A Cruel Season for Dying (25 page)

Sakura moved into the kitchen. The cabinets were bare and the refrigerator was empty, except for some wine and bottled water.
A single roll of paper towels stood near the spotless sink.

In the bedroom the chest of drawers held only a sweat suit, socks, and underwear. In the closet were shoes and a single change
of dress clothes. A box of Kleenex was on the bedside table near a phone. He
picked up and listened for the hum of the dial tone. Replacing the receiver, he snapped the edge of one of the latex gloves
he was wearing. The sound seemed unnecessarily loud in the small space.

Kerry fit the pattern. Despite the wife and kids, the doctor was a homosexual, or at least bisexual. And despite the fact
that he was murdered in Forest Hills, he had likely been targeted in Manhattan. The doctor must have been tailed from the
city and watched. How else would the killer have known that Lylah Kerry and the children would not be home? Except for the
forced entry, the killer was still running true to form.

And now at last they had gotten a break—a connection between two of the victims. And Milne? Hadn’t he had crippling arthritis?
Could he also have been one of Kerry’s patients? He would need to press hard on the staff interviews and background checks.
And they’d need a list of Kerry’s patients and a printout of his appointment schedule for the weeks prior to his death. The
clinic seemed to be the nexus.

Sakura found Willie still working in her assigned cubicle, a glass-fronted box smaller than his own office at the periphery
of the Major Case squad room. She was reading the latest DD-5 interviews with the clinic staff and eating pizza that the task
force detectives had ordered in. She wiped her hands on a paper napkin as he walked into the office.

“Hi, Jimmy,” she greeted him. “Want some? It’s pepperoni.” She indicated the cardboard box on her desk.

“No thanks.” He sat down.

“You got any leads on the lover?” she asked. His visit today to Kerry’s Manhattan apartment had been followed by a canvass
of the building and surrounding neighborhood.

“An elderly woman on Kerry’s floor claims to have seen ‘a nice-looking young man’ going into the apartment once or twice,”
he said. “Her description was pretty vague. White. Average height and weight. Twenties or thirties. Brunet. Doesn’t sound
like the bartender’s composite.”

“What about the wife?”

“Lylah Kerry claims complete shock at her husband’s double life. I’m inclined to believe her.”

“Well,” she said, “we did get one significant piece of information from the nurse. Kerry treated Carrera. That’s a solid link
between two victims. The killer may be connected to the clinic.”

“Maybe. But the administration is fighting us on patient information. They were adamant that none of the other victims, including
David Milne, had ever been treated there.”

She looked down at the reports she’d been reading. “Nobody from the clinic staff stands out so far,” she said. “But I’m going
to have the Bureau run checks on all the names. See if anything shakes out.”

“Good.” He knew he didn’t sound hopeful.

“I know it’s not likely since we’re dealing with orthopedics,” she said, “but I’d like to see if any of the clinic staff has
ever worked in a psychiatric area.”

“You’re thinking about the LSD.”

“Yes. Except that there’s a problem with that, Jimmy. The kind of therapy that I told you about has been illegal in this country
for decades. That’s why I did my graduate work overseas.”

“Couldn’t some doctor be using the drug anyway?”

“Could be. Which brings up another possibility.”

“That a doctor could be the killer.”

“You mean a psychiatrist?” She smiled. “I know we’re all supposed to be a little nuts, but no … I was thinking of a patient.
It’s no secret that a dose of LSD can send a prepsychotic personality into full-blown psychosis. The patient screening was
rigorous in the sixties when therapy with the drug was still allowed, but if there’s a doctor out there using it illegally
and doesn’t quite know what he’s doing …”

“… He could have pushed a patient over the edge.”

“It’s just a theory, Jimmy.”

“What have I got but theories?”

“And even if it was true,” she went on, “it’s doubtful that anyone’s going to step forward and own up to creating this monster.
It would be professional suicide for a doctor to admit to using the drug without governmental approval.”

“Who gets permission to use it?”

“Very few people,” she said. “I can make some discreet inquiries, see if anyone in this area has a grant to work with the
drug.”

“Thanks,” he said. Then, “Dr. Linsky confirmed that Kerry was never gagged. No bruising around the mouth. No residue from
adhesive.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Yes. It’s taking a chance, even with the nearest house so far.”

“But I can understand why he’d take the risk, since I believe he has a need to interact with the victims.”

“You’re saying he wanted Kerry to be able to talk back.”

She nodded. “It may have been at least part of the reason for killing him out of the city. The isolation was a luxury. And
it fits with the LSD. The drive to share the fantasy, to bring them into his world. He needs to have them understand what
he’s doing.”

“I wish we understood it.” He looked at her. “You hear anything from Michael?”

“Me? No … I haven’t talked to him since Thanksgiving at your place. Why?”

“I called him a couple times today,” he said. “Left a message.”

“And he hasn’t called back. Is that unusual?”

“No.”

“I know,” she said, weighing the words, “that you think he’s an asset—”

“You haven’t seen him at his best,” he interrupted.

“That I believe.”

“Michael’s good, Willie.”

“And you’re not? It’s barely a month since the first murder. You know as well as I do that serial investigations take time.”

“Time’s what I haven’t got.”

There was proof enough in the increased sales of the
Daily News
and the
Post
that the city at large was following the gay-killer story. But the kind of mass hysteria that had surrounded Son of Sam had
not so far developed in the general population, and this perceived indifference to “the open season on gays” was not to be
silently tolerated.

Tonight’s gathering in Chelsea was the latest in the police outreach efforts that served a dual purpose. The man standing
in the back of the room was well aware of both. The meetings were meant to give a more positive focus to the fear in the community
and diffuse the anger building against the police. They were also a lure to trick the killer into exposing himself.

It had been simple enough, however, to avoid the surveillance van parked not far from the building’s entrance. There would
be officers inside taking pictures of everyone who entered in hope of some obvious match with that pitiful composite drawing
that had appeared in the city’s newspapers. Plenty of the men here wore jackets and baseball caps. But he was not one of them.
A simple overcoat tonight. And hair unlacquered and combed.

He gazed around, trying to pick out the undercover cops in the hall, noting instead how the whole room glowed with the lesser
lights of so many auras. So many of the Fallen in this small space, but none with the brilliance of a great one.

The newspapers were well represented, responding to the news of yet another murder. He recognized the
Post
reporter whose sensational speculations had made him smile. They were all so totally wrong in every basic assumption. The
media … the police. It had been obvious, even before tonight, that the police had nothing. He was careful and had left no
physical evidence. But it went beyond that. They had no way to apprehend him in their minds, much less in their reality—no
template for what he was doing. They were hunting a serial killer. A man killing other men. How could they ever catch what
they couldn’t understand? He could sense their frustration. Could almost feel sorry. Especially for James Sakura.

The lieutenant had not appeared to referee tonight. The meeting had begun with fiery speeches and complaints from the locals,
then an unctuous spokesman from Public Information had given a reassuring talk with a warning about picking up strangers.

The good part had started with the questioning.

What exactly was being done to catch this monster?
a community leader had asked. Mr. Public Information had responded with a numbing litany of procedure, leaving out, of course,
the proactive tactics of this meeting.

Another firebrand from the audience, most likely a police plant from Anticrime, was speaking now, charging everyone to sign
the petitions for action at the tables in the back of the room, petitions that would then be carried directly to the mayor.

More likely straight to Police Plaza.
The man smiled. There was a moment’s hesitation, the impulse for audacity was strong. But in the end he did the smart thing.
He left without signing his name.

“Enjoying the circus?” Faith Baldwin’s even voice cut toward Sakura through the deep shadow backstage. He’d spoken to her
briefly in the past three weeks, but he hadn’t seen her since Westlake’s apartment. He turned from the proceedings in the
hall to watch her walking toward him. Her ivory blouse glowed faintly in the stray luminescence from the stage lights, ghostly,
till the rest of her appeared, destroying any illusion of disembodiment.

“You never know with these proactive things,” he said. “Procedure is procedure because it’s worked somewhere in the past.”
He turned away again, focusing on the last few signers at the petition tables.

“I thought we had a new wrinkle till I got the scoop on the doctor’s secret life,” she spoke again.

“Who told you?”

She shrugged, a movement in the periphery of his vision. “Were you trying to hide that bit of information from the D.A.’s
office?”

“That’s not why I asked.” He turned to look at her.

She shrugged again. “The lowdown on Kerry was everywhere…. You find anything interesting in his apartment?”

He gave up. He knew why the truth about Kerry’s sexuality had so quickly disseminated through the system and the press. The
leak was official … beneficial to the department.

“Jimmy …?” she prodded. “Any leads?”

“Nothing,” he said.

She came closer. “You’ve done well these last five years.”

That scent she wore insinuated. Pictures flipped through his head. A snapshot gallery of the two of them in bed … the things
they’d done.

“It was interesting, hearing you’d come back from Japan married.”

“I’m sorry.”

She laughed. That perfect laugh, completely genuine. “A little late, Jimmy. But I got the point.”

He forced himself to remain looking at her. A hunger, unwanted, ran inside his nerves, jumping the void between neurons.

“Ha-na-e.” Her lips moved, carefully forming the syllables. “That’s it, isn’t it? I’ve heard she’s as pretty as her name.”

He owed her this moment of torture.

“Lieutenant …?” Talbot had appeared. “Oh, excuse me, Ms. Baldwin—”