock in front. Nearby against the wall was a stack of newspapers, and Rackman bent over to look at them. On top was a copy of the
New York Review of Sex,
and the headline said “Panties: The Ultimate Fetish.” Underneath was another copy of the
New York Review of Sex
and the headline was “Nooky with Nurses.’’

Jenkins walked over, his heavy footsteps making the floorboards creak. “What you got there?”

“A stack of the
New York Review of Sex,”
Rackman replied, continuing to look through them. “Looks like he bought it every week.”

“Sick fucker,” Jenkins spat.

Rackman looked through the newspapers to see how far back they ran, and when he got to the bottom of the pile it was nearly a year and a half. Olivero returned from the front of the apartment. “There’s another bedroom up front, but it don’t look like it’s been slept in for years.”

“He used to live here with his parents,” Rackman said. “That must have been their room.”

“Well, he ain’t here,” Jenkins said, frowning.

Rackman stood up, a copy of the
New York Review of Sex
in his hand. “Maybe he works nights.”

“Yeah,” said Olivero. “His clothes are still here.”

Jenkins thought for a few moments. “I’ll call for a backup and we’ll stake the place out for the rest of the night. Son of a bitch, I thought we were going to get him while he was asleep.’’

Rackman shrugged. “We don’t even know if he’s our man.”

“He’s the best suspect we’ve got so far,” Jenkins replied. “And he’s the only one we’ve got.”

Jenkins went downstairs to call for the backup, and Olivero went with him to watch the street. Rackman stayed in the apartment to see what he could find. First he went to the bedroom in front that hadn’t been slept in. Olivero had left the lamp on next to the double bed, and Rackman thought the room looked inviting and cozy, even though it smelled musty. He slapped his hand on the maroon bedspread and a billow of dust rose in the air. He ran his finger over the dresser and it made a deep line in the dust. No one had been in here for a long time. There weren’t even pictures on the dresser.

He went to the kitchen and smelled the stink of old food on dirty dishes in the sink and on the table. An ashtray was full of cigarettes, and he picked up one of the butts. It was an unfiltered Camel. Food stains were on three porno magazines littering the table along with empty cans of beans and soup. Evidently hygiene was not one of Kowalchuk’s strong points.

He returned to the living room. More porno magazines and newspapers were near the sofa, and an old black and white television faced the sofa and the easy chair. The rug was worn nearly through to the floor. Rackman figured Kowalchuk sat in his chair or laid on his sofa and read porno stuff or watched television. He was a lonely, horny man and didn’t care about cleanliness; but was he demented to the point where he’d slash the throats of women?

Rackman picked up a copy of the
New York Review of Sex,
and the pages fell open to an article called “Teenaged Sex Freaks.” Leafing through the paper, he saw reviews of current porno films, ratings of massage parlors, and classified ads in the back, placed by people of both sexes seeking sex. There were photographs of men and women having oral and ordinary sexual intercourse, and they turned Rackman on a little, but disgusted him at the same time. Rackman wasn’t very romantic about sex, but he didn’t like it to be degraded either.

There were footsteps out in the hall, and Rackman instinctively went for his gun. Yanking it out of his belt holster, he dashed across the living room and charged into the hall. A tall, bearded hippie in a denim jacket was there, a key in his hand. He looked at the gun and his eyes bulged out.

“What’s your name!” Rackman said.

“My name?” the hippie said, a little dazed.

“That’s right.” Rackman flipped out his shield.

“Hughes.”

“What’re you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Where?”

“That apartment over there.” Hughes pointed his key to the door next to Kowalchuk’s.

“Lemme see you open the door.”

Hughes walked over and inserted his key in the door and opened it. “See?”

Rackman holstered his revolver. “How long you been living there?”

“A little over three years.”

“You know Kowalchuk?”

“You mean the guy who lives in that apartment?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know him personally, but I’ve seen him around. He works nights like I do. I think he’s a cabdriver.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I saw him pull up in front of this building one night in a cab that he was driving.”

Rackman’s mind started racing. All cab drivers are photographed and fingerprinted by the Taxi Commission. He was going to bust this case wide open tonight.

“Thanks for the information,” Rackman said. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Is there anything wrong?” Hughes asked.

“There’s always something wrong,” Rackman replied, going down the stairs.

In front of the tenement building, Olivero sat behind the wheel of Rackman’s car and Jenkins was beside him. Olivero rolled down the window.

“What’s up?” Olivero asked.

Rackman bent his knees so he could see Jenkins. “A guy upstairs just told me that Kowalchuk is a cabdriver. Let’s go down to the Taxi Commission and find out where he works.”

“The Taxi Commission’s closed this time of night.”

“Somebody must have a key.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. I’ll have somebody check it out in the morning.”

“I’ll check it out,” Rackman said.

“If you want to live without sleeping, that’s okay by me.”

Chapter Eleven

At eight o’clock the next morning, Rackman was sprawled in the front seat of his green Plymouth, double-parked in front of the Taxi Commission on Beaver Street in downtown Manhattan. He was smoking a Lucky and drinking black coffee that tasted like tar, but he wanted to break the case before he went to bed.

Kowalchuk hadn’t come home, and the super said he hadn’t seen Kowalchuk for a few days, but that he kept odd hours. Round-the-clock surveillance was placed on 329 East Ninth Street, and now Rackman was waiting for the Taxi Commission to open its doors.

His eyes were drooping and his mouth tasted stale. He needed a shave and was starting to get hungry. A truck rolled past him on the narrow street, and a few clerks walked the sidewalks on their way to work.